#i think not knowing what has you in a clawed hand is infinitely more horrifying than just getting chomped and spit out

[random-kido]

Before bed thoughts

Personal headcanon of mine is that if krok at any point had a croc alt he kept the mods that let him swim so anytime there's a water situation he jumps in and darts away

[amethystpath-writes]

A Lesson Learned

(NOT A PROMPT)

Hello :) Could you write a piece where the extremely flirtatious villain notices that the hero isn’t taking care of themselves and tries to get them to and promises not to do anything (capture them, etc), but (surprise!) then they do? Haha sorry if it’s a bit specific, adore your writing!

******

“Why, doll,” Villain cooed from behind the bench which Hero sat upon. The bench was old, wood in the process of rotting. Speaking of rot- Villain rounded the park bench, coming face to face with that once-handsome, now-perished face. “Don’t you just look like you sprang from Hell? Yeesh.”

Hero shrugged, not even caring that Villain was here to taunt him yet again- to pick at him with compliments. Usually, anyways. Now, she was insulting him. Did he really look that out of it? Hero felt like it, so it shouldn’t have been so surprising to him. “Don’t feel great- get out of here.”

“And do what? I’d miss the grumble in your voice too much. Come now, my dear, tell me what has that pretty hair of yours so tangled.” Villain’s hand grazed the locks atop Hero’s head, fingers skimming his scalp. She hummed her delight. “How pretty,” Villain whispered into Hero’s ear. “Even if it is greasy.”

“Look, I’m really not in the mood for this.”

Good God, what is that stench? Villain could gag- not could; Villain did gag on the smell. “When was the last time you showered, sugar?” Hero certainly didn’t smell like sugar, but it was in Villain’s nature to shoot a flirt at him anyways.

“Don’t know. Would you get your hand out of my hair?”

“You don’t know?” Villain sighed, dropping her hand and rounding the bench until she came to the front, facing Hero and his abnormally large eye sacks. “Oh, darling…” you have jellyfish beneath your eyes. “You should take better care of yourself. I could help you, you know?”

Hero’s eyes grew as wide as they could with eyelids made of lead. “Help me do what? Bathe?”

“Well, I certainly wouldn’t mind helping you do that- think of how close we would be, my sweet doll.” She sat beside the broken-beyond-repair hero, dragging a fingertip along his dirtied pants. Villain sighed, slightly bored of this game of chess. Her flirtations were slipping away like a wet bar of soap. What an ironic comparison.

Villain said, “What I meant is this; I’ll give your handsomeness a break- or your ugliness, rather. You need to regain your looks, hence the break.”

Ignoring the insult, Hero said, dead-panned, “And I’m supposed to believe you.” A soft tut.

“Have I given you any reason not to? On this pretty night?”

“Beyond the not-so-subtle insults,” Hero thought aloud, and finished with, “I guess not.”

With a scoff, Villain said, “I wouldn’t call those insults. I could have said much worse- and anyways, you know I’m a tease. I feel even more concerned that you’ve forgotten such a vital detail about me. More reason to leave you alone. Right, my love?”

“I still don’t know if I believe you.”

“Why would it matter what I did or didn’t do when you don’t even care to look after yourself?”

She makes a good point. Still… “What would you do then?” Hero didn’t particularly care to have this conversation right now, but- well, he was a hero. Even if he were too exhausted to take care of himself, it was still his responsibility to protect the people. Just because Villain was saying she’d leave Hero alone didn’t mean she’d leave the citizens alone.

“What would I do? Sulk, mostly. I’d miss your pretty little face while I sat alone on my couch.”

“Right. Because I always sit on a couch with you.”

“There’s a taste of that precious fire. You’re beautiful when you’re sarcastic- and healthy.”

Hero sighed. It didn’t matter what he said, did it? He could tell Villain she looked like a horse’s rear-end mixed with a jackal’s paw and she’d continue sticking around. “You said you’d give me a break.” Of course, Hero still didn’t believe Villain’s words. It was her one and only nature to torment him with pointless compliments- and harmful insults apparently.

As if I didn’t already know I look like crap. I’m tired; that’s all. No motivation to do anything but sit on the park bench. He didn’t even feel like getting up to stretch his legs, despite knowing it needed to be done. Hero would rather deal with the aches of standing than to be forced into using so much energy while sitting. How draining it was- standing up from his position now. That’s why he stayed put, even with Villain’s hand circling in his hair once again.

This time, the hand in Hero’s hair was actually soothing. The tender scrape of Villain’s nails against his scalp. The gentle pull through the hair as her fingers caught on tangles, though the larger knots were a tad painful. Hero hummed his delight at the two former feelings, finding himself leaning into the arm which offered such relief.

On a regular day, one not so adorned with absent motivation and sourness, Hero would have slapped Villain’s hand away- would have told her to go find a dog in the park to pet. Naturally, he would have regretted saying it, thinking that Villain might claw its eyes out instead of petting it. Okay, maybe she wouldn’t do something that serious, but she might have stepped on a puppy’s tail, making it screech- if only to horrify the owner.

“Isn’t this a nice break, sugar?” Villain asked, but, of course, there was more to it than this scalp massage. When Hero fell asleep, with his head on Villain’s shoulder, she would give herself a break- not him.

******

Eyes still closed from having just woken up, Hero pulled his shoulder back against the hard- hard? I thought I was in- His eyes cracked open.

White ceiling. Or, mostly white, at least. There was some water damage that Hero could see even through his blurry and freshly woken eyes. The yellow and orange stains did not belong on his ceiling.

He shifted slightly, body still stiff, but he wasn’t willing to stretch yet- just in case there was…a certain someone…paying attention. Damn Villain, Hero thought, because who else’s home could he be in if it weren’t his own?

It was with this thought in mind that Hero sat up. No use in lounging around. Better off to find a way out before Villain-

“Nice to see those starlit eyes of yours.”

Great. Turning his head, he saw Villain casually sprawled across a couch.

Well, one thing was for certain; Hero had the motivation to get up and run again. At least he could thank Villain for something, even if it were simply the desire to escape.

Sitting up, slowly and stiffly, Hero said, “A break. You were supposed to give me a break. It’s what you said, what you told me you’d do. You would give me a break to take care of myself and you would sulk.”

He could almost imagine Villain’s voice answering with an easy lull, ‘I didn’t say what the break would entail, love.’ Love. Darling. Doll. My dear. Disgusting, disgusting, disgusting.

“I gave you a break. Two of them, if we’re being technical. The massage and the shelter. Actually,” Villain smiled at him from her couch cushion, eyes closing just slightly as her cheeks gathered higher and higher. “I might call it liberation- instead of a break. Infinite freedom versus periods of mass depression and showerless nights.”

Hero felt his jaw tick. “What are you talking about?” he asked, voice low- just the way Villain liked.

He wasn’t helping his case any, now, was he? Being all cutesy. It only allowed Villain to enjoy this whole situation more.

“You wake up in your stalker’s home and don’t even think to check your body for modifications? What a pity you are sometimes,” Villain giggled. She meant it as a compliment; it was her way of calling the hero cute and favourable.

Stalker. Well, Villain might as well have been considered as such. She showed up just about everywhere Hero was, only to hold hostages for no other reason than to have control over someone, to hear the fear in their high whines- and to see the fear glistening low in their eyes. Villain was wicked, and she was wicked always in Hero’s presence. Stalker- maybe that’s what the news would start calling her if they, or Hero, ever managed to stop Villain.

Villain grew impatient with Hero’s procrastination of observation. “Explore yourself, won’t you?”

And Hero did now. He looked down his arms, torso, legs, anything that was in his perspective, but there was nothing out of the ordinary, except- “Do not tell me you actually washed me.” His arms were speck and dead-skin cleaned.

“A wet rag against your arms and legs, nothing else.”

Hero simply took her word for it, trying not to imagine how he’d feel if she were lying. How horrendous.

Then what is it? Nothing- absolutely nothing- was irregular, so why was Villain going on about…Hero’s fingers skimmed something along his neck- one of the few things he couldn’t see with his own eyes.

No…no. Not just along his neck. There was something inside of Hero’s neck. “What did you do to me?” His voice came out as a horrifyingly quiet whisper, one that squeaked in the back of his throat.

“You wouldn’t take care of yourself, Hero. I had to step in.”

“I don’t- no. No. Whatever you’re doing, you- you need to- I need to go home. I need you to stay away from me and I need- I need-” Oh no. Was he hyperventilating? He couldn’t- God, he couldn’t breathe. Hero was panicking, scratching at his neck, at the irregular shaped lumps. Get out. Get. Out. Getout. Getout. Getoutgetoutgetoutgetout.

A gasp sounded in the room as Hero’s head hit the ground, trying to dodge the zap that occurred at the front of his throat, right where he was scratching so madly.

“Well, I guess that’s a lesson learned rather quickly. Darling, you didn’t even know what those were, and yet you were trying to rip them out. It might have killed you.”

“Uhah.”

Villain quirked her head to the side. “Didn’t get that, sorry. Must have fried your vocal cords- better that than you build up a bunch of infectious bacteria.” Truth be told, the zap wasn’t so bad that it would permanently damage Hero- only give him little tics and make him fret.

“You’ll be so very happy that I took that rag over your skin- otherwise you’d have woken up to your own stench while I was injecting the little stun rods. That would have been difficult,” Villain laughed, legs extending until they laid on the arm of the couch.

“Now,” Villain piped, “there is an outfit laid out in the bathroom- down this hall here”- she pointed- “and second door to the right. Get a shower, bath, whatever you want, and get dressed. I have plans and I’m not leaving you here alone.”

Swerving her legs over the arm- despite having just put them there- Villain planted her feet on the ground and placed her elbows near her knees, leaning forward, all amount of humour aside. “I’m the only one who gets to torment you, you hear me? Not even you have my permission to do harm to yourself or otherwise slack in personal healthcare. If you are in any kind of bad condition, it will be because I allowed it. M’kay?”

She stood, walked several paces to where Hero still sat on the floor and patted his cheek. “I’m making myself food before we leave and while you take a shower. Don’t disappoint me by trying to escape, my dove. You’re in my cage now.” Villain gave Hero a tap on the head as she pulled a remote control out of her pocket with her other hand. For extra measure, she held one of the buttons for three seconds, sending Hero onto his back once again, writhing on the floor- though avoiding scratching his neck.

A lesson learned indeed.

“Believe it or not, I do intend to be kind to you. I just wanted to show you what happens if you decide you’re not worth taking care of again.”

One last click of the button and she was gone, leaving a panting hero behind in the dust.

[straight-outta-kaer-morhen]

Scars <Eskel Soulmate AU>

Request from AO3: "Could you so an Eskel/reader with a soulmate AU? Maybe where soulmates have the same scars. Pretty please?"

Sorry it took so long. This fic has been sitting finished for several months, but I couldn't decide if I liked it enough to post. I've never done a soulmate AU, so this was a fun challenge! Anyways, I hope you enjoy! :D

As always, requests are open

Her claws wracked the side of his face. He'd been trying to avoid this meeting, but fate seemed to always have it's way. He was a fool for invoking the law of surprise all those years ago, and an even bigger fool for running from fate.

Looking up at the young girl, he had nothing in his heart but hate. The way she glowered at him he had no doubts she returned his sentiments.

• •• • A cry escaped her as flesh tore. Her hands shot out to grab her cheek. Blood ran freely down her jaw covering her neck. Horrified at the sight of crimson she helplessly tried to staunch the blood flow. The mage in front of her had his back pressed against the wall. Nothing but horror filled his eyes. This was not how the negotiations with Kaedwen were supposed to go. By the look on his face he hadn't attacked her, or cursed her. He fled the room as the pain seared across her cheek.

At some point she recalled being taken to a nurse for treatment, who was only able to bandage the wound, and send the sorceress on her way.

None of the healers could speed up the process of healing. The wound seemed to be healing on its own time. When it finally did heal, she was left with several jagged scars that even ran down her lips. When she looked in the mirror she was horrified by what she saw.

She seeked out Yennefer of Vengerberg’s powers. If anyone could heal the scars it was her. Very few were close to equal with Yennefer’s abilities.

"I cannot fix this." Yennefer declared, her eyes filling with pity. "This is the mark of a soulmate...and nothing can change fate."

"You were so beautiful." Kiera Metz's voice came softly. Y/N could not fathom the pity filled look she received. Her reflection showed several claw mark's adorned her face. They were raised and red.

Beauty wasn't everything she tried to tell herself, but she knew finding a lover would be impossible. Even her so-called soulmate would want nothing to do with her.

Yennefer gripped her shoulder, "beauty isn't everything."

• •• • "What happened to her?" Geralt inquired, his cat eyes falling on the familiar scars that adorned her face.

"It's a sad story." Triss sighed. "She used to have a beautiful face." Triss began, "the kind of face that makes king's launch wars over."

"Prettier than Yen?"

Triss nodded, "she had a softness, a warmth that Yennefer lacked. It drove men absolutely mad." She mused. "One day during negotiations, her face just tore open. It was the damndest thing."

"When?" Geralt inquired, observing the (h/c).

Triss tapped her chin recounting the years, "it had to have been about 20 years ago...give or take a few years."

"Hmmm." Geralt said, catching the woman's (e/c) eyes. She offered him a soft smile from across the room. He gave her a nod, his eyes tracing the scars that lined her lip. They were uncanny to Eskel's.

"No mage or sorceress could heal her." Triss added. "Apparently soulmate scars work differently, it's a power we know little of."

"Soulmate scars? I thought that was an old wives tale." Geralt asked, startled.

"So did I, but the circumstances of how she acquired them...well there is no other explanation for it." She said with a shrug as she took a sip of wine. "I spoke with the mage that witnessed it. His account was hard to discredit."

"The amount of scars a Witcher acquires, well it's hard to put much stock in the idea." Geralt said, taking another drink of his ale.

Triss waved the woman over, "whatever man acquired those, it must have been hell for him from what Y/N described."

"Y/N, this is Geralt." Triss introduced, "he's taken an interest in your scars." She said leaving the two to get acquainted

Her hand immediately shot up to her face covering the scars. "Forgive me for prying," Geralt began, "I have a friend who has similar scars."

Y/N's eyebrows raised, "is he a Witcher too?"

Geralt nodded, "sounds like he got those scars around the time you did."

"That would explain the pain…" Y/N mumbled, sitting at the table. "I'm very sorry for your friend, I know how he feels." She began a small frown pulling at her face. "No matter how kind you are, people tend to avoid things they can't explain."

"Well, I have reason to believe he may be the answer to those scars."

She shook her head, "even so he wouldn't want to see me." (E/c) eyes flickered up at his feline gaze. "I know exactly how I look Geralt. Kings stopped requesting my presence as soon as they saw my face, the lodge will not send me out diplomatically in case another scar decides to show up." Her jaw was set, "I'm quite positive your Witcher friend would not care to see me."

Geralt nodded, "if you change your mind let me know."

• •• •

Winters were perfect for catching up with his brother in arms. Geralt had debated keeping the scarred woman's existence a secret, but ultimately he decided that it was Eskel who should decide.

He broke the news a few weeks into their stay. He'd made sure Vesemir was in the room. If anyone would have more knowledge on the subjects of soulmates it would be the old Witcher.

"I met a sorceress this past fall." Geralt began, soliciting a scoff from Vesemir.

"Did you bed her too?" The grey haired man asked. Soliciting a soft smile from Eskel as he turned the page of his book.

"No, but she had some interesting scars." Geralt commented.

Eskel's eyes shot up, his hand automatically scratching at the scars that lined his lips. "A sorceress who chose not to have them healed? That's unheard of. They tend to be a vain bunch." Vesemir said thoughtfully.

"They tried, but scars involving soulmates is another thing." Geralt peaked up at Eskel to gage his reaction. The Witcher had stiffened, listening intently.

"Soulmates," Vesemir mused. "That is a very rare phenomenon. I can't say I've ever heard of two soulmates actually finding each other."

"Hmm, I saw the scars with my own eyes. Three claw marks on the side of the jaw." Eskel dropped his book.

"Appeared out of nowhere about twenty years ago." Geralt added. "If I hadn't been mistaken by the pair of tits I would have thought it was Eskel."

Eskel's cleared his throat, "it's a coincidence."

"Maybe, but I don't think so."

"Perhaps it's fate forcing you to make things right?" Vesemir in his infinite wisdom had a point. Much to Eskel's dismay.

"If it's fate we'll run into each other." Eskel dismissed.

"Eskel, you can't outrun fate." Vesemir began, "look what happened to you last time."

Geralt sighed, "I didn't tell you this to feel trapped by fate. I thought you had a right to know, I also think you have a right to tell destiny to fuck off if you want."

Eskel seemed to relax a bit, "was she attractive?"

Geralt nodded, "scars and all. Triss says she was once prettier than Yen." He hesitated, "there is something else you should know…"

Eskel leaned forward curiosity getting the better of him.

"She doesn't think you'd wish to see her."

A frown pulled at the dark haired Witcher's lips. He knew all too well what it was like to carry those scars.

Eskel had once been considered a handsome man. He'd never had a hard time finding a lover, and people used to be friendlier. After he acquired the scars, brothels were the only place he could find pleasure, the contracts he took the people looked on him as if he were a feral beast.

"Go talk to her." Lambert's voice echoed through the hall.

"What have I told you about eavesdropping?" Vesemir asked, turning to the youngest Witcher.

"Ah, can it old man." Lambert said, waving him off. "You're always saying you want a lover. If she really is your soulmate, even she can't turn you down."

That was just like Lambert, to throw his opinion out there regardless if it was welcome or not. "I thought you opposed Geralt bringing visitors to Kaer Morhen. You really want me to bring someone too?"

"If it’ll get you laid, I’m willing to take one for the team."

Vesemir rubbed his temples, no one could get on his nerves like the younger Witcher. Bold and brash, Lambert had a tendency to speak without thinking things through. It seemed the mutations could not quell the passion for living that burned inside.

“You have time. Destiny can wait.” Geralt said downing the rest of his ale. “Think on it.” He said, patting Eskel’s shoulder before heading upstairs for the evening.

Vesemir and Lambert were quick to follow, leaving Eskel alone with his thoughts. He turned to the many shelves that lined the wall. The bookshelves had been moved years ago when the library had decayed enough that Vesemir didn't trust it to house his precious tomes. If anyone were to have a book on the subject of soulmates, it would be the old man.

The book was thin and covered in years of dust. Eskel brushed the cover off. The letters had worn off, but the faint engraving of the title could be seen, Love Potions, Relationships, and Soul Mates. Eskel flipped to the title page, how to tell if they're the one, potions to make them fall in love, and tips turning that crush into love.

A small chuckle escaped Eskel's lips. He wondered when the old Witcher had picked this up, and who he was trying to woo. The table of contents indicated the chapter on soulmates started on page 69.

"Soulmates were fated by the gods. The oldest known magic, but very little have studied it. Soulmates could be confirmed by matching scars. It has been speculated that when one soul receives the mark their kindred soul receives it as well.

It is unknown why the other soul experiences the same wound, and pain. Some scholars assume it is to bound the two souls in a mutual understanding.

