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rebrandedbard · 3 years

Note

Hi! Can I ask for 30. “It’s not what it looks like…” from the drabble list?

Oh, it’s you! Welcome back! Here for another order at McDrabble? Very well then, I am obliged to use the good serving platter for the sake of continuity:

30: “It’s not what it looks like…”

wc: 1991 (Wow! That’s a year!)

No Modesty Among Thieves

Geralt finds Jaskier tied up in their room after returning to the inn and all their things have been stolen. He has an unexpected family reunion when he goes to find the burglar.

Kidnappers would have been easier, Geralt thought, than dealing with burglars. Had Jaskier been kidnapped, someone would have left a note and ransom. They would be waiting somewhere easy to find. A burglar did not want to be found, which meant he’d have to track them down, which meant more work. He’d had a long day and all he wanted to do was crawl into bed. The moment he’d opened the door of their room, those lovely plans of rest and relaxation had flown out the window, and he was suddenly wide awake, his heart racing, for he found Jaskier tied to the bed frame, completely bare, blindfolded, with a gag in his mouth. He gaped a moment before the smell of fear hit him, then he hurried to the bed and tugged the blindfold from Jaskier’s eyes.

Jaskier sagged with relief at the sight of him. As soon as Geralt removed the gag, the words came flooding out. “It’s not what it looks like…” he sighed, knowing very well what Geralt’s first impression must have been. He shifted uncomfortably, glad of the pillow thrown over his lap. At least the burglar had been thoughtful enough to provide that before clearing out.

“What happened?” Geralt asked. As he worked the knots above Jaskier’s head, he cast eyes about the room. It was completely empty; all of their belongings had been taken.

“Burglar caught me in the bath, blindfolded me, tied me up, and gagged me. Took all of our stuff and booked it.” He rubbed his wrists and shook them out to get the feeling into his arms again. “I’m so glad you got home when you did; my arms just about lost all feeling. I’m already sore from the fight with the gargoyle last week. The second-hand blast knocked me halfway across the room, remember? Burned the doublet right off my back! Singed my shirt, too.”

“I remember,” Geralt replied. He inspected Jaskier’s arms with care. “Are you hurt?” he asked.

“Only my pride. I thought I could tell you from the sound of your footsteps, but evidently, I was wrong. The way the fiend came striding in here, confident as anything like they belonged—well! I thought it could only be you,” he grumbled. “Anyone else would have tried to sneak up behind me instead. They strode right in! And I know, I know; I ought to have kept the door locked, but I swear, Geralt, that I had locked it. It’s a faulty lock, that’s what I think. This inn is cheap and ready to fall to pieces when the wind next blows, and that’s the truth.”

Geralt tossed the blanket over Jaskier’s shoulders for modesty’s sake. “Stay here. I’ll take care of it.” He sniffed the air and announced, “There’s only one trail; pretty strong, too. Likely another patron somewhere down the hall.”

It was an easy game, stealing from other travellers. There were plenty of rooms to hide in. All one had to do was pretend to flee out the door, hood down, pass a few witnesses, then sneak back to their room calm as anything. It was a play Geralt had encountered before.

His brow creased as he scented the room again. It smelled … familiar. He crouched, following the scent from the bed over to the bath, to the corner where he’d left their bags. Meanwhile, Jaskier stumbled out of the bed, the blanket wrapped clumsily around him. He peeked beside the bed and circled the tub. With a huff, he dropped onto the bed once more and sat grumbling.

“Might have at least left the pants, if not my trousers. Not any money in selling those. Rotten thieving bastard.”

Geralt turned to look at him. “They took your clothes?” he said.

“Not that I blame them, really. People are trying to get in my pants all the time,” Jaskier quipped. He resumed his sulking after when he considered how much they’d cost him to buy in the first place.

The smell was stronger as soon as Geralt opened the door. He groaned, the pieces clicking into place neatly. “I’ll be right back,” he growled.

The door slammed shut behind him as Geralt stalked down the hall. He followed the scent to the every end and thrust the door open. And there the prick was, sitting on the floor, Jaskier’s stupid hat on his head, flipping through Jaskier’s notebook with one hand and helping himself to one of Geralt’s dried apple slices with the other. Lambert didn’t even bother to look up as he entered, merely smiling as he popped the slice into his mouth.

“Still hiding your snacks among your potion kit,” Lambert said. “A wonder your bard hasn’t found them yet. His smell is all over your things; one would think he’s always in and out, fetching things for you.”

“Pack it up. I’m kicking you out of here as soon as you’ve helped me carry this shit back.”

Lambert ignored him, rolling over on his back as he flipped to a page closer to the front of the notebook. “Is this one about you? ‘What amorous sight I scowling see, the sweet delights he flares in me, with eyes the gods have wrought of gold, for men to weep and thus behold?’”

Geralt snatched the book from his hands, ears burning hot. “You’ve no right to be prying into others’ things,” he snarled.

