#like their creations are nice but are perpetually broken

[plasmajane06]

what is it with bigger sims 4 creators and being shady c*nts like 😭 the cash grabbiness of it all is so disheartening

[purplehairedwonder]

Chapter 1086: Connecting the Dots

It’s been a few chapters since my last write-up, but I couldn’t resist the lore of this chapter.

First things first: the cover page is absolutely adorable.

I especially love Luffy’s and Chopper’s reflections in the puddle. So cute.

Okay, onto the chapter itself. Reverie comes to an end with most attendees none of the wiser of the malicious goings on right under their noses.

We see various parties getting away from Mariejois by stowing away. This panel hit me particularly hard:

Sabo is visibly broken up about witnessing Cobra’s death, which is at odds with his reaction back in chapter 1083:

Honestly, it’s a relief to see that Sabo was affected by Cobra’s death since he seems so cold talking about the death of someone both the Revs and audiences knew to be a good man. 

Speaking of Sabo, the Gorosei’s discussion about him is quite interesting.

They use the phrase “checkered fate,” which we’ve seen used repeatedly to describe those who carry the D, including

and

It also feels related to the flashback in 1085:

Sabo seems to be influenced by the Will of D. as much as any of the Ds that surround him.

Meanwhile, Imu orders the destruction of Lulusia using a Vegapunk invention called Mother Flame. 

This is interesting because we saw in the MADS cover story how Vegapunk was focused on peaceful inventions. He talks about creating an energy source that will be accessible to everyone--thus eliminating conflicts over natural resources.

Perhaps Mother Flame is the result of that research. 

Many of us theorized that Uranus was used to wipe out Lulusia, but Dragon argues that if the WG had an Ancient Weapon, why wait until now to use it?

What if, like the mecha that is defunct in Egghead, Uranus needed a power source? And Vegapunk’s research into energy allowed them to finally power up the Ancient Weapon?

That would also fit the parallels between Vegapunk and Einstein, as Einstein’s work laid the foundation for the creation of nuclear weapons despite his pacifist tendencies.

So, Imu orders the destruction of Lulusia because it’s nearby, and the other Gorosei are... fine with it. They even try to justify it.

It’s cold and cruel.

We also get names and see the planet theme continuing with Jupiter, Venus, Mercury, Mars, and Saturn from left to right. Interesting that they are also called “Warrior Gods.”

Imu is also focused on retrieving Vivi, who we now know is a D.

What does Imu want with Vivi specifically? Mysteries to chew on!

Meanwhile, MORE SEPAPHIM.

Finally, the Doffyphim! Crocophim looks almost sad, which is interesting.

So, we’ve seen Seraphim for all the original Warlords, right? So, are we getting them for any of the others? Blackbeard? Law? Buggy? Weevil? Honestly, I’ll be very surprised if we don’t see a Law Seraphim since Law’s not allowed to have nice things and the importance of the Ope Ope no Mi is directly referenced in this chapter.

We get a bit more insight into Imu thanks to Iva:

Which ties back to Cobra saying he recognized the name. Now we have a family name: Nerona. My first thought was Nero, who was Emperor of Rome at the time of the Great Fire of Rome, which destroyed a large portion of the city. (Remember, Vegapunk’s potential energy source was called Mother Flame.)

Iva’s line about “the world we know today was created 800 years ago” brings me back to this panel from earlier in the chapter:

Particularly Mars’ comment in the middle about “The world moves at the will of the creator.” This seems to imply that Imu was one of the founders of the World Government--making him a creator of the world as we know it today.

Of course, that leads to the question of how he could be alive for 800 years. Iva’s out there like

connecting all the dots like the rest of us.

It’s long been theorized that there had to be someone in the series who had the Perpetual Youth Surgery performed on them, and Imu seems to be the best candidate. 

There have actually been multiple mentions of the immortality operation recently, as if to remind us that Law’s fruit can do that. Remember what Blackbeard said after defeating Law? 

So yes, the fact that Law got away from this encounter matters because a) he’s a D., and b) his fruit is coming into play again.

So, theory time. I know a lot of people worry about Law using the Perpetual Youth Surgery on Luffy, but I don’t think that will happen; among many reasons, Luffy wouldn’t want it, even if Law offered. 

However, if Imu has had that surgery and is now immortal, there needs to be a way to defeat him. What better way than the current user of the Ope Ope no Mi reversing the operation and making him mortal again?

Okay, this has gone way longer than I planned, so final thing:

So, this is interesting considering what we learned about Shanks from Film Red and its accompanying media. Shanks, we’re led to believe, is a Figarland, so this is likely a relative--father? Grandfather? Uncle? (Also, the hair that looks like a crescent moon? Amazing.)

Moreover, he is the former king of God Valley, which is where Roger’s crew found baby Shanks in a chest and adopted him. That God Valley flashback is going to be mind-blowing, isn’t it?

It’s also noteworthy that Figarland says, “Anyone who protects scum is lower than the scum they protect” while Shanks has a notoriously weak fleet because he protects them.

Finally, RIP Mjosgard. It’s sad that he was able to better himself and ended up executed as a result of those morals.

[gamesception]

Let’s read utena chapter 7

Tumblr’s new post editor just ate this entire reaction post I’m so mad it’s all gone.  I’ve turned back on ‘legacy editor’, but honestly every single pop-up overlay editor has been a nightmare and I wish they would go back to having a separate page for post creation, it’s the only way this site has ever been stable.

I’m soooo maddddd

anyway, last time we left off in the middle of the first Sionji duel.  I said something here, but it’s gone now so whatever, not much change from the anime so far anyway.

Except Touga’s physically here for some reason, and looks surprised, like he doesn’t know what’s going on, instead of watching smugly from afar larping like he’s in any amount of control here.

So anyway, the duel ends more or less like in the anime, only instead of the magic sword disappearing there’s this ridiculous sequence where it’s knocked flies out of Sionji’s hand and...

And into utena’s hand and visibly fills her with the power of Dios and everybody including Anthy is completely shocked so this is not normally what happens when a challenger wins a duel so... ok?

It’s still happening.  Like, I’m sorry to just be reposting full pages with minimal commentary, but what even?

Like, why even bother with the rest of the duels?  I get that Utena needs to build a relationship with Anthy and overcome challenges to that relationship in order for her to break the whole dueling ritual and save Anthy at the end, but like, from Akio’s perspective he’s just trying to find a duelist who can channel Dios’s power, and, uh, feels kind of like job done on this one, like he could skip to the end at this point without bothering with the rest of this year’s duelist crop?

It’s still happening, by the way.  Highlander victories were more subdued than this.

I’m with Sionji here.  What was that?

Since the sword doesn’t just disappear, we do get this cute moment of Utena sheepishly giving it back to Anthy, so that’s nice.

We also get this introduction between Utena and Touga where he comes off as... maybe not sincere exactly, but more playful & charming and less condescending & manipulative than in the show.

In the anime, we don’t see Utena leave the arena, but the episode closes on Anthy meeting up with Utena that same night.

In the manga, though, Utena, confused, embarrassed, or maybe just weirded out, kind of rushes out of the arena without anthy, conveyed by a neat handful of panels of the path to the arena in reverse:

One past the gate, Utena does pause just a moment to think about Anthy -

But unlike in the anime, Anthy doesn’t catch up to her that night.

So I guess we’re proceeding into episode 2, but where anime Utena was back to her normal unflappable self by the next day, manga Utena is still visibly shaken up.

As in episode 2, Anthy shows up in class like nothing happened, but we don’t get the cute scene of Utena going out of her way to show concern for Wakaba & trying to cheer her up, or of Wakaba and her book.  The Revolutionary Girl Utena anime already needed just way more Wakaba, if the manga keeps cutting her moments I’ll be sad about it.

Manga Wakaba does show up.  She’s somehow heard about Utena’s dorm change before Utena has, and is much more broken up about it in the manga than in the anime.  Honestly, I liked their conversation in the anime while walking over to the new dorm way better.  Wakaba was sad Utena was moving, but not wailing over it like this since it’s really not that big a deal, Wakaba hangs on her arm, they hold hands and swing their arms, Wakaba talks about how it’s supposedly been closed for ten years and teases Utena about having to clean up a derilict building, Utena gives her a piggy back ride, all in all it’s a very cute scene that also gets the necessary exposition in, and the whole time Wakaba comes across as a fun and funny, perpetually cheerful friend, before leaving Utena on the way because, well, she does live in a different dorm, and needs to get back to her own room.

Where as manga Wakaba...

Does not come off as well at all.  Chijo Saito is really dropping the ball here.

But again, I have to remind myself, she didn’t have the full anime to adapt, it’s not her fault.

As in the anime, Utena worries about the room being a mess, only to find it spotless thanks to Anthy’s cleaning, though...

That cleaning is a bit more strenuous in the manga.

And the chapter closes on Anthy introducing herself as the Rose Bride.

We’re still more or less on track with the anime plot, apart from some weird digressions at the end of the first duel.  I expect the manga to jump the rails sooner rather than later, but I’m not sure when or how.

[danbisroom]

Ep. 23 - You Wanna Get Down In The Shift Of Seasons?

Hello my beloved fellow souls,

welcome back to Danbi’s Room, your weekly dose of safe space. Go grab a cup of something warm and get yourself cosy.

I hope you were able to spend a beautiful week, where you made memories at which you will look back fondly, you know, nice memories that maybe can substitute ugly ones.

However you might interpret this, I wholeheartedly hope you had time to immerse your ears in the holy water of mother sea and hear her cosmic whisper. That’s silence that speaks, the primeval music of the womb. Water. It’s always water first, it’s always water at the foundation of creation. Even when heavy rain is hitting our face as if she wished to dig holes in it, that’s creation. Whatever sky stream pours on my face I’ll welcome it, I’ll let it carve the lines of the future on my bare face. Carving is one of the closest things we have to perpetuity and timelessness.

Carving.

Every being on Earth does it, somehow.

Rivers carve passages amidst ancient rocks, packs of wolves, walking, carve paths in the forest.

We carve pieces of our souls on metal as much as on people’s skin.

If you look closely, it’s all there.

But what is carving? What does it do?

It removes matter from a surface.

Isn’t it incredible? We excise material and that affirms and often defines our presence. Absence edged by luscious vegetation. A rhythm of fullness and emptiness setting the tempo for the dance of life, beautifully abandoning our bodies to the wind. Sometimes it’s lonely, but then I think that, again, that cavity is, in fact, something I can still cherish. I remember that without presence I could never have the absence and thus, I’m relieved. I know that when I don’t meet my love in my dreams it's because other times I do, I know how to be in the company of other seasons when it’s not Autumn because then he comes to embrace me and kiss my lips at the break of dawn, in between rumbling trees. If I miss someone it’s because they were present and they’re going to be so again.

I came to love the tear burns at the edges of my big eyes and the white acne scars on my shoulders that melanin doesn’t cover. The hint of past stitches on my left brow and the small bump of my once-broken nose that remind me that, had it gone slightly differently, I may not have been here, at least not as I am now.

That’s to say that the unknown is a river surrounded by shores of well known and we just need to find the right ford to calmly cross it.

That’s to say that every leap of faith is an act of trust towards a lapse of space. Great things happen during that short moment in between our breaths, when our lungs are completely empty. Stories begin in the moments of silence, like when the horizon is foggy and the sea and the sky perfectly merge and flow into each other, intertwining in love.

I can still feel the trail of those eyes, the echo of that asymmetrical smile generating entire constellations. I want to see it again and may its absence feed my spirit. May I have the strength to make the engine of my psyche and flesh be powerful enough to move water and direct my ship to the place where the sun rises.

And may you share this strength.

Today’s song recommendation is Don’t Stop The Clock by King Gnu. It’s about love, dreams and seasons. Don’t cry, my loves, and take a leap forward.

I hope you enjoyed this episode and that you have a beautiful week ahead of you!

I’ll see you in the next one, big hug!

With love, yours,

Danbi

[hirudou]

' mayhaps you misunderstand, ' serpentine deity muses aloud, ' that unbridled chaos is the true nature of all those who walk this world. they merely fear it, thus creating monsters so they may conceal their own horror. when i usher a new dawn of creation, all of that will no longer be chained. think of a universe of endless freedom! ' ( problem snek for wuya's onmyoji variant )

        freedom  is  such  a  romantic  notion.  to  be  unshackled  from  the  burdens  placed  on  him,  for  the  simple  fact  he  is  not  human.  wuya  has  lost  count  now.  the  number  of  times  a  human  has  beat  him  away  with  a  broom.  how  many  onmyoji  have  sought  to  tear  away  his  wings.  as  if  he  is  the  embodiment  of  omen  and  disaster.  they  perpetuate  his  anger,  a  cycle  of  curses  weaved  with  his  own  hands--  and  broken  bones.  

is  that  what  they  mean?  to  be  free  of  the  stigma  humans  and  gods  alike  have  made?  it  would  be  nice--  to  rest  in  a  medow,  and  not  fear  it's  occupied  by  growing  crops.  but  if  the  world  has  taught  him  anything,  it  is  that  niceties  such  as  this  do  not  come  so  easily.  there  is  always  a  catch,  always  some  price  to  pay  for  it.  so-  his  brow  twitches  in  thought.  his  wings  flex  subtly,  a  fine  shine  to  every  dark  feather.  

"  what  do  you  want  out  of  it?  "  head  cocked  sharply  to  one  side,  the  earrings  that  dangle  from  his  pointed  ears  jingling  like  bells.  "  no  one,  not  a  thing,  is  so  generous  for  nothing.  so  what  do  you  want?  "

unprompted ask / always accepting

[llfreude]

Freude - extract

Under the cut you will find the first 3 pages of the story, for those who'd be curious, since I have seen, against all odds, a few notes popping around. Uncanny. Who are you, people? If, by some sort of twisted miracle you'd be interested in more, there's 300 more pages where those come from. Contact me if you like. We'll find a way.

It began, of course, with music.

Music in itself isn’t much of a surprise for my ears. Every single thing in the universe, in fact, breathing or not, growing or not, visible or not, has its own tune, its own melody. Music is, to my opinion, the most underrated constant of the world. Even here, down below, in the ever-moving darkness of Hell, it pervades my mind without rest, without hitch, coming from every particle of matter around and the void in between them.

Music is the perpetual heartbeat of creation, it is no surprise to me at all.

What was extraordinary with this one, though, was where it came from and where it went.

-“Do you hear that?” I asked the Mazikeen standing next to my throne, but she only frowned.

-“What ish it wi’h you again?” She spat, shaking her beautiful head.

I smiled. I didn’t want to trouble her with music she obviously wasn’t meant to hear. So I only had a soft gesture upwards.

-“You see my dear,” I explained, “sound, as the human world is made, always goes up. Songs, melodies, prayers, don't they fly to the skies, aren't they addressed to higher places? The surface of the Earth leaves nothing for the underground to absorb but drilling noise, stomping feet and thumping echoes of its collapse.”

She rolled her eyes at me, turning away, and I didn't mention those forceful, magnificent, appealing chords again.

A first I am sure, and no doubt an only.

Human music pushed down to Hell.

I grinned, enthralled, slouching back in my seat, yes, this sound was unique.

It wasn’t exquisite, it wasn’t humble, it wasn’t even nice. It wasn’t a song, a melody or a prayer, it wasn’t meant for skies above, no, dear me, it was a scream. A storm, a fire, a curse, a threat. It was mighty, it was furious, it was desperate, it was perfect.

I closed my eyes. I took my time. Perhaps I was willing to pretend I do not take decisions so quickly, but I was only fooling myself. The music was a landslide of riot, and I dared not deny it was pulling strings in the very core of my being.

This stirring in me, I had felt it many times before, though never twice with the same scent, taste or tone. When was the last time, I couldn’t remember. Time is a flickering thing. The names, however, always remain with me, carved in the black stone of my heart, for an eternity none of them could ever endure, and to this day still I cherish them all.

I was glad, truly, and quite a bit relieved to be able to feel it once more.

-“You fhound some’hing.” Mazikeen hissed, and my eyes snapped open to glance at her intrigued face, looming above me, inspecting me close.

There was no point in arguing. I do not lie, she does know me.

-“Something found me, I’d rather say.” I chimed with another vague wave of my hand, but it did nothing to smoothen her pointed stare.

-“You wanth to gho up t’ere again…” she mumbled with a disdainful nod towards the above, “…you know ith means throuble.”

-“Yes.” I conceded. “But I think it’s worth it.”

She narrowed her eyes at me, one of flesh, one of void, and weighed my words for a while, but the trust between us had stretched over eons already. There was no need for vows or promises. She sighed, throwing her hands above her head and stepped aside to let me go.

-“To Hell wi’h you.” She simply snarled.

I was still laughing when I appeared at the surface of the Earth.

