#like there's one violent scene at the end and then that's that. and all the allusions to her mysterious past are just . taken at face value

[dollgxtz]

Shattered Birdcage

Word Count: 9.5k

Summary: Sylus loses control due to the Frenzy Enhancer and you don't find the activater in time...causing him to become sexually aggressive and desperate to claim you for himself :3

Tags: praedator!Sylus x fem!reader, predator x prey, noncon, intense choking, rough sex, forced orgasm, degradation, biting, blood, injury, cunnilingus, creampie, threats, mentions of breeding, nicknames like little bird, near death experience (no one actually dies don't worry!!), fluffy ending to soften the blow :33

Taglist: @magpie-the-goblin-girl @sxremmie @lem-hhn @silverbrain @sizzlingtigerkitten @msslytherin00 @letharue @yu-irene @poptrim @monster-effer @ditsynddotsy @size0forhollywood @its-regretti @queenofstresss @reiheis @valentinared

AN: Hiii guys!! Are we enjoying the new banner? I AM! This is literally a dream come true for me. So I decided to write a fic based on it with a little twist hehe. Please heed the warnings guys, this is a very intense fic and I tagged it accordingly. This is legitmately straight up noncon, not cnc. If you asked for a tag and weren't tagged its cause I couldn't find your age on your profile anywhere, sorry! Enjoy!

You exhale slowly, fingers brushing over the edges of the movie tickets still tucked in your pocket before letting them go. The paper crinkles softly, a fragile reminder of something almost normal. But it doesn’t belong to you anymore. Maybe it never did.

Then, the world shatters.

The fire alarm shrills, a piercing, agonizing wail that erupts through the hospital like a banshee’s scream. Panic spreads instantly, as sudden and violent as a tidal wave crashing over an unprepared shore.

The chaos begins.

Screams.

Heavy, frantic footsteps thunder down the halls. The sterile walls of the hospital, once cold and quiet, now tremble with the desperate energy of fear. The mechanical beep of heart monitors, the faint hum of fluorescent lights—all of it drowns beneath the raw, unfiltered sound of survival.

Somewhere outside your room, a woman’s voice splinters the air.

"Fire! Help!"

Her cry is swallowed by the deafening roar of the alarm, by the clatter of overturned medical carts, by the stampede of bodies flooding the halls. A shadow streaks past the glass window of your door, her silhouette vanishing into the growing plumes of smoke curling along the ceiling.

Then—movement behind you. You turn, locking eyes with Sylus. He doesn’t flinch.

He leans casually against the wall, utterly unbothered by the pandemonium unraveling around you. Smoke licks at the edges of his leather top, but he remains still, red eyes gleaming with something sharp, knowing, entertained. The ghost of a smirk plays at his lips.

"They’re right on schedule," he murmurs, his voice smooth, unaffected, like this is nothing more than a carefully executed performance.

He extends his hand toward you, as if inviting you into a dance.

Your pulse kicks up, but you don’t hesitate. You take his hand.

His fingers curl around yours—strong, steady, warm despite the growing heat. With a single pull, you propel yourself forward, slipping past the threshold of the hospital room and into the chaos beyond.

Smoke greets you first, thick and curling, its acrid tendrils slithering into your lungs like a living thing. The air is already changing—heat warping it, bending it, making it heavier. The moment you inhale, your throat burns. You clamp your sleeve over your mouth, but the effort is futile. The stench of burning plastic and antiseptic chemicals invades your senses, clawing at your eyes, your nose, your lungs.

Outside, the scene is worse.

Patients in hospital gowns stumble through the smoke, their movements disjointed, frantic. Some clutch at IV stands like lifelines, others trip over their own feet, disoriented by the blaring alarms and the thick, suffocating haze.

Doctors and nurses shout over the chaos, their voices lost in the hurricane of fear. Someone grabs your arm—a patient, her face streaked with sweat and panic, begging for help—but you pull away. You don’t have time.

You aren’t here to run.

You and Sylus move against the current, pushing past the flood of bodies surging toward the exits. The sheer force of them is overwhelming, a sea of desperation crashing around you, dragging you under. A body collides with yours their fingers tangling in your sleeve—but you break free, heart hammering as you surge toward the stairwell.

"We’ll lead them to the rooftop!" you yell, the words raw in your throat.

Sylus doesn’t answer, but he’s right beside you, his presence like a gravitational pull you can’t escape.

The stairwell looms ahead, doors thrown open as black smoke pours inside, bleeding into the emergency lights like a living shadow. The second you reach it, you don’t hesitate.

You take the stairs two, three at a time, Sylus still close behind you.

The heat is worse here. It rises from below, clawing at your legs, your back, the nape of your neck. Your breath comes in ragged bursts, your lungs searing, aching, screaming for fresh air. Each step feels like an eternity, each turn of the stairwell winding tighter, suffocating.

But you don’t stop.

Then—light.

A final shove against the rooftop doors, and you break through.

The moment you stumble outside, the temperature drops violently.

The cold slaps you across the face, stealing the breath from your lungs, shocking your overheated body into momentary stillness. The wind howls, slicing through the thick sweat on your skin, tangling through your hair, but it does nothing to mute the screams below.

And these screams are different.

Not panicked. Not desperate.

Dying.

A sickening weight drops into your stomach. Sylus steps up beside you, his stance tense, rigid, watchful. He doesn’t need to say it. You already know.

Ever’s assassins are here.

Your skin prickles as you scan the rooftop, the smoke too thick, the night too quiet. You can feel it in your bones—something is waiting.

Then—a shadow moves.

Then another.

Then—

Gunfire.

The first shot splits the air like a knife through silk.

You react instinctively, twisting your body out of the way as the bullet slams into the concrete near your foot, sending a sharp spray of dust and shattered stone into the air.

Another shot.

Sylus shoves you sideways, his movements lightning-fast, the force of it throwing you just out of the bullet’s path. Another impact—a bullet embedding itself into the rooftop behind where you had been standing only seconds before.

A crack split the air, followed by another. Sparks erupted as bullets ricocheted off metal pipes and rooftop vents, spraying embers into the night. Instinct kicked in before thought—you dropped low, rolling to the side just as a round zipped past your ear, embedding itself in the wall behind you.

Sylus moved with effortless precision, dodging fire as if it were choreographed. His jacket billowed as he twisted, reaching for his blade. A flash of steel. A wet gurgle. One assassin crumpled before he even realized he was dead.

You pivoted on your heel, raising your own weapon. A pull of the trigger—a sharp crack through the air. The man before you barely had time to react before the bullet found its mark. His body jerked violently, blood misting into the wind before he collapsed.

Another shot. Another fall.

They kept coming.

More shadows emerged from the darkness, gunfire tearing through the night in an unrelenting onslaught. You both wove through them like ghosts, striking fast, striking first. Your heart pounded as you ducked beneath a swing, countering with a sharp jab to the ribs, twisting your opponent’s wrist until his own weapon turned against him. A single shot. A final breath.

Sylus barely broke a sweat, his movements fluid, brutal, decisive. He drove his blade into one assassin’s chest, twisting just enough to make it agonizing. The man gasped, a short, choked sound before Sylus wrenched the blade free and let him drop.

"Pathetic," he muttered, stepping over the body without a second glance.

More gunfire. More bodies dropping.

Silence.

The last assassin twitched once, then stilled, his fingers curling in the pool of blood spreading beneath him. The night was thick with the scent of gunpowder, metal, and death.

And then—sirens.

A chorus of wailing alarms grew louder in the distance, flashing red and blue bleeding into the night sky.

The battlefield of bodies lay still, the chaos settled into an eerie quiet. The stench of gunpowder and iron filled your lungs, coating your throat with the acrid tang of death. The last spent cartridges hit the concrete, rolling in slow, uneven circles before finally resting among the carnage. Smoke lingered in the cold night air, twisting in delicate tendrils around the lifeless figures strewn across the rooftop.

You pushed out a slow breath, feeling the adrenaline still burning in your veins. Your fingers flexed around the grip of your weapon before you finally holstered it. The police would be here soon, their sirens growing louder in the distance, but they weren’t your concern. These bodies—the nameless, faceless pawns of Ever—would be cleaned up. Their presence erased. Their deaths categorized as classified in some sealed document, buried beneath bureaucratic nonsense.

"Sylus, we're clear! Let's move!" your voice came out sharper than you intended, urgency overtaking you.

He didn’t respond right away.

He was standing unnervingly still, his usual cocky demeanor replaced with something unreadable. His expression was neutral, but there was an intensity in his eyes that hadn’t been there before, a glint of something dark that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. His movements were slow as he wiped away the smear of blood on his cheek, his fingers leaving faint streaks of red against his skin. The way he stood—too relaxed, too quiet—set off alarm bells in your mind, though you couldn’t yet pinpoint why.

Something in his expression made your gut clench. His usual amused arrogance was absent, replaced with something darker. His pupils were slightly blown, the faintest edge of something feral lurking in his gaze. The air around him felt charged, electric. Wrong.

Then a sound.

A wet, strangled cough.

You both turned.

The last assassin—one you had assumed was already dead—was still moving. Barely. He lay twisted on the ground, one arm stretched toward you, his fingers twitching, curled like claws. His chest rose and fell unevenly, each breath rattling, wet, his lungs failing him.

But his lips—coated in blood—were curled into a grotesque smile.

"Even though..." he wheezed, a broken chuckle rattling out from somewhere deep in his ruined throat. "We can't kill you or him..." He spat a thick glob of blood onto the ground, his grin stretching wider, his yellowed teeth bared like a rabid dog. "Both of you...can rot in hell!"

His fingers twitched, curling weakly around something small, something you hadn’t noticed before. Then, in one sharp motion, his fist clenched, and a sudden crack rang out. Glass shattered, the sharp snap almost lost in the cool air, but the moment you heard it, your stomach dropped. A dark, viscous liquid seeped between his fingers, mingling with the blood pooling on the rooftop floor.

Then you caught the scent.

It was faint at first, nearly masked by the coppery stench of death, but the moment it hit the back of your throat, your entire body locked up in realization. The chemical tang was sharp, bitter, something that curled into your lungs like acid. It was distinct. Familiar.

Your body reacted before your brain fully processed the danger.

"No—!"

Your pulse thundered in your skull.

The Frenzy Enhancer.

A biochemical compound designed for one thing: triggering an uncontrollable transformation in Praedators. The LCBI had confiscated hundreds of these vials from underground labs, tearing them away from illegal deals before they could be sold to the highest bidder. But no matter how much of it was taken off the streets, more always surfaced. It was unpredictable. Uncontrollable.

It worked fast—too fast.

You turned, heart pounding in your chest. Sylus had gone rigid, his muscles locking as though every nerve in his body had seized up at once. His breathing was deep, too deep, pulling in the scent like his body was craving it against his will. His head tilted slightly, nostrils flaring, a shudder running through him from head to toe.

A low, guttural growl rumbled from his chest, barely human.

Your blood turned to ice.

His pupils dilated until the irises nearly vanished, red pools swallowing the color in his gaze. His lips parted slightly, sharp, elongated canines catching the dim rooftop lights. He was salivating. A slick sheen of moisture gathered along his lower lip, his body trembling with the effort to hold himself together.

But he was losing the battle.

The Frenzy Enhancer wasn’t just a stimulant—it was a detonator. It bypassed control, restraint, morality. It didn’t just enhance what he was—it unchained it.

And right now, it was unraveling him.

"Sylus," you said carefully, your voice firm but measured. He twitched at the sound of his name, his head snapping toward you with a sharp, unnatural movement. His muscles trembled as if barely keeping himself together, but his gaze was locked onto you now—not as a comrade.

As prey.

You had seen this before as an Enforcer, watched it unfold in others who had been exposed to the drug. The Frenzy Enhancer didn’t just bring out what they were—it unchained them. It severed the link between logic and instinct, driving them into a state of raw, uncontrolled bloodlust. But this wasn’t just any Praedator—it was Sylus. He was already dangerously close to the edge even on a normal day, always teetering between control and destruction. Now, with the drug coursing through his system, you weren't sure how much time you had before he lost himself completely.

You had to move.

Reaching forward, you grabbed his arm, fingers locking tight around his wrist. His skin was hot, too hot. His entire body was trembling with need, his breath shuddering against his clenched teeth. The growl rumbling in his chest vibrated beneath your palm, every muscle in his arm wound taut like a spring waiting to snap.

"Come on," you gritted out, pulling him forward with force. He resisted, his stance firm, as though something inside him was battling whether to follow or attack. Your pulse thrummed in your throat.

Then he staggered.

It was slight, barely a misstep, but you used it. Yanking him forward, you dragged him across the rooftop, forcing his unsteady body toward the stairwell. His breath hitched in a ragged snarl, his movements twitchy, erratic, but he followed.

For now.

Each step was a battle. He stumbled against you, his balance skewed, his instincts fighting him at every turn. By the time you both reached the underground corridors of NightStrix HQ, his breathing had become ragged, his body burning up from the inside out. His restraint was slipping fast.

You shoved open the heavy steel door, dragging him inside. Deep within the base, hidden away from the rest of the world, the reinforced cage ready to hold the beast that was about to be unleashed.

Sylus grunted against you, his breath coming in hot, ragged bursts as you dragged you both into the containment cage. His body was burning up, his muscles twitching violently under your grip, every fiber of him trembling with the overwhelming need to break free. Each second that passed was a countdown to catastrophe. The Frenzy was about to take full hold, and if you didn’t restrain him now, you might not get another chance.

You fumbled with the heavy iron chains, fingers slick with sweat as you worked to loop one around his thrashing limbs. The muzzle. You needed to get the muzzle on first. Your heart pounded as you grabbed it from the steel hooks on the wall, forcing it over his mouth while he snarled, his body lurching violently against you.

"Sylus, stop—!"

He thrashed hard, nearly knocking you to the floor. His strength was unnatural, monstrous, and it was only getting worse. With a final shove, you managed to secure the muzzle around his face, locking the metal straps tightly at the back of his head. But before you could reach for the second chain, he bucked with terrifying force, sending you stumbling backward. You barely had time to clasp the restraint around one of his legs before you were forced to scramble out of the cage.

The second you slammed the heavy door shut, he lunged.

The impact rattled through the metal bars as his shoulder slammed into them, the force sending vibrations into the floor beneath you. You jumped, heart hammering in your ribs, your breath coming too fast. He slid down slightly, panting, his chest rising and falling in heavy, uneven gasps.

Then, without warning, he laughed.

A dark, guttural chuckle, low and mocking, twisted through the air like poison. His pupils were blown slightly wide now, black swallowing the color of his irises as he tilted his head toward you. Even through the muzzle, his teeth gleamed, sharp and lethal.

"Won’t you help me?" he rasped, his voice thick with something twisted—half-growl, half-seduction.

You froze.

