#piece of cake he will eviscerate her

[pidges-lost-robot]

I think Hunk and Keith love to just stand there as Lance and Pidge fucking roast the everloving shit out of each other and wonder whether people can just be nice and get along instead

(They are both hypocrites)

[mylifeisactuallyamess]

A Memory

Pairing: Dream of the Endless x F!Reader

A/N: I’m on a writing hiatus. Yes I am. But I also needed to get this out because I was all kinds of sad yesterday. Anyway as usual it’s unbeta’d and probably terrible.

Summary: Lord Morpheus helps you relive a memory that you cherish.

Warnings: children, child loss, sadness, grief and a brief suicide mention.

Word Count: 1275

You knew the door bell was about to ring and people you hadn’t seen in years were going to come piling through the door all smiles and laughter. Today was a joyful day and yet, you carried a heavy sadness within you. It was like an old friend by now; coexisting with such a weight had been a burden at first but you eventually accepted it for what it was. A part of you.

Your eyes rose at the sound of someone entering the kitchen. She was beautiful, glowing with the radiance of the day as she pottered about the kitchen humming a tune you knew intimately. Warm air wafted from outside but you knew it wasn’t going to last.

Pushing away from the counter your feet were silent on the cream kitchen tiles. You saw the garden was laid out with pillows for the children around a long, low table, cups, plates and hats of various pastel shades were arranged neatly for each place setting. To the side was a white gazebo, balloons waved gently in the summer breeze and you saw the cake standing tall and grand ready for the birthday girl. Unicorns danced between rainbows, clouds fluffy and white filled the gaps and your hand slid up the column of your throat as though to try and strangle the emotion that threatened to burst forth.

The doorbell went. A faint tinkling you would be able to tell from any other doorbell. Voices drifted towards you, voices so happy they carried through the house. Peeking round the edge of the gazebo you saw your family spill into the garden. Your mum, your sister, her kids, your brother. They were all complimentary, eyes taking in every detail and pointing out items on the cake.

Then you heard her. The sound of her voice alone could bring you to your knees. Hair almost unnaturally black it was so dark and eyes so rich with the depth of an old soul. She was your heart, your one true love; a piece of you walking around as her own person.

She darted between the family, brushing past you and she grabbed her grandparents hand in excitement. It’s my birthday today! Yes, it was her birthday. A day you held onto and cherished. A memory you hoped would never fade but as time marched on it became harder and harder to recall the finer details.

More people arrived. Children and their parents; your friends. Hugs were given to out, presents piled on the table and food was passed to the small ones. Music played in the background, the adults had drinks and you remembered feeling so pleased with yourself that you were a good host that day.

Part of you didn’t want to watch because it hurt. The pain of seeing yourself so happy and light compared to who you were now was soul shatteringly painful. You were so naïve, oblivious to what was just around the corner.

But still, you stood with everyone else, your cracked voice blending with the rest of you family as you sung your perfect girl happy birthday. One last time.

Tears trickled down the smoothness of your cheeks and with a sigh of irritation you wiped them away. You wanted to see her, to commit her face to your memory all over again. To sketch the scent of her into yourself, to record her laughter so you could play it whenever you needed to just hear her.

The pain of missing her was crippling. It eviscerated you in more ways than one and it had nearly cost you your life. But he had saved you at the last moment. Shown you what he could do to keep you afloat, because in part, he felt like he had inflicted this on you.

Your mum was cutting the cake and you were dotting your daughters cheeks with blue frosting, making her nose scrunch up in the most delicious way. Abruptly you turned. You wanted to leave, it was becoming too much to handle.

Your breath hitched loudly. A sob crawled up your throat and tensed your muscles as it went. Eyes swam with his own sorrow stared at you. He was in a long black coat that settled gently over his boots. Hands nestled in his pockets and you knew they held his sand and his ruby, never ever wanting to be parted from them. His dark hair, so much like the little girl behind you; raven black and otherworldly. Your teary gaze travelled over his form, drinking him in like you were dying of thirst wondering now, after all this time he’d finally come back. Emotion so evident and deep, rippled across his handsome features when he saw how much you were suffering. His boots didn’t leave depressions in the lush grass as he strode forward, his arms encircling you in a tight embrace.

Here you let go. Releasing all the rush of emotions you needed to free. Tears welled from your eyes, soaking into the black t-shirt that he always wore. Fists curled into the fabric like you were trying to pull him into you until you became one person. Surely you were hurting him but he didn’t utter a sound. Resting his cheek on the top of your head as you fell apart against him, his hands holding you together with a reverence you didn’t deserve. You thought he was going to end the dream and take you somewhere else to calm you down.

Instead the heavens opened.

Rain fell hard and fast, soaking you both in minutes but still the joyful sound of the party was continuing. Slowly you dared to glance over your shoulder and what you saw sobered you a little. It was raining everywhere, dark clouds roiling in the sky in response to Dream’s inner turmoil but where your daughter was eating her cake was untroubled. The sun still shone on her and her family. It lit her up in a blaze of warmth you couldn’t feel and you thought it was fitting.

Her parents, aching deeply forever from her loss out in the dark and wet. And she, so glorious and the only light they had in their lives was endlessly bathed in gold.

Dream’s coat was wrapped around you, cradling you in its starry but comforting grasp. Numbness crept through your body and you knew it was time to leave. Looking up at the Endless you waited for him to tear his gaze from his daughter and look down at you.

“Thank you.” It was all you could manage but you knew he could feel everything you wanted to say. You saw it manifest in his blue eyes, the way his expression shifted as he too, couldn’t speak words. Staring into his eyes was a journey, at first they were blue and human but the longer you looked the more they became something else. Darkness crept into his irises, stars and the velveteen night drew you in, spiralling around you as everything began to fade to background noise.

Nodding wordlessly you gave him permission to take you away and the last thing you felt was the whisp of sand as it stroked your cheek in a tender farewell.

[watermelonlipstick]

Dreams, Chapter 3

If you haven’t read this series before, you might want to start on Chapter 1, or check out the Dreams Masterlist! Here’s the series description:

When Dean dies for good leaving Sam and his girlfriend (the reader) behind, they must figure out how to carry on without him. Alone, reeling, and unsure what to do next, trying to honor Dean’s memory and follow their hearts gets even more complicated when their nightmares become dreams that feel a little too real.

Title: Dreams, Chapter 3

Pairing: (past) Dean Winchester x Reader, (eventual) Sam Winchester x Reader

Word Count: 2344

Summary: It’s Christmas in Wisconsin for Sam and the reader.

Warnings: angst (sensing a theme here), alcohol, slow burn

           Christmas Eve was a Thursday, which meant you were working. You’d predicted it would be slow, but there were big chunks of time where no one was in the bar at all. Christmas carols on the radio helped pass the time, and you drank a little more of the almost-coquito you’d thrown together in the back at the beginning of the shift than you needed to. It reminded you of your aunt and the way she’d smell of coconut through Boxing Day every year when you were growing up; welcome nostalgia you could tolerate like pressing a thumb into a bruise and distracted you from the evisceration of thinking of Dean. The day shift had left the bar understocked, so Sam spent a good amount of time going up and down the stairs refilling refrigerators and cutting fruit for drinks. Around 10 or 11 the people who didn’t want to wrap up the night when their in-laws went home straggled in, a handful of regulars that you generally liked but had a tendency to get a little rowdy when left alone together. It didn’t help that they showed up a few drinks in.

           The merriment was infectious, and it was sweet to hear grown men proud of the gifts they’d gotten their loved ones. One even brought a few bottles of homemade maple syrup to give to the others, sliding one sheepishly across the bar to you. You were pouring out a round of coquito when Sam came up from the basement with a towel tossed over his shoulder.

           “Everything should be good,” he sighed, running a hand through his hair. He hadn’t cut it in months and the ends fell gracefully around his shoulders. A piece fell oddly across his forehead and you reflexively fixed it for him.

           “What did you two get each other?” a regular, Steve, asked with a relaxed finger pointing between you and Sam. His cheeks were ruddy with whiskey and winter air.

           “Oh. I—uh, we don’t really do gifts,” Sam offered placatingly.

           “Man, where did you find this girl? Listens to classic rock, drives a stick shift, and doesn’t ‘do gifts’?” another, Joe, added.

           “You better be buying her some presents or someone else will.” Jake, a customer you’d always felt safe around since he tossed out a rude guy for you a month back, chimed in.

           You and Sam had never explicitly said that you were together. People just assumed, and it was easier to go along with it than explain the truth, especially because you didn’t look similar enough to be siblings and you still couldn’t shake your need to cling to him from time to time. It was almost never an issue aside from periodic mild teasing. This Christmas talk was a departure from the non-explanations you and Sam usually gave and you found yourself waiting for a cue on where to go. Sam seemed to be having the same thought, rubbing the back of his neck nervously.

           You spoke before the moment had a chance to become too pregnant. “You know how hard it is to buy presents for a guy who doesn’t like having stuff? If he buys me something, I’ll have to get him something too!” You hoped it sounded smooth, your lying out of practice in the months since you’d had a cover on a hunt. Sam smirked gratefully at you.  

           Joe shook his head wistfully. “Seriously, where did you find her?”

           “She’s pretty great, isn’t she?” Sam’s voice sounded sort of soft around the edges, almost like he was tired but not quite. When you looked up at him, that pebble of self-consciousness you’d felt at the hardware flipped in your stomach again and you glanced away in favor of a one-armed hug you intended to look affectionate. Sam did the same, encompassing your entire shoulder with his hand.

           When you drove home that night, warm and full of coquito, Sam played Christmas carols.

           “I think we should do gifts.”

           It was the first thing you thought when you woke up, and you said it into Sam’s chest as you laid there before you opened your eyes. You could tell from the rhythm of his breathing that he wasn’t all the way asleep.

           “Hmm?”

           “I think we should do gifts. We should really do Christmas if we’re going to do it, and that means presents. What do you think?”

           You felt as much as you saw out of the corner of your drowsy eyes that Sam raised his unpinned arm to rub the sleep out of his. “Mmm, okay? I mean if that’s what you want.”

           “Thank you,” you said as you nestled deeper into him.

           “‘S already Christmas though.” Sleep pulled Sam’s words together like taffy.

           “It can be goofy stuff; I just think we should open presents under a tree and everything. Seems like the kind of thing we should do, you know? Like trying to be normal.” You couldn’t bear saying out loud what you meant, that Dean would’ve wanted presents and stockings and eggnog and Santa hats and a big roast if he could’ve, to fall asleep after watching the stars glitter off of falling snow.

           Sam heard anyway.

           “You’re right,” Sam murmured. He rubbed your upper arm absentmindedly.

           “I’ll wake you back up when the bathroom’s free,” you offered, carefully rolling over him to get out of the bed. He nodded with closed eyes and flopped over onto his stomach.

           About an hour later, a wet haired Sam slid into the Impala’s driver side and rubbed his hands together to warm them up. You could tell from the puffiness around his eyes and his overcompensating casual tone that he’d been crying. He set his phone to pipe Your Inner Fish through the stereo and backed down the driveway over snow tamped down over the last week.

           It had been years since you’d gone Christmas shopping, as much as this could be considered Christmas shopping. The town you’d settled in had exactly 7 businesses on a tiny main street, including 1 small inn, a grocery store, the hardware store, a coffee shop (the most reliable internet in town, much faster than your place) and 3 different places to get a burger. You met Sam in the grocery store after grabbing what you wanted from next door in hardware, catching him just as he came out carrying a bag with a long pipe of wrapping paper stretching far past the top. When you left, there were only two other cars in the parking lot grabbing their own last-minute things.

           You wrapped your presents on the bed. It wasn’t like riding a bike as you’d hoped it would be, and your sloppy corners started you down a mental spiral. What a completely asinine thing, wrapping hardware store presents to put under a stolen tree. This wasn’t the Rockwell painting you wanted to present as sacrifice to Dean’s memory. It was cheap and stupid, a sloppy high school production when Dean deserved Broadway. He always had. As much as the three of you had never really done Christmas, Dean knew how to make something special while maintaining the air of not caring. You remembered waking up on his made-up anniversaries: six months from the first time you kissed, three years since he realized he loved you (three years minus 53 days before he said anything), 14 months since you’d figured out how to put a gun back together in the dark. Even in the most podunk little towns he’d find gorgeous bouquets and put together great meals in tiny kitchenettes; drive miles away to pick up a cake for Sam’s birthday or pepper motel rooms with festive streamers and silly string. Two quick, hard breaths through your nose to collect yourself and you finished the wrapping. That would have to be good enough.

           Sam was crouched in front of the fireplace with a bellows, a plucky little fire kicking into gear with his help. “All yours,” you called out, grateful your voice didn’t crack.

           “Thanks. It’ll only be a second.”

           He was right, and came back to you on the couch in only a few minutes with two wrapped bundles. You shyly handed him what you’d wrapped and took his.