***

I didn’t need to search for long. The calling was clear, the music imperious. I saw a small village under the mountains, a carriage waiting outside a rusty gate and a humble house near a river where lived a physician. The good doctor had been called outside for a difficult childbirth, but inside the lodge there was still a patient of his. A patient who had, for hours and hours, destroyed everything within his reach, as if he couldn’t stand anything around him being left intact anymore. Tables were broken, chairs thrown into windows, shelves overturned, dishes breached and glass shattered. I found him sitting on the floor upon a heap of his own disaster, the rage and the despair enclosed within his skin burning higher than I ever thought humans capable of.

That agony, that wrath, it felt wonderful, it felt familiar.

I didn’t make myself visible to him straight away. I took time, again, to contemplate, deceiving myself into believing I wasn’t conquered already.

Because if indeed the music was a thrill, the man, by the stars, was something more.

His hair was unkept and wild, damp strands of greying ebony falling on his troubled brow. His eyes were intense, enraged, fixed into the void as if they could set fire to reality itself. He was trembling, broken, exhausted, worn-out, sickly, dead drunk, magnificent.

Bloody magnificent.

His both hands were soaked in blood, cut open by the vigour of his rampage. One of his fists was clenching a long shard, some fragment of the destroyed cupboard behind his back I supposed, tapping it rhythmically on the parquet. His other hand was pressed against the nearest wall, shaking, no, not exactly shaking.

Writing.

Writing notes, one on top of another with bloodied fingers, incredibly fast, until it left nothing else than a vengeful red stain on the smooth stucco, the cadenza of the shard dictating measure to frantic, intricate chords, and there it was, that unique, enraged music.

Blazing, rumbling, shouting in his mind.

I had never heard anything so sublime.

I narrowed my eyes and listened to what the house around had to say. The physician tried, the walls told me. The doctor tried all he could, he tried for days, he tried his best. There is nothing to be done, he eventually said, the sickness will be unstoppable. The pain will keep getting worse, he said, and within years all sound will be lost to you.

For a moment, his patient didn’t move an inch, his lovely grey eyes lost in the distance. Only minutes after the physician left, fury exploded and the riot began. It lasted for so long his body could barely keep on, and truth be told I don't think he wanted it to. But before self-destruction, as often with this man, pain abruptly turned into music, and he fell down right there, eyes blind, chest heaving. Shaken by the effort of taming the sounds in his head more than by agony itself, he only sat there unmoving for a while. Then soon enough as he forcefully battled discord into harmony, he grabbed this shard and his other hand started writing.

The birthing of his art was leaving him drained, worn out, boneless, but he barely felt it. His anger was commandeering the entirety of his soul, insistent, overbearing, and I had never seen a more beautiful ire. Righteous, vibrant, aflame and above all, justified.

How monstrous indeed for Creation to grant him that spark, that miracle, that one in a billion souls equation, only to make him pay the price later on, slowly, inexorably shutting him away from the marvel of sound.

Demanding pain in exchange for a gift you never asked for has definitely always been Heaven's trade.

How cruel, how vile a twist of fate.

Wasn't his fury only virtuous, how could it not call to my heart?

There was no need to wait any further, I was ensnared already.

So I made myself seen to gladly kneel at his side, giving him my best face, clothes of his time, an open palm and a soft smile. While he stared, breath hitching, he let the back of my hand brush blood and sweat off his tortured temple. He was handsome. He was intense. He was terrifying.

Echoes of his symphony were still blooming on their own will in his aching, exhausted mind as he inspected me warily, and in an eternity, I had never heard anything as glorious.

Wounded yet fighting. Abused yet powerful.

Desperate yet ominous.

-"Wie wirst du sie nennen?" I gently asked him, passing fingertips in his wild, tousled hair.

-"Eroica." He whispered without thinking before he blinked, his eyes focusing on me. "Warte. Wie lange bist du schon hier?"

-"Schon immer." I soothed, and though he deliciously snarled, frowning in threat, I am not sure he was really surprised.

-"Schon immer." He echoed with a thunderstorm rumbling in his throat, oh I couldn’t wait to bite him there. "Was bist du?"

-"Can't you guess, Ludwig, my dear?" I murmured, seductive, sliding my hand down his arm to his wrist, gently unlocking the shard from his grip and bringing his knuckles to my mouth. "You have spent these last hours calling to me with such force, now don't you know who I am?"

His eyes widened. How breathtaking.

[earmuffstar]

glazed eyes, empty hearts

ao3 link!! Summary: Remus lay on the carpet in the Commons, drinking something inedible and trying to figure out if he could saw off his hand. OR: Remus has ways of keeping himself from full lucidity. Janus has some things to say about it. Genre: canonverse angst Relationships: Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders & Deceit | Janus Sanders (platonic dukeceit/demus/intruceit) Words: 1589 Additional Tags/Warnings: Self-Harm, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Mentions of Dismemberment, Sympathetic Dark Creativity | Remus "The Duke" Sanders, Sympathetic Deceit | Janus Sanders, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Swearing

Remus lay on the carpet in the Commons, drinking something inedible and trying to figure out if he could saw off his hand.

He’d have to clamp his right arm down—since his left arm was stronger—and on a table, probably, for the best angle. He’d use an electric saw, to keep himself from stopping halfway through from the pain. Maybe he’d even get away with it, too: right here on the living room table in the middle of Family Game Night, or whatever the Lights were doing, he wasn't paying attention. The others normally didn’t question what Remus did, whether a product of not wanting to look too closely or because they just didn’t care, he didn’t know. It came in handy at times like this—ha, handy, he should tell that to Pappy Patouille.

“Handy!” Remus screeched. The conversation stuttered like tripping over a stone, tumbling to the pavement, skittering off a cliff and ending up squished in half by a train on criss-crossed railway tracks before resuming its pace as normal.

Remus went back to pondering his drink, now half-empty. He kind of hoped it was alcohol, although even the more potent stuff didn’t do much for him anymore. Maybe bleach, then. He took a gulp. Snapped his fingers and malathion filled the rest of the concoction to the top. Downed the glass. It didn’t taste half bad—he almost wished it tasted worse—but it made his head spin and his thoughts appropriately fuzzy, which was all he needed.

Remus stood up, bracing himself against the armrest as the room wavered, legs quivering inappropriately under his weight. The room continued their conversation—he couldn’t make out the words, not like he wanted to, he was sure it was about Disney or some other unimportant shit—as he sunk out.