“Ah, so you haven’t read his poetry, I take it.”

Lambert hovered over Geralt’s shoulder as Geralt started shoving things into Jaskier’s bag. He grabbed the hat from Lambert’s head and gathered it with the rest, careful not the bend the feather. Of course he hadn’t gone snooping. Jaskier’s notebook was private and Geralt respected privacy, unlike some who felt entitled to anything not bolted and locked.

“How did you like my present?” Lambert asked, flopping onto the bed. He raised his arms above his head in a mockery of the position he’d left Jaskier in. “Oh, what an amorous sight!” he cried, smirking. “Did you weep? I know you to be a weeper; heard enough whores gossip about the white-haired witcher crying in their arms after a tumble. Or did you not unwrap my present? He smelled pretty good for a minute there—aroused by danger, is he?”

Geralt picked up a pillow and smacked him with it. “Don’t go sniffing my bard,” he said.

For once, Lambert made no retort. He only raised one cocky brow at him and smiled.

Geralt found Jaskier’s clothes folded messily on a chair. He put them away carefully in Jaskier’s bag piece by piece. He was about to put the chemise away when Lambert plucked it from him. He flapped it in the air, gave it a light sniff and said, “Kind of smells like you, you know. You two share a bed or something?”

The speed with which Geralt snatched it back was all the answer Lambert needed. In addition, Geralt took back his bag of apple slices. He shoved them in a bag and collected the rest of their things. Last of all, he slung Jaskier’s lute over his shoulder.

Before leaving, Geralt seized Lambert’s own bag and stole from it a package of dried cod. Lambert hated cod. And Geralt knew why he had it. “Stay out of my room and away from Jaskier,” he said, “Or I’ll find your cat and shave him.” He tossed the bag back at Lambert and slammed the door in his gaping face.

The very first thing Jaskier did upon Geralt’s return was check his lute for damage, forgoing his awkward wrap in his hurry to get to it. His cry of relief filled the air and he cradled the instrument close. Geralt waited until Jaskier had put it safely away in its case before tossing his trousers at his head. Jaskier laughed and hugged them close, but rather than dress, he resumed his bath, the water warmed by courtesy of Geralt for his troubles. Geralt sat on the other side of the room, reordering their things as he told Jaskier the truth behind his unpleasant encounter.

Dinner was ordered to their room a half hour later, an apology sent along with it in the form of two baked pears. They ate it together on the floor, Jaskier in a towel, and Geralt kept his eyes on his food, trying in vain to forget the bit of poetry Lambert had sung for him.

“I’ll have to repay him one of these days and run his clothes up a pole,” Jaskier said. “If he’s ever in Oxenfurt, be prepared to spot them flapping below the university’s flag.”

“You’d get nowhere near them,” Geralt replied, cutting himself a bite of pear.

“I don’t know. He seemed eager enough to get my clothes off earlier. Should be easy to tempt him to do it again, then scoop his up while he sleeps.”

Geralt quickly abandoned his pear, apatite gone. He offered Jaskier his plate and returned to his organizing.

After eating, Jaskier stood. He stretched and dropped his hands to his hips, then swayed back to where he’d left his trousers. As he dressed, he looked around, humming to himself.

“Geralt?” he called. “Do you know what became of my undershirt?”

“Lambert doesn’t have it,” Geralt answered.

“Fuck, did he lose it? I haven’t got one spare.”

After another minute of rummaging, Geralt cleared his throat. “You can wear one of mine,” he offered. He produced a large black shirt and held it out to Jaskier at arm’s length.

Jaskier beamed and made a grab for it. “You’re a dear! I shall not wander cold and bare on the road, thanks to your generosity.” He pulled it over his head and smoothed it down. “Hm, very worn and soft. It’s quite comfortable, actually. You sure you don’t mind?”

“Can’t have you walking around half naked,” Geralt grunted.

“Quite right. It may take some time to get to a decent tailor. Be warned: by then I may be disinclined to return it to you. You know how attached I get to my clothes.”

Geralt shrugged. “I can get another,” was the only reply he offered.

Jaskier smiled and bounced happily into bed. “In that case, say your goodbyes now. I’ve never owned anything black but for my hat—it’s quite an attractive color. I’m sure I look as raffish as you! Perhaps more so for the novelty of it. What do you think?”

Whatever it was that Geralt thought, Jaskier was not to know. Geralt gave no answer the next morning, even as Jaskier pranced in front of him, fishing for a compliment. Geralt kept his opinion buried in his throat, almost as secret as his bag of dried apples. And tucked beneath them, he kept another secret folded neatly at the very bottom of his bag. He’d forgotten it in his haste to leave Lambert’s room that night. But Jaskier looked well in his shirt. So the chemise remained where it was, tucked away. After all, if Jaskier intended to keep his, it was only a fair trade.