           “Uh, Merry Christmas I guess,” Sam said. You noticed the edge of discomfort in his voice and were sickly grateful not to be alone in your tentativeness as you popped open the scotch tape holding the paper on the rectangular package. Before you’d uncovered it, Sam had his first gift unwrapped.

           “Nice! They had these at the hardware store?” he asked, snapping open the clamshell package on the cheap purple noise-cancelling earbuds you’d picked up.

           “I’m sure they’ll sound like they were made underwater, but I figured you could hide them pretty easily if you wanted to wear them at work, listen to your podcasts while you restock or whatever.”

           “That’s a really good idea.” He looked down at the headphones considerately for a beat.

           You pulled the paper off your present to reveal a notebook and two ballpoint pens. It had a leatherette flexible plastic cover that felt smooth under your fingertips and was about the size of a standard hardcover novel. You opened it to see inside, and a few photos dropped out.

           “I just—you didn’t have any—I can take them back if you want,” Sam stammered, but you heard him as if through those checkout-aisle headphones while your eyes blurred. These were pictures you hadn’t seen for years. The one on top of the loose stack in your lap was outside Bobby’s house. It felt like a lifetime ago, leaning over the railing of the small porch to kiss Dean as he stood on the ground in a sweaty t-shirt covered in engine grease. Under that was one you remembered used to be the background of an old phone, where you, Sam, and Dean huddled together in a booth at some bar you’d forgotten the name of in Montana that had girls dressed up as mermaids swim around in big tanks, part of the same theme that explained the blue fishbowl drink partly out of frame in Dean’s hands. There was one you didn’t recall with you and Dean stretched out on a nondescript motel couch, his arm protectively covering you as you coiled up into his side, both clearly asleep from the closed eyes and slightly parted lips. The last was a picture you hadn’t seen since the last time you went to Jody’s house; it had touched you then to see it hanging up on the wall, you carrying Dean piggyback while Sam clutched his knees laughing. It was the same day Claire had turned 16 and you had no idea why you’d needed to convince Dean you could carry him, but the whole thing had ended up with everyone rolling on the ground, grabbing at laugh-opened rib pains for what felt like blissful hours.

           You weren’t surprised at the silent tears that were pouring gently down your face, but wiped at them harshly with your sleeve so they wouldn’t drip. “Sam—” you croaked. “I don’t…I didn’t—thank you. How did you find these?”

           “They had an instant photo printer at the grocery store. I’ve had a flash drive with some stuff on it for a while.”

           You passed through each picture again, studying them like the gospel. It was almost hard to match the photos to the memories, memories having been replayed and multiplied and color-saturated in your mind over and over again, too big to fit into these little pieces of cardstock. But Dean was so beautiful, and you all looked so happy.

           “It’s supposed to help to write about how you’re feeling, so I thought…” Sam trailed off.

           “It’s perfect. I—thank you, Sam.” You met his eyes, stormy blue-green and taking on an amber reflection off of the fire. He looked nervous and almost guilty, like he had miscalculated and hurt you. Carefully slipping the photos back into the notebook, you set it on the table like it was made of crystal and threw your arms around Sam to tuck into him, knowing you were crying through his shirt but unable to stop. You realized you were murmuring thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou into the crook of his neck at the same time you felt the wetness of his tears onto your shoulder. Pulling him in tighter, you slunk back into the arm of the couch behind you. Sam slotted into the curve of your body, wrapping around your torso with powerful, gentle arms. His hair was silken when you began to stroke it, feeling his wracking sobs against your chest. It was impossible to gauge the amount of time it took for both of you to stop crying, skin slick and hot against each other on the old couch as your bodies hardened together like a mold. You felt dried out and sore and wouldn’t have pulled away from Sam if you’d had a gun to your head.

           “Man, and we were doing so well,” you hummed into Sam’s hair.

           “Were we?” Sam asked, and it was all you could do to laugh. Sam laughed too, the emotional and physical fatigue of it blending between you in the air. He adjusted his arm and you could feel the span of his hand across your lower back. The two of you sat there for a few more moments before you gathered up enough courage to let go of him.

           “Want to open the other one?”

           Sam nodded against your chest and slowly extricated himself, running a hand through his messed-up hair and rubbing his neck as he reached for the other present you’d gotten him. He tore through the paper unceremoniously and smiled down at the shoe repair glue and new boot laces. “You saw they split, didn’t you?”

           You smiled back at him. “Would’ve just gotten you a new pair of boots but, you know, late notice. Maybe this’ll buy you some time.”

           He handed you his second gift from the coffee table. Inside the foil-adorned wrapping paper were three bags of gummy worms.

-

Continue to Dreams, Chapter 4

Thanks again for reading! If you liked it, check out my Masterlist or send me a request!

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[mischiefandspirits]

Colony of Gotham (4/7)

The Colony of Gotham is an urban legend that is whispered about in the dangerous city. It’s said the Colony is a family of demons and spirits that stalk the night, hunting for the souls of the guilty.

When Bruce became Batman, he’d never intended to be mistaken for a demon. He was happy to lean into it, though, and as he gained his partners – as his family grew – they all followed suit.

First Part ~ Previous Part ~ Next Part

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

For the record: the Flash and Aquaman in the story are Wally West and Kaldur'ahm, which is why they're referred to as second-generation JL. Kon has also passed on the Superboy title to Jon and taken on his own name.

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

Selina found Carrie Kelley when the girl was attacked on her way home from her gymnastics class by a group of older boys. The woman ran them off then checked the girl over. She asked why the girl was walking alone and was annoyed to discover the girl’s parents had forgotten to pick her up from class, and not for the first time. Apparently, she usually would have gotten a ride from her teacher after pretending her parents called to ask, but he had left early because of an emergency and the assistant teacher took the train.

As Selina escorted her home, she tried not to think about how much Carrie reminded her of herself.

She still found herself waiting outside the gym two days later when the girl’s class ended. She watched Carrie wait for nearly half an hour before Selina moved to talk to her. She was surprised when Dick appeared moments later. She’d known the gym was the one he worked at, but it hadn’t occurred to her Dick might be the girl’s teacher.

The two swapped notes after Dick drove the girl home and began an investigation. Selina was half-tempted to just spirit the girl away, but kept things to the legal side of the tracks in the end. Mostly thanks to Dick.

Soon enough, she was the proud adoptive mother of Carrie Kyle. She hadn’t planned on taking in the girl permanently when going into it, but she knew she trusted the system even less with the girl thanks to her own experiences with it. Besides, even if she didn’t know how to parent, she had a wonderful fiancé who had all kinds of kids. One was already even attached to the girl. It’d be a piece of cake.

That confidence lasted a week, at which point she heard a news report about some heiress getting kidnapped while Carrie was at school and the anxiety kicked in. She probably should have called Bruce to talk about it. Instead, she panicked and took Carrie aside when she got home to tell her about vampirism. She then asked if Carrie wanted to be turned.

Carrie, thrilled to have this in common with her new mother, agreed immediately.

Once the girl was sleeping through the transformation, Selina calmed down enough to realize she maybe overreacted and called Dick. Unfortunately, Jason had answered the phone for his brother and put it on speaker without letting her know, which meant he heard everything she said and proceeded to spill her sins to the entire Colony like the little hellion he was.

All of the Colony eagerly accepted the girl into her new life, except Damian.

Something had been gnawing at the boy, and Carrie’s turning brought it to the surface.

Damian was his father’s only child by blood. By right, he should be a vampire. But as his mother was human, he was born human. He knew that vampirism was no more important to being considered family than it was to being a competent vigilante, but it still felt as if it were one more reason he fell short compared to his brothers. He was not chosen as they were. They had had years with his father before he had even met the man, before he had even been born in Dick’s case. And they had all been claimed into his vampiric clan. True, neither Tim nor Duke had been turned by his father just like most of their non-sibling family, but they were still related through vampiric magic.

Damian was not.

Gathering himself up, Damian met his father in his study to request to be turned.

Bruce said no. He wanted Damian to be older before he made a decision like that. When Damian pointed out he and Carrie were the same age and Cass was younger while Tim had been the same age as him when he was turned, Bruce reminded him that none of them had been turned by Bruce. If he had had the choice, he would have made them all wait as well. Damian’s anger grew as his father refused to budge even under his arguments about the life experience he already had and the fact he should have been born a vampire to begin with.

Damian ended up marching off in a fury.

The next time someone saw him was that night when Wally, Artemis, and Dick got back to their shared Blüdhaven apartment from dinner to find the boy sharpening a dagger on their couch. Wally gave the boy a cheerful hello and ruffled his hair, not noticing when the boy was only held back from stabbing his hand by a look from Dick. He did hear Damian’s threat to eviscerate him, but laughed it off as he usually did. Artemis gave the boy a wider birth as she followed Wally into their bedroom.

Dick sat down next to him, but before he could ask him what was wrong, Damian demanded to be turned. While Dick would have been happy to help his baby brother, he had a feeling there was more to it. After a bit of digging, Damian admitted that Bruce wouldn’t turn him so Dick had to. Trying to play mediator, Dick told him he would talk to Bruce and if that didn’t work they could come back to the conversation.

The boy thankfully agreed as Dick knew he would -- he knew his brother really wanted Bruce to be the one to do it -- so Dick went to change while Artemis turned on a movie and Wally slipped into the kitchen to make Damian something to eat. Dick sent Bruce a quick message to tell him where Damian was and that they needed to talk. Afterward, once his brother was fed and Wally finished off the leftovers, they played a few card games until it was time to put Damian to bed in the guest room.

The next morning, Dick and Bruce went back and forth over the phone for an hour before Dick’s voice began to grow loud enough for Wally, Artemis, and Damian to hear him out in the living room. Wally stepped in at that point to help Dick calm down. Cuddled up to his boyfriend, he managed to stay calm enough to get his point across.

He understood that Bruce wanted Damian to be older when he made the choice, but there really wasn’t a choice for Damian at the end of the day. He was a child who wanted nothing more than to feel like he was accepted by his family and that family was made of vampires.

So Dick gave Bruce a choice: either Bruce turned him or Dick would. He gave his father until the end of the week before hanging up.

He then proceeded to spend the following fifteen minutes with his face buried in Wally’s neck.

“Bruce is going to kill me!”

All Wally could do was pat him on the back because honestly, Bruce could be really scary when he tried. Especially when it came to his kids.

Damian stayed with the trio during the week. Meanwhile, Jason was giving Bruce the cold shoulder and hiding out at Artemis Grace’s empty flat. Tim and Duke had made it clear they were siding with Damian, but otherwise kept their opinions to themselves. Barbara, Kate, the Kyles, and the Rows had elected to stay out of the argument altogether.

Stephanie and Bette had teamed up to leave a bunch of pamphlets and essays about the importance of teaching body autonomy on the desk of Bruce’s study, under his pillows, in the pockets of his suit jackets, on the desk in his office at work, and in the cowl of his suit.

Only Damian and Dick were at the apartment when Bruce showed up at the end of the week since Wally had work and Artemis had monitor duty. Both sons were anxious when their father first entered, but relaxed when he set his hand on Dick’s shoulder and squeezed it lightly. He admitted that he still thought Damian should wait, but if it was what he wanted, Bruce would support them both. Despite a bit of disappointment still lingering, Damian gave him a small smile before Dick pulled them into a group hug.

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

It was nearly eight months after Dick turned Damian that Robin finally got his secret twin back.

People had whispered for years about a relationship between Gotham’s demon and the infamous cat burglar that pilfered its high-rises. Some said Catwoman had been trying to gain the Bat’s favor for years in a bid for immortality. Others said it was Batman who chased the Cat, looking to steal her away as his bride. No one could say for sure who was right in the end, nor was anyone sure when the hunter had finally caught their prey, but either way the result was the same.

It started with tales of criminals facing off with Robin, only to turn to find a cat waiting to step in instead of a bat. These tales led many to look back and realize the thief hadn’t been seen for months.

Some mourned her lost humanity.

The only sign of her descent was the way her eyes glowed in the dark behind her goggles, her irises and pupils large like a cat’s. She still had her claws and fangs, and she still knew how to use them. She hunted for blood now instead of jewels and watched over the demon child like he was her own.

And perhaps he was. Robin had come to develop a grace not unlike her own with the balance and reflexes she was known for.

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The first day of winter break did not go well for Thirteen. First, she had gotten woken up by her dad ranting about something or other. Next, they were out of Lucky Charms so she had to eat plain oatmeal. After that, she found out the Teen Titans were on a mission so she couldn’t go hang out with them to get away from her dad’s rants about… ghosts? She was pretty sure she heard something about ghosts. Then, when she finally decided to just do something on her own and took a zeta tube to Denver to go skiing, she ended up stumbling upon some wackjob sorcerer trying to summon a demon or monster or something from… Okay, maybe the day wasn’t a good day for Traci’s attention span.

The point was that the day sucked.