He was still partially unrestrained. That single remaining chain wasn’t enough—if the Frenzy fully took hold, he could snap it in seconds. If you waited too long, he would be too far gone.

You had to finish restraining him now.

Swallowing the tight lump in your throat, you slowly stepped forward into the cage. Your pulse roared in your ears, your body screaming at you to run, but you forced your limbs to obey. You kept your eyes on him, watching every twitch of his muscles, every flicker of movement. You knelt, reaching for the second chain, moving with deliberate slowness so you wouldn’t startle him.

"I’m not going to watch you turn into a monster, but I—"

You never got to finish.

Sylus lunged.

A blur of motion—heat, strength, raw power.

You barely had time to react before white-hot pain exploded in your neck.

A strangled scream tore from your throat as his teeth sank into your flesh, piercing deep, his jaws locking down like a predator making its first kill. Agony shot through your nerves, the sharp burn of torn skin flooding your senses. Your vision whited out for a second, pain so intense it nearly stole your breath.

Then instinct took over.

You snarled, swinging your fist up hard, your knuckles cracking against his cheekbone with enough force to send his head snapping sideways. The impact jarred his teeth free, a sharp burst of pain ripping through you as he tore away from your skin. Blood dripped from the wound, warm and wet, seeping between your fingers as you clutched your neck in blind panic.

For a moment, all you could do was breathe through the pain.

The air was thick with the scent of your own blood, sharp and metallic, mixing with the sweat and heat that clung to you both. Your hands trembled as you pulled them away from the wound, your fingers smeared crimson. The realization sent a sickening chill through you.

He had bitten you.

Not just attacked. Bitten.

Your gaze shot back up to him.

Sylus was licking his lips.

He ran his tongue slowly over the blood staining his mouth, eyes fluttering shut for a brief second as though savoring it. Then his pupils snapped back open, razor-sharp hunger gleaming in them.

"You taste delicious." His voice was thick, dripping with need, his words slurred with the edges of something inhuman. His breath came in heavy, fevered bursts, chest rising and falling as his restraint frayed further.

A shudder ran through his body, muscles twitching beneath his skin. His fingers flexed, nails digging into the concrete floor as his entire frame shook with the need to consume more.

"Come...just a little more..." he purred, voice dropping to something low and lethal.

Then he lunged again.

You dodge just in time, barely avoiding the brutal force of his lunge. The heat of his breath scorches the space between you as he snarls, his entire body moving like a coiled beast just barely restrained by human skin. The instant he gets too close, you strike—your fist colliding with his cheekbone in a sharp, jarring impact that sends a jolt of pain radiating up your arm. The force of the hit knocks his head to the side, his body twisting under the sudden blow, but even as he stumbles, something in your gut tells you it isn’t enough.

Your heart pounds wildly, your breath coming in uneven gasps as you prepare yourself for whatever comes next. But Sylus doesn’t fall. He doesn’t even cry out. Instead, he slowly turns back to face you, a sluggish, almost lazy motion, as if he’s savoring the sting of your hit. And then—he smiles.

“Oh…I like when my prey puts up a fight,” he purrs, his voice slithering through the air like something alive. His eyes gleam with raw, unhinged hunger, pupils swallowing what little color remains. The way he tilts his head, the way his lips curl over the metal of his muzzle—it sends a sickening chill down your spine.

The Frenzy has him now. Completely.

You swallow hard, trying to suppress the shudder threatening to wrack your frame. Every inch of your body is screaming at you to run, but you plant your feet firm against the cold concrete, refusing to let fear consume you. If you let him see weakness, if you let him smell it, you’ll lose control of the situation entirely.

"Sylus! Stop it!" you shout, willing your voice to be strong. "Please, I know you're in there somewhere! I just need to—"

He lunges again.

The movement is blindingly fast. One second he's still and the next, he’s twisting, lunging toward you with a violent, predatory force. You barely manage to throw yourself to the side, feeling the rush of displaced air as he snaps at the space where your throat had just been. You seize the opening, grabbing hold of the second restraint with trembling hands and slamming it onto his other wrist. The sharp clank of metal follows as his chains yank him back, keeping him from reaching you—but only barely.

Your pulse slams against your ribs. If you don’t finish this now, he will get free.

His body writhes violently in front of you, hot with fever, drenched in sweat, trembling with animalistic hunger. He’s caught. Fully restrained now, arms suspended in place, unable to do anything but snarl and thrash.

Your arms shake as you stumble backward, breath ragged. You barely register your own hands drifting to your neck, fingers pressing against the torn skin where his teeth had sunk in only moments ago. The wound is deep, hot, raw, but you won’t die from it. Your body is immune to a Praedator’s venom—it’s one of the only reasons you’re even still alive right now. But that doesn’t stop the sick wave of nausea that rolls through you as your fingertips come away stained with more blood.

Sylus laughs.

The sound is low, rough, and dangerously amused.

"You scared?" he murmurs, voice still ragged with the aftershocks of his transformation, his breath coming in heavy, uneven bursts. His eyes flicker over you, roaming your body from head to toe, slow and deliberate, as if memorizing every tiny tremor in your stance.

Your stomach tightens. You don’t answer.

His gaze lingers at your neck, at the place where his teeth had torn you open. His lips part slightly behind the muzzle, and his tongue flicks out, running along the bloodied edge of his mouth as if tasting the remnants of you still clinging to his skin. His chest rises and falls heavily, as if trying to restrain himself, but there’s something else lurking behind his eyes. You watch as his eyes roam up and down your body, seemingly lost in thought. He's thinking about something.

Something dark.

"Your idea of help is heartwarming," he muses as he staggers towards you a bit, his voice softer now, mocking, but no less dangerous.

You force yourself to hold his gaze, even as your breathing refuses to steady. Even as something deep in your gut tells you that Sylus isn’t as trapped as he looks.

Because despite the chains, despite the restraints keeping you apart, he’s still in control.

And he knows it.

"When you approach your prey, you must ensure your own safety first. You taught me this, Sylus."

Your voice is calm, controlled, but the pain radiating from your neck betrays the lie. Each breath you take feels like a blade dragging against raw flesh, a sharp pulse of heat throbbing beneath your skin. You try to ignore it, pushing past the discomfort, pushing past the rising tide of fear that threatens to anchor itself in your chest. There’s no time to waste. You need to find the activator—now. It’s buried somewhere in his body, a trigger designed to override the Frenzy and pull him back from the brink. If you don’t locate it soon, he’ll break free, and there will be no reining him in after that.

Sylus lets out a low scoff, but there’s no real amusement behind it. His breathing is heavy, uneven, his chest rising and falling in quick bursts as though he’s barely holding himself together. Sweat beads at his temple, strands of hair clinging to his skin, and for a fleeting moment, you wonder if there’s any part of him left fighting from within, if the Sylus you know is still buried somewhere beneath all that raw, seething hunger.

"Prey?" he murmurs, rolling the word slowly across his tongue like he’s savoring the taste of it. His voice is hoarse, thick with something not quite human, something that sends an instinctual shiver down your spine.

You don’t answer. You can’t. The way he said that definitely indicated that he is not the prey here.

Instead, you move carefully, methodically, circling behind him. His arms are still suspended above his head, iron restraints locking him in place, but you know better than to let yourself feel safe. Chains mean nothing to him. They’re a hindrance at best, a mere delay in what will happen if you fail. Even now, his muscles flex, the sharp ripple of movement beneath his skin a silent warning of what he’s capable of. The heat coming off him is unnatural, feverish, almost suffocating.

You steel yourself, steadying your breath as you press your fingers lightly against his back. Your touch is slow, deliberate, barely there as you search for the small, embedded activator. It should be beneath the skin, nestled somewhere between the shifting planes of muscle. But finding it means keeping your composure, means moving carefully enough that you don’t trigger a reaction.

Your fingers glide along the ridges of his spine, trailing lower, feeling for anything out of place. Every shift of your hand feels like balancing on a razor’s edge. Sylus flinches under your touch, his body tensing hard before he exhales, a low, guttural sound vibrating through his chest. You feel it under your fingertips, the tremor of restraint, of struggle.

A bead of sweat slips down your temple. Nothing. No scar tissue, no ridge of foreign anything beneath the surface that you can find.

“It’s not here…” you murmur under your breath, your stomach twisting as unease settles deep inside you.

Sylus lets out another breath, but this time, there’s something different about it. A chuckle—slow, deliberate, curling like smoke in the thick air between you.

"Do you think I’m putty in your hands?" he asks, his voice low, teasing, laced with something dangerous.

The sound sends a flicker of unease racing up your spine. He’s getting antsy. The patience he had been holding onto—if he had any at all—is unraveling quickly. His muscles are shifting beneath his skin again, his fingers twitching, testing the strength of his restraints. You don’t need to see his face to know he’s smiling.

Your heart stutters. You need to hurry.

Just as you reach toward his ribs, he jerks violently.

A metallic snap rips through the air.

One of the restraints—one of the goddamn chains—breaks free.

Your breath catches in your throat, eyes snapping up just as Sylus rolls his newly freed wrist, fingers flexing as if he’s testing how much control he has left. Slowly, his head tilts toward you, his eyes burning like fire in the dim lighting.

The smile he gives you is chilling.

You don’t think. You react.

With a burst of adrenaline, you tackle him, shoving him hard enough that it sends you both tumbling to the ground. A low, reverberating growl rumbles through him, his chest vibrating beneath your hands as his body tenses against yours.

The struggle between you and Sylus is a mess of tangled limbs and desperation, your bodies locked in a frantic battle against the cold, unforgiving floor. Every shift of his body beneath yours is like wrestling with something barely restrained, a predator on the verge of breaking free from its chains. Heat radiates off his skin, far too intense, far too unnatural, as if his entire body is burning from the inside out. The feverish warmth seeps into your own skin, making it harder to focus, harder to breathe.

Your hands move over his chest, urgent, searching, pressing against the hard muscle beneath you in a frantic attempt to find the activator. It has to be here somewhere—it has to be. Your fingers skim the ridges of his abdomen, feeling for anything out of place, a small foreign lump beneath his skin, a sign that the override switch is still there. But the longer you search, the more panic digs its claws into your ribs.

Your wound throbs, a dull and persistent ache pulsing from your neck, sending sharp spikes of pain through your senses with every movement. The smell of blood—your blood—is thick in the air, mingling with the scent of sweat and something deeper, something primal that radiates from Sylus like a caged animal ready to tear through steel.

"Tell me—" You swallow hard, ignoring the dryness in your throat, trying to suppress the fear that’s creeping into your voice. "Is the activator here?"

Sylus doesn't answer immediately. His breath is coming heavy, uneven, his chest rising and falling in sharp, controlled bursts beneath you. Then, slowly, he grins.

The sight of it sends a ripple of unease down your spine.

"Don’t…" he growls, his voice low and guttural, slipping between clenched teeth. His body tenses beneath you, coiled muscle flexing, veins prominent beneath the sweat-slicked skin of his arms. His hands twitch rhythmically, fingers curling like claws ready to rip you to shreds.

"Don’t press it."

You ignore him.

You have to.

You shift, dragging your hands lower, pressing over his ribs, smoothing your fingers down the hard planes of his stomach, searching for any change in texture, any break in the muscle that could indicate the activator. Your fingertips glide over his skin, past the deep ridges of his abdomen, dipping lower—

A sharp, ragged exhale.

Sylus’s entire body jerks beneath you, his spine arching suddenly, pressing into you before falling back against the ground. His breath stutters, his hands clenching into fists as a sound rumbles deep in his chest—low, guttural, something between a moan and a growl.

Your movements falter for the briefest second.

Did you find it? Did you hurt him?

Your heart pounds violently against your ribs. Your hands remain pressed against him, frozen mid-motion, fingers still splayed across the hard muscle of his lower abdomen. You can feel the way his body shudders, tense and coiled, every fiber of him locked in place, the warmth of his skin searing against your palms.

You don’t know if the reaction is pain or something else, and the uncertainty sends unease coiling in your stomach.

Sylus exhales another uneven breath, his chest vibrating beneath you. His head tilts slightly, red eyes flickering open, dilated again and dark, and he looks straight at you. Not through you, not past you—at you.

The grin he gives you is slow, deliberate.

"That-," he murmurs, voice edged with something dark, something lustful. His lips curl at the corners, his teeth flashing between parted lips as his gaze flickers lower, trailing over the places where your hands are still pressed against him. "That feels...good".

Your breath caught in your throat as the realization hit you like a freight train barreling down the tracks. Your eyes widened as you lowered your head and took in the unmistakable bulge of his erection, straining against the confines of his pants, a tangible proof of the pleasure you were unwittingly providing.

This isn’t pain.

The second he senses your moment of shock, Sylus strikes.

With terrifying ease, he yanks you upward, your feet leaving the ground for a brief, weightless second before he drives you downward. The world tilts violently, your stomach dropping as you’re thrown forward, your body twisting midair before—

Impact.

The breath is knocked from your lungs as you hit the cold, unforgiving floor, your stomach smacking against the hard surface with enough force to send a sharp shockwave through your ribs. Your arms instinctively splay out, palms slamming against the ground to steady yourself, but the weight that follows keeps you from moving.

Sylus presses down against you, his entire body covering yours, his hands locking around your wrists before pinning them flat against the floor beside your head. His hips press firmly into yours, locking you in place, trapping you beneath him.

Panic seizes your chest.

You try to twist away, to jerk free, but his weight is unmovable, pressing down hard enough that every shift only grinds you further against the floor. The heat of his body seeps into your back, feverish and all-consuming, the ridges of his toned chest molding against your spine.

You thrash, breath coming hard and fast, struggling against his grip, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t budge. Doesn’t even react—except for the slow, deep inhale that shudders through his chest.

Then, he breathes against your skin.

"You smell like fear," he murmurs, voice low and silken, curling around your ear like smoke.

Your entire body locks up.

His lips are too close.

The warmth of his breath ghosts along the side of your face, his nose grazing the edge of your jaw before dipping lower, hovering over the sensitive skin of your throat. Your pulse races, hammering so violently beneath your skin that you know he feels it.

His grip tightens.

"And something...sweet," he muses, dragging the words out slowly, tasting them like something decadent.

Your struggles escalate, knowing exactly where this is going.

"Sylus! Stop! No!"

Your fingers claw against the floor, legs kicking, desperate to throw him off, but Sylus doesn’t move an inch. If anything, his hold only grows firmer, heavier, more absolute. The pressure of his body against yours makes it impossible to move, to breathe properly, to think.

Then—he lowers his head.

The brush of his lips against your ear is featherlight, teasing. A sharp contrast to the overwhelming, inescapable strength of his grip.

And then—his teeth sink in.

A sharp, precise nip to the outer shell of your ear, quick and fleeting, followed immediately by the slow, deliberate glide of his tongue. He slides all the way down to your neck, lapping up the still dripping blood from your wound. He alternates between licking and nipping, as if feeding himself and claiming you all at once.