Jaskier danced another turn in front of him and bowed, the shirt billowing at the end of his arms. He stood upright once more and posed. “Come now, Geralt. You’ve got to admit it makes for a pleasant change.” He flicked the end of one feather from his hat and winked. “What say you? I think we go perfectly together.”

Geralt looked at him, bathed in the early morning light, the very picture of radiance. He nodded, giving Jaskier a small smile. “We do,” he whispered, so soft that no human could ever hear.

“Did you say something?”

“No,” Geralt replied, a startled blink. “Nothing.”

Jaskier looked at him a moment, then shrugged, striding the path ahead. They would get there, he thought privately to himself. They had all the time in the world.

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sleeping-on-cracking-ice · 3 years

Note

Hey! Can you write something with Chishiya and Y/N when she almost died in game beacuse of Niragi but didn't tell anyone about this (he tripped her on purpouse or smth). Chishiya finds her up on the roof few days later really anxious+crying beacuse her visa is ending and she is scared that Niragi will come and play the same game as her and will try to do something bad. Chishiya becames really protective over her especially when he sees her bruised knees.

Here you go!

Comfort Zone | Shuntaro Chishiya

{Alice In Borderland Masterlist}

Character(s): Chishiya (ft. Niragi, OC’s, Hatter)

Summary: You came close to dying due to being attacked by Niragi, and you fear it will happen again during the next game. Chishiya notices your anxiety and tries his best to prevent it from happening.

Warnings: mention of murder, swearing, blood, violence (punching)

Word Count: 3.9k

*reader is female

“Just my luck,” you groaned out, lifting yourself to your feet by using a chair nearby for leverage. “Not only am I clumsy as fuck, I’m also stuck with a group of murderers.”

Hatter had suggested you go with a few of the militants for the next game, as he wished for them to test you to see if you were capable enough to join them.

It was a hearts game called Capture The Flag. It was very self explanatory. You had to capture the opposite team’s flag and bring it back to your base without getting killed by them. The game would continue until a flag was captured, and the losing team would have their small bomb strapped to their chest explode as soon as the flag was returned to the team’s base. So theoretically, you could die at any second. And if that wasn’t stressful enough, everyone carried weapons, ranging from machete’s to revolvers, so you were on high alert.

You were on the same team as a muscular militant woman named Ren and a much younger kid (he looked around fifteen years old) called Minato. But of course, Niragi had to be placed on your team, bringing you nothing but more trouble.

The room you stood in was dark and ominous. You managed to trip over a few shards of glass and impact on the ground heavily, causing your hip to throb in pain as you attempt to recover from the fall.

You had been separated from your group. You managed to sneak off without them noticing, just rather being on your own than with others. You thought you had a better chance by yourself anyway, as no one was there to betray you.

In the Borderland, you didn’t know who to trust, so you kept to yourself.

The brightness of your game phone flashed a light green, reminding you of what colour team you were on. You had to search for a base that was illuminated by a blue light and take the flag that was supposedly meant to be there. But so far, you hadn’t seen any indication of the other team. You hadn’t even seen any of the other players now that you thought about it.

You made your way out of the empty room you had just checked, peeking around the corner down the hall before stepping out of the doorframe. The small bomb strapped to your chest over your shirt felt heavy on your frame, especially knowing that it held your life in its hands.

You sighed loudly and rubbed your hands together to relieve the tension in your muscles slightly. You had to be close, surely. You had been walking around the abandoned hospital for ages, as if you hadn’t at least walked past the enemy’s base and missed it somehow.

Just as you were about to turn the corner to the main corridor, a whispered grunt made you stop in your tracks. You held your breath and pressed yourself against the cold wall next to you, trying to listen to any movements they make.

The sounds of rustling met your ears, making you frown. It sounded like someone was trying to find something in their pocket, moving around the objects until they’ve found what they need.

You slowly peeked one eye around the corner, making sure not to accidentally hit the wall or fall forwards in fear of the person being an enemy player. Good news, it wasn’t. But seeing someone on your team wasn’t much reassurance either, as all three of them seemed to be clinically insane.

Niragi was crouching over a dead body. A game phone was thrown to the side on the ground a few feet away, emitting a bright blue light. The dead person must have been on the blue team.

The blood pooled around the body, Niragi’s boot being in one of the puddles.

‘Why didn’t I hear the gunshots?’ you asked yourself, watching as Niragi rummaged through the pockets of the guy’s jacket. He was probably looking for another weapon or perhaps something to assist him in the game.

Your eyebrows furrowed when you noticed a slight blue tinge on the fabric of Niragi’s shirt. You turned your head the other way down the hall, eyes lighting up at the sight of a bright fluorescent blue light coming from around the corner. That must’ve been the enemies base.

You glanced back quickly to Niragi, noting he was busy with the corpse, still searching through their pockets. Perhaps you could make it if you were quiet enough.

You slowly lifted a foot while keeping your eyes pinned to the man down the hall, ready to dive back behind the wall if he decided to turn around. When your whole body had left the comfort of the darkened hallway you came from, you turned and quickly shuffled down the hall towards the light, looking over your shoulder every now and then.