She watched the guy shuffle about the cave rambling to himself -- or maybe her, she wasn’t paying attention -- as she channeled power towards the summoning circle he was using in hopes of stopping his spell from doing whatever it was supposed to do. Apparently, it worked because when the guy raised his hands and started chanting in Sumerian, the resulting bright flash left a girl within the circle instead of some hell beast.

Carrie was confused when she went from watching a movie with her mother one moment to standing in the middle of a cave the next. She took in the shocked face of the guy in the puke green cloak and the nervous expression on the tied up girl and said, “I’m guessing I wasn’t the one you were expecting?”

When puke cloak turned towards his book, huffing and puffing about magic and teenagers, Carrie decked him. He was knocked out instantly so Carrie called him a wimp and went over to free the other girl using the butterfly knife she always kept on her since it was a rare gift from Damian. The two alerted the police then took off, collectively deciding they didn’t want to explain why they were there.

Since Carrie didn’t have her phone and hadn’t bothered memorizing any of her family’s numbers (something she knew would be corrected as soon as she got home), she couldn’t call someone to pick her up. What she did have was her wallet, which included Tim’s debit card (because he needed to keep a better watch on his wallet) and a fake Id claiming she was seventeen (instead of her actual fourteen, because she and Damian bonded by going to the movies). She used the card to buy herself and the other girl, who she learned was named Traci Thurston, tickets on a Greyhound. Traci, not wanting to leave the girl on her own, had pretended she had been taken the same way Carrie was and revealed she was from Metropolis. She tried to object to Carrie buying her ticket, but the other girl waved her off. Her brother wouldn’t miss a couple hundred dollars. And if he did, Bruce would probably pay him back.

The two’s serendipitous two-day road trip turned out fun. They played games and watched videos on Traci’s phone. Carrie bought a pack of cards for them to play with so Traci showed her some card tricks Zatanna had taught her. In return, Carrie showed her some knife tricks Jason and Damian had taught her during rest stops. Traci told her a few stories she’d learned during her magical education and Carrie told her some Gotham myths.

Myths like ones about the demonic bat-man who had slaughtered a child and stolen the soul of a woman so he could create a family for himself, the succubus queen that slit the throat of any man who laid eyes on her and fed them to her undead minion, and the false angels that stalked the daylight.

In Carrie’s defense, Dick was the one who taught her those stories and he’d been telling them to Wally for years. How was she to know that Traci would immediately call Zatanna after Carrie climbed into her cab to make sure demonic monsters had not, in fact, taken over Gotham? Wally just thought Dick was making stuff up! Besides, she didn’t even know Traci was involved with anyone from the Justice League until she reached home and -- after explaining where she’d been to her worried family -- was brought down to the cave by Dick to find out which hero her new friend was.

None of her siblings believed Traci could be a civilian due to their own experience, which turned out to be justified.

It wouldn’t have been a problem if Zatanna waved it off like she’d wanted to do, but instead, the woman had to promise to look into it to get the girl to calm down. She assumed it would just be a monster in the closet scenario.

She was not at all prepared to discover Batman existed, let alone his legion of demons.

Normally demons would be a situation she handled on her own, but the sheer scale of the situation combined with the lack of information on basically anything Gotham had her bringing the rest of the League in on the situation.

Wonder Woman, Superman, and Cyborg were there to represent the founders. Flash, Tigress, Troia, and Aquaman arrived together, representing the second-generation members. The five main Young Justice members came, Nightwing bringing Power Girl and Supergirl along with him since the two had been visiting the former Superboy when he got the call. Last were Green Arrow and Arsenal, who had both been on the Watchtower when the meeting was called and as such ended up joining in despite not being called.

Wonder Woman started the meeting, but quickly handed it over to Zatanna.

When Batman was brought up, Tigress went stiff and Flash frowned. When the magician started to list her findings, few as they were, he leaped to his feet. “Wait, Batman’s real?”

“Yes, and we need to find him.”

Tigress immediately stood and left. Flash was about to follow, but Cyborg saw it coming and caught his wrist. “Where are you going?”

“Far away from here. I thought all those stories were just that. Stories. I’d like to be able to sleep tonight without worrying I’ll wake up to find a bloody kid hanging from my ceiling.”

At the series of exclamations that came from that, Flash and Zatanna explained that Batman didn’t work alone and actually had a large group of spirits or demons that followed him. When Flash was asked how he knew about the Colony, he admitted that he and Tigress lived in the area and both she and their civilian partner had grown up in Gotham. He said their partner had been telling him tons of stories about the Colony since he was a kid, but he’d always assumed they were just urban legends.

The Young Justice members all shared a look, wondering why Tim had never said anything. Wonder Girl glanced at Supergirl, who shook her head. Stephanie and Bette hadn’t said anything either.

Arsenal spoke up, saying Artemis of Bana-Mighdall had never mentioned seeing any demons in Gotham when she stayed there to visit friends and Power Girl added that Hawk and Dove had a friend in Gotham and they’d never mentioned trouble there.

The rest of the members considered this until Aquaman asked Flash for more information. Reluctantly, he started talking. He told them about each of them in turn, putting off a certain bird until the very end and then skipping over giving his name when he did reach him. He tried to move the conversation on from there, but Troia cut him off to ask if the last spirit had a name.

Despite himself, Flash glanced at the former Superboy before he answered yes. Nightwing noticed and crossed his arms with a frown as he asked what the spirit’s name was.

Flash’s voice was barely a whisper when he answered, but that was plenty loud enough for the Kryptonians in the room. Superman went stiff, Power Girl glanced at Nightwing, Supergirl gasped, and Nightwing slammed a fist into the table just light enough not to dent it as he demanded Flash repeat himself. When he did, he did it loud enough for everyone to hear so sounds of confusion and shock filled the room.

“Now you know how we felt when Kon-El here decided to go by that name! I’d been hearing stories about the guy for years by that point!”

Nightwing began to explain that the name came from a Kryptonian myth, before cutting off and glancing at Superman and Power Girl. The latter reluctantly finished it by saying that the original Nightwing was a spirit sent by the sun god Rao to destroy the evils that hid in the darkness. He was a creature of shadows, which left him separate from the gods until he and a fire spirit named Flamebird met and fell in love.

A silence fell over the group until Hex pointed out the obvious. “So a shadow creature looking to wipe out evil has the same name as a shadow creature looking to wipe out evil? Are we entirely sure we’re talking about two different monsters?”

The group fell into an argument. The Kryptonians denied that their myth could be the violent spirit in Gotham (aside from Supergirl, who started panicking about Batman corrupting the original Nightwing) while everyone else was split between agreeing with the Kryptonians or arguing against them.

Flash considered sneaking out, but hadn’t made up his mind before Wonder Woman decided they needed more information and her eyes landed on him. Despite his arguments against it, he was assigned to get information about the myth. Arsenal and Power Girl were also asked to speak to their Gotham contacts, but everyone knew Artemis of Bana-Mighdall didn’t like Wonder Woman while Hawk and Dove were wary of the Justice League so they weren’t expecting much on that front. Flash sent a quick look Young Justice’s way, well aware all of them were friends with his partner’s little brother. None of them met his eye and they all kept quiet.

Rolling his eyes, he grabbed his nephew by the back of his suit and the two left.

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

TFW I realize since no one realizes the Colony exists, no one realizes Nightwing's already technically taken so Kon can go the Chris route and call himself Nightwing :) Dick was very amused when he found out.

Vampires’ animal forms:

Carrie: Eurasian lynx

Damian: Azure-winged magpie

[monkey-network]

Good Stuff ~ Stray Thoughts: The Beginning of the End {MLP}

*INHALE* Ahhh, it’s good to be back.

PART 1 Can’t Wake Up

You know it’s trouble when everyone has to book it.

Applejack, she already jinxed it, so it’s best to go along

“Longest Period of Harmony“? We got literal demons, a god of chaos, evil vines, Xehanort ponified, an entire hivemind army, Starlight, and a child villain, all in what feels like a couple years, what the fuck kind of peace is this?

Oh, you’re just providing the fact that you and Luna haven’t contributed much of anything.

But why retire, tho?

Honestly, let Discord run Equestria. He’s practically  Thanos to where any problem can die with a snap. My god, you two can be useless.

Why? They have lives on their own and you just throw the throne at them just like that? Plus your power is raising the sun and moon so how could they. What the FU- This is the worst fucking plan I’ve ever heard.

Seriously, Celestia, this is the dirtiest shit you could ever pull.

C’mon, Discord, I’m suppose to be the justified buzzkill here

Real friends can see your freakouts coming and work with it.

I love that the show is acknowledging the typical routine of these premieres AND how useless Celestia and Luna have been.

Also, where is Starlight?

They forgot the hentai.

MY LITTLE PONY: Friendship is Nepotism

Bug Queen, babey

She’s seen better days.

Cozy Glow, why are you a child? 

And I can relate, Lord Tirek, I don’t want her around either

*Gasp* The M of Mario!

Kill the wooby, Chrysallis. Do it for me.

And I love how off the bat Chryssi is. Clearly best villain.

Sombra, you’re a character that existed.

Grogar sounds like swamp mouthwash.

And why do you hate Twilight and her friends?

And seriously, why is this child here?

To the defense of Cozy, Grogar sounds like a less attractive Gengar

How can you eat light?

Oh that makes sense since he’s a goat, but why, Grogar? Darkness is anti-light.

Sombra, you SPOKE!

Oof, Snap.

Technically, Cozy didn’t lose to ponies if I remember

I’m with Tirek, it is extreme luck.

If you’re a kid, then WHY ARE YOU AROUND? AND HOW WERE FRIENDS WITH TIREK?!

Oooh, a LEGION OF DOOM! It’s Fiendship is Magic all over again.

I like Sombra already

And Cozy too, especially as a punchline, both figuratively and literally

Oh, it’s Summer. That explains the lack of Yona in this adventure.

MY LITTLE PONY: Friendship is DOWNWARD SPIRAL DOWNWARD SPIRAL DOWNWARD SPIRAL DOWNWARD SPIRAL DOWNWA

Come on, Starlight, we gotta prepare for this shit to end so we can cry appropriately

Yeah Starlight, everyone got nerfed to boost your success

Damn, got you good.

Oh no, it’s the Bye Bye Man

“They thought they could attack me, but then I went UP. HA HA HA!“

Why didn’t you protect the baby, dumb ass?

That takeover was unnaturally quick... this was with every villain?

And that evil laugh is wonderful.

They put a muzzle on the baby. *laughs* That is rich.

“Long live the King“ Cliche

Game of Thrones

Discord, you ass

Gem up, younglings.

Again, this is all surprisingly quick, even for me.

Hehehehehe, they killed him.

We get it, Pinkie, you waste food.

And once again, the day is saved

Wow, the weakest villain ever just destroyed the elements of harmony. Color me... shooketh.

Intermission

Part 2 Wake Me Up, Inside

Previously on MLP, Celestia and Luna make slapdash decisions, Sombra’s laugh gives me life, and shit’s fucked

Seriously, that laugh of his has immediately become my favorite evil laugh ever. Where was this guy 6 years ago?

MY LITTLE PONY: Friendship is Brutality

He’s got friends on the other side

You know things gets bad when Pinkie can’t be cringey

It clearly looks like you can jump out the bars

Those crystals aren’t deep rooted? Dammit, Sombra.

All cakes are good in my eyes... except ones with coconut.

The hentai is back.

Chaos chaos! I love it.

*sigh* This reminds me of that one Lord Dominator comic. Good times.

Get ‘em at the ROOTS! THE ROOOOOTS!

Big Mac knows how to knock wood.

Celestia and Luna wouldn’t have succeeded anyway.

A twist nobody saw coming: CELESTIA AND LUNA DOING SOMETHING!

I don’t wanna know about Starswirl’s essence.

Have ya tried teleporting to Sombra? Teleport? Teleport!

Thank you. Was just wasting time here.

Discord, stop being a DICK!

See? That’s what you get for being cocky.

Fluttershy crying? Oh no, I feel REGRET!

Yeah, they don’t need you or the others, but being competent help would certainly be appreciated. Then again, gotta remind myself that this is for kids.

Wait what, is Discord dying?

This is honestly more encouraging than when Captain Marvel tried to apply the same message.

THEY SAID IT! THEY DID THE THING!

Holy shit, talk about fucking eviscerated! You fucking died, Sombra.

Discord, I oughta stomp ya.

Celestia, I oughta stomp you harder for this.

Discord, what the fuck? Why would do this to Fluttyshy? You oughta get seven across the ass!

WHY DON’T YOU HELP?! UUUUAAAAAAUGH! 

I don’t know whether to be sentimental or pissed.

Thank you, Grogar, for showing that wonderful death again. I needed that. In fact,

Aw, that’s hot. That’s hot.

Why is it six o’clock all of a sudden?