You flinch violently, a shudder ripping through your limbs as heat explodes beneath your skin. Your breath catches, fingers digging into the cold floor as a rush of pure, primal panic flares through your nerves.

Sylus hums. A deep, satisfied sound.

"Something very sweet," he repeats, his voice edged with amusement, hunger, something else entirely. His fingers flex against your wrists, nails pressing into your skin—not enough to break, but enough to remind you of the power imbalance.

"Makes me want to devour you whole."

A violent shiver wracks through you, your entire body locking up in terror.

Move. Move. MOVE.

Desperation surges through you like wildfire. You snap your leg back, aiming a blind, vicious kick toward his leg, his thigh—anything that will make him falter, make him let go—

But he’s faster.

Before you can even make contact, he moves. His weight shifts, his grip flexes, and suddenly—you’re being crushed, pressed even harder into the ground.

Your breath chokes in your throat as his body presses flush against yours, one of his hands releasing your wrist only to grip your hip, pinning you down even harder. His fingers dig in, securing his hold, ensuring you have nowhere to go.

"Nice try," he murmurs, voice dipping into something thick and sultry, rich with amusement. The warmth of his breath trails lower, sweeping along the side of your bloodied throat, down to the nape of your neck.

A slow, wicked grin spreads across his lips, and you feel it—feel his smirk against your skin, feel the way he’s drinking in every panicked breath, every tremor, every racing heartbeat.

"You should know better," he murmurs, his voice a low, teasing growl. "Prey that struggles only makes the hunt more exciting."

His fingers flex against your hip, nails pressing in just enough to send a sharp, prickling sting through your nerves.

"Why the fighting? You started this," Sylus taunts, a dark chuckle rumbling from his chest. Tears prick at your eyes, threatening to spill over as the harsh sound of ripping fabric echoes ominously in the confined space. Your skirt! You cry out, trying to lunge forward, to escape, but his grip is relentless, fingers suddenly tightening around your throat with a firm command.

"Stop. Moving." His growl is a sharp command in your ear, his weight pressing down on you, pinning you to the ground with an unyielding force. The air is forced from your lungs in a rush as he yanks the remnants of your skirt away, tossing it aside carelessly. The room's cool air brushes against the exposed skin of your legs, and you shiver, fear and vulnerability intertwining as you plead with him.

"Sylus...this isn't you. Please—" Your words are abruptly silenced as he tears your underwear away, his actions speaking louder than any words could. The chill against your bare skin draws a sob from your lips, a desperate sound swallowed by the room's oppressive silence.

He's going to take you right here on the cage floor. Claim you. And there's nothing you can do. This isn't Sylus you know anymore.

"My my...this was what you were hiding underneath that skirt?" he growls, a feral edge to his voice. He leans forward, trailing his tongue along your back, the sensation a disconcerting mix of heat and cold that leaves you trembling beneath him.

"Please...snap out of it! Don't do this...!" you scream, your voice raw and desperate as you squirm helplessly beneath him. Your pleas are met with a soft, almost soothing "Shhh..." as if he's trying to calm you, but the sharp sound of his zipper coming undone is a jarring counterpoint, a grim reminder that he's too far gone.

This is it, you think, swallowed by a tide of helplessness. It could be worse...right? A gasp escapes your lips as you feel something large, hot and throbbing press against the middle of your ass. Sylus moans, a deep, primal sound that reverberates through you, sending shockwaves of dread and involuntary ache coursing through your veins. He spits, the wet warmth landing on your skin, slicking the path as he rubs his cock between your cheeks, each movement deliberate and unhurried.

"You looked divine in that uniform when we met again," he murmurs, his voice a silken thread of temptation and threat. "Would it be awful of me to say that I've been wanting to tear you apart with my cock ever since I saw you again?" His words are accompanied by a deep chuckle, a sound that seems to vibrate through your bones.

You squeeze your eyes shut, fighting against the warm, wet sensation that overwhelms your senses. No...this isn't the real him, you remind yourself, clinging to the hope that somewhere beneath the Frenzy Enhancer's influence, the true Sylus still exists. He's still in there, right? The question echoes in your mind, a desperate mantra as you hold onto the sliver of hope that the man you know will resurface, that this nightmare will end.

The moment of hope you had was shattered in an instant as you felt a sharp, piercing pain between your folds as he grips the skin of your ass, a large intrusion attempting to force its way inside you. You screamed, your voice raw with agony, as you tried to pry his hands away, your nails digging into his skin. "It hurts! Stop, please!" you begged, your pleas desperate and frantic.

Sylus grunted and moaned, his body a contradiction of pleasure and annoyance as he struggled to push his cock deeper into your tight folds, his tip breaching your entrance only to retreat, the pain searing and hot. "Hmm..." he growled, his voice a mix of frustration and desire.

You shook, your body trembling from the pain, your lower half throbbing, the intrusion gone but the ache still spreading. Suddenly, your hips were gripped and your lower half was raised up, your ass raised in the air, your hands bracing against the floor, your body now positioned for his taking.

"You just need a little...preparation," Sylus whispered, his voice low and dark, belying the wicked intent behind his words. Before you could protest, his hot tongue was sliding down your cunt, his skilled mouth working to prepare you, his touch both electrifying and unwittingly arousing, a wicked precision that left you trembling, your body betraying your mind's resistance.

"Mghn! S-stop...please, Sylus!" you pleaded, your voice hoarse and desperate, your fingers clawing at the floor as you tried to escape the pleasure-pain he was inflicting. But his death grip on your hips was unyielding, holding you firmly in place, his tongue a relentless force, licking and slurping at your folds with primal hunger. Like a beast that hadn't eaten in weeks.

If he doesn't stop soon you'll definitely-

"Those cute noises you make drive me wild" Sylus growled, his voice a low, guttural sound. You can't see his face, but you can feel his eyes roaming up and down your now soaked cunt, no doubt wishing he was deep inside you right now. "Reminds me of the sound of a rabbit makes just before its eaten."

You gasp and shiver at the depraved sentence that leaves his mouth before something wet and long enters your hole, making you cry out. Sylus's tongue, hot and insistent, buried itself deep within you, his mouth working in a rhythm that sent waves of pleasure through your core.

Sylus's grunts and moans escalated into a primal chorus as he delved deeper into your folds, his tongue a relentless force, his hands digging into your hips with increasing urgency. Your body was a tempest of sensations—pain, pleasure, and ecstasy—a melting pot of conflicting desires. You tried to hold on, to keep yourself from succumbing, but your body had a mind of its own, and you went limp, surrendering to the pleasure he was delivering.

"Mghn!" you cried out, your body shaking, your hands gripping the floor as you fought against the overwhelming pleasure. "Don't cum... don't cum..." you pleaded, your voice hoarse, your lips bitten to stifle the moans that threatened to escape.

But Sylus found that sweet spot, that spongy part inside you, and twisted his tongue, sending you over the edge. You bit down harder on your lip, trying to muffle the sounds of your climax, but it was no use. The pleasure was too much, and you came undone, your body shaking, your cries echoing in the cold cage as waves of pleasure washed over you.

Sylus lapped up your essence, his tongue working feverishly, his grunts and moans a testament to his own pleasure as he reveled in the taste of your orgasm, his primal satisfaction evident as he continued to lap up your juices like a thirsty dog.

"This taste..." Sylus groaned, his voice thick with greed, as he brushed his tongue against your inner thigh, catching the drippings of your pleasure, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. You gasped for breath, your body still trembling from the orgasm, your mind racing for a way out of this predicament.

"Your scent has filled the room now...its driving me mad. I can't wait any longer".

Your thoughts turned to the activator, the key to your freedom. You needed to get turned around, to find it somehow. "Sylus, w-we should—" you started, but your words were cut off by the sudden, sharp intrusion of his cock slamming into your cunt with a force that sent shockwaves of pain and pleasure through your body.

"Agh!"

The initial penetration was rough, but easier than before, his cock sliding into your wet hole, stretching you, before he pulled back slightly and sheathed himself completely inside you, his grip on your waist tightening as he began to thrust, his hips pistoning in a relentless rhythm.

"Ahh...it hurts..." you whimpered, your body writhing in his grip, trying to escape the pain of his thrusts. But Sylus chuckled, his voice dark and amused. "Keep squirming, little bird. It only makes it feel better."

His words were a taunt as he continued to plunge into you, his cock pistoning in and out, his body a cage of pain, his grip on your waist unyielding, his thrusts relentless, driving you to the brink of ecstasy and agony, your cries and moans filling the cold cage with a symphony of raw, primal sex.

You begin to try and dissociate from everything by focusing on the concrete floor, but Sylus primal grunts and growls as he slams into you, using your body for his own pleasure, makes it hard to escape reality. Think! Just think! You've been in worse situations before, what can you do to get turned around?

A lightbulb goes off inside your head. Its risky, but at this rate...

"F-for a Praedator...I honestly expected this to be much better. A little disappointing after waiting all these years Sylus" you spat, trying to sound more confident than you truly felt. Sylus momentarily slows his thrusting, not completely stopping but definitely enough to ponder your words. You shiver as you hear a deep chuckle.

"Is that so?"

Your entire world flips around as he grabs you, spins you around and pushes you roughly against the concrete floor. Before you can continue speaking, his hand slams into your throat, squeezing slightly. Not enough for serious harm, but its a clear warning.

Sylus's gaze is dark, beastly and terrifying as he leans down to your face, as if trying to look deep into the depths of your soul. Your heart aches as you recall your last encounter with him earlier that day, when he gave you the movie tickets. He had looked so soft...unlike the beast that was in front of you now.

"I can give you rougher, if that's what you crave," Sylus purred, his voice laced with dark humor, his eyes gleaming with a dangerous light. "I quite like you in this position, that look of fear in your eyes turns me on" He began to laugh, a low, menacing sound, as he pushed his still-hard cock back into your aching hole, his hand never leaving your throat.

Sylus's other hand, strong and sure, reached out, tearing your top with effortless ease, the fabric ripping as he exposed your breasts to his hungry gaze. Your nipples hardened in response to the sudden exposure, the cool air on your sensitive skin a stark contrast to the heat of the moment.

Your breasts bounced with each powerful movement of his hips, the motion causing a mix of pain and fear, your body a canvas of sensations, your mind struggling to process the whirlwind of physical reactions.

You whimpered as pain, pleasure, and fear mingled within you. His hand squeezed harder with each thrust, cutting off your air supply, and you clawed at his fingers, desperate for breath, your nails digging into his skin.

"C-can't...breathe..." you gasped, your voice hoarse, your heart hammering in your chest, sensations blurring together. Despite your struggles, your body began to respond to his relentless thrusts, your muscles squeezing around his cock, a reaction you couldn't control.

"Oh, you like this, don't you?" he whispered, his breath hot against your ear. "Gonna cum while you can't breathe, little bird? I could've given you this pleasure sooner if I'd known. I'd have gladly delivered your demise, one way or another."

His words sent a shiver through you as your body betrayed your mind's resistance, succumbing to the pleasure he was inflicting, your climax building despite the pain and the fear, a testament to the twisted game he was playing with your body and mind.

Were you truly going to die this way? After everything, after fighting for so long to see him again? This is how things end between the two of you? You look into his eyes. His rabid, feral eyes and feel tears begin to prick them. You look past him, your eyes resting at the revolver still strapped to your leg.

You still have one more option.

"I-it won't be me succumbing to my d-demise" you choke out, staring into his eyes. He doesn't stop thrusting into your body, but his eyebrow does raise. "Even if you make it out of here, what do you think they'll do with you when they realize the only immune person is also pregnant with a Praedator's baby?"

Your eyes widen at his words, your brain barely processing their meaning as your vision begins to blur. No! No! You begin to thrash as the sounds of his evil laughter fills your ears, and his thrusts pick up relentless speed.

"D-don't cum in me! Please!" you choke out, your voice hoarse and gravely as your forced to continue take the relentless pounding of Sylus's cock. He's ignoring you, he doesn't care. He only has one goal now. You feel your lower half begin to ache and pulse, evident that you just orgasmed beneath him. But you barely register it, as your top half begins to hurt.

Your lungs burn as if set ablaze, the oxygen in your body dwindling, your chest seizing with every desperate attempt to inhale. A thick, suffocating haze fills your head, making your thoughts sluggish, disjointed, slipping between the cracks of fading consciousness. Your body betrays you, limbs losing strength, muscles growing weak as an unbearable heaviness creeps into every inch of your skin. Your fingers, once clawing at the iron grip around your throat, are failing you now, slipping away, no longer able to fight against the pressure stealing your air.

A dull ringing overtakes your ears, growing louder, drowning out the world around you. Your vision narrows, dark spots creeping into the edges, threatening to swallow everything whole. A strange lightheadedness overtakes you, a weightless, dizzying sensation that makes it hard to remember where you are, what you’re doing. Your body is shutting down, giving up, preparing to surrender to the void clawing at the edges of your mind.

No. No, no, no. It can’t end like this.

A spike of panic jolts through your fading awareness, but your body refuses to listen, sinking deeper into helplessness. You strain, forcing your head up just enough to look at him, to plead, to beg, but the words won’t come. Your throat is locked, crushed beneath his grip, and no matter how much you try, no sound escapes past your lips. Sylus barely seems aware of you now, his expression dazed, half-lidded, his breath uneven as he lingers on the edge of his own orgasm. His fingers twitch slightly, tightening then loosening, but he isn’t paying attention, isn’t thinking, isn't entirely here. He’s too close to the edge, too lost in wanting to finish inside you.

That’s when you see it.

A flicker of red, faint but undeniable, flashes in one of his eyes. It’s barely noticeable, a fleeting pulse of color in the red of his irises, but it’s there. Your slowing mind struggles to process it, to make sense of what it means, until the realization slams into you like a shock of ice water.

The activator?!

Adrenaline floods your veins, shoving back the creeping darkness threatening to pull you under. The sheer, primal will to live surges through you like a lightning strike, reigniting every dying nerve, forcing your limbs to respond even as they scream in protest. With the last of your strength, you move.

Your fingers twitch, barely managing to form a fist. Gritting your teeth, you summon every ounce of energy left in your failing body, pull your arm back, and slam your thumb directly into his eye.

A guttural, animalistic roar rips from Sylus’s throat as his grip on your neck vanishes, his entire body jerking back in raw, instinctive pain. The instant pressure is released, air floods your lungs, rushing in so fast that your entire chest seizes from the force of it. A sharp, shrill gasp tears from your throat as you suck in a desperate, wheezing breath, the burning relief almost as unbearable as the suffocation had been.

Your vision, once clouded and swimming, sharpens in an instant, the murky haze lifting as the world snaps back into terrifying clarity. Every nerve is raw, every muscle trembling, but you’re alive. You can breathe.