The corner of Thomas’ mind which embodied Dark Creativity, forbidden thoughts, the macabre, badness, demented reason, remained perpetually in disrepair. Remus tripped over shards of glass—broken Bud Light’s?—needles, plastic orange bottles, and crashed to his knees somewhere wet, cheek brushing against bones and plywood as his eyelids drooped shut.

~~~

Remus shifted as he came to: alive, in his room, with a mind far too alert and lucid. Had he messed up with whatever he’d drunk last night—accidentally used orange juice or some shit instead of malathion? Remus growled in frustration. The easiest methods of forced mental incoherence—starvation, lack of sleep, the like—always took the longest time to take effect. If he’d paid attention last night, he would have been able to perpetuate the misery longer without this unfortunate break. He’d have to resort to more drastic measures for instant relief.

At least the blackout was nice. He normally didn’t get such an easy reprieve. When nightmares didn’t torment his sleep, the knowledge of coherence and well-restedness it offered did.

Dark Imagination always exhaled cold, stinking of rot and filth, miasma and decay. His thoughts always amplified in his domain, spinning and twisting in a way that felt good—or rather, felt terrible, which was good. Remus sank his foot into the muck, his realm unnaturally still. His creations normally drew into hiding when he came here like this—they didn’t like to see him do this. Welp. Too bad for them.

Here was a total blank slate. He could do anything. Remus’ claws itched.

It sucked how much it hurt, was the thing. The pain was delicious, and he soaked it up, reveled in it like cloth soaking blood, he needed it—but it still hurt, at the very beginning, the moment when knife hit flesh. The physical pain always hurt like hell, but the greater the pain at the beginning the longer it would keep hurting, and if at least some part of him was hurting he didn’t have to hurt a different part again to balance out the hurt in his brain.

Remus heard the footsteps only after rivulets of blood ran down his fingers.

“Remus?” The voice came soft, low, with a hint of a hiss curling the edge of their words. Remus’ blood ran cold, drip, drip, dripping onto the ground, and he grinned a false smile as he turned around—pointless, Janus always saw through him, Janus was the one person who wouldn’t brush off his antics as his simply unfortunate nature.

“Hey, welcome, Janny-Jan! Just messing around, you know me.” Remus was still far too coherent for this, brain just as awake as it had been when he’d woken up feeling nothing unnatural in his system despite the pain. Remus summoned a bottle of arsenic, aiming to chug it, when his fingers grasped empty air. Janus held the bottle away from him with one of his extra hands.

“Give it back, Jan.”

“Remus, this isn’t healthy.”

Remus cackled. The notion of “healthy” deserved that much. “Does it look like I care? Give it back.”

Janus sighed, looking resigned, and Remus knew what was going to happen before it did. That didn’t mean he didn’t struggle as six arms wrapped around him, yanking him from his domain into Janus’ room. Janus deposited him on a bed, holding him down by his arms and ignoring Remus’ pleas with practiced care.

Gloved hands met his own, stopping him every time he tried to scratch his arms, eyes, limbs. Already Remus could feel the effects of Janus’ room sink into his body, denials becoming truths as they healed his wounds, and Remus detested the comfort even as he gave in to it. Janus sat down next to him as the fight bled out of him, its absence hurting somehow more than blood and guts spilling from his wounds.

“Why do you keep doing this?” Janus said quietly, no more to Remus than to the air, but he shrugged anyway. He’d tried for far too long to rationalize his actions, formulate some sort of reasoning, some story, some grand reason why. Eventually he stopped trying, because no amount of reasoning ever stopped him. He would either do something or he wouldn’t, and that was how it worked—whatever thought that had led him to that action could have been fleeting, could have been in response to the opposite inclination, could have been anything. He’d long since given up on trying to understand his mind.

Janus should stop worrying. It wasn’t like anything would kill him, anyway.

“Well!” Remus struggled to sit up. “This has been fun, but—”

“Remus, you can’t—”

“I’m perfectly fine now, so—”

“You’re not —”

“I can’t say it’s been lovely but I should be going, got places to be—”

Janus looked about to explode, or cry, and personally Remus thought the former would be much cooler, wondered how flesh would become explosive, charred, twisted, dead. “We have to talk about this, Remus! I can’t— I can’t let you continue like this.”

Something furious and burning licked through his spine. Remus went still—still like the night, still like corpses buried six feet under the winter chill, still like death. Janus’ expression quickly smoothed over, but Remus was pleased to read fear in the pinch of his brow. “What I do,” Remus hissed, “is not up to you. I am not your charity project, and I understand perfectly well what I’m doing. You don’t get to take this away from me.”

“Remus, you—” Janus’ breath hitched. Remus didn’t— couldn’t turn to look at his face. “You can’t possibly think this is a long-term solution to your problems! ‘Oh yes, continually hurting myself will make my life better, it won’t have any lasting effects on anyone at all—’”

“I don’t want to think !” Remus screamed. He would have glared at the yellow-clad side had exhaustion not burrowed into his bones. Or maybe that was just the blood loss, or the aftereffects of the alcohol. “I don’t want to feel better, I don’t want to feel normal, or healthy, I just want to— to be numb, to be—”

He’d grown too used to incoherence to be able to deal with reality without it. The fact that the poisons gave him an excuse for being a fuck up, and that he’d have no shield, no scapegoat, no backup if he was still a fuck-up while being fully coherent. He didn’t particularly want to stop, not anymore, not for all the effort it’d take with too little payoff—but Remus knew better than to talk about his self-destructive tendencies to Self-Preservation.

Remus turned his back on Janus, though he felt his gaze tracing his spine. He wondered how long Janus was going to sit here with him—Janus knew better than to leave Remus unattended in his room.

Janus stood up abruptly, drawing Remus’ eye. He grabbed Remus by the arm again, and, to Remus' surprise, he felt the vertigo-like falling sensation of sinking back into his own room. Janus released his grip, opened his mouth, closed it again without speaking, and suddenly Remus found arms around folded him in an embrace. “We will be talking about this again,” Janus murmured, before both him and his touch disappeared as quick as it had come. Silence resounded in his wake, and Remus realized he’d been given what he’d asked for—his freedom.

Remus summoned another bottle of arsenic and drained it, relishing the way it instantly weakened his limbs, confused his thoughts. He sunk back onto his bed of corpses and plywood, gaze falling limp over his realm, wind rustling over eyes that saw no sights and ears that heard no sound.

[astranne]

FanFiction.net MASTERLIST

Here are the FanFiction I’ve read on FanFiction.net. Hope you’ll enjoy!

For each recommendation I’ve linked the story to the title and wrote/copied a little summary. Please remember that many stories are rated M or E, if not stronger. Read on your own risk!

justhugefangirl’s masterlist

fanfiction recommendation masterlist

Love’s Labour Found  by Peanutbuttertoast1

The War may be over, but Hermione Granger's life is just starting as her true heritage is revealed. Being the Heir to the Throne of England and a real life Princess is just the beginning of Hermione's story...but how will the Wizarding World react when they learn the Golden Girl and Gryffindor Princess is really a real life Royal?

This fanfic os one of my favourites, read it already three times- I can’t. It’s perfect, okay? For me it’s perfect. 

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A Witch in Gotham by Peanutbuttertoast1

After the Second Wizarding War, a curse rips through the Magical World, leaving devastation in its wake. Hermione Granger is tasked to find the reason, and the cure before more lives are lost. Retreating into the Muggle World to start over, Hermione finds her way to Gotham City as Mia Black, Head of the Black Foundation. Her decision to help the Batman changes her life forever.

A perfect crossover- honestly, this author is perfect. As well this story. I don’t link more of the authors work but there are some other ones which are just ... perfect.

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Mischief Managed by fringeperson

A man with black hair, green eyes and pale skin watched over a child with black hair, green eyes, pale skin, and a variant of the Elder Futhark rune Sowilo etched upon his brow.

Mischief Mastered (part of story)

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Green Eyes and Red Hair by fringeperson

He was a practical joker with messy black hair. She was a talented woman with bright red hair. It turned out that they both had green eyes. Their daughter, when she came, was untouchable for more reasons than one. Loki-is-James, Natasha-is-Lily, Rogue-is-Fem!Harry.

I love the relationship between Loki and Natasha :)

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Love on Her Arm by Eye Greater Than Three

During a trip to Gringotts, Hyacinthe Potter discovered she met her soulmate, William Weasley. Bill/Hyacinthe. female!Harry.

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The Winter Witch by Kneazle

Hermione realized it began with a sense of Impending Doom and finished with a battle outside her tent. The deciding line between staying and helping Robb Stark, or returning to her universe, is getting harder to see the longer she's in Westeros. But it's a decision that she has to make, or it's one that will be made for her. Part 1 & Part 2 complete! Part 3 now ongoing.

This... is one of my favourites crossovers,,, the slowburn between Hermione and Robb,,, and it’s so fluff,,, I’m such a sucker for dark stories but this is just pureness and ugh-

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Moratorium by Darkpetal16

Harry Potter could never be the hero. But, she might make a great villain. Satire. Parody. -COMPLETE- F!Harry Fem!Harry Gray!Harry.

Uhm- this is one of the darker fics I love. It’s very good written, cause of this I really don’t mind the ship fem!Harry x Tom Riddle

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A Life Twice Lifed by Nemesis13

Draco Malfoy died at the venerable age of 107, and who awaited him at the crossroads? His mother? His wife? No, it had to be his eccentric former rival, eventual best friend, and far too often partner in chaos Harry Potter. Oh, and of course he had a deal to offer Draco to live his life anew, and obviously there was a caveat to it all that he wasn't privy to, damn Potters.Fem!Draco

Ahh, Drarry. How I love this ship

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Persephone by dulce.de.leche.go

Better to be the right hand of the devil than in his path. Better still to be the consort of Hades than a part of his collection of souls. Ten years after Voldemort has won the war, Hermione reaches a breaking point and shreds the flow of time to change her future. If she can't change the world, she will change her place in it. Extremely dark Tomione/Volmione. Warnings inside.

As already written in the summary, this fic is hella dark. So if you don’t like dark fics (especially with all the warnings mentioned in the first chapters) don’t read. I still love it tho-

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The Muddy Princess by Colubrina

Just another Pureblood!Hermione story. A hidden adoption revealed, a brother found, a new world to figure out: "What are you hoping for?" he asked as they stood ready to do the spell. "I don't know," Hermione admitted. "You?" His knuckles were white on his wand. "A sister," he said, his voice very low, "I'm hoping for a sister."

There are more stories from this author which are just- awesome and absolutly perfect, like the next ones. Since they have over 60, I won’t link every work here. 

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Lady of the Lake by Colubrina

Hermione and Draco team up after the war to overthrow the Order and take over wizarding Britain. They have plans and they'll get power, but the cost of victory may be higher than they expected and more than they can bear. Dark Dramione. COMPLETE

This is perfection. Nothing more to say. 

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Dark Cherry Chapstick by Colubrina

Hermione returns for an optional 8th year after the war and Draco Malfoy, also back at Hogwarts at his mother's request, notices she's changed. A brief dip into the 'makeover' trope AND the 'goth' trope in one fic. ONE SHOT. Dramione.

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The Green Girl by Colubrina

Hermione is sorted into Slytherin; how will things play out differently when the brains of the Golden Trio has different friends? AU. Darkish Dramione. COMPLETE

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The Last Peverell by animerocker 646

Being the Master of Death made life difficult, especially when you need to save all of magical Europe from inbreeding its way to extinction. At least Death was enjoying watching his Master attempt this over and over again. Harry didn't find it nearly as entertaining. Well, tenth times the charm right? (FemHarry)

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Soft, Low, English Accent by Tsume Yuki

'God, you've got a beautiful voice.' Hariel always found it funny, that of all the things her soulmate could take note of -the messy hair, the bright green eyes, the scar- it's her voice he points out first. FemHarryxMatt

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Bless the Broken Road by Tempestas D. Uzu

Her resolve crumbled in the face of Pietro Maximoff's scruffy good looks and warm blue eyes, and she found herself falling for another person who would be doomed to die for her selfishness. (One Shot)(fem!HarryXPietro)(cannon-divergent)(full warnings inside)

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The Death of Natasha Romanoff by Philosophize

While helping to stop Stane, Natasha encounters a face she never thought she'd see again. Forced to deal with memories, decisions, and a life she thought she'd long left behind, will she survive the emotional upheaval, not to mention the rampaging, homicidal Stane? Or will she have to face her fears & transform herself, becoming once again what she once was? AU; fem!Harry; femslash

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Code Of Conduct by tlyxor1

A year after the war, Gwen Potter joins SHIELD. It's a life in the shadows, and a perpetual dance with death, but for the Witch Who Won, SHIELD - and Clint Barton - is exactly what she needs. She just doesn't know it yet. AU. Clint/Gwen. Fem!Harry. Pre-MCU. Post-Hogwarts, Post OOTP. Discontinued.

It already says it’s not finished,,, but oh well- I still liked it.

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The Almost Forgotten Marriage Contract of 1763 by worldtravellingfly

What would you do when suddenly confronted with a 200+ years old marriage contract by a teen and her lawyer? Run for the hills? Call the nice guys with the white jackets? Certainly not - agree? Well, Tony Stark always was a bit unique.

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Some Hearts by sakurademonalchemist

Robin Black was a bound witch. However, as the new Mistress of Death she was able to break free to Asgard and prepare to reap her vengeance. What she didn't count on was falling for a certain green-eyed, silver-tongued God of Mischief or being hit by Time Sand before the war restarted. Can she make her way back to Loki, or will she be stuck on Earth? FEM HARRY! YOU WERE WARNED!

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A Man of Honor by bloomsburry-dhazel

One day, Lyanna Stark discovers an unconscious man in the Wolfswood. Not knowing who he is, she takes him back to Winterfell where he is nurse back to health... Steve Rogers can't remember what happened to him, or how he ends up there, but he does remember who he is. He is Captain America, and somehow he has become Lyanna Stark's sworn shield.

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The Origin of The Black Widow by The Black Shadowx

The story of how the Black Widow became to be. detailed description of her life in the Red Room and what happened when she defected. this is my own creation so if things appear that is not in the comics thats the reason. i don't things can ever be too far stretched so excuse me if it gets weird. DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN ANYTHING TO DO WITH MARVEL . WRITTEN FOR ENTERTAINMENT ONLY

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will be updated...

[shadowthrone-ammanas]

Ghost Kid Chapter 2: Crash Landing

In this fic, all the Death Wish Contracts involving Mu are not a thing because obviously things with her didn't go down the way they did in the game, this is happening instead (technically making it an AU I think). But I still wanted Hat Kid to be one Death Wish away from getting the shadow puppet costume because this fic is inspired by it.

Snatcher was quite proud of himself as he put down his knitting needles to look at his finished creation. It was probably the best thing he’d ever knitted. It would be the perfect reward for when Hat Kid finished his final Death Wish Contract. … If she finished it. He was not at all hoping that she would, in fact he hoped for the opposite, he wanted her to fail and die so he could jump in and snatch her soul as it left her body. He’d made this cool new outfit for her on the off chance she did win; she’d defied his expectations enough times now that he’d learned to always be ready for it.

He folded the costume up and put it away in his pocket dimension for now. But now that that was finally finished, he could get back to his reading. He summoned one of his books to himself and…

There was a loud crash as the whole world shook as if struck by an intense earthquake. It was over within a matter of seconds but it left everything in his hollow that wasn’t secure scattered on the floor

“Boss!” one of his minions distressed calls came from outside. “Boss!”

“Calm down, we’re fine now,” Snatcher said as he exited. He looked around to find his minion struggling to stand back up, using a glowing mushroom for support.

“What was that?” the minion asked, looking up at him for reassurance. “Do think it was… her.”

“No.” Normally when she decided to bring the forest’s attention back to herself it involved her wretched ice magic and this certainly wasn’t that. Besides, whatever it had been had tripped one his traps in the burning part of the forest, while his distant sense of her had not moved. He needed to investigate but first…

He teleported to Subcon Village, bringing his minion with him. As expected, it was in disarray. The water in the pond was already draining, whatever had happened had clogged up the well again – it was a real pain in the neck sometimes – and a couple of the bridges connecting treehouses had fallen over. And of course, everyone was panicking. They were predictable, anytime something large and unexpected happened in the forest he could count of them to freak out about it.

“Calm down everyone,” he shouted loud enough for them all to hear. They immediately stilled and turned to face him. “It’s fine and has nothing to do with you know who. I’m going to go find out what happened, you guys start repairs and make sure everyone knows its fine.” He’d have to get a contractor to fix the well again and possibly help out with repairs but that could wait until later.

Before any questions could be asked of him, he teleported again. This time to the trap that had been tripped. The woods, already perpetually burning, were suddenly even more on fire. There was big crater near where his trap used to be. Something large had crashed onto the forest floor and slid a short distance, destroying the ground, every tree in its path, and the trap. That ‘something large’ was Hat Kid’s ship.

Snatcher rushed over to get a better look. It was a wreck: the metal making up its outside crumpled especially at the front and bottom, parts of it were bent or broken, and the entire front facing glass window was shattered, its bits scattered across the initial site of impact, reflecting the fires surrounding them. Snatcher had no way of knowing if it was mostly just surface damage or if the important parts of the ship had been damaged too. Nor did he really care right now.

He entered through the broken window. The interior lights were all out and it rested at an odd angle. Bits of broken glass from the window littered the floor as well as broken pieces of furniture. But the command desk at the front, though cracked was clearly built to last as it was mostly still intact. Underneath it lay two small bodies, one partially on top of the other. But… Snatcher only sensed one living soul, it was weak but there. Meaning…

He moved closer to pull the body on top out. … It was Mustache Girl, he’d heard enough about her to know what she looked like and that Hat Kid didn’t like her and that was it. … She was alive. Injured and unconscious, in need of medical attention, but still alive. Which meant…

Hat Kid was the other body. Snatcher didn’t need his ability to sense living beings to know she was no longer among them.

How was that possible? It was Hat Kid, there were times when she seemed almost immortal. She’d done and been through so many dangerous and difficult situations, how could she just die? It didn’t make sense! After everything she’d been through and done it was… such a waste. This was…