So what did we learn y’all? Besides don’t thrust momentous tasks at people who have a gut feeling that they aren’t ready. Or never trust people that can help easily because they’re a-holes. Or don’t bring a child into the legion of superpowered rulers like what the hell? But I guess, the true lesson is that friendship can push you through the toughest of times and can be there to get your head out your ass and lift like you’ve never done before. Or something, this show is ending and this really hasn’t said anything new besides friendship can freaking wreck you... to a billion pieces.

MY LITTLE PONY: Friendship is PHENOMENAL COSMIC POWER

[danfanciesphil]

Give Me A Try (New Chapter)

Gay Instagram Model/Bartender Phan AU Part 6

(Part One)

(Part Two)

(Part Three)

(Part Four)

(Part Five)

(Read on Ao3)

The bar is empty, but the lights are swirling across the dancefloor. Britney Spears’ ‘Everytime’ is playing at a low volume, her deep, rough voice sliding chills up Dan’s bare arms. He is naked, and sprawled across the bar counter.

His face is turned towards the dancefloor, marvelling at how clean the floor is, for once. Somewhere at his navel, lips are pressing to his skin, over and over, like sweet butterflies landing on his abdomen. Dan sighs in contentment, eyes slipping closed. He opens them just in time to see Phil move over him, done with kissing his stomach now.

The shock of seeing Phil above him, also naked, their bodies pressed together on the bar, sends Dan into a flurry of panic. How did this happen? He is not prepared, not skilled enough to please such an immensity of a person. His hands ghost, trembling, over Phil’s shoulders, too reverent to actually touch.

“Do you want me?” Phil asks, absurdly.

All Dan can do is nod, vigorously, trying hard to convey how desperately he does without words. Phil sends him a wicked grin in return, sending Dan’s heart into palpitations. He sees Phil’s lips moving towards his, can feel the slide of Phil’s hips against his as their bodies move. He tries to ready himself for the onslaught of Phil’s mouth, but knows it will eviscerate him totally, the moment it happens. There’s no way to prepare.

He shuts his eyes, waiting for the missile of Phil’s kiss to strike him, when a voice permeates the air, grating and cold. “Knew he’d be shit in bed.”

Phil snaps his head to the side, annoyed. Dan turns too, blearily, to see Charlie Hickory standing in the shadows, sipping a Rainforest Cocktail with a nauseated expression, his lips blue from the liquid. He’s watching them with scorn, sneering in distaste. Dan tries to struggle from beneath Phil, to cover himself from Charlie’s stare, but he can barely move. Phil’s whole body covers him, and while it’s incredible, it’s also restrictive.

“Charlie, be nice,” Phil warns, then turns back to Dan. “Sorry about him.”

“What’s he doing here?” Dan hisses, feeling his cheeks heat.

“Oh, he’s just here to chill,” Phil shrugs, like it’s normal. “Ignore him.”

Dan tries to let Phil’s words placate him, but he can feel Charlie’s eyes burrowing into them, scrutinising their every movement. Phil tries to kiss him again, but Dan squirms from it, mortified by the third party watching.

“Can you get him to leave?”

Phil frowns. “Just pretend he’s not there.”

Dan wriggles again, glancing over at Charlie, who waggles his fingers. “Not sure I can do that.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, I knew he wouldn’t have the balls,” Charlie sighs, tossing the Rainforest over his shoulder so that it smashes behind him. Dan tuts, knowing he’ll be the one that has to clean that up. Charlie stalks over to the bar then, seizing Phil’s face in his hands. “Let me show you how it’s done.”

He smashes his mouth into Phil’s, kissing fiercely, and the bar beneath Dan seems to fall away, he feels punched by the sight happening right above him, wants to drag Charlie off of Phil by his stupid quiff. Charlie pulls off, slightly breathless, and turns to Dan, still pinned to the bar by Phil on top of him.

“Give it up, Dan,” Charlie says, condescendingly. “He’s mine.”

At that second, Dan jerks awake, anguished and filled with fury. Charlie’s smug face lingers, ghostlike, in front of him. It churns his stomach, making him queasy and breathless. A minute or so passes, eyes closed against the sickness roiling within him as Charlie, and the bar, and the rest of the weird fever dream gently ebbs away. It’s around then that Dan realises his nausea is actually  a product of what feels like a raging hangover, if his pounding head, raw throat, and bitter tongue are any indication.

He peels open his eyes, rather reluctantly. For a wild, slightly scary moment, he has no idea where he is. Then, the zig-zag blanket draped over his body catches his eye, and the feeling of immense comfort sparks a faint memory in his brain.

He’s been on this couch before.

Dan looks around for his phone, heart already thrumming as he tries to recall what happened last night, what day it is, and whether he needs to apologise to Phil or anyone else for his behaviour. He thinks today is Sunday, which is good, because the bar is closed. He’d never forgive himself for this hangover if he had to work later.

He finds his phone in his shoe beside the sofa, almost dead, but flooded with notifications. Too bleary to read any of them, Dan just checks the time. 

It’s 11am.

“Crap,” Dan mutters, running a hand through his hair.

“Morning to you too, sunshine,” Phil says from a nearby armchair, making Dan leap out of his skin.

His eyes flick to the other man, who is slumped in the chair, nursing what looks like a much-needed coffee. His voice is rough and gravelly, his chest bare. He’s wearing pyjama pants with emojis on them, and slippers that look like loaves of bread.

“Morning,” Dan says. His voice comes out like sandpaper. “Um, what… what happened last night?”

Phil flicks his gaze across to Dan, eyebrow quirking. A smile spreads across his mouth. “You don’t remember?”

Remnants of memory snag across Dan’s mind: downing a shot as Tyler urged him on, dancing to ‘London Bridge’ by Fergie on the dancefloor (which, incidentally, Tyler refers to as Dan’s ‘stripper song’), Phil filming him with his phone…

“Bits and pieces,” Dan says unsurely. “Did I get drunk during my shift?”

Phil barks a laugh. “You could say that.”

“Ugh,” Dan grunts, rubbing his sleep-caked eyes. “Such a responsible adult. I’m blaming Tyler for allowing me to do that.”

“Might wanna check Instagram,” Phil says; he sounds suspiciously nonchalant about the suggestion. He pockets his phone, stands up, and heads for the kitchen beyond. “I’ll make you some coffee.”

As soon as Phil leaves, the chill of his words hangs in the air. Dan’s gaze falls, trepidatious, to the phone in his lap. It seems like a primed bomb, suddenly. He reaches for it with caution, not really wanting to know.

The moment he clicks onto Instagram, the notifications pour out in a stream, attacking him in their thousands. He goes to his own profile, and his jaw falls to the floor.

Followers 53,289

Dan stares at the number, uncomprehending. His notifications page is swarming with new followers, liking his photos, commenting beneath them.

He wonders, as he scrolls through them, whether he’s been hacked. Or if he drunkenly purchased a load of those fake follow accounts in a vain attempt to impress Phil. Then, he starts reading what these new followers are writing.

Who is he omg

Think I’ve found a new fave twink account :o

He’s cuuuute!

He might be cuter than Charlie…

The last comment snags his attention, mostly because of the name. Charlie.

“Any news?”

Dan starts, head whipping towards Phil so fast that it makes the room spin on its axis. “I… what’s going on?”

Phil titters, placing a cup of coffee in front of Dan. He reaches for it at once, taking a huge, scalding gulp. Eugh, he really needs to tell Phil at some point that he hates sugar in his coffee.

“I tagged you in my Instagram story last night,” Phil tells him. His tone is hesitant, as if he’s unsure whether this is good or bad news to relay. “People… reacted well to you.”

“I have fifty-three thousand followers as of this morning,” Dan says, blankly. He still can’t wrap his head around it.

“Congrats?” Phil offers, sinking back into his chair.

Dan places his coffee down, swallowing thickly, and types Phil’s name into the Instagram search bar. He goes to AmazingPhil’s account, thumb hovering over his icon, around which a think pink line pulsates, indicating that Phil has, indeed, updated his story.

He presses the icon.

Immediately, he recognises the bar where Phil is filming. It’s the bar Dan has worked at for the past four years of his life, Habanero, and it’s crammed with patrons, as it always is on a Saturday night. Nicki Minaj’s ‘Super Bass’ blares from the background as Phil films the crowds, ending with a close up of his own face, wide-eyed as he sips a cocktail Dan recognises as a ‘Habenero Hallmark’. It has a dash of chilli oil in it, after its namesake, which explains Phil’s subsequent wince and splutter after he takes a sip.

“Wait, what are you- are you watching my story?” Phil - the present-day Phil - asks from his chair, already standing up. Dan nods, barely hearing him. “Scoot over, I wanna watch with you.”

Dan turns to him, surprised, but obediently shuffles further into the sofa cushions in order to let Phil squeeze in next to him. To his mild despair, Phil slips his legs under the blanket as well, pressed against Dan’s. At least Phil has those stupid emoji pyjama pants on, Dan thinks, mercifully. Were he forced to be skin on skin with Phil beneath the blanket, he might self combust.

He turns back to his phone screen with some difficulty. Now, the Phil of last night is at the bar, filming a cocktail being prepared. With a sinking dread, Dan realises he already recognises the hands on-screen, but then the camera pans upwards, and Dan’s damp forehead is on show, his brow furrowed as he concentrates.

From off-camera, Phil shouts, “guys, this is Dan! He’s the best bartender in the world, and he’s making me a new cocktail ‘cause he’s a hero, and I didn’t like the last one.”

Dan watches his own face crinkle into a smile as he hears Phil’s compliment. He vaguely remembers this moment; he hadn’t been drunk at this point, he’s sure. Phil’s sweet words had felt like warm, melted honey drizzling down his chest. 

He watches himself stare up at Phil’s face, off-screen, with a gooeyness that seems nauseatingly transparent. Is this why all those people followed him? Because he is obviously, hilariously smitten with someone so far out of his league?

“Phil’s a wimp and can’t handle a teeny bit of chilli,” Dan tells the camera, eyes glinting with mischief. Dan, on the sofa, huffs a laugh at his own cheeky response. Both the Phil beside him, and the Phil behind the camera, laugh as well, making Dan’s chest swell with pride.

“I’d like to see you try it, Dan,” off-screen-Phil shoots back, making the Dan on camera narrow his eyes.

“You’re on, Lester.”

He abandons the cocktail he’s making, wipes his hands on his jeans and grabs six shot glasses from underneath the bar. Ohhh, sofa-Dan realises, the memory washing over him as it unfolds on screen. Suddenly his hangover is starting to make a heck of a lot more sense.

He watches, dismayed, as he pours the Habenero-chilli infused tequila into the six shot glasses, and, as Phil films him, systematically downs each one.

“What the fuck was I thinking?” Dan asks aloud.

Phil points to a person Dan hadn’t noticed, behind Dan on the screen. It’s vaguely recognisable as Tyler, but only vaguely, as he’s moving about too much to be sure. He’s cheering loudly, chanting Dan’s name, and getting the customers around the bar to do the same.

A loud, triumphant cry rises from the crowd as Dan throws the last shot down, his hands shooting into the air. Phil is cheering too, and Dan cringes at the gleeful, smashed look on his own dumb face.

“Holy shit,” Dan breathes, shaking his head. “No wonder it feels like someone shoved a red hot poker down my throat. Those chilli shots are lethal.”

“I can’t believe you did six,” Phil says, beside him, chuckling. “It was seriously impressive.”

The story jumps to further along in the night, and Dan is obviously trashed. He’s on his knees on the bar, hips gyrating as he pours a cocktail into a martini glass, his hair curled at the temples with sweat, his light grey shirt covered in glitter. Phil is still filming him, laughing. There are several captions adorning the video that Phil must have added whilst a little tipsy himself:

Brighton’s Best Bartender XD

❤︎ ❤︎ ❤︎

GO FOLLOW @DANISNOTONFIRE !!!

The hearts, in particular, make Dan flush bright red. “Oh my fucking God.”

He wants to click off the video, and tries to do just that, but Phil stops him, grabbing his phone and laughing. “Nooo, let’s watch the rest!”

“Phil, this is humiliating!”

“Tyler thought it was a great idea. He reckoned me filming you would get the bar loads of new customers.”

“Oh my God, you’ve teamed up with Tyler of all people,” Dan groans, burying his face in Phil’s shoulder. “I’m doomed.”

It occurs to him, belatedly, that Phil’s shoulder is bare, and that it’s probably very inappropriate for him to be doing this, so he jerks away, blushing more. For some reason, this seems to make Phil sling an arm around him, pulling him close, and bringing the phone back in front of his nose.

“Just watch this last bit,” Phil wheedles, squeezing Dan to his chest.

Obviously, Dan is helpless to speak in this position, let alone refuse, so he just nods, frozen as the steady, even beat of Phil’s heart resounds in his ears.

The story jumps to the next bit, which is a photo of he and Phil, their faces pressed against each other, cheek to cheek. Phil has covered the photo with pulsating pink hearts. Dan has a huge smile on his face, and his eyes squeezed shut. He does not remember this photo being taken, and it kills him a little inside. He looks so blissfully happy, smushed against his favourite person in the world.