Sylus's eyes widened for a moment, a brief flicker of surprise as all the Frenzy enhancer seemed to leave his body, and then, just as quickly, the feral intensity left his gaze, his face softening. But it was too late for his body to catch up, as his hips froze mid-thrust, his cock twitching inside you, releasing a hot flood of cum against your womb.

You gasped, your body trembling from the unexpected climax, the sensation of his release filling you, an intense mixture of warmth and fullness.

Sylus’s eyes met yours, the fire in them flickering unsteadily as the weight of what just happened crashed over him. The frenzied hunger that had gripped him moments ago had drained away, leaving behind something raw—horror, confusion, and something close to regret. His breath came fast and uneven, chest rising and falling as he struggled to process what he had just done to you.

His lips parted slightly, but no words came at first. His red eyes, now normal, darted across your face, lingering on the deep red imprints, blood, and bruises his fingers and teeth had left on your throat. His grip, once unrelenting, had been torn away, but you still felt it there—the phantom sensation of his hands crushing the air from your lungs.

“Are you…” He swallowed hard, voice hoarse, like it physically pained him to speak. “Are you okay?”

You coughed, your throat burning, the rush of oxygen still too sharp, too overwhelming. But you managed to nod, your limbs still weak, your entire body trembling from the shock. You could feel the marks he had left, the lingering ache that pulsed in time with your heartbeat, but you were alive.

Sylus was still staring at you, his expression unreadable, but there was something in his eyes now—guilt, realization, something heavy and unspoken pressing down on him. His hands twitched at his sides, fingers curling like he wanted to reach for you but didn’t know if he should.

“Why didn’t you press it sooner?” His voice was quieter now, filled with something vulnerable, almost desperate. “The activator… you could have stopped me before—” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head, frustration with himself evident in the tightness of his jaw. “Before I did this to you.”

The look on his face—haunted, shaken—was so unlike him, so different from the Sylus you knew, that something in your chest ached. He wasn’t just horrified by what had happened. He was horrified by himself.

You forced a small, reassuring smile, even though your throat still ached, even though your entire body was still reeling from the ordeal. “Because I couldn't find it. But I knew you were still in there,” you whispered, voice raspy but steady. “And I was right.”

Sylus let out a slow, uneven breath, his gaze locked on you like he was trying to convince himself you were telling the truth. Then, without another word, he moved.

Before you could react, his arms wrapped around you, pulling you close, the warmth of his body pressing against yours in a way that was nothing like before. This wasn’t dominance or power. This was desperation. He was still inside you, but neither of you cared to address it at this moment.

His grip was strong, but careful this time. His hands, which had moments ago been your greatest threat, now held you like you were something fragile, something breakable. His fingers curled against the back of your head, as if grounding himself, as if he needed to feel that you were real, that you were still here.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured against your hair, voice rough, low, and laced with something unspoken. “I wasn’t…I couldn’t—” He exhaled, tightening his hold. “I didn’t want our first time to be like this.”

You closed your eyes, allowing yourself to sink into the embrace. Tears of relief slipped from the corners of your eyes and dripped to the concrete floor. Your hands gripped the leather of his top, grounding yourself in him, in the fact that he was back now. His heartbeat, still fast, thrummed against your own, and for a moment, neither of you moved, neither of you spoke. The silence was thick, but not empty.

“It’s okay,” you whispered finally, resting your forehead against his shoulder. “You’re back now.”

And then you kissed him.

It was slow at first, hesitant, but the second your lips met his, Sylus shattered.

His grip on you tightened even more, arms pulling you flush against him as he kissed you back like he had been waiting for this, like it was the only thing tethering him to reality. There was nothing controlled about it—it was desperate, messy, full of every unspoken thing he couldn’t bring himself to say over the years. His fingers slid up your back, then tangled into your hair, tilting your head to deepen the kiss, to claim more of you, to drown in you.

You could feel his pulse beneath your fingertips, still racing, still alive. You weren’t sure who was shaking more—you or him—but neither of you pulled away. Neither of you wanted to.

When you finally parted, both of you were breathless, your foreheads still pressed together. His lips hovered just over yours, his hands still holding you like he couldn’t bring himself to let go yet.

It was all going to be okay.

For the first time since this nightmare had begun, Sylus let himself believe it.

[michaelwheelerdefiodental]

Jocks dynamics on Season 5 and comparing them to Henry Bowers gang from IT (and others iconic 80s villains):

This boy below with a blue shirt is the only one that didn't wear their jersey in season 4. I believe he wasn't part of the team at all in Season 4. My theory is that just like Lucas, he is just a black boy trying to fit in; he even did some research and helped them with Eddie's case, just like Lucas. He helped them find the house of that drug dealer named Rick. But he was never seen with them while they were going on a "mission", he just gave them tips and hanged out with them during parties, he doesn't appear in the basketball game, playing or even in the bench, if i remember correctly. His shirt is similar to Lucas blue shirt in episode 2 too, i think they were purposefully making parallels with these two.

We can see Andy and Chance on this paparazzi pic, and supposedly the same guy from season 4, but now he is wearing the jersey below his jacket (we can see the collar from the jersey they use, and some green color too).

Now we have a new jock, a blonde one, that not only resembles Jason (of course), but young Johnny Lawrence from Karate Kid too. This means he will be a big problem, the Duffer Brothers wouldn't cast someone similar to Johnny, a 80s iconic bully, to just make him a random weakling bully (the actor name is Deric Replogle).

He is following Dustin on the school grounds, so he is taking the lead against the actual symbol of the Hellfire Club. Meanwhile, Andy, Chase, and the new teammate are following Mike. When Dustin is at the cemetery, he is the one person more close to him; i think he will do the most damage to Dustin. Chance is there with him, the actor is shaking hands with one of the Duffers. There's no sign of Andy, maybe the actor is behind the camera, or he didn't participate in this scene.

Now i'll explain what i think their conflict will be. Andy is probably the leader now that Jason is dead, and we know he is way more crazy than him; Jason had a twisted idea of justice, but Andy seems to like to inflict pain on others. He made jokes about Chrissy being the one that was murdered, smiled while talking about hunting Eddie, and tackled Erica, a 11-year-old, while threatening to break her arm. Now this new blonde jock could be another violent and sadistic asshole, he looks like Johnny Lawrence, who is someone very dangerous to mess with, and he is the one most close to Dustin after they beat him; this can make both Andy and the blonde to try take the leadership for themselves. The blonde resembles Jason, and this would make Andy feel like an underdog again. I think he actually cared about Jason in some twisted way, but now that he is in a leader role, he won't let anyone take this from him.

We can compare this group with the four core. Andy would be Dustin, the blonde guy would be Mike; both Mike and Dustin are the ones to take the lead a lot of times, and some people tend to discuss who is the real leader of the four core, but they wouldn't care about it. On the other hand, Andy would definitely care about somebody taking him off his leader role, and this blonde jock can be the one. Chance would be Will; both are quieter guys, but Will actually has his own opinion about things and isn't always hiding them; Chance just followed Jason and Andy like a stray dog. The blue shirt guy would be Lucas, as i said. He just wants to find a way to fit in (there's a post here on Tumblr comparing the four core with the original jocks from season 4, but i couldn't find it, if you have it, send it to me so i can put the link right here).

After being challenged by the blonde too many times, Andy would end up killing him, and right after this, he would decide to kill the whole main characters gang for good, after the whole town turned into absolute chaos. He can be influenced by Vecna to do all of this, just like Henry Bowers from IT book and movies. And we know Stranger Things is heavily influenced by IT; Vecna is literally a mix of Pennywise and Freddy Krueger. Pennywise influenced Henry to kill his father, then he made the whole city of Derry be engulfed by a storm. Soon after this, he made Henry and his friends, Victor and Belch, go after the Losers Club. On IT, Henry's main target was Mike, a black kid, and it isn't a reach to say that Lucas, a black teenager, will be Andy's main target too, as he will probably think Lucas killed Jason.

After seeing all this crazy shit happening, the new boy (the one with the blue shirt on season 4, in case you have forgotten, lol) would be scared, as he didn't really want all this to happen, he just wanted to fit in, just like Lucas. Now there are two options that the writers can take, 1: he decides to get the hell out of this group just like Lucas on Season 4; 2: he can continue in this hellhole and die with Chance, just like Victor and Belch from IT, to show that not everybody is like Lucas, some people will decide to continue in a bad environment just to fit in; Andy would die later on after having an encounter with the main group, just like Henry Bowers.

Or: Andy could end up being someone like Patrick Hockstetter, a sadistic maniac that ends up having a premature death, then the blonde takes the role of Henry Bowers for himself. But i think the other way is more coherent; Andy is already established as a character (and there's always the chance of this blonde guy being just a random that don't even has lines, but i hope not don't think so, lol).

I think this would be a good way to implement some horror with human villains in the series. If you're going to make a high school bully a villain, make him terrifying, just like Henry Bowers. There's the military like Sullivan and Linda Hamilton character, but i ain't really scared of them; i just know they have resources like guns; they aren't scary at all for me.

I came up with this idea after seeing @will80sbyers posts about these paparazzi pics, thank you!

[arcane-vagabond]

We Abide: Prologue

We Abide: Prologue

Pairing: Tyler Owens x Reader

Summary:It had started out as a small outbreak, but as weeks passed, it was clear there was no turning back. The disease spread quickly, and those who caught it and were unlucky enough to survive? Their minds were no longer their own, driven to hunting what was left of humanity. Your friend had gone West to help aid in recovery efforts before the world stopped, and now you found yourself trekking across the country to try and find her. You were fine on your own, only the company of your dog to help keep you sane, but your reputation catches up with you when a cocky man decides to tag along. (Apocalypse!AU)

Content Warning: Apocalypse, End of the World, Feelings of Despair, Lost Hope. I think that's it, but PLEASE let me know if I missed something!

Word Count: 1.1k

Series Masterlist || Main Masterlist || Moodboard 1 || Moodboard 2 || Playlist

One could argue that humanity’s oldest enemy was pestilence. Entire illnesses wiping out thousands and even millions all at once, leaving only the strongest behind to carry on. Humankind funneled money into researching cures for different diseases—cancer, AIDS, Alzheimer’s, and more. Disease tore families apart, leaving children without parents, parents mourning the deaths of their children, friend burying friend.

Humanity always survived to carry on.

When news of a new virus began to spread, those that carried on with worry were ridiculed and called paranoid. Even when the first death was reported, most people didn’t take it seriously.

“It’s just another scare tactic,” you had heard one of your neighbors scoff one afternoon as you stopped to get your mail.

“Just like with Covid. It’s just to get us to fall in line, you’ll see!” The older man had insisted. You had fought back a smile at the time, shaking your head at the ridiculousness of it all. You hadn’t laughed since.

The scientific community had dubbed it the Exodus Virus, but formal studies had shown that it was some type of rabies virus, attacking the nervous system and ultimately leading to death. Few were lucky enough to survive it at first, although lucky perhaps wasn’t the right word for it—not when the ramifications showed themselves preferable to death.

They were isolated incidents at first, just random acts of violence, but it wasn’t long before people started putting two and two together.

It became clear to experts that the virus created lasting damage within its hosts—causing violent mood swings, hallucinations, and aggression. It wasn’t long before the whole of social media dubbed these victims “snappers” for the way they seemed to just snap at a moment's notice.

The number of cases grew with each passing day, and it wasn’t long until your best friend, Kate, volunteered to be shipped off to where the cases were worst in the country.

“I wish you wouldn’t go,” you muttered, sitting across from the blonde on your small balcony overlooking the busy New York street below. You were a bit of a recluse at times, Kate being the one to pull you out of your shell and into the social scene most times. It wasn’t that you didn’t like being social, it was just that you were selective about who you wanted to be social with. Kate had adopted you as her best friend on the first day of kindergarten, the two of you practically inseparable since. The two of you moved to New York to pursue your education together, moving in together to afford the miserably high rent.

“It won’t be for long,” she had assured you, leaning over to grab your hand in hers. “This crisis will be over soon with all these scientists working on a cure. You just wait and see, I’ll be home before you know it!”

And a few days later she had boarded a plane to fly across the country to California. You worried after her, especially when news of a particularly large outbreak near Los Angeles made its way back to you. You had called Kate almost immediately, her reassurance doing little to calm the fear in the pit of your stomach.

“They’ve got me bouncing around all over the place right now,” she told you, a heavy sigh in her voice. You could see the bags under her eyes, much darker than before she left. Weariness radiated off of her in waves, and you felt exhausted just looking at her.

“You been sleeping okay?” You asked, earning a crooked smile in return.

“Yeah, when I can,” she offered with a wave of her hand. “This pandemic keeps us pretty busy.”

“You can’t save the world if you’re dead, Kate,” you scowled, a furrow in your brows. Her smile drooped, her lack of energy preventing her from keeping up appearances for too long.

“I’ll try and get some more rest,” she offered. “Now tell me all about the new exhibit at the museum.”

That had been the last time you spoke with her, her job keeping her too busy to keep up with phone calls. The Exodus Virus had several more outbreaks in the following weeks, and panic began to set in as the masses realized that things had turned from serious to dire. People began taking the health protocols seriously, but by then it had been too late.

The disease began to infect more and more people, the death toll skyrocketing as everyday life began to collapse all around you. As more people fell victim, the more things began to break down, and soon your phone became little more than a paperweight as things like phone calls and the internet stopped working. Soon, only those with generators were able to light up their homes, and the sky that once reflected the never ending lights of the city now shone with stars that hadn’t been seen in years.

It wasn’t unusual to find people sitting on top of the different buildings, looking up at a sky that was once so familiar to their ancestors, the cosmos staring back at faces they had never seen before. But with each passing day, those faces dwindled, and every day you wondered if you’d see your family or Kate again. Your shared friends had long since gone, and it was one random day, sitting at your small dining room table, that you decided that you had had enough of sitting and waiting for the end. You had to do something, but you weren’t sure what. All you knew is that you couldn’t stay in the all but abandoned city anymore, waiting for salvation that wouldn’t come to you on its own.

You packed a bag, making sure to pack essentials only so as to not weigh yourself down. Cars and gas were amongst the first luxuries to go in this new world, so you knew you’d be making your journey on foot most of the time. You took a map from one of the abandoned bodegas along with a sharpie. Kate had said that they kept her moving the last time you spoke with her, but you knew she was based out in California. You would aim the end of your journey there, hoping your best friend had found shelter in one of those communities you had heard some of the city stragglers muttering about. Communities built to contain the healthy—to keep them away from the snappers that now roamed the new wildlands of what had once been the United States. You didn’t know how long your journey would take, or how far it would take you. You didn’t know if you would find Kate or any of the rumored communities along the way. You didn’t know what lay ahead of you.

But you would survive.

A/N: Welp. We're back with this one.