When you had turned the corner, you let out a sigh in relief. “Fuck,” you rasped out, wiping your sweating brow with the back of your wrist. “If only I came with Chishiya, I wouldn’t be so cautious.”

You entered a room a few steps in front of you that had a door slightly ajar with the blue light pushing through. You squinted your eyes as you opened the door at the brightness of the light, covering your eyes and hissing lightly.

When your eyes adjusted, you felt a euphoric feeling fill your body when you caught sight of the blue flag resting against the wall. You immediately scrambled over and gripped the wood, feeling the sweet ecstasy of victory and being able to live another few days.

You walked out of the room flag in hand. But as soon as you exited the door, your game phone rang loudly, making you freeze in your spot.

“Green Team has now obtained Blue Flag.”

Your breath became lodged in your throat and you felt your fist tighten on the flag pole. If the game announced it to the rest of the players, they were going to come after you.

Your fear was proven correct when you heard loud footsteps down the hall, making its way to your position. You knew it was Niragi, but the fact that he was on your team gave you slight reassurance. He wouldn’t hurt someone he’s meant to be working with, right?

You couldn’t be so sure, so you pulled out the fairly sized knife that you had sneaked into your pocket before leaving for the game. There was nowhere you could run. Down the hall was the only exit you had.

Before you knew it, the angered face of Niragi turned the corner and you locked eyes. He glanced down at the large knife you held at your side, then at the flag. A smirk painted on his face and he chuckled cockily.

“You think you can defend yourself with that piece of shit?” he asked you, taking a few threatening steps towards your frame. Your feet remained planted on the ground, trying not to appear as panicked as you actually were. “Everyone’s going to come here, and you’re going to fend them off with a kitchen knife?”

You felt belittled from his mocking, eyebrows furrowing in frustration. “The fuck else am I supposed to do?” you asked, pointing the tip of the knife in his direction.

Silence filled the air as you and Niragi had a stare down. The grip he held on his rifle tightened whenever you shifted, never failing to make your heart skip a fearful beat.

“Princess,” he started with a sickening pet name, “why don’t you give the flag to me? I’ll protect you.” His sudden change in mood gave you whiplash and you took a step back in confusion, still holding your weapon towards him.

“What?” you muttered out, a bamboozled expression on your face. “I said, pass the flag to me. I’ll make sure we’ll be okay,” he answered while slinging his gun to his side a bit too casually for your comfort.

You watched as he fiddled with the bullet compartments of his rifle. He seemed to have been checking the ammo, making you realise what he was intending.

You shook your head, trying to sound normal, but the slight shakiness in your voice made you quite obvious. “It’s fine Niragi,” you insisted, “I can get it to our base myself.”

He glanced up at your frame as he closed the bullet compartment to his rifle. His serious expression made your adrenaline kick in and your hands began to shake, becoming obvious from the way the tip of the knife was quivering.

“Fine,” he muttered out, basically snarling at you. “I’ll do this the hard way.”

His words made your expression drop and before you could even think, Niragi swung the butt of his rifle and socked you across the side of your head, making you fall to the ground abruptly and drop the blue flag. You groaned in pain, and yet you didn’t even get a second to recover before Niragi blew another hit to your shoulder, kicking you harshly in the stomach at the same time.

You suffocated on nothing, becoming winded from his kick. Gasping for air, you attempted to crawl away from the violent man, shuffling on your hands and knees. Another hit to your lower back brought you to your stomach and you gagged at the sudden feeling.

Luckily, Niragi had quit abusing you and reached down next to your bruised body to pick up the blue flag. “Maybe next time, be careful what you say to me,” he hissed into your ear before standing up and walking away from you.

You laid on the floor for a short moment, trying to compose yourself and control your breathing once again. When you finally came to your senses, you lifted yourself up from the ground while groaning in pain. You had to find a hiding spot, otherwise the Blue Team would find you at their base and kill you.

You used the wall for support as you stood up, bones cracking and blood dripping down the side of your face. You lifted your hand and pressed against your throbbing head, wincing as the pain rocketed from your action.

‘At least he didn’t kill me,’ you thought to yourself. A bright shimmer caught your eye and you turned your head to see your weapon laying on the ground. A grumble left your body as you leant down to pick it up, admiring the way the blue light reflected off it.

You leant against the wall and slowly made your way down the hall, searching for a small cabinet or anywhere that you could hide for the next ten minutes or so. You got a wave of relief when you spotted a cleaner’s cupboard just down the corridor, stumbling towards it.

When you pulled yourself inside the dark cupboard and closed the door, you allowed yourself to slide down against the cold wall, feeling a few tears slip from your eyes.

All you had to do was wait for Niragi to get the flag back to the Green Base and you would be fine, hopefully.