Phil hums a fond little noise, then clicks to the next image. It’s a boomerang, of Phil and Dan slurping down a single Rainforest cocktail, one stripey straw each.

“Fuck,” Dan breathes, wincing. “No wonder I feel so horrendous. How much did I drink?”

“After you lit those shots on fire, everyone started buying you drinks,” Phil tells him.

“I lit shots on fire?!” Dan exclaims. “That’s against the safety regulations, I could’ve burned the bar down! Why the fuck did Tyler let me-”

Phil laughs, squeezing Dan again. “Dan, don’t freak out. You were brilliant last night. Tyler said you alone made twice the money you usually do on a Saturday night, not including tips.”

Dan is silent, processing that. He decides not to respond.

The story plays on, and now there’s a photo of he and Phil filling the screen again. A selfie, like the last one, but this time Phil’s lips are pressed to Dan’s cheek. The caption reads:

New OTP??? #Phan ;)

It makes Dan suck in a breath, which he tries to disguise as a cough, probably not very well. Phil chuckles again, and screenshots the photo, despite it being Dan’s phone. Dan is, in a way, glad for this, as now he won’t have to screenshot it himself, and risk the embarrassment of Phil seeing.

“So… I’m guessing Charlie wasn’t there last night?” Dan asks after his heart has settled back into a regular rhythm.

Like it’s allergic to the mention of Charlie’s name, Dan’s phone instantly dies. He plucks it from Phil’s hand and sits up straight, letting Phil’s arm slip from his shoulders.

Whilst he’d been enjoying the sensation of having Phil’s arm around him a lot, it had been a bit too much for his hungover state. 

“Nah, he had to work.”

“So you just swung by on your own?”

“Thought I’d pop in and see you,” Phil says, smiling broadly. “I was on my way back home.”

“From?”

Phil sighs, draining the last of his coffee. “My agency in London.”

Dan nods, though he can’t begin to picture what that would even look like. “So you came in to grab some Dan-time, and I ended up getting hammered and crashing on your sofa.” Dan rolls his eyes at himself. “Sorry.”

“Hah, I think it was mostly my fault, to be honest,” Phil admits. “I was urging you on. It’s only fair that I let you stay with me instead of sending you off to try and cross town back to your place.”

“Well, you did get me a fuckton of Instagram followers,” Dan says. “So I guess we’re even.”

Phil smiles at him. “Glad you see it that way. But honestly Dan, I think you got yourself those followers.” Phil laughs, poking Dan in the side. “It was those dance moves, I reckon.”

Dan puts his head in his hands, cheeks warm. “Please don’t. I never want to see myself behaving like that again.”

“I wouldn’t mind a second show,” Phil quips. Dan lifts his head in surprise, but Phil is already moving off the sofa, throwing the blanket aside and standing. He stretches his arms above his head once he’s up, the long, tapered line of his back straightening in a smooth curve. “Anyway,” he says, yawning as Dan swallows a wave of longing to reach out and trail his fingers down the cord of his spine. “How about some breakfast, Coyote Ugly?”

Unable to help smiling, Dan shrugs his shoulders. “It’s okay, I’ll get out of your hair. I’ve already been enough of a nuisance, I imagine.”

He wishes he could remember the trip back to Phil’s flat after his shift, but that part of the night is a dark void. He hopes Phil didn’t have to help him walk or anything embarrassing. He’s pretty sure he’d remember if he’d thrown up, which is a mercy, at least. The last thing he recalls before waking up on the sofa, is upending a bottle of cherry bakewell vodka into the mouths of a few guys wearing pink cowboy hats. Then, nothing.

“Let me put it this way,” Phil says, throwing a smile over his shoulder at Dan. “I’m gonna make enough pancakes for two, so if you leave now then you’re responsible for me eating them all.”

Dan laughs, watching Phil walk towards the kitchen, empty coffee mug in hand. Perhaps he could stay for a short while. Maybe until his head has stopped throbbing. Or just until all the pancakes are gone.

*

He stays for pancakes.

He stays for pancakes on Monday morning too. 

Dan spends all of Sunday, and most of Monday on the angelically soft island that is Phil’s purple sofa. They play endless games of Mario Kart, and Fallout 4, and Fortnite, which Phil tells him he’s obsessed with, and now Dan is obsessed with too. 

They eat dozens of pancakes, they order pizza twice, they eat all the Pringles, marshmallows and chocolate in Phil’s cupboards, as well as any other junk food they can get their hands on. It’s hangover food, Phil assures Dan at one point. It doesn’t count. Dan’s not sure about this philosophy, but then again, one look at Phil’s abs is enough to make Dan believe anything he says about the matter.

When, somehow, it gets to midnight on Sunday, Dan tries to tell Phil he should head home, but Phil, who is slipping Season One of Buffy the Vampire Slayer into his DVD player, won’t hear of it.

“Just stay for one episode,” he pleads, pouting. Dan instantly relents, of course.

One episode becomes two, which becomes three, and a half… When he wakes up on Monday morning, he’s still on Phil’s sofa, but this time his head rests on Phil’s shoulder.

It’s torturous, to wake up next to Phil Lester - who never did bother to put on a shirt - and not be able to do anything but move swiftly away from him. To avoid the temptation of pressing himself against all those miles of perfection, Dan picks himself up, leaving Phil to sleep on, and jumps in his shower. Then, he goes to make pancakes, telling himself that he’s simply returning the favour.

As he flips each one, he stares, teeth clenched, into the sizzling batter, imagining Phil is the scalding hot surface of the pan, and he is the pancake, slowly cooking himself one side after another, willingly lowering his fragile batter to Phil’s torturous yet irresistible touch. 

To be friends with Phil is depraved. It’s self-torture, whichever way Dan looks at it. He’d like to pretend he’s no longer obsessed, now that they’ve spent time together, now that he knows Phil as a person, and not just a distant star. But it’s not true. 

‘Never meet your heroes’, Dan’s grandmother used to say from time to time. She would warn him that they’d never live up to the fantasy version Dan would construct in his mind. ‘People are always just people in the end’, she’d once said.  

But she was wrong. 

Every single thing Dan learns about Phil makes him more fascinating, not the other way around. Once, a year or so ago, Dan had stumbled upon the AmazingPhil account, and spent several hours scrolling through each photo, only to conclude that Phil Lester was the most beautiful person alive. 

Then, in the subsequent months, Dan had seen his videos, and heard him talk to his audience about his clumsiness and his fondness for fluffy animals. He’d heard Phil sing off-key anime intros, and sip bright cocktails with a glint in his ice blue eyes. 

And now, knowing Phil in person, Dan has only discovered more of the same wild, colourful vivacity in the man. It’s like ‘AmazingPhil’ is only a slice of him, a hint at the layers and layers of crazy, happy, hilarious, sweetness that make him up. 

It’s so unfair, Dan can’t help thinking. If meeting Phil IRL had been a disappointment, this would all have been so much easier to handle. He might have been able to stop being so madly obsessed with the guy if he’d turned out to be vapid and ordinary - like Charlie comes across, for example. But Phil’s not like that, and Dan should have known that he wouldn’t be. He should’ve said no the first time Phil asked him round, or left when Phil asked him to stay. Because every moment, every second he spends in Phil’s presence only makes it worse. 

He’s fucked, royally. Phil won’t want him back. He won’t consider Dan as anything other than a friend. He’s got Charlie, for a start. Successful, beautiful Charlie. 

And even if he didn’t, there’s no way his next choice would be a socially-awkward bartender who humiliates himself publicly after a few tequila shots. 

Dan sighs, switching off the stove, and shovels the pancakes onto two plates. 

*

Phil’s smile is rose pink and glittering as Dan brings him a plate of syrup-drenched pancakes. He gazes at them with wonderment, as if he just watched Dan conjure them out of thin air, as if Dan didn’t just break into all of Phil’s food cupboards, use his stove without asking, and make a huge batter-y mess of his pristine kitchen.

“Oh,” Phil says, swallowing his last bite. They’re watching Buffy, kind of, but mostly chatting. “I forgot, I wanted to ask you something.”

Vaguely, Dan remembers Phil telling him this a few days ago, back on the beach. He’d gotten distracted and never found out what it was. Intrigued, Dan turns to him.

“Yeah?”

“So,” Phil begins, eyes dropping to his plate as he sweeps a fingertip through a puddle of syrup. He looks… vaguely embarrassed. Dan is even more intrigued. “I was wondering what you’re doing at the weekend.”

Dan’s heart stops. 

He shakes any ridiculous thoughts of potential dates from his mind before they can properly form, irritated by his own stupidity. In what world would Phil Lester ask him on an actual date? He has a boyfriend. And he’s famous. The absurdity is actually laughable.

“Just working, as usual,” Dan says, twirling his fork against his own plate. “But only Saturday evening, obviously.”

Phil nods, sipping the tea Dan made him to go with his pancakes. “Cool.”

Dan waits for Phil to continue, confused. There’s definitely a dusting of pink along his cheekbones. It makes him look even more angelic than usual.

“...Why?”

Phil gnaws his lip, looking at Dan. “You can totally say no,” he says quickly, putting his plate down on the coffee table. “There’s no pressure, I just thought, maybe…”

It’s sweet, really, that Phil thinks there’s anything he could ask of Dan that he’d actually be able to refuse. 

“What is it?”

“I’m going to the Maldives for a few days for a shoot,” Phil says, sounding way less happy about this than Dan is sure he would be were the situations reversed. “I leave on Friday. I was just gonna ask if maybe you’d want to… stay here?” The request hangs in the air, a tempting, plump fruit dangling above Dan’s head, ready for plucking. “Like, while I’m away. I wanted to have someone around to water the plants and get the mail and stuff. You don’t have to, obviously, but I just thought as it’s close to the bar, and I trust you, and I don’t really know anyone else here-”

“Phil,” Dan interrupts, realising that Phil is rambling from nerves. He tries not to let the smile he gives splinter with stupid disappointment, born of the idiotic hope he’d tried not to feel. “I’d love to help you out. It’s not like it’s a chore to stay in your enormous, sea-view apartment.”

A relieved grin spreads over Phil’s face, and his shoulders sag of tension. “Really? You’re the best, Dan.”

He reaches over and grabs Dan’s hand, lacing his fingers through it and squeezing them. Dan’s heart squeezes too, as if Phil had wrapped his syrup-sticky fist around that, as well. He looks down at their intertwined fingers, aching; does Phil have any idea that this one, simple action is going to play on a loop in Dan’s head every night for weeks?

“And you don’t have to stay on the sofa while I’m not here,” Phil starts to say, drawing his hand away before Dan can even get used to the feeling. His breath catches in his lungs as the touch of him slips away. “You can just take the bed.”

“Oh, right,” Dan says, his mind not catching up for a moment. Once he realises what Phil just said, he reddens, stammering, “oh, wait, no, I don’t know if- the sofa’s really comfy I don’t need-”

“Seriously!” Phil insists. “It’s totally fine. I won’t be using it, after all. Just… maybe don’t bring anybody back to share it with you.”

Dan snorts at the ludicrousness. “As if.”

“Hey, I’ve seen the way people look at you when you’re working,” Phil says, his tone serious, his face joking. “You could pull anyone in that place if you tried.”

“Says you,” Dan mutters, but he feels a warm, pulsating orb of happiness deep in his chest.

“Anyway, so I’ll give you more details later in the week,” Phil tells him, bright and happy again, all traces of the pink on his cheeks having evaporated. “Stuff like the code to the front door, and the names of my houseplants, and how to work the TV and stuff. But seriously, you’re a lifesaver, Dan.”

Winston, Susan, Katie, and Totoro, Dan thinks privately. Those are the houseplants’ names. If Phil wants, Dan could provide him with the names of all his family members too. Or the breed of dog he’s considering adopting one day. 

“It’s really not a big deal,” Dan says before he does anything as stupid as revealing his ‘Phil Trash Number One’ status. He’s already thinking about how wonderful it will be to just walk up the road to Phil’s building after his long Saturday night shift, and fall into a comfortable King Sized bed. “Happy to do it.”

The next thing Dan knows, he’s being wrapped in two, ridiculously thick, big arms, and tackled to the cushions at his back. As he struggles to get free of Phil’s hold, Dan wonders whether his life is, at present, a dream or a nightmare.

*

Dan just about has enough time after leaving Phil’s to catch a bus to his place, change into some different clothes, then get the bus back to the bar. He’s ten minutes late, technically, but Tyler’s no better, so he gets away with it.

Technically speaking, Tyler is his boss, as he’s the bar manager, but they both know that they’re really a team. Dodie and Lara are the newbie staff, and they don’t see a difference in authority between Dan and Tyler. Most importantly, the jobs get done, and the money is made and counted up at the end of the night. Tyler and Dan have been doing this for years, so it’s rare that anything goes wrong. Sure, they bicker about who has to mop up the vomit, and who has to change the barrels, but most of the time they work well together, and get along.

