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revenant-dumpster-fire · 3 years ago

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Selfish (Revenant x Reader)

[Click here to go to this chapter on AO3]

Theme: Revenant puts people in graves, not tears them from the arms of Death. Yet, here he is. But he doesn't have to. He can make it painless. Make it certain. Make it easier. It's what he heard you say before.

Warnings: Pain, bodily trauma, body horror, medical trauma, sharp objects, blood, graphic descriptions of gore, mean simulacrum energy, desperation, intrusive thoughts, suicidal ideations, depression, bipolar.

Reader's Notes: Lore expansion for my main Revenant (Apex Legends) fanfiction (Leaves One Cold), this should be read after the first book (Just a Volunteer). Some amount of fluff here, but in a traumatized format. Treat it as world-building and a character piece, for those who enjoy the main storyline and want more context on things to come.

Writing Notes: What's going on in those neural processors? Do you have race conditions in your threading? Which threads take priority? Do you get to choose? Or are you a ticking timebomb? How many deaths have happened at the behest of mere code and the bugs within? Is hardware capable of selfishness, or is it purely a human trait? Truth be told, I know the answers already.

Fuck me this was the most fun chapter to write and no matter how many times I read it, I'm just as pleased by it. It's so fucked up and perfect.

Navigation:

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"Just A Volunteer" (Book 1) | "The Lost Files" (Book 1.5)

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The hospital doors are automatic. They slide open quickly, allowing emergency patients to be wheeled into the ER from the ambulances. Today, they weren't fast enough.

Revenant shoves through the doors at full sprinting speed, holding a small female corpse to his chestplate in a defensive stance. He is in one of his least favorite chassis--a knight in full armor, running scripts on its hardware that both prevent him from needless cruelty and make him want to protect the innocent. It's unlike him, and he isn't fond of being overwritten by a hardcoded and idiotic stereotype.

He's covered from helmet to sabatons in dried blood, and still dripping fresh blood all over the floor that leaks from the body in his arms. He has a sheathed sword at his side, the revealed hilt and handle slathered in copious amounts of caked blood. His gauntlets are stained red from mercilessly eviscerating multiple victims, but they're now pressed lightly into the small woman's frame to hold her to his chest. His arms shake as his shoulders spark and frazzle, his whole upper body filled with bullet holes. His skeletal mask is shattered on one side, a bullet clearly having grazed his cheekbone just closely enough to leave long cracks. His bright green LEDs are focused on the intake desk as he runs up, leaving a trail of blood behind him.

The intake nurses jump to their feet, completely unsure of what they're witnessing or what to do.

"Godspeed you bastards! She's dying!" Revenant screeches audibly, fighting back against an underlying sound of static.

The nurses immediately press buttons at the desk, calling in emergency personnel to the floor immediately. Shocked onlookers in the lobby stay perfectly silent, both in confusion and concern for the situation.

"It's taking too long, where do I take her?!" He's screaming and pitching his vocals in desperation, even though it's barely been a few seconds.

"Sir, please calm--"

He ignores the nurse and uses a near-flying kick to smash through the security doors into the main hospital area, running deeper into the hospital, but stopping soon after he realizes he has no place to take her. He doesn't know who to look for, what room to go to, or what on earth to even do at this point. His eyes skitter around at the rooms, desks, nurses, computers, and medicine carts desperately, no answers coming to him.

"Sir, come with me." A very bold nurse calmly calls to him from afar, motioning for him to meet her deeper down the hallway. Normally Revenant would kill anyone who tries to tell him what to do, but this chassis wants to thank her. It's detestable.

He sprints in her direction, catching up with her quickly as the nurse turns and takes him down a winding set of hallways, opening a door to a room with a gurney and a large counter full of medical tools.

"Thank you." Revenant gasps through the sound of his chassis slowly degrading around him, carefully placing the barely-alive body on the bed, blood immediately soaking into the sheets.

"She's in bad shape. What happened?" The nurse asks quickly as she prepares an IV.

"She was shot multiple times with a burst shot weapon. I have reason to suspect she's been drugged too." Revenant tries to calmly say as his vocalizer fights to stay functional.

"Use those metal blade-hands of yours to get her clothes off while I get this IV started. We don't have time to spare." She demands, pulling the safety cap off the IV needle. Revenant stares at her with a suspicious glare. She takes a moment to meet his gaze. "I worked for Hammond so I could afford to finish nursing school. I know who you are, Revenant."

His chassis shows no emotion, but internally he can feel his rage boiling over. Another name for the list, although he doesn't know her name. Either way--

"Kill me later, asshole. You want this girl to live, don't you?" She snaps him out of his trance as she slips the needle in the cold, dying hand.

He snaps his arm into a blade and cuts the clothing away, careful to avert his vision from anything his unique hardware considers "lewd". The blood-soaked clothing peels away almost like flesh does. The wounds are gaping, and there's so much blood it's hard to see where the living flesh ends and the shredded sinew begins. The skin is turning pale and cold. There isn't much time left.

"Lift her, I'll pull the clothing bits out from under her. We need her ready for anything as quickly as possible. Surgeon is on his way, as is an anesthesiologist." The nurse is really getting on his nerves, but this chassis listens and follows the orders without even a scoff. She pulls the bloody tatters away, throwing them in a biohazard bin.

She carefully lays out the limbs and grabs vital monitors, hooking them up as quickly as possible. The heartbeat sensor is so slow. Revenant hates that damned beeping. Skinsuits are supposed to be much quieter. When they die, it's meant to be an intimate experience as their heartbeat slows to a stop. Sometimes he gets to feel the slow descent and watch the life drain from their eyes as they fall into a final peace he only wishes he could experience. The beeping absolutely violates the sanctity of death's quiet embrace, but even worse is that he wants this one to live.

The nurse puts an oxygen mask over her face as the surgeon bursts in with an anesthesiologist. The surgeon is stunned for a moment at Revenant's presence.

"Sir, if you could wait outside in the--"

"He should stay, trust me on this one doctor." The nurse chimes in before Revenant's violent protesting begins. The doctor shrugs at Revenant and accepts her nurse's insistence on the matter. Revenant begrudgingly steps back from the body, making room for those whose job it is to ruin work like his. He isn't sure if he should feel any hope in this situation, or accept the grief-stricken freedom of losing one of the only creatures he had become fond of since his awakening.

The anesthesiologist is already doing math on a tablet to calculate possible sedatives as the nurse whispers something in his ear about drugs already in the system. He openly sighs and begins his math over again, clearly needing to be very wary to not make a bad situation worse.

Revenant watches as the first sedative enters the IV through an injection. The body doesn't change much, as death's relaxing grip has long since taken hold. The only thing to fear now is rigor mortis, which would tense the body up as it cools too much. As Revenant sees the surgeon throw a paper over the body and begin extracting the first bullet, he staggers backwards against a wall, slowly slouching until he's sitting on the ground, struggling to fight off the degradation in his chassis' condition. He starts to huff heavily as his synthetic body attempts to cool itself down from the stressful code building up heat in his chest. It hurts far too much for a simulacrum, which should never be capable of the unmistakable chest pain of despair and a broken heart. The bastards at Hammond Robotics made sure they coded every possible pain into him; he has been given no mercy.

More nurses flood in quickly, suiting up and supporting the surgeon in any way possible.

• • • •

It's been over two hours now. The beeping hasn't stopped, but it struggles and stutters here and again. Revenant is slouched in the corner, his body unable to hold itself in a standing position any longer. He fights to keep his LEDs fixated on the surgeon and her work, even though they fade and snap back to life against his will. The pistons that support his waist have clearly failed now, as he cannot even lean forward without collapsing into a heap. The surgeon curses aloud regularly, making Revenant fear that death has decided what it wishes to do, but the beeping doesn't stop. It keeps hanging on by a thread.

"Fucking dammit, we don't exactly have spares lying around. Can we get Hammond to quote us for a kidney and liver? And fast?" The surgeon finally looks up, speaking aloud as one of the nurses begins dialing on a phone.

Revenant breaks away from death's gentle grip on him at those words. He tries to speak, but his vocalizer simply blurts static. The whole room notices his protest, but can't make out any words to understand. The ex-Hammond nurse breaks away from the crowd and walks up to him, kneeling down to meet his gaze. He's helpless to tell her what he means to say.

"I know." She says quietly to him as the others behind her begin to speak to each other again. "I also know you're in one of the only suits ever produced to have the prototypes of the original Hammond line of synthetic organs in it. All of what we need. None of their usual spyware bullshit in it. They left all that in your head on this chassis."

Revenant narrows his eyes for a moment in suspicious disbelief.

"I worked on it, a little. This was meant to be your most human suit, surely you noticed?" She sighs a bit, knowing she's signing her own death warrant. "I worked on the original organs. They weren't code. They were proper. They're better than anything. We wanted to know if they could fool you. So we put them in you. You never performed so well, so humanely, or with so much attention to who you were killing. You probably don't remember at all, but this suit managed to save hostages at one point. I thought I was on the right path then, until I found out you weren't really just an AI at all." She sighs again. "I wanted to help and save people, not keep a slave in a delusion of freedom. So I got the money for the rest of my schooling and then immediately quit after."

Revenant takes a moment to process her words and save the data. She is partially at fault that this damn suit even exists. At the same time, this chassis is about to be the final gambit in his fight to keep death's claws off of the little one. He saves the thought, ponders it, ensuring he will remember it when he returns.

He plunges his arm into his metal chest, cutting a jagged hole down the decorative center. He summons the last of his strength to tear it open, revealing a compact array of human-like organs nestled between wires and boards. The pain is excruciating. The nurse doesn't wait for his permission, she reaches into him and carefully disconnects some pin connectors from him, gently removing spongey, silicone organs with disconnected tubes running throughout for a real human's blood supply.

He feels every single non-existent nerve screaming in pain. It hurts Revenant badly enough that he attempts to moan, coming out as nothing but deeply stressed static. The nurse looks him in the eyes as he meets hers. His malice feels misplaced now. He has one final thought as he reaches into his chest, unhinging his synthetic lungs from their mount, and cutting the rubber windpipe to set it free. He hands it to her in his final moments before death takes him. Her look of confusion, then understanding, is the last thing he sees. He is gone.