***************

You dragged your exhausted body towards your hotel room, your legs throbbing in pain at every step you climbed. You had decided against going back to the hotel in the car with the other militants, as you didn’t want to deal with the tension of sitting next to the man who almost killed you. Plus, the car would hold half the amount of people it left the hotel with, probably making the atmosphere more eerie.

The door of your hotel room felt heavy as you pushed it open, stumbling into the cold room. You groaned in frustration at your past self. Why didn’t you leave your heater on before you left?

You let out a deep sigh before falling backwards onto your bed, spreading your arms out wide to feel the comforting blankets underneath you. Your eyes closed in content, trying so hard to ignore the pain on the side of your head and your knees.

The blankets shifted underneath your tired frame as you rolled over, pulling the duvet over yourself in the process. You didn’t even have the energy to turn your body so you could place your head on the pillow, so you simply slipped into unconsciousness in the position you laid in, hoping for a better day to come tomorrow.

Whilst you travelled to dreamland in your mind, a short blonde man stood outside your door, knocking lightly on the wood. When Chishiya received no response, he lightly turned the silver door knob and peaked his head into the room. A soft sigh of relief left him when you saw you safe and sound, asleep on your bed. He had been worried from how you were acting as you slumped to your room, noticing that you seemed more tired than usual.

Chishiya walked into the room and quickly shut the door behind him, holding the doorknob until it was completely shut to avoid the clicking noise. He tip-toed towards your frame and admired your sleeping self, his lips curling up at the sight.

“Get some sleep love,” he whispered, running the back of his hand softly down your cheek to sooth you. “You need it.”

Before Chishiya left the room, he tucked the blanket tighter around your body so you stayed warm and gave you a soft peck on your forehead. He glanced back once more before stepping out of the room. He headed back to his own hotel room to get some sleep, feeling content that the person he cares for most was okay.

**************

As the days of your visa grew fewer, your dread grew bigger. Thoughts from your last game bounced around your head, continuing to come back to you in the most random of times. Sometimes you would feel an imaginary harsh kick to your back in your dreams, causing you to wake up abruptly, covered in sweat. You couldn’t escape the fear of Niragi attempting to kill you again. If you managed to run into him again like in the last game, it would be a guarantee that he wouldn’t let you off the hook again.

Just the thought of Niragi blasting a few bullets from his sniper through your head brought you the irrational belief that that was your future. No matter how hard you attempted to shake it, it found its way back into your mind.

The stars shone in the sky, glistening against the endless ceiling of darkness and winking at you from above. It felt foreign to see such sights in the world you lived in, where everything seemed to hold some kind of darkness behind it. Even the label of ‘Utopia’ on The Beach was a complete lie.

You huffed in a stressful tone, hanging your head low and rubbing your eyes with your hands as you leaned your elbows on the railing. The minutes before the next game were becoming less and less. If only you had one more day on your visa, you could potentially avoid all the bullshit that Niragi brought with him everywhere he went.

Hatter had informed you that Niragi was taking you to another game, as he didn’t get to properly assess your skills last time. He was making you go because that night was the night your visa ended. You didn’t have a choice.

Before you knew it, small droplets of tears escaped your eyes, cascading down your face and dripping off your chin. You felt helpless and scared. You could do nothing but wait for the fire alarms to ring to indicate Hatter’s speech before everyone left for their own games. It felt like your time on the roof was lasting forever, so you tried to drag out your time there as long as you could.

You closed your eyes and lifted your head high, letting the cold air swim around your face and bring you comfort. “This isn’t fucking fair,” you stated bluntly to yourself.

It wasn’t. Why did the world think you deserved this kind of stress? You never asked to be in the Borderland. You never asked to be involved with these people. Why did you have to be thrown into this mess?

The sound of light footsteps ripped you from your thoughts, causing you to whip your head around and lock eyes with Chishiya, who froze a few metres away. Your face visibly relaxed at the sight of your boyfriend, smiling weakly as he lifted his hands in defence from your paranoid actions.

“Hey Chishiya,” you greeted him, turning your back and wiping your tears from your eyes. “Sorry, I’ll be down soon. Just give me a minute.”

Chishiya frowned at your shaky voice, approaching your frame and placing a soft hand on your shoulder. “Y/N? What’s wrong?”

You turned your face to him and his eyes displayed concern as soon as they met with your teary ones. “Wait, baby why are you crying?” he asked, placing a hand on the small of your back and another cupping your cheek to make you look at him.

You shook your head and gave a fake smile, not wanting to tell Chishiya what had happened. “It’s fine. I’m just getting a bit stressed for tonight.”

Chishiya eyebrows furrowed at your answer, noticing how you bit your lip after your sentence. You only ever did that when you were lying.

His eyes glanced up towards the small gash on the side of your head. “How did this happen?” he questioned you, lifted his hand to run a gentle thumb over the injury. You glanced at him nervously as he waited for an answer.

“Oh that? It’s nothing. I just managed to trip over and smack my head on the wall during the last game. You know me, such a clumsy idiot,” you tried to laugh it off.