“Snatcher?”

He snapped around to see… a ghost. Glowing yellow eyes and mouth, small purple body tapering off into a tail instead of legs. The shape of her cape, complete with the zipper on front, and top hat remained. Well, Subcon Forest was the place one was most likely to become a ghost if they died here so… this made sense. Sort of, it was still unbelievable that Hat Kid had died.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, her voice now slightly echoey. “And why are the lights all off? What happened?” … She hadn’t realized what happened to her yet… not good.

“Hey Kid.” Snatcher put on a grin. “How’s it going?”

“Uh… I don’t know. I feel weird. Is… something wrong? What’s that behind you?”

Snatcher moved to block the view of her body as she tiled her head to try to look past him. “Maybe don’t look kiddo, it’s uh… not a pretty sight.”

She frowned and only tried harder to look past him. There wasn’t much he could do, he’d had to shrink is form to fit in here. Her gaze locked first on Mu but then quickly moved to her body. Shock and dismay filled her now ghostly features. She lifted her hands to look down at them and then back up at him. “I-I’m dead.”

“Yep uh… looks like it.” Snatcher still had on his forced grin. “But being dead ain’t so bad. It’s actually kind of nice sometimes. I’m a disappointed though that I wasn’t here to…” he trailed off as Hat Kid let out a loud sob. It was immediately followed by another as she curled up into a ball of misery. He’d never seen her cry before and he didn’t know how to handle tears.

He turned away and summoned a small group of his minions, hopefully they hadn’t been doing anything important. “Deal with this,” he whispered to them, gesturing to Hat Kid’s corpse and the injured Mu. They gasped in horror at the sight, at this point Hat Kid had befriended seemingly everyone in the forest – excluding Snatcher of course, he wasn’t her friend no matter what she said.

“Boss…” one of them began.

“And do it fast,” Snatcher interrupted.

They nodded firmly. “What do you want us to do with…” one of them pointed to Mu.

“I don’t care, just handle it.”

Before they could say anything else, Snatcher snapped back around to face Hat Kid again because he had to handle this now. She was still crying, very upset and rightfully so, seeing one’s own broken corpse was not a pleasant experience. It being sudden and unexpected had to have only made it worse. She’d never cried before though, no matter what he or anyone else put her through, she’d always taken it like a champ. That only made her tears more stressful, he needed them to stop.

“Hey kiddo,” he said in the closest he could get to a soothing tone as he moved closer to hover in front of her. “Look, I know it’s hard but could you please not…”

She grasped onto his mane. From there, she shifted to crying on him. “I don’t wanna to be dead. I was going to go home.”

Awkwardly, Snatcher lifted an arm to lightly pat her back because what else could he do? How was he supposed to get her stop crying? There had to be a way, right? … Getting her away from the reason she was crying would probably be a good start, right?

Bringing her with him, he teleported to one of his reading spots, the one that had no physical access to the outside world and was thus private. He quickly righted the lamp and sat on the chair. He patted Hat Kid’s back again in hopes that that would maybe help. He really had no idea though and she was gripping his mane too hard to for him to easily free himself of her so… seems like he could only wait and hope the tears stopped soon.

Previous / Next

[aquilaofarkham]

title: asclepius rating: teen and up (medical procedures, childbirth, brief mentions of animal death) summary: After spending some time alone, Alucard decides to continue his mother’s work and becomes a local doctor—a choice that eventually brings unexpected consequences.

AO3

Alucard doesn’t need to look at a mirror to know the kind of sordid state he’s in: red watery eyes, sniffled nose flushed pink and disheveled locks of hair falling over his face after being tightly bunched up in his fists. It’s surprising how much crying can put certain things into perspective. With a trembling hand, he uses the end of his sleeve as a handkerchief. 

He hasn’t cried this much since childhood. It feels... liberating. He was always so concerned with maintaining his composure while in the presence of others. Hide your softness; keep a guard around your exposed heart. Always be the cold spot in the room.

They say if you walk through one of those cold spots especially in an empty room, it means you have just brushed shoulders with a ghost. Not necessarily the worst thing to be. This castle might once again feel like home—or some semblance of home—should Alucard become more akin to a ghost. He would fit in better with its occupants that come and go, down staircases and across open doorways as fleeting visions of past memories.

Alucard places both palms upon his wet cheeks, trying to cool them. No more of those thoughts. In an hour or so, he will be fine. What he needs is distraction and there is plenty of that. He could continue wandering the corridors, inspecting whatever damage he missed during his first walkthrough. Make his favourite rooms more presentable and allow the sun to brighten up this dreary, death filled citadel, no longer to be hidden in shadows.

Standing up, Alucard sets off down the hallway. Cleaning, like crying, should help unclutter his mind. He starts by brushing aside larger pieces of rubble, stone, and splintered wood before realizing he needs a broom—and perhaps a shovel. There’s a substantial storage room in one of the neighbouring halls. Alucard recalls visiting it many times after accidentally breaking an entire set of Lisa’s vials or toppling over a row of candelabras when his powers were still new and difficult to control. 

He hopes to feel some sweet nostalgia walking throughout the castle. A sense that he has returned to a past that kept him safe, gave him knowledge, and comforted him despite its bloodied history. A past that he loved.

There’s always the Belmont Hold should Alucard need it; the very thought causes him to stifle a chuckle. His relationship with that museum is certainly an interesting one. There was hatred, suspicion, even jealousy. All of which he made sure to voice very plainly to its sole heir. Alucard regrets those particular words, along with others that escaped.

You were right in calling me a bastard. Another memory that tugs at the corners of his lips. These days, he can’t help but respect those archives and their contents. He should, now that the Hold is his to own. Though the vampire skulls in their glass cases will have to be thrown out.

Tick, tick, tick. Alucard stops in the middle of another stone hallway. He almost moves on, thinking he misheard, until it occurs again. A few steps forward and the sound grows in volume. He follows and arrives at a closed door. Strange; he always remembered this to be one of many empty rooms. Most likely a stray cat or bat trying to claw its way out. Alucard grabs the doorknob. Might as well set it free else the noise echoing off the walls will drive him mad.

He’s right about it being a trapped animal, yet the reveal still surprises. Alucard backs away while a cat and what he thinks is a fox scamper out in a panicked dash. A few birds, including an owl, follow close behind. He doesn’t question where they came from or how they managed to get inside the castle yet; he’s more intrigued by the contents of the room. Nearly identical to his father’s workshops and studies with a large table erected in the centre. The only differences are the animal cages lining the walls. Curiosity develops into wariness when Alucard comes across splatters of red gracing the wood, too old and too dried to be washed away.

There’s another unexpected noise; a subtle, high-pitched whimpering that seems very close. Alucard searches around before looking under the table. Nestled in the farthest corner he sees a small black shape curled in on itself, shaking. He edges closer, noticing a tail and two folded ears.

“Where did you come from?” At the sound of his voice, the dog turns around only to cower even further away. Despite its bright blue eye, wrinkly face, and tongue that perpetually sticks out, its demeanour is one of debilitating fear. Alucard decides not to be concerned with the missing eye and exposed bone; Castle Dracula will always be home to a whole manner of colourful creatures.

“It’s alright. There’s no reason to be scared.” He holds out his hand, but the dog refuses to move. He needs to earn its trust in a different way—a palm full of food or stick as a plaything.

Something lying on the floor catches Alucard’s eye. A broken piece of bone, red as the stains across the table, should do just fine. Crawling back, he stretches his arm and offers it to the dog. Still shaking, but now with a slightly less apprehensive look in its eye. Ears and head perk up; its tail might even be wagging.

“Here. This is for you.”

The dog stands up, showing how small it really is. Nails tap against the stone floor as it walks forward. Its tongue flicks against the bone before opening its mouth to gently accept it. He relaxes, watching in delight as the creature happily gnaws on its new toy. It even allows him to reach over and pat the top of its head. Fingertips brush along its skull, but Alucard doesn’t flinch. He realizes how it might have come into existence.

Necromancy, alchemy, transmutation—these are not unknown concepts. Dracula dabbled in everything, including the sciences that fed a young dhampir’s insatiable curiosity. Or the medicinal practices he learned while sitting on his mother’s lap. No area of study was taboo in their household. Admittedly, the sight of a reanimated dog playing, panting, and barking like all others in the world (with their skin intact) isn’t that much of a shock to him.

Alucard had many pets; most humans would have called them unsavoury beings. He never cared then, so he doesn’t care now. He’s charmed by this little black dog. Picking it up, it drops the bone and starts licking his cheek, squirming excitedly. The castle doesn’t feel so empty anymore.

“Now what should I call you?” Nothing comes to mind, but a visit to one of the libraries might help instill some imagination into it. The dhampir prince leaves the room with his new friend, who had managed to calm down. “Let’s go find you one, shall we?”

--

A copper gear clicks into place, fitting with the others like the final piece in an elaborate puzzle. With a couple flips and switches, Alucard changes his multi-lensed glasses to the highest magnified setting. He makes a minor adjustment, wielding the needle-think pick between steady fingers. Satisfied, he picks up the polished cover, his own golden eyes shining in its reflection, and carefully presses it into place.

Alucard takes a well-deserved breath. The glasses weigh heavy on the bridge of his nose. He looks over his stagnant creation with its sleek body hiding an inside filled with gears and springs that in theory should work together in tandem. There’s only one more step, then he can at last call this project finished. Using a pair of pincers, he takes a ball of coal and delicately hovers it over a nearby candle. Not enough to light it ablaze, but enough to ignite a few embers. He then places the ball within his device through a hole in its back before closing it. All that’s left to do is wait in anticipation while thin billows of smoke drift out of every crack.

There’s one click. Then another, and another, coupled with a few whirs. Metallic eyes blink followed by a tail swaying from side to side. The fox with shining gold and silver in place of red fur exhales steam, stretching out its limbs one by one. A little janky at first but after getting used to how its mechanisms work, each movement becomes much smoother. Alucard removes his glasses, pleased at how his creation hops off the table to join the other fox with its exposed muscle.

If his father were here, he might call his animatronics frivolous (in a well-meaning tone). Mere toys showcasing spectacle and little else. True, they are for his own amusement and there’s not much brand-new knowledge Alucard can gain from them. He already knows how machinery operates. But it’s a nice feeing to create something for pleasure rather than defensive purposes.

“Would you like a companion for yourself, Agrippa?” He leans down to see a small black dog sleeping under his chair, no doubt having worn himself out from the hours he spent running around the laboratory. The name Agrippa comes from the author of three ancient books based on the subject of occult philosophy. Alucard found them by chance while rummaging through untouched shelves down in the Belmont Hold—it seemed the best fit for a creature of similar origins.

“No, I didn’t think so.” He doesn’t need a companion. He seems content enough to be on his own, free to run up and down the castle hallways until passing out on the middle of the carpet. Then early in the morning, before the sun has the chance to rise, he’ll jump onto Alucard’s pillow and wake him by nuzzling his face. Or tug and paw at the hem of his master’s pant leg while he’s at his workstation if he’s that starved for attention. But Agrippa never gets lonely.

Neither does Alucard—he tells himself this every day. He’s not lonely or bored. He needed distraction, he found it, and it’s been serving him well. Seldom spending his nights in bed, more so in the laboratory and libraries. His hours are filled with the sound of electricity sparking, liquids bubbling, and gears clanking.

Until he steps outside into the rest of the castle and it’s quiet again. Without Agrippa for company (and conversation), all that’s left are his footsteps and heartbeat. Not even the ghosts disguised as memories come to visit as often as they used to. Soon, his mind goes quiet as well. Quiet and slow. He stops walking and sits at the bottom of a stairwell, scraping some excess grime off his fingertips. The two foxes, both reanimated in different ways, bound across the corridor, their snouts rubbing against each other, before they run off, soft paws racing against hard ones. Such a marvel. What might they say if they saw what...

They. Alucard’s thoughts become clear. It’s been weeks since their shared farewells—or has it been a month? Time seems to pass differently for him. Before he can wonder how they’re faring or where they’ve gone to, Alucard realizes that he already has his answers. He always does whenever the need strikes. Making his way up the spine of the castle, he heads straight for the main study. All the paintings have been restored to their hanging positions; all the glass has been cleared away. That is until Alucard enters the room and the jagged shards spring to life, hovering gracefully in the air, mismatched and in disarray. He beckons one forward and uses an elongated nail to inscribe the first rune onto its smooth surface.

Sounding off a gentle chime, the shards twist and dance, forming a mirror. A few more ticks of his nails, a few more runes sink into the water-like glass. Alucard’s reflection dissipates, replaced by grass, trees, and the colours of dawn. The scene before him is humble, a small campsite with a familiar canvas covered wagon. Yet his eyes are immediately drawn to the extinguished fire pit where two travelers sleep side by side. This sight isn’t shocking; it’s still quite early in the day after all. What does surprise Alucard are their clothes. Sypha’s robes have been immaculately repaired while Trevor at long last got himself out of that old tunic and into something which brings out his better physical qualities. 

Sypha lies comfortably with her head on his chest and arm pulling her closer. Alucard smiles softly, the sound of glass upon glass ringing in his ears. He raises a hand after debating with himself. This is a transmission mirror. 400 years old with the ability to push through solid matter—including flesh and blood. Easy as stepping through an open doorway. He could join them. Ask about their travels, their adventures, and how often they managed to get into trouble. He could enjoy their company one more time. He could...

Alucard’s fingers touch the glass, sending ripples across its surface. They stay. He stays. There’s nothing wrong with the mirror, not even as Trevor and Sypha fade away. He stares at his reflection, a combination of dejection and acceptance. He won’t forcibly insert himself into the life they now lead. It would be awkward reuniting with them this way. Give it time, they’ll see each other again somehow. Alucard recalls the advice he gave himself, about guarding his heart and the cold spot in the room.

Warm sunlight pours across the floorboards, the same that greeted his friends. He’s always been wary about leaving both the castle and Belmont ruins for too long. Short woodland walks with Agrippa bounding excitably by his feet have been the extent of his outings. But today the nearest village is hosting a market, and Lisa always wanted him to try existing among the same humans she cared for.

--

It’s strange walking down the roads that lead away from the Belmont grounds. Plenty of things feel strange now. There’s no worry of bumping into the night hoards that once plagued these roads. They’ve been left empty for some time, save for animals in the underbrush.

Alucard used to look out his window every evening, certain he would see carriages bearing emblems from across the continent, pulled along by rotting horse corpses. Up towards the steps of the castle they would arrive, letting out vampires dressed in silk redder than freshly spilled blood. One by one, their heads held high like a meticulous procession. Here on the resting place of a mad lord, after spitting upon the ruins of their oldest enemy, they would try removing Dracula’s bastard son from a nonexistent throne.

He hasn’t seen those carriages, the horse corpses, or the finely dressed vampires—not yet. Alucard can’t even bother viewing himself as a ruler to be dethroned. He takes after his mother in that aspect, preferring simpler things. She would be pleased to see him strolling through the gates of a lively hamlet, mingling with his other half.

Alucard wants nothing more than to continue honouring the memory of Lisa (perhaps now through less violent or patricidal means). Though his visit to the market is also for personal benefits. It’s good to see faces apart from his own in the Carpathian mirror. Despite how awkwardly he puts one foot in front of the other while wringing the leather strap of his shoulder bag, unsure of how to present himself to a world outside the castle. Trevor and Sypha would be so much better at this.

“Rabbit, wolf, and bear pelts!” Shouts one merchant with as much hair on his forearms as there is on his chin. Alucard avoids him.

“Fancy some cured and dried meats, sir?” A different one inquires.

“Not for me.”

Farther and further he explores. Soon the marketplace and its contents start blurring together. Food, clothing, daily tools to make the average Wallachian’s life a little easier. There are a few stand out vendors such as a woman selling jewelry that sparkles in the sunlight, the daughter of a blacksmith perfecting her skills in exchange for a few generous coins, and a pair of young men manipulating half-melted glass after heating it over an open flame while spectators watch in awe.

“Stunning, isn’t it?” Asks a voice just behind him. Alucard spins around, wondering if the question was meant for him or someone else. He faces a man and a younger woman, one stocky and well-tanned, the other frail with pronounced cheekbones. Bushels of dried herbs coupled with root vegetables and jars of wild berry jam line their vendor table. “They’re brothers from Bucharesti but were raised in Constantinople. That’s where they learned their trade. Like magicians, those two. I could watch them work all day.”

“You’ll have to excuse my father.” Alucard steps forward and sees the wisps of thin hair beneath the girl’s multicoloured headscarf. The closer he looks, the more her weight—or lack thereof—worries him. “He likes to converse with anyone who happens to pass by, whether they wish to or not.”

“It is a rather fascinating sight.” One that Alucard has seen performed through magic many times before. Nonetheless, he cannot help but show his own amusement, even admiration at what human hands can achieve and create. The very same sensation he feels when Sypha bends the elements to her will or when Trevor wields the Morningstar with such ease and, dare he admit it, grace.

Humanity is violent, cruel, and more often than not operates solely on its own warped superstitions and self-preservation. Yet there are lights that can be found within it—a hunter who rose up and realized his true potential. The most powerful, fearsome, brilliant magician Alucard has ever had the pleasure of knowing. A marketplace where its residents no longer have to fear what might be lurking outside their gates. A doctor and mother who thought only the best of her own kin.

“Do you live in the village?”

“Close enough. My wife, this not so little one, and I live further out in the woods. Not a lot of land to call our own, but there’s no shortage of plants and berries. Plenty of game passes through too, boding well for us whenever we need meat and pelts.”

“And we’re about to be blessed with another little one.” The daughter speaks in a breathy tone, as though exhausted from nothing.

“Yes, of course! My wife’s heavy with our second child.”

“Congratulations.”

“I see you’ve got your eyes set on the jams.”

Alucard’s head perks up at the comment. He never had much of an enduring sweet tooth, at least not for the usual pastries and candies. As a child, he would sneak into the kitchen in the hopes of finding a few biscuits before bedtime. After growing out of that habit, what he craved instead were sweet marmalades and jams.

“Oh, right. I will take... those two.” He points to a bright red and dark blue jar.