• • • •

It feels like a cold ocean for a few moments, the sound of heavy breathing echoing in the infinite void. It's a bit like being suspended underwater: completely weightless with little sense of up from down. Revenant looks at his hands, disgruntled as he sees the same gauntlets as the ones he died in. Many years ago he used to see human hands, but as he's given up his grasp on his old self and embraced his new body, he has slowly come to expect the red palms with the Hammond Robotics logo and fingers as sharp as talons. So why were the gauntlets still here? Did he really empathize that much with the scripts that forced him to stand down and protect?

It's generally only a few minutes that he spends in this limbo before something strange happens. Sometimes he sinks into an open chasm where lava and hellfire are. Other times he drifts onto a shore with some type of foreign landscape. Other times he hears a voice talking to him, not making much sense. Sometimes it's his own voice. Yet other times he will see otherworldly beings that speak an unknowable language to him as they reach for him. Sometimes he sees his victims begging for their lives in a huddled group like they were being assassinated all over again. Often, he relives many if not all of his previous deaths he suffered while a simulacrum--pain and all. He has to experience a few moments of whatever it is before he will wake up in the closest default body available. He left one in the warehouse out in the Dust, so he shouldn't have to run far.

Suddenly Revenant finds himself ethereal, floating over a replay of the moments leading up to his attempt to rescue the hapless little skinsuit. Only, he doesn't show up this time. Revenant averts his gaze as the alternative timeline plays out long enough for him to feel the wrath of hell itself boil in whatever kind of soul he is, then he suddenly finds himself in the warehouse, slowly acclimating himself to familiar limbs and sensations.

If he hadn't shown up, is that actually what would have happened?

He stands there idle for a few moments before a large prowler gets up from a dark corner of the massive room and rubs against his leg. Six seems to sense his discomfort and sorrow, attempting to calm down the spirit trapped in a mechanical imprisonment that helped raise and care for him as a young whelp. As Revenant remains motionless, processing something, Six becomes more desperate, gently teething at his hands and licking his palms.

Finally, Six becomes too fed up with Revenant's despaired inaction, carefully jumping up to push him down with his front paws. Revenant concedes, buckling and crashing onto the ground loudly, much less graceful than Six expected or intended. Six runs over to his face, licking it mercilessly and peeling his headscarf away from his forehead in the process. His LEDs are off, meaning he's in reboot. Six notices, intentionally perching his hulking mass on Revenant's chest and pinning him down, waiting patiently for his return.

Revenant hums back to life and immediately begins scrambling to try to get up, stopped by the massive and heavy prowler on his chest. He's making a strange noise as his vocalizer slowly snaps back into working order.

"Where is she?! What happened?" He notices he's pinned. "Six?!"

Six leans his head down and licks Revenant's face as his memory banks catch him up on his current situation. His eyes go from alarmed to calmer, although still bright and ready to move. Finally, Revenant's hand makes its way up to Six's snout, rubbing it until he begins purring at a low grumble.

Six gets off of Revenant and lets him stand up. He makes a yowling-like noise at Revenant, as if to speak to him. Revenant leans down for a moment to scratch him behind his furls.

"I'll be back soon. I might need you to guard that one scaredy cat for me, assuming she's..." He trails off for a moment, unwilling to finish his sentence. "Remember her?"

Six boofs in response.

Revenant stands back up and begins sprinting back towards the hospital. It will take a long time to get there, but he has to. He can't leave his empty chassis there, and he needs to ensure the surgeons don't try to put regular Hammond organs in her. His yellow LEDs are able to see clearly in the dark, but his legs can only move so fast. The city is a notable drive, let alone a sprint.

Revenant feels his legs buckle from underneath him as Six barrels into him. He barely manages to hold on to Six, whose stride and speed is that of an apex predator. Revenant's legs drag for a moment as he pulls his frame onto Six, trying to find a way to minimize contact with the dusty ground.

Revenant grapples around the prowler's muscular neck, letting the rest of his body try to curl and hold to Six's back while moving at full speed. Six barks in approval as Revenant manages to find a decent perch on him.

"You'll always be one of my favorites, Six." Revenant shouts over the passing wind.

Six speeds up, almost as if he understands and is fueled by the praise.

• • • •

Revenant sprints to the back entrance of the Central Hospital, making record time thanks to his ride, who gives a short howl as he turns and sprints back towards The Dust. If it were any earlier in the evening, a prowler being ridden by a simulacrum might cause alarm, but most onlookers would likely just chalk it up to being too high the following morning.

Anyone who wasn't high... who would honestly believe them, anyway?

Revenant is met by the ex-Hammond nurse by the back door, who's smoking a cigarette in the alleyway, looking stressed.

Revenant sees an opening, walking up and violently pinning her against the wall as his uncontrollable rage begins to seethe. She was partially responsible for that damn chassis, therefore she might as well be partially responsible for his imprisonment. She worked for Hammond. She was a part of them.

Yet, she ran when she saw Hammond for the monstrosity that it is. She also focused on organ production rather than exploitation. Had she not known his chassis had decent synthetics, the little skinsuit would certainly be dead or even worse: filled with Hammond tech and their prying spyware. She even helped him despite knowing who he was, and focused on helping the little thing in his arms over fearing for her own life. There was something honorable in that, but is it enough? How selfish would it be to just kill her anyway?

"D-do it already! Don't leave me waiting." She stutters against his arm pinning her neck against the concrete wall. Her cigarette burns out on the asphalt, tears well up in her eyes. "It's fine, I don't have anyone who cares about me anymore. Just please--fuck--do it fast. At least let me die fast."

Revenant hesitates, not sure how selfish he should be. She's so easy. Her frame is small, so her bones are probably weak enough to snap through. He could take her organs and put them in the little skinsuit instead, assuming they're both the right blood types. But perhaps this one earned a quick death. After all, she did actually help. She seems better than most Hammond employees, especially as an ex-employee.

"Please..." Her legs give out from under her and Revenant feels her frame start to droop to the ground. Revenant releases his pin on her and she falls to her knees. "You killed my former peers so cruelly... Please let me just die painlessly. I'm begging you." She literally bows into the ground at his feet.

She's not asking for mercy from death, she's simply asking for an easy death. That's no fun. It's never been fun. Feeling a skinbag die is a part of the vital experience. Feeling a life fade as the natural ticks slow to nothing, watching the eyes turn dark and lifeless... It's what Revenant was made for. Painless means quick. Quick means nothing to savor. Nothing to savor means no intimacy. No intimacy means no fun.

She stays face down on the ground at his feet, paralyzed in fear. She knew he'd come for her. She was too close to the project. It was only a matter of time before her name came up, and she was willing to accept it was her time. She was just terrified of pain. She hoped one last cigarette might help with the fear a bit, but when death stands before her, fear is inevitable.

"Get up." Revenant demands as he crosses his arms, unhappy with his own decision. She carefully stands up to face him, shaking openly. "I'm not going to kill you. Consider yourself lucky, I'm feeling charitable tonight."

Many emotions flash across her face. Disbelief, confusion, concern, realization, then relief. Finally, she starts sobbing into her hands.

Revenant reaches over to her jacket pocket, pulling out the pack of cigarettes and popping two out. He reaches over and slips the pack back in her pocket, pulling out a lighter instead. He lights up both before putting the lighter back as well.

"Take one." He hands one of the two cigarettes to her. As she pulls her hands away from her face to take it, her hands tremor with fear as she attempts to take a draw from it. Revenant cups his hands over his nose and mouth, holding his cigarette between two fingers as he inhales deeply, allowing him to draw a breath of smoke through his nostrils. She watches his interesting method, watching the plumes as he exhales through his nose, letting a billow of smoke pour out.

"Y-you really did used to be human, huh?" She mumbles quietly, taking another draw on the cigarette. "I hoped it wasn't true. Deep down I really hoped it was some dumb rumor--"

"Same." He interrupts her before cupping his hands over his face for another deep draw. "How is the little one?" He asks while inhaling, making a curious pair of layered sounds that only a simulacrum can make.

"She's on dialysis while she doesn't have a functional pair of kidneys or a liver. I prepped your old ones for placement, but we're waiting for the drugs to filter out of her system before getting proper anesthesia in her and going in for the big one. It will be another hour or so." Her fearful stutter subsides when she's focused on her current patient.

"Methamphetamines?" He blows smoke out his nostrils again, going out of his way to step on the cigarette she dropped when he pinned her.

"No, looked like a mix of prescription anti-anxiety benzos and over-the-counter antihistamines, but both were overdose quantities." She taps the cigarette in her fingers, watching Revenant go for another draw. He's burning through it quickly. "Essentially the antihistamines will turn someone into a helpless zombie, but it can cause panic as they lose control of themselves and start succumbing to hallucinations and paralysis. The benzos cut that edge off. It's a great combination for tranquilizing someone." She pauses for a moment, unsure if she should ask, but she goes ahead anyway. "Where'd you find her?"

Revenant takes a massive draw, holding it in his synthetic lungs for a long couple seconds before exhaling it into the air with his head tilted back. The nicotine seems to be affecting him, if his more relaxed body language is anything to go by. His simulacrum body can adapt to common stimulants and depressants, just as a human's can, even though it's simulated in code rather than actual toxicity. She remembers that, since his source code was used regularly to simulate tests on the organs meant to filter out toxins. They were valuable tests, but she's sad to see how Hammond exploited him to do so.

"I found her in a drug and sex trafficking hideout." He kicks the cigarette on the ground into the corner of the wall. She waits for more of an explanation, but it never comes. It's clear there was some kind of gunfight, but he doesn't seem to want to expand on what happened. If he's really human in there, then maybe he feels like he failed to save her, even if she's not dead yet. The awkward silence sits for a few moments before she breaks it.

"So we'll kit her then. That explains the bite marks on her, at least." She says before taking another draw.

Revenant's body tenses up. He's enraged, and it's obvious. He's definitely human still, to some capacity. He just seems traumatized after hundreds of years of unwanted rebirth, as far as she can tell. She feels for him, but she knows from personal experience that Hammond keeps his source code under heavy lock-and-key. There's nothing she could do for him then, and there's certainly not anything she can do for him now.