Chishiya didn’t buy it for a second. He moved his gaze to the rest of your body, searching for any more injuries. He had had enough of your lying when he saw your bruised knees, dried blood around the edges of small cuts from earlier when you accidentally reopened them.

“Y/N, what happened the other day? Who did this to you?” Chishiya asked in a serious tone, wrapping his hands around your neck and holding you protectively. “These look bad Y/N. I’ll have to treat them for you.”

You nodded, looking down at the ground. Chishiya lifted your chin with his finger to make you have eye contact. “You going to tell me what happened?”

You let out a big sigh, accepting the fact that you can’t hide literally anything from Chishiya. He knew you too well.

“Look, it’s fine Chishiya. Niragi just got mad at me during a game. You know how he is. I’m honestly glad that he didn’t do anything else,” you explained, watching as Chishiya’s face contorted into anger at your confession.

He fell silent, making you more tense. You knew Chishiya was really aggravated when he went completely silent.

“Niragi did this to you?” he asked scarily calmly, running a soft hand over the gash on your head again. You nodded, leaning against his touch.

“Alright. You stay with me tonight. I don’t care what Hatter has asked from you. You stick by my side and don’t let go of my hand,” Chishiya demanded you, pulling you into a comforting hug. You tucked your face into his neck, breathing in his scent.

“I love you,” he whispered out, giving you a soft smooch on your cheek. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there to protect you.”

You shook your head in denial. “Don’t be baby. You’re here now. That’s all that matters.”

Chishiya smiled happily at your words, pulling back from the hug and giving you a loving kiss on your lips. You both held each other close, moving your mouths against one another’s intimately.

You felt safe in Chishiya’s arms and he felt safe in yours. And that’s where both of you were intending to stay as long as possible.

****************

You sat on Chishiya’s small bed, admiring as the young man wiped carefully over the dried blood on your knees. He was being so careful, holding you by the underneath of your knee and making sure not to press too hard on your bruises.

You had returned from the game you attended with Chishiya. Before the game commenced, you both hid on the roof so Niragi or Hatter wouldn’t come looking for you, wanting to take you to the game. You waited until most cars had left before making your way down to the bottom floor, climbing into the last car together that only held two other people you didn’t know.

Chishiya made sure to keep you by his side the entire game, not letting go of your hand once. At some point you were afraid he was going to sacrifice himself for you, as he wasn’t acting too far from it. His protective side had kicked in and he wasn’t taking your situation lightly.

At some point you both had to hide from an attacker. Chishiya had shoved you both into the corner of a small room, shielding your entire body with his with both of his hands against the walls, keeping you trapped in and hidden. The action alone was enough to make you realise how much Chishiya actually cared, how afraid he actually was of losing you.

“All done,” the blonde announced, breaking you from your thoughts. You grinned as he glanced up at you, giving you a cheeky wink. He shifted up the bed and leant against the headboard beside you. “Are you okay?” he asked once again, his fingers lightly running along your thigh soothingly. You nodded, leaning your head on his shoulder.

“Don’t worry about Niragi,” Chishiya reassured you after a short moment of silence. You looked up at him from his shoulder. “Why not?” you asked.

Chishiya gave a cocky smirk and ruffled your hair playfully. “I’ll make sure to give him a piece of my mind,” he said in a monotone voice as usual.

You chuckled at his words before placing a soft kiss to the underside of his jaw. “I’m sure you will,” you laughed.

Chishiya smiled happily and turned his body. He picked you up slightly and made you lie down before placing himself next to your frame. You rolled over to face him, not even getting a chance to breath before his lips were on yours.

His kiss was passionate, running his tongue along your lips to ask for you to open them. You obliged, letting him have his way with you. You ran your fingers up underneath his shirt, feeling his warm skin shiver underneath you touch. He groaned at the feeling, pushing himself closer to you and placing one hand on the back of your neck while the other dragged lazy patterns along your bare hip.

You two held each other close, getting lost and drunk on the thoughts and feelings of one another. No one could make each of you feel the way you made each other feel. In Chishiya’s arms you felt safe and content, making all the terrible things around you disappear. And for Chishiya, you made him feel sane again. You made him remember that he was human, he was allowed to have human emotions and make mistakes.

You brought a sense of comfort to one another, and clearly Chishiya wasn’t willing to let anything come between you both.

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cleanlenins · 3 years

Text

Ectober Day 2: Scream

He Just Screams Uncool

Ectober Day 2: Scream

During Fright Knight, Mr. Lancer gets sent to a fear dimension after being stabbed by Soulshredder. What would have happened if Dash had gotten stabbed? What would his fear dimension look like?

AO3

Warnings: Light body horror

Dash trembled, covering his ears and crushing his eyes closed. He cowered in a corner, unable to muster the courage to move. This wasn't real. This wasn't real. This wasn't real .