As always, reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated. I no longer do taglists, so if you would like to be notified on when I post, please follow my sideblog ( @arcanevagabond-library ) and turn on post notifications! You can find me and my works on AO3 under the username arcane_vagabond. Until next time!

[therocketeer0501]

Emptiness Machine

Starscream X Reader (mech pilot AU)

Author note: I am putting a trigger warning on this one because it mentions newsparks and alludes to Starscream thinking reader is carrying a newspark. Also because graphic depictions of violence.

If you are new here welcome! You can find my other fics and the other chapters HERE

Chapter 3

Shockwave listens as the door behind him shuts. None of this was making sense. He had seen it. The tiny almost imperceptible energy signature that even his highly sensitive optic hadn’t picked up at first. A newspark. He was sure of it. But what he had pulled from the chassis of that mech wasn’t a newspark at all. It was a human of all things. His servo shook as he balled it into a fist.

A wave of unfamiliar feeling crashed over him. Something he hadn’t experienced in a long time. His antennae flattened against his helm. The whole thing was most illogical. He began to stalk through the hallway. Muttering as he went, about newsparks and how it just wasn’t possible. He was so distracted by the conundrum of it that he almost barreled straight into Starscream. The mech immediately indignant at the perceived slight, sputtered as he dodged the boxy scientist. He had heard shockwave and paused, giving the scientist a confused look.

“What in primus’ name are you mumbling about now Shockwave. Some experiment of yours gone awry again?”

Starscream smirked as he blocked shockwave’s way, the bigger purple mech didn’t even seem to notice he was there. Pushing past the SIC shockwave stopped at the door to the med-bay continuing to mutter about newsparks and impossible things like that. Starscream’s wings flicked up in alarm at that.

“Newsparks? Shockwave you’ve been in that lab too long. There hasn’t been a newspark since…”

He stopped, looking back over his shoulder towards shockwave’s lab. Even he wasn’t evil enough to try and create life like that. He wouldn’t try to artificially create a newspark. That just wasn’t something he was interested in. Was it? Suddenly a deep sense of dread gripped Starscream. He knew an Autobot femme had been taken prisoner from the latest raid. Had that femme been sparked and shockwave somehow got ahold of it?

The energon in his lines ran cold. Sure he shouldn’t care about some Autobot femme. But he had believed for so long that his race was dying. That eventually this war would mean the end of the Cybertronians if he didn’t seize control from Megatron and stop his tyranny. Before he knew what he was doing he was sprinting headlong to Shockwave’s lab and bursting through the sliding doors. The scene that greeted him was a gruesome one. The femme was on his operating slab with her chest compartment torn open. Her optics were offline and she was leaking energon. To her left was a small vile containing the slumped figure of an organic. His optics widened as they fell on the tiny creature in the vile.

He’d seen the little organics on footage that the drones had picked up on their recon missions. Never in a million years did he think Shockwave of all bots would mistake the little insects for newsparks. Still, it all didn’t add up to him. Why had shockwave been so shaken and why had he offlined the Autobot prisoner instead of interrogating her for information. And in such a violent way. He turned his optics on the femme once more looking closer at her this time. Her chest compartment where her spark should be didn’t look quite right. Squinting his optics he tired to figure out what was missing. To his left a small noise startled him out of his quiet contemplation.

A loud noise jarred you awake making your head pound even harder. You tilt your head up a bit, eyes bleary and unfocused from the pain. Placing a hand on the cool glass you try to right yourself so you can better see what was making all that racket. A different Cybertronian was in the room with you now. His wings flicking in agitation as he stared at your mech.

“Hey you. Get back. Don’t touch that.”

Your voice barely coming out as a hoarse gasp as you tried to warn him off. He turns at your voice, mumbling deeply in his own language. It hadn’t occurred to you that the Decepticons wouldn’t have had the need to scan the native life. Their language not something that was relevant as the Decepticons only sought the energon on the planet. The humans were little more than insects to them. You look up at him, trying to get your eyes to focus. With every ounce of strength you have left, you take a deep breath and as loud as you possibly can, utter the only phrase in Cybertronian you had been taught. All the pain and anger and fear of the last hour building up in your chest as you scream at him.

“GO FRAG YOURSELF!”

[enhaflixer]

super villain from temu (villain & violent, infant & innocent)

Villain!Sunghoon x Hero!reader

(Crack, fluff)

wc: less than 1000 words

synopsis: He became a villain by accident. You became a hero by chance. Now, you're both stuck in a never-ending game of tag—except he's definitely losing (and somehow still flirting)

AN: hi guys!!! please let me know what u think in the comments i would really really appreciate it! leave as many requests as you would like!

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

You weren’t exactly sure when Park Sunghoon became your biggest problem, but here you were, once again, staring him down in the middle of the city, exasperated beyond belief. The night air was crisp, the moon hanging overhead, casting silver light across the rooftop where you stood. It would’ve been almost picturesque—if not for the dork in the villain cape standing in front of you.

“You’re late,” he huffed, crossing his arms over his chest, his cape fluttering slightly in the breeze. “I had this whole villain monologue prepared, but now I’m just standing here like an idiot.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Sunghoon, do you ever stop talking?”

“No. And as your sworn enemy, you should appreciate my dedication.”

You had long since stopped taking him seriously. Not because he wasn’t capable of mass destruction—no, the problem was that he was way too awkward to be genuinely evil. Like last week, when he tried to steal a hotdog cart as a distraction but ended up tripping over a ketchup bottle and getting mustard all over himself. Or the time he tried to hijack a news broadcast, only to accidentally press the weather channel button instead.

And yet, despite all his antics, Sunghoon still insisted he was your archnemesis. It was kind of… cute.

“I assume you’re here to fight,” you sighed, stretching your arms as you got into a battle stance. “Let’s get this over with.”

Sunghoon’s expression flickered for a moment—was that hesitation? He shifted on his feet, scratching the back of his neck. “Yeah. Fight. That’s what we’re doing.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Unless you have something else planned?”

“No,” he blurted out way too fast. Then he coughed, trying to look serious again. “I mean—yes. I have the perfect plan.” He lifted his hand dramatically, but nothing happened.

A long silence stretched between you. Sunghoon lowered his arm slightly, glancing at you. “Uh. I forgot what it was.”

You groaned. “Oh my god.”

“Wait, wait, I have a backup plan!” He rummaged through his pockets before pulling out a small remote. “Now behold, HERO!” He pressed the button, and suddenly—a metal cage clunked down from above, trapping you inside.

You blinked. “What the hell?”

“Jokes on you! I stole your dog! Now I have the upper hand, HERO!” Sunghoon cackled, arms crossed triumphantly.

Except. One tiny issue.

“I don’t… have a dog.”

Sunghoon’s face froze. “Wait. Then whose dog did I steal?”

A distant barking sound echoed from the side of the rooftop, followed by the furious stomping of an angry old lady.

“THAT’S MY DOG, YOU IDIOT!” she screeched, waving a cane in the air.

Sunghoon turned just in time to see the old woman whack him over the head. “oh shit.” He yelped, immediately bolting away as she chased him down the stairs. You stood there, watching the scene unfold, trapped in the ridiculous cage, contemplating your life choices.

After chasing Sunghoon down, knocking him out, and handing him over to the authorities (who, at this point, were getting tired of his antics), you sat beside his holding cell, sipping your drink.

Sunghoon, now sitting on the bench inside his cell, stared at the ceiling, pouting.

“This is so embarrassing,” he muttered. “I am a disgrace to villains everywhere.”

You leaned back against the wall, shooting him a lazy smile. “At least you’re entertaining.”

He exhaled, rubbing his hands over his face before finally looking at you. “You know… this whole villain thing?” He gestured vaguely at his surroundings. “It kinda started as a joke.”

You tilted your head. “What do you mean?”

Sunghoon let out a dry laugh. “Back in college, you just… became a hero. It wasn’t even some big, dramatic thing. You helped someone, people started calling you one, and suddenly it stuck. It was effortless for you.” He hesitated. “And I… I wanted to get your attention.”

Your breath caught slightly. “Wait, so you—?”

“I thought if I became a hero too, we could fight together,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “Maybe you’d finally notice me. But I guess I botched it, because people didn’t call me a hero. They called me a villain. And instead of correcting them, I just… rolled with it. It was kind of… fun?”

Your heart twisted. “So this whole time—”

“Yeah.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “Not exactly how I pictured my life going, but hey, at least I get to annoy you for a living.”

Despite yourself, you laughed. A real, genuine laugh. Sunghoon’s eyes flickered with something unreadable before he grinned, his usual smugness returning. “See? I can still make you smile, even from jail.”

You sighed, shaking your head as you stood up. “Well… you’ve definitely got my attention now.”

Sunghoon blinked, then smirked. “Oh? So you admit it? You can’t resist me?”

You leaned down slightly, close enough that he sucked in a sharp breath. “I think you just like being chased by me.”

Sunghoon’s grin stretched wider as he leaned back against the wall, looking far too smug for someone in a holding cell. "Ohhh, you want me so bad. Just admit it, Y/N."

You rolled your eyes, but the warmth creeping up your neck betrayed you. Maybe you did. Just a little.

[the-stove-is-divorced]

Truly the grief for shows with 20+ eps a season is so indescribable, not everything needs to be 8-10 eps with 45+ min each episode!

And honestly, so true? Agree heavily here. I love the drama of the scene (mostly), Cecil v. Mark, ex. Mark thinking Cecil would outright try to kill him, b/c Mark's prob seeing the Nolan in Cecil, who takes the rejection of obedience into outright violence (presumably?). But still! Lacking! This would hit harder if there was more built up to Mark's trust in Cecil, any mentor-like advice, or paralleled Nolan in Cecil as it did Mark! But, Mark's difficulty in vocalizing his own morality, like you mention, just kinda leaves me a little confused on this whole conflict between them. It retracts from scenes with Oliver, too, it retracts the drama of A LOT, if it just leaves same outright squinting at the screen, 'cause the very foundation, what Mark knows and thinks is right, isn't exactly solid and established.

Like, why doesn't Mark vocalize the importance the HELPING people? Some classic spidey "great power, great responsibility", why is my guy going through the motions, and clearly STILL struggling? I feel like s1 does make some point to highlight Mark does want to help people, or trying to prod at his idea of what helping people means, even if it ends up going terribly wrong. Him failing to rescue a dying woman, him roped into fighting Machine Head, does prod at his ideas of what his job can/doesn't mean, but it feels like they never dive back into that properly? Which is strange, 'cause that's another potential Eve, Mark tie-in, as Eve realizes she can't do everything yet, Mark tries to figure out what he can do. Then they're both learning! Even supporting each other while pushing character growth! But it seems his only goal posts are Don't Be Dad (somehow? vaguely? no sub-goals, here), and Punch Bad Guy...? It's so strange.

Rewatching clips of s1's Mark vs Nolan fight rn, and Mark's weirdly unspecific morality is even weirder? He was trying to save ppl in that battle, desperately, no? I would think post-Nolan fight, he'd want to work real hard in gaining public trust again, and getting real emotional when ANY civilians die. Nolan outright tells him it's his fault ppl died, and Mark, later, learns Nolan is dead ass serious (pun intended lol) about replacing him, why wouldn't that message sink in further? Make him try to saving people first, over fight? Why not show Mark struggling with taking out the bad guy to stop threat, OR saving people whole the threat lingers, unable to choose a higher priority or outright choosing the wrong one, ultimately taking any mistake as proof the s1 fight was his fault.

Truly, some good ol' flashbacks into Guardian dynamics would be so thrilling, because yeah, it seems they were all in good terms! I also just want it so bad. How dare you gimme bootleg Justice League and then don't give me the dynamics. Outright entertainment robbery. YES TEAM DYNAMICS MY BELOVED FOR REAL. The deprivation of small, but so TELLING character moments make me so ill, because it's SO NEEEDED!!! Same brain waves, because the outright visual communication of these characters is NEEDED and would make me so ill in a good way. The budget issue limiting this show will never NOT drive me insane because Amazon HAS THE MONEY FOR SURE, but refuses to make this show something that, even if the writing isn't exactly fantastic, the FIGHTS could be legendary, if not playful. Also WHY did all of them go fr????? That's such a stupid decision? Especially if limiting it down further could have more character moments, even if small visual cues the show lacks!

I feel I violently check out when it comes to romantic focused media to not fully click this trope is so persistent and so ODD? Like HELLO? That's such a backhanded gift at best, inpersonal and one-sided, and outright cruel if I really wanna go there 'cause like you said, you don't know them. Even making a JOKE out of what's supposed to be a meal meaning gift is crazy??? Like this is fiction, a gift is GREAT way to demonstrate intentionally who these characters are and their relationship to each other. Don't remember the episode or if you're there already, but Justice League has an episode where Wonder Woman + Batman get Superman a bday gift before plot happens, (tho it's strange tbh, in the comics WW's gift is actually Batman's? But they switch it for the show if I'm not mistaken???) and GREAT moment!

Kate and Immortal piss me off so bad but we've already discussed why, like this girl isn't a character istg, EXPLORE HER DAMMIT, but seriously! We got a secret identity plotline BRIEFLY before dropping it and then just straight up functioning on how it's not a thing at all like hello????? Can this have any consequences or impact, even if it's people just look the other way? Which is so odd when it's a common staple for the hero genre, too, but I suppose they don't want to explore it? Perhaps too much of a staple to be interesting for them?

AND TRULY i am so tired of mark getting kicked around, bro, what the heck? Do something before the eleventh hour? But characters being genre savvy would be so funny, imagine somebody just pretends to be hurt to get Mark to actually focus lol.

THE ROGUE GALLERY IS SO SAD AND IT MAKES ME SO UPSET. How we get a bootleg JL and no actually good rogue gallery????? CRAZY WORK. Like part of the WHOLE FUN of superhero media is the villains, like, batman villains are crazy interesting or always just entertaining to SOMEONE, poison ivy, harley quin, penguin, etc, which usually reflect back on batman's character in some way if ya wanna dig into it, or just enjoy a good villain! Instead... it's just sad and empty. Currently foaming at the mouth for ANY super villain to be a mark parallel (like a former villain sidekick trying to step out the shadows of their mentor), or straight up used to be Nolan's nemesis and just tries to keep it up with Mark, insisting they're the same for example IDK. Villains are also good at establishing the world!!

ALSO SO TRUE? I don't think it's ever been actually acknowledged??? Ever?? Why doesn't he explore being mixed raced???? My guy is mixed race AND half human, there is SOMETHING to say here. ALSO SO FUCKING TRUE? WHY CAN'T OLIVER AND MARK BOND ABOUT BEING HYBRIDS? ABOUT HOW OLIVER CAN'T PASS AS EASILY?? My guy can't even go to school 'cause he grows up too fast, like can we talk about this??? Can Oliver be a person??? That could put some conflict / added conflict in the relationship?? Can Mark think about what it's like be HALF ALIEN? Can this mf have some unique oddness because of being a hybrid, I BEG. This is why the lack of self introspection in the desert makes me utterly insane. IT WAS RIGHT THERE.