“Would you like those wrapped?”

“Yes, thank you.”

While Alucard readies his payment, he notices how the young woman struggles to wrap two jars in a simple piece of brown parchment. Her thin lips chapped beyond remedy and her mouth seems incredibly dry. She hands him his purchase with trembling hands, unable to say much else. Alucard turns to her father, their expressions matched in concern.

“Everything alright, Daniela?” He asks, placing a hand on her shoulder.

“... I’m fine. I just need water... anything to drink, really. I’m going to the square to find something. I will return soon.” As she leaves, Daniela gives Alucard a friendly but weak smile. “Thank you, sir.”

An uncomfortable silence grows between the two men. Alucard thinks about walking away. Leaving this brief encounter as just that—an encounter, nothing more. It’s what he should do, it’s what anyone else in the market would do. Yet the image of Daniela, still young but carrying herself like an elderly woman, tugs at the impulse to know more.

“Your daughter seems very frail.”

“So you’ve noticed. Daniela wasn’t always that thin or weak. She used to be healthier than either myself or her mother. Then... I’m not really sure what happened.”

“Has she been eating?”

“Morning, middle of the day, and night. But nothing sticks to her bones. It’s like all that food just... goes right through and disappears. Every time she takes a bite, she starts complaining about chest aches. Drinks plenty, though. Enough to drown a fully-grown man.”

“How long has she been like this?”

The man furrows his brows. “You ask a lot of personal questions.”

Alucard feels his stomach drop. Spoke too soon, spoke too much. Will he ever learn? “It’s just that I know a fair bit about medicine and what causes illnesses.”

“Medicine? Like leeches and boiled pig fat?”

“No, nothing like that. Forgive me, but I was only concerned for your daughter.”

He crosses his arms, sizing Alucard from top to bottom. “Well, you’re an odd mister, but somehow I can tell you have good intentions. Name’s Mihai, by the way. If you’re really concerned for Daniela and you want to put that medicine of yours to use, you’re welcome to visit our cabin and see how she’s faring. Just follow one of the paths due east from here and you’ll find it.”

“I shall consider the offer.”

“In the meantime, enjoy that jam.”

Alucard nods before taking his leave. He meanders through the rest of the village, but not for long. Too much is on his mind and the market has become suffocating. This is no place to think about the condition of a sick girl who may need his help.

--

Metal paws clink against the stone floor, followed by the ever familiar, ever present sound of working gears and steam whistling like a kettle. The other fox, the one remade from dead flesh and bone, playfully pounces on its gold and silver mate as the two creatures run about in the kitchen. Alucard pays them no mind, nor does he pay much attention to his plate of stale biscuits, let alone the half-eaten piece still in his hand. Mihai was right about enjoying the jam; it’s the only enjoyable thing about his sad excuse for a meal.

His cup of wine remains untouched. All Alucard can focus on is the text in front of him, handwritten on pages of thick journal paper. One of the many notebooks Lisa thankfully kept in the castle as opposed to her clinic. Thoughtful eyes narrow as his teeth slowly grind down another uncaring bite. A fingertip traces down a list of symptoms he recognizes—constant dehydration, short of breath, weakness, and a dangerous lack of weight despite an increased appetite.

When he returned home and began searching for the right book, he hoped to prove his original predictions wrong. Daniela is merely a victim of stress; what woman her age and social stature wouldn’t be? Feeble thoughts driven out the moment Alucard opened the front cover. It’s an unsuspecting, insidious illness, like all the others. Commonly occurs in human bodies regardless of age or health and due to its long-term effects on sugars in the bloodstream, Lisa labelled it in her notes as “the sweet death”.

Alucard turns the page to a detailed diagram of an internal organ curved at its end. Beside the drawing with all its minuscule descriptions is a paragraph titled “insulin and its properties”. Accompanying it are instructions that fill up the entire opposite page. It will take time and there can be no error. Already Alucard feels overwhelmed even as he looks over the complicated procedure. All the more reason to get started. Closing the book, Alucard tosses away the rest of his biscuit and leaves whatever he didn’t touch for the foxes.

He stops just before reaching the doorway. The notebook tucked under his arm suddenly feels heavy. A voice that had always been locked in the back of his mind crawls forward like a near death cadaver digging its way towards the surface. This isn’t any of your business.

No, it isn’t. Just as it wasn’t any of Lisa’s. She had no obligation to seek out true medical knowledge all because she hated the notion of resorting to leeches and bloodletting. No one asked her to do what they considered to be the unthinkable, the unholy. Those patients from Lupu, Targoviste, even all the way from Bucharesti, would have gone about their daily lives had they never met her. They would have also died far too early. It was her life’s calling to help these people.

And look at what it brought her in the end.

Alucard’s thoughts push his conscience in opposing directions. There’s too much of his mother in him, no enough of his father. And yet he cannot forget what they did to her, how those strangers repaid her countless good deeds. Should this family discover the truth, will they repay him in the same way?

His sheer stubbornness undermines any lingering apprehensiveness. Damn his guarded heart as it begins to soften. Of course he wants to help Daniela; he’s the only one who can. Heading towards the laboratory, Alucard says a silent prayer for Lisa. I will be careful, mother. I promise.

--

He works nearly a full week before enough vials are made, filled to the brim with clear liquid. They should last Daniela for a month if not more. Along with a needle and syringe fashioned by himself, Alucard places each one into a bag. The glass vials gently clink together with every subtle movement, but he makes sure to secure them. At least until he arrives at the cottage.

Alucard waits until dark, patting Agrippa’s head as a goodbye (and for good luck). It’s a clear night, clear and quiet. Once reaching the roads most traveled, he slips into the forest, following the same route he took towards the village. It’s safer this way—no sightings, no questions, no suspicions. When the gates come into view, he follows Mihai’s directions, vague as they were. Go east along the paths, search for a cabin. Alucard holds the bag steady after hearing another round of clinking glass.

He thanks his eyes for possessing a keen nature and sharpness not found in mortal humans. There in the distance nestled between the trees with a thin stream of smoke wafting out of its chimney sits a small cottage made from wood and stone. Candlelight shines dimly through its windows. Alucard takes note of the wild berry bushes surrounding this humble plot of land. Walking up to the front facade, he raps his knuckles against the door and waits. His stomach feels heavy and there’s a sledgehammer banging away in his ears and in his heart. But it’s far too late to turn back; not after the work he’s done, not after the promise he made.

The door opens, revealing a surprised Mihai. “Oh, it’s you. I… I didn’t really think you’d actually come.”

“I wanted to come sooner, but—”

“Who is that, love?” A different voice calls out.

“The man from the market, the one I was telling you about.” Footsteps can be heard from within the house. After more waiting, a woman dressed in a thick handknit shawl appears by Mihai’s side. Alucard’s eyes are quickly drawn to her pregnant stomach hiding beneath layers of clothing. It tells him enough of her condition.

“This is my wife, Tobi.”

“Good to meet you, sir. Mihai tells me you bought some of our jams. And that you’re a doctor of sorts.”

“I do have the knowledge. I’m here f—”

“You came to see our daughter.” Tobi interjects, one hand around Mihai’s arm while the other rests on her swollen belly. “I’m not usually one to let strangers into our home. But our poor girl is on the verge of desperation... along with us. If you can tell us what’s wrong with her, that’ll be enough.”

“I can do more than simply tell you what ails Daniela; I made something that can help her.” He holds up his bag and reveals its contents. Mihai and Tobi stare inside with cautious interest. “Can I see her?”

The two turn to each other for assurance, contemplating their options (what little they have). Eventually, it’s Mihai who opens the door wider. “Come in.”

It’s a quaint home, warm and inviting. Better than most other woodland cottages Alucard has been welcomed into. There’s a well-fed fireplace and the smell of food cooked with heart; small enough to house three persons along with a fourth on their way, but no more. Hanging off the walls are rows upon rows of dried herbs and meats, tapestries of a hard-working family.

“She’s resting in there.” Tobi leads him through the main living space and points towards an open doorway. Alucard looks inside; a single, wavering flame lights the room, revealing a stool where the candle sits collecting drops of fresh and dried wax. Everything else is covered in shadows. A young woman lies on a narrow bed with her back turned towards the entrance, shoulders rising and falling at a laboured pace.

“Daniela…” The figure’s head turns around as she adjusts her position upon the creaking bed frame.

“You again. This is a surprise.” Daniela replies, trying her best to sound as welcoming as she did at the market. It’s difficult to greet her in this state—her cheeks look even more hollow and her neck thinner after only a week. “What brings you to our home?”

“Your father told me of your condition and I—”

“He told you?” She wants to sound angry but in her weakened state, it only comes off as mere annoyance. Daniela rests her scalp against the sweat stained, well-used pillow. “Thank you for the concern, but you shouldn’t have troubled yourself. It’s really nothing. I’m tired, that’s all.”

“What you’re afflicted with is far more serious than mere exhaustion.” He glances at Mihai and Tobi, who are just behind him standing in the doorframe. “You two should hear this as well.” They join Alucard by the bed; four persons crowded into a single claustrophobic room. He contemplates his next words, which ones would be better to use in order to describe this particular illness. How can he make this easy for them to understand?

“The reason why this is happening to you is because inside of your body, there is an organ that has stopped working properly. While your lungs help you breathe and your heart pumps blood, this one helps you ingest food and keep you as healthy as possible.” Alucard pauses to ensure that Daniela is still attentive. Her expression has grown considerably more anxious, but she doesn’t ask any questions yet. “However, because it no longer functions, the food you eat doesn’t get properly ingested. No matter how much you consume, you continue to lose weight and grow weaker.”

“I... I have something... dead inside of me?”

“I wouldn’t necessarily call it dead.”

“Is it the plague?” Daniela’s eyes grow wide with distress until Alucard quickly takes her hand to calm her.

“No, no. It’s not the plague at all. There’s no real term for it yet. Here...” He pulls out one of the vials and holds it up against the candlelight yet far enough as to not burn the clear liquid. Mihai and Tobi draw in closer, trying to get a better glimpse. “This will help. It acts as a substitution for the organ. You have to take a certain amount every time you eat a meal. The more often you do, the better you will start to feel.”

“Do I drink it?”

“Unfortunately, it’s not that simple.” Now comes the most difficult part. His hand slips back inside the bag and retrieves a needle. Daniela begins to squirm at the sight of it; Alucard had the same reaction the first time Lisa showed him. His reluctant cries could be heard throughout every inch of the castle even before the tip punctured his skin. Fortunately, the initial act felt far less painful than he anticipated, and it was only beneficial for his health over the years, but he was a child. Daniela has most likely never seen anything like this before. Alucard won’t chastise her.

“You will need to fill this device with the liquid—not all of it, but enough—then insert the tip either through your arm, abdomen, or leg. I’ll do it first, so you know how it is done.”

The tension in the air remains steady as Daniela goes silent. Water pools up around the curve of her eyes, ready to break into tears running down her cheeks the moment she blinks. She bites her lip; she’s scared but all she wants is for this to end. So that she can stop feigning strength and indifference.

“... please make it quick.”

“It will be. Hold out your arm.” Trembling, she does just that. Alucard takes it in his gloved hand, his other one holding the needle after it’s been filled and prepared. He can feel her shaking, struggling to hold still. “Have you ever been stung by a hornet, Daniela?”

“Y-yes... it was awful.”

“Well, this will be considerably less painful.”

Daniela holds her breath, clutching the sheets in her fists, yet musters enough bravery to not look away even as the needle enters her upper arm. Though the same cannot be said of her parents who turn their heads. At least she now knows how to inject herself. With care, Alucard pushes the liquid forward and empties the container before removing the needle. Daniela will need more than the usual amount, only to get her through until the next morning. After so many hours of constant work, sleepless nights, and days gone without a proper meal, after all that fretting from both parties, the deed is done.

“That was it?” Mihai and Tobi nearly ask the same thing.

“How did that feel?”

“... felt like nothing. Now what happens?”

“It will take some time. But you need to continue taking the medicine.”

“For how long?”

“As long as possible. It will be hard, but this isn’t something that disappears after a few remedies. Although with enough work it can be made liveable.”

Daniela pauses, then nods. “I’ve been through harder times... I’ll do my best.”

“You did well tonight.” He shows her the rest of the vials along with the needle and what she’ll need to keep it clean. “Remember, take some before every meal and at night to be safe. Don’t empty the entire thing. Now rest, you’ve earned it.”

As Daniela lets relief and exhaustion overtake her, Alucard hands the bag off to Mihai and Tobi, who have both remained shockingly quiet throughout this entire ordeal. He at least expected some words of protest or disbelief. “The remainder should last for a month. I’ll return after that time with more. Try to keep these somewhere cold so that the liquid stays potent.”

Tobi speaks up, unsure if her response is what he wants to hear. “The ground sometimes freezes over during the nights.”

“That will do. Put these in the dirt until she needs them again.”

“When you said you knew about medicine, this was the last thing I expected.” Mihai speaks softly. He and Tobi exchange a glance—they know what the other is thinking. “We cannot thank you enough for this, sir. Would you mind sitting down with us for a moment?”

Alucard thinks about how late it is but traveling in the dead of night as never been a problem for him before. He follows them to the fireplace and seats himself.

“Do you have your own practice somewhere? A clinic, or something like it?”

“No. I wouldn’t call myself a doctor.”

“You should,” Tobi states. “People around here need one, especially someone with your knowledge and skills.”

“There was one people always kept talking about when we lived near Targoviste.”

Alucard leans forward after hearing the name of that forsaken city. “You used to live there... when did you leave?”

“Over a year ago. Long before all the... killing and dying started.”

“We never had to visit her, but a few of our friends did and sometimes we tagged along just to see what all the fuss was about. She turned out to be the best of them. Better, actually.” Mihai turns to Alucard, his eyes inquisitive yet serious—an expression even the dhampir has difficulty reading. “While I watched you help Daniela, I could have sworn I saw her again. The way you spoke, worked, and the sort of tools you used, it was like she had come back from the dead. What was her name, love?”

“Lisa, I believe. Can’t recall her last name. Did you know of her?”

A sharpness cuts through Alucard’s chest then down into his gut. This is what he feared most coming out here only because he wanted to help. He could lie, say he never knew this doctor named Lisa. His previous actions coupled with a current panicked expression across his still face betray him. “I did.”

“Did you study under her?”

No answer, but Alucard holds his tongue as Mihai raises a hand. “Not to worry, sir. No matter how you knew her, we won’t tell a soul either way. We never believed the horrid things they accused her of.”

“Even when...” Even when Dracula promised vengeance and kept that promise to the bitter, blood-soaked end.

“We always thought that what came after her burning was a sort of punishment, not from above but from below... ask me and I’ll say some of them deserved it.” Tobi refuses to waver from her comment, even when her husband turns in shock.

“You don’t mean that.”

“Course I do. Those people and their leaders were daft for staying in the first place. What sort of fool stands up to the Devil and challenges him?”

Alucard unwittingly scratches at the centre of his chest. What sort of fool indeed? Instead, he gives an obvious response. “It’s late. Your family has been through enough tonight. I should leave.”

Mihai stops him before he can take another step. “Let us give you your pay first.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Just wait here, I won’t be long—”

“I said no,” Alucard repeats with the right amount of force in his tone. Mihai and Tobi stare at him, baffled.

“You saved our daughter’s life. We only wish we could do more to repay you.”

“Make sure she takes her medicine just as I instructed until I return in a month and take care of each other. That’s all I ask of you.”

They barter some more, but Alucard refuses to change his stance. Mihai lets out a huff. “Odd as ever. Safe travels and remember we’re still in your debt.”

“Thank you, sir. And bless you.”

Much like his farewell at the market, Alucard nods courteously. His eyes linger on Tobi’s stomach for a second longer before exiting the cottage. She must be due soon.

He leaves the same way he arrived with much to think about. The looks of pure, unbridled relief and gratitude on the faces of all three family members linger in his mind. They knew Lisa, but what of others? How long have they gone without seeing a proper doctor to receive real medicine? He shouldn’t forgo the lives of innocent people only because a much larger existential threat has been eliminated. It’s not what Lisa would have done.

That voice, the one crawling and scratching about, returns as the cottage begins to shrink in the distance. You promised you would be careful. And he will.

--

Alucard is nothing if not observant. He attributes it to his natural born heightened senses—whether a blessing or curse, he hasn’t decided yet. For now however, he is grateful. It allows him to slip in and out of villages, including the one that played host to the market. He listens to people’s woes without making himself noticed; rumours, gossip, words of concern for friends and neighbours.

“The widow’s baby is sick. Refuses to eat or even cry.”

“My son can’t go outside. The chill in the air will kill him. Stays in bed all day.”

“It’s getting worse. He can barely speak without coughing.”

That’s all Alucard needs to hear. Day after day he makes his routine excursions then returns to the castle laboratory with enough work to keep his hands and thoughts busy. At night, he quickly goes from house to house, leaving an odd assortment of gifts for these people on their doorsteps. Tonics, powders, bottles filled with caplets; sometimes they find a handwritten note detailing instructions on how to take these remedies.

Others have started talking, of course. Alucard now hears the name “good Samaritan” whenever he visits these communities. Word hasn’t reached any church official, but it will. He’s certain of that. There’s some small comfort to be found in the constant reassurance that they won’t find him, not while Mihai, Tobi, and Daniela keep their promise. Only they know the truth and Alucard prefers it stay that way.

He hasn’t forgotten about them or their daughter’s plight. The stress and worry while he creates more insulin has significantly lessened now that time is on his side. Although it doesn’t stop Alucard from making a premature delivery before the month even ends. His impatience gets the better of him for two reasons: he wants to see how Daniela is faring and he needs to check on her mother’s pregnancy. His previous insistence of “not calling himself a doctor” is starting to hold less and less weight.

Alucard takes a familiar route, leisurely and unperturbed until he arrives at the family cottage, a stream of smoke still drifting from the top of their chimney. It’s not quite dark outside, but late enough for the skies to turn shades of red, orange, and gold. He barely gets in a few knocks before the door opens. A pleasant yet relieving surprise greets him; not Mihai, but the happy expression of Daniela. In the weeks since they met, she’s already gained a small amount of weight, filling out her once baggy dress, and there’s a light in her eyes that was missing before.

“Hello,” she exclaims. “Didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”