Freaky Fenton must have done something. He was so desperate to win the stupid Haunted House competition that he had cheated. Yeah, that must be what he had done. He had gotten help. Maybe he didn't even do any of it himself. Not that Dash had done anything himself either-

He heard a distant laughter and crushed his palms against his ears. He didn’t want to hear it anymore.

Leave it to the freak to come up with something like this.

He whimpered as he heard the laughter get closer, pressing harder into the corner. The brick walls digging into his arm. He thought back and tried to find some explanation for this madness.

Dash had already won. He knew it. He could see on Lancer’s face as he showed off his room. There was no way Fenton could top this. Fenton’s room was a joke, just like everything else about the loser. It was just up to Mr. Lancer to say the final words.

And then...what had happened? Dash can't remember. It was all so hazy, like trying to remember a fading dream. Someone had shown up, dressed in armor and face obscured in darkness. He almost remembered the horrifying feeling of metal sliding through his chest. But he checked and he was whole. There was no wound. No blood. No pain-

One minute Dash had been standing next to Lancer, the next he was suddenly outside the school? How did he get there? And it was daylight? Dash blinked at the sudden light. It was crowded with students milling around, but he immediately spotted Paulina and Kwan. His friends could never be mistaken for the normal geeks and freaks that populated the school. Both of their backs were turned to him. Maybe they would know what had happened.

Dash had walked up to the duo, raising his hand to clap Kwan on the shoulder with a cocky grin. The smirk melted away as his hand went through Kwan's arm. Dash stared at his hand, completely dumbfounded. Frozen in place in his confusion. Was he tripping? He didn’t remember taking anything. Then Paulina and Kwan turned and walked through him. Dash gasped at the foreign feeling, like the ice baths he and the team would take after training. Except the cold was under his skin. Under his muscles. Like his bones were made of snow and mist. And then it was gone.

“Guys!” Dash shouted in surprise, but neither Kwan nor Paulina turned to face him. Neither showed any signs of even seeing him. They continued to walk up the path. Dash ran to cut them off, waving his hands in front of their faces. Neither blinked. Dash tried to block their way but once more they walked right through him. He bit his lip, scanning around the school ground for any other familiar faces.

He rushed over to Valerie and tried to grab her shoulder, intent on spinning the girl around to look at him. But once more his hand went through. Star gestured wildly and her hand went through Dash’s head. He flinched away from the uncomfortable feeling. Dale threw his football through the air, and instead of catching it, Dash watched it pass through his chest before nailing that nerd Mickey in the head. Dash couldn’t even take pleasure in the nerd’s broken glasses.

He wasn’t panicking. No, he would never panic. He was the school star for heaven's sake. The hero of Casper. He wouldn’t be beaten by some freaky trick. He started screaming, yelling for someone to notice him. He tried to grab people. Tried to throw books and binders. Yelled expletives in their faces. Tried to punch random people. He definitely didn’t cry, no, those weren’t tears. He was just sweating. His heart was pounding against his chest from the running, not fear. His scream broke off as he choked down a sob. No, it wasn’t a sob! He leaned heavily against the flag poles, somehow not falling through them. He glanced around the grounds in despair. He was at a loss. He was...losing?

His eyes snapped to a trio not that far from him. He focused on Fenton, who seemed to be engrossed in a conversation with Foley. Dash nearly growled in anger, before marching over to Fenton.

Fenton seemed to shudder as he approached, a cold mist floating from his mouth. Typical freak weirdness. The smaller teen looked up and met Dash’s eye. Instead of cowering in fear, a wide grin split Fenton’s face. Dash flushed in rage.

“What did you do, Fenton?”

“What do you mean?” Fenton asked, grin widening even more.

“Why is everyone acting like they can’t see me? Why can’t I touch anything? If this is something your weirdo parents made-” Dash stuttered to a stop as he watched Fenton’s smile only grow wider, every tooth on display and...were his teeth sharper than usual?

“What do you mean no one can see you, Dash?” Fenton tilted his head, unblinking eyes seemed to be staring directly into his soul. The pupils were blown wide, only hinting at a circle of blue around the black. “I can see you. I have always been able to see you.”

Fenton took a step. Dash swallowed as he took a step away. Fenton’s grin grew even wider. Impossibly wide. Could mouths even reach that wide?

“W-what’s that supposed to mean, you freak?” Dash stuttered as he put distance between him and the nerd. Fenton continued to stroll, a very low chuckle.

“That’s why you don’t like me, Dash. Because I can see you for who you are and who you will be,” Fenton giggled. “A nobody.”

“J-just-Shut up, Fenturd!” Dash tried to hold his ground, balling his hands into fists to hide the tremors.

“You know that someday they are going to see it, too. See you for the nothing you are. Stupid, useless, boring, lame-the list goes on, doesn’t it? You had hoped it would be after high school, but I guess everyone just came to their senses sooner than you thought, Dash .”