Also you're telling me we got demons, billion dollar teleporters, cursed family lines, aliens, but nothing to instantly make Oliver look human so he can walk around? Easy way for Mark to feel indebted to Cecil, or Oliver trusting Cecil, something???

Cecil is so fucking interesting because he truly must be Like This. Which is even funnier because you'd think he'd be easier to guess with a focus on his, like, trajectory but no???? At least to me. I am squinting, personally. One would think you'd want needed allies close by and endeared to you, control 'em better, but Mark threatens, and he threatens back even harder, like I GET WHY but also DAMN. Instant escalation. Never threaten this mf, he'd take you AND himself out. It's also funny because like Oliver kills and Mark struggles articulating why it's bad, but also Cecil is presumably A-OK with killing (now) but only when he says so (assumingly). Like, don't kill because we could use them, isn't a because it's bad :( argument???

So, I'd imagine if he had to tackle training/mentoring Mark and Oliver it'd be a challenges in the opposite direction. Like No, Oliver you can't kill them ALL. Yes, Mark you DO have to kill sometimes. I'd kill to know what that looks like. Does Oliver get a whole team dedicated to training him, and Cecil check-ins?

But back to his side of things, I just wanna shake him furiously. Like, you point out, you're telling him to stand down WHY inducing pain AND beating him the fuck up like HELLO? You did not make Mark seem dangerous, now YOU look unhinged in dangerous in a desperate power grab/for control. You're basically tazing someone and telling them to calm down LMAO. Which also like did you try calling them off or is this legit an error here? Which yes, yes, characters can make wrong decisions or have flaws and ruin things despite their best intentions, paved roads and all that, but also it so funny if you tilt your head. Cecil why. I get it yes, but also Cecil, no, Cecil no.

Also exactly, when it's TOO vague I just stare the doc. There's no jumping point to push it's anything goes and how hard do I want to overthink it?

While I'm not too familiar with the DCU- your batfam meta posts are intiguing- so in transfering some of the broader strokes from them- I think you tackling a 'Mark isn't Nolan's biological son' fic would be fascinating. Sort of a step to the side of the 'what if Mark never got his powers' fic that sometimes pop up in the fandom

OOOOOO chewing on this currently, hm, the much a distinct flavor of exactly what you’re talking about, but the potential for more family drama depending on WHO knows. Does Mark know?? Is he waiting every day only to be crushed? Does he confused non-Debbie features with Nolan’s? I suppose I’m not the most enthusiastic about non-power AUs, but I think there’s something very fun to explore about Mark having to settle with, if he knows all his life, he will never have powers? I think the trajectory of his dreams will obviously shift, I can see him still having that distinct fatherly idolization, but perhaps embraces being useful to the GDA? Cecil’s number one intern—only intern—curtesy of nepotism, ha! There is something tickling me about Mark taking the Robin Route/Role for the Teen Team in terms of having no powers, just insane skills, BUT there’s something way more delicious about intern Mark when s1e01 happens and Mark tries snooping around to find out the truth about what happened to his Dad.

I wonder if, with Mark having a whole another father, if they’re more or less distant relationship, depending on WHEN Nolan entered Mark’s life? Like if Debbie met Nolan later for this, or just for fun, they dated once, separated (Mark being born during then), then they happened to stumble into each others lives again and Mark’s already been born, anywhere from tween to teenager so there’s a gap in how close they are. I feel like one important aspect of the whole Family Drama is how close they’re supposed to be, a functional, loving family turned upside down? So I wonder what more distance does. I wonder how Nolan copes when his family is entirely human and he can’t project onto Mark.

I love thinking about these, omg.

[yellllowstar]

slowly I'm recovering the beauty of discovery

(creature by half•alive)

(textless + timelapse below cut)

[ponyrepress]

the MW fandom so bad on Twitter that fuckin. jimcurly shippers say their ship is ok cause “they deserve each other” but then think youre a terrible person for suggesting that anya and curly like. cared about each other deeply and fucked up. i hope this fandom dies soon dear lord.

Jesus Christtttt I hope the yaoiheads die forever. Like. What the hell is it with people wanting to ignore everything there is to be said about Curly and Anya's complicated ass relationship in favor of painting Curly as a cartoonishly bad person and Anya as someone who didn't volunteer to take care of him in fucking terrible condition Despite Everything. There's so fucking much to say about Anya and Curly as people who were hurt by the same person and watched the other be hurt by the same person and ended up stuck together at rock fucking bottom in that nurse's room but nobody wants to talk about that because there's "good" abuse victims and "bad" abuse victims and they can't have any attachment to each other even if they do in text despite ultimately failing the other because uhhhh no they didn't. I fucking guess.

[arkadijxpancakes]

This is an interesting meta. I agree with most of it.

I disagree that Voldemort branded his death eaters as soon as they turned sixteen.

From what we know, only Voldemort's inner circle got marked at all. It seems that the number of Death Eaters in that inner circle is relatively low, compared to the number of overall combatants. We're talking about a few dozen people at most. They are able to form a circle (instead of a crowd) during that scene in the graveyard. In DH, they also seem to be able to have meetings while sitting at a table. It would also explain, why the same Death Eaters show up again and again and again.

Secondly, we know from canon that the Death Eaters being branded was a pretty secret affair. Neither the ministry nor the order seems to have known about it during the first war.

So while Voldemort wants his trusted Death Eaters to be under his control - and the mark is a good way to control them - he's probably not interested in exposing that secret.

And branding teenagers is an avoidable risk. At the end of the day, sixteen-year-olds are still sixteen-year-olds. Teens. Highly trained teens, maybe, but teens nonetheless. And teens do dumb shit. They take unnecessary risks and pick the wrong fights. They also talk to or in front of the wrong people. Especially big idiots might even boast about their "upgrade". Shit like that. (One of the first things Draco did in HBP was to boast about his promotion.)

And they would do that dumb shit under Dumbledore's hooked nose.

There are just so many instances, where the mark could get exposed. For example, it's likely that Madame Pomfrey would report every strange tattoo she saw while treating students. (Especially tattoos that looked like the mark the Death Eaters burned into the sky above their victims.) I would assume that the teachers would've done the same thing.

I would assume that Dumbledore (and with him the order and maybe the ministry) would've known about marked death eaters way earlier, had Voldemort marked them as soon as they turned sixteen.

That said, I agree with the rest. It's very likely that Voldemort had recruiters operating in Hogwarts during the first war. (Probably older students recruiting younger ones and parents recruiting their kids.) It's also very likely that those recruits would partake in missions, spy on students and staff, and commit hate crimes.

I would assume that this would escalate gradually. A recruit would start with some minor stuff - passing some information here, harassing a muggleborn there and maybe some property damage as well. Their biggest job would be to spread the ideology - talk about it with other students, pass flyers, play "just asking questions" in class. Stuff like that.

This would escalate to more violent behavior - like using dark magic to attack other students. Mulcibers attack on Mary Macdonald falls into this. Severus inventing Levicorpus and Sectumsempra belongs here, too. (He either taught his fellow Slytherins, how to cast Levicorpus or he used it himself and often enough for it to spread from there.)

From there, they would accompany other Death Eaters on missions and finally run their own. Here, they would also start to kill. (This would probably happen around their seventeenth birthday. I say this mostly because of the trace. Purebloods and half-bloods aren't at risk while hexing at home, because the trace only detects magic-use, but not who did it. However, casting magic away from home/older family-members could trigger the trace more consistently.)

Once they proved themselves, they would get invited into the inner circle and receive the mark. But that was just the cherry on top. You didn't have to become a marked Death Eater to fight (and kill) for Voldemort. (Just like the Snatchers and Greyback aren't marked either.)

I also agree, that you usually had to commit at least one murder to get invited. (Because murdering someone serves as a good "point of no return". You might reintegrate yourself into society after committing some (violent) hate crimes. But once you killed someone, that door shuts close fast.)

I also agree with your assessment, that Snape was recruited young. It's also very likely, that his skills (brewing potions and his mastery regarding the dark arts, including the invention of new curses) helped him to climb the ranks as fast as he did. When he was 21, he was already a member of Voldemort's inner circle, and a trusted one at that. And while revealing the information about that prophecy certainly helped, I doubt that this was all he ever did.

When it comes to Regulus, I assume that this was Bella's doing. He wasn't just obsessed with Voldemort, he also had the fortune of the family at his feet - and he was her cousin. Taking him in early makes sense. It probably came with a lot of funding. Lucius was probably recruited for the same reason. However, everyone who had no connections (or a shitload of money) probably had to take the long way.

Death Eater Recruitment Age During The First War

In this meta I'll talk about Voldemort's strategy in recruiting underage Death Eaters. Fandom often portrays teenage Death Eaters like Snape, Evan Rosier, etc as officially joining Voldemort after they graduate or, at best, their 7th year.

But the most logical conclusion is that Death Eaters recruited as teenagers would have been required to take the Mark at 16 and no later - at earliest Christmas break of 5th year and at latest the summer after 5th year. Regulus joining at 16 wasn't an exception or an anomaly - it was the expectation and the norm.

Additionally, younger Death Eaters’ age during the First War is cited as reasons they couldn’t have committed violent war crimes in the short time they were Death Eaters, but this too is contradicted by canon. I’ll go through the evidence for these points below.

1.0 Voldemort’s strategy

Firstly, I really don't know why people think Voldemort would have qualms about making 16 year olds murder and torture - given that Tom Riddle himself had murdered 4 people by the time he was 16 (killing the Riddles summer after his 4th year at 15 years old) as well as tortured students ("nasty incidents") with his gang.

Yes, many characters in HBP claim that there’s no way Draco was marked because he’s only 16 and still in school - but the whole point is that they’re wrong, that Draco WAS Marked at 16, that Voldemort thought Hogwarts was a good recruiting ground, that he was creating child soldiers. The whole point is to recruit them young - when they're most vulnerable and malleable.

On the other hand, it's unlikely that they were allowed to be Marked younger than 16 - Regulus was eager to join years before he was Marked, so if there was a way for him to be initiated sooner, he would've taken it. From Voldemort's POV, he'd want the Black heir under his control, so he would've Marked Regulus as early as was possible under Death Eater protocol. (Sirius also runs away at 16, so it’s a possibility that this had to do with Voldemort recruiting him at that age.)

So presumably, Voldemort chose an age where they're young enough to be easily manipulated, but old enough to be competent as Death Eaters.

(While Tom killed his family a year earlier, his proto-Death Eater gang was involved in their first murder together at the same age - Myrtle end of their 5th year; which imo was accidental but fits the tradition).

But once they reach that age - there's no stalling. Future teenage Death Eaters would be trained for maybe months, maybe years, before finally taking the Mark at 16.

Voldemort wants his army and he wants it now. You don't get to wait around to take the mark. Even marking a Death Eater at 17 vs. 16 is a whole entire year of the war wasted where Voldemort could have them under his control and doing useful things for him. The exceptions would be if the Death Eater isn't politically useful enough (heirs from less powerful pureblood families etc) and if they weren't talented enough by 16 and would require more training.

(It's possible the recruiting pace was a bit slower pre-war, but once the war started Voldemort needed as many Death Eaters as he could get.)

Certainly no important pureblood heir would be marked later than 16. Marking an heir means Voldemort has solidified his control over that family’s wealth and political/magical resources (at least in future).

Despite being Hogwarts students, teenage Death Eaters still have substantial windows of time when they could be committing crimes for Voldemort - 2 months of summer; 1 month combining Christmas/Easter breaks; Hogsmeade weekends; maybe ways of sneaking out other weekends. (Even many adult Death Eaters do have day jobs and keep up appearances of normal lives.)

They could also get a lot done at Hogwarts itself - spywork (i.e. out muggleborns hiding their status, similarly gather info on political enemies via other students), magical research (esp. given they have access to the Hogwarts library which Voldemort doesn’t - presumably, this is a library as coveted as pureblood libraries), invent things and experiment (i.e. Snape inventing Levicorpus which we know the Death Eaters used), and most notably, commit war crimes on campus.

Examples include Mulciber and Avery torturing Mary Macdonald with Dark Magic - which clearly wasn’t an isolated incident - and Snape having used Sectumsempra so often at Hogwarts it became known as his specialty. This is the kind of terror junior Death Eaters would be expected to perform on campus during the war.

Then there's the Dark Mark itself. The way the Death Eaters are bound to Voldemort parallels house-elf enslavement contract, and the Dark Mark is the main way of enforcing it - it’s a tracking device (per Karkaroff), a communication device, a means of control, a way to make sure you don't escape. So of course Voldemort would want to brand his followers as soon as he could. (see also: this meta on the Dark Mark by @artemisia-black)

2.0 Examples

Regulus (waiting to join years earlier) took the Mark at 16. Draco, Marked the summer after his 5th year, only a month or two after he turned 16. Barty Jr. was 19 in 1982 during the Longbottom trial, so it's a reasonable extrapolation that he too was Marked at 16, particularly since he was very dedicated and loyal to Voldemort and would've been desperate to join ASAP. As Lucius was clearly instrumental in recruiting Snape (and logically there have to be Death Eaters on campus recruiting), I assume he was Marked by the time the Marauders entered Hogwarts, so likely Marked at 16 too.

Then there's the fact that the Death Eaters is a multigenerational cult and that Voldemort expects the kids of his Death Eaters to join - examples are Mulciber, Avery, Rosier. These kids were essentially born into the cult and inherited being a Death Eater, they've known since childhood that they would be expected to take the Mark, and perhaps were trained for it very early, so there's no reason they wouldn't be Marked at 16.

Of course, not all Death Eaters are recruited underage, there are plenty recruited as adults - when you're recruited matters when Voldemort actually notices you, or when he needs you (i.e. Peter was recruited much later on, purely as a spy).

Regarding Snape specifically, he became friends with Lucius Malfoy as soon as he entered Hogwarts, and stayed friends with the Malfoys long into his adult years. Lucius would've been the main one to bring him into Death Eater circles (particularly since Lucius would've graduated Snape's first or second year, and the rest of their contact had to be out of school, perhaps Lucius inviting him to events with Death Eaters, etc.)

His friendship with his gang - Mulciber, Avery, Rosier - would function likewise, especially because they're not just any junior Death Eaters, they're the children of Tom Riddle's original gang. So, Snape was pulled into the network of pretty high ranking Death Eaters from the very start.

Snape's talent was also apparent to everyone from the get go (i.e. Sirius’s statement that Snape was famous for the Dark Arts at school, and as a first year knew more curses than half the kids in 7th year). Therefore, he would’ve been on the Death Eaters’ radar long before SWM, and there’s no reason for them to wait until then to recruit and train him. Most likely he was training under Voldemort as his student his 5th year, perhaps even 4th year, and then took the Mark summer after 5th year. (In this fic, he's already taken it by SWM, because teen Death Eaters take the Mark their first school holiday after turning 16, which was 5th year Christmas break for Snape, which is an interesting and believable scenario).