As Tyler swans in to the bar this afternoon, Dan can tell that something is off with him. “Hey,” he calls out as he dusts the liquor bottles behind the bar.

Tyler doesn’t respond, he just stalks across to the staff room. He doesn’t even bother to go inside, he just opens the door, throws his coat and bag in there, and slams it shut behind him.

“All men are fucking dickshits!”

Dan raises his eyebrows. “Uh, not sure that’s the message we’re striving to convey at Habenero’s.”

“I don’t give a fuck,” Tyler hisses, rolling up his silken shirt sleeves. The action is telling; Ty would never usually crease his designer shirt in such a way. “The gay community is toxic. I hate this bar, I hate Brighton, I hate my life.”

“Who's the poor lad you’re trying to hook your claws into this time?” Dan asks; it’s immediately evident that this is the wrong thing to say.

“Dan, do not project your lame little pining love drama with a D-List celebrity onto me just because you’re too dumb to see what’s actually going on.”

For a moment, Dan is thrown, not sure what to make of Tyler’s jibe. He’d expected Tyler to just tell him to piss off, but this seems oddly specific. He glances across at Dodie, who is watching Tyler with wide eyes, halfway through setting up the DJ booth.

If Dan didn’t know better, he’d think she was trying to send him a warning glance.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Dan asks.

Dodie casts her worried gaze at Dan, then quickly turns away. He watches her suspiciously, then turns to Tyler again. He’s messing around in the cupboard where they keep the stereo controls, hooking up his phone to the dock and skipping through various songs as they burst from the speakers overhead.

Dan steps down from the stool on which he’s standing, throws his cloth to the bar, and stalks over to where Tyler is. 

He jabs Tyler in the shoulder. “Ty. What are you trying to say?”

Tyler whirls to face him, cheeks red. “Look, Dan, you have to wake up. You’re being taken advantage of.”

“What?”

Tyler sighs, eyes fluttering closed. “I was hoping you’d figure this out for yourself, honestly. I mean, it’s painfully obvious to everyone except you.”

“Nice to know I’m apparently the gossip of the bar at the moment,” Dan says, feeling his blood start to boil.

“Well what do you expect?” Tyler asks, rolling his eyes. “This is a gay club. All we do is bitch, you know that. And when one of the bartenders of the biggest gay club in Brighton starts hanging out with a fucking gay Instagram icon, we’re hardly going to be discussing the latest episode of RuPaul.”

“Right,” Dan huffs, getting even more annoyed now. “So what is it, then? What am I so apparently blind to?”

Tyler opens his mouth, but seems to catch himself before speaking. His eyes soften, regarding Dan in front of him, and he sighs. His shoulders slacken, and his fists unclench.

“Dan…” his voice has a pitying quality to it that sets Dan’s teeth on edge. “He’s stringing you along.”

“Who, Phil?” Dan asks, bewildered. “What do you mean? It’s not like that-”

“Yeah, it’s not like that,” Tyler interrupts, rolling his eyes like he’s heard it all before. “But he’s in here three times a week to keep you hoping that one day it might be.”

Dan snorts. “I’m not delusional, Ty. Okay yeah, I have a crush on him, but I don’t actually think he’s interested. Besides, weren’t you the one who told me I should be holding out hope?”

“At first I thought you should!” Ty exclaims. “I thought he liked you, that maybe he was playing a hard-to-get game or something. But it just keeps going on and on. Why isn’t he doing anything about it if he fancies you? You’re obviously into him, and he knows that. What’s the point in fucking you around?”

“I’m out of his league,” Dan says, because to him, this is obvious. Charlie had even said as much to him, not long ago. “He’d never go for someone like me.”

“That’s complete bullshit.” Tyler jabs a finger at him. “If you like someone, you like them. It doesn’t matter about their job, or how much money they have, or their age-”

Tyler breaks off, flushing. Dan’s brow furrows - their age? He and Phil are only four years apart in age. That’s honestly never seemed to matter in the slightest, to either one of them. What’s Tyler on about?

“Anyway, the point is,” Tyler presses on, the words falling from his mouth in a tumble. “Even if he does have a bit of a soft spot for you, he’s being a dick about it. He’s flirting non-stop, putting ideas in your mind. He invites you over to sleep on his couch for fuck’s sake. Would you do that to someone you knew had a big fat crush on you?”

The image from Phil’s Instagram Story bullets into his brain, suddenly. Phil’s lips pressed to his cheek. The caption ‘#PHAN’. When Dan had first seen it, it had sent shivers up his spine, it had made him glow with happiness. Now, it seems cruel. What could Phil’s reason have been to post it, especially if one factors Charlie into the equation.

“He’s using you,” Tyler says quietly. “It’s the same thing he does with that brainless pretty-boy dick he comes here with. Posting photos of them together, titillating his fans with an are-they-aren’t-they romance, riling them up to get more likes.”

“We’re friends,” Dan says, though he doesn’t manage to convince even himself.

“Maybe,” Tyler says. “But he knows you like him, and he’s still stringing you along, even though he arguably has a boyfriend. He’s just gonna keep you on edge, primed for the moment he turns round and ‘sees’ you for the first time, ‘She’s All That’-style. But it won’t happen, Dan. You need to see that it won’t happen, and that if you keep hanging out with him like this, staying at his house, letting him kiss you for his profile photos, buying you drinks… you’re just gonna be miserable.”

The words have left Dan’s mouth, indefinitely. His mind swirls with the lights across the floor and walls, dizzying. Tyler’s words reverberate around his mind, crashing into the walls of the secret, tiny shrine of hope he’d built, until they one by one crumble to dust on the floor.

He’s using you.

Crash.

You’re gonna be miserable.

Crash.

He’s stringing you along.

Crash, crash, crash

For some reason, there’s a stinging sensation in Dan’s eyes. He takes a step backwards, away from Tyler. “I… yeah. Cool. I have to go change the barrels.”

“I changed them after we closed on Saturday,” Tyler says, confused. Dan ignores him, heading for the cellar in a slow, dazed movement. “Dan, wait, I’m sorry. I’m pissed off, I shouldn’t have said any of that. You know what I’m like when I’m moody, don’t be upset. Phil’s a nice guy! I like him, I’m just concerned- Dan! Please?”

Vaguely, as he closes the cellar door behind himself, Dan hears Tyler cursing under his breath. In the cold, damp darkness of the cellar, Dan slides down the closed door, not caring that as his bum touches the concrete, the rivulets of beer escaping from the barrels soak into his jeans.

He feels so stupid. Everyone could see how ridiculous he was being, this whole time. Even Phil must have seen how desperately, how pathetically Dan pines for him. Tyler’s right, why else would Phil stick around him? Dan being a superfan is easy to manipulate into something that will get Phil a bigger audience. If Phil plays along, the fans will grab at it, will see Dan as an exciting new contender for Phil’s love interest. Perhaps they’ll turn it into some crazy three-way love triangle between him and Charlie, kind of like in Dan's warped sex dream.

He swallows down a lump in his throat, too angry at himself to cry. He’s a pawn in a professional fame-game he doesn’t know the rules for, unwittingly being used as a plot device in the AmazingPhil reality show. He digs his phone out of his pocket, and checks his Instagram profile.

Followers 123,455 

The number glides over his skin, meaningless. “Welcome to the world of fake fame,” Dan mutters to himself, then forces himself to stand. He switches off his phone, grimacing.

No time to deal with any of this now, anyway. Over the next eight hours, Dan has to suspend his own drama-filled life, in favour of the hundreds of other gays, with their own squabbles and heartbreaks and drunk mistaken hookups. 

He can deal with this alone, later, back in his bed across the city, far away from the bar, and the roaring sea, and Phil. 

(Part 7!)

[magic5ball]

Nature Trail to Hell Arc V: Back into Hell (1)

Chapter 1: It’s Always Chilly at Camp Sham

           Back when I was in the cub scouts, my dear old Dad gave me a manual on Boy Scouting. Can’t remember a single thing from that book, except for the ever so honorable motto: ‘Be Prepared’. It was right pretty in its simplicity, something I remembered long after I’d spilled grape juice all over the pages. Not to always be prepared of course. That was something only total NERDS believed, but that if I had a short. simple slogan, people would think I was the smartest guy in the room no matter what I did. Which was why, when yours truly had done gone and sent his army straight into enemy territory without so much as an ink of what he was gonna do, he thought improvising the whole thing over two hours was the smartest idea since chocolate chip waffles. Granted, I had been to an improv camp the last summer, but considering my greatest accomplishment was getting coffee splashed in my face, my prospects weren’t looking so hot.

Not helping were the little sponge dinos asking what the plan was every five minutes, like one of those backseat drivers constantly asking if they’re there yet.

But what I lacked in improve skills I more than made up with in last minute panic. I’d been evoking that dark power to plow through school as long as I could remember. Heck, even in kindergarten I’d build an entire six foot scale mansion with a swimming pool and martini bar just one minute before the thing was due! AND got that passing C- (I got the grade raised by threatening legal action). So I buckled in (not literally. Cardboard boxes don’t exactly have safety regulations) and got thinking.

           And you know that moment where you’re trying to get an idea, but for some reason the more you try to look for it the harder it gets to find it? Guess when that old feeling decided to set in. I tried everything. Wrapped my head in my hands, rocking back and forth. Rubbed my temples. Banged my head against the side of the box. But no matter how hard I pushed the old noggin, nothing came out. Like squeezing a potato through the eye of a needle.

            As the icing on the crap cake, turned out packing peanuts weren’t even edible! All those years figuring Mom was keeping me from them because they were bad for my teeth, pining for that soft, rainbow marshmallow flavor that would melt on my tongue: WASTED!

“Is the plan ready yet?” Growled the little sponge dinosaurs at the worst possible time. In the EXACT same tone I used when I found I wasn’t getting that pet Lystrosaurus from Santa, too!

Still, the old grey matter was totally clogged. Only thing to do was keep pushing the metaphorical tater through the needle until the Almighty got embarrassed for me and struck me with divine inspiration.

For their part, the sponge dinos looked up at their leader as he babbled about potatoes and coming to the terrible realization that maybe, just maybe, the horse they were risking their lives to back wasn’t exactly the sharpest steed in the stable.

The rumbling truck came to a halt. Couldn’t have been more than ten minutes of driving. Frankly, I had no idea what was worse: the fact I had run out of time, or that I HAD DIED LITERALLY TEN MINUTES FROM A FREAKIN’ WEGMART! OF ALL THE STUPID, LOUSY THINGS THAT-

My whining would have to wait. Outside, I could hear the wails of kids having to sing about Tarzan getting a tan for the five zillionth time, a shiver running down my spine. And beneath that moaning of the ding-danged, I heard none other than the thing disguising itself as Ms. Hoebag chatting it up with the delivery guy. The spongey dinos, still unsure about what they were supposed to be doing, started to make inanimate object noises to disguise themselves, proving that maybe they should have been the ones leading this operation.

“A week late!” She roared, her deep, satanic baritone a far cry from the pleasant camp counselor voice I’d heard when I first arrived all those weeks ago.

At least the truck guy wasn’t gonna take it lightly. “Listen. Ma’am, I’ve had a crazy day and frankly, after certain events, I kinda want to check into an asylum.”

“In that case, want to SELL YOUR SOUL?” She went prattling in a tone no camp counselor should have been able to make. Not even the sort who’d expose young, impressionable minds to Carney the Dinosaur.

“No can do, Ma’am. I already sold it for a lifetime supply of spicy bean chalupas at Tako Shak.”

           At that, Hoebag wasted no time eviscerateing the poor feller about the good virtues of selling your soul wisely. Funny how the first useful thing I’d learned at camp I’d found weeks after the fact. If nothing else, at least I got twenty new swear words to add to the ol’ collection.

           This took up a good half hour I should have been using to plan, but really, when could I expect to hear those words so dirty I would still be cleaning pieces out of my ears three years later again? I wasn’t about to waste my chance to gather forbidden knowledge! Like the little kid I was, I insisted on waiting just a little longer… until I felt the ground beneath me get all light. Somebody was lifting the box, taking me in… wherever it is the Camp kept its’ Styrofoam containers. But going to that place meant passing through Camp Sham itself. And the more I waited, the more curious I got about what was happening in the camp since I’d been away. I’d only heard Freddie’s rumors, so I wasn’t really sure what to expect. Mostly what came to mind were images from those old Disney movies my Grandma showed me under the delusion I’d find them fun, only to realize Fantasia involved a literal trip to Hell that gave me nightmares for weeks (and also a scene with dinosaurs that would pretty much define my life for the next half a billion years).

           My dumb kid curiosity, the kind that makes you think flooding the house to make your own pool is a good idea, finally got the better of me, and I poked two little eye holes in the cardboard. Or tried to. Now that I was a ghost in the physical world, my fingers kinda just sunk through, like quicksand. After taking a moment to feel dumb for not thinking of that, I put my face to the box so I could look through. Didn’t have to worry about being seen, of course, being a ghost and all.