"Doc, is there any kind of medical magic where I can cause more pain to dead people?" He suddenly asks.

"N-no. Not unless they become simulacrum..." She trails off, unsure if he will find that offensive. He draws into the cigarette again. It's almost gone already.

"Shame. Those fuckers deserved worse." He exhales a plume of smoke, and immediately takes a massive draw, finishing off the cigarette. He exhales enough smoke to practically fill the whole width of the alleyway, then flicks the butt onto the ground and stomps it out. "You almost done?"

"Y-yeah, I'm done." The nurse does the same to her less-finished cigarette, not willing to have Revenant wait on her. It's awkward enough to have her would-be murderer taking a smoke break with her, let alone having him wait on her to finish her smoke.

She swipes her ID card on the back door, which opens with a successful chime. She walks in and hovers near a bathroom door, waiting to see if Revenant will follow her. He's staying behind her.

"I need to clean up before going back to work. If you plan on coming into the surgical room too, you'll want to get the ash and smoke off of you." She points to a similar door across the hall. "You can use that one."

"Fine, I guess I wouldn't want the little one to have a harder time healing because I got nicotine in her guts." He mumbles. "Hurry it up."

She slips behind the door, knowing full well he will wait for her. He's not letting her go anywhere without him, at least for now.

• • • •

"So what's next?" Revenant asks as he follows behind the nurse, entering the surgery room once again.

"Well, as mentioned we're going to kit her. She's on dialysis and stabilizing from the bullet removals, but now we're going to have to put the new synthetic organs in her." She stops for a moment, looking at the synthetics laid out on a cart near her body. "Which... does this mean her lungs need to be replaced?"

"Yeah, Hammond put some spyware garbage in her chest and called it a 'lung'. I need you to put something proper in there instead." Revenant inspects the wounds on the body, lifting the surgical paper to check on his little rescue case. The wounds are cleaned, sewn up, and bandaged to stuff the holes with gauze.

"So only one lung needs to be replaced? You gave me both of yours." The nurse questions, trying to get a grasp on the situation before the surgeon returns.

"Yeah, I was only being thorough. I didn't want to cut it at the wrong spot." Revenant lets the paper fall again and begins pacing the room, visibly bothered.

"Fair enough... Are you sure you want to stay for this? You seem really stressed by it all." She asks, watching the simulacrum wander aimlessly. He stops for a moment.

"What's your name?" He asks.

"Ruth..." She immediately regrets telling the truth.

"Now I know your name. I know your work history. I know you smoke. I know what you look like. If you ask any more stupid questions, Ruth, I will revoke my mercy and eviscerate you like all of the other Hammond employees I get my hands on."

Ruth is pale, but nods silently and turns away to check on the dialysis and run a kit. Revenant returns to pacing. The room falls silent as Ruth runs around the room. Revenant waits until she eventually needs to leave the room to go to the labs, making a call to get a pickup on his eviscerated chassis, which is still sitting lifeless in the corner of the room.

• • • •

After a long while, she returns with the anesthesiologist and surgeon as before. Revenant is standing next to the table, arms crossed and waiting impatiently. His knight chassis is gone now, on it's way back to his room at the Apex facility.

"You're back?" The surgeon asks openly, clearly annoyed at Revenant's impatience and presence.

"Yeah, and don't expect me to leave. You better do a good job at this or I'll--"

"He's very invested in ensuring the organs are anchored properly!" Ruth cuts him off loudly, not allowing him to make the threats he wants to. "They're some of the older ones without the self-aligning anchors, but they're much sturdier. He used to work with me at Hammond in the Organ Research Center."

Revenant growls a little at the mere mention of Hammond Robotics, but recognizes that the lie is better than the truth in this case.

The anesthesiologist is wholly uncaring about the situation, already working new math for medicating the high-risk surgery and administering doses in front of Revenant's looming frame. He's either so deeply jaded by his job that the scariest simulacrum in existence doesn't even shake him, or he's just that hyper focused. Perhaps some combination of both. Revenant ignores him, choosing instead to watch as the surgeon preps some tools for opening the cavities.

Revenant eventually steps aside for the surgeon, Ruth, and a swarm of other nurses who enter the room to try to find a place around the table. His body language goes from annoyed to somewhat sullen, but Ruth is the only one who seems to notice.

The surgery begins as the first incision is made into the abdomen. It's going to be morning before this is anywhere close to finished, and no one is looking forward to the long night.

• • • •

It's been multiple hours. The abdomen was successfully opened, had the damaged kidney and liver removed and replaced, and has now been sewn shut. The muscle wall will take a long time to heal, and the organs had to be tediously anchored to them. The old synthetics are nothing like their modern equivalents that go in with relative ease. These were difficult, risky, and required extra work to get placed and the veins to interface with the new silicone. The dialysis machines stay for now, just in case the new organs don't work as intended while the chest has one lung replaced. All the staff is fighting off exhaustion at this point. Revenant has been disturbingly silent, letting Ruth push the surgeons to correctly work with the vintage organ replacements. He's shifted between brooding in a corner and pacing back and forth, but has refused to let anyone in on his thoughts.

The surgeon finishes connecting the new lung to the correct split windpipe, intentionally jostling it a little to ensure it's anchored properly. The surgery is almost done, but the hard part is putting the chest back together. Some of the ribcage had to be carefully removed due to the severity of the replacement, and getting each piece back in and aligned properly can be tedious.

"I need ten minutes alone." Revenant suddenly demands.

"I'm fucking sorry, wha--" The surgeon starts stomping over to Revenant with a finger pointed at him, before Ruth grabs her and holds her back.

"Please trust me when I say we need to just leave them alone. Please." Ruth pleads with the surgeon. She sighs, pulling Ruth's arms off of her. The other nurses look on with silent curiosity.

"Fine. Fuck it. Take a break everyone!" She turns to Revenant as the nurses scatter, emptying out of the doors. "You have ten minutes. She's stable, try not to kill her, freak."

"I just might, and there's not a damn thing you can do about it." Revenant growls as he walks right up to her, towering over her with a mortifying glare.

The surgeon scoffs, likely bitter from years of dealing with low pay and bad hours, and walks off to the door, slamming it behind her even though it will shut on its own. Ruth remains for a moment, looking to Revenant with a fearful worry before skittering off after the surgeon.

Revenant walks over to the open chest cavity, newly outfitted with a synthetic lung. The sternum is missing, allowing Revenant to see through to a surprisingly small, slowly-beating heart. If he could smile, he would, but it would be a smile somewhere between bloodlust and genuine reverence. He gently reaches into the cavity, wrapping his fingers around the heart, which beats against his hands with a power impossible to fully describe. It reminds him of a newborn prowler--so small and squirmy, but already unmistakably muscular and strong. It has one goal--life--and it never relents in fighting for it.

"So, little skinsuit, you wanted to die, right?" He wraps his sharpened thumb around the aorta and the vein branches that flow up from it to the brain. "I could give you your wish, right now. Exactly what you wanted. Exactly what I asked for. You die with me, painlessly, and I'm the one to do it. You could be free from this hell." He slowly sounds saddened. "But... I'd never see you again. Even if I did ever escape this hellhole and manage to delete my source code, no God would ever let me into the same place you're going." His thumb slips out from around the branches carefully.

He takes a long pause, trying to decide what he should do. He feels that damned pain in his chest again as his code runs hot. His stature slouches as he considers everything that's happened in the past few days. If this creature lives, he'll be stuck trying to keep her alive until he inevitably fails. If this creature dies right here and now, he--

He doesn't want that.

He sighs, feeling the heart pump in his palms. It doesn't even stutter at his presence. It doesn't even care. It's much like his cycle of life, although this one is doomed to eventually end. God put that guarantee in there, ensuring no living being ever had to suffer forever, but that was taken from him. How selfish can one be?

Finally, he speaks to his unconscious audience, charisma suddenly returning to his stance.

"I've embraced every dark part of your so-called humanity, including being very, very selfish. So you're going to stay here with me, as long as I can force you to." He revels, almost as if to whisper to the heart itself. It doesn't respond any differently. It just agrees with his plan, beating away.

He holds the beating heart for a few more minutes, squeezing it a little to feel its muscular form push back against his grip. It's the strongest thing inside her, and he's always loved feeling hearts. Normally the sensation only lasts mere moments, as his intent is to kill, but this is the first one he doesn't fully intend to impale or crush it in his hand. He loves the feeling of power over life, and he loves feeling the surprisingly forceful and dominant hold life has on his victims. He could tear that hold away, but right now he's just revelling in the pervasiveness of it, loving its insistent presence in his little companion. He slips his hand out from around the heart, letting it rest on the pillows of the biological and synthetic lungs. His hand is dripping a slick and viscous blood, which he brings up to his face to wipe on his mask. He's enamored by the smell of blood--always has been--but this blood is particularly intoxicating.

He slips back into the darkness, away from the lights over the surgical table and into the darkness, eventually leaning up against the wall and sliding down it until he's on the floor, keeping his blood-soaked hand against his face. It smells so sweet and metallic, he's fighting the desire to put a finger on the tasting chip in his mouth, worried he might love it too much. Although, he cannot quite shake the knowledge that the blood itself is not a drug, it's who it comes from and the intimacy of holding her heart in his hands. He relents, opening up his synthetic jaw and sticking a single finger in to touch a chip in the back of his jaw.

Copper, just like his mask, but sweeter somehow. His hand shakes a little at the sensation. His bloodlust and lust seem to make a horrific team, and an even better high. He wishes he could stay here like this as long as possible, but time marches on just to spite him.

The door swings back open, the surgeon and Ruth peeking their heads through to see the simulacrum slouched in the corner and the patient still intact. They don't see the blood smeared on his hand that's lifted to his mask; he simply looks like he's trying to cry, or extremely distressed. The surgeon ignores him and swoops back over to the patient, followed by a line of nurses who begin helping her set the ribcage back together and close up the cavity.

Ruth takes a moment to walk over to Revenant in the corner, whispering under her breath to him.

"It's okay, she's got the best chance you could possibly give her." She whispers before quickly shuffling away to the table.