Soulmate bonds used to be very common, but the emergence of alchemy, and sorcery has made the magic almost extinct.

Soulmate bonds typically occur during strange phenomenons such as blood moons, eclipses, solstices, etc.

There have been instances where soulmates have argued that they were fated to meet.”

Eskel flipped the page, but the next chapter was regarding a love potion. He took care placing the book back on the shelf.

He let his mind wander as he trudged up the stairs to his room. Having someone to hold on nights like this wouldn't be unwelcome.

The room was silent, the fire had turned to embers. He threw another log on coaxing it back to life with Igni. The only thing in the room that indicated someone lived in it were stacks of books, and his weapons laid on a long, narrow table.

He toed off his boots and sat on the edge of the low bed. He wanted to laugh at Geralt for suggesting such an idea. He wanted to tell Vesemir that destiny could go to hell. He wanted Lambert to realize that no one would ever want him, but most of all he wanted it to be true.

Of course he wanted someone to love him, but how the hell could he accept a love like that? If he couldn't love the scars on his face how could he expect someone else to? The questions raised in his mind, but Lambert's voice rang in the back of his mind if she is your soulmate, even she can't turn you down. Perhaps that was the ember that sparked hope in his heart.

• •• •

The lodge trusted her with an alchemy shop. It seemed even she couldn't fuck that up. The once brilliant negotiator was now grinding, mixing and drying herbs. The shop bell jingled indicating a customer. "I'll be with you in a moment."

"Take your time."

She dried her hands on her apron, as she turned to face the deep voice. Her eyes widened at the sight of him. The scars that lined his lips were identical to hers.

"I'm sorry. This is my fault." He began as her hand shot up to cover the scars.

"I told Geralt you wouldn't want to see me." She said turning away from the dark haired Witcher.

He was quick to reach out to her, "no you're beautiful...no beautiful isn't the right word..it's not enough to describe you." Eskel breathed taking in her soft (e/c) eyes. "A choice I made hurt you." Eskel's voice was thick with shame, "and you've had to live with that."

She took him in, and her fingers traced the scars that lined his face. "Perhaps it's not all bad."

Eskel's heart fluttered at the prospect. She had yet to turn him away, and he dared to let his heart hope.

"These scars led me to you."

[galvanizedfriend]

The Wolf Outtake

This is a little outtake, if you will, of The Wolf universe. It actually fits within the post-TW2 headcanons I've been writing to keep myself happy, so somewhere in S3. It's something that would never fit within the actual story because it's pure domestic fluff. lol I wrote this for @recyclingss, baby Eve's number one fan who yells at me when the child doesn't make an appearance and who’s also the biggest cheerleader this story’s ever had. 💖

This is set much later in the future, and you will notice baby Eve is actually more of toddler Eve here, but I've removed any specific context to make it so this would fit into any point of The Wolf post S2E14, I guess.

Summary: Just random KC+baby moment in The Wolf. It's fluffy, domestic, features the child and Klaus' bitter feelings for Bayou wolves. Nobody asked for it, but I figured, after the WEEK we've all had, maybe people could use some fluff? Hope you guys enjoy it! :)

______________________

Klaus doesn't even realize it's morning already until Caroline stirs next to him, making a lazy hum deep in her throat that pulls him out of his idle reverie. He blinks his surroundings back into focus; the fluorescence that had been filtering in through the windows last time he checked has now been replaced by warm sunlight. He didn’t even notice so much time had gone by.

Caroline rolled onto her side and was quickly lulled into blissful sleep after their late-night exertions. Klaus was distracted by the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest for a long time until his mind was ensnared by its usual culprits, thoughts trapped in the latest batch of torments and woes to take over the Mikaelsons’ lives. 

 When Caroline opens her eyes and offers him a slow smile, Klaus feels himself touch ground again.

 "'Morning," she slurs in that husky voice, still thick with sleep.

 "Good morning, sweetheart," he replies with a short grin.

 Caroline yawns as she stretches out her body under the thin sheet covering her modesty.

 "Did you sleep at all?" she asks, blinking sluggishly at him.

 "I'm well-rested, if that's what you're asking."

 "It's not." Caroline props herself up on one elbow to stare levelly at him. Some of that drowsiness in her eyes dissipates, disappointment panging through him for bringing her back to the harshness of reality so fast. This is why, sometimes, especially on those not-so-rare nights when he ends up not getting any sleep, he'd rather not stay in bed. It allows the reprieve that slumber offers Caroline to last a little while longer. "Is it about Elijah?" she inquires, a knowing look on her face.

 Klaus' eyes wander away from hers. "It's about everything," he states vaguely, but not untruthfully. 

 Caroline hums unconvinced. "While I know you don't need to sleep, I also know it spells nothing but trouble when you can’t. It’s never good when you spend the whole night thinking."

 "Well, not the whole night," he says with a suggestive leer. "I did spend a good portion of the time engaged in far more pleasant activities."

 She rolls her eyes at him, but her smile is more than a little satisfied when she leans into him. "You're not as smooth as you think, Mikaelson."

 "I beg to differ." Caroline chuckles, shifting under the sheets to press herself against his side, placing a kiss on his shoulder, then his neck, his jaw. Klaus snakes a hand around her back, pulling her closer still, feeling the familiar stirrings of heat in his underbelly. "Shall I prove my point?" he all but purrs.

 Caroline smirks against the corner of his mouth, her palm coming to rest on his chest. Klaus covers her hand with his, angling his face to take her mouth into a kiss. Her breasts pressing against his skin sends a tingle shooting through his body, and his other hand is already sliding down her spine, ready to guide her to straddle him, when lively conversation in the next room makes them pause.

 "Oh-oh," Caroline mutters. "I guess that means Mr. Wolfy is up early today."

 Klaus lets out a disappointed sigh.

 Eve doesn't cry so much when she wakes up anymore. Now, she either stays quietly in her crib until someone sees to her, or she starts playing with her toys. A social butterfly like her mother, she loves to engage in complex conversations with that hideous stuffed wolf Jackson gave her and her absolute favorite toy, the wooden knight Klaus carved for Rebekah when they were children.

 When he started to wake up to the sound of her talking to herself, he became worried, thinking maybe she was seeing things they weren't - which, in New Orleans, could mean a number of horrifying deals. But Caroline assured him that it is perfectly normal for young children to talk to inanimate objects, especially one who lives exclusively amongst adults.

 Apparently, it's good exercise for her imagination, or something.

 When Klaus is watching her, he will make a point to take part in her debates, always highlighting Mr. Knight's grandeur compared to Mr. Bog Scum. 

 "Sweetheart, this filthy dog here is the enemy. He wants to shroud you in flannel, carry you away to the swamp and bore you to sleep. Mr. Knight is here to save you from this stinky animal's claws."

 He's convinced one day she'll understand what he means.

 What’s most troublesome, however, is that Eve has started to attempt to climb out of her crib on her own. They always lock the other door to her bedroom when she's asleep, but the door connecting her room to Caroline's is always left unlocked for safety reasons. One of these days, Klaus thinks, their little wolf is going to catch mommy and daddy in very compromising positions. The idea mortifies him, especially because he and Caroline can get a tad carried away. They are a hybrid and a near-hybrid, after all. Too much energy and whatnot.

 "No rest for the wicked," Caroline speaks around a sigh before peeling away from him. Klaus watches her naked form with wistfulness as she climbs out of bed, his prospect of a lovely morning enterprise disappearing alongside the shape of her beautiful breasts as she shrugs on a fleece robe.

 Caroline vamps off to the en suite bathroom to freshen up a bit and then follows to Eve's room.

 "Good morning, sweet cheeks!" she greets their daughter sunnily. "Good morning to you, too, Mr. Wolfy!" Oh, for goodness' sake, Klaus curses inwardly. "And Mr. Knight!" Much better.

 Minutes later, Caroline returns with Eve, comfortable in fresh diapers, right on her heels, carrying Mr. Inconvenient and Mr. Knight.

 When she sees Klaus, she takes off towards the bed, her little legs getting more and more agile by the day. He pulls the sheets and covers up to his chest while she tries to hoist herself up. With ease, using just one hand, Klaus lifts her up and puts her sitting on his stomach.

 "Good morning, my littlest wolf," he says. "Where's my kiss?"

 His daughter leans down and smacks a loud kiss on his cheek, and then holds Mr. Fleabag close to him for a kiss as well. Klaus makes a face. "Not the dog, Eve."

 "Seriously?" Caroline says with a bored air about her. "You're antagonizing a stuffed animal now?"

 "This thing is a health hazard."

 "That thing has a cute little name, Mr. Wolfy, and your daughter loves him."

 "I refuse to treat a swamp dog as though it were a gentleman. Besides, I'm sure she loves Mr. Knight way more, don't you, love? Where's Mr. Hero?" She shouts something that sounds like Miter Nigh before pushing it onto Klaus' face. He cracks a proud smile at her. "There you go." He attacks her with tickles, and Eve bursts with sweet laughter.

 Caroline shakes her head at him, but he notices she's quite clearly biting back on a smile. "You're impossible."

 "I’m quite possible, I assure you," he replies smoothly. "Where are you going?" he asks when she starts tying her hair into a ponytail and taking clothes from her drawers.

 "Running with Marcel."

 "Oh, for goodness' sake," he protests. "Can you believe this, Eve? It's not even seven in the morning and your mother is willingly stepping out of the house to run. I sometimes fear she might be a psychopath."

 She scoffs loudly. "You would know, wouldn't you?" While she walks by him to go into the en suite, she slaps him lightly across the legs. "Stop telling my child that I'm a psycho, psycho."

 "How else am I supposed to explain this insanity? What kind of person runs for pleasure when there is an infinite array of far more gratifying activities to invest your energy into? Just now we were about to -"

 "Not in front of the small child, Klaus!" she chides from the bathroom.

 "She doesn't know what daddy is talking about, do you, love?" Eve giggles while he lifts her up above him, holding her like a flying superhero. "Blissfully clueless."

 Caroline steps back into the room, already in her exercise gear. Klaus lets out an infinitely despondent sigh. He would love nothing more than to get her out of those.

 "It's inappropriate conversation to have in front of the toddler," she remarks, putting on the smartwatch she bought recently to exercise with and measure her sleep patterns or whatever the bloody hell that is. She showed him all of this gizmo’s functionalities, swearing it’s the best thing ever invented by human minds. Klaus thinks it’s adorable, however incomprehensible, that someone with such close ties with the supernatural world would still be so impressed by technology. There’s literally nothing that cannot be sorted through magic. How is a watch that counts steps supposed to awe you once you’ve seen someone brought back from the dead? Caroline’s attachment to her humanity goes way beyond her empathy. "Besides, it was gonna be a quick activity because I'd go meet Marcel anyway,” she adds after a beat.

 "I can make you see stars in five minutes," he leers, a smirk growing on his face.

 Caroline whips her face at him with what is clearly an attempt at outrage but turns into something else when she can't hold her own smile. She can't deny him when his point was proved just the night before. Several times, in fact.

 "Shut up," she retorts simply. "Can you give her breakfast? I left chopped fruits in the fridge. You can wait about an hour after the bottle and give it to her as a little treat - not Fruit Loops."

 "She loves that thing."

 "Of course she does, it's pure sugar. That's exactly why we don't let her have it all the time. She needs to eat real fruits."

 Klaus rolls his eyes, sitting up in bed and putting the baby beside him. "Honestly, sweetheart, your mother sometimes..." 

 Caroline narrows her eyes at him. "You really love to make yourself out to be the cool parent, don't you?"

 "I don't have to make myself out to be anything, love. I am the parent who doesn't deny her the little joys of sugary treats. If that makes me cool, then you’ve only got yourself to blame." 

 "You're the parent who'll spoil her rotten, that’s what. Let's see how you'll feel when she's 16 and her boyfriend is climbing the balcony in her room in the middle of the night because she never learned how to take a no."

 "Oh, I would love for her suitors to climb her window in the middle of the night. It’ll be the last thing they do,” he says, smiling innocently at Eve.

 “You’ll be such a ray of sunshine when she starts dating.”

 “As per usual," he says with a bite of arrogance. "Hold the child so I can get decent, will you?"

 Caroline picks Eve up and keeps her looking firmly the other way while Klaus flashes out of bed and into the bathroom. He hears Caroline teasing her with “Where did daddy go?” and laughing at what he knows is Eve's extremely confused but astonished face. She thinks they're magicians. It's one of her favorite things, to watch as Klaus makes full use of his vampire speed to all but vanish right before her eyes. Modern technology has got nothing on him.

 There's something extremely heartwarming about his daughter's innocence. One day, she'll be old enough to understand why he can do the things he does. When that day comes, Klaus will cease to be a creature of magic and wonder, to become what he truly is: darkness made flesh. 

 He has never been ashamed of what he is, hardly ever had any qualms with filling the villain shoes, quite glad to do it, in fact, but he suddenly finds himself dreading the day when his child will figure out what it means to carry the Mikaelson name. When their family’s history will weigh down on her shoulders as it does on theirs.

 While making people cower in fear at the mere sound of his name has brought him an obscene amount of satisfaction and pride over the centuries, Klaus has to admit he's fascinated by the pure sparkle in his child's eyes. She's the first human being in a millennium who does not see even a fraction of monstrosity in him, no shadow, no taints, no mortal flaws. Not yet, anyway. All she sees is a funny man who makes her laugh and can hold her up with his finger, tells her stories about evil werewolves and keeps her safe and that's enough for her to adore him. Sometimes, he feels unworthy of such love. As though he's a fraud, deceiving his own daughter and taking advantage of her innocence.

 It still astonishes him that he should ever be capable of making something as pure and bright as that little girl. In a thousand years, Klaus Mikaelson has only ever brought misery and pain into this world. Eve is the first genuinely good thing he's ever done. Then, of course, she inherited all of that from her mother, who holds herself open for compassion and kindness even though she is herself in a symbiotic existence with her own beast. Caroline has taken control of her darkness in ways Klaus doesn't think he's ever seen a vampire as young as her do before. She truly is extraordinary, and every day he hopes, from the bottom of his withered heart, that Eve will turn out to be every inch Caroline's daughter more so than his.

 Klaus can still smell last night’s sex all over himself, so he takes a quick shower and puts on a pair of denims and a shirt and vamps back to the room again, just to surprise Eve. She gasps when he materializes next to her, flinching, and then starts laughing like a little maniac, reaching out to him. 

 "Remember," Caroline says as she lets Eve slide over to Klaus' arms. "Bottle, fruits. No Fruit Loops. I'll tell your other child you said hi."

 "A child who enjoys running has clearly learned nothing from me," he grumbles. “Hopefully I’ll do a better job with this one.” 

 “Start by not feeding her Fruit Loops,” Caroline remarks with a grin before she smacks a loud kiss on Eve's cheek and then one on his.

 When she’s gone, Klaus turns to look at his little wolf, watching him with those dark blues of hers as though she's studying her father. Sometimes he wonders if toddlers know more than they let on.

 "Do you want to do magic?"

 "Yes!" she practically screams, her face splitting with a wide, toothy grin.

 "Get ready, then. Are you ready?" She gives him an exaggerated nod. "Keep your eyes open. One, two..." And then he flashes out of the room with her.

______________

✨ Thanks for reading! :) If you’ve enjoyed this silly thing, please drop me a comment! Your reblogs are also much appreciated to help this reach more people. ✨

[airi-p4]

While it lasts

This was supposed to be kind of a S4 theory about akumatized Luka + a canon-verse Lukanette approach. I guess my hand slipped?  This is similar to my previous fic ‘Betrayer’, in which Juleka was the akumatized one. 

Warning: ANGST.

AO3 _________________________

"Jagged Stone is your father" Anarka had just told her twin children.

Luka's world was shattered into pieces.

Jagged Stone. His favorite musician. His inspiration. His mother's old music partner.

Their father.

One word occupies his mind: abandoned.

And the image of him takes a 180 degree turn. From admiration to despise.

His idol abandoned him. Him and his sister. His mother too.

Why?

He hates it. He hates all of it.

He hates it so much, not even his girlfriend Marinette can calm him down like she usually does. Not even her sympathetic voice or her sweet heart melody can heal him. Neither could her hand pressed on his in comfort.

Juleka's mind had gone blank for some seconds. Memories of how fond Luka was of Jagged Stone occupying her mind. 'Cool', she thinks, and then she focuses on her brother, who is clearly in shock.

In silence. In a trance.

He can't hear anything anymore, she realizes, after noticing how he isn't paying attention to either Marinette's, her mother's or her own calls.

His heart song is strident, loud, noisy- And his eyes lose all his light, all his kindness too.

'Abandoned'

This word keeps spiraling in his mind. On repeat. In an infinite loop.

"Luka!" He hears Marinette's voice call him in alert, finally making him snap out of it and find the strength to fight the akuma that just entered his guitar.

“Marinette… Don’t abandon me…” he begs, holding her while fighting not to lose control and fall under Shadow Moth's control.

“I won’t”, she assures him, clearly supporting him. She keeps encouraging him not to fall into the darkness of the dark butterfly.

Her melody is sincere. So sincere she can’t hide her still unburied feelings for certain blond hair and green eyes that make her heart flutter. And he can see it: the moment that is bound to happen, the moment Marinette will break up with him to go to Adrien. The moment all walls separating them will collapse and they will meet each other in the tangled maze of secrets they’re currently trapped in. The crumble of the castle that allowed him the miracle to have her by his side at this moment.

“You won’t” he whispers, feeling his biggest fear close: Silence- loneliness.

Abandoned.

His arms tighten around her, holding her even closer, impeding her from moving. He pulls her so close he's even hurting her a little. Marinette slightly protests in a cry, but she’s more emotionally affected than physically. "Luka-!"

She's scared.

She wants to assure him she’s honest. She wishes to be able to give him all her love, her existence-

And his newly appeared akuma form is willing to take it all.

His guitar is now a big fish net, his body has grown 3 times bigger and his looks are similar to a sea God. ‘Glaucus’, he calls himself. The name of the God of the fishermen in Greek mythology. His hair is longer, and his belly has become a transparent fish tank, where he plans to keep his loved ones, both safe and close so they don’t abandon him.

Punishment for the ones who abandon, lie and betray.

Protection for the loved ones.

'Justice', he calls it.

He doesn’t even need a big fish tank, because his loved ones are limited. A countable number of individuals is enough for him: Marinette, his mother, his twin sister, the rest of Kitty Section… Mylène too, maybe, since he would feel bad for Ivan if he left her out of it. And he would consider Marinette's family too, since he knows how much she appreciates them.

As for punishment? It's also clear: Jagged Stone comes first, followed by Lila Rossi among others who have dared to hurt his loved ones, such as Chloe Bourgeois and Bob Roth.

Marinette trembles at the vision after he finally lets her go of her to grab his fish catching instrument. A tear escapes her eye, and slides to fall from her chin. And then she runs: because that’s the only way she can help him: run, transform, defeat him and fix the damage she will fight to prevent from happening.

But she's ignoring the most important fact. The fact that that's exactly the action which will lead to her down fall, the sight that frightens Luka the most: Marinette turning her back to him, leaving him all alone.