           Freddie had lied to me back at Tako Shak. What I saw outside was worse than anything that had come out of the old turd’s mouth. It was less like a camp, and more like one of those old Renaissance paintings of the underworld used to scare kids out of snack time, except greyer, with giant snow-belting storm clouds circling the sky in a massive vortex. Christmas in July, courtesy of some genie who went out of his way to be a jerk. There was not a single festive light or wreath to be found, but rather large television screens advertising how ‘Carney is Watching You’ duct taped to cold, three legged lookout towers. Kids, dressed only in swimtrunks and coats most likely made in arts and crafts, shoveled snow quickly as their little arms could go, while guards carried around sabertooth tigers- actual sabertooth tigers!- on chains, threatening to sic then on anyone who might slack even a little bit. I recognized those guards, too. Where their skin was exposed I could see elaborate tattoos (though branding marks is more like it) with some all-too-familiar patterns on them. Patterns like ‘Orange you glad to be here?’ or ‘I’m berry proud of you!’. I felt sorry for those poor kids. My Dad says they don’t hire people with tattoos anymore. Yet as bad as things got, I kept STAREING. That’s the thing about Summer Camp, the thing I learned the hard way: no matter how much you try to erase it, to drown it out the memory with video games and t.v, you can never really run away from the horror, always sitting at the back of your mind, waiting to pounce you when you least expect it, like a hungry sabertooth.

           All this, in the name of building character or some other buzzword the grownups read off their memos.

           The last thing I saw before I drew my head in, curling up in a ball on the opposite end of the box, was a kid, his butt frozen off- LITERALLY FROZEN OFF!- standing in the snow as three other campers tried to reassemble his gluteus maximus like one of those 3-d wood puzzles you find at bookstores, their fingers stuck fast to the pieces.

           Somehow, the inside of the mess hall was even worse, a chromium dungeon of pure monotony, icicles long as I was a danglin’ menacingly from the ceiling, ready to (try and) impale my ghost body at a moment’s notice. Here, delivery guy finally put the dinos and I down on a shelf, leaving us for dead in that wintery world. Even after his footsteps were long gone, I got the jitters something fierce, fierce enough to stick me in place. Felt especially bad for the dinosaurs. If I was stuck in place, those guys must have been frozen solid, warm blood or no warm blood.

           Heck, at that point I think I forgot about planning entirely in favor of thinking about how to find warmth, because Lord knows thinking doesn’t do you much good when you’re frozen half-solid! Rubbing my Rhode Island-sized goose bumps for just a little bit more heat, I faded through the box before I became the human Watt-sicle, landing smack-flat on the metal floor, sending a fresh wave of shivers through my ethereal form. 

           I could barely get my feet off the ground before I heard someone coming. Coming, and looking right at me. A chunky kid in a dirty white chef’s apron, his sleeves rolled up despite the obvious weather conditions; feet not slipping despite the icy floor. A kid I recognized him almost immediately.

“SHATNER?!”

He jabbed a butcher’s cleaver into the empty air, clearly startled.

“WHO GOES THERE?!” 

[dragonagecompanionsreact]

Companions, advisors, and romances react to an inquisitor who has absolutely no aptitude for battle (no hand-eye coordination, most fights involve a lot of running away) but is basically a walking encyclopedia of knowledge both useful and not so much. (Can't remember if I sent this already or not)

…So if Mod Sarah was Inquisitor, then?

Cassandra: She quickly keys in to the fact that they’re a civilian non-combatant following their complete lack of skill in defending themselves from demons. She takes the lead and tells them to stay behind during fights, not wanting them to get injured or in the way. Following stabilizing the Breach, she tells them bluntly that they MUST learn to fight, and that either she or Varric or Solas can start teaching them, depending on what class they want.

If she is the one chosen to teach them warrior skills, she and the other warriors in the Inner Circle work them to the bone for weeks, months on end of sparring and hours of working out, but they’re capable of defending themselves, even fighting when they’re done with them. As for their knowledge, she sometimes finds it useful, asking for their thoughts on unknown things they find in the wild, sometimes aggravated if they act like a know-it-all. “Clearly, you were a scholar before all this happened, but now you must be a fighter as well.”

Blackwall: Cassandra, Solas, or Varric have already started teaching them to fight, but they’re still pretty sloppy when they meet him, to the point at which he just tells them to stand aside during the initial fight. If they’re learning to fight like a warrior, he joins Cassandra, Cullen, and Iron Bull in training them, sometimes acting as something like a drill sergeant. “You’ll thank me when you can keep yourself from getting decapitated!” he tells them. He does compliment their intelligence and knowledge, however, and finds it useful when they’re out in the field, or if he just wants to know something he’s curious about.

Iron Bull: He basically punts them out of the battlefield the minute he sees them for the first time and tells them to stay put. When they get to talking, he can figure out a lot about them– scholar, never fought a day in their life until the Breach. He agrees with the others that they have to learn to defend themselves, and if they go for a warrior class, he’s right there working them to the bone like the other warriors. He even has Krem help him teach. If they complain, he grins toothily. “You’ll thank us when you can go close a rift without getting eviscerated by a demon.” He quizzes them a few times on their knowledge, to gauge what and how much they know, and finds himself impressed. “Once you learn how to fight… you could have been a great Ben-Hassrath.” he compliments.

Varric: He’s really patient with them– not everyone can fight, or should fight, and he’s sympathetic to them. He likes to ask them for information all the time when he doesn’t feel like doing hard research when writing his book. If they choose a rogue class, he suggests they just learn how to use a crossbow– it’s relatively easy. That doesn’t mean there isn’t a lot of training involved, but he also teaches them to identify traps and how to make traps– “Given the fact you’re a walking encyclopedia, Brainy, this should be a piece of cake for you.”

Sera: She’s baffled when Cassandra pushes them out of the way during the fight in which she first meets them, and is told they have no fighting prowess. “Ooooh.” she remarks. “Well, we’re gonna have to fix that, yeah? You can’t go around… not being able to fight when there’s demons everywhere and you’re the only one who can fix it.” If they choose a rogue class, she agrees with Varric that they should, initially, learn to use a crossbow for sake of simplicity, but states they should also learn to use a longbow. “Crossbows are good and easy for beginners, but longbows ‘re better by a lot. Come on, I’ll teach you.” Well, she and Leliana teach them, at any rate. Unlike Leliana and the warriors, she’s much less of a workhorse, and just has them come and practice when she’s shooting arrows for shits and giggles. Leliana’s the one working them, but she’s the one who teaches them tricks and fun stuff, which actually helps them learn a lot. She also remarks that they have to learn to be sneaky, which she teaches by having them accompany her during pranks. 

Cole: “Blood dripping, heart racing, I’m going to die, they’re going to die, I shouldn’t be here. You’re learning, but you still don’t know how.” If they choose to be a rogue, he smiles. “It’s okay. Sometimes people have to die. I can help. I can teach you.”

Vivienne: She’s sympathetic, but states they must learn to fight. “Knowledge is well and good, my dear, but in your new role, you must adapt. A healthy dose of fear keeps you alive.” If they’re a mage, she completely understands– not all Circle mages learn useful offensive magic. Many specialize in healing and other fields. “With how smart you are, learning offensive spells should be a non-issue. Learning how to react in a proper fight is another story…” She’s remarkably patient with them if she has to teach them.

Dorian: He’s a little envious of the idea of being allowed to learn and study in peace for so long into life without the barest concern for combat, but that time is long past gone for them, and he pities their loss. They get along as academic sparring partners, and often bounce ideas off each other. If they’re a mage, he offers to teach them practical offensive magic. “Fortunately for you, you now have a charming and talented tutor in the art of combat magic.”

Solas: He finds it a little aggravating, how they trail behind the party during Haven, and how often he finds himself throwing barriers and telling them to stay put. When he actually gets to talk to them, though, he finds himself very pleased and enthralled with the intellectual sparring partner he’s befriended. If they’re a mage, he insists on teaching them himself. “While you have spent your years thus far studying non-combat magic, it’s time for something new,” he says cheerfully, “I believe it will be both a learning experience for you and necessary for future endeavors.”

Leliana: At first, she wonders if they’re faking, but watching them for a little while makes her realize they sincerely have no idea what to do in a fight. She’s nicer to them after realizing they’re a scholar, and admires their intelligence. “Nevertheless, your life has significantly changed in a short period of time. You must learn to defend yourself.” she says. If they choose to be a rogue, she works them to the bone, but they’re perhaps the most prepared for a fight when she’s done with them as compared to other rogue teachers.

Cullen: He voices concern immediately over their incapability in a fight. “Your knowledge is good, but the reality of it is you must learn to defend yourself. I’m afraid your life as a sedentary scholar is over.” He ensures someone’s teaching them to fight in their chosen class. If they choose to be a warrior and have him teach them, like Leliana, he trains them and works them to near-collapse, forcing them to drill with the soldiers, but they come out fully prepared for a fight.

Josephine: She sympathizes with them so much. In many ways, she’s a lot like them, and offers her apologies for what they must endure. Whenever they’re done with a particularly heavy training regimen, she makes sure they at least have a comfortable room to return to with plenty of books to relax with. They become book buddies.

[villainoustableaux-blog]

"Thats not fair ! " - to Jareth with a piece of cake bow.

“I hardly think I need to point out to you how history is repeating itself. FAIR is no longer part of the equation, Sarah.”

But–as ever–there was respect in the way he addressed her, something tender and dreamlike in the caress of his tongue against the syllables of her name. In another life, she might have been the champion of his Labyrinth, the one who had gotten away: resent and respect would have grown for her in equal measure.But alas, the story had played out differently, the boy had stayed and grown to a monster fed on peaches and poisoned tales of his sister’s cruelty, of her failure, and he now skulked in the heart of the Labyrinth, eviscerating enemies in the name of his King.

“You failed to save him once, when you were able to put him up for ransom. What could you possibly offer me for a second chance? Nevermind what you could possibly do for HIM after all these years. The child is mine–he always was.”

[asklefantome]

When was your last encounter with a wild animal, and what's the story behind it?

Ah. It involved one of the shah’s wolves. She was generally kept in the menagerie, but on this particular occasion she elected to abscond from her enclosure to attend a banquet held in honor of a visiting dignitary, who, by the by, intended to poison the shah before the banquet concluded.

The wolf in question was a hair’s breadth away from feral. She was used in executions that were a favorite public spectacle. The condemned would enter a pit and the wolf, starved for food, would promptly tear him to shreds. The whole affair was devised by the shah’s charming mother.

On the night of the banquet, a great clamoring was heard outside the feast hall, and then the wolf bounded through the doors, her jaw already sodden and caked with blood. There was a great commotion, as there naturally is when wild carnivores disrupt dinner without an invitation. Guests scrambled atop the table or hid beneath it; the guards readied their weapons; the sultana grabbed one of her terrified handmaidens, intending to use her as a shield; and the shah let out a shriek that resembled something a cat in heat might emit.

I was not sitting among the guests; the shah preferred that I remain in the shadowed corner of the hall until I was summoned to begin the night’s entertainment. More ominous, he always said.

I hated the little man, but I did not object to this arrangement;I quite preferred it. I am, after all, a natural sentinel, and hardly fit company for dinner conversation.

And I would have rather been impaled with a rusted, blunt spoon than spend another meal seated next to the sultana and her wandering hands.

From his place near the end of the table, Nadir spun in his chair, face blanched, eyes wide, nostrils flaring. He looked at me, mouthed something indecipherable, and gestured to the wolf.

“Yes,” I called, “I noticed it, as well.”

His expression pinched into one of exasperated irritation. The others in the hall snapped around to search for the source of the voice, which until then had remained entirely silent. Their search was abruptly halted, however, when the wolf let out a growl and began to stalk forward, eyes fixed on one of the shah’s plump, mustachioed cousins. The man froze, sweat beading on his brow and soaking through his collar.

I, for one, would not have mourned his passing. He’d attempted to have me beheaded and intended to display the trophy as a macabre souvenir in his home.

An unfortunate decision, that. He was now devoid of two fingers.

From his seat in the center of the room, the shah swallowed, head swiveling as he searched the hall. The wolf’s growls had deepened into a primordial bass hum, her pupils sharpened to pinpoints, ears flattened against her skull and haunches bristling. One of the guards whispered a prayer and inched forward, sword at the ready, but the beast snapped her great head in his direction, teeth bared, and he hastily retreated with a cry. No one had moved. The shah’s cousin let out a low moan. The guards shook. And still, the wolf’s growl droned raw and feral, torn out of some deep, burning recess in the earth.

I knew then precisely what was coming.

“Erik!” the shah called in a hoarse falsetto. He swallowed and then repeated, louder this time, “Erik!”

Damn it all to hell.