And no, his status as a poor halfblood wouldn't be an issue - canonically Voldemort makes poor Death Eaters high ranking (Snape, Amycus, Alecto), as well as female Death Eaters.

This, of course, conflicts with a certain narrative parts of fandom want to push about Snape being driven to the Death Eaters due to the Marauders’ bullying and Lily breaking off the friendship - because in any realistic scenario the Death Eaters would have recruited him long before this happened.

Regarding the level of violence teenage Death Eaters commit, it makes sense to me that you'd have to kill to be Marked - Voldemort is not going to have his Death Eaters hesitate before killing and mess up his missions (Additionally, once they’ve committed crimes for him he could use exposing them as a threat to keep them in line). I HC that you have to cast all three Unforgiveables on a victim to be Marked.

So, this means that all your faves like Regulus, Snape, Evan, Barty, that fandom often whitewashes, did in fact commit many violent war crimes while they were Death Eaters. Potentially Draco is the exception to this wrt actual murder (we know he's using the Imperius and Cruciatus 6th year), though it's always possible Voldemort made him murder someone off screen and we just didn't see it.

As more examples of this, even Crabbe and Goyle - who were not Marked or trained as official Death Eaters - are torturing first years with the Cruciatus their entire 7th year under the instruction of the Carrows, and presumably students in the years below them were also forced to do the same. (Crabbe also tries to cast an Avada Kedavra, so it's possible he murdered someone for the Death Eaters outside of campus.) This is further proof that Death Eaters have no issue making underage students commit violent war crimes.

3.0 Conclusion

We can extrapolate from the known numbers we have - Lucius Malfoy in his year, 3-5 Death Eaters in the Marauders' year (Mulciber, Avery, Snape, Rosier, Wilkes), Barty Jr. in the year below, Regulus in the year below that - that there were a few wannabe and/or actually Marked Death Eaters in every class year during the war.

So, Hogwarts during the first war wasn't just full of Wannabe Death Eaters - it was also full of actual Death Eaters who were already actively murdering and torturing others.

And this contextualizes the Marauders' actions in their Hogwarts years, and why they would've been pushed to that kind of violence to protect others on campus. (read more about that in this meta)

[chloecherrysip]

Just Beyond My Reach, There's Someone Reaching Back For Me (speculative mario movie fic, mario & luigi centric, around 3600 words.)

[OK SO i literally could not stop thinking about this post in the mario movie tag from last week, which turned into me trying to write out my thoughts about how the scenario could unfold, which then turned into me writing a full-fledged fanfic that's over 3,000 words long??? I DON'T KNOW WHAT HAPPENED. I've truly lost my common sense, but I just felt like I HAD to get this out before the movie arrives and their reunion is nothing like this in any way whatsoever.

This is a speculative fic of just one possible scenario out of millions, no actual spoilers; i'm working off info we've seen in the trailers/TV spots/promotions/etc, and all the characterization is based off those too, so it might ultimately be off-base. Please don't @ me after the movie comes out and get on my case about details being wrong! I AM IN THE PAST (and jealous of you in the future for having already seen it).

I present to you: A Version Of Mario & Luigi's Reunion in the Mario Movie That Would Cause Me Irreparable Psychic Damage.]

----

Mario hears him first. He would know that panicked yelp anywhere. 

By that point, he’s lost count of how many of Bowser’s minions he’s tried to interrogate as he fights his way through the airship. There’s so much shouting and clanging all around him, and his voice hurts from yelling loud enough to be heard over it, but he can’t stop. “Where do you keep prisoners? Have you seen someone who looks like me — but tall, skinny, and green? If you take me to him, I’ll go easy on ya, I swear—” 

it’s hard to tell if they’re just refusing to answer him, genuinely don’t know any useful information, or can’t actually communicate in a way he understands — probably some in each column. But he’s about to grab another angry Koopa by the shell and try again when there’s a commotion far off in the distance. The yell that echoes out to him is faint, but it tugs hard at Mario like a rope tied around his middle. Something from his memories, the nightmares he’s been having this whole adventure that he hasn’t told Peach and Toad about. Something instantly, certainly familiar to him in a way that few things are. 

His heart is suddenly lodged in his throat. He barrels his way past the troops and the Kongs fighting them, moving fast towards it.

The area of the airship he’s in starts to slope down further ahead, surrounding a huge open space that, judging by the flickering embers in the air and heavy heat that’s got him sweating through his shirt already, has a whole bunch of lava simmering at the bottom. On the other side of the chasm, there are a whole group of what look like angry blue penguins beating down some feisty stacks of Goombas with their bare flippers. There’s also what impossibly looks like a star, with a face and everything, beaming bright and doing twirling cartwheels in the air, giggling at the carnage underneath. And behind all that, he can see—

Mario reacts without having to think. He jolts forward against the railing, reaches a hand out, and yells as loud as he can. “LUIGI!” 

He can only see glimpses of his overalls and green hat at first amidst all the other chaos, but then pieces of the ongoing fight tumble further to either side, giving a clear view. Mario watches wide-eyed as his brother frantically swats away Goombas, shrieking and flailing his arm furiously when one snags some teeth through his sleeve until it comes loose. He looks terrified and a little queasy, but also very determined, even jumping in to help when one of the penguins gets pinned down. They seem to be working together. 

Luigi is here. He’s really here, alive and fighting and still in one piece. Mario isn’t too late. It feels like a 20 pound weight’s suddenly gone from his back that he hadn't even realized he was carrying around.

His yell is half-drowned out by the chaos, but Luigi’s head still snaps up, eyes wide and stricken and bright with recognition. “Mario?” He cries out, his voice cracking badly. He kicks another Goomba away and then starts spinning, searching the surrounding area with increasing desperation. “Mario!?” 

“Over here!” Mario wishes he had another raccoon powerup so he could just fly across the gap and reach him right then and there. He has to settle for taking off his cap and waving it in the air like a flag. “Luigi! Over here!” 

Finally, their eyes meet across the gorge. It’s not necessary at that point, but Luigi still tears off his own hat and starts flailing it around too overhead, as if just to make absolutely sure his brother knows where he is. “MARIO!” He shouts, his tired face instantly transforming into a relieved, overjoyed smile. 

“Are you okay!?” 

“Y-Yeah! I mean, define “okay,” but I, I'm not hurt or anything like — wait, how did you get here!? We’re way up in the air!”

Mario’s face already hurts from how wide he’s grinning. “Not anymore! And whaddya mean? What do ya think I’ve been doing all this time? Looking for you! You don’t think I could find you wherever you are, even if it’s a million miles in the air? Give your big bro some credit, eh?” 

A laugh bursts out of Luigi, surprised and shaky. Mario has missed that sound so much. “Right, right. I did think…I mean, I hoped, or…” His brother shakes his head, his voice failing him. He lets out a deep breath, so deep that it’s almost like he’s been holding it in ever since they were separated, still smiling like the sun. “I knew you would. Mario, you — look out!” 

Mario turns just as a hammer goes whizzing past his ear, tumbling down into the lava pit. He dodges the next one more capably and then catches the third one that comes his way. In one smooth, lightning-quick motion, he throws it back at the attacking Hammer Bro, nailing him in the face and knocking him out cold.

“Whoa!” He turns back to see Luigi staring with his mouth agape. “When did you learn how to do that?”

“It's kinda a long story!” There will be plenty of time to get into all the details about his adventure when he’s gotten Luigi safely out of an active warzone.  “What about you? I thought you were a prisoner here!” 

“I am! Or I was, I guess! We — me, and the penguins, and Lumalee,” he gestures wearily up overhead, where the blue star-thing is idly playing with a pinwheel that it somehow conjured out of thin air, “and the others — we broke out! We, ah, we’ve been trying to find a way outta here ever since, but this place is a maze and we need some kind of hot air balloon or one of those floating clown-car thingies to even get away in the first place, and—”

“Spinies at four o’clock!” One of the penguins shouts, at the same time that Mario yells “Luigi, on your left!”

Luigi jolts at the sight of the three spiky, spinning shells approaching fast. He jumps high enough to leapfrog right over them all, causing them to ricochet off the wall unexpectedly and careen off the side straight into the deep pit. 

“Nice, Weegie!” Mario cheers. “You always were the better jumper.” 

“Keep your head in the fight, soldier!” One specific penguin calls out to Luigi. He’s wearing a very fancy gold crown — probably their king? “We’re not done here yet!” 

“I know, I know, but look!” Luigi gestures excitedly across the chasm. “My brother’s here! He made it!”

“Good show! If he’s as brave as you said, he can help us beat back these dastardly troops once and for all! We’ll all see the light of day again soon!”

The rest of the penguins cheer, thrusting their flippers victoriously into the air, and then let out a wave of new, guttural battle cries. The Penguin King smiles over at Mario and salutes him before rejoining the fray. There are more of Bowser’s minions crowding the walkways on both sides, Mario realizes with a newfound wave of worry. He needs to get to Luigi now. 

“Stay right there!” He calls, starting to run alongside the railing. “Don’t move! I’m coming!”

“Are you kidding!? Wait!” Luigi starts running too, mirroring Mario. “I can meet you faster this way!” 

Mario laughs. “If you can keep up with me!” 

“You’re on!”

The road ahead of him is pure chaos, filled with attacking enemies and whooping Kongs and weapons flying every which way, but Mario runs. He runs until his heart burns, dodging and weaving, almost tripping here and there because he can’t stop looking over the gap to make sure Luigi’s still there on the other side, stumbling his way through his own gauntlet. The two areas are winding closer together, slowly but surely. They must meet somewhere. He’ll find it. He has to.

“Hey, Luigi!” He yells, breathless and happy. “Remember when we were fixing Mrs. McGrady’s sink a couple weeks ago and talking about the future? Did you imagine it’d be anything like this?” 

“Whaddya think!?” Luigi shouts back jokingly. “I-I mean, I imagined people being mad at us, but those were customers. There was definitely a lot less lava, and magic, and crazy green pipes that send you to places from your literal nightmares!” He laughs, which swiftly turns into a yelp when he has to dodge away from a red Koopa. The next words come out thicker, almost strained. “Mario, you, you’re really here, you — I missed you, I…”

Even with the distance and the distracting noise and the heavy breathing, Mario can hear the familiar tearing in his brother’s voice, and it pushes him to run faster. Luigi is so much braver than many people in their life have given him credit for, but he has a breaking point, and Mario can recognize it like the back of his own hand. Heck, he could use a good cry right about now too. They're so close. Just a little further.

He’s never been the biggest hugger — that title belongs squarely to Luigi, who always holds on a little too long, especially when Mario protests, swinging him up into the air until Mario has to grab him in a headlock and wrestle him down, both of them laughing by then — but he genuinely doesn’t know how he’s ever going to let go of his brother again once he’s within arm’s reach. 

“I missed you too! Every day!” He calls out, and if his voice cracks, well, that’s okay. “Hold on! It’s gotta be just up ahead!” There’s a solid wall coming up where they won’t be able to see each other across the way any longer, but the sharp curve of it looks extremely promising. “I’ll meet you on the other side!” 

“Okay!” 

The wall comes between them. Mario's finally in the clear, having left all the attackers in the dust. His legs and chest hurt, but it doesn’t matter. He's about to get his brother back. He feels invincible, unstoppable.

“I told you, bro!” He can’t hear Luigi at all any longer, but he shouts anyway, hoping the words reach him.  “Even if it didn’t turn out like we thought, it’s all gonna be okay! This is crazy stuff, but as long as we're—” 

Mario turns the corner and skids to a sharp stop. The words die in his throat, turning to ash.

Bowser is in front of him. 

The King of the Koopas nearly fills the entire space wall-to-wall, hulking and monstrous, even bigger than what Mario imagined. He breathes out an angry, deep growl that prickles at Mario’s skin, star-bright embers scattering in the air, the smell of burning getting stronger and stronger. But none of that is what Mario is focusing on. He’s frozen in place at the sight of Luigi, wriggling in one of Bowser’s gripped hands. A thick, scaly finger is coiled tight over his brother’s mouth too, keeping him from making any noise besides a variety of muffled, panicked sounds. 

“Thought you didn’t know him, Greenie,” Bowser says in a low voice to Luigi. “Wasn’t that what you said? Boy, you wouldn’t like what I usually do to liars. It involves fire — a lot of it.” His rows of sharp teeth part, just enough for a big exhale, tinged with molten heat. Luigi cringes, turning his head away as far as he can manage. He’s trembling. “But lucky for you, turns out you’re not entirely useless.”

It takes a moment for Mario to come back into his body, remember how to move and think. But slowly, his hands ball into fists. A voice erupts out of him that barely sounds like his own, grave and angry, angrier than he’s ever been in his life. 

“I’m only gonna say this once, ya overgrown turtle,” he says, shifting his footing into a fighting stance. “Let my brother go now.” 

Bowser looks down at him with a derisive sort of amusement for a long moment before laughing outright. "Give me a break, shortie! You’re even punier in person — 50 of you couldn't stop me. But that hasn’t stopped you from trying, has it? You and your little friends  — your pathetic excuse for an “army,” if that’s what you want to call it. But that all ends now.” 

As if on cue, Mario hears DK and a few other Kongs turn the corner, whooping and hollering, only to pause too at the sight of Bowser. “Let’s get ‘em! He can't take us all at once!” Someone says, and there’s a rush of new movement behind Mario. Bowser turns Luigi in his hand, holding him out a little closer to Mario with a shake of the wrist — a taunt. One of his claws pulls up just a little from the rest, the sharp tip arched and pressed lightly to his brother’s neck. The implication is clear. 

“Stop!” Mario shouts, half-strangled. He must sound serious enough that DK yells “hang on, hang on!” to his brethren, grabbing them with both arms and holding them back from attacking. On Bowser's other side, Mario can see the penguins watching what’s unfolding too with wide eyes. Even all the minions in the area have gone still, weapons lowered, waiting to see what Bowser does before making their next move. The space is suddenly quiet. 

The claw finally relaxes again. Luigi’s eyes are very wide, and there are tears on his face as he stares at Mario. He tries to say something, the sound of it hopelessly muffled against Bowser’s hand — an apology, or a plea, or simply Mario’s name. 

Mario is shaking. He grits his teeth hard, desperately tries to hold himself steady again. He hopes Bowser can’t see it — but there’s a gleam in the King’s eyes, and it couldn’t be any clearer that he does. 