Revenant looks up as she walks away, his bright yellow eyes peeking out at her from between his blood-laced fingers. She has no idea that he got his claws into the toybox, or that the evidence is all over his claws, or that he's basking in the scent and taste of it all. He'd rather keep it that way. He lets her assume he's in distress, continuing to enjoy the blood and life smeared on his face. He will stay like this as long as it takes, keeping his hand hidden against his face and under his headscarf, waiting for the moment recovery--and his sobriety--must begin.

The night goes on, Revenant not making another sound or movement to interrupt the doctors and nurses.

Eventually, the surgery completes. The dialysis machine is carefully removed, allowing the new organs to begin their work. The patient is hooked up to more machines to help monitor and stabilize her, pictures are taken of the bite marks to send to the police department, and Revenant follows as she is wheeled off to a room to recover. Revenant keeps his hand at his visage, not removing it until he is left alone with his rescued companion again, well into the next day.

He sighs, staring at the comatose body in front of him and the blood on his hands, wondering if he made the right choice. He was given two opportunities to be selfish, but he only took the one that mattered most to him. Was that fair of him? He can't decide for himself. Perhaps he's committing the same sin committed against him, or perhaps he did the "right" thing, whatever that means in this world. He genuinely doesn't know anymore.

Whatever happens at this point is beyond his control. She might wake up, or maybe she won't. Now, it's up to whatever God there may be ruling over this hellscape of a universe. He secretly hopes this God doesn't care much for the negligible little skinsuit and leaves her with him. Revenant doesn't hold much hope; after all, God is allowed to be selfish, right? Revenant hates that thought, but relents: take it all, then.

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watermelonlipstick · 4 years ago

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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 · 4 years ago

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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

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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.

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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.

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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

#batman #batfam #colony of gotham #fanfiction

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ghostsbabey · 5 years ago

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Tortured Souls! Talisac x Reader Warnings: Blood, gore, body horror

The stench of rotten flesh filled your lungs as you made your way down the stone steps to the underground lab. You knew it was a bad day, the stench of eviscerated organs becoming stronger with each step. The sigh that escaped you was short lived, as soon the usual dwarf girl stuck her head out from the lab doorway. She smiled, giddy at your appearance before running up the stairs towards you- blood staining her skin. Her arms wound around your waist before quickly moving to grip your arms, pulling you towards the lab while rambling excitedly. “Hi Camille, it smells worse than usual down here. What’s going on? Slow down, I can’t understand your babbling,” you softly spoke, your voice echoing along the stone walls as you followed Camille. She looked back at you, pausing in the doorway with a grin as she replied, “you’ll see. I know you’ll love it. Talisac may see it as a failure, but it has to be a success. We worked hard on it, and with just a bit more work we’ll get it. I swear.” You knew she was trying to make light of the situation, but Talisac never took well to failed experiments, each wasted attempt possibly making it impossible to finish the end goal task. You followed closely behind Camille, examining the mess of the lab before your eyes fell upon the crudely stitched together body. You approached it, fingers running over the large stitches across the chest of the body. It was incredibly cold, the blood oozing between your fingers already warning you of what was wrong.

“Toh uh lon enoh,” the usual garbled words echoed from the side of the table. You could’ve grimaced, the feeling of his glare against your back making you swallow thickly. You turned to face the hanging man, the hooks digging into his face making it hard enough for him to meet your gaze- yet he did so all the same. “Sorry Talisac.. It’s been getting harder to sneak out and bring back.. Fresher parts. I have the parts, that’s not what I’m saying, but people are starting to talk in the Primordium. The worry of the creatures that overthrew the leaders? The talk from the generals on getting revenge? Everyone is on edge, and now with me having to go out and harvest body parts? From living people? It’s not easy Talisac, I’m sorry,” you meekly replied, your gaze focusing on a piece of stray flesh on the floor instead of meeting his gaze. Camille giggled, her eyes lighting up from the tension in the room. “You knew what you were getting yourself into, you owe us, don’t you remember? Without doctor Talisac you would be dead, you wouldn’t have a home. And you wouldn’t have those hands that do the dirty work we need,” she babbled, her words growing quieter as Talisacs gaze shifted to her form. You shook your head, shrugging off the large sack you had on your back as you spoke. “Look, I heard that today didn’t go too well with.. Whatever that is. Let me work on it for now, I may not have as extensive medical knowledge- or body building knowledge- but I can try to help. I’m sure it was a stressful day for you tw-three.” You caught the mistake as soon as it tried to slip past your lips, your eyes glancing down at the makeshift womb hanging from Talisac- whatever was inside it shifting slightly. He huffed as a response, motioning for Camille to move the contraption that kept him hanging by his flesh closer to your side of the table that held the body.

You crouched down, pulling out bloodied pieces from the sack, examining them for any damage before setting them next to the body. Talisacs hand came to rest on your shoulder, the flayed skin on his arm causing blood to drip onto your already stained clothes. “Er a natral,” he praised, looking over the pieces you spread out on the table- his mouth stretching into a slight smile. Camille nodded as she translated his words, “you’re a natural. He likes your work at least, this is why you were given those hands. Otherwise they could’ve just left you there on the streets with your wounds. I think you fit in wonderfully here.” Your eyes lowered to your hands, the dried blood caked on it not enough to hide the large scars on your wrists where they were connected. You cursed yourself for getting caught by the generals, the memory of the blade cutting through your wrists making your shake your head. You had to forget. You needed a distraction, your arm extending to pull back the unstitched skin across the body’s abdomen. The stench hit you in waves, each layer of viscera you moved seemed to only make you more nauseous. Even with the waves of nausea washing over you, you couldn’t help but be fascinated by how neatly the insides were put together. Everything looked in the right place, no matter how you looked at it you couldn’t find anything wrong. You shook your head, glancing at Talisacs hanging form before automatically focusing back on the body. You couldn’t tell if he was watching you or was too enraptured by the anatomy of the dead body, but you knew that if you stopped now his anger would only become worse.

You didn’t know how long you had been hunched over the body, stitching together piece by piece, forcing metal through the skin until you heard bone splintering, even going as far as to peel back layers of skin in a similar fashion to what Talisac had done to himself. You were losing yourself in the work, barely acknowledging the prying eyes of both Camille and Talisac- your deft fingers making quick work of the body splayed on the table. The rush you got from the possibility of bringing something dead back had you on cloud nine, the smell barely bothering you the longer you worked. The occasional ‘oo and ah’ from Camille seemed to spur you on more- until Talisac’s hands suddenly came down onto the body. “Enug,” he ordered. His hand was dangerously close to yours, a warning that if you didn’t obey that he could very easily take away what he had given you. Reluctantly you retracted your hands, examining what you had done before his interruption. “Right.. Enough.. I get it. Are we going to try and bring it back..? Or is the mongroid acting up again, I know you said that it’s been getting temperamental the more it grows,” you responded quietly, unaware if you had done something wrong that made him interfere. It didn’t take long for Camille to respond, almost as if they had planned it while you had gone out to harvest, “ we’ll have to do that later, for now, I think that it’s clear where your loyalty lies. You have nobody but us outside of this lab, if you leave you’ll die. You were already known as quite the troublemaker, I don’t think the city will take kindly to learning you’re still alive-especially the generals that took your mischievous hands. You’re lucky to be with us, and it’s almost like we’re a family down here. Always together, and soon we’ll have the mongroid to join us. The point being, I think it’s time you changed, we’ve discussed how going out so many times could make it hard to harvest since someone could recognize you. It’s time for us to do you another favor, we just need you to cooperate. Don’t be scared.” You stood still for a moment, mulling over what was said- your confusion growing before the meaning dawned on you too late. Talisacs hand was on your shoulder once more, nails digging into your clothes as a silent warning. Camille was between you and the doorway, Talisac dangerously close to you- even if he was hanging. You inhaled sharply, a grin spreading across your face at the possibility of looking like one of the many creations they’ve made. “I accept your favor with open arms, we’re a family now. We have each other and that’s all that matters. We can make anyone we want and if I end up looking like those creatures that tore apart the empire, so be it. I’ve always hated this ugly flesh that adorned my form, I don’t know what to say,” you rambled, almost to yourself as a sick pleasure ran through your body. Working with Talisac in his lab didn’t help you get better, your old habits dying hard as you thought of the damage you could do in the city- the weakness that was so unsuspecting of the danger that lurked underneath their very city.

#Clive Barkers tortured souls #Talisac #Camille #Blood warning #Gore warning #reader insert #sorry it's been awhile #this is very self indulgent #uwu;#will get back on track soon

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cdelphiki · 6 years ago

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Flying through the sky was one of Damian’s favorite things. It’s something he picked up from Grayson, he supposed, during their time as Batman and Robin. The man’s love for flying was infectious, and once Damian had felt the rush from jumping off a building without firing his grapple first, he was hooked.

Even more thrilling was flying through the sky on his own, without Batman breathing down his back. Damian enjoyed patrolling with his father. He did, but the man was overbearing and controlling. Sometimes it was liberating to be trusted to patrol alone.

Well, okay. So maybe he wasn’t exactly trusted to patrol alone, but Father hadn’t hacked into his comm to demand he return to the cave yet, so Damian was taking that as permission to continue ahead.

Besides, Father allowed the others to patrol alone, so why should he be any different?

Right. Because Father was convinced that Damian would kill people if left unsupervised.

It didn’t matter that Damian swore not to kill. That he was trying hard. That he had reigned in his temper. It didn’t mean anything that he’d not even used excessive force once in months. All that mattered was that Damian had killed in the past, and Batman could never trust him because of it.

Damian huffed. Father was impossible.

He sat down on the edge of the building he had been about to leap off and gazed out over the city.

It was a fairly quiet night, considering the good weather. Usually beautiful nights had far more crime than the awful, muggy or rainy nights, but Damian wasn’t complaining. He could actually see the stars tonight, barely through the light pollution, so any chance to sit on a roof and admire the beauty of Gotham at night was one he’d enjoy.

Of course, though, life decided to mess it all up.

A terrified shriek drew Damian’s attention to two alleys over. On instinct, he was on his feet and leaping to the next roof before he’d even registered what he heard. Within a minute, Damian was landing in the alley next to a woman, who was pressed up against the wall, screaming down at a man lying on the ground.

And for a second, the scene made no sense.