His song abandoning him.

Rage, pain and despair fills his heart, unable to be contained with his meditation or her music. The music he himself turned into a loud mess, sounding just like nails scraping on a chalkboard, painful to his ears and his soul.

And that’s when he traps her, his net capturing her and turning her into a small, bright pink colored mermaid, he literally swallows to get her inside the fish tank he carries inside his transparent glass made belly.

A relieved sigh leaving his throat: Marinette is now secured. She won't leave his side again. ‘Who’s next…?’ He questions himself, looking at his horrified mother, Anarka as he smirks. He'll soon have all of them in his treasured fish tank.

And what will happen to those who deserve punishment? Fish out of the water- dry fins gasping for oxygen. Dead fish with eyes as cold as their hearts. Or even better- Jagged is going to be abandoned on his own before that- just like he cold-heartedly abandoned him and his sister.

And now that he mentions it… 'Where's Juleka?'

The akuma looks for her, but he doesn't see her around. 'She can wait' he decides, his chants summoning a big sea wave to carry him to his unwanted father's hotel suite.

__________

Jagged Stone can't believe his eyes. An akuma claiming to be his son has just turned Penny into a goldfish, who is now struggling with tiny desperate jumps for oxygen to breathe through her newly acquired fins. Impossible without water. Fang is next to join Jagged's personal assistant, now tiny and convulsing.

"Who are you!? Why are you doing this!? I have no kids!! Don't lie!! Stop this! Turn them to their original forms! They could die!" The rock star angrily begs under Glaucus lashes.

"You're the one who is lying! My mother never lies, so you are the one lying when you say you have no children! You're the one who abandoned us!" He yells as angry as Jagged. "All the admiration and respect I had for you is now hate and disgust! You deserve punishment for the sake of Justice!"

"Stop right there, mermaid boy. Didn't we already make it clear what the difference between revenge and justice was when you were 'Silencer'?" Chat Noir joined the battle, protecting Jagged from being crushed under the akuma's weapon.

The akuma attacks again, but this time he's stopped by someone else. Someone Chat Noir brought along with him- a new superhero.

_______

During the time Marinette was trapped, Tikki, safe and sound, had carried a Miraculous to Juleka, who was watching terrified at how the events developed on TV. She was too focused to notice the kwami, but she clearly noticed the box that fell on her hand out of nowhere. Reaching it, she curiously opened it, and a magical creature appeared in front of her.

"Hi there! I'm Roarr. It's nice to meet you, Juleka!" The little tiger introduced himself.

"What are you? What's going on?" Juleka questioned.

"I'm a kwami. I grant powers! Put on that jewelry and call for the magical words to transform into a superhero"

"Me? A superhero like Ladybug? I don't think I can-" she nervously mumbled, unconfident.

"The guardian chose you for this mission! You want to save your brother, right?" Juleka nodded. "Then say the words: Roarr, transform me"

"Roarr, transform me" Juleka said, and magic surrounded her. Her new appearance was purple with tiger-like orange colored stripes over her body. Her mask was the same colors of the suit, and a pair of tiny ears decorated her now tied hair, her ponytail loose in the wind.

Moments later, she ran towards the hotel, unknowingly followed by Ladybug's kwami.

And the battle started.

________________

"Luka! I know you're hurt, but Jagged is telling the truth! He never abandoned u- you! He never knew he was a father! He probably doesn't even know by now!" The new hero desperately yelled.

"Lies! All lies! He deserves punishment! And you do too!" The akuma points at the heroes and Jagged who is hiding behind them.

"I'll show you the truth!" The tigress announces, calling for her superpower.

Her claws become shiny and with one touch, she marks an ‘X’ on Jagged's forehead, and a purple cloud comes out of his mouth and surrounds them, as if they had just entered his dreamland- except it's, in fact, the rock star’s memories.

Luka is in denial. It is true. Jagged Stone never knew about them. Which means he abandoned them unknowingly. Was he innocent, though?

No, he wasn’t. Because he had indeed abandoned his mother.

_______

Meanwhile, Marinette had been trying to find a way out of the fish tank. She couldn't transform into Ladybug even if Tikki was free, because that would make her identity public. She needed another plan.

That's when she asked Tikki to get Juleka the tiger Miraculous- and it had, once again, been the right choice.

Marinette couldn't just stay still,watching. She fought to find a way out.

Making use of the constant moving water, and with Anarka and Kitty Section's help, she found a way up, arriving to his heart. Or was it the akuma’s heart? It didn’t matter to her as long as she could save him.

The sight was not what she had expected: a vast sea surrounded by colorful stained glass with the people he cared the most portrayed on them. Anarka, Juleka and Kitty Section were there. Big, colorful and shining bright.

Marinette continued swimming in his inner tormented sea of darkness until she found another glass under a cliff: hers. It looked beautiful, but unreachable, since a rose garden guarded and protected it. Untouchable beauty.

Was this Luka's vision of her? A beautiful flower surrounded by thorns, with green stains on paint messing with the almost perfect piece of art’s balance and making it painful to watch?

Marientte felt her heart ache in guilt.

She knew she was the cause of the hurt in his eyes which he sometimes looked at her with. He had always seen through her, despite how much she had been starting to believe her own lies about ‘moving on’ and ‘love’.

Marinette shook her head: no time to waste. Cry later. Focus now.

Her tail brought her to a cliff island with a broken stained glass window next to it. The one that belonged to Jagged Stone, as his name was written on a rock. It most likely broke at the revelation of Jagged being Luka’s father, but now the window was pitch black, with the pieces scattered on the floor. Silent.

She could feel his fears of being abandoned in her own skin, and froze at the realization: his endurance and his strength were only there thanks to music. A music his heart lacked at the moment.

Music.

That's the answer. Music was what healed his heart. This time too, he needed music.

But what could she do without musical knowledge? Or without any instrument to play?

'My voice' she notices. ‘I still have my voice’

Marinette starts singing her own heart song as composed by Luka, while the battle outside continues, now with their visit to Jagged Stone's memories.

Perfect timing.

And clouds appear over Jagged's glass window, the wind carrying some pieces back to its original place- partly reconstructed.

Maybe the mermaid form had another purpose, Marinette wonders. Maybe Luka couldn't completely let go of music, after all, whether he was akumatized or not. Or maybe...

Back to present, Marinette sees a light up that lifts her out of Luka's insides. Next time she blinks, she has recovered her original appearance- clumsy human girl Marinette.

"Run!" Chat Noir commands, and she obeys. As she runs, she gazes back at Luka, who shows her a painfully sad smile.

"Marinette!" Her kwami calls her before she can give it deeper thought. "Tikki! Spots on!"

Moments later, Ladybug makes it to the battle. "Lucky charm!"

____________

The battle ends soon. Too soon, to Ladybug's surprise. ‘Why did he offer no resistance?’

She'll have time to think about this later. First… "Miraculous Ladybug!" Ladybug rushed to recover Juleka's Miraculous so they could go back to Luka as soon as possible.

"Thank you, Ladybug" Juleka says, running off to hug her brother.

Marinette detransforms next and soon reaches them too. But she hesitates again. Should she be by his side when she hurts him so much?

Luka meets her gaze and smiles softly, apologetically and embarrassed, but clearly welcoming her. And she doesn't hesitate anymore to join their collective hug, melting in love after a swirl of emotions. They part from the hug and they all focus on Jagged Stone who is still processing what happened.

"Wait a second- Are you really my children…? You thought I abandoned you…?” Jagged asks the twins, before turning his head to Anarka. “Why didn't you tell me? Weren't we partners? 'Rock-'n'-roll until the crocodile controls'. Remember?"

"You said you wanted to go solo. You left me behind. Did you really expect me to go back to you after the humiliation I suffered? I gave you my heart and you threw me away as soon as you could!" Anarka yelled.

"I was young and immature, and not the best father figure, I admit it! But I deserved to know! You should have told me!"

"I'm telling you now! They are your children, Luka and Juleka. If you ever want to meet them, you know where we live. Don’t you ever come back if you plan to abandon them later" Anarka says, grabbing her children's shoulders and guiding them to move out of the hotel room with a push.

"I'm sorry…" Luka mumbles to Jagged, before leaving the room.

"I'm the one who is sorry…" Jagged admits to Marinette before she runs to follow the Couffaines and Kitty Section. “I’ll go visit sometime! I promise!”

“Are you ok, Luka?” Marinette asks after leaving through the hotel doors, seeing how Jagged is looking at them from the highest balcony.

“I will be. Eventually…” he returns his gaze down to focus on Marinette, reaching to hold her hand. “I don’t need Jagged’s music as long as I can listen to yours''

Marinette feels her cheeks burn.

________________________

On their way home, Marinette can’t take what she’s seen out of her head. ‘It was Luka's heart, right? And Luka’s true feelings. He truly loves me’, she realized. ‘But why…?’

With an instant of bravery, Marinette pulls Luka's hand to separate themselves from the rest of his family and friends.

"Luka… I- Am I painful to be with? To watch?" She bites her lip a bit and asks in terror. “Am I hurting you?”

"Of course not, Marinette. Never.” Luka assures her with a soft, faint smile. “You're more than I could ever ask for. You're the most beautiful song I've ever heard"

"Even if I have those unbearable to watch green stains...?" she whispers, embarrassed and angry at herself for not being able to make her feelings go according to her wishes.

"It can’t be helped, can it? And even if that’s the case, for me, you’re still the most beautiful despite those colors"

“Is my heart song really enough to cover for that ugliness? I hate it myself…”

“You shouldn’t. Imperfections can enhance beauty. I don’t mind them as long as I can hear your song up close” he answers.

“But-! Are you sure…? Aren’t you afraid I might end up abandoning you?” she finally asks, scared for his answer.

“I am. I’m terrified” he admits. “But how am I supposed to stand in the way of your wishes- your happiness? I can’t and I won’t do that” Luka shrugs, “Aren’t you scared of being abandoned too?”

“I am” she answers, after giving it some thought. “and that’s not the main reason for it, but I want to stay by your side” she realizes, “more than ever”.

Luka squeezes her hand and shows her a soft expression. “Thank you for always saving me. Akumatized or not,” he whispers to her ear. It surprises Marinette to see how his cheeks are pink over his fond smile.

“No-! I- I just sang a song and- It was all thanks to the new her-” she stopped herself. Luka couldn’t possibly remember what happened when he was akumatized. No one told him, no one showed him the news. He couldn’t know he turned her into a mermaid, or how she sang. Yet he thanked her for saving him.

‘Of course he knows’ Marinette understands. ‘Yet he didn’t reveal me to Shadow Moth and he let me go on purpose, too’. Her thoughts deepen. ‘I get it now’ she reaches her conclusion. ‘He wanted me to save him. He wanted me to take him back after he realized he was on the wrong side. It makes sense. He protected me despite being akumatized once again- like when he was Silencer’.

The girl’s feet stop walking for a moment at the revelation, causing Luka to look back at her. Taking one step closer, she raises on her tiptoes and gives Luka a kiss on his lips, surprising both of them.

‘I wonder what kind of music his heart is hearing now,’ she wonders, ‘because I can only hear a grateful and sincere happy tune in my own heart right now’

“Your heartsong is beautiful” she finishes with a smile he reciprocates.

Most likely, both of them knew deep inside that their relationship as it was now was bound to end at some point, sooner or later. Maybe both of them would always be afraid of loneliness and being abandoned, too. But wasn’t it enough to enjoy the music they created in that instant, while it lasts? Isn’t it the same with live concerts? They might end, but the sensations last forever in memories. Is it something to regret? Neither of them felt it was. And perhaps both of them secretly agreed with that logic as they continued walking hand in hand, enjoying each other's company and welcoming their mutual love and support, in whatever form their relationship changes into in the future.

[ascottywrites]

Best...Friends?

That Bad Friend Scott McCall tag really gets to me sometimes because even though the fandom kind of pushes it to an extreme, even before the whole Donovan and Theo business I can see how much of a suck-ass friend Scott could be. Like I don’t mean that friends should be up in each-others assholes during every given moment of the day but it is a horrible feeling to be cast aside like so much trash or easily forgotten and in cannon that happened more often than it should have for two people who call one another ‘family’. 

And I know, extenuating circumstances, storytelling, ‘poor story telling’...yada yada, but I’m also a petty ass and sometimes I need to consume the distortion in the fandom to thrive. 

**Also, lets be honest, sometimes the fanfiction is truer to the characters portrayed than the actual cannon. ijs 

This whole post is also known as “I’m a petty asshole who lives in the south so doesn’t get enough opportunities to actually be a petty asshole.” 

Anyway! On with the list! : 

Steter: 

On Edge by Bunnywest (Complete: 8/8| 23,707) 

“What do you mean, Stiles is missing?” Peter demands, scowling at the phone. "Missing, Hale! Can you help find him or not?" The sheriff's voice cracks, and Peter can tell he's out of his mind with worry. Peter doesn't blame him.

In which Stiles gets bitten by a rogue alpha and bolts into the preserve, terrified and out of control. Peter's the one best qualified to find him, because Stiles is Peter's mate. Peter maybe hasn't quite gotten around to telling him that part yet, but Stiles is his, and he's damned if he's going to lose him to some feral alpha. He's going to find his boy, bring him home, and as for the rest? Well, Peter has a plan. It's Peter. He always has a plan.

pack of two by ScarSacrifices (one-shot| 1,735) 

“You’ll be alright. No one can hurt you now,” Peter breathed out clutched the sobbing boy to his chest. Peter took a shaky breath and smoothed his hand down the boy’s hair making low shushing sounds as he did so. “Just listen to my heartbeat sweetheart, I’m here. You’re not alone,” he clutched him tighter, “not anymore.”

A Blowtorch? Really? by MysticMusic (Complete: 2/2| 4,757) 

“He’s homicidal,” she sputtered.

“No, Allison. The witches are homicidal. He’s smart,” Stiles hissed, “and if you took your narcissistic head out of your ass for five minutes, you’d see something called self-preservation instincts. Seriously what the hell is wrong with you? A blowtorch? Really? How fucking stupid are you?”

Or, Stiles defends Peter when Allison attacks him with a blowtorch like a lunatic.

I'm Only Heard During the Silence Between My Screams by Irukashi_Narukib (wip: 42/?| 52,721) 

Stiles thinks no one is listening, so he just... stops talking. It's just like that asshole Peter to refuse to take the hint.

Infinite Space by DiscontentedWinter (Complete: 13/13| 32,124) 

Stiles needs Peter's expertise to help stop the latest threat to Beacon Hills. And, as the pack falls apart around him, he might even need Peter for more than that.

Black Fire by Green (one-shot| 10,934) 

Deaton is all about the balance of the universe, about order. Stiles's new magic - gifted to him from the Nogitsune - is the complete opposite of that. Deaton calls Stiles's magic "dark" and seeks to imprison him in Eichen where he's no threat to the balance. Peter and Stiles go on the run - but they can't run forever.

The Only Sound by Elpie (Horribibble) (one-shot| 4,407) 

Stiles becomes acutely aware of the weight and vibration of his voice in his throat. He knows what volume feels like, and understands the intricacies of modulating it through context clues. If his voice shakes at first, no one seems to notice much.

Except Peter.

What It Takes To Not Be Broken by Whispering_Sumire (one-shot| 17,410) 

He's pretty sure Death is nipping at his heels at this point.

But he has to stay awake, has to keep Gerard away from Erica and Boyd, the two Betas still tied up with mountain ash and electricity on the other side of the room, and it looks like they're trying to scream through their duct-tape, still, but he can't hear it, not anymore.

The terrible, all-consuming, staticky silence had over taken him after about the third time Gerard's lackey- Ben, he thinks his name was- had stuck a military grade taser to his ear, a low enough voltage not to cause brain damage, he'd said, because the point of this was for him to talk.

[Or: The one where Stiles is kidnapped and tortured by Gerard, and his injuries lead to a complete loss of hearing, among other things.]

Sterek: 

Something With a T by Futureworldruler (wip: 10/?| 22,723)  

It started when Derek showed up at his house with a car full of plants.

Or Derek gets help, moves in with the Stilinskis, and slowly builds a new life for himself

Alpha, Mage, Pack by Foxfire2018 (wip: 36?/| 401,116)   

Set at the end of Season 2. Stiles was kidnapped and tortured for hours. Yet no one came for him. Hurt and cast out of the pack by people he thought cared for him, what is he to do? He finds himself accompanied by someone he never expected and someone he is eternally grateful for. Derek feels betrayed and foolish for what he allowed to happen. Out of anger and hurt he forced a valuable member he really started to care for out of his pack. With the pack scattered and people hurt, what will come of them? Will they bond together again in time for the next big bad?

User Error by Poison_Love_Words (wip: 10/?| 37,767) 

Given enough coffee and a few flirty texts from Mr.Bookish, Stiles could rule the world from his basement office at Triple S. That is until the day his best friend stabs him in the back for a pretty face and the (false) promise of fame and fortune.

Based on the Prompt: Omega Stiles is the real brain behind the up and coming tech company but Scott the public “face” starts to believe his own press and falls in with his new girlfriends bigoted family. He lets them talk him into kicking Stiles out of the company. And then Stiles gets revenge by going to work for the Hales.

I'll Bare My Back (If You Hold The Whip) by Kinkubus (wip: 5/?| 16,435) 

After the fiasco with the Nogistune, which Allison barely survived, Stiles is pushed to the fringes of the pack. Alienated from his previous friends and abandoned by the Sheriff who can't deal with his broken son, Stiles slips further and further into a pit of despair. That is until he finds someone even more desperate than he is, and together they forge a bond that will revitalise both their lives and the lives of Scott's crumbling pack.

So this is my first fic and it's unbeta'd so any mistakes, please feel free to correct me. That being said, I have not paid attention to canon at all in this story. Allison lives. Gerard is dead, and so is Victoria but the Alpha pack hasn't arrived yet and to be honest the timeline is shot to pieces. Therefore please suspend your disbelief. This is primarily a story about Stiles fighting through all the odds to adopt the entire pack and cuddle them to death, whilst also feeding them healthy food because yes I know you've got werewolf metabolisms Peter but good eating habits are still important ok!

Choose! by Skeleton_Wolf (one-shot| 1,437) 

Scott made him pick between his best friend and the pack that treats him like family. Is he really his best friend if he makes him pick? Can Stiles choose?

Thunderstorms & Polish Lullabies by Whispering_Sumire (one-shot| 10,057) 

Boyd is there, hovering over his claws, Isaac looks devastated, Jennifer looks bewildered and concerned and horrified, Kali looks smug, the twins are carefully keeping their faces blank but they're playing along, and- Gods, he's really going to be forced to do this, isn't he? Pack, his Pack, the make-shift family he'd all but accidentally gathered is going to die by his hand, and even if it's forced, it'll still be his fault, for wanting them, for needing them, for biting them.

Loving them.

He wants to close his eyes but he owes Boyd more than that.

And then, abruptly, in this saturated technicolor still-picture moment of chaos and violence- the eye of the storm- the door to the loft crashes open. With the water and the metal and the force of it, the sound is almost guttural, and far too loud- even Kali seems startled.