“I thought I’d pay you and your family an early visit. How have the injections been treating you?”

“Well enough. I had some trouble getting used to it, but I feel much better. And I can do it myself. Whatever you gave me worked like a miracle.”

“It’s no miracle, only medicine. I brought more, so you won’t need to worry for the next while. How is your mother?”

“The baby’s been giving her more trouble recently.”

“How so?”

“She’s a lot more tired now and keeps complaining about backaches.”

“Do they occur often?”

“They come and go all day. She’s not in any great pain, at least that’s what she keeps telling us. Would you like to come in? We’re getting supper ready, you should join us.”

“Actually, I’m only here for a short visit. I won’t inconvenience you.”

“Nonsense. Come in, it’s the least we can do after all you’ve done for us.”

“That’s very kind of you to offer, but it isn’t necess—” But Daniela doesn’t give Alucard much of an option when she starts pulling him into the cottage. All the while, he thinks about Tobi. Perhaps he spoke too soon; perhaps he should stay longer.

“Mother! Look who’s come back.”

Tobi stands by the fireplace over a large black pot, stirring a wooden spoon in what looks to be meat stew with vegetables. She stands up straight (or as straight as she can) and turns around. “Welcome!” She smiles, wiping her hands on an apron. “Have you come with more medicine? Or just to say hello?”

“Both.” Alucard replies, a little meekly. He places another bag filled with new vials off to the side.  “How are you?”

“Tired, but well. My husband’s off hunting for rabbit.”

“We already have some meat, but mother insisted he go find more.”

Tobi side-glances in Daniela’s direction. “Careful with that tone, my dear. It won’t get easier when there’s four mouths to feed instead of three.”

“You should sit down.” Without much resistance, she allows Alucard to gently guide her into a chair. Daniela tries to keep an eye on the pot and stew, but her attention is drawn elsewhere. “Your daughter tells me you’ve been experiencing terrible back pain.”

“It’s not terrible. Annoying is more like it, no worse than when the baby starts kicking.” She rubs her stomach, speaking between every breath as they grow heavier and more laboured.

“When did it begin?”

“A few days ago... it’s fine. I remember something like this before Daniela was born.” Tobi winces, sucking air through a row of gritted teeth, and Alucard feels a sting of worry. He read Lisa’s notebooks on pregnancy and childbirth but only as a precaution. These contractions that Tobi feels everyday—they’re normal during the later stages. Expected, even. Yet they are a sign of what is to come very soon.

“Rest, mother. I’ll prepare supper.”

“Have you spoken to any midwives?”

“The closest one lives in Arges—”

“And you’re in no condition to make that journey,” Daniela interrupts.

“No more worrying from you. We’ll send word to her when the baby decides for themselves.”

“The baby?” Alucard inquires.

“In the end, it’s not our decision to make. They’ll join this family when they’re good and ready to.”

The hint of a smile tugs at the corners of Alucard’s mouth. He lets Tobi rest and joins Daniela by the fireplace. Time passes, the aroma of spice of herb fills the cottage, yet there’s no sign of Mihai. Alucard listens carefully to Tobi’s breathing, arduous but steady.

Until they turn into groans, which then turn into shouts. Her hands fumble about, unsure whether she should rest them on her belly or the arms of the chair, so tight her nails might dig right into the wood. Blood drains from Daniela’s face.

“What’s wrong? What’s happening? Mama!”

“I, I don’t know, I just—” Her words are cut off by another cry of pain. “It, it hurts so much now...”

Alucard wretches himself out of a near frozen state and rushes to Tobi’s side. The immediate sight of her wet stockings coupled with faint splotches of red confirms his suspicions. She was right; newborn babes come when they’re good and ready, but most are impatient.

Arges is miles away. He’ll have to act in place of its midwife.

“Daniela, I need you to bring me a basin full of warm water and as many blankets as you can carry.”

“Is she going to be aright?” Her frantic tone betrays what little composure she’s desperately trying to hold onto.

“She and your sibling will be fine if you do exactly as I say. Now go, quickly!”

While Daniela runs off, he helps Tobi out of the chair. Before she can try walking on her own, Alucard has already scooped her up into his arms. It’s easier this way, and he has the strength to do so. He doesn’t care if it reveals the truth about himself—in this moment, he doesn’t care about anything that isn’t the safety of Tobi and her unborn child.

Alucard takes her into the bedroom, stripping off any excess clothing until there’s nothing except a simple, light underdress. Her skin feels hot, close to a fever. Daniela arrives with exactly what he asked for. “Lie down. Careful now...” He says after laying a blanket on the bed. Tobi struggles, her teeth grinding together, hand tightly grasped in Alucard’s, but she achieves this one small goal. As if by pure instinct, she spreads her sweat-drenched legs and bends them.

It’s alright. Everything will be alright. A mantra more for Alucard than anyone else. He removes his coat, gloves, and rolls up his sleeves before tying back his long hair. People give birth in their homes every day. Hands dip into the water basin. My mother must have assisted with over a hundred. I know what to do.

Tobi lets out another scream followed by a series of curses, loud enough to shred her vocal cords.

“Don’t push so fast!”

“Something’s tearing, I can feel it!”

“Nothing is tearing. You and your baby are both alright.” Daniela takes a step back, eyes watery and lower lip trembling, but she stands firmly by her mother’s side. Alucard is proud of her, of them both. “I need you to keep breathing and push when I tell you to.”

The air in the room, barely big enough for three persons, turns thick. Everything becomes sodden; wet with sweat, blood, and other fluids. All over the bed, Tobi’s legs, her dress, and Alucard’s hands. But she breathes and pushes when told to. There’s a glimpse of the baby’s head before it disappears.

“Push again. You’re doing well. Take a deep breath... and...”

This continues, push after push after push. Too many to keep count of. Daniela holds onto her mother’s hand, unsure of whose grip is closer to crushing the other. There’s the blood again—more than there should be. Yet the only thing Alucard sees is the top of the head until it vanishes for the umpteenth time. He hears crying, not the sort that would give him hope. It might be coming from Daniela or Tobi or both.

“I don’t understand...” But he does. His lowered tone does nothing to hide the panic rising up. This is unfortunately another common occurrence with pregnancies and just as dangerous for the parent as it is for the child. There is a solution—the thought of which sends Alucard’s mind and heartbeat into a frenzy. It will be worse when he has to tell Daniela and Tobi. What would Lisa say if she saw him in this state?

Calm yourself. You’ve been forced to do worse. You can take lives easy enough, but now you can save two.

He swallows hard, glancing down at his bloodstained hands. There will be more to come should he put this plan into action. “Tobi... can you still hear me?”

“Y-yes...”

“Listen to me very carefully. Something’s gone wrong, but I can make it right. I’ll need to cut open your stomach—” Shock. Horror. Angry silence from Daniela most of all. Just as Alucard expected, yet he explains further. “Right now, it’s the only option left. I promise to make it quick and painless...”

Daniela grabs his slippery wrist. “You’re not touching my mother again! You’ll kill her!”

“I won’t.” He doesn’t try to match the volume of her voice, nor does he wrench out of her grasp with more force than necessary. There’s no need for her to fear yet another thing. “You have to trust me.”

“She just needs to keep pushing!”

“Your mother has done all she can and it’s putting her life at risk.”

In the midst of their arguing, Tobi chokes out her decision. “Do it.” Tears mingle with the sweat upon her reddened cheeks. “If you have to save one of us... save my baby.”

Now you can save two. “Both of you are going to live. I swear that on my mother’s grave.”

Alucard instructs Tobi to lie back completely and for Daniela to stay by her side but not to look no matter what happens. Slipping a hand underneath her waist, he whispers something in an ancient language; dead to most Wallachians, alive and well in the Tepes castle hold. Only to help numb Tobi’s body from her abdomen to the bottoms of her feet. Lisa had her ice baths, Alucard has his father’s spells.

No more easy steps from now on. Using a sharpened nail, Alucard cuts a perfect line across the abdominal wall. A knife would have done the job just as well, but he fears what could happen if he leaves for the briefest moment. Eyes turn upwards to Tobi’s chest—still moving. No screams of pain or bloody murder. Alucard holds onto his composure, his need to be the cold spot in the room with a desperate grip as he makes another rupture along the uterus, cutting open the internal sac surrounding the baby.

The baby. There they are. One moment still inside their mother, the next in his arms, feeble limbs kicking and toothless mouth wailing. Smaller than Alucard expected, but healthy and loud.

“What is that? Is that my baby? Is my baby alright?!”

Alucard is speechless, not even able to muster a single “yes”. He cuts the umbilical cord, removes the placenta, and cleans the baby before handing them to Tobi. She holds their wriggling body against her chest, shedding tears of her own. Uttering the words “thank you god, thank you god, thank you god”.

The final step is quick. Alucard’s hands are deft at closing the uterus and abdomen (using a smear of his own blood to assist in the healing process). Still no words; he’s out of breath, out of strength both physical and mental. His shirt is ruined, and he couldn’t care less. He only stops himself from collapsing when Daniela suddenly embraces him. She buries her tear drenched face into his shoulder.

“Our saviour... you’re our saviour...”

Alucard stares at Tobi as she holds her newborn child with such tenderness. He raises a hand and places it on Daniela’s back. The other follows.

--

Mihai returns home to his wife and two children. Alucard watches him drop his bountiful game to the floor and run to Tobi, weeping over the baby. Did his own father ever weep? Did blood flow from his eyes at the sight of Lisa carrying their son for the first time? Alucard has difficulty keeping his thoughts comprehensive, stuck in a daze. It takes a moment to answer Mihai’s question of why he was forced to commit such an act on his wife.

“There are many reasons. Age, unexpected complications with the body itself. She needs to stay in bed and let the wound heal on its own.”

“What you did... for my wife and daughter... you work miracles, sir.”

Alucard lingers on that word again: miracle. The first time he argued with its use in an effort to seem humble and rational. Now, he’s too exhausted to further dispute its importance. This is not a family that uses “miracle” and “saviour” in a light manner.

“I’m sorry for screaming at you. I was a fool... I should have let you work...”

Alucard’s expression softens as he looks at Daniela. “There’s no need for apologies. You were only protecting your mother.”

Daniela wipes away another tear before it has a chance to escape her eye. After much convincing, Alucard leaves the cottage wearing a new shirt gifted by Mihai once they threw his old, blood-soaked one into the fire. They made him swear that he would visit again, not as their doctor but as their friend. It wasn’t hard for Alucard to agree.

He trudges down the path with the moon and stars lighting his way. They haven’t name the child yet; it’s a tradition within their family to name a baby at least seven days after they’ve been born. But Tobi said she liked the sound of Adrian. Alucard likes it as well. It’s a good name for someone who might hopefully grow up to do good things.

The castle is dark, illuminated by only a few sparse candelabras burning the night away. They turn the grand hall into a hazy smoke-filled chamber. Nothing has changed in his absence, just as empty and quiet as it’s always been. A strangely comforting thing to return to. Alucard’s first immediate stop is the kitchen and its pantry. He pulls out a bottle of red wine and pours himself a glass, then another right after downing it in a single gulp. It won’t do much—to him, alcohol is barely stronger than water—but temporary release is better than none at all.

Alucard doesn’t reach his bedroom. Instead he finds the nearest study and collapses onto a lush lounge chair, his body sinking into the cushions. The ceiling tiles begin to blur and mesh together the heavier his eyes become. Something tickles at his fingertips. He sees Agrippa licking his hand, waiting patiently to be picked up and placed on his chest. Like the castle, he hasn’t changed.

“Sorry for neglecting you all this time.” Without sitting up, Alucard grabs the dog and holds him close. Reverting to when he was a child, lying in bed, holding that old wolf doll as though it were his third guardian. He allows himself the luxury of sleep, deep and peaceful.

--

“He’s not in here either.” Another door closes as the repeated sound echoes down the corridor. The two travelers have searched the entire ground floor with little success. Outside, sitting at the foot of the castle steps, is a familiar canvas covered wagon that has seen much better days. There it will remain for the next few days while its owners reacquaint themselves with the very place their respective families always taught them to fear.

“Do you think he changed his mind?” Asks Sypha.

“About what?”

“About returning to his vault in Gresit.”

Trevor ponders for a moment, his face framed by the white fur of his new cloak. All that somber talk about going back to sleep, about the castle becoming his grave; the dhampir is just dramatic enough to let everything turn into a reality. He doesn’t say it out loud, but the possibility worries Trevor. He didn’t gift his childhood home for nothing.

“If he did, the castle wouldn’t be in the shape it is now.”

Sypha stares up at the vaulted ceilings and towering walls, still impressed by such an architectural marvel. Trevor is right, the structure would have fallen into ruin had Alucard not stayed. They move onto the second floor and its countless hallways hoping to have more luck in finding their strange friend.

“You think we’re lost?”

Sypha tsks loud enough for Trevor to hear. “Speakers do not get lost.”

“Right. Just like how they don’t break things.”

“I thought we already had this conversation.”

They have, but Trevor brings up the topic every so often just for a bit of fun without putting in too much effort. Their playful banter is cut short when Sypha absentmindedly opens a door and a small black object suddenly rushes past them. Trevor instinctively reaches for the Morningstar, starved for blood after weeks of hanging off his hip as mere decoration, until he realizes whatever that was poses no threat. However, the encounter leaves him no less confused.

“Was... was that a dog?”

“Shh! Keep your voice down.”

The two of them enter the room and Trevor sees why Sypha was so quick to shush him. Alucard lies passed out upon a full-length chair, breathing gently. Not unlike the first meeting between him, Trevor, and Sypha.

“I’ve never seen him out cold like this,” Trevor murmurs as they lean over him.

“Is he alright?”

“He’s fine. Just sleeping.”

Sypha continues to stare until she catches Trevor hovering the handle of his whip directly above Alucard’s forehead. “What are you doing?!” She whispers harshly.

“I’m waking him up.” His plan was to give him a careful tap on his skull, but Sypha has a much better idea in mind.

“Let him rest for a bit longer. We should make breakfast so that he has something to look forward to when he wakes.”

“Do dhampirs even eat real food? Or should we prepare him a nice banquet of pig and cow blood?”

Sypha decides to ignore Trevor’s sense of humour, even if he didn’t mean for it to sound so terrible. “Come on, you.”

She turns around and leaves, her blue robes trailing behind. Before Trevor can follow, he’s struck with a thought. Despite how he jests, he’s happy that Alucard seems to be taking care of himself. Even happier to be greeted with a few gentle snores rather than a middle finger to the face. Removing his cloak, now smelling of pine and smokewood, Trevor places it over Alucard’s body.

It seems he’ll always be there, offering dusty blankets to those he cares for.

[ceekbee]

Anger

I feel very bad for angry people, for I see them creating their own hells to live in, and they usually don't even realize it. I've seen few things in the world that deserve the kind of anger that we see on a regular basis; on the radio this morning, one of the disc jockeys was telling about taking her mother to a cancer treatment center. She parked the car close to the entrance to help her mother into the center, and as soon as she was out of the car, the person in the car behind her started laying on the horn. This person actually came up and hit the back of her car with his car-- not hard enough to do any damage, but hard enough to let them know he was angry.

I feel very sad for this man. He can't be happy with life if such a trivial thing can cause such rage in him. Inner peace? Forget it. He's probably so busy looking for excuses to be angry that he never notices the beauty of the world, the wonderful parts of life, the nice people who surround him every day. I've known people like him, and there's no convincing them that life is wonderful, because it can't be since people are such jerks. But people aren't jerks. They do jerk-like things on a regular basis--we all do--but that doesn't make us jerks.

The angry person reacts in anger and causes others to be angry, and a cycle begins. My hope is that I'm able to be a person who ends such a cycle, a person who reacts to anger with love and understanding, because the angry people need that more than anything else.

Reacting in anger is merely perpetuating these people's belief that their anger is justified, but reacting in love may get them to question whether or not their anger is justified, effective, and/or helpful to them.

We can't psychoanalyze everyone we meet. We can't say this person is angry because she's been neglected, or this one is angry because he's trying to compensate for feelings of inadequacy. We need to separate the anger from the person, the creation of God who stands before us and who deserves our love.

When I'm tempted to react angrily myself, I try to remember to ask myself this question: Am I contributing to the anger in the world, or am I contributing to the peace and love in the world? I need to contribute to the love--we all do. Love is the only power that can cause a permanent change.

Of course, we have to look at the other side of anger--the side that gets us to act when we see an injustice done to another person, the side that causes the feeling of righteous indignation that gets us moving and feeling for others. There is injustice in the world, and as Arthur Ponsoby points out below, if our lack of anger is a sign of indifference, then it's a big problem for us and for those people with whom we share the world.

But we still have to control this anger, as Aristotle points out below. Unchecked and misdirected anger is destructive, and if we're to be angry at all, we want that anger to be constructive, not destructive. Controlling our anger takes learning and practice, and we have to keep learning from our mistakes and the mistakes of others to learn how to use our anger effectively, and to know when to recognize anger that's justified, and anger that's a reflection, a symptom, of something else that's going wrong in our lives.

Anger destroys the angry person and all those around him or her. The

angry father can cause fear and terror among his children. The angry

wife and mother can manipulate with a force and subtlety that can be

felt for years. Open anger roars through human relations with a

destructive force--a firestorm. The hidden anger that burns and attacks

and manipulates can last for years. It destroys the underbrush; it twists

and poisons the ground growth. And so with us. The ferocious exterior

flame is uncontrollable except over a long period of work and time.

We must isolate our anger and allow it to burn itself out.

Edward J. Lavin

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Daily Meditations, Year One - Year Two - Year Three - Year Four

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Eugene Carman

Rhodes' slave! Selling shoes and gingham,

Flour and bacon, overalls, clothing, all day long

For fourteen hours a day for three hundred and thirteen days

for more than twenty years.

Saying "Yes'm" and "Yes, sir" and "Thank you"

A thousand times a day, and all for fifty dollars a month.

Living in this stinking room in the rattle-trap "Commercial."

And compelled to go to Sunday School, and to listen

To the Rev. Abner Peet one hundred and four times a year

For more than an hour at a time,

Because Thomas Rhodes ran the church

As well as the store and the bank.

So while I was tying my neck-tie that morning

I suddenly saw myself in the glass:

My hair all gray, my face like a sodden pie.

So I cursed and cursed: You damned old thing!

You cowardly dog! You rotten pauper!

You Rhodes' slave! Till Roger Baughman

Thought I was having a fight with someone,

And looked through the transom just in time

To see me fall on the floor in a heap

From a broken vein in my head.

Edgar Lee Masters

from Spoon River Anthology

How could I feel so miserable in the midst of such splendor? The question flashed

through me all at once, not waiting for words to express it. The answer came