The woman was screaming something incoherent and the man was motionless. Then Damian saw the blood starting the pool.

Keeping his eye on the hysterical woman as best he could, Damian knelt beside the man and began hunting for the wound.

“Oracle,” he said, tapping his comm and opening a line for the first time that night, “I need an ambulance to the 5400 block of pine.”

“Copy that, Robin,” the woman’s computerized voice sounded in his ear, “And just so you know, Batman is not happy with you.”

“Tt,” Damian huffed as he began rolling the man to his back, “My father’s happiness is of no-”

“Robin?”

“Shit,” Damian breathed, taking in the large, deep stab wound in the man’s neck, “Carotid Artery has been severed.”

How did this even happen? Had the woman stabbed him? Had he stabbed himself? Where was the knife?

Damian thought all this as he quickly put his hands against the man’s neck, attempting to stifle the blood flow. He only have a few minutes, at best.

There was so much blood.

His hands shook. There was so much blood. Blood everywhere. It was hot and sticky and everywhere.

In his hair.

On his clothes.

Under his fingernails.

Damian would never be clean again.

“How did this happen?” Robin demanded, pushing down the discomfort having blood on his hands caused. His hands were the only thing between this man and death.

“He- He,” The woman choked, “Oh god!”

Robin growled, putting more pressure on the wound. His normally green gloves were coated in red, now. Only small flecks of green still visible.

His knife slid effortlessly into the servant. It was likely painless, due to how sharp the blade was. Well. Nearly painless. But even that was too merciful for a man who had dishonored and betrayed the Al Ghul’s.

Damian had been pitted against this man to test his skills and to execute him for his crimes. He had nearly lost by all appearances, when his sword fell to the ground, but of course Damian had no fewer than a dozen knives on his person.

Honestly. He could kill this man with his bare hands.

“What. Happened,” Damian growled, turning his gaze to the woman, who was now sitting on the ground, whimpering.

“I don’t know,” she cried, “he just, just did that. I- I don’t even know him.”

“Robin,” Oracle sounded in his ear, “Medical is four minutes out.”

He won’t make it. He’s going to-

The servant looked down at him with a mixture of fear and amusement.

“Tt,” Damian had said, “I shall take great pleasure in eviscerating you.”

“You are but an infant. This entire cult is insane, worshipping a three-year-old such as yourself.”

“I am four,” Damian had corrected, “and you shall perish for your words.”

The pulse under Damian’s hands was getting weaker. Slower. It had been approximately three minutes since his artery was severed. Chances of survival were next to zero, at this point, and yet, Damian couldn’t remove his hands.

He’d promised Father.

Promised Grayson. Promised everyone he’d be a hero. And heroes saved people.

Someone was chattering in his ear, but Damian couldn’t focus. All he wanted to hear were the sirens, but they were still too far in the distance.

Damian had hesitated.

The servant was not an expert swordsman.

He knew enough to defend himself, but he was not an expert like Damian. He was not an assassin.

There had been an opening. The perfect opportunity to thrust his sword right through the man’s heart while his sword was off to the side, carelessly swung too far to defend himself.

Damian had hesitated.

And for that he paid dearly.

The woman was crying again.

Robin just wanted her to shut up. She wasn’t the one holding the man’s neck together. The one kneeling in the thick pool of blood.

It was self defense. When the servant took advantage of his hesitation. His weakness. He knocked Damian’s sword out of his hands.

He had no choice but to pull the knife and lunge forward.

Swords were a honorable weapon, sword fighting a beautiful art, but they sucked for close combat. If Damian could stay within an arms reach, the servant would have a difficult time doing damage.

The servant would have to resort to hacking at Damian, and such moves would be easy to counter.

Sirens faded into the soundscape, offering a brief glimmer of hope for Damian. Maybe they’d make it in time.

If only the knife had gone in a few inches to the left, the man would have been fine. Still in desperate need of medical attention, but not bleeding out this quickly.

Damian’s knife slid effortlessly into his servant’s neck.

He had learned the anatomy of a human body six months prior. He knew exactly where to place his knife. Exactly which spots to target to ensure a quick and simple death.

Severing the carotid artery was a piece of cake.

The servant fell to the ground, dragging Damian with him, as he had been on the servant’s back as a means of defense in such close range.

Someone was talking to Robin. They were in his face.

He- He should answer. Say something.

Gloved hands gripped his shoulders and gently pulled him back, the hard pressure he’d been applying ceased as he was lifted up to his feet.

Damian looked down at his hands. There was so much blood.

There was so much blood. Blood everywhere.

It was sticky. It was hot. It wasn’t his.

His hands shook as he stared at the red substance that coated every inch of his hands.

How had so much gotten on him?

Damian wanted to be sick.

“I-” Robin said, looking up to meet Batman’s cold gaze.

Then Damian stiffened, realizing how all this looked to Batman’s perspective.

He came on scene to find his ‘murder baby,’ as Todd so rudely referred to him, lying over the corpse of a man killed by a blade, covered in the man’s blood.

Covered just like when he’d actually-

Damian held back his tears until he was in the bathroom alone.

When he wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, blood smeared across his face.

All Damian could see in the mirror was the blood of the man he’d killed.

The man he’d murdered.

Then Damian was sick.

“Robin,” Batman growled, a tinge of worry in his voice, “get in the Batmobile.”

It took an hour to scrub away all the blood.

An hour and Damian had scrubbed his own skin raw. And yet, he still wasn’t clean.

He could still feel the hot sticky mess, still taste the blood in his mouth, smell the vile in his nose.

Damian was a murderer.

A monster.

He would never be clean again.

Next thing Damian knew, a cold glass of water was being pressed into his hands. His now bare hands.

Cold condensation dripped down his hands as Damian blinked the sluggish haze from his vision. He was sitting in the cave, on the medical cot, the top half of his uniform missing from his body.

Finding the straw with his mouth, Damian took a long, slow sip of the cool refreshing water. It rinsed down the dry raspy feeling from his throat he hadn’t noticed before and helped clear the fog from his brain.

“Go take a shower,” Father said, not even looking over at Damian from where he was sitting at the Batcomputer. Pennyworth had given him the water, he now realized.

“Father, I didn’t-” Damian tried, just to be interrupted.

“Shower. Then we’ll talk.”

Damian spent an hour in the shower. Pennyworth had done a decent job removing all trace of blood from his body, but Damian still enjoyed having the cold water wash over his body. It helped relax him. Allowed him to think and forget all at the same time.

It bought him time.

When he finally emerged from the showers, dressed in the fresh pajamas Pennyworth had prepared, Father was no where to be found. Wandering around the Manor, Damian found him standing in his Father’s study, looking out over the gardens.

“Father,” Damian said curtly as he entered the room. He had practiced his defense half a dozen times. He was ready to out argue Father, if necessary, to prove his innocence.

“Come here, son,” he said tiredly, motioning with his hand for Damian to join him by the window.

Damian obeyed wordlessly, yet cautiously. Never before had Father started a lecture about morals with beckoning Damian to stand next to him and calling him ‘son.’ Perhaps this was Father’s way of softening the blow.

Was… was father sending him back? Kicking him out? Had Damian just ‘crossed the line,’ in Father’s eyes?

When Damian stopped at his fathers side, he looked out over the Manor grounds and saw what his Father had been observing.

Thousands of lightning bugs flitted across the grounds and into the woods, their asynchronous lights creating a show for anyone up at this hour.

“When I was a child,” Father began, placing a hand on Damian’s shoulder, “my father and I would catch fireflies in a jar and then tell stories by their light for hours.”

Damian scrunched his eyebrows as he continued to observe the gardens.

“Those carefree moments are something I cherish,” he continued, “There’s something relaxing about thinking back to happy childhood memories, something humanizing about remembering better times.”

Damian turned his head to look up at his father, his confusion freely displayed on his face. “Father, what does-”

Father squeezed his shoulder, gently, to hush him, then carried on, “I’ve failed to provide you with memories like that, Damian.”

“I’ve only been living here for two years,” Damian tried.

Father shook his head and knelt down before Damian, turning the boy so they were facing each other fully. “Son,” he said, placing both hands on his shoulders, “I am sorry for what you had to see tonight. For what you had to experience. I wish we could save everyone, but we can’t. I’m proud of you for trying.”

Damian shook his head, willing the tears he felt stinging to be released to stay in their ducts. He was not a child. He would not cry over something as trivial as this.

“You did well, Robin. You should be proud, too.”

“No,” Damian whispered, quickly losing the fight with his tears, “You don’t understand.”

Bruce frowned and brushed away the nonexistent dust from Damian’s shoulder. “What don’t I understand?”

“I-” Damian rasped, looking down at his hands. “I’ve killed people. Exactly like that. With- With these-”

Damian yelped when he felt himself be yanked suddenly into a bone crushing hug, then lost the battle entirely as sobs wracked his body. “I thought,” he hiccuped into his father’s chest, “Maybe if I could save people, if I was Robin, it’d go away. But- but my hands. And-”

“Shh,” Father soothed, rubbing at Damian’s back as he rocked his son slightly, “Hush, son.”

“How can you be proud of me when I’m a murderer?” Damian asked, his throat thick as he struggled to swallow the hot, thick saliva crying had created. “I’m a monster,” he whispered.

“You,” Bruce said forcefully, halting his rocking to squeeze Damian into a tighter hug, “are my son. I will always be proud of my son.”

Damian shook his head again. “I don’t deserve-”

Father cut him off with a sharp, “Damian Thomas Wayne, you deserve so much more than what I have to give you. Anything you did with the league, and as a result of their brainwashing, is on the conscious of Ra’s and Talia Al Ghul. Not yours. Do you hear me?”

“But,” Damian said, pulling away from his father’s grasp, “I’ve done so much.” Damian held his hands back out and looked down at them. He could still see the blood. The blood of every victim of his. Of every death he was responsible for. All 42 of them. 43, now.

“Damian,” he said again, gently, taking Damian’s hands in his own, “You are such a good person, so kind and gentle. I don’t believe for a second you are responsible for what you were forced to do while with the League. I only hope you can come to the same realization one day.”

Father pulled Damian’s hands up to his face and kissed each one softly before letting go and standing to his feet.