[Or, the one where Stiles time-travels just in time to save Boyd and Derek from the Alphas, and manages to heal everyone, including himself, just a little in the process.]

The One You Choose by Livinginfictions (Complete: 7/7| 13,440)  

Stiles hadn’t seen Scott in over a week, except for glances he caught during school hours.

Not Too Late to Learn by bubblessunshinedelight (wip: 20/?| 30,596)  

After 14 years Stiles realizes Scott doesn't really know him.

or Scott finds out Derek and Stiles are dating and is a dick about it...for a while.

You Belong with Me by halcyon1993 (Complete: 4/4| 19,656) 

Derek is tired of watching Stiles get treated like crap by his so-called friends. When both the Hale Pack and the McCall Pack end up in the same nightclub, Derek decides it's finally time to convince Stiles that he'd be better off with him as his Alpha.

That thin line between right or wrong by orphan_account (Complete: 7/7| 15,718) 

An AU based on the Donovan-storyline from Season 5A. After Stiles is attacked at the library and accidentally kills Donovan, he’s in shock, panics and runs. Hurt, confused, ridden with guilt and depressed, he wonders how it ever came to this point where nothing will ever feel right again. So, he decides to call the one man who knows won’t judge him. But will Derek arrive on time to save Stiles’ life?

This story basically alternates from most of Season 5, ignoring the rest of the series. Since I hated what they did with Stiles’ character after Donovan’s attack, I decided to change it all. This story is completely written from Stiles’ POV.

A Heavy Price by Estellestafford (one-shot| 4,202) 

Every Emissary wants to work for the Hale Pack, Stiles just wanted to be Scott's but then Allison happened to get some magic so that was out the window and now he finds himself in office with some hot guy offering to make him an Emissary in exchange for fulfilling his desires.

Go Away, Scott by HelloWhyTheFuckAmIHere (Complete: 45/45| 66,227) 

After the incident at the warehouse, Stiles is fed up with Scott. He finds himself drawn into Derek’s pack and in the process, drawn to Derek himself.

With the Alpha Pack closing in, Derek needs to learn how to trust his pack and those around him. And who better to help him than Stiles?

A Healing Silence by HelloWhyTheFuckAmIHere (Complete: 28/28| 36,329) 

Stiles is slowly pushed out of the pack following his fight with Scott about Donovan's death. After receiving a phone number from an old friend, Stiles is surprised to find that it belongs to the one person who may be able to bring him back to himself.

[brooklynislandgirl]

It Gets You Coming and Going: Of all moral dilemmas, what's one that truly stumps you and why? {ginglymostoma cirratum}

Questionable Quotes || Accepting The question is posed in so very Anakin a way that it almost hurts for simply existing. There’s layers built up between the syllables that only someone who knows him well enough can pick out, and only the very rare amongst them that can tell you where they came from. The deepest is the bedrock of his anxiety, that deep down he believes himself so unworthy that it’s compressed down into the core of him and become the basic foundation of the rest of his personality. Closer to the surface is the silt of fear that he’s said the wrong thing and has reached the tether of her seemingly infinite patience with him. That she’s finally going to snap and savage him with tooth and claw, glutting on the softness of his emotional state until all that is left is something that once resembled the bones of his resolve. And she knows she’s mixing metaphors here but that’s how she conceptualises the things about Anakin she can’t pin to a board and press under glass. Not that she would ever do that, she finds it horrifying and cruel, especially when not that proverbially long ago collectors would do that to living specimens, murdering them with chloroform. Ether. She keeps from curling her lip.

And maybe for those few precious seconds when she can feel his gaze sliding off her and back to the edge of the water, so extremely uncomfortable in his own skin, she empathises with him. Finds it easier to make this about wanting to view himself through the prismatic lens he’s made of her, where every fractured splinter can be compared to the raw emptiness that sometimes fills his own mind and pushes everything out of the way. So he can lose himself in his perceptions ~and she can tell, so easily, when he is sinking in the stream of Time, which is almost always~ and escape for just a little while from the weight of everything resting on too fragile shoulders.

It’s entirely possible, too, and dangerously so that she interprets a good many of their conversations this way, focuses the spotlight on Anakin rather than herself because the idea of introspection makes her a little queasy. That she herself hides behind all the preconceived notions that people have of her that she twists and bends herself to fit into because without them she would be as shapeless as the infinite void of the darkness that lingers at the very edge of the Horizon in the deepest umbral reaches.

And of course she would also never admit to maybe spending too much time dwelling on the reasons why the question wounds her as a means of putting emotional distance and actual thought far out of the way ~out of sight, out of mine. Because it is not the easiest thing to answer. In fact she isn’t sure there’s one that would capture intent as much as interpretation.

The problem with morality as it would be defined by most people is that it is an arbitrary system. An socio-artificial construct that puts a distinction between right and wrong, or good and bad behaviour. And much like consensual reality, the guidelines of such behaviour are dictated by people. And all people are fallible. Even the Holy Father, though he’s not supposed to be.

There are other factors to consider as well. Does he mean specifically as the question relates to Sleepers? Does he mean as it relates to the Awakened as they, master and apprentice, are? If they are speaking about the masses, then are there certain cultural borders they’re straying across? What is good for one group of society is clearly not very often understood by others and so what might be wrong or atrocious in belief may have mitigating circumstances if viewed outside of one’s own group. Then of course there’s the difference between an individual's moral dilemmas and ethical ones, which are similar but still vastly different. Not unlike the Traditions versus the Technocratic Union. And this is obviously not what Anakin means because he’s never seen the heated debates that often took a twist at the dinner table between herself and her brothers.

She wants to tell him, that of course, there’s all of these factors to be taken into consideration. Wants to ask him what he means ~specifically~ in regards to whose morals are being questioned and she knows too that by doing so she will somehow manage to trample his self-worth because he’ll judge himself as not having spoken clearly enough, slowly or carefully enough. That he did not adequately set up the scenario and thus given her something incomplete to work with. There will come a stunning display of beautiful if heartbreaking physical manifestations of that internal grief and she might actually expire from the grief of it all. And she isn’t being nasty about it, she isn’t mocking him in that breath of silence as she considers all of this.  It is something that she’s come to experience in the almost year that they have spent bound together by practice and...funnily enough...tradition. And she likes to think she knows Anakin this well by now, that however hard he tries to hide it, she will see.

She reaches into the bucket beside her and takes a hold of another chunk of meat and tosses it out across the murky water. It lands with a specific and yet sad little plop before disappearing below the surface. She watches the way his cigarette smoke rises up to wreathe around his curls a little wild tousled today. It’s a little ironic that she could see him as a dragon, and maybe there’s some Mokolé blood in his family tree, as much as there is shark in hers. But he’s still reserved enough that he doesn’t stick his converse down over the side of the decrepit little dock they’re on. To be fair, his legs are far longer, far too close to the dark, algae choked surface. He’s never had his calf nearly torn right off the bone and probably doesn’t need that experience. Not with his hand in the state it’s in, the way cold and weariness make his bones and joints ache with nothing to compensate for it.

And that’s the point where she realises that now she’s just stalling, letting herself drift along the paths of thought, further and further away from the question asked. So she breathes out a sigh and allows a soft curve settle to her lips that is neither exactly a smile or even a smaller grin. It’s something along the lines of patience made manifest, her natural inclination toward indulging Anakin, and it’s also...tired. The kind of thing that appears when she’s worked herself to the bone and hasn’t slept for days but continues to push herself until she’s at the exact point of inevitable collapse. And how often does she do that more and more these days. Doesn’t even try to make it to her room when he’s just as comfortable as his bed and far warmer even if it’s a slightly unhealthy symptom of his body’s attempt to keep his extremities in life-giving blood. She leans back, wiggling her toes out in front of her, though her legs are still covered by the broom-skirt she’s wearing, arms bracing herself from behind, slick and red, sure to leave prints she’ll have to clean up before they leave.  “I don’ t’ink dis really a fair question, Anakin. I mean... dere’s factors. A precise synt’esis would define culture as a body of ideas; norms, rules, standards, values, an’ beliefs. So dat different cultures would derefore have different moral an’ et’ical impact. An’ mebbe even between one generation an’ anoddah, like dem boomers an’ millennials. I mean, you an’ me are kinda li’dat too, as technically I’m a millennial an’ you’re Gen Z. Between all people dere’s dis enforced, learned social norm dat are symbolically an’ practically reinforced an’ referenced in displays dat signal adherence to any specific system. Now, I know ya no talk story about all kine people, ya specifically aks me ‘bout my own issue an’ I guess...” She trails off trying to regather herself. When she speaks again she does that thing she does when she thinks something is important enough to give him the best chance of understanding her, but that slows her speech, gives it a brittle edge.

“Even as hapa ~being half Hawai’ian~ my mother taught me about kuleana. Loosely translated it means “responsibility”. It’s dis concept of reciprocal relationships between the person who is responsible, an’ the things or persons they are responsible for. As Hawai’ians, we have a kuleana to our ‘aina, our land. To care for it and to respect it, and in return... the land has the kuleana to feed, shelter and clothe us. Through that relationship we maintain balance within society and with the natural environment. But you look at the world and everything is for sale, raped by greed and the need to consume. To conform. This... this is a sign of what my uncle’s people call the Apocalypse, but not like in disaster movies. Maybe tomorrow, I’ll tell you all about that.

“Another concept is...Pono. There’s no real translation for it, it’s a concept that incorporates many things. But many people use it to imply righteousness, but not like the way it’s used in society today. For us, anyway, it’s a very strong cultural and spiritual concept for a state of harmony and balance. So you can see how they relate? By accepting your kuleana and making sure you act on them in the right way, you are living pono. Living pono means to make a conscious decision to do the right thing in terms of self, others, and the environment. And we make no distinction between human and animal or plant, in that way.” She slants that hazel gaze toward him via one eye slitted open to make sure he’s following along.  “And I don’t mean that cutting down a tree is the same as say murder. But in a way, it is. You are killing something that was alive. You are taking its mana. If you do it with proper thanks and reverence, if you ensure that you are doing it sustainably, to feed yourself or build a shelter for your family, then you’re behaving within your kuleana. But clear-cutting an entire rain-forest so you can build a luxury golf-course and resort, displacing thousands and thousands of indigenous wild life and polluting the waters and destroying layers and layers of earth, not to mention the risk of exposing entire tribes of people who have no natural resistance to what are common, immunised illnesses? That is no different than slaughtering those very same lives in a far more expedient way. And I don’t know if you think I’m crazy, or if I am over-simplifying the tragedy that we as an entire world of people are creating and contributing to but you can see...the earth herself is restless. She is angry. And those throes of agony ~the global warming, the spirits crying out, the violence and disease...they are all symptoms of that anger, because people as a whole have lost their way. They trust too much in technology and in coping mechanisms that only breed more trouble...”

She’s momentarily lost in the weeds, but there’s no denying the passion in her voice as it trembles with pure and unbridled rage at society’s ills. And not just the ones that have landed on the Sleepers whom they are, in their own ways, charged with protecting, but the ones amongst their own kind and those of the others. “So I suppose, the dilemma I just cannot begin to understand is...with so much happening, and the world around us vanishing with every breath...why are we unable to reach an understanding. Why do we have to fight this war about whose mana is bigger, is better than someone else’s. And not just the Traditions ourselves. Our infighting is bad but we can typically talk things out. I specifically mean this war with the Technocrats. Their science isn’t doing much to improve lives these days and more and more people are looking for alternatives, for the Old Ways. Why not work with us instead of trying to kill or imprison us? Or why can’t some of us... Verbena and Dreamspeakers... some of you Euthanatos- why can’t we make a pact with the Wolfkin. Or the last of the lizard kings-” She glances askance at him a second time in a very playful and knowing fashion. Which is disturbing considering the nature of the remains in the ice chest she was tossing into the water just moments ago. “It isn’t like some of us hasn’t been busy keeping their kin fed. So I think just like the Traditions coming together, or the Technocrats forming their union, maybe it’s time we put political and spiritual beliefs to the side and just work together for the things we want. We’re all really trying to fight the same enemy, and I promise it isn’t you, and it isn’t me and it isn’t Bil..it isn’t any one person. There is evil out there. Real, terrifying evil. Take this guy. What he did to those kids...He was a disease. And like the healer I am and like...like the man you will some day become, we did what was right, for everyone.” Beth shudders then shakes her head.  “I don’t even know how to answer your question, or if I did. All I can say is...there’s no part of me that has any shame for the way I live my life, and therefore there’s no moral dilemma. But if one comes up, I promise you’ll be the first line of defense for my understanding and sanity.”

[meaninglessblah-writes]

38 with JayTim?

Thank you for the prompt! Hope you enjoy this Stray AU ♥️ 

38: “You fainted…straight into my arms. You know, if you wanted my attention you didn’t have to go to such extremes.” 

Tim turns his wrists through the incredibly sturdy handcuffs, letting them rattle against the arms of the metal chair as he huffs. More for the dramatics than out of any real concern. There’s a certain level of flair in the job description of Robin, and Tim’s loathe to break the streak his predecessor has spent years constructing. 

“Why am I handcuffed to a chair in a dingy old basement?” Tim asks with broad levity, casting his gaze over the concrete floor beneath his bare feet. His boots have been removed sometime between taking the tranquilliser dart to the neck and being carted halfway across the city by a cat-costumed rogue. 

Tim has the sudden, horrifying thought that Jason may have just divested him of the shoes in-transit. He tries to banish the image of his boots bobbing in the current of the Sprang from his mind with a firm shake. 

He tilts his head back, twisting to catch a glimpse of the man peeling back the goggles on his head, tousled dark hair flying free from beneath the confines of his black cap. “Seriously, I know your name. We’ve taken AP Computer Science together. Surely we can dispense with the theatrics by now?” 

“You like the theatrics,” comes the coy reply, and Tim snorts. 

“You like the theatrics,” Tim contradicts with a grin, as Jason sashays back into view. The extra few years since graduation have certainly improved the man’s firm figure, but the tantalising image of the elusive Stray is somewhat marred when you’ve seen what Jason looks like crying over an overdue literature essay. “Alas, poor Yorick,” Tim drawls with dripping tones, making Jason roll his eyes at the overacting, “I knew him well-” 

“I knew him, Horatio,” Jason corrects with the tempered patience of one with an actual appreciation of the fine arts, “a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy.” 

“Shakespeare never was my strong suit. But see, this is what I mean! You can’t cuff me to a chair and then forcibly recite poetry at me. That’s a crime.” 

“I’m a criminal,” Jason points out, teeth flashing in his smirk as he cocks a hip, coming to a halt directly in front of him. Tim wiggles his bare toes in the cold, stagnant air. 

“Why am I here?” 

“You fainted,” Jason purrs, lips curled in enduring amusement. “Straight into my arms.” 

“You drugged me,” Tim points out, and Jason shrugs one elegant shoulder. “I don’t think that counts.” 

“I say it does.” 

Tim shakes his head in bewilderment, slumping back in his bonds. Lets his wrists catch in the cuffs when he drops them at his sides. “You know, if you wanted my attention, you didn’t have to go to such extremes.” 

Jason hums, lifting a claw to run over the arch of Tim’s cheekbone, the blade catching on the edge of his domino. Tim stills, breath halting in his lungs as Jason’s gaze drinks him down. “But I do have your attention now,” he points out. 

“You do,” Tim agrees easily. “But you could just have easily trapped me with ‘Lifetime coffee supply: sign up sheets inside net’ sign.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind for next time,” Jason murmurs, blue-green eyes sparkling amidst all that black. He lifts his left hand, plucking the fingers of his glove off one by one. Tim’s eyes follow every single movement with silent rapture. 

When Jason tucks them into his belt, Tim says, softer this time, “You still haven’t answered my question.” 

“Which was?” Jason lifts his arms, biceps straining against all that constraining leather, and shucks his cap. He tosses his hair out, combing through some of the more rebellious curls, and Tim finds his train of thought derailed again. 

Almost. “Why am I here?” 

“Would you prefer to be somewhere else?” 

Tim wets his lips. “No.” 

Jason smirks, grin vibrating with the victory. He turns, starting for the stairs back up to the house above them, and Tim strains against his bonds to keep him in sight as he rounds a column, pausing to throw back, “So are you coming or not?” 

Tim grins, hands curling in their confines. “Be right with you.” 

“That’s what I like to hear,” Jason purrs, and takes the first few steps languidly, not even turning back to toss down, “I think you can work out what the handcuffs are for.” 

If you want to ask me more questions, check out my list of prompts and quote the 6-digit number in the tags :)

[kyber-ghost]

scene from vampire au

AHhh guess who wrote another scene from that Plo/Wolffe AU I’m working on and it’s not in order! This happens a lot when I write fics that are more than one chapter. That’s why I only have like one multi-chapter fic on my account. I am all over the place. This one is really cute though I swear.

It is unnerving how much Boba looks like Wolffe, looks like the rest of the brothers. He understands that they’re all biologically related, but still. It is like looking at a young Wolffe, and Plo can’t help but feel a little bit fond towards the boy. But then he looks at Plo with rather confused look, and Plo reminds himself that it is not Wolffe. It is the son of Wolffe’s sire.

“Jango didn’t tell you anything when he dropped you off?” Cody asks, as he calls Jango for the fifth time. Boba shakes his head, not taking his eyes off the T.V screen. It’s some cartoon that Plo remembers Ahsoka watching when she was younger. He thinks it has to do with space pirates. Or space knights.

“Nope,” Boba says. “He just said he’d come back in less than a week, don’t worry about him, he’ll be back to pick me up.” Boba looks at Cody and gives him a reassuring smile that looks too old for the boy. “He always comes back for me.”

“Not what I’m worried about, kid,” Cody mutters, but Boba has already turned back to watch the show. Wolffe raises an eyebrow at his older brother from where he sits next to Boba. Cody shakes his head and makes some hand gesture that Plo can’t decipher for the life of him, but Wolffe seems to understand clearly. He nods and turns back to Boba as Cody gives up calling their sire.

“Hey, ad’ika,” he says. “Once this thing is over let’s get you settled in your room, alright?” Boba makes an affirmative noise, and Wolffe ruffles the boy’s hair as he stands up. The youngest Fett brother knocks Wolffe’s hand away while Wolffe laughs, Boba’s hair now a wavy mess. The action makes Plo’s chest warm, like someone has gently caressed his insides. He watches Wolffe make his way toward him. Wolffe nudges Plo with the side of his foot. “Want me to walk you back?” he murmurs.

Normally, Plo would say no. He’s a grown man, and with the “lessons” Wolffe has been giving him, he could take whatever unsavory characters appear in the dark. But he nods, gathers his things and says goodbye to Cody and Boba. Wolffe tells Cody he’ll be back soon, and he swings back over to Boba to give him another ruffle in his hair. Boba manages to dodge it, and they both laugh. 

The warm feeling in Plo’s chest blooms, and it spreads higher into his neck and face. He’s glad that Wolffe can’t tell anything’s changed as they walk out. The sun has started its descent, and it is just verging on the beginning of twilight. They take their time walking back, falling into a comfortable silence that Plo thinks is more comfortable on his side. He sees Wolffe ran his hand on the back of his neck and his tongue wet his lips.