“Do you know how long I worked on this plan?” Bowser says, his tone softer, more thoughtful all of a sudden.  “Orchestrating these invasions, gathering forces far and wide to serve me, taking the almighty power star for myself. I’ve wanted this for years!” His wide mouth curves up, plainly wicked and self-satisfied. “And now here I am, about to rule the world like I deserve, and a couple of useless, pipsqueak plumbers from who-knows-where think they’re just gonna waltz right in and ruin it for me.” Bowser chuckles to himself. It’s a dangerous, sharp-edged sound, echoing on and on. “Ain’t that a laugh, Mario?” 

Mario doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t even know if he’s breathing any longer. All he can do is glare.

Bowser shrugs. The large fingers on his occupied hand flex ever so slightly, a slow, malicious ripple of movement, all the scales glinting in a wave. “You’re less fun than I thought you’d be,” he says gruffly. "What does the princess even see in you? A tiny little killjoy who loves ruining things for others. Guess it’s only fair I ruin something of yours to make us even."

There’s no further warning or fanfare. In one brutal motion, Bowser crushes his grip tighter around Luigi. His brother’s mouth is still covered, but the way he cries out is starkly, unmistakably pained. 

Mario’s vision floods with red. Something inside of him, the patient, careful part that was still desperately clinging to one last scrap of self-control, snaps cleanly in two. He runs at Bowser full-speed, fist cocked back, teeth bared. 

“I said LET HIM GO!” 

He doesn’t make it there. Bowser, grinning outright, moves so much faster than Mario would have ever guessed he could. He spins, and his tail comes out of nowhere. The impact is like an oncoming train, catapulting Mario into the nearby wall with a sickening crack.

There’s a horrible ringing sound in his ears. His head hurts. He hears Bowser laugh, followed by a roar and a burst of fire breath, awful-smelling and close enough to singe. There’s a lot of shouting, and panic, and thunderous footsteps, moving in a hurry. He can’t think any longer. Why can’t he think? All that comes to mind is—

(They’re fifteen, hiding in their bedroom with some smuggled bandages and antibiotics from the medicine cabinet because if their mom finds out Mario punched out a kid behind the school, she will LITERALLY murder him. Luigi wraps each bruised knuckle carefully as Mario winces and complains about the stinging ointment. His brother looks angrier than he’s ever seen him before, though, and that makes him quiet again in a hurry.)

“You want him so bad?” Bowser is much further away, his voice a distant rumble over the flickering flames. Get up, Mario tells himself. He’s gasping, struggling to push himself back up with useless, trembling hands. His legs feel numb. Get up! “Then come and get ‘em already!”

(“You never stop and THINK first, y’know?” Luigi shakes his head, badly trying to hide the tears budding under his eyes. “And now you’re hurt, and it’s all my fault, and — and I don’t need you to do stuff like that for me! I can handle it, e-even if you think I can’t!”) 

“Mario!” That’s Luigi, terrified and wheezing, finally able to talk again. An intentional decision by Bowser, no doubt, just to be cruel. Mario can barely hear his brother at all, and the sound of his voice keeps growing fainter. “No! Let go! MARIO!” 

(“What are you even saying? That’s not why I did it at all!” Mario insists, using his uninjured hand to flick Luigi’s nose with a few fingers. His affronted expression at that makes Mario laugh, and the motion quickly turns into them trying to be the first one to swat each other in the face without getting blocked. At least the tears are forgotten, which is what he wanted from the start. “Don’t ya get it? I know you can take care of yourself. But if anyone wants to hurt you, they’re gonna have to go through me first. I’M the big bro, and that’s just how it is forever.”) 

Luigi! 

He’s standing again, even as his body protests every pull and push of the way, even as he’s still struggling to open his eyes. Someone strong and furry offers some extra support on his right side. 

“You okay, man?” Donkey Kong asks. “Geez, that looked like it hurt. Hey, anyone have an extra mushroom?” 

Stars are flashing across his vision, but finally they fade away. There’s a line of fire in front of them like a makeshift barrier, slowly but steadily dying out. Sure enough, Bowser and Luigi are gone. Mario’s heart lurches hard against his ribs.

“Setting a devious trap for sure,” The Penguin King grouses from further away. “Using one’s own flesh and blood! Does that dastardly Koopa’s depravity know no limits?” 

“I’m fine. Never better,” Mario groans. He points past the fire. “He went that way, right?” 

DK blinks, looking a little uneasy. “Uh, yeah, but we should probably regroup first and — hey! Wait a second, you idiot!”

Mario’s already charged full-speed ahead, jumping over the flames. Others yell after him too, saying it's too dangerous, but he’s running anyway, chasing the smell of molten heat, the faint, far-off echoes of yelling that feel like pinpricks in his lungs. 

He knows it’s a trap. He knows. He just doesn’t care.

He already let Luigi literally slip through his hands once before. Heck, he isn’t sure if he’ll ever be able to forgive himself for that alone. No matter where he has to go, who he has to fight, how much abuse he has to take, he's getting Luigi back right now, and he's gonna pound that overgrown bully's face until he regrets every life decision that led to him daring to hurt Mario's little brother.

It can't be too late. He can't have screwed this up again. He'll do anything. Even if...

The feeling of something on his cap startles him out of the thought — the softest boop-boop-boop, like someone very small is bouncing on it. He assumes he’s just imagining things until the blue star-thing (Lumalee?) floats down further, easily keeping up with his top speed, humming what sounds like a lullaby. Mario gawks in its direction. 

“The biggest sacrifices are often the ones that burn the brightest, out in space,” it says, bright and sing-song. “Did you know that?”

“What are you even talking about!?” Mario yells. “Sorry, but I’m a little busy here!” 

It’s unbothered by that, twirling close enough to give his mustache a little, playful poke. “Not existing any longer is natural, inevitable. We all go into the light someday.” The way it’s staring at Mario is unnerving, as though this little, creepy star knows exactly what he was just thinking about. “You look scared of that. Are you?” 

Mario swallows thickly. 

“No,” he says. “If that’s the only way, then…” His eyes are burning at the edges, just a little. “If the people I love are safe, then it doesn’t matter what happens to me.”

Lumalee smiles a dreamy, thoughtful smile.

“Oh,” it sighs, little more than a breath. “This is going to be so much fun.” 

And then it floats away. 

Mario doesn’t have time to stop and wonder what that was all about. He throws himself deeper and deeper into the airship, even when a heavy metal gate slams down behind him to separate him from the others, even when the slabs of rock under his feet sink down into the lava from the weight and don’t resurface, erasing any way out. Mario thinks of his training, of Princess Peach and Toad cheering him on, of the exhilaration and hope he felt looking out over the Rainbow Road, of Luigi smiling in the warp zone right before they were ripped apart. He steels himself for what’s coming next.

Further ahead, he hears his brother call out for him.

Mario runs.

[schalotte]

just finished a really bad horror novel <3

[hauntingblue]

I cant believe I am already on fem law... this happened like 2 days ago I cannot do it....

[daydreamerdrew]

Captain America (2005) #9

[scarletdreamers]

Can we, for a second, think about the fact that Hannibal dressed Will before he carried him home through the snow?

Will is naked when he's about to get the face surgery from Cordell. We see a scene of him in the operation chair where he's shirtless, lower body covered by a hospital blanket. Hannibal, who cut himself free from the ropes that were holding him captive on Muskrat farm, who then killed a large sum of Mason's staff including trained security and surgeons, saves him before Will's face gets removed. This all happens off-screen. The next scene is Hannibal carrying Will (bridal style) through the snow. In this scene Will is dressed, including a jacket for the cold and all that. Imagine Hannibal, the violent beast we saw when he killed Mason's men, blood probably still on his hands, finding Will there. Unconscious, and then dressing him. Dressing someone is a very intimate thing, especially someone unconscious. It requires care and gentleness. That, and knowing how to handle a body and loving someone enough to dress them while they don't need to be. He buttoned his buttons for him, tied his shoes, put him in a jacket to make sure he wouldn't get cold - I mean, Hannibal himself doesn't even wear a jacket in that scene. There's blood and wounds all over Hannibal's face, he's exhausted and probably the one in the most physical danger, yet he takes care of Will before he takes care of himself.

This hits even harder if you think about why they ended up in Muskrat farm in the first place. In Florence, Hannibal tried to 'eat' Will. He tried to split his head open with a bone saw. That intense violence, the grotesque and desperate nature of those actions makes a perfect and sharp contrast to him saving Will after outside forces try to take their lives, which is a heroically gentle and intimate action. He didn't have to dress him up like that, he didn't have to carry him that way, but he did. Hannibal fails to kill Will in Florence, and with that he fails his last attempt to get rid of his feelings for Will. Or at least, to make his feelings bearable. He thinks that he can control himself better when Will is dead, so he tries to kill him but he fails. Not because he's stopped, but simply because he can't do it. If Hannibal wanted him dead, Will would have been dead. Mason's men only interrupted his theatrics. They gave him a reason to put away the saw and act like it was purely their fault, but then Will is in danger at the farm and Hannibal does everything in his power to save him and get him home safe and well. At home he takes off his jacket, literally lays him in bed and tucks him in. He covers Will with a blanket, he tries to write mathematical formulas to reverse time and cleans his wounds. That's why Will's rejection when he wakes up is so tragic and hard to watch. It breaks Hannibal, unbreakable and inhuman Hannibal Lecter. It simply hurts him enough to break his heart. It breaks him enough to give up everything he ever lived for and surrender to the FBI, which he spent a lifetime running from. He does this because when he decided to save Will, he realised he would never get over the things he felt for him. In Hannibal's mind, the worst thing that can happen is never seeing Will again. He finally realised that, after everything, and that's why he surrenders to the FBI.

Hannibal honey, you don't want to eat his brain. You just wanted him to love you.

It's subtle details like this that always stick to me afterwards. It's just another thought I had and I felt like sharing.

[xenteaart]

the hard way

pairing: vampire!chris x to be vampire!reader genre/warnings: dark romance, mean chris, angst? kinda dead dove, mentions of death, blood and a lil gore (not too graphic tho imo), it's okay in the end??? and they're in love plot: reader is getting turned into a vampire and it's not as cool as she imagined author’s note: obvsly heavily inspired by railway and that SPITTING SCENE. idk it's prolly gonna flop but i wanted to picture that process and a not so hot side of it

“no.” “why not?!” “because i told you so a million times already. we’re not discussing this.” chris spits out and furrows, growing more agitated with each passing second.

“what, you don’t want me to be equal to you?” you ponder desperately while your mind searches for any, any reason at all as to why chris won’t turn you. it’s been getting to you for the last couple of months, and you’re sure you’ve gone through every possible explanation your troubled brain could come up with: he doesn’t love you. he doesn’t wanna spend eternity with you. or maybe it’s a power thing. or, or, or...? this endless cycle of worry and uncertainty has been keeping you on edge for way too long to think clearly now. “gosh, it has nothing to do with equality,” he rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “what is it then?” “drop it.” you snap. “we’ll have to find out the hard way, then.”

you grab the nearest kitchen knife, and it turns out to be the one you use for cutting meat, a chef’s knife as they call it. how fitting. chris barely has enough time to catch up with your madness infused impulse, and when he turns his gaze back to you, the knife is already deep in your guts.

you thought it was gonna be romantic or somewhat dramatic at least. something from the movies where he sinks his vampire teeth into your neck, and just like magic — your eyes flash bright red, announcing the beginning of a new life.

“you dumb bitch,” he exhales shakily and somehow manages to catch you in time because the sharp pain in your stomach makes you lose your balance instantly. you’re still bitter and angry in the heat of the argument and you expect him to be the same way, but when you glance up, chris looks nothing but panicked. “that’s a new look on him,” you think, and it confuses you.

chris growls and sinks to his knees, carefully holding you and trying to move as fast as possible. what you don’t know is that turning can only be done in around thirty seconds since fatal injury. that might explain the rushing and chris’s pure bambi eyes panic but your consciousness is already starting to drift away to hold onto that train of thought.

chris bites into his wrist with unmasked fury, tearing and ripping his own veins even though using a knife would have been much cleaner. probably less painful, too. “swallow. now! come on, don’t you fall asleep on me now, focus!” he grabs your face and presses hard on the jaw joints, making you open your mouth like a puppet doll.

the sickly metallic taste of your own blood at the back of your throat from the internal bleeding mixes up with chris’s thick blood that he generously spits into your mouth, and you want to throw up. your head feels dizzy as your eyelids are getting heavier, your hearing suddenly fails completely as if someone turned the volume down from ten to zero. limbs are falling weak, and the pins and needles in them are so, so far from pleasant.

the thing about turning is... you actually have to die first. be fully, completely gone to be able to come back changed and corrupted, turned to the extent of your DNA having been violently rewritten. that you did not think through enough. the muscles in your throat contract almost on reflex, swallowing and gagging on the gooey salty substance, making your chest heave while coughing strangles you further. the tingles and nausea are so overwhelming and all consuming you actually catch yourself thinking dying would be a relief now. and then it follows as you wished.

you doze off for god knows how long but, by the looks of it, it can’t have been more than a few minutes because as you regain consciousness, chris is still looming over you, his own blood fresh on his lips. he’s blurry, though, everything is.

“come on, suck on me. c’mon, baby, there we go,” he coos as he brings his wrist to your lips, forcefully pressing it into your mouth and leaving you with little to no choice. the phrasing, unlike usual, doesn’t sound dirty or hot now, more like a life-saving command while you’re still so out it. it feels good, though, chris’s blood.

it doesn’t taste so metallic and gross anymore, and the texture feels almost soothing on your dry throat, like hot honey milk on a friday evening. suck, gulp, suck, gulp, suck, it almost lulls you back into serenity, some primal instinct of being attached to your only life line, finding comfort in someone’s warmth and touch and taste.

you wonder how much you’ve drunk already and whether chris will have anything left but you’re so, so thirsty you can’t even bring yourself to care.

what finally makes you stop is the sudden sharp ache in your gums. it feels so piercing the aftershocks are almost reaching your brain and eye sockets, and as you feel your old teeth fall out, a pair of longer fangs cuts through and settles into the upper teeth row. hot tears are stinging your eyes and you whine like a wounded deer, still unable to speak properly. it’s all too much, and you start to regret what you’ve done, and maybe, just maybe that’s why chris so passionately refused to put you through it. this kind of hunger and the animalistic, blood thirst driven rage were never something he wanted to inflict upon you.

your entire body is shaking but it’s not really a fearful tremor, more like restlessness, a new sort of “itch” somewhere deep, deep inside that you’ve never experienced before, the feeling so intense and soul wrenching you simply can’t disobey it. it makes you want to jump up and run.

“don’t worry, i’ll teach you how to handle it.” chris cups your face after taking off his leather gloves so you can feel the comfort of his actual skin. the touch is calming, but barely enough compared to that growing desire and need to satisfy the itch. “you stupid crazy cunt, why do you never listen,” he whispers into your forehead, his lips lightly brushing over your cold sweat covered skin, as he holds you closer, squeezing you against his chest in a protective manner, though the real danger to yourself is now planted within you.