He turned to face the gardens once more, and Damian stayed still, staring down at his hands.

They felt a bit cleaner, now.

Link to ao3: https://archiveofourown. org/works/16128005

#Bruce Wayne #Damian Wayne #emotional hurt/comfort #flashbacks #angst #tw graphic violence #tw suicide #not the main characters dw #Damian witnesses one #father son realationship #batfam #batfamily #batman #robin #fanfiction #good dad Bruce #cross posted on Ao3

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monkey-network · 6 years ago

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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

#my little pony #mlp #friendship is magic #The Beginning of the end #mlp season 9 #cartoons #thoughts #Good Stuff #nice premiere

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danfanciesphil · 7 years ago

Text

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!)

#phan #phanfic #give me a try #bartender au #phanfiction

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magic5ball · 4 years ago

Text

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?!”

#My writing #Nature Trail To Hell #summer camp #sponge dinosaurs

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dragonagecompanionsreact · 7 years ago

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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.

#keltic-moon #Mod Sarah #Dragon Age #Dragon Age Inquisition #Cassandra #Iron Bull #Blackwall #Cole #Varric #Sera #Dorian #Solas #Vivienne #Josephine #Leliana #Cullen

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villainoustableaux-blog · 7 years ago

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"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.”

#crueleyes #iamnotjareth #;; old tales retold (the minotaur au)#//-shrugs loudly-#;; jareth

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asklefantome · 8 years ago

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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.

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.

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the-corvid-ghuleh · 7 years ago

Text

The Crow: No Rest for the Wicked

Chapter 6/15!

Also on FanFiction.Net, and AO3!

Rating: M

Summary: It has been eighteen years since Eric Draven had come back from the dead to avenge himself as well as his beloved Shelly Webster. Tonight, the resurrection shall begin anew. She is a force to be reckoned with. Rated M for content, nothing too graphic though.

Note: The only parts of The Crow I actually own are the videotape, the graphic novel, the soundtrack, a poster, and a tanktop, nothing else.More Trigger Warnings: The (implied) removal of a man's hands, more violence.

Chapter One Here!

Chapter Two Here!

Chapter Three Here!

Chapter Four Here!

Chapter Five Here!

Chapter Six: She’s Lost Control

"She is a twisted soul, a death ridden woman, haunted by dreams."

- Arthur Miller, The Crucible

The woman eventually exited the loft to resume her mission. Seeing a young girl like Dusty in such conditions broke her heart in two. She knew exactly that she shouldn't be interfering with the living, but she needed to get to Dalle again. She scoured the area for some type of phone, any phone, as long as it worked and had good enough reception to call Dalle.

What do you think you are doing? The Woman in Black chided.

"Looking for a phone. What else does it look like?" The woman said.

You know the rules. They are set there for a reason! That little child might get her wish and see you again, but after that, she would never see you again! It isn't fair for her!

"I know that. But, my friend managed to rescue me from a bad man and still reunite with his love." The woman retorted.

He was fortunate enough to be allowed to kill that man and rescue you. The Woman in Black warned. You will not have that same luxury.

"It is just a phone call."

To an officer who tried to arrest you and still might have a warrant out for you.

"It's an anonymous phone call."

Calls get traced all the time.

"I was brought back here to put the wrong things right, and that's exactly, what I'm gonna do, living and dead be damned. Do I still have a desire for revenge? Absolutely. However, Dusty has no one, not even me. If I have Dalle at the very least, come check up on her, that will give me a peace of mind. Besides, have you seen the place? It feels similar to a jenga tower. One loose screw or lost brick due to a bad move, and it could all come crashing down, killing a person. The sooner you let me do this, the sooner I go back to undead routine. I promise."

Defeated for another time, the Woman in Black sighed internally.

Alright. One call. There's a phone right over there. She said, pointing to the payphone.

"Thanks! You are so awesome! Though seriously, I always appreciate your help. Don't ever think I'm ungrateful to you and no, I have never lost sight of what I still need to do. That little girl, she reminds me of myself when I was that young. She needs somebody. And if it can't be me, it should at least be someone like Dalle, if not her exactly."

The woman walked to the payphone, but not before turning her head and concluding with one final statement. "I have done so many bad things in life. My very own definition of 'Put the wrong things right' kinda differs from others. If I can't do at least one good thing, what's the point?"

The Woman in Black walked over to the woman and hugged her.

I just want you to be careful, that's all.

"I know. But I still feel guilty. And I'll be careful. But sometimes, rules gotta bend and sometimes, break."

The crow flew and perched himself on the woman's shoulder and made a warbling sound.

You have what these criminals do not: remorse for your actions. No matter what happens, we are here for you. The crow said to her.

"Thank you guys." The woman said as she lingered in the other undead woman's arms for a seemingly infinite amount of time before hesitatingly letting her go to make the desired phone call.

Dalle was interrupted from her thoughts by the ringing of her phone going off. The number was an unknown, so it wasn't any of the officers. Still, she felt compelled to answer it and she couldn't figure out why. She albeit hesitantly, swiped the answer button, and put it to her ear, waiting for the voice on the other end of the line.

"Hello? Detective Dalle?" The female voice finally said.

"That's me." Dalle answered.

"When you get the time, can you check out the old, abandoned loft building from downtown? A little girl resides there, and she's all by herself. Her name is Dusty, and she has special needs, so be very patient with her. All I ask, is that you either check up on her, or send someone who can." The voice responded.

"Sure. Where is this building at?" Dalle asked.

"Ummm... 2163... Gold Boulevard... From Cass and Bagley Streets... It's the old white building, three stories high, it has a broken circular window." The voice answered.

"Okay. Anything else?" Dalle said, writing the information down.

"No." The voice answered firmly before abruptly hanging up.

"Hm, that was weird." Dalle said to herself.

She had the feeling that there was something familiar with that voice, but she couldn't for the life of her pinpoint what it was. It was as if she had heard that voice today, yelling something, out of anger, out of sadness, out of... Something. Something about, nobody laughing, something about a hangman or something. Confusion had set in for Dalle and she was needful for some time to mull about it.

Might as well go to that place. Maybe it'll trigger some much needed answers.

It was no lie that she hesitated going downtown, what if it was a trick and she was being lured out into trouble? That was how Kristi met her end, but then again, that was why she had her gun to begin with.

Another thing occurred to her, that address was familiar, her superior told her about the last Devil's Night that happened eighteen years ago. Dalle recalled her boss telling her about the couple who lived and died there. The man, shot, stabbed and thrown out of the building, because he walked in on the criminals assaulting his fiancee. A year after, said criminals would later suffer gruesome, but ironic deaths, as did their leader, supposedly by his hands, but legend had it, it was the man himself who had come back from the dead to avenge himself and his lost love. She'd ask if it was true, despite not believing in undeath, but he would neither confirm nor deny it.

"You be the judge of what you wanna believe." He would always say.

Slowly but surely, she started her car back up and drove to her intended destination.

The crow flew forwards along to follow his mistress. The ride (or fly, in his case) was rather tedious, to say the least. The mission so far, has been all right. It started off a little... difficult, especially with the Mastodon guy, but it was progressing rather smoothly. He was surprised that Blaze took his inevitable death like he did, but then again, for a man who takes a lot of physical pain like him, painful, eviscerating death is a simple piece of cake, even if it was his last.

But still, his undead ward took a rather risky move when she decided to call the detective to let her know what went on in... there. Where he and his loving fiancee used to live. He himself was warned about these rules as well. It was the main reason why he had avoided her so much, only revealing himself because of the stinging accusation of not caring. It was not to say that he himself didn't take a risk by saving her, the evil man who kidnapped her as bait to try and kill him was egotistical enough to admit he was, in fact, the man behind his and his love's deaths. He simply got lucky that time. Seventeen years ago, he once walked these streets in black as well. His thirst for blood fiercer than when he was alive. Once he reunited with the woman he loved so much, it was the most rewarding thing one would ever desire.

He was no idealist, and he certainly knew he couldn't fix things overnight, but he thought that once the bad guys were gone, the city would have at least started to turn out for the better. Oh, how very wrong he was. In fact, the female youth he saved turned out to be in a much worse situation than ever. It did not get any better once she matured into a young woman. Every deed of his rampage, she suffered all the more for it, times ten. She was punished for his mistakes and there was nothing that he could do about it. He could only watch helplessly through eighteen years of the woman being subject to the most ugliest of life's realities, being forced to do bad things against her will, all culminating in her paying for his mistakes, with her life.

To say he had a mental breakdown over all of that was a simple understatement. Do the powers that be hate him so much for defying basic laws of life and death so much, they're willing to take it out on her? It truly felt that way sometimes, especially when one sees the years of pain and suffering etched onto her face. All he wanted was to give her a hug, comfort her, soothe her pain, but now he was just a mere bird, not able to reveal himself as her friend.

Finding out that once she had the decision, she chose to become what he once was a long time ago, helped no matters in the slightest. Being a guide to her, even if discreetly, was the least he could do.

Elorah stopped to scavenge the now empty crime scene of a house that one of the lowlifes used to live in before he, well.. died. She tore the crime scene tape as if it was just annoying paper strips. The door wasn't locked at all, which was surprising, but at the same time, not.

Elorah sensed the hostile energies, still heavy, still present, still raw. Energies so intense, the white crow would not dare to enter without hurt. Hatred and vengeance still looming over like the shadows in a nightmare. The foreign memories her psyche picked up, still fresh in mind. The man, enduring a more gruesome fate than the last one before him. It was very clear that her girlfriend was in that house before narrowly avoiding arrest.

The one thing that troubled the young lost soul, however, was not her girlfriend's... rather interesting choice of disguise, or even choosing to come back from the dead, it was the unknown side of her girlfriend that she had never witnessed, not that she had any reason to anyways, but still, borderline scary enthusiasm to kill another living being, even if said being killed them both first.