“Hey,” he begins, “I’m sorry about Boba just appearing like that. Sometimes Jango will leave him at our place without—you know, telling us.”

“Doesn’t seem very polite,” Plo says.

Wolffe laughs. “Yeah. He’s not. Probably where Fox gets it from,” he says. “But Boba is just a kid, and it’s not his fault Jango’s a shitty person. Just wish he would give us a heads up. It’s not like he doesn’t have a phone.”

Plo is quiet for a moment. “You care for Boba.”

“We all do. He’s a good kid, it’s just Jango we have problems with,” Wolffe says. “No matter what happens, he’s tal aliit. Blood family. We take care of our own.” They arrive at Wolffe’s car, and as he’s fishing his keys out of his pocket, Plo thinks about the little boy walking easily into the apartment, knowing his brothers would not turn him out. He thinks about the way Cody, even with his frustration, had not aimed any of that at Boba with ill will. And he thinks about how easily Wolffe teased his little brother, as if they had grown up in the same home, rather than being years apart. His smiles and laughter were genuine, soft around the edges, like sunlight bleeding into the clouds early in the morning.

He would do anything to see Wolffe smile like that again.

The warmth inside Plo’s chest grows as he wraps his hand around one of Wolffe’s wrist and turns him around. He holds Wolffe against the car as he presses their foreheads together. A soft gasp escapes Wolffe’s lips, and Plo sees Wolffe smiling, but with a hint of confusion on his brow. Plo lifts a hand to cup the side of Wolffe’s face, being careful to keep his claw covering from even grazing Wolffe’s skin. 

“Well,” Wolffe says, his voice low in his throat. “I don’t want to sound like I’m complaining, because I’m not.” Plo shakes his head slightly, but he also smiles. “But since I’ve obviously done something to make you like this, want to tell me so I can do it again?”

“Just—” Plo pauses, thinking of something to say that won’t make Wolffe throw up his walls again. “Just, smile. Laugh. Do those things as if you have no care in the world. Just do that for me,” he tells him.

And Wolffe does. It’s a lopsided, beautiful thing with that makes Plo’s heart twist with a new sensation. For not the first time, Plo wishes he could kiss Wolffe in the way other species could. “Anything for you,” Wolffe murmurs, as he presses a kiss to the front of Plo’s mask.

“What if I ask for everything you have?” Plo asks, moving his hand to Wolffe’s waist and pulling him tighter against him. Wolffe’s smile turns more teasing, a little bit of teeth peeking out.

“I usually don’t share, but maybe I could make a few exceptions,” he says, pressing another kiss against Plo’s mask, his neck, and junction of his shoulder and neck. Plo feels the barest hint of Wolffe’s teeth drag against his skin, and he lets a shaky gasp escape him. One of Wolffe’s hands slides underneath Plo’s jacket, and even though he doesn’t have any body heat, Plo feels like he’s been burned by Wolffe’s touch.

His hand tightens against the back of Wolffe’s neck, and Plo feels Wolffe jerk back slightly. With a horrified feeling, he realizes he’s touched Wolffe with his claw covering. He begins to hurriedly apologize, but Wolffe shakes his head. “It’s alright. Just surprised me,” he says, giving Plo a reassuring smile. He presses a kiss on Plo’s mask, and the gentleness with which he does it with makes Plo’s heart twist even harder. 

“Wolffe,” he starts, his heart suddenly beating twice as fast, “I need to—”

But before he can finish, the sound of Wolffe’s phone pierces the dark, and Wolffe groans. The ringtone is an ominous, heavy rhythm with deep bass tones. “Fuck,” he mutters, his head against Plo’s chest. “That’s Fox.” He lifts his head to look at Plo with an annoyed look. “I would ignore it but—”

“He’s your brother. Your oldest brother.” Wolffe sighs in agreement. “Take it,” Plo says, slipping himself out of Wolffe’s grasp. “We can continue this at some other time.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” Wolffe says, as he accepts the call. “What’s up,” he says, as Plo goes around the other side of the car and sits in the seat, trying to calm the rapid beating of his heart. 

He cannot say what he meant to. It isn’t the right time. So he thinks it. He thinks it with every fiber of his being. He never could lie to save his life. It is infinitely harder to lie to himself.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

[fuckblizzardbearlover]

Why ppl who think the writers dont know exactly what they are doing with Sylvannas are dead, completely and utterly wrong: a Thread

from the official overview

“ The Broken Machine The machine of death is broken, and players entering the Shadowlands will find the realm of the dead in disarray. In the natural order of things, souls are sorted and sent on to an afterlife realm appropriate to the lives they lived, but now, but over the past few years, all souls who have perished—including the innocents slain at Teldrassil—are being funneled directly into the Maw. The Shadowlands are starving for anima even as the Maw continues to grow from the glut of fresh souls. Sylvanas has been seemingly perpetrating acts to bring about great amounts of death and destruction. In partnership with the Jailer, they have been working toward a common end for some time. “

so, i’m sure this will be one of the first things we learn in Bastion. or whereever.

emphasis mine.

past few years...BFA...Legion....ok thats a pair... So what if it is not exactly a few (3 ). Draenor sylvannas didnt have anything to do, But in MoP she didnt balk at causing death at Siege of Ogrimmar or Theramore and, in the Cataclysm she wiped out 3 cities. Catacylsm is the expasnion after wrath. After she died

From Sylvannas Windrunner: Edge of Night

“What did it matter if another corpse filled his vacant throne? Sylvanas Windrunner had her vengeance. The vision that had driven her and her people for years had finally been realized. And not a single fiber of her desiccated, animate corpse cared where the world went from here.It was over now. A part of her was surprised she was even still around, without his lingering presence always tugging at the back of her mind. She backed away from the throne and slowly turned to survey the cold gray world all around her. Her thoughts returned to that place of bliss, her half-remembered glimpse of what lay beyond. Home. It was time.

.............

She longed for it. A return to peace. The work she had begun in the forests of Silvermoon was finally complete with the death of Arthas. ,,,,,,,,,,,

...........

She could feel no cold, only a dull ache. She would feel nothing soon. She already felt her spirit reaching a place of calm for the first time in almost a decade. Her weight shifted toward the edge of the drop. She closed her eyes.

.......................

"There are so many!" he barked, falling silent as she raised a finger. "We have only two dozen rangers up there," he said, his voice now a whisper. "They cannot survive that!" Sylvanas didn't turn her gaze away from the dark mass of shambling corpses crushing its way closer to the river ford. It was the height of the Third War, and hours away from Silvermoon's fall at the hands of Arthas's army.

"They merely need to delay them as we fortify the Sunwell's defense," she answered, her tone measured.

"They will die!"

"They are arrows in the quiver," Sylvanas said. "They must be spent if we are to win this."

She was brash. Empty? No—a fighter. She had a warrior's heart.................

Before her waited a grotesque, quivering mass of corpses, their armor piecemeal, their bodies broken, the stench unimaginable. Their plaintive, desperate gazes reminded her suddenly of children. They disgusted her. But their need empowered her. "The Lich King falters. Your will is your own. Are you to be outcasts now in your own land? Or do we embrace the cruel cards fate has dealt us and retake our place in this world?"

.........

These poor people: peasants, farmers, priests, warriors, lords and nobles… they hadn't yet come to grips with what had happened to them. But for somebody—anybody—to assure them that they belongedsomewhere was electrifying. 

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

Already he'd come to embrace his situation, referring to humans as if they were a separate race; she made a mental note to make use of him.

.........

"The humans will serve their purpose," she answered, her mind already calculating. "They believe they are liberating the city. Let them fight on our behalf and spend themselves for our gain. They are"—she stumbled upon an analogy she'd used before—"arrows in our quiver."

The heaving mass of undead clapped and coughed and hacked gleefully in assent. Sylvanas regarded the whole mob coldly. And so are you, she thought to herself. Arrows I will aim at Arthas's heart.

................................

No more would she be the vengeful leader of a mongrel race of rotted corpses. Her work was done, and her long-denied reward awaited her

...............

“"Your people will perish!" said the dark-haired Val'kyr.

.Sylvanas thought about her people. They had come far from their decimated origins, the yearning, confused mob of fresh corpses huddled about the ruins of Lordaeron's wrecked capital. The Forsaken were truly a nation now: a fetid, gore-caked, hideous mass of lifeless husks, skilled in combat, devastating with the arcane arts, and unhindered by fetters of morality. They had been honed into the perfect weapon. Her weapon. And they had struck the killing blow for which she had built them. She cared nothing for their fate."Let them perish!" Sylvanas cried. "I am finished with them!"“

........................

She saw only darkness.

And then she felt—truly felt, for the first time in a long while. She recoiled. In agony.

Here she was, her spirit once again feeling whole, only to feel it suffer. To feel once more, only to feel abject pain. Cold. Hopelessness.

Fear.

...................

There were others in the darkness. Things she didn't recognize, because nothing so terrible could exist in the world of the living. Claws tore at her, but she had no mouth with which to scream. Eyes looked at her, but she couldn't look back.

Regret.

She sensed a familiar presence. Recognized it. The taunting voice that had once held her in its grasp. Arthas? Arthas Menethil? Here? His essence rushed to her, desperate, then shrank away in horrified recognition. The boy who would be Lich King. Just a scared little blond child, reaping the aftermath of a lifetime of mistakes. If any part of Sylvanas's soul were not at that moment torn and tormented, she might have even felt—for the first time—the slightest glimmer of pity for him.

Now the others had her. Surrounded her. Gleeful, tormenting, tearing at her consciousness, delighting in her suffering.

Horror.

This was to be her eternity: the endless void, the dark, unknown realm of anguish.

....

"Sylvanas Windrunner, Dark Lady, queen of the Forsaken… you may walk with the living again through the sisterhood of the Val'kyr. As long as they live, so too shall you. Freedom, life… and power over death. This is our pact. Do you accept our gift?"

.....................

This was her only way out. But she didn't want to give her assent out of fear. She waited until she felt something more. A fellowship. A sisterhood. Sisters. Separate, they were all trapped. But together, they were free… and with them, she could postpone her fate.

.............................

"I was once like you, Garrosh," she answered, her voice quiet and steady, loud enough only for the warchief to hear. "Those who served me were tools. Arrows in my quiver.

......................

What he saw was a great black void, an infinite darkness. There was fear in those eyes, but also something else. Something that terrified even the great warchief.

"Garrosh Hellscream. I've walked the realms of the dead. I have seen the infinite dark. Nothing you say. Or do. Could possibly frighten me."

The army of undead that surrounded and protected the Dark Lady was still hers, body and soul. But they were no longer arrows in her quiver, not anymore. They were a bulwark against the infinite. They were to be used wisely, and no fool orc would squander them while she still walked the world of the living.

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

Now, look at the description for the Maw

“ This horrific prison houses the most vile and irredeemable souls in existence—ones deemed by the Arbiter to represent a threat to the Shadowlands if left free. Ruled by the enigmatic Jailer who none have ever seen—at least none have seen and lived to tell—the Maw inspires nightmares and legends even among the denizens of the Shadowlands. No one has ever escaped this vile place, and any foolish enough to venture there are never heard from again. “

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

So This short story was written before cataclysm launched in 2010. NINE years ago.

So yes “dur Blizz are bad writers that made sylvannas do a 180 and become evil for no reason”

NO. This was the biggest piece of characerization Sylvannas ever got outside of warcraft 3 The Frozen Throne. it establishes that she was a cold person more than willing to treat living people as objects to satisfy the needs of their military and their people. It emphasised MULTIPLE times that i highlighted that she HATED and was disgusted by the forsaken. ANd i emphasised at least twice that She has been using patriotism and their need for someone to care about them as a way to MANIPULATE them. And that was how she was. SHe didnt care about any of them They were just a tool to be used to kill Arthas. and with him gone she was ready to die.

The problem was she was ready to die because she HAD ALREADY DIED. we learn with the SHadowlands that good souls go where they are treated well, and even strong souls are treated well. but Where to evil souls go? either the maw or to the vampire place. She had died and started to enter the good place, Bastion no doubt. as a good protector of the innocent. but Arthas pulled her out and made her a monster

BUT SINCE THEN she became even more of a monster. She let her people embrace hatred. she allowed slavery and torture of prisoners for the sake of destroying life. she thought of nothing but how to USE and ABUSE people in order to get vengence so SHE could get her REWARD.

She became a “most vile and irredeemable soul”. So when she died her soul went to the Maw where it suffered with dark evil souls like Arthas’

and did getting rescued by the valkyre fix her outlook? No . she still saw her people as nothing. but she knew the horrors she’d face if she died, and so she viewed her people as a BULWARK against that.

But whats REALLY interesting is that I think Ion wasnt being completely honest . The lore says that “No one has EVer escaped the Maw of Souls”... however we know that we will do so. And we know that No one has been there. so how can anyone KNOW that no one has escaped. What if they just kept it a secret.

What if the Jailer started to, for whatever reason, decide to take over the afterlife. whether it was personal ambition or seeing the rest as redundant. And he saw this elf soul ESCAPE him. the only one to ever do so. By that Valkyre taking her place. The Valkyre are allegedly created by the souls of hte denezins of bastion, the angel people. So between having a connection to the lich king, guardian of the connection to the Shadowlands, and the fact that they are denezins of the shadowlands.. or were... it makes sense they might have had the power to rescue a soul from the Maw.....with the added help of the soul taking her place.

I emphasised other parts to because i think its important. the Valkyre USED to be denizens of the shadowlands. but supposedly Changed by the lich king. The valkyre emphasised it WASNT just a bond of sisterhood but a bond of hte Valkyre. I think in order to save her from the maw they basically had to enchant sylvannas to magically register as a Valkyre, and thats how they ‘made the switch”. so to speak.

Now remember what happened in Legion? She got a special lantern from Helya, the original Valkyr, who is a master of Death, trapping souls and creating dimensions And who has reason to hate Odyn  who has his own form of afterlife?

So it seems to me that Sylvannas gained the attention of the Jailer when she was the first one to escape. and the fact that she escaped by utilizing Valkyre magic, but she wasnt bound to the ethos of most of the denizens of bastion. I think shortly after her original death she was contacted by him, possibly through the valkyre and they started their pact. 

Ion said that Sylvannas does not have a master, she’s doing things for herself. However that doesnt mean that, just cus the Jailer isnt controlling her doesnt mean he might not be manipulating her.

Jailer starts to usurp the souls. Sylvannas, afraid of going to the maw. begins rampant death,  in order to kill enemies and create a massive army of forsaken to use against any force that would come for her. This rampant death gains the attention of those in the afterlife, including the Jailer who gets more souls do to it. somewhere between Cata and the start of legion he contacts her. When vol’jin is dying he uses his influence to get Vol’jin to name Sylvannas warchief.

She uses her new power to go wherever she wants, which she uses to find Helya, another god of death who has a unique power. Realm magic. using the Lantern, Sylvannas uses the valkyre to send it to the jailer who cuts off the other parts of the afterlife, making it so ALL souls go to the maw. then now that the world threat is over, and she doesnt have to worry about dying herself, she uses her position of power to sew as much death as possible to feed her ally. with the ultimate plan of  them destroying the natural order of life and death.  She gets to be free of him and lets those she deems worthy live free. all others get to be the Jailer’s victims. no more souls wasted on the ‘good’ after lives or regeneration. no more foolish living to ruin a perfect, deathless world.

its all coming together.

[creeping-crowley]

☠ Another One Bites The Dust ☠

It had been on his to-do list.

It had been right there amongst the mental note to re-pot a few of his plants and nip to Tesco. Hell, however, had decided that the priorities with which Crowley had been going through his mental to-do list were in need of some re-ordering.

A mental tug snared him, scoring a painful wound through Crowley’s thoughts. Dazed, the demon pinched the bridge of his nose. He was being called. Well. Called, rather implied there was a choice in the matter. Summoned was rather more accurate.

His very essence coiled into inky smoke, coursing and winding through the infinitely bound layers of reality to plummet lower and lower. There were more stylish manners to descend to hell, but the mental rope tightened, choking and smothering away any form of preference, dignity or comfort with which its target was drug out from his warren. Upon coursing downward through a haze of blistering ice and vapid heat, jet wings flung open from Crowley’s back, clawing a wide arcing path through the air in an effort to slow his fall. Gracelessly, he met the ground, feathered wings sprawling out either side of him as he made swift to appraise his surroundings and those in attendance. It was never good to be brought forth by unbreakable tie.

Damp, acrid dirt stung the demon’s palms. He pushed himself upright, noting all the eyes that watched. Nobody stepped forward. The sulfuric air that burned at his nose and lungs brought back the memories of the place- hell’s pit. The pit was not so much a place for conversation as it was for public demonstrations, executions and torture. It was a place steeped in sorrow, punishment and fear. Even those clustered around appeared apprehensive (and knowing the risk of collateral that hell had, they had good reason to be).

Serpentine eyes scanned for the one at the head of the gathering.

Moloch.

Master of shame, devourer of life and lover of sacrifice.

There was a reason Crowley had always done well to avoid this particular circle of hell. He had never quite seen eye to eye with Moloch- a being that favoured the suffering and carnal devouring of body and souls (particularly the innocent). He was a real brawn-over-brains sort. The likelihood of getting a trial or so much as the chance to weave his path out of the firing line with words was looking unlikely. Crowley swallowed.

“Ah, Moloch…”

The tang of ash and rot boiled into a thick, putrid haze. A soft crackling of flame was punctuated with the damp hiss of droplets cascading from the rock above, throwing up plumes of angry, stench-ridden steam.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Run. Running. Always looking to run.” A deep baritone rumbled, shaking the air about them.

Snakelike eyes flitted back to Moloch, halted from their restless efforts to map what tools surrounded him in an effort to categorise the threat.

“Thinks he can run…from Moloch!” Deep thrums of laughter echoed from the demon’s chest, coursing a low hiss of snickering from the beings that encircled the pit.

“I didn’t say—”

“Thinks he can LIE to Moloch.” The demon interrupted.

“…I just got here.” Crowley insisted, already acutely aware of the dread building in his chest at how little purchase he was being offered.

A wail of air howled through the stifling chasm, picking up smatterings of ash and cinder.

“And soon you’ll be leaving.” Mammon, Prince of trust and greed spoke up, electing to intervene before his companion got ahead of himself.

“Listen, guys, whatever it is there’s probably some sort explanation. The pit? Really? Surely it doesn’t call for this…” Crowley’s tone held up surprisingly well in an effort to hold his nerve- to make it all seem like some silly understanding. To make it seem as though he were the last demon deserving of such treatment (when in actuality he found himself mentally scrambling to work out which of his many transgressions had earned him a place in the pit).

“Oh, but I think you’ll find it does.” Mammon’s words were silken. Carefully the web was being woven to ensnare him.

“Holy water does not kill you.” Mammon’s gaze fixed Crowley. All of a sudden, Crowley noticed that none of the demons in attendance were looking at him as though he were one of their own. A babble of agreement slithered through the gathered crowd as heads bobbed with concerned agreement. He was a stranger now. An outcast- struck out with the rest of the unwanted to boil and melt in the pit.