more slowly: No one makes you angry. Anger, like love, is something you choose.

Stunned, I sat down in the middle of the field I'd been walking through.

I knew I needed to look within myself, let go of my anger and have a quiet talk with God.

Susan L. Taylor

No person can think clearly when his or her fists are clenched.

George Jean Nathan

Anger is a symptom, a way of cloaking and expressing feelings too awful

to experience directly--hurt, bitterness, grief and, most of all, fear.

Joan Rivers

Anger is not only inevitable, it is necessary. Its absence

means indifference, the most disastrous of all human failings.

Arthur Ponsoby

As long as anger lives, it continues to be the fruitful parent of

many unhappy children.

St. John Climacus

They are fools who cannot be angry;

but they are wise people who will not.

Proverb

anger 2

Anger in its time and place,

May assume a kind of grace.

It must have some reason in it,

And not last beyond a minute.

If to further lengths it go,

It does into malice grow.

'Tis the difference we can see

'Twixt the serpent and the bee.

If the latter you provoke,

It inflicts a hasty stroke,

Put you to some little pain,

But it never stings again.

Close in tufted bush or brake

Lurks the poison-swelled snake

Nursing up his cherished wrath;

In the purlieus* of his path,

In the cold, or in the warm,

Mean him good, or mean him harm,

Wheresoever fate may bring you

The vile snake will always sting you.

Charles and Mary Lamb

*place where one goes often

Anger makes you smaller, while forgiveness

forces you to grow beyond what you were.

Cherie Carter-Scott

Ruby stepped toward him. "Edward," she said softly. It was

the first time she had called him by name. "Learn this from me.

Holding anger is a poison. It eats you from inside. We think that

hating is a weapon that attacks the person who harmed us. But

hatred is a curved blade. And the harm we do, we do to ourselves.

"Forgive, Edward. Forgive. Do you remember the lightness

you felt when you first arrived in heaven?"

Eddie did. Where is my pain?

"That's because no one is born with anger. And when we die,

the soul is freed of it. But now, here, in order to move on, you must

understand why you felt what you did, and why you no longer need to feel it."

She touched his hand.

"You need to forgive your father."

Mitch Albom

The Five People You Meet in Heaven

It is wise to direct your anger towards problems--not people;

to focus your energies on answers--not excuses.

William Arthur Ward

If you get angry easily, it may be because the seed of anger in

you has been watered frequently over many years, and unfortunately

you have allowed it or even encouraged it to be watered.

Thich Nhat Hanh

- From Living Life Fully

[jazztripp]

Belated Birthday Gift!

For the stinkiest peach ever @momosweetpeach, this was supposed to be a birthday present but time had gotten away from me! But I hope you like it anyways!

Rated: T (sorry no smutt this time around. Just took rotting fluff) Harpy!Max AU Their relationship is already established in this one. Also not beta’d so sorry for errors.

Spring was probably Wilsons favorite season. Sure it was a bit wet, but there was something wonderful about being able to stroll around and not have to worry about food or dying from the harsh elements of the other seasons.

Not that spring didn’t come without it’s own challenges, but they were minute compared to the blistering heat of summer and the terrible cold of winter.

Although Wilson was probably alone in this feeling.

Maxwell hated spring. His perpetual scowl was even more severe come the wet and rainy season, and while Wilson understood his plight, he also found it really funny.

Because it wasn’t exactly the season that Maxwell hated; it was all of the rain. The poor bird-man didn’t do well when he was wet. His feathers came with a certain degree of waterproofing, but he was no duck. Water collected in his soft downish feathers eventually and clung to his too-thin body, making him cold and weighing him down enough to where flying was difficult.

Today, thankfully, was one of the rare dry days of spring and both men were taking full advantage. Wilson busied himself with harvesting the bountiful resources that littered the constant while Maxwell replenished their food stores with the small animals he managed to catch.

Wilsons pack was only half full despite the day coming to its end, and that was okay. They had plenty of resources at the moment to sustain them, so it was no emergency rush to gather, so Wilson was taking his time. The soft cool breezes tickled his hair and lifted his spirits, and he simply couldn’t pass up a little time to relax.

All around him he could hear Maxwell terrorizing the local fauna and it made Wilson smile. Maxwell rarely had fun, but it seemed like he was enjoying himself.

Wilson called to him, knowing full well that the bird-man would be able to hear him.

“Hey Maxy! Find anything good?”

A harsh fluttering came to him ears a few moments later as Maxwell took a perch on a nearby boulder. Weirdo loved being up higher than Wilson even if it was only by a few feet.

“Hmm a few things. Frogs mostly,” despite his obvious good mood, Maxwell still spoke as if everything was making his life unnecessarily difficult. Everything was either a sigh or a grumble.

“Well it’s better than living off of old corn,” Wilson supplied. Last winter they had a metric fuckton of the stuff and Wilson was ready to never look at corn ever again.

“You can say that again,” Maxwell said with a sneer. “Next winter we are stocking up on more preservable things, yes?”

The lanky man hopped down from his perch and folded in his wings as he took in stride along Wilson. Surprised, but genuinely happy, Wilson took up step right beside him and case him a warm smile.

“Definitely. I think I’ve figured out how to pickle things properly. By the end of spring I think I’ll finally be able to get us some pickled eggplant. How does that sound?”

Maxwell humphed, but his back feathers puffed up in anticipation.

“Anything is better than corn.”

At that Wilson laughed. He had no idea why Maxwell could never voice his opinions in a positive manner. It was an odd tick that used to bother Wilson, but now he found it endearing how obnoxiously stubborn the other man was. It wasn’t that hard to just say, ‘Yeah I like that idea’ and move on with the conversation. Everything had to be a negative or a play on words. You had to look into everything the man said. It should have been taxing, but it really wasn’t.

Maxwell was easier to read than most people realized.

On impulse, Wilson ran his fingers over the soft feathers on Maxwells upper arms. Back in the day this would have earned him a wingslap to the face, but now Maxwell didn’t seem to mind. His fingers came away with a couple feathers, and he held them close to his face to examine them.

“You’re moulting again?” Wilson asked as he ran his fingertip over the soft edges.

“Moulting still,” Maxwell corrected. “It comes and goes until it’s all gone come summer. It doesn’t all just fall off in one fell swoop, you know.”

It was a funny image to picture. Just sudden poof, naked Maxwell. Bald and furious.

“What’s so funny, Higgsbury?”

“Nothing, nothing,” he assured through a few chuckles. Maxwell didn’t seem convinced, but he let it drop.

They walked in comfortable silence for a while, just enjoying the company. They basically lived together but it was actually very rare to spend this much time together like this. Wilson had his farms and his science projects to attend to, and Maxwell was a very lonesome fellow and often preferred to keep to himself.

Maxwell would go out and hunt for food or perch up high to keep an eye on Wilson while he worked their modest crop field.

They were usually within earshot of each other, but always doing their own thing, so this was nice.

“You need to shave,” Maxwell said rudely ruining the silence.

Wilson snorted and took Maxwells impressive clawed hand into his and played with the talons.

“It still gets cold at night Maxwell. Unlike you I don’t come with a layer of insulation, and since you refuse to sleep with me I have to make due.”

Maxwell eyed him with barely masked irritation.

“You know I hate the tent, Higgsbury. Damn thing is worse than a cage.”

“Thats a vast overreaction, and you know it. Besides you know if I sleep outside I’ll probably die of exposure so it seems we are at an impasse.”

It was an old argument, so Wilson just gave his automatic response. He was more interested in Maxwells impressive claws. He always wondered what exactly they were made of. Probability pointed to them being made of keratin just like all other forms of claws and nails, but Maxwells were just so thick it was easy to speculate if they were made of something else. Perfectly curved and black as charcoal, they were nearly as impressive as the ones of Maxwells feet.

Now those were a sight. Using his weight and impact to crush small prey, Wilson has watched Maxwell crush and shred through small animals like they were nothing on more than one occasion.

Once, during a particularly desperate time right after a harsh winter, Wilson helped Maxwell take down a Beefalo. They had been starving. The cold kept rabbits and other foodstuffs at bay for far too long into fall, and once Wilsons ribs started to show Maxwell had had enough. It had been his idea, and while Wilson was adverted to putting his lover in danger he went along with it because he was literally starving.

He’d never seen Maxwell act so vicious. Shrieking and clawing at the beast back while Wilson tried his best to spear something vital, it was a hard fought victory.

As they ate Wilson admitted that the display of violence was probably the most attractive thing he had ever witnessed.

Maxwell had blushed and gave a rare smile full of pride.

“Where did you go, Higgsbury?”

Maxwells voice snapped him out of the fond memory and the steamy night that had followed.

“Huh?” he looked up, finding a soft look in Maxwells eyes.

“Are my claws that interesting?” He teased, taking his hand back and hooking said claws in Wilsons messy hair. He gave an attempt to comb it, careful to not let the sharp tips prick him.

“Heh, all of you is interesting, Maxwell. You know I enjoy studying you.”

Maxwell hummed, gently picking a leaf out of Wilsons sideburn.

“Yes I’m very well aware. You’ve been poking and prodding me since we started spending more time together. I still don’t understand your fascination.”

Wilson laughed, the soft picking becoming ticklish and he pushed away those tactile claws.

“Have you considered the possibility that you, Maxwell, are in fact very interesting?” Wilson teased and pushed their shoulders in close so that he could feel the warmth of the other man through his feathers. They had stopped walking at some point.

Maxwell scoffed but this close he couldn’t hide the soft color that came to his cheeks.

“You only find me interesting because there is nothing better around. Remember that albino beefalo? I didn’t see you for months.”

Wilsons eyes misted.

“It…was so cute Maxwell. Could you blame me?….Poor Snowball…”

Maxwell scoffed again, oblivious to the other mans distress and started walking again toward the treeline back toward camp.

“It was a sticking beast. Get a hold of yourself Higgsbury,” Maxwell called back, stretching his wings up and back in an attempt to look bigger.

Maxwell always insisted that the gesture was simply to stretch but Wilson knew better. Maxwell always took every opportunity to show off in Wilson presence, and Wilson always took full advantage.

It was always so nice to see the powerful flight muscles that rippled just below the feathers of Maxwells back.

As they came back into their camp, Wilson was still distraught over the murder of his poor beloved beefalo. Damn hounds got to it. White was a very stand out color.

Go figure.

But he snapped out of it when he head an indignant squawk from up ahead.

“You little bastards!”

“Maxwell?” he called, concerned and broke out into a jog.

As he broke the treeline he gasped at the state of the place. Littered about the camp was the remains of his tent, the science machine lay broken into dozens of pieces, and a few of the chests had been ripped open and their contents scattered about.

Gripping his hair with both hands, Wilson willed himself not to cry as his poor creations lay broken and useless.

Pigmen normally weren’t a problem to he and Maxwell in the slightest, but a wandering few had decided that their camp was a good raiding ground. By the sounds of the terribly squealing in the woods ahead, they were already regretting it.

The urge to help was high, Maxwell wasn’t invincible after all, but the devastation of seeing all of this seasons hard work destroyed was affecting Wilson more than usual.

Even as Maxwell came out of the woods, flushed and furious, Wilson was still staring at the carnage. Ugh this would take all season to fix! And they were finally doing so well too!

“I slaughtered two, but the third got away. Hopefully he’ll tell his friends,” Maxwell said proudly, still baring his sharp teeth in his irritation.

It ebbed a bit, though, when Wilson didn’t answer.

“Higgsbury?” Maxwell approached, eyeing his lover as if he were weary of an outburst. Ridiculous seeing as Wilson would never take his aggression or feelings out on his lover.

“They…God they broke everything! Those…those…bumbling assholes!” Wilson growled and kicked a shattered piece of wood. It went satisfyingly far.

“And it’s almost night! Ugh where am I gonna sleep! I’m sure the furs are all filthy from their feet too,” Wilson all but whined as he gestured to the skeletal remains of his poor tent, and to the rumpled furs that once lined the inside.

Maxwell hummed, his ire dying down completely in the presence of his mates distress.

“We’ll fix the tent tomorrow,” he started as he approached the tattered tent and retrieved the blankets and furs. “These are relatively undamaged,” he called to Wilson, and he sighed in relief at that.

“Well…guess I’m outside with you tonight huh? I’ll….start cleaning up I guess.”

Wilson was mad, oh so mad! But there was nothing to be done now. Maybe they needed to invest in some walls in the future. He knew that Maxwell would love having high walls to sit on, and maybe a complicated gate would deter pigs until the stupid animals got the hint that the camp with the temperamental harpy was not to be messed with.

Regardless it took the rest of the evening to even get the camp somewhat back into shape and take stock of everything that needed to be replaced. It wasn’t as much as he initially realized, but it was still enough to set them back a few weeks. Thankfully the lock that Wilson had made to go around their fridge was too complicated for the pigmen. Their food was thankfully still intact. (And replenished even further by the poor pigs that Maxwell had ripped to pieces for their blunder.)

As the sun began to set, Wilson got to work making a good fire in case the night became chilly. Judging by the temperature now, it was safe to say that it was going to get quite cold. Wilson contemplated getting out some of his winter gear for the night but Maxwell assured him that there would be no need.

“Here. It’s not your precious tent but it will do for the night, yes?” Maxwell said as he gestured to what had been keeping him busy while Wilson tidied up.

Wilson hadn't actually noticed what the bird-man had been up to, but as he looked up it became immediately obvious what he was looking at.

He let out a little breathless laugh, oddly touched as he approached the obvious nest-shaped blankets stacked all cozy under a tree. Close enough to the fire for warmth, but also sheltered in case it started to rain in the night.

“For me?” Wilson asked and Maxwell nodded. Of course it was for him, but he still loved the confirmation regardless.

“No need to look so elated…its just a nest…” Maxwell mumbled, obviously not sure how to take Wilsons delight.

Wilson didn’t care, though, and took the gesture for what it was. Maxwell was taking care of him in the best way he knew how, and that was all that mattered. He took off his boots and took a seat in the surprisingly spacious nest and beamed up at the bird-man.

“Thank you. I love it,” he exclaimed and watched as the feathers on Maxwells shoulders gently fluffed.

“I’m….glad,” Maxwell cleared his throat and shifted from foot to foot.

“Are you gonna join me?” Wilson asked after a moment. “You made this plenty big for two.”

It must have been something that the older man was waiting for because he wasted no time hopping into the nest right alongside Wilson. His enthusiasm made Wilson laugh, and after a moment or two of shuffling Wilson was comfortably laying down with his head resting lightly on Maxwells thigh. In that moment the bony man was suddenly the best pillow in the constant.

“If I hadnt known better….I’d think that you planned this,” Wilson teased, his earlier bad mood completely gone as their warmth mingled together.

Beside him Maxwell snorted.

“Of course not…though I cannot deny the appeal of you occupying a nest of my own creation. Deeply satisfying.”

Curious, Wilson turned his head to look at Maxwell. The other man was looking at him with an expression that did indeed look satisfied. It made Wilson smile.

“Well I’m happy you made it for me…You do alot for me and I don’t know if I even express how truly thankful it makes me.”

Maxwell shifted to free his hand so that he could go back to picking at Wilsons hair as he spoke.

“You say it plenty…I’d do it even if you weren’t thankful, Higgsbury.”

Wilson laughed, leaning into the touch.

“I bet you would complain a hell of alot more, though.”

Maxwell smirked, the nighttime reflection of his eyes catching the firelight and making them glint.

“Yes. Yes I would. Now go to sleep. We’ll set about fixing everything in the morning when it’s cool enough to work. I’ll even help you,” Maxwell added as if it were an afterthought, making Wilson snort.

“Ah the Great and Powerful Maxwell has offered my help. I’m forever in your thanks.”

Whether he had actually caught onto the sarcasm or not was a mystery because Maxwell neither looked affronted or amused.

Instead he replied with a calm, “You’re welcome,” and got comfortable as he continued to muss the scientists hair. It was easy to fall asleep like that, and for once he didn’t mind sleeping out under the stars. Maybe he should invest in some kind of…open air tent? Something like that. He could really get used to sharing a nest with Maxwell every night, and he was pretty sure that Maxwell would feel the same if he could nail the design.

He already had a few ideas in his head as the gently petting put him straight to sleep.

[my-love-peterp]

A Part of Your World pt. 2

Word Count: 1505

Fic Summary: So this is a work based lightly on the movie First Daughter. It’s a Reader Insert sorta. If you’ve never seen that movie, you should absolutely watch it if you have the opportunity. Peter Parker/Stark!Daughter fic. Rating may change depending on if I’m feeling the smut route (I probably will). Expect updates once a week (as soon as I figure out what day would be best to do it on. They may be more frequent here at the beginning just because the story is really flowing right now. Thanks!

Chapter Summary: I don’t really have one because I’m impatient and I’m taking my partner to see Hozier in a few hours. But Peter does exist in this chapter. Surprise.

Warnings: none! maybe language, I’m honestly not sure.

If you would like to be tagged, reblog/comment/message me and I’ll start tagging you in future chapters. 

“I’m too sober for this,” (Y/N) said, plopping down on to the horrifically springy, undressed mattress that was on top of a wooden bed frame. Her bed frame now, she firmly reminded herself.

“You don’t even drink,” Morgan responded, a lot less winded and emotionally drained than (Y/N). She’d always admired her sister’s ability to remain unruffled in the midst of tense or new situations. And yeah, maybe it hadn’t been the best idea to ditch the elevator and take the stairs to her new home for the year, all the way up on the sixteenth floor. But she couldn’t stand the feeling of brushing shoulders with what felt like hundreds of people who stared and lifted their phones to take pictures, or to see one girl turn to someone else and hit them to get their attention and not so subtly pointing to her and Morgan when they had it.

“Yeah, well, maybe I should start,” (Y/N) answered noncommittally. She flopped down on to my future roommate’s bed right across the room. She hadn’t taken the time to read their profile as she’d been emailed it. She wanted to go into this experience blind. And yeah, with her father’s resources and connections, she could’ve known every single aspect of the mystery roommate’s life if she’d wanted to. But (Y/N) wanted to go in blind. Be a normal kid for once. Especially with Mom doing what she was right now.

Suddenly, the door burst open behind them. Lugging in a mini fridge and two bags, Happy grunted and panted as he nudged his way inside. Morgan sat as if to help him but as soon as he saw her move to sit up he barked, “No, no stay where you’re at! I’ve got this, it’s nothing.” His red face indicated he was definitely lying. But nothing came between Happy and his pride.

“It’s not every day,” he said, pausing to pant after setting the fridge down on the countertops, “that your goddaughter goes off to college.”

“Yeah you’re right Hap, it’s not every day that a girl is escorted to her dorm room by her family’s Forehead of Security. Or has to avoid reporters pressing their faces against their lobby windows. Or has the seclude herself until her mother and father and their Secret Service protection detail can join them, since no one was currently on ‘daughters watch’,” (Y/N) made air quotes with her fingers, grumbling about the debacle that had occurred earlier today.