I know what you are thinking, my Elorah. You are thinking of what you just witnessed in picking up these 'flashes', thinking 'This is not her. She is not the calm and collected and compassionate girl I know', Elorah, you have to understand, it is very much difficult for her as it is on you. I would know. Witnessing the man I dearly beloved singlehandedly slaughter the cruel men who killed us both, and with a hidden, rageous side that I never witnessed myself, that man who painted his face and hunted down every miscreant with such fervor, such wanton. It nearly frightened me, but it was just as much my fervor and wanton as it was his. Once his duty was complete, he was no different than he was in life. Your girlfriend, is just doing right now, what your fa- I mean, my fiancee did years ago. I suppose I should have seen coming that she would someday become, like he was. Especially since he visited her in death. The white crow spoke to Elorah.

Elorah turned to the white crow. "You.. knew my girlfriend?"

Yes, I did. And so did he. We both took her in when she was a young girl, when her own mother could not be bothered with her. The white crow answered.

"Well, she did tell me that she was watched over by two people when she was young until their deaths." Elorah said. "Why didn't you bother telling me?"

You never bothered to ask. The white crow said.

"And the dark feathered crow following her. Was that the man who avenged you?"

Yes, dear.

"I'm gonna ask one question. Do you hate her?"

The white crow was dumbstruck by the rather, dark and slightly accusatory question. Why would you, or she, for that matter, think we- I mean, I would ever do that?

"Because she did bad things to innocent people. She was forced to anyways." Elorah answered in earnest.

Darling, I would never hate her for ending up in a situation that is well beyond her control. All her life was about one thing: Survival, until fate decided that surviving was all she was doing. So it brought you to her.

"That's so sad." Elorah lamented.

It's alright. You've made her so happy in her last months of life. Anyways... What is your next course of action? The white crow said.

"We go to my sister Sabriel. I've been away from her for so long that I want to pay a visit." Elorah responded as she and the white crow exited the voided slum.

This was one of the few nights that Sabriel could not sleep, no matter how much she tried. Too many thoughts ran through her head all at once, and not very pleasant ones as well. She broke down and got up out of bed to pull out her medicine box. Once opened, she took out a big bottle of generic brand sleeping pills and took two of them out before going out into the kitchen to pour herself something noncaffeinated to help with taking them.

All of a sudden, she heard the sound of what seemed to be the sliding of something glass opening.

"Who's there?" Sabriel turned around to see any potential intruders. No response. She then turned around to pour the rest of her drink in a clear glass before putting the drink back in the refrigerator. However, the rustling had returned again.

Sabriel put her drink down and tiptoed carefully into the source of where the noise was: her bedroom. She thought she was going to have to get her pepper spray, but upon closer inspection, she could see what appeared to be a young woman in a simple, but scraped together, white gown. What looked like a shawl was hooding her head full of dark hair, like a roman toga. One of her eyes was stitched closed, and vertically scarred. She was accompanied by a bird with white plumage, what looked like a dove, but actually wasn't. It was too big and gaunt looking and it let out a "Caw!"

Sabriel stared at the woman and bird for what seemed like forever until the first word that came out of the angelic like woman's mouth was this:

"Sabriel.."

"Elorah?" Sabriel replied.

Before anything else could be said, Elorah reached out her hands to touch Sabriel's face, and with that touch, came all the worst memories and flashbacks. What Sabriel saw was nothing short of ghastly or terrifying. The pain, the fright, the horror, the madness, all from Elorah's point of view, as well as her girlfriend's would have driven anyone, even her to insanity, had it not been that Elorah abruptly retracted her hands away. Sabriel collapsed on the floor in a sobbing heap, traumatized by the ungodly amount of evil the bad men had imposed on them both.

"I'm... Sorry..." Sabriel managed to say in her tears.

It's quite alright, Sabriel, my darling. Another voice said.

"Who said that?" Sabriel asked.

"The white crow, who's been following me for the last few hours is speaking directly to you." Elorah answered.

"Huh?" The answer was brought with even more questions.

"I know, it's complicated. But you'll understand in time." Elorah explained the best she could to her older sister.

"Well, first off, why did you... Do what you just did to me?" Sabriel asked.

"Because somehow I knew you'd be blaming her for our deaths. I needed to set the record straight."

"But why did you come to me only right now? Why didn't you come to me earlier?"

"I'm undead. Living and undead don't just coexist. And besides, when all this is over, I will have to go back."

"What do you mean 'When all this is over?'"

"I have to find my girlfriend. She is currently avenging us both, killing the men who hurt us both."

"So it was her I was talking to."

"You saw her?" Elorah was surprised.

"Yes, she saved me from a mugging, and I responded by being a bitch to her. I feel really bad now. Look, Elorah, I'm sorry for hating on her unfairly when most of it wasn't even her fault."

"And yet you did."

"I hated because I was afraid. Afraid that she would replace me as the one who cares for you. Afraid that something bad would happen to you and I cannot do a damn thing about it. Afraid... that I would lose you."

"You never lost me, Sabriel. I was just away for a while."

"So you'll have to leave me all over again, do you?"

She never left you, and she never will. Keep her in your heart, and she will never die. The white crow assured Sabriel.

"Let me help you find her. It's the least I can do before we have to say our farewells." Sabriel insisted.

"Alright." Elorah sighed.

With that, Sabriel went to get dressed for another night in the down town.

The gang, or rather yet, what was left of it, waited in dread as their leader mulled on his decision whether to find and execute the now rogue Caliber, or allow whoever was killing off his men to do the deed. Though Dolph had insisted that whoever they were, she was a woman, Damian didn't come to conclusion just yet.

All suspense came to a halt once Damian emerged with his final decision on the matter.

"What's up?" Envy asked.

"Well, for starters, I've thought long and hard about what to do with our new defector." Damian answered.

"Then what's your final answer?"

"I've decided we are going to wait it out for a while. If he dies by her hands, then that's a cause for concern. You'll find out when you get a text, like you guys always do. Meanwhile, the rest of you guys will stay on guard. I called in some reinforcements to hunt this bitch down. Meanwhile, what little Leviathan knows, will not hurt."

"Sooo... We tell this Leviathan dude everything's peachy keen?" Envy asked matter of factly.

"Exactly. When Leviathan calls any of you, you respond with this: 'Just a few roadblocks sir, but everything's progressing the way they should be.' If Leviathan finds out about what happened, it'll be our heads rolling. Alright?" Damian warned.

"Alright." Envy answered, to Damian's satisfaction.

Ace nodded in kind.

Meanwhile, Jackal appeared with a package in hand.

"What's this?" Damian asked Jackal, to which he simply shrugged his shoulders.

"Let's open it, we'll find out then-" Envy said before being interrupted.

"Hold it! It could be a bomb or something. You know we also have enemies here." Ace warned.

"Why don't we shake it then?" Envy sarcastically said.

"Because if it is a bomb, we could aggravate it even more." Ace answered.

"I say we open it carefully." Damian suggested as he pulled out a dagger like letter opener and cut at the tape.

Once the sticky barrier was no more, the flaps of the box were opened carefully. Inside, there was a note at the top of something white, round and dense, greeting the men with its short script.

Remember Jaguaro?

-The Crow

Ace carefully picked up the round object and turned it around, only to see it was a skull.

"Jesus fucking Christ!" Envy exclaimed, obviously terrified at the implied threat.

Damian however, reacted with disgust and annoyance.

"We are not letting a single bone scare us silly. Ace, dispose of that thing." Damian ordered as he turned to his quarters.

Caliber had the misfortune of having his car break down mid-getaway, leaving him desperate for other methods of transportation. Unfortunately, in the middle of nowhere, the only other mode of getting somewhere was by foot, which was both irritating and distressing. And that was especially when getting away has never failed him before.

"You goddamn cheapass piece of fucking shit car!" Caliber yelled as he tried to scrimp and scrape every last bit of life that car did not have by slamming down on the brakes.

"AAARGHH!" He screamed in frustrating defeat.

He then decided he needed to get out of the godforsaken clunker and escape by foot for now. As he got out, he contemplated the reason why he ever joined that band of douche bags in the first place. It was because he needed some strong arm for the ladies. By himself, he was nothing, if not pathetic. With eleven failed relationships, it didn't seem fair to him. Every guy that he knew had bagged themselves with a girl or at least scored with one. All except for him, and that pissed him off to no end. When that Nemesis girl was alive, she had become an out let for his frustrations with personal injustices, both physical and sexual. Overtime, she had learned to fight back against him. She had to.

Nemesis was a woman Caliber both liked and hated. Liked for the immense pleasure her body gave him, hated for everything her mind denied him. He knew that he could never find a girl like her again, unless she somehow came back from the dead.

The musings which sidetracked his mind were rudely interrupted by a crow.

"Caw!" The crow belted out loudly and angrily, but if Caliber knew that bird any better, he would have been able to tell that corvid hated him with a passion.

"The fuck do you want, bird?" Caliber screeched to the crow.

"Hey baby!" A woman's voice flirted in mock sexy tone.

Caliber turned around to see a woman dressed all in black clothing. Her face was painted white with messy black crow wings shading her eyes, with the "beak" adorning her forehead, and the "tail", adorning her nose. Two vertical black lines struck through those winged eyes like a Greek theater mask. Her lips were painted black with two lines extending into a glasgow smile, but in reality, she was the furthest thing from happy. The dark contour of her cheeks giving off the look of ghoulishness.

"Babe, you wear waaaaayyy too much make up for my tastes. And furthermore, leather ain't a turn on for me." Caliber remarked about her face and wardrobe.

The woman responded by punching Caliber in the face, causing him to fall over backwards on his back.

"Goddamn, bitch! You fucked up my nose!" Caliber shouted as he got up and wiped the blood from his face. He started to charge towards the woman, only to be met with a kick in the groin area.

Caliber hunched over in pain. "God, you're quite a rude bitch."

"Don't you use any other names besides 'bitch'?" The woman quipped.

"Who the fuck are you to care what I say?" Caliber snapped.

"I just thought you needed to expand your dictionary, is all." The woman quipped.

"I'll show you expansion! Expansion of your face and cunt once I'm done with you!" He shouted as he punched the woman in the face, causing her to stumble backwards a little.

However, the woman only giggled at him. He watched in surprise, disgust, and uncertainty as the blood that oozed down her nose onto her lips seeped right back into her nostrils.

"Who, or better yet, what the fuck are you?" He asked in slight panic.

"Honestly, I wish I were dead. Weeping many tears, she left me and said, 'Alas, how terribly we suffer, Sappho, I really leave you against my will'."