“You prefer the company…of ANGELS!” The accusation rose into a shout, stirring the crowd into a chorus of angered and horrified howls and shouts. Roaring beside Mammon was Moloch, pounding a fist against the wall.

The volume marked his cards, turning Crowley in on himself as his shoulders lost the nonchalant air he had fought to uphold. Warily, the demon’s feet inched back.

“The angels know of you…and you were there each step of the way- thwarting Armageddon. Thwarting our chance to ESCAPE THIS PLACE. To WIN!”

“And when it was all said and done, the Archangel Michael did not destroy you…” Mammon’s voice softened with an insidious air of contemplation.

“They wouldn’t kill one of their own. Someone fallen…some damned spirit to be heaven’s eyes and ears in dark places. You were too useful to them. But that doesn’t make you very useful to us…”

A low hissing pronunciation of a name that Crowley had not worn for centuries addressed him.

“Your work on Earth has hereby come to a close. Hell has no requirement of your services any longer. Please step into the centre of the pit to surrender your vessel.”

“Sorry…what?” A haze of confusion and panic slowed Crowley’s thoughts as he battled to grasp the closing space around him. An urge to shout out at them tightened the demon’s throat- an urge to insist there was a terrible misunderstanding. They had it all wrong. But all the evidence backed up the accusations pinned against him. He’d done very little to maintain his ties to hell or uphold any ally that would save him or so much as vouch for his deeds. Crowley paled.

Moloch set about advancing, lowering into the pit with an impatient gnashing of pointed fangs. At the movement, Crowley arched skittishly away, seeking to buy himself a little more time.

“No no no, you’ve got it all wrong!” He insisted, flashing a borderline manic smile that hoped to insist how thoroughly laughable the mix-up was. As Moloch drew closer in his hungry advance, coal-black wings struck out in an effort to better scramble away. It was to be the first of many mistakes. A large clawed hand snatched out from Moloch, far swifter than the brutish form of him would have made anyone think possible. Moloch’s crushing grip found the crook of Crowley’s wing and snatched it, pulling firm to yank the smaller demon into his trajectory. Caught entirely off-guard by the sudden force that threw him off balance, Crowley tripped, meeting the ground clumsily at Moloch’s feet to a round of hearty cheers. A thread of humiliation and shame began to crawl and writhe within his chest at the noise. It was every bit a confirmation that nobody was going to help him. They wanted to see him torn to pieces. They wanted him dead. Gone.

A low groan ached at the pit of Crowley’s throat before a sharp rip of claws struck the first effort to break the demon’s Earthly form.

“No…” A soft, mournful moan escaped Crowley (too quiet, thankfully for the jeering crowd to hear). A slick dampness of blood brought about ragged breaths as Crowley began to crumble beneath the torment. Frenzied at the reality of his predicament, he pushed forward, attempting to writhe and batter away his attacker with both wings. A cascade of feathers swirled about the burning pit.

Boulder-like fists snatched at bone beneath feather, seeing to it that the appendages were shattered and crumpled into a useless cloak of blood and darkness. A visceral shriek that did not sound as though it belonged to Crowley at all broke through the growing applause. Shuddering under the shock of such an injury, Crowley crumpled, one wing falling weakly to his side in a searing haze of pain. Moloch saved no time to observe his work. The larger demon brought down a foot onto Crowley’s leg, grinning widely at the sensation of splintering bone. The choked screams grew louder. The crowd’s enthusiasm grew with them. Animalistic panic drove Crowley into pushing against the force that sought to slowly break his limbs one by one. There was nothing he could use to escape. No clever plan. No way out. He couldn’t think. He hadn’t been given the time to think.

“LISTEN!” A bloodcurdling howl pled against the sensation of his arm being broken. Thirsty breaths ripped through the demon’s lungs as he sensed what time he had left for leverage swiftly draining away. A wave of laughter erupted from those watching him. The assault did not so much as pause at the word.  Nobody wanted to know what he had to say. He couldn’t stand. He could hardly draw breath. Suddenly he felt very small.

Only once the onslaught of violence brought out a more compliantly weakened state from Crowley, did Moloch slow his efforts. With a snort, the demon straightened himself, casting a broad smirk at the onlookers, inviting them to see his work.

“Traitors are not shunned by one.” Moloch spoke the words in a way that one who relished in them could only manage. As though heeded by a command, those whom had been part of the audience slid forward into the pit.

“THEY ARE SHUNNED BY ALL!” A roar shook the chasm as they descended upon the crumpled form of their prior comrade. Hands set upon whatever they could find, punching, ripping out feathers and biting. The ritual was almost complete.

(( @exanxmo ))

[cruddyborderlandstheories]

omg okay so i was totally ignorant but now i am enlightened because the brilliant @h00f sent me the booth video recording and im dying over it so here we goooo. i recorded it and uploaded the vid into davinci resolve so i could zoom in and also go through frame by frame.

tl;dr: so its all good its all good UM TYREEN’S TATTOOS WENT MISSING ON HER FOREARM AND THEN SHE SUCKED A MONSTER AND THEY REAPPEARED so it’s all good it’s all good im not having a crisis. im not. i thiiiiiiiiink we see the Vault of Promethea (the one with the cranes, but lilith also says “wherever the hunt for the vaults takes us” which throws me off a bit. still kinda think it’s promethea tho).

so not what i was expecting to be doing at 2:32 am but you know what? this is okay, borderlands gives me literally infinite energy

and new content? HOH BOY i am going to go so fucking in depth. hold onto ur horses. i was working on my mock intro to the game but this is so much better

UMM?? HOLY SIHT????

THAT’S THE SAME TILE AS THE ONE IN THE TEMPLE

I THOUGHT THIS WAS ON EDEN-6???

same tile on the wall on the right there

those guardian statues have staffs!!! that’s so rad, like the Watcher and shit, they also have less big necks?? or they might be bowing down. they look a lot more humanoid than the guardian/eridian statues im used to!!!

like as far as i can see they don’t have the butt spikes? maybe these are just super well preserved and thus not broken/spiky/cracked!! I do think the staffs are awesome! I know the Watcher carried one and so do some in TPS (I don’t recall seeing any in bl1 with staffs? im pretty sure they used their energy claw things) so maybe these are a higher tier of guardian than the ones we see in bl1? (which, if the Eridians wanted us to open Pandora’s vault as punishment for stealing fire the tech on Promethea, then that would make sense)

AND THE CRANES! and the buildings!!!!! is this Promethea’s vault? there’s something in the sky near the moon (?) so i thought maybe that was the asteroid belt but... it’s only condensed in one area..? 

it looks like a rocky place (you know, the quasmarian quarry Typhon mentions?!), i could see it, it looks super well-kept!!! my only problem?? it’s not underground/next to a cliff or anything. i guess it’s actually possible with those cranes and shit that it’s been excavated completely

i think we walk out of a temple here, which makes me think this is connected to the temple with all those monster dudes in it (also i can’t be the only one who thinks the blue sparkles on the statue on the far left makes it look like it has a shiny thicc butt. i CANNOT be the only one)

you know this one

well ACTUALLY in the We Are Mayhem trailer we DO see one of these guys!!! he’s on Maliwan’s side as the VHs are running across the bridge and im pretty sure that is Promethea!

IM PRETTY SURE

the neon lights and shit make me think it is in fact the city!!! maybe a part of the city that’s been totally overrun by Maliwan??

okay im certain this is promethea, those turrets we 100% see in the gameplay reveal trailer (below)

i thought i recognized that silhouette!

so unless maliwan is carting those demon dudes from a different planet to use in their army, I’m going to guess the huge ass temple was excavated from when Typhon found it (explaining the cranes and buildings) and Maliwan maybe took control with the CoV and somehow?? got control of those big demon boys. not quite sure tbh

OKAY SO THIS IS SO AWESOME ASDFGFHGJFK IM NERDING THE HELL OUT I LOVE ERIDIAN STUFF AAAA OKAY SORRY IM JUST ADSFSGFHYDJUK

AND THIS ONE LOOKS SO TINY?? I AAAA I KNOW IT’S NOT BUT??

THIS FEELS LIKE IT WOULD BE THE VAULT ON ATHENAS (IF THERE IS ONE) THOSE STAIRS (??) ARE GIVING ME THE VIBE. THERE IS UNFORTUNATELY NOT A LOT TO WORK OFF OF HERE, BUT THE PROJECTION THING IT’S DOING IS NEATO!! 

okay so this is either paint or light. and i can’t tell if that’s a person up there or a statue or something? I feel like i can’t almost see a cross or something so...

THEN IT CUTS TO THIS? AND HOLY STARGATE VIBES BATMAN I LOVE IT

i have a huuuuge feeling at least one of these Vaults is going to appear in like a cutscene of a flashback where Rhys and/or Fiona describe what happened at the end of Tales. The reason I’m bringing this up right now is because this Vault is just... in a void. There’s nothing around it except that gradient which is really bizarre to me.

JUST

ALL OF THIS

HOLY HELL THAT LOOKS LIKE A FORTRESS IN THE BACKGROUND MAYBE THAT’S WHERE THE TWINS ‘LIVE’? I IMAGINE THEY HAVE SOME SORT OF PLACE TO SLEEP AT THE VERY LEAST

it has the mouthpiece shape on the top up there? although i guess that could also be a VERY crude statue of someone raising their hands to the sky?? but it looks like the mouthpiece symbol. 

another shot of the HBC

intro to the rc

what i am assuming is the back area of the RC? but uh... given what we saw above, maybe this is in their fortress area???? imagine lilith teleports away because the twins stole the key from us and we have to sprint to their fortress base and when we get there it opens into a cutscene and Lilith is crawling on the ground away from them

mhmhmhmhmhmmm

heyo look at those shapes and colors on the left there. you know exactly what im gonna say

im gonna say it anyway

inhale atlasatlasatlasatlasatlasatlasatlasatlasatlas

okay i think i got it out of my system

it could also be dahl architecture (because it looks very very similar to the RC) painted with the colors of the CoV. Could also be that. 

i do think it’s interesting because this is almost the exact same shot as this!!

which means this is here

and i can 100% see this being in their fortress (???) and not the RC. The RC has that huge area in the back we don’t explore yet, so it could be there but... now I’m thinking... what if that’s just so we find the clue that the sun smashers gave the key to the twins in the HBC? Like i know i said the room Shiv comes out of is gonna be it but... maybe the whole area is just for quest stuff? or there’s a loot room or smth. idk. it’s good to keep ur mind open to alternative possibilities, is all

we get to learn what color Tyreen’s power actually is! ... I think? I’m pretty sure. like im hopeful this happens before she steals Lily’s powers...? but?? anyway although the vid is washed out, if we look at the shot from the dev trailer, it seems to be purple/red. I thought it was straight red, but guess not. Unless this IS after she stole Lily’s powers and that’s why she’s looking at it like that LMAO. i don’t know!!

Troy with a little robot buddy! Did he build that?! it’s adorable! it reminds me of the one in the RC but without a snake body. I wonder if his body mods/arm/neural implants let him control it. that’d be so rad

... why did the background start glowing???

ty in the hbc!!!

same shot with troy. i think this is the same cutscene as the reveal trailer one (VS the Calypso Twins) just at a slightly different angle/animation

oh shit is that a demon boy in the background? i think it might be

definitely looks like the temple area!! those spikes look like they could’ve been part of one’s wings, you can even see the thin skin bit stretched out on the left next to tyreen. also... is that an eyeball on the part in the middle there? that’s horrifying. no thank you.

so far, literally the closest we see Troy near one. This is 100% after he shed the monster skin like a snake. ... I’m kidding. mostly.

also i can’t believe my art of the twins giving the rock on symbol is actually legit. i posted that literally the morning before their personalities were revealed in the demo, im so happy

if this is not the video we see in Shiv’s room I’m gonna be so disappointed. is that a sword behind the box? Also i think i understand why the Map Machine Broke now. I am under the assumption this happens before they steal lily’s powers, but it’s entirely possible it’s after! this looks like the area they steal them in, so maybe lily sees it on live stream and is like “NOPE FUCK THIS” and teleports in to steal it. that’d be really interesting... still hoping they steal her tats after the HBC tho. im gon b really upset if they dont lol (not really, because it’s fucking bl3, but like... why would u then go put the map with mouthpiece... why...)

troy has his tattoos here! that or his skin has been peeled off and he’s losing a lot of blood. let’s say he has his tattoos so i can sleep tonight :)

cuts to him catching the key? almost want to say this is a different scene entirely than the previous one. same area, probably though

hmhmhmhmhm the fortress (?????) doesn’t seem to be connected to a rock wall at all (it’s elevated on like a plateau) so you know what, maybe this IS in the RC afterall!

fuckin mlg over here

oh it stops glowing again. you know maybe its on like a timer/pulsing or something. maybe that’s not important lol

back at the monster. why does tyreen look nervous/in pain? AND WHERE DID HER FOREARM TATTOOS GO???

OH MY GOD

THEY ONLY START REAPPEARING AFTER SHE DOES THE SUCK ON SOMETHING BELOW HER

WAIT HOLD UP

 UMM 

wTF???

i think that’s the horn or part of the monster they were sitting on/had killed???

holy shit. are tyreen’s tattoos/powers temporary and she has to continuously suck the life force out of stuff to keep them going??????? maybe stronger stuff = longer battery life??? holy shit.

troy in jakobs manor! explains the psychos with tv heads being hung everywhere

i was about to say this was the HBC but its not. ‘HOLY CHILDREN’ maybe this is where the VHs are walking forward with the giant spike head behind them. you know, this area?

altho that would be the outside of it. ACTUALLY maybe this is the entrance to the fort?? the walls like like castle walls lol

what in the holy fuck is that thing??

it looks like a fucking dragon??? sitting on a wire ball?

where the heck is this? in the temple area maybe? i don’t ever remember the floors glowing, but they do look similar. 

oh and the twins shake forearms again. maybe Tyreen is giving Troy half her powers or something and whenever she does her tattoos start to disappear so she has to suck more energy from other stuff to keep them present??

to this shot, so it’s a possibility. maybe they figured out how to “activate” stuff or something! And i am kinda thinking this is on Promethea now because of the Vault being similar? and the big demon boys appearing. but again like... the Eridians were kinda EVERYWHERE so it’s hard to say for certain even if the architecture looks similar. of course it would, they were goddamn everywhere. still curious as to why Little Blue gets that book, though. is it typhon’s book? a siren’s book? a researcher’s book? one of her ancestor’s books? i don’t know! lol

another shot of this. is this actually a vault???? it seems small and tbh the vaults are usually like... not shaped/designed like this? maybe it’s a statue. idk this feels wrong saying it’s a Vault. it doesn’t even have the inscriptions. maybe the academic district on athenas has a statue of a vault bc they’ve got a bunch of weird shit like Amara’s tattoos on a building and a vault symbol for a door so why the heck not this too lmao

the circus area with the ferris wheel! im so excited for this area. hype hype. it looks like it’s next to the motorcade. maybe this is where the big face arena place with pain and terror is, too!!! i could see the whole arena type deal being in a giant red circus tent

oooo where the fuck is this?? im interested. my first thought was a spaceship bc of the machinery (?) in the back but... maybe not?

maybe some part of the CoV spaces we’ve already seen? the railing in the back makes me think so.

back in the HBC!

space shot of Promethea (the asteroid belt and city lights)

it was at this point in the vid i started crying (like for real lol)

god im so ready for this game

Sanc-III!

colors check out 

im still wondering where that blue ship is...

they have totally different paint designs and the blue one is on the cover art as well!!! what is UP with that gearbox?!

anyway, this is TAKE OFF and also a nice shot of Elpis in the background. the crackening lava seems to have died down over 7 or so years. good for her.

“Pandora”. i love the sky, holy shit that’s gorgeous. what’s in the sky there by the moon? i don’t know! maybe sanc-iii actually DOES have a cloaking device. damn, i was kidding, but that’d be amazing

eden-6! with the jakobs manor in the background. this looks vvvv similar if not the same area we got the moze gameplay in

Promethea!!!!!!! wow this place is gorgeous holy shit

as this shot appears lily says “wherever the hunt for the Vaults takes us” which is likely implying this isn’t promethea. athenas, then? It’s possible, we see Maliwan has occupied at LEAST the academic district so i could see them excavating a Vault.

THERE’S A BIRD where do we see birds??? on eden-6, but this 100% does not look like eden-6 to me... it would explain the temple, though....... because tannis has the floor tile in her office the same time she’s crawling around inside a dino so... maybe???

we’ll have to see! I kinda hope it’s promethea, seeing large buildings and cranes and shit would only really fit my views of Promethea and Pandora.... the whole area is giving off weird blue sparkly effects, maybe it has been teleported or summoned or something? i don’t really know what’s up with that tbh.

it cuts off on this shot

wondering if this is like a character selection screen or smth it reminds me of the persona “press start” screens haha

also the art in the background is pretty rad. anyway that’s all for now folks

im gonna go pass out now, it’s 4:12 in the am. gnight

edit: i got my acronyms for the hbc and rc messed up bc i am a v tired.

[frxgmentedmoved]

rotten

The day starts like any other.

The act of peeling himself from his bed takes maybe ten minutes, exhaustion clinging to the edges of his mind and body. The blankets try to draw him back, a siren with a soft embrace, but he will not be tempted. He has work to do.

From there, it is routine. The coffee filter is set up and flicked on, and the bitter smell of cheap beans rapidly fills his tiny kitchen. It will take about ten minutes to fill the jug, so he slips into the shower.

The house is surprisingly devoid of the dark, oppressive presence of his God. Though these days, God really feels like a bit of a stretch. Necrophades may have been born in divinity but he has been bound to mortal flesh, and Cy realised long ago that there is nothing divine about a God capable of human error. Cy resents him, really. Resents their arrangement, resents that he left everything he knew behind because Necrophades had been whispering in his ear. He thinks he might even hate him. It has been festering in his gut, beneath his skin - caustic and bubbling. He finishes his shower and dries off, methodical and yet barely paying attention. His thoughts are elsewhere. By the time he pads into his work room, clean, dry, dressed, it has been 30 minutes since he woke up. 20 since he got out of bed. He clutches his coffee like a lifeline as he falls down into his computer chair, tired gaze taking in a progress bar. 98%. He started it what, 4 hours ago? This is good. He's making the software smaller, bit by bit.

5 hours of working pass in the blink of an eye. Cy has always been like this, been able to lose himself in a task until time loses all meaning. He fixates, obsesses, and his concentration usually only ends when it is forcibly broken. This time, it is Necrophades. He puts a bony hand on Cy's shoulder, fingers digging into the flesh punishingly. Pain flares, but Cy does little more than grunt at him. He wants something - a fight? "What." There is nothing affectionate in Cy's tone, not anymore. He doesn't even bother with being polite. "Insolent brat." Necrophades is suitably offended. It makes Cy smile. "You will respect me."