“I don’t trust him,” Morgan remarked from her couch as (y/n) scrambled to get everything she could possibly fathom needing in her dorm room packed into her father’s latest invention. It was basically a play on Dum-E, but with storage that the robot packed her things into itself, to maximize storage efficiency.

“Well, of course, you don’t trust him,” (Y/N) replied, “He’s on the Bachelor. That’s like, a parade of red flags right there.

“(Y/N),” Morgan scoffed, scandalized, her head popping up and over the back of the blue cushions, “it’s the Bachelorette, not the Bachelor, we’ve been over this. Plus, we personally know someone on this season, you should be watching!”

“I’ve seen Pietro make enough stupid decisions in my life to know that this doesn’t rank in the top three, and as such, I will not be acknowledging it.”

The sun had just barely begun to trickle in through the windows, and the watch she’d made herself showed that it was just past 6:15. Why she had procrastinated packing last minute, she couldn’t tell you. Maybe it just felt like the end of something fragile. Or whatever. Her watch caught the first true rays of sunlight and bounced refracted light straight into her eyes. (Y/N) winced but paused to admire her creation. The main metal straddled a fine line between her father’s favored cherry red, and the more toned down rose gold that was all the rage just a few year’s ago. Accented along the outside of the watch frame were little webbings of ice blue, too intentional to be called marbling but too non-descript to look like a spider’s web. Every other accent on the watch was a pearly white.

All of a sudden, Morgan’s phone started blaring the most awful noises she’d ever heard, causing (Y/N) to jump what felt like five feet in the air. She could hear Happy’s exasperated voice shouting into his receiver even halfway across the room. It seemed that she and Morgan were late for fittings and makeup for an impromptu morning press junket.

Those were happening more and more frequently these days, ever since her mother resigned as CEO of her father’s company, relegating it back to him, which he handled begrudgingly, and running for the US Senate. That was ten years ago. Now, her mother, Pepper, was the current frontrunner for the presidency. As if her life wasn’t high-profile enough as one of two daughter’s of the most powerful couple in the world probably.

It seemed that, due to Pepper’s skillful negotiation tactics, dozens of political prisoners were being released back to the United States today. And that meant the mother of all press conferences. On the day that she was moving into her new home for the next several months.

(Y/N) and Morgan were then harried about to get ready by FRIDAY, and AI program her father had invented long ago, in the form of the original JARVIS. Unfortunately, his coding and learned personality were lost when an earthquake struck southern California and shook the Malibu mansion off its cliffside seat and into the murky depths below. Okay, that may be a bit dramatic, but sue her, something needed to spice up the story of life in perpetually sunny SoCal.

Within thirty minutes she and her sister were presentable and ready to head down to where Happy was waiting in the car.

And to make a long story short, (Y/N) had managed to not only nearly knock down the lectern on the stage where her mother would be speaking shortly, but in the fall, she twisted her ankle all the way around. Nothing was broken, campaign medical staff had assured her, but any dummy would know that that footage was right then being broadcast on every phone, StarkTech or otherwise, throughout the nation. So in reality, her ego was bruised and battered more than her ankle was.

What got to her the most, though, was her constant characterization as cold and unfriendly. Of course, the reputation was probably well deserved, as she’d spat in a reporter’s face when she was just fifteen years old. But over time, she’d learned how to stop engaging, how to tamp down her temper. She’d learned that, when her mother was that age, she was quite the spitfire herself. Aunt Peggy would always tattle on her.

So it stung to know that she’d made progress in order to become a more ‘press-perfect’ daughter, just for them to turn around and make jokes about the stick up her ass or that she’d been replaced by an android of her father’s own creation.

And now here they were, hours later, as her mom had to make one last campaign stop before taking the presidential shoes off and trading them for her mom sneakers.

“...I’ll just uh… go get more of the bags from the car then,” Happy stammered, quickly excusing himself from the room.

Silence, comfortable and relaxing silence, filled the space between (Y/N) and Morgan. Of course, you could still hear the bustle of the New York streets below, but her floor seemed to be deserted.

(Y/N)’s eyelids began to droop, growing heavy after such an early morning, but she was abruptly shaken awake by a crashing sound outside her door, that only got louder as the door swung open.

In tumbled a brunette boy with wavy-ish hair and a toothy grin-turned-grimace. His hands were full of what looked like salvaged electronic parts. “Sorry about the noise,” he gasped out between breaths, “I didn’t want to make more than one trip and it seems I overestimated my grip.

Behind him wheeled in a huge suitcase. A few steps after that and an older lady stepped inside. His mother, (Y/N) assumed. Standing up from her spot on her unmade bed, she approached the woman, asking if she needed a hand. She was swiftly turned down and told to relax but (Y/N) didn’t miss the flare of recognition in the woman’s eyes as she put two and two together.

(Y/N) quickly spun around as the boy dumped all of the metal pieces and wires on to his desk before turning to face her and sticking out his hand. “Nice to meet you! I’m Peter. Peter Parker. What’s your name?”

(Y/N) grinned back. She hadn’t had to introduce herself in a long time. But something nagged her from the back of her mind. Peter Parker sounded awfully familiar.

[maxxpoweruniverse-blog]

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[whichstiel]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Supernatural Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester Characters: Dean Winchester, Castiel (Supernatural) Additional Tags: Spn 14x01, supernatural episode coda, episode coda, Episode: s14e01 Stranger in a Strange Land, musings on hope and humanity, demon dean flashback Series: Part 1 of Season 14 Codas Summary:

An episode coda for season 14, episode 1.

Dean and Castiel reflect on hope and humanity in the shadow of Michael’s possession. 

(Also included in its entirety below because it’s pretty short. But please tell me what you think on AO3 or Tumblr! Comments are always appreciated.)

They were whispering about him at the other end of the bar. Dean sipped his whiskey, savoring the burn against his tongue, and eavesdropped over the hum of twanging guitar playing on the bar’s speakers.

“How long do we have to stick around this dump of a town? I haven't killed anything in at least a week.”

The second demon’s voice was lower, as though she was afraid of being overheard. “Until Crowley says it’s time to move on.”

Dean rolled his eyes. Brent and Laura. They had been flexing their muscles all over town, painting a big target on the motley King’s court staying at the motel attached to the bar. Crowley really ought to do something about them. Kill ‘em, or send them away.

Brent snorted. “You mean, until Winchester says it’s time to move on. I’ll admit, I was on board with the whole Hell’s Knight thing when I thought we’d be rampaging the fucking countryside with, you know biblical flaming fucking swords. But so far we’ve just watched him and Crowley make…make fucking cow eyes at each other.”

Laura grumbled a disgusted reply.

“Did you know,” Brent lowered his voice and glanced around the bar. Dean prevented himself from reacting, staring at his whiskey glass like it was the only object that mattered in the world. “They set up another date? A date.” He spat out the word like it was a curse.

“No,” Laura sounded scandalized. “That’s so…so…civilized. I can’t believe we’re sticking around town so Winchester can have a…a fivesome.” She called across the room to the bartender for another drink and after she took a long swallow of beer she said, “Knight of Hell, my ass.”

“Fucking weak.”

Dean took another sip of whiskey. He let the glass linger on his lips, enjoying the fire against his skin. Dean heard a lot of imprecations against his character lately. That was a consequence of falling in with demons. If he acted against every insult he'd have perpetually bloody knuckles and a whole hell of a lot less fun.

The truth was, they weren’t sticking around for the triplets, though they were very fun. Instead, he and Crowley were sticking around because the bar’s nice. It had a good sound system and decent booze, and there was plenty of tail to chase in this transitory place. Crowley had suggested moving on, but Dean had stopped him. “When was the last time you ever had a chance to relax, man?” And Crowley had taken one good look at him and backed right down. That’s true. Never. Might as well.

It was a good situation, and Dean didn’t intend to screw it up any more than he had to. He’d just sit quietly, finish his drink, and maybe bamboozle the bachelorette party camped out in the corner out of some hard earned money. Or sleep with the bride-to-be. The night was young.

But of course that wasn’t the end of it. Of course there was more.

An elbow bumped into Dean a little while later, deliberate and sharp against his back. “Oops,” Brent said at his ear. “Sorry. ”

Dean turned in his seat slowly and let his gaze flick along Brent fleetingly, like he was a fly. He turned away again, only Brent cleared his throat and said, “How does it feel?”

Dean swiveled to Brent and raised his brows consideringly. “Excuse me?”

“How does it feel,” Brent said with a sneer, “to suck so miserably at being a demon? I swear to god, you’re the most white bread demon I ever—”

Dean smiled lazily and grabbed the demon’s arm. His fingers cut into Brent hard enough to elicit a wince and Dean’s smile grew into a grin. “You got a problem with me, Brent?” Fear flicked across Brent’s expression, but it quickly turned into disgust. Dean let him pluck his fingers from his arm and drop his hand away. “You’re drunk. Which is a real fucking accomplishment for a demon, so kudos to you.” Dean lifted his glass in a mock salute.

“Yeah? Well you’re a shitty demon. Shitty and boring and…” A knowing expression crossed his face. “Bet it was all the angel dick you were getting.” He thrust his hips once and hissed, “Oh yeah, that sweet fire of the lord! Diluting everything that should make you great. Making you a waste of…of everyone’s time. You’re not a real demon.”

The Mark hissed against Dean’s forearm. It bubbled like liquor in his blood and he found himself baring his teeth. He let go of his glass. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he warned.

Brent snorted. “Please, everyone knows. Crowley’s talked about it. Hell, everybody talks about it. I don’t know why we bother when it’s obvious you’ve been compro— urk”

A moment later, Dean pulled the knife out of the demon’s ribs, winking as the blade scraped against bone. He swiped Brent’s blood casually against his a paper bar napkin and tucked it back in the sheath hidden in his pocket. “Talk about Cas again,” he said pleasantly, balling up the bloodied paper and dropping it next to his glass on the bar top, “and I’ll turn you inside out.”

He fucking had limits, after all.

The thing about Michael, Dean learned quickly, was that he was not a people person. Er…angel. And Dean didn’t mean that the archangel was unfriendly, although he was without a doubt a complete dick. No, it was that Michael simply didn’t…get people. He didn’t understand their motivations, or their complexities. He would ask Dean, early on, about the proper things to say to a human to sway them to his side. Like there was a manual every human was born with, and he need only ask for a copy. He’d asked about the angel Anael as though he and Dean were two colleagues, still working side by side. He’d asked before he’d tortured. Before he’d taken.

He’d asked because Michael truly was baffled. That fundamental lack of understanding would be how they would win, Dean often thought. He stewed over the problem in the prison Michael had built for him in his own mind.

“You think in black and white,” he muttered as he leaned over the lock in his hands. By concentrating very hard, he was able to manifest a version of the lock Michael placed over his latest trap for Dean. With a physical representation in hand, it felt easier now to pick at it and worry at it like a mouse nibbling away at a wall.

Michael had ranted to him early on about “fallen things,” which Dean had come to realize encompassed all of creation - humans, demons, surviving angels - you name it. For Michael, there was a high state and a low state, and nothing in between. “You don’t understand want or need or…or love. Just words.” He pushed the pin in and heard a click. “Just weapons.”

Encouraged, he kept on with it. “We have dreams. Desires. Hopes. We care about each other. We want fucking peace, you asshole.” Another tumbler clicked and Dean smiled. “And I’m not gonna let you ruin that.”

He’d thought for a while that Michael would try to batter down the walls of Heaven and take dominion of the place. The archangel enjoyed worship, thrived on it even. Michael had been bitterly disappointed by the impressions of angels in Dean’s mind, however. He’d been even more disappointed by his meeting with Anael, the supposed rebel fighting against Heaven.

If there was any rebel against Heaven slumming it on Earth, it was Cas, though. But Dean kept Castiel wrapped up firmly in his mind. Ever since Michael had taken over, pushed Dean down, Dean had dragged as much as he could from his memories of his loved ones down with him and pushed it into the dark corners of his mind.

Dean chewed on his lip as he worked at the lock. There were a lot of dark corners in his mind. Corners filled with pain that kept Michael at bay, as effective as insect repellant. It was almost laughably easy to bury his heart away from Michael.

Dean remembered the last time he saw Cas, after Michael had entered his body. He’d been filled with power, with fire so heady it had taken all of his control to hold fast to the reigns and not slip away like a paper boat in a flood.

Castiel had stared at him, jaw clenched, and anguish painted across the lines of his face. Dean had noticed that first and then he’d seen him through Michael’s eyes. Power streamed off of Castiel like holy fire, constant and blue-hot. His wings hung from his shoulders in tattered pieces, mere fragments of what they once were before Metatron’s spell shredded them.

Dean had never seen any sight more beautiful. Castiel - glowing with his own glory. Castiel - broken once, twice, over and over again. Broken, but never giving up. Never. And he still looked at Dean like he believed in him.

Dean remembered how he had failed in Hell, so many years ago. How he’d cracked under torture, given up. Castiel had saved him then and the memory of him would save him now.

He would push back against the walls, the locks, the pain that burned him with every second of contact with Michael’s grace. Dean worked at the lock.

He vowed to fight, because he couldn’t stand the idea of backing down again. Of giving up. And most of all, he couldn’t stand the thought of letting Castiel down. Again.

The thing was, he felt like Cas was with him. Not just the memory of him, but him. There, and steady beside him. Inside him. Dean shook his head. It didn’t make sense, but he was tired of trying to sort things into real and fake in his mind, of all places. He wrapped himself around Cas, or Cas wrapped himself around Dean.

The lock clicked open and Dean gathered himself, pulled his heart around him like armor. He picked up the lock and watched it grow long and sharp in his hand. “Heeeeeere’s Johnny,” Dean shouted and felt Michael flinch like a tiger in the wild at the call of something wilder.

Leaping from his cell, Dean began to slice.

Castiel cleaned the blood from his face grimly with a sandpaper textured washrag. He wished somebody had told him just how rough he looked before he’d gone to speak to Jack. Telling Jack he would be okay without his grace to back him up would have been a shade better delivered if Castiel hadn’t looked like he’d just received the beating of a lifetime.

He sighed and scrubbed the blood from his skin, rinsing the rag under running water and watching the red blood swirl in the basin, then down the drain.

Even as a human, he’d never felt more mortal. He supposed that happened to everyone. The more people you cared about, the more you realized how tenuous everyone’s hold on life and happiness was. It was hard to keep up, some days, without feeling hopelessness crystalizing into something sharp and impenetrable.

The cut in his lip was beginning to heal, but Castiel still hissed involuntarily as he scrubbed at it. It stung.

The cut stung and Castiel was…he was…

Castiel pressed his hands to the sides of the sink and leaned against it for a moment. The porcelain was very cold. He watched the bloody water droplets run towards the drain. He stood there for a breath. Two. Three. Then he lifted his head again, resolutely.

Dean was out there.

Castiel finished washing his face. He wet one hand and combed it through his hair, pushing out the blood and laying it flat again. Dean was out there, burning within Michael. He would feel it if Dean were gone, wouldn’t he?

He would.

In his millennia of life, Castiel had watched many things die, and many more things cease to be entirely. He should be inured to it. But he wasn’t. And he wouldn’t let himself become that way. He’d keep the faith that Dean survived, that he cared to survive.

Castiel finished brushing his hand through his hair and let his grace shudder through his shattered wings, flicking the last of the fight’s grime from him. He was a fallen thing, more human than angel these days. But maybe that was a good thing. Maybe, that human side of him helped him to believe, when everything seemed stacked against him.

He was fallen, but he was not low.

In the end, Castiel believed Dean would be saved.

And so, he thought, flicking off the light in his room and heading back towards the library, he will.

[mechanicalriddle]

Did you get worldbuidling for star yet? If not, please!!

i did not lets do this babey!!!

B A S I C S

full name: Broken Star Doomed to Fall (real name is [REDACTED] [EXPUNGED])

gender: cis lad

sexuality: bi! bi… bi?? i think. i’m not even sure he knows. But I Think Bi Most Likely

pronouns: he/him

O T H E R S

family: Star’s parents were, respectively, a tailor and a shoemaker. he also had two brothers (27 & 17) and a sister (24) (for reference Star himself is 21!)

birthplace: Darkmist Isle, close to Onyx, maybe Karon’s Point? anyway he was born in a shadowland and, despite not being strongly ghost-blooded like many of the Skullfolk, was surprisingly resilient to its effects. it is a perpetually dreary place, however; gets almost no sun and barely anything grows there.

job: before his death he worked as a junior homicide detective in Onyx. after his death he worked committing homicides (for the government!) oh the turntables

phobias: not fond of birds, scared of enclosed spaces, and uh… paralytically terrified of falling, for obvious reasons. (heights don’t really get him anymore but they used to just after the incident)

guilty pleasures: jamming his stupid nose into absolutely everything. he just cannot withhold himself from trying to learn everyone’s secrets

M O R A L S

morality alignment?: Somewhere between LG and LN but he could easily rocket over to the Chaotic end of the spectrum given the right circumstances

sins - lust/greed/gluttony/sloth/pride/envy/wrath

virtues - chastity/charity/diligence/humility/kindness/patience/justice

T H I S - O R - T H A T

introvert/extrovert: introvert; his social contact-o-meter peters out fairly quickly (brelateable)

organized/disorganized: he keeps his work stuff meticulously organized out of absolute necessity. The rest of his life is a little more lax, but he’ll tidy up once he reaches a threshold messiness.

close minded/open-minded: being a product of the weird backwards society that raised him he’s a touch on the close-minded side. once he experiences mainland creation a little more this will likely be subject to change.

calm/anxious: he’s more anxious than he thinks, but is for the most part of the ‘come what may & we’ll deal when we get there’ school of thought.

disagreeable/agreeable: agreeable! a touch conflict avoidant… Most of the time.

cautious/reckless: cautious people dont hurl themselves off cliffsides generally i feel like. whee loose cannon!!

patient/impatient: impatient wiggly little idiot

outspoken/reserved: he might act sheltered at first but he honestly opens up pretty quickly if you’re nice to him like, once

leader/follower: by virtue of the city-state he hails from Star never developed the sort of confidence it takes to lead. He obeys his deathlord to the letter out of a combination of reverence and, unbeknownst to himself, fear… 

empathetic/unemphatic: empathetic; he doesn’t always know what to say but definitely feels very strongly and passionately when the people he’s close to are hurting

optimistic/pessimistic: optimist!! he’s confident that everything will work out okay… right? right???

traditional/modern: definitely a modern sort of guy, tries to keep himself open to new ideas

hard-working/lazy: hard-working if he’s interested in the work, otherwise he would much rather goof off or curl up and take a nap.

R E L A T I O N S H I P S

otp: dunno yet

ot3: dunno yet!!

brotp: The shitheads, also Hours probably hopefully i want them to be friends…..

notp: star x anyone in the sanctuary and/or story as of yet. if we’re gonna Find Him Somebody To Love it’s gonna have to be someone completely new!