Caliber was dumbstruck by what this woman just said. Nonetheless, she continued talking.

"And I answered, 'Farewell, go and remember me. You know how we cared for you.'"

"What the fuck are you saying?" His panic level was starting to rise.

She continued in her grief. "If not, I remind you... Of our wonderful times."

Caliber started to run away from the woman, but she gave chase.

"Get the fuck away from me!" He screamed.

"Why the fuck should I? When I did that, you never listened to me." She spat venomously.

The woman's shirt was ripped open as she screamed for anyone to come for her.

Caliber slapped her in the face, cutting her lower lip. "Shut up, bitch!"

She struck his face and broke his nose, stunning him for a little bit while she tried to crawl away to get to Elorah as fast as she could. Caliber grabbed a fist sized stone and struck her in the head twice, stunning her temporarily.

Putting two and two together, Caliber came to one conclusion. "You, you killed Mastodon and Blaze, didn't you! You're Nemesis, aren't you?"

"Nemesis died when you killed me and my girlfriend, Caliber."

The woman drew out her katana and grabbed Caliber's hands.

"Look, I didn't want to, but we had no choice. Damian don't like defectors, you know that." He pleaded, obviously trying to talk his way out of death, but both knew it was inevitable.

"When you lie dead, no one will remember you, for you have no share in the Muses' roses. No, flitting aimlessly about, you will wildly roam, a shade amidst the shadowy dead."

With that, the woman dealt the killing blow.

Dusty gazed for a long while at Zen, one of the gifts she was given by the mysterious, but beautiful, harlequin woman. The cat lay rested on her lap, looking back up at her new owner.

"Meow!" Zen said.

Dusty smiled at the animal curled up on her.

"Ni'e ki'ty." Dusty spoke to Zen.

The long haired black cat responded with bunting her head against the young girl's arm repeatedly, as if it were a gesture of gratitude. Dusty reached her hand out to stroke the back of her new pet cat, which Zen willingly welcomed. Sure, Zen was a little nervous, even frightened, by the disabled youth at first. After a while, when it was made clear that this girl meant no harm, the cat warmed up to Dusty. But still, she missed the painted faced woman.

"I' 'now, I mi'th th' pre'ty hara'kin 'ady 'oo." Dusty remarked.

The girl then laid her back down and relaxed on the long forgotten antique couch. She would have preferred a nice, warm bed, but the only existing bed in the place she stayed at was broken, rickety, the mattress was eaten up by only God knows what, and to top it all off, she felt uneasy being near the contraption. It was as if the energies that which most likely belonged to the victim long since dead lingered on to stave the child away. Regardless, the couch was a much better place to lay down at.

Suddenly, there was a bit of knocking on the door. Dusty did not dare answer the door in fear of the intruder being a predatory criminal with horrendous intentions. The knocking appeared again, this time, with a voice following.

"Dusty? Are you there? It's Detective Dalle." The voice from the other side of the doorway called. Dusty did not dare answer the woman's calling either, for the harlequin woman promised to see her just one more time, and the fear of being taken away from her safe haven in favor of having to live with a family not as kind as her own made her quiver with dread. The door then creaked with its rotation, and footsteps were heard with each click and creak. Dusty frantically scanned for a hiding place where this "Detective Dalle" will not be able to find her, eventually settling for the extended closet where an unknown man's clothing hung forgotten and moth eaten.

"Hello?" The woman, calling herself "Dalle" called again.

Again, Dusty stayed silent and still, not daring to utter a peep. Her heart was pounding at abrupt speed. The fact that she was on the brink of having a meltdown did not help matters either. Her heart was pounding against her chest as each step from this stranger grew louder and louder.

"Dusty?" Dalle called one more time.

It was too late. Dusty's meltdown already erupted.

"AHHH! AAAHHH!"

Dalle opened the closet where the crying and screaming was coming from. Dusty was thrashing her hands around to try and bat away Dalle, however, she did not budge, despite getting scratched in the process.

"Shhh... Shhhhh..." Dalle soothed the girl, whose fits were just softened down to crying now.

"Maaa..Maaaa!" Dusty cried out.

"You're safe Dusty." Dalle assured her.

"'Ow 'o you kno' m'ame?" She asked, sniffling while drool was coming out of her mouth.

"How do I know your name?" Dalle asked, repeating what the girl said, for clarification.

Dusty nodded.

"I got a phone call from someone who said you were here, and they told me to check up on you."

"Ple' don'ake m'way! Hara'kin 'a'y wan'see me one m'ime. Sh' ga'me a ki'ty! I do'wanna losit!" Dusty pleaded, motioning the black cat by her side.

Harakin? Dalle thought, listening carefully to the disabled child. What the hell is a harakin? Back to the matter at hand, Dalle was required to report this to CPS. A child like Dusty should not be residing in a condemned building, there were plenty of hazards surrounding the place. But if Dusty reacted the way she did at Dalle, there's no telling how she would react to a social worker. Only a fool would leave a child to this condition.

Wait, fool? Harakin? Harlequin! Dalle suddenly realized. But when she came to the realization, the first face that came to mind was the one she had seen from Blaze's murder scene. Her face was painted similar to one. True, it could be a coincedence, but seriously, how many people skulked around wearing that kind of face paint?

Dalle then turned to Dusty. "I'll tell you what. You can stay here for that last meeting with the harlequin lady while I think about what to do. I will make sure you don't lose your cat. I'm sorry for frightening you."

Dusty smiled. "Thank'ou."

Dalle turned to exit the building after.

Damian held the phone to his ear, waiting for an answer from Leviathan. The phone's dull beep lingered for what seemed to be minutes and maybe even longer. It was two A.M. in the morning and his men have since gone to their homes to sleep. He hated when Leviathan scheduled calls at outlandish hours. He always said it was 'So no one else got wind of anything'. On an outside perspective, it would be understandable, but when one is taking said calls, which always interrupted his sleeping patterns, mind you, he'd love nothing more than violent retribution.

Unfortunately, Damian worked for this guy for years, despite not knowing who or what he is, killing him is not an option, much less a wise one at that. He was eternally indebted to the mystery that was Leviathan for getting him out of the mental and financial slump he was in. Not that Damian wasn't grateful, but one sticky situation had led to another, and he feared there was no getting out of this one. Nonetheless, he was obligated to do this one thing.

"Hello, Damian." The voice at the other end finally spoke.

"Hello." He gritted his teeth, struggling to restrain the rage within himself.

"Something... Upsets you?" Leviathan inquired.

Christ! How did he know? Damian thought in both sarcastic and serious thought.

"You.. Noticed?" Damian tried to mentally push down his violent thinking, with little success.

"Your strained voice gives off the impression of a tethered feral animal wanton to wreak havoc. That to me is a cause for concern." Leviathan chided.

A real cause for concern is my men keep dying or leaving. Everything and everyone keep disappearing like a rabbit in a magician's hat. I also think my wife is planning on leaving me too. Damian bit back every word that threatened to erupt from his mouth.

"Hello? Am I still talking to anyone?" His mindset was interrupted.

"Sorry, I got distracted by something." Damian replied.

"I see. I guess I should hang up so you can resolve your 'distraction'. I want to see you at your best to the morrow." Leviathan said.

"Thank you." Damian said with relief.

"Goodbye Damian. Remember, everything is on you." Leviathan said before hanging up.

When the phone disconnected, Damian breathed a sigh of relief, that is, until then.

"Boss!" Envy alarmingly shouted.

"WHAT?" Damian yelled out loud.

"Remember Caliber?" Envy asked.

"No, Envy, I had completely forgotten about our defector. Care to clue me in?" Damian sarcastically stated.

"Well, he's scraggly looking-"

"I was being sarcastic, Envy!"

Envy tried his best to ignore that remark. "Anyways, we recently got a text with Caliber's picture on it. He's dead."

Damian gasped with shock as he saw what was on there.

"Dearly departed!"

Tallulah walked towards the room where Damian liked to relax. She knew he wasn't there so she would sneak in the secret roomway it harbored for a few choice words with the occupant. She had to be quick about it so she chose her words and timing carefully.

She walked the three big steps before taking a key she had stolen a long time ago and unlocking the padded lock before her. She opened the door to an undead man on life support.

"Hello." It disgusted her to the very core of her being to even think about saying the second word coming out of her mouth, but she forced herself to say it anyways. "F..Father."

"That's more like it... Lavinia." He said with equal amount of vitriol.

Lavinia... I haven't heard that name in years. She thought bitterly.

It was the truth, her name was... Well still is, Lavinia, but it was changed, not only at the insistence of Damian, but the people who shared her blood were killed by unknown means eighteen years ago, "It was for the best," He said..

Actually one of them. The other is in front of her right now, wasting away on his bed, the tubes connected to the machines the only thing keeping him alive. She could sense the misery leering behind that proud sneer.

"I'm leaving." She said.

He chuckled.

"What's funny?"

"You always fuckin' say that! And you never go through with it! That's what's funny!"

"No one tells me what I can or can't do!" She stamped her foot.

"I'm not tellin' ya! I'm just sayin', Do what ever the fuck you have to, just don't get your ass lost in a world you don't know."

"I'll find a way." She said defiantly.

"Sure ya will.. And then, you'll be somebody else's bitch." He chuckled again.

She simply glared at him.

"What I'm sayin' is, you really think you're cut out for that kinda life? If ya ask me, that girl was the absolute worst thing ever happened to ya. She shouldn't have even been in the gang in very first place! And 'bout that crush you had on her, she ain't never gonna like you back! Not after what I did to her adult friends!"

"You don't know anything about her!" She snapped.

"I know that it's really her that's killin' off Damian's men. Don't expect anything 'cuz she didn't come back for ya. She can't even be your friend anymore 'cause you're alive."

"Waste away, fucker!" Were the last words coming from the young woman's mouth before storming out.

Deep down, she knew he was right. Where would she go? Who would she turn to?

She did not know what to do, where to go, who to turn to now, but she knew one thing had to be done: She had to leave on her own, and as soon as possible.

To Be Continued...

Happy Belated Halloween! Don't forget to read and review!

#the crow #the crow 1994 #The Crow movie #thecrow #goth

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