Cy finally looks away from his monitor, sharp features illuminated in green light. "I will not." Cy narrows his eyes then, daring Necrophades to take the bait. Rise to it like a human would. He does. There's a blur of moment and pain flares in Cy's jaw, head snapping to the side. He barely processes it before he's dragged up by his hair. There's magic in the air, thick and volatile. It's all around him, ready, and he can't help it, he laughs. "You disgust me." Cy sneers, because it’s true, because the illusion the Necrophades is anything but a parody of divinity has been shattered now.

"Now we both know that's not true." The man mocks, and the hand that had been fisted in his hair now cups his face. It makes Cy freeze up like a deer in the headlights. He wants to say that the God's touch disgusts him, that he can't stand it, but it's not true. He had once been desperate for Necrophades to grace him with even a handshake, and old habits are hard to shake. He makes a small noise in his throat, and Necrophades grins triumphantly. He smacks Cy again, using the hand that had just been holding him. It hurts, and Cy feels bile rising in his throat because of his own behaviour. Yes, Necrophades disgusts him, but he disgusts himself even more.

"Some things never change, hm?" His God is laughing at him, and Cy finds himself narrowing his eyes. Acidic green meets putrid yellow. "Stay away from me." It's supposed to come out threatening, but even Cy can hear the weakness in it. The plea. How had he ended up in this state? There's a moment of charged silence between them. Necrophades moves like he's going to hit him and Cy flinches back. The impact never comes, only mocking laughter. "Are you trying to give me orders?" "No, I just - I-" Cy feels panic bubbling in his throat, trying to claw its way out. He wants to scream about the unfairness of it all. "What was that?" Something curls around his throat, so cold that it burns. Cy doesn't have to see to know it’s shadow magic. "N-no." He hates himself. He hates himself. He hates himself.

The stammer, the weakness, everything. He's disgusting. Maybe he taunts the God because he believes deserves this. Like a religious devotee prostrating himself on an altar, ready to receive divine punishment for the sin of simply existing. "You will respect me." The shadows suddenly become corporeal and is pulled taut towards the ground. It shortens rapidly and yanks him to his knees and doesn't stop, forcing him down into a parody of worship. Palms press into the floor in an attempt to stop his face being forced against it, and then it tightens, slowly cutting off his airways. "Please." Cy chokes out, nails breaking as he claws at the floor. "Beg for my mercy."

Cy's eyes are watering, and he wants to refuse. Wants to call the God's bluff. Is it a bluff? What if he dies here, on his hands and knees? "Pl-ease..." He hates himself. Tears drip down his cheeks and he tells himself it's because of the lack of oxygen. That's all. "Mercy... Please." "No." He can't breathe. No matter how hard he tries, he can't draw in air. His lungs are burning, face darkening, and his already frantic movements become more desperate. He reaches to the side blindly as black sports form across his vision, and his fingers curl around a box cutter he uses at his work station. He rams it through Necrophades' shoe, and the God howls in pain. The shadows dissipate as soon as the thread of concentration is broken, and Cy doesn't hesitate. He scrambles to his hands and knees and grabs Necrophades' leg, eyes wide and expression almost feral. He drags the box cutter along the back of Necrophades' ankle, through his tendons, and the God drops like a rock. "You little bastard!" He roars, and the room bleeds black. Cy can't see anything, the shadows a blotting out all light. The temperature plummets as his adrenaline spikes. Necrophades will punish him for this. He will make it hurt and Cy doesn’t think he can take much more of the pain. He’s petrified, like a cornered animal, and something in him just… S n a p s. He lashes out blindly with the knife, teeth bared. Feral. It sings through the air but hits nothing, so he slashes down, and feels the blade meet resistance. His hand is suddenly wet, and the scream Necrophades lets out is shrill and inhuman. Light floods the room; the God has a knife buried in his eye and blood running down his face in a steady torrent. Cy has to kill him, has to end this – cut the sickness off at the source and dig it out like rot. Necrophades is panicking, hand hovering like he doesn’t know if he should take the blade out. His breathing is coming in short gasps, and Cy feels a rush of power at the sight. He’s laughing before he can help it, loud and ugly. “I hope it fucking hurts.” He hisses. “This won’t kill me.” Necrophades spits back, just as much venom in his tone. He’s right. It won’t. Unless. Cy glances down at the USB around his neck, containing the piece of the God’s soul that they use to resurrect him. He laughs louder, pulling it off with one hard tug. Everything is happening so fast, but he’s had enough and he will end this. “No, but this will.” 

He drops the USB and stomps on it. It bleeds ink, and tendrils of shadows lash out at him, slashing at his leg. “No!!” Necrophades reaches forward, desperate. Cy grinds the piece of technology beneath his heel in spite of the pain, and the wisps of shadow that had attacked him dissolve. The weight of the situation hits both of them. “You – you just…” The God sounds horrified, and Cy finds it almost erotic, how in control he feels. Necrophades had become bloated his apathy; comfortable in his power. He is a caricature of a God and now he will die at Cy’s feet. “Beg me to help you.” Cy hisses. “Cy… Cyrus, don’t do this.” “Beg!!” 

“… Please.” 

“No.” Cy uses his foot to kick the knife into Necrophades’ skull, as hard as he can. There’s a horrible crunching sound and a spray of blood, and the body falls back with a dull thud. The dark magic in the room swirls, disconnected from its master. 

The seconds drag by like hours as the gravity of what he’s donw settles in.

Cy slumps back in his chair as a puddle of blood starts to spread across his floor.It was almost funny. A God, supposedly perfect in his infinite power, brought down by a mere human.

Serves him right.

[arcane-shadow]

Don’t You Dare Pity Me

Characters: Togami Byakuya, Naegi Makoto

Warnings: Graphic descriptions of violence,  Panic Attacks, PTSD, 

AO3 Link

My Bad Things Happen Bingo 

Byakuya prides himself on his composure, the stoicism and aloofness expected of him as a Togami.

Even during their ill-fated killing game he had managed to keep a hold of himself. He had been a beacon of calm within their group while the rest of his classmates panicked and ran about like headless chickens. So afraid of death and murder.

He had, of course, been prepared for such situations. The world of a Togami had been a cutthroat one, full of vicious competition not only between rival corporations but within the family itself.

Byakuya Togami had grown up in a world of unseen and unspoken violence. Countless times he had been on the receiving end of an attempted assassination, and had of course been instructed on the ins and outs of that particular underworld trade himself. He was prepared and confident for the eventuality of having to kill to survive. It was to be expected of a Togami.  

(Regardless of certain individuals and certain circumstances, he still considers himself willing and able to commit that final act of violence. The world is an even more dangerous place now than when he was a foolish teenager; he will not allow himself to be beaten in this dog eats dog world.)

(Although, and If only for his own continued safety and goal of rebuilding his corporation, there may be the existence of a few annoyances he would willingly stick his neck out for...)

He survived, and continues to survive.

Very little, he had thought, could rattle the great Byakuya Togami’s composure now. Despite his very brief moments of weakness (the ones that occasionally peered through his rotting and decayed memory of Hope’s Peak to haunt him) he thought himself a more hardened individual in the hands of the future foundation.  

How unexpectedly and disgustingly wrong he had been.

Within the fortressed walls of the future foundations medical centre, Byakuya feels the cold cement of the empty hallway bleeding up through his once finely pressed pants. He is not capable of movement, even as he knows- fears-the risk of someone finding him there, playing witness to him acting as weak and stupid as a Togami is, by definition, not.

He does not move. He stays sitting there, curled up pathetically into his side like a child might.

He is breathing too fast, body convulsing shamelessly as he claws at the wall with one hand as he attempts to regain some semblance of control. But that would require him to be able to stop thinking, stop seeing, stop feeling in every atom of his being the flood of images he cannot fight against as they thunder relentlessly against his psyche.  

It is gunfire, a backdrop of his thoughts brought to horrifying life as the surprise flash of ignition surrounds them. It is the way Aoi’s voice, echoing jovially in the dark moments before turning suddenly silent. The intimate smell of blood, a familiar friend, crowding his senses, hands shoving him, bringing him down hard onto harsh asphalt and glass.

He feels the sting of pain in his palms and the silence of the hall fills with mechanical laughter. Just like Hers.

He presses himself as tightly as possible to the wall. He bows his head into his knees, shamefully hiding his lack of control over his emotions from – from an empty hallway, from the ghosts of his disappointed ancestors, from the monster wearing a teenage girl’s skin. From himself.

He’s fine. Not even really injured, only the grazing on his hands to show from the mess of that last mission. Everyone else escaped with similar damage, even Aoi who, for a moment he had feared—no, he didn’t fear, was concerned in a practical manner over their most physically capable team member—had been injured far worse.  So he had no reason, none at all, to be collapsing and hyperventilating in public hallways.

He struggles to remove his glasses, his hands shaking and his head unwilling to remove itself from between his knees. He cannot have them breaking, the way a fine lady may break a glass, when she is consumed with hysterics. As he himself is. The shuddering, tight vice of wayward emotion is swallowing Byakuya whole.

There can be no evidence of his weakness.

He has not yet allowed his dignity to betray him enough to let tears to flow but they threaten, distorting the world even further as his glasses remain clenched in his fist. The first tear he lets spill will be the first drop towards the death of the Togami.

He doesn’t notice until it is too late, until a familiar panic stricken voice pierces the relative quiet of his hiding place.

“B-Byakuya!”

Makoto approaches him at nearly a run from the end of the hallway, worry and concern radiating from every line of his body. A mixture of fear, anger, and shame causes Byakuya’s next panicked action. Something he had always thought himself so above.

“GO AWAY! Don’t you dare get any c-closer-”

His voice hitches high and unsteady, breaking in the middle and cutting his warning off. Makoto, to his limited credit, does stop but he doesn’t leave. He looks down at him, at the great Byakuya Togami, heir of the Togami conglomerate, with concern and worry and pity.

Byakuya is still shaking, his eyes are still on the cusp of watering, but the shame and anger that bled into him, ripping him apart…they now have a new target. Makoto needs to not be looking at him like that. In fact he needs to not be here at all, the fatal witness to Byakuya Togami’s fall from grace.

Again.

Those big hazel eyes are staring straight through him and he is strung tight with tension. Makoto’s voice is low and carrying when he finally speaks.

“Byakuya…are you injured? I heard the doctors say you were fine but…Is there something wrong?”

Byakuya manages to twist his face into a sneer, “Oh? You think you have any right to question me? Know your place commoner…I’m perfectly fine and it is None Of Your Business.”

He enunciates those last words carefully and angrily, putting as much vitriol into them as he can muster.

Makoto flinches back, presumably at his tone, potentially at his most-likely deranged expression. Despite that, Makoto’s expression only becomes more intense in its concern and he shuffles forward along the floor.

“I’m your friend Byakuya…Of course I’d think it’s alright for me to ask if you’re okay. Which I still don’t think you are, by the way. You know it’s really not good to hide an injury-”

“I do not need your help or your concern and you need to stop looking at me like that!”

“Wha- What? Byakuya—“

“Shut up! Don’t touch me!”

The sound of flesh hitting flesh resounds through the corridor, as loud as thunder. A ragged gasp follows shortly after. Byakuya cannot tell whether it is him or Makoto that it comes from. Time seems frozen to him and the ringing in his ears is so loud.  

Makoto shrinks back, cheek already turning into the faint red outline of a hand.

Byakuya didn’t mean to hit him, hadn’t meant to rebuff him in so physical—so crude— a way. He had panicked. Makoto had come too close, whether to calm him or check him for an injury he didn’t know, but it had been too close to touching, to dispensing his pity and sullying a Togami with soft, condescending care.  

There is a moment of tense unhappy silence.

“I’m sorry”

What.

“For getting in your space when you didn’t want me to…and I guess for just not leaving you alone...I kinda obviously didn’t help huh?” Makoto laughs that little self-deprecating laugh of his, soft and self-conscious.

Byakuya doesn’t understand why Makoto’s the one apologising. Except he does, and it is truly an un-intelligent and un-Togami-like thing to be surprised. Of course Makoto would apologise. It was his fault for not respecting Byakuya’s warnings and personal space. It is a commoners place to take the blame for such situations.

Even if he had also been rightfully concerned over his…friend’s… well-being, and had done what was in Makoto’s nature to do; poke his nose where it doesn’t belong and persistently and insufferably attempt to help.

He shouldn’t have slapped him. It was base and unnecessary, and the fact he was overcome with embarrassment and anger does not sound as good of a justification as he thought it should.

“You’re still not leaving.” Byakuya manages to say it clearly despite the cottony feel of his mouth and his stubborn prides insistence, despite feeling as though he has been shocked into a clearer state of mind.

“I know…” Makoto sighs and in that moment his exhaustion reveals itself. It reminds Byakuya that it probably wasn’t just him affected by the mission. That of course Makoto, with all his infinite capacity to care, would most likely be suffering too.

“I just apologised for it but…I’m still worried about you. I don’t want to abandon a friend when they’re hurting…Sorry. Again. ”

“I’m not injured.”

“H-huh?”

“Don’t stutter, it’s unseemly,” he rebukes, albeit a little weakly. It seems the emotional weakness he has suffered was now going to leech his physical strength as well.  “…I was not injured; the doctors were correct. So, you have no reason for concern. I am utterly physically fine.”

“You’re not though; you’re half collapsed in a hallway shaking as hard as a leaf.”

“….I was… more affected by our last mission than I thought. It was nothing, so stop worrying about it.”

It is through gritted teeth that byakuya manages to admit this, the only consolation being that it will make Makoto leave faster and stop bothering him. Then he can go back to his quarters and try to forget all about this moment of weakness

He’s wrong, of course. Makoto goes sharp eyed and more wary than before, and does not look at all satisfied or happy with his answer.

“That’s not nothing, Byakuya. If it was nothing you wouldn’t be so upset. I won’t-“ Byakuya had gone to speak, to rebuke his accusations however accurate they were, but Makoto, Naegi Makoto the ultimate pushover, had put up a hand as though to silence him and continued. “I won’t push you about it…But, if it keeps happening or if it has been happening for a while already, you should…well you should probably talk to someone. I’m not saying it has to be me or anything! They have a great psyche department here, they’re all really nice, and well, you could always talk to one of the others too.”

Makoto must see Byakuya grimace because he laughs a little, that same self-deprecating laugh like he understands but is too self-conscious to voice it. He doesn’t stop though.

“But the point is, that you should talk to someone. I found…that it helped me, when I was getting flash backs to our time in the…to when we were in hope’s peak, to talk to someone. It helped to share some of the load.”

He smiles at him then, small and sad and unfathomably warm.

Byakuya…he feels on one hand disgust at this attempt to sympathise and understand each other as equals. It was against everything his personal code stood for, aloofness and superiority above all else.

But he is also tired. Physically, from the suppression of his earlier panic attack and emotionally…the toll from the flash backs, from the memories and dreams, were starting to wear on him. His pride, His stubborn unending pride that he carries like a shield, would normally never allow such thoughts but Makoto…Stupid, soft Makoto and the utter embarrassment of being seen like that had him considering alternate measures than repression.

“Ha, you are truly insufferable you know. They shouldn’t be calling you the ultimate hope, more like the ultimate busy-body.” He sighs long and low as Makoto makes an awkward little noise and rubs the back of his head shyly.

“I suppose that’s an important part of the job, being nosy.” He smiles again, a little brighter it seems now that Byakuya is in a better mood. He starts the arduous job of attempting to pull himself upright again, re-adjusting his glasses on his face as he does. Makoto springs up a moment before him and offers his hand in the universal symbol of help.

Byakuya smacks it away, lightly and a little cautiously, and scowls up at him. “I am not a child Makoto, I do not need your help getting up. I have already had enough of your pity for one evening.”

“A-ah, sorry-”

“Although,” and Byakuya allows a little slyness to slip through his tone at this juncture, “I feel if you truly want to ‘help’, you should do as your station in life dictates and be subservient to me.”

“Uum, what--?”

“I desire a glass of fresh spring water Makoto. Go fetch it.”

The look of incredulous shock on Makoto’s face is refreshing, almost as refreshing as that water will be on his parched throat. Byakuya levels him with an appropriate glare and makes a questioning little, “hm?” before Makoto seems to find him serious and puts on a more…bashful expression.

“Sure thing, Byakuya. Do you want me to bring it to you here..?”

“No, you dullard. I would like it in my room. I expect it in 5 minutes, don’t make me wait.”

Laughing a little, Makoto sets off.

Byakuya watches him until he turns the corner. Dark thoughts leer at him from the back of his mind, but they do not settle.

Talking to Makoto, even as disastrously as it had gone, had in fact made Byakuya feel better. Those weighty considerations were a future problem now.

The thoughts still sting, but perhaps in the way that the first touch of antiseptic to a wound stings.

A painful but healing touch.

[perissologist]

another installation of perissologist posts random shit from her googledocs:

Four shots of Grey Goose, a glass of Lagavulin, and a cold Corona later, Danny finds himself on the dance floor, the music pulsing thickly in his blood, a gorgeous girl with dark red hair in a glittery sequined dress moving against him with her arms around his neck. He tilts his head back and lets himself melt into the heat pressing in around him, the lights and the noise that bind the club in a dizzying spell. He’s trying to enjoy himself, but his migraine from earlier is back with a vengeance, made all the worse by the alcohol that makes his head feel like it’s about to fall off his shoulders. The girl smiles at him, green eyes glittering, and leans in to mouth at his neck. She smells like expensive perfume and lime juice, and when she kisses him, her lips taste like Patrón.

Danny swallows past the cotton in his mouth and rests his hands on the girl’s hips. He gently pushes her back. “Sorry, I gotta go,” he says in her ear, hoping he’s loud enough to be heard over the music. She merely smiles at him, uncomprehending, and Danny sighs, deciding it’s not worth it. He turns and pushes his way through the crowd, stumbling off the dance floor and down the narrow flight of stairs to the men’s room in the basement floor.

He’s relieved to find it empty—somewhat grimy, but blessedly quiet. Danny stumbles to the sink, head swimming, and looks at himself in the mirror. His hair’s a mess from where the girl ran her fingers through it, and his eyes are bloodshot, bruised underneath. He looks awful, and feels it, too.

One of the fluorescent lights above the mirrors flickers, humming with the sound of broken circuits. A pipe in the exposed ceiling is dripping a pool of water onto the blue-tiled floor. The music from the club above echoes down into the room, the words muffled but the beats heavy enough to shake the walls. Danny closes his eyes and feels the world sway around him. The DJ’s playing some shitty EDM remix of Dancing Queen, but a floor removed, all of the tricks and frills fall away, and it sounds like what his mother would put on their old record player on rainy Saturday nights, making dinner together in the kitchen and singing along to the crackly vinyls.

Slowly, quietly, Danny becomes aware of something in the air. It feels heavy at his back, significant—like the change in air pressure before a summer storm, or the strain of a held breath. A tension, that sings to Danny and beckons him to turn around. When he does, his eyes are drawn, inexplicably, to the puddle on the floor. The pipe has stopped dripping; the puddle it formed is round and smooth, perfectly still. It reflects the walls and ceiling of the bathroom as well as the mirrors above the sink. The water is dark, but the way it catches the one faulty fluorescent light from the sink—it almost looks as if there is something moving inside it.

An inescapable feeling of dread curdles in Danny’s stomach. He becomes certain that there is something inside of the puddle.