“Yes?” I called from my spot in the shadows of a pillar. The wolf’s gaze, previously locked on the shah, now turned slowly in my direction.

Damn it, truly, all to hell.

“Kill–” the shah pointed jerkily toward the beast, breath shuddering. “Kill i–kill it!”

“Now really, she’s only just arrived,” I said. “She hasn’t yet sampled dessert.”

Nadir’s lips thinned so severely that they looked in danger of disappearing. His eyes were desperate, furious. He fixed me with what I supposed was meant to be a scathing glare.

Shut. UP, he mouthed.

I responded with a lazy smirk.

If I am to meet Death, my friend, I am going to inconvenience him every step of the way.

“Erik,” the shah croaked again, feigning, if only for a moment, a remnant of his usual puffed up composure, though it was tainted by unmistakable trembling. “Kill it. Or I shall do the same to you. Slowly. Over the course of many weeks.”

I sauntered out of the shadows and, now plainly visible, drew a low murmur of horror from the crowd. I wore the mask, of course–the horror beneath was generally reserved for the final act of the night–but I could not mask the death that enveloped me from head to toe.

Or perhaps they objected to my jerkin. The black leather was a tad much, I will freely admit.

“Your Highness,” I said, “must do as he pleases, though it shall be rather difficult to dispatch the beast when I am drawn and quartered, wouldn’t you think?”

“Do it,” the sultana hissed suddenly from between her teeth. She dug her nails into her handmaiden’s arms, and the girl let out a whimper of pain.

The sultana’s black eyes blazed and she leaned forward. “Now, you hideous piece of filth, or I will garrote you with your own entrails!”

“Come, now, you can do better than that,” I said coolly, yet fury boiled in my abdomen.

I should mention that although I have never killed a woman, I came close to murdering the sultana on several occasions. She’d perfected a particularly vicious brand of cruelty the likes of which I scarcely believed possible.

She was about to spit out another insult when a deep growl bled into the silence.

The wolf had turned, yellow eyes fixed intensely upon mine. Her teeth were rank with gore, the fur around her jaws dripping crimson. She was terribly beautiful. Massive. Standing on her back legs, she would have reached well over eight feet.

I did not move. I have been frightened, truly frightened, numerous times in my life, yet I cannot recall ever been so overwhelmed by such sublime, horrifying power. Here was nature stripped bare, death come at last soaked in detritus and wild with the ecstasy of it. I felt amid the terror a thrum of humility and respect for her.

With painstaking care, heart ramming itself into my ribcage so frantically that I was sure the wolf could hear it, I inhaled, expanding my shoulders and, to give the illusion of size, drew my cloak up so its folds resembled great black wings. I stared at the tiled floor lest she view my direct gaze as a challenge. The elaborate mosaic inlaid at my feet blurred beneath a haze of fear. I burned with it.

For what may have been mere seconds or minutes–I could not tell–silence hung hot and heavy over the hall, punctuated only by the animal’s coarse breathing.

By millimeters, I began to back away. My mind, it seemed, had ceased all operation; my body alone piloted my movements. Let it come, let it come, let it come, rang the mantra, and all was suspension, hovering between stillness and a cacophony of pain.

And then, inexplicably, gradually, she sat at my feet.

I froze, believing she’d readied herself to attack at last. Instead, with all the familiarity and docility of a hound, she rolled over, exposing her stomach.

There was a hum of astonishment from the assembled guests. I let out a shuddering exhale, still gripping the cloak like a ridiculous bat, unable to move. It was a feint, surely. Any moment now, she would spring up and end it all.

But she did not.

Instead, she let out a whine and pawed at the floor insistently.

“Impossible,” someone whispered.

I nearly murmured my agreement when the wolf’s whine grew louder.

And she wiggled.

The massive thing wiggled.

I must have taken leave of my senses completely then–and really, if I were about to be torn to shreds, what use was sanity?–for I crouched slowly, breath suspended, and hovered one hand over the mass of fur. Surely not….

Again, she pawed at the tile. What are you waiting for? she seemed to say.

And so I did what any decent human being would do in such a situation.

I pet the dog.

The tension in her muscles dissolved and her tongue lolled happily out of her bloodied mouth. I felt as if I were going to be sick from relief, and found my tongue had seemingly coated itself with sand and my knees had liquefied. Yet I continued running my hand through the thick fur on her stomach, scratching the softer scruff behind her ears, and all the while she lay there, perfectly content to be pampered by her would-be prey.

Incredulous laughter and chatter began to ring out behind me. I, too, felt the urge to grin, though I was wary of bearing my teeth at all for fear she would consider it hostile, and my glee was more hysterical than self-satisfied; she could turn instantly, I thought, maul me into strips of flesh in the blink of an eye. She was feral, unpredictable. Monstrous.

She rolled back over and plopped in my lap, and I fell back as she began nuzzling her head affectionately against my jaw.

The shah laughed delightedly.

“My magician, the wolf tamer!” he cried, and the crowd erupted into applause.

Astonished, I looked up. The commotion, I feared, would anger the wolf, yet she remained comfortably pressed against me like a spaniel. The crowd was rapturous, on their feet and applauding like mad.

They were smiling, all. And for the first time–the only time–their eyes held not fear or loathing, but gratitude. Respect.

Warmth.

It was surreal. Disorienting.

I shifted beneath her muscled girth, and she moved enough that I could stand. She did the same, no longer bent on the hunt, still contentedly panting. One hand still buried in the thick fur of her neck, I led her away. The thunderous applause followed me out into the corridor, and once out of sight, I let out a series of unceremonious wheezes, my vision spinning.

I was alive.

I was alive.

Unfortunate, perhaps, but as much as I would have preferred death, I did not relish obtaining it via violent mauling.

My new companion suddenly began sniffing, and my head snapped to the right. There sprawled in various degrees of mutilation lay four guards: weapons twisted and bodies eviscerated, bloodied, and heartily munched upon.

I grimaced, risking a cursory glance at the wolf. She took in the leftovers of her feast and then looked back up at me.

And so help me, I could have sworn she was smiling smugly.

She followed me to my quarters that night and slept soundly in the back garden. I was not so fortunate; I did not sleep a wink–she could have easily decided to abandon our sudden truce and tuck into a midnight snack.

In the morning, she greeted me with all the eager abandon of a puppy. At once flummoxed and touched, I fetched her meat and water, and sat numbly staring at the wall while she finished her meal and proceeded to play with a pillow she’d snatched from the divan. She promptly tore it to shreds and started on the next one.

What the devil was my life?

The wolf fared quite well. I kept her–much to Nadir’s horror–until I made contact with a hospitable German woman who’d taken it upon herself to care for put-upon animals, releasing them back into the wild if she believed they were fit for it or nurturing them herself if they were not. She’d acres and acres of land in the northern wilds of the country and assured me, eyes glinting with concern at the mask, that my “pet”  would lead a very happy life, indeed.

And she did, the last I heard. Free of the court’s abuse, she blossomed, gave birth to several litters of her own, and romped through the forest with her pack to her heart’s content.

The shah, of course, was quite displeased when he discovered that I’d liberated his one of his favorite methods of execution. I still bear the scars from the knife attack.

…Carried out by his hired lackeys, all of whom were swiftly dispatched. I took extra care to soak His Highness’ prized antique dressing gown in the leftover blood. His furious screams the next morning were well worth the hours I spent bandaging my wounds.

Really. You think he’d be grateful that I’d spared his court wolf another hour spent in his malodorous company. In any case, I much prefer the simple house cat these days. More poop, yes, but considerably less bloodshed.

[journeyinthetardis]

Synopsis: Liz Shaw of P.R.O.B.E. is called in to help the investigation of the murder of a man named Wittaker. He was killed by a blow to the skull, which is not entirely unusual. The reason Liz was called was because of the murder of Whittaker's dog, who was eviscerated and appears to have had its remains set up like some sort of ritual or sacrifice.

Wittaker was the former headmaster of Winterborne, a nearby public school, so Liz and Detective Burke of the regular police go to the school to speak with the current headmaster, Gavin Purcell. He did not know Wittaker very well, so does not have much to contribute, nor does anyone else at the school.

Meanwhile three young students, Christian, Andrew and Luke, are playing football on the school grounds. After they meet up with another student named Georgie, who has a severe speech impediment, they go walking through the woods. There, they find the eviscerated corpse of another dog set up in the same ritualistic fashion. This turns out to be Badger, a dog belonging to a woman working at the school named Barbara Taploe.

With two strange killings of dogs, both with connections to the school, Liz decides to step up her investigation. This starts when Burke brings her to meet with Andrew, who called the police for help. The previous night, he saw Luke get out of bed and start wandering the halls. Luke then disappeared and Andrew claims he saw a 'ghost' in the attic which knocked him out. Now that morning's come, Luke is still missing.

Liz grills Purcell for information, but he continues to state that he knows nothing. Luke shows up soon after, none the worse for the wear, but Liz still isn't convinced that nothing is happening. She is proven right not long after. Today is Luke's birthday, but as his two friends bring a cake to his room, they find Luke strangled to death on his bed with Purcell standing over him.

Purcell is arrested and interrogated by Burke, but Purcell simply claims that he found Luke already dead and had nothing to do with his death. When Liz steps in to interrogate him herself, she presses him for information about the original founder of the school, Sir Isaac Greatorex. Liz has learned that Greatorex used to be involved in dark magic and had formed a cult.

When Liz reveals that coroners discovered the bloodletting wound under Luke's arm, as well as the fact that both dogs had been drained of blood, Purcell finally confesses. He reveals that he is following Greatorex's cult, as was Wittaker. When Wittaker threatened to reveal what they were doing, Purcell had him killed. Luke's and the dogs' deaths were rituals as part of the cult.

Burke is satisfied that they have solved the cult and found their murderer. Liz, however, still feels as if they are missing a piece of the puzzle. As she continues to investigate, Georgie approaches her. He has bravely decided to tell her something that he's told no-one else. Wittaker and Purcell used to involve him in certain dealings to do with their cult, which left him traumatized and unable to speak properly. Most importantly, though, he reveals that there was a third unidentified man involved, who always wore a mask.

Before Liz can go back to interrogate Purcell some more, she stops by the boys' room. Inside, however, she finds only the murdered body of Taploe. When she tells Purcell that Taploe is dead, Purcell finally reveals the actual truth. He had been covering up for this third person, who is the real leader. To everyone's surprise, this person is actually Christian. Christian had been placed under Purcell's care when he was orphaned, and Purcell ended up instilling his beliefs into the young boy. Now, somehow, Christian has gotten it into his head that he is the reincarnation of Greatorex.

Since Andrew is nowhere to be found, Liz and Burke can only assume that Christian has taken him somewhere. With Purcell's help, they realize that it's a pedestrian bridge over a nearby highway. This is significant, as it was the former location of the gallows where Greatorex was hanged. They rush there just in time to find Christian with Andrew tied up. Christian is holding a broken bottle to the other boy's neck.

Liz tries and fails to convince Christian to stop this madness, nor is she able to convince him that he's not Greatorex. Then, Liz tells Christian that he has to stop since this 'ritual' won't work, according to the cult's rules. Christian had used the sacred dagger to kill Taploe and doesn't have it anymore. The crazed Christian realizes this is true, so he drops the bottle and sullenly walks away.

Purcell is there too, having helped Liz understand the rules of the cult. He apologizes to Christian, explaining to him that being a part of Greatorex's cult was only meant to be a game. Distraught over this news, Christian then jumps off the bridge to the traffic below, killing himself. Thankfully, though, this puts an end to the cult. Andrew is safe, Purcell is taken away, and Burke even ends up deciding to join P.R.O.B.E., despite his earlier skepticisms.

Thoughts: It's the second movie in the P.R.O.B.E. series, and it's a big improvement over the first. We both agree on this.

As a story, this one was much improved. First and foremost, it was a whole lot easier to follow. There were no times where we were left confused and wondering what the heck was going on. That said, this does not mean it was a simplistic story. It was well written and quite deep, with lots of interesting backstory to back it up.

The characters were fun. Purcell was played by Peter Davison, whom I'm sure you all know as the fifth Doctor. It was hard to tell at times whether he was insane or not, and also whether he was 'evil' or not. He was such a mystery and it was fun unwrapping him. Christian made for a great antagonist, especially since neither of us figured out that he was truly behind everything until it was revealed. That makes the mark of a good twist.

The story also featured a landmark for the Doctor Who universe. Christian and Andrew were in a relationship and were shown kissing on-screen many times. This is the first time a true homosexual relationship was portrayed in the Doctor Who world. It made things a lot more interesting when Christian went crazy at the end and nearly ended up killing his own boyfriend.

The only problem with this movie has to do with the audio. The budget apparently didn't allow for road closures. Almost every outdoors shot had loud cars zooming by constantly in the background, making it hard to hear the dialogue. There was also a very loud squeaky staircase in the school. Ironically, the scene on the pedestrian bridge right ABOVE the highway had just fine audio mixing.