Danny stumbles back and fumbles for his phone. He freezes with it in his hand, staring at the dark shape writhing below the surface of the puddle. What is he thinking, he can’t call the police—what would I say? I’m in the men’s room at a nightclub and there’s a puddle and I think there’s a monster’s in it?

The phone suddenly clatters from Danny’s nerveless fingers. He stares, breathless, as a clawed hand breaks free from the surface of the puddle and latches onto the tiled floor.

Fuck! he shouts in his head. The claw scrapes against the floor and pulls out a shapeless mass. The mass writhes for a moment, then abruptly consolidates into a deformed head and a set of shoulders. Eight milky-white eyes open in the expressionless face and lock onto him. Black skin stretches over the emaciated frame, so dark it’s more the absence of light than a color. Danny chokes on the horror rising in his throat. The…thing—it seems as if it’s forming as it emerges, and the shape it takes on is roughly bipedal, but—Danny cannot understand how it’s alive. It looks…burned. Like a child’s nightmare of a corpse.

Demon, the thought breaks into Danny’s mind. It’s a demon.

The creature pulls the rest of its body out of the puddle and unfurls to its full height. It towers over Danny, pupiless eyes blinking, utterly silent. Danny thinks that if it were snarling, or screaming, he might be less afraid, might be able to move his feet and run—but it makes no noise, just looms there, sucking all the air from the room.

Danny feels like the walls are warping around him, like the next nearest human soul is a million miles away, like reality is a flimsy piece of paper mâché that’s crumpling in on itself. The demon moves forward and opens its mouth, and for a second Danny is convinced that it will speak to him, only he can’t fathom what a demon’s voice would sound like so he can only imagine his own—

The door to the bathroom bangs open, and someone strides in. It takes Danny’s terror-strung brain a second to process, but when it does, he recognizes her: Green eyes, red hair, and a sheath dress that glitters like a newly minted coin. The girl, he thinks, as she comes to a stop in front of him, facing the demon. The girl I was dancing with.

The girl seems utterly unfazed by the monstrous creature, and for a moment Danny thinks she must not see it—but then she sneers at it, like it’s shit on the bottom of her shoe. She’s going to die, Danny thinks, frantically, and pushes himself off from where he’s pressed against the sink, intending to move in front of her—

The girl reaches into the jewel-encrusted clutch hanging from her skinny shoulder. Her hand closes around something. Then, as Danny watches, she pulls an enormous silver sword from the confines of her tiny purse, like a magician pulling an endless rainbow scarf from his hat.

The sword flashes through the air as the girl swings it at her side. She grins, wide and delighted; the look in her eyes as she sizes the demon up is hungry, predatory. The demon opens its mouth again and this time it shrieks; then it launches itself at the girl, its scream echoing through the empty stalls. The girl raises the sword and slashes it downwards just as the demon reaches her. It bisects the creature mid-leap, slicing it clean across the chest from shoulder to hip. The two halves of the demon fall apart and thud to the floor.

The girl straightens and smirks as the remains of the creature crumble into ash. She turns, then, and fixes her eyes on Danny. Any breath that remained in his lungs during his valiant fight not to pass out leaves him now. The demon was blatantly horrifying, but—the look on the girl’s face, the smile she wears; they speak of infinite intelligence, and a malevolent glee. Above all, she looks at him the same way she looked at the demon before she cut it down: With the absolute lack of fear and an all-consuming hunger.

“Hello,” she purrs. Her voice is the same sweet, breathy one he heard when she first pulled him onto the dance floor, but now it rumbles with the power of thunder, shaking the room. The sink trembles under Danny’s white-knuckled grip. “I know you.”

Danny swallows. “Who—who are you?”

The girl tilts her head. “Curious,” she says. “You could see it, couldn’t you?”

Danny’s gaze flickers to the pile of ash behind her, and that’s all the answer she needs. She lets out a delighted laugh. The stall doors rattle in their frames. “You could. I knew it.” She steps closer, stiletto heels clicking against the floor. The tip of her sword, held lazily in her hand, drags across the tile with a thin, metallic screech. “But you’re not one of us.” She leans in, close enough that he can smell her perfume again, and inhales. After a moment, she draws back, eyes even brighter than before. “But you're not a stitcher, either. So how could you see it?”

I’m both, Danny wants to say, but the words lodge in his throat. He blinks rapidly, trying to clear his vision, but—no, he’s not seeing things. The air behind the girl is warping, folding in on itself like an invisible fist has grabbed hold of reality and is twisting. When Danny doesn’t answer, the girl heaves a sigh and shrugs. “Oh well,” she murmurs. She reaches out a manicured hand and runs it gently through Danny’s hair. “I’m still hungry. I think you’d make an excellent desert, don’t you?”

Fuck, Danny thinks, again, just before a bright flash of white forces him to look away. When it fades, Seraphine and Elias are standing between him and the girl, holding tall white staffs that gleam with the shine of polished wood.

The girl falls back. “You again,” she spits in disgust. Her eyes are on Seraphine. “I told you I’d kill you if you came back here.”

“Yes, Natalia, we know how you like to be dramatic,” Seraphine snaps. Then she grips her staff sideways in both hands and uses it to shove the girl back and into the warped-looking spot in the air behind her.

The girl vanishes, like she was sucked up by some unseen force. Seraphine whirls on Danny. “Close it!”

“I—what?” Danny stutters.

Seraphine jabs a finger at the anomaly. Danny jumps as the sound of furious screeching seems to penetrate from another room. “The tear—close it!”

“What does that mean?” Danny demands.

Seraphine growls, the sound shaking the floor underneath Danny’s already unsteady feet. The disembodied screeching is getting louder. “Stitch it closed!”

Oh. Oh. “For fuck’s sake!” he half-shouts. He pushes forward, past Elias and Seraphine, and shoves his hand up against the warp hole. A hot electric shock flashes through his body, but he forces himself to concentrate, to pull loose a memory important enough to heal this particular wound—

He’s sitting at the kitchen table, his mother across from him. The windows are open and radiant with sunshine. A sweet summer breeze blows through the house, carrying the scents of freshly cut grass and rain-wet reeds into all the dusty corners. A perfect Sunday afternoon.

“Focus, Danny,” Alia laughs. He gives her a guilty smile and brings his attention back to her hands. She’s showing him how to thread the yarn through the other strands on the loom so that the strings don’t tangle. “Over, under, all the way to the end; then pull it straight and push it down.” Her fingers move nimbly over the wooden frame as she talks.

In the window, the afternoon sun grows brighter and brighter. It expands into the kitchen, eating away at the walls and ceiling, threatening to obliterate everything in Danny’s vision. In the past, he nods, pretending to look interested, but Alia can see straight through him. She clucks her tongue at him disapprovingly. “I know it’s boring to learn, but weaving is a family tradition, Danny,” she says. The light grows until it encompasses everything inside the room. The last thing he sees before the memory is swallowed is his mother’s persuasive smile. “One day, you can teach your kids, too…”

Danny opens his eyes. The bathroom is quiet and still, but not the unnatural, prickling stillness from before; a softer quiet, broken by the sounds of squeaky plumbing and distant footsteps, the club music still thumping from the floor above. The warp hole is gone. Danny looks down. The puddle is still there, but the pile of ashes has disappeared. The scratch on the floor from the girl’s giant sword is gone, too.

Danny starts when Seraphine grabs his arms. He looks up to find her beaming at him. “It worked!” she exclaims. She sounds absolutely exhilarated. “You stitched the tear! It actually worked!”

Danny swallows past his dry throat. “If you’d like,” he begins, as steadily as he can manage, “could you tell me what the fuck just happened here?”

“You entered a liminal space,” Elias says. He’s holding Seraphine’s staff for her and looks more uncertain than Danny thinks he has the right to be, given that he actually knows what’s going on here. “The tears in the planes that we told you about, they form narrow slices of parallel realities that exist between realms. Because liminal spaces don’t belong to any one plane, they inspire activity from all three.” He waves to the puddle on the floor. “You know that demons spawn from still water.”

Danny shudders out an exhale. “I guess I do now,” he says, and he does—upon searching, he finds that the knowledge is already familiar. He just doesn’t remember where he learned it.

“The unbalanced energy of liminal spaces—how should I put this—encourages…events.” Elias looks upward, and Danny follows his gaze to the leaky pipe in the exposed ceiling, the one that dripped the puddle onto the floor. “I guarantee you that even if a plumber came in every day to fix that pipe, it still would have somehow managed to drip the water needed to form a body big enough for that demon to spawn.”

“Let me get this straight,” Danny says. “You’re saying there’s a liminal space in this bathroom? In the basement of a Vegas nightclub?” He pauses. “In the men’s bathroom?”

[bellatrixobsessed1]

The Space Wolf

Voltron Halloween fic; Veronica finds a werewolf Acxa in the middle of transforming back into a human.

The wolf, if it could even be called that, was drawing in heavy and pained breaths and Veronica didn’t know how to help it. She didn’t know if she could. Nor if she should. She could sense fear and confusion on the half-human, half-alien creature and she wondered if that made the wolf more or less dangerous. It shuddered and so did Veronica. It took a great deal of mental effort, but she slowly reached out and stroked the wolf’s blue fur. Until then, the only space wolf she’d ever seen was Keith’s. That wolf had scared her and it was a true space wolf. This thing…what was it exactly? Some kind of werewolf from outerspace? For what it was worth they hybrid creature was beautiful; with a toned and towering stature accented by an opalescent deep blue pelt. She could swear that electric blue sparks flashed over the creature’s fur every now and again. Truly she’d never seen anything like it, not even in those old horror flicks her friends used to binge with her. The animal snarled and she jolted back. As alluring as the beast was, it was frightening. It’s fangs, now exposed, were astoundingly large. It’s maw powerful and threatening. She could detect fury in those eyes. Fury and something else, something almost familiar—that something only made the ordeal that much more uncanny. She was at a loss, if the creature attacked her, she would have no means of fighting back. She hadn’t brought any weapons, but then, she hadn’t expected a wolf to enter the compound. She could make a run for it, a mad dash to the artillery room, but the wolf remained on its side of the room, growling and whimpering to itself.

 It was in pain, Veronica realized. Yet she couldn’t see any cause for its ailing. It didn’t look wounded, but God, it sounded tormented. A series of grotesque pops and cracks had the creature writhing and thrashing on the floor.

The sight of it was both heart wrenching and horrifying all at once.

And the agonized wolf let out a cry. The sort Veronica knew would follow her into her sleeping hours for the next few months. It was a demented blend of a scream and a howl. A wolf’s voice with an undertone of something more or less human. Veronica cupped her hands over her ears and waited for the noise to pass.

 She wanted to approach the wolf again, but the rational side of her took hold. For all of the sympathy she had, that creature was dangerous and she couldn’t see it doing anything but snapping its jaws at her wrists.

But its eyes, oh lord, its eyes. There was something in them. So deeply frightened. Something tortured, something that begged for mercy.

Veronica couldn’t offer any.

 .oOo.

 Transforming back is infinitely more painful than the initial turning, perhaps that is why most chose not to do it at all. The beast clawed and tore its way to the surface as it did every full moon, and she was hapless to stop it.

She thought that it would be easier on Earth, being as she was so far from the Galra moons. But Earth’s moon? It was different, somehow more powerful. Earth’s moon was closer to the planet than Galra’s moon was to it. Its pull was harsher, irresistible. At least with her planet’s moon she had built a tolerance and could resist at least long enough to put herself somewhere where she couldn’t harm nor be harmed.

 Things in her mind were fuzzy, she couldn’t remember if she had done any damage.  All she could remember was an unrelenting pain, one that was growing worse and worser still. Claws dug into her skin as she cupped them over her head. She could feel her muscles contract and strain as they began reshaping themselves. She cried out again and then once more at the ripping sensation that the first one had caused her. She couldn’t be sure but she thought that she might have been bleeding, perhaps from where claws raked into skin. Claws that were retracting as though she were grinding them down on stone. Each inch lost sent an unpleasant ripple through her body. She did know, however, that she was crying. Rather hard at that, the sound of it was still caught between that of a wolf’s and her own. Just as the mouth uttering the cry was. She tried to pull herself into a sitting position, or at least an laying one that was more comfortable, but she still lacked control over her muscles. In fact, they seemed to be fighting her every step of the way.

In another series of cracks, she knows that her bones are snapping back to their original, much smaller build. She was only dully aware of the woman standing across the room. She couldn’t quite focus on the face, she couldn’t really focus on any one thing. The sensation of an intense shoving pressure has her longing for release of any kind, even if it came from death. She just wanted an exit at that point. And a ringing filled her ears, it reaped her heightened sense of hearing and made the situation that much more disorienting. Sounds seemed to blend; the sound of her own heartbeat, the woman’s breathing from across the room, a metallic clatter from down the hall. And then they were overpowered by and muffled beneath the ringing until all that was left was the pounding of her heart. It was beating at a rate that had to be dangerous.

 She was growing dizzy. She tried to dwell on it, to force herself into a sleep state.

A painless state.

She welcomed the wooziness that was claiming her vision.

 .oOo.

 In a series of a few final twitching spasms, the Galra lay unmoving.

Faint traces of fur still lingered on her hands, but in minutes those patches were gone too. And she recognized the face. How could she not? It was the face of her lover. Veronica was still shaking from the spectacle, one that she was sure that she wasn’t supposed to have seen, but she took Acxa into her arms regardless and carried her to bed. Pulling the blanket over her shoulder, she wondered how she hadn’t recognized her sooner. She should have known, she should have sensed it.

 She left the room only for a second to fetch a towel and some bandaids. She dabbed at the self-inflicted claw marks on her hairline. She figured it would be better to do so when the woman couldn’t feel the sting of doing so. Carefully, she put the bandaids over the marks.

 She remained at the foot of the bed until the Galra finally stirred again. And when she did, she couldn’t seem to face Veronica. In fact, she made a point of avoiding eye contact and Veronica wondered if she was ashamed to have been seen in such a state.

 Veronica took her hand. She seemed so distraught. Distraught and flustered. “It’s alright.” Veronica muttered. “I’m not judging. Trust me, back in school I was that weird dorky kid that everyone liked to make jabs at.” She gave Acxa a lopsided smile.

 Acxa still didn’t face her.

 “Hey, come on now, don’t do that.” Veronica said softly, brushing a sweep of hair from Acxa’s face only to reveal another set of angry claw marks. How had she missed those?

 “You were afraid of me.” She whispered.

 And Veronica was now the one feeling ashamed and guilty because she couldn’t dispute it. “It’s nothing you did. I’m actually afraid of Earth wolves too. Wolves and foxes and coyotes…anything with fur that can eat me. Of course, scaled things that can eat me are horrifying too.” She hoped that her rambling made it clear that she meant no harm. “Not that I thought you would eat me.”

 Acxa’s frown deepened. “That’s only because I was already turning back, do you know what could have happened if…” She trailed off, perhaps think back to a past experience. She bit her cheek—to Veronica’s relief, with teeth that had less edge—“I can’t control it. I tried but, this time…” She looked up at Veronica almost desperately. “I didn’t hurt anyone, did I?”

 Veronica inspected her once more. “I mean I only see your blood, so that’s probably a good sign, right?”

 Acxa nodded.

 “There weren’t many people here anyways. Everyone wanted to explore Earth a little. I decided to stay in and get a little reading done. So that’s good, right? No one else saw anything.”

 The relief was plain on Acxa’s face, her eyes were so soft and gentle. It was terribly hard for her to imagine the Galara tearing someone to shreds.

 “How did this happen to you, anyways? If you don’t talking about it.” Veronica’s curiosity finally got the best of her. “How’d you become a space werewolf?”

 Acxa was quite for a very long moment, “Zethrid.”

 “Zethrid?”

 “She was born half-Galra, half-space wolf. Something like that, anyhow.” Acxa paused. “She didn’t talk much about it.” She toyed awkwardly with her bangs. “It’s not a comfortable thing for anyone to disclose, I don’t blame her for not telling me…”

 “So you found out the hard way?” Veronica asked.

 Acxa nodded. “I don’t really remember much about it, I just remember being pounced and looking into the wolf’s eyes and seeing Zethrid. And then waking up with the bite marks. I knew it was her, it had to be. She wouldn’t talk to me for months afterwards, and that’s the only reason I can think of for it.”

 “I’m sorry.” Veronica replied.

 Acxa shrugged, “I don’t think she meant it.” Her expression grew distant. “There’s more instinct and less control and it only gets worse the closer to the moon—any of them—you are. Lotor’s path had us right in front of the Galra moon when it was full. I’m lucky I’m alive to be a werespace-wolf.” Veronica could see her absently flexing her fingers. “She tried to get him to stall for the night, but he wouldn’t do it without reason and she wouldn’t give him one. They’re both stubborn.”  Veronica watched her try to get comfortable against the pillow, and wince as she pulled an already strained muscle.

 “Back massage?” Veronica offered with a warm smile.

 Acxa smiled wearily and rolled onto her stomach.

 “Where does it hurt the most?”

 “Between my shoulder blades.” Acxa answered.

 Veronica began her first attempt to work the knots out of Acxa’s muscles. The poor woman was so tense. Veronica pressed her lips together in concentration. The longer she worked, the more relaxed the Galra seemed. Her breathing was growing more level, less forced.

“There’s got to be a way to undo it.” She broke the silence.

 “It’s in my blood, Veronica. You can’t cure it you can only cope.”

 Veronica found it hard to fathom that, with all of their technological advancements and quintessence, that they couldn’t split the wolf from the Galra.

 “The closest I came to freedom was Haggar.”

 “Haggar?” Veronica asked. “Let me guess, a spooky, space vampire?”

 Acxa rolled her eyes, “space witch, actually.” The humor left her eyes as fast as it had come. “She learned to work with quintessence, she can do magic, I guess. I was hoping that she could use it to get rid of the space wolf blood.”

 “But she couldn’t?” Veronica asked.

 “She wouldn’t.”

 Veronica nodded.

 “You’re pretty calm for just having seen a werespace-wolf transformation.”

 Veronica shrugged, “eh, I’m about to head into outer space with you and Lance. I’m bound to see weird things eventually, I’ve kind of prepared myself. I’m glad my first bizarre experience was with a friend and not some creepy space witch.”

 .oOo.

 It was strange to have Veronica accept her predicament so readily. Ezor certainly hadn’t. Yet Veronica, even hours later, was still laying next to her and sleeping quite soundly for someone in such close proximity to a were. The woman rolled over and sleepily wrapped her arms around Acxa. She had a faint feeling that Veronica viewed her as more of a large puppy than a wolf. Whether that was offensive or reassuring, Acxa couldn’t decide. She supposed that she would rather have that, than another horrified face gawking at her.  She ran her fingers through Veronica’s hair, happy to have them instead of vicious claws.

It was comforting to have her so close, especially with fresh moon rays spilling in through the window. Taking care not to disturb Veronica she got up from the bed and drew the curtains closed. The waning gibbous resembled the full moon much too closely for comfort.  But at the same time, the gibbous reassured her that she had a month’s worth of time to work out a solution.

 She peered at Veronica.

This time she would find one.