Dash lashed out, as he always did when he was afraid. He was expecting the satisfying crunch of his fist against Fenton’s nose. But his fist went right through Fenton’s grinning face. The smaller teen stepped to the side. He reached up and gently grabbed Dash’s wrist. Dash tried to rip it away, but found that Fenton’s hold was stronger than iron. He grunted as he yanked his arm, but Fenton didn’t budge.

“The only thing really good about you is all this strength, isn’t it?” Fenton asked, a cruel excitement in his eyes. “But that won’t last, will it?”

Like the rippling of wind on grain, the skin around Dash’s wrist began to change. Tanned and smooth skin became translucent and liver spotted. Chiseled muscle seemed to deflate and loose skin hung from the bone in a wrinkly mass. The effect flowed up from his wrist to his elbow, as Dash screamed in horror. He once more tried to pull away from Fenton, this time with success as he fell and sprawled on his back. He sobbed and he tried to crawl backwards away, Fenton giggled down at him with hand still aloft. Dash felt tears overflow, he glanced down at his arm which still held it’s withered appearance.

Fenton took a step forward, and Dash’s eyes were back on him.

“Are you crying, Baxter?” Fenton laughed. “Well, that just screams uncool doesn’t it? Don’t worry. You don’t have to cry for long.”

Fenton took another step closer, and Dash was on his feet. He sprinted away, cradling his arm and screaming for help. Anyone. Help him. Please. Someone save him. But while the school had been full of people before, now there was no one. Dash sprinted around the school building, making his way to the brick storage building. He fumbled with the latch, before ripping open the door. Closing it quickly behind him, he shoved himself as far into the room as he could, leaning up against the cold corner of the brick wall. He tried to muffle his sobs, his hands trembling. He listened hard, waiting. Waiting to see if Fenton would find him. Tears flowed freely as he scrunched up his eyes.

So here he was. Trembling in fear of the kid he usually beat to a pulp, with no explanation for his change in fate. He waited, tense as a bowstring, as he heard Fenton calling his name. Taunting him. Laughing. When the voice came close, he held his breath and bit down on his unwithered hand to try and muffle the noise of his chattering teeth. He heard the latch on the door wiggle, creating an eerie squeak into the silence and Dash swallowed a scream. Dash waited with baited breath to see if the door opened. The clack of the rusted metal latch continued, the door remaining closed. Eventually, the noise stopped, the latch thudding against the wooden door. Dash heard Fenton laugh as he passed by. Footsteps inaudible through the thick brick walls. Dash waited, sure that Fenton would come back to unstick the latch. Sure he would come back to continue whatever sick game he was playing. But he didn’t. Finally, Dash felt safe enough to let out a cautious breath. He clamped his eyes shut, trying to calm his racing heart and block out the reality around him.

“Found you,” A voice whispered in his ear. Dash looked up to see Fenton, inches from his face, half of his body phased through the wall. Dash screamed, nowhere to run as Fenton reached one hand towards him.

“Mr. Baxter! Dash! You’re okay! It wasn’t real!” Mr. Lancer backed away from the screaming football star. Mr. Baxter scooted into the wall, eyes wide as he continued to scream and cover his face. Mr. Lancer glanced at Mr. Fenton and Miss Manson, who stared at their classmate in a mixture of concern and guilt. “One of you two should go and find a phone so I can contact his parents. “

“Right,” Miss Manson agreed. She locked eyes with Mr. Fenton, before rushing back through the haunted house.

Mr. Lancer tried to calm Mr. Baxter down. But the boy just continued to scream incomprehensible nonsense, clutching his arm to his body in such a way that Mr. Lancer was growing concerned that he had hurt himself. Mr. Lancer tried to distract him, tried to get him to get him to focus on something other than whatever it was that was scaring him.

But Dash Baxter would not look away from Danny Fenton.

#Ectober Month 2021 #Ectoberhaunt 2021 #Ectoberhaunt trick #Danny Phantom #Cartoons #My writing #horror #Dash Baxter #I had more trouble on this one than day 1 #Horror is just really new to me

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one-boring-person · 4 years

Text

I loved writing this idea, so I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it! Thanks for requesting @jawline-of-steel !💛💛

You Wanted To Talk To Me?

Edgar Frog x reader

Warnings: mentions of injury

A/N: this is heavily referenced to my other series, Only Traitors Consort With The Damned, which you can find on the masterlist.

Masterlist

"Man, just talk to her." Alan rolls his eyes as they stumble through the training course together, wet mud slicking their trousers and shirt fronts, hair and clothes soaked through from the pelting rain, bodies trembling from how hard they've been working.

"Talk to who?" Edgar responds, playing dumb as they throw themselves at a climbing wall, chests smashing painfully into the solid surface.

Neither if them speak for a minute as they haul themselves upwards, cresting the wall with some difficulty as their leaden arms struggle to hold their weight, their muscles screaming in protest, though they both manage it. From the top, the rest of the course is visible, a few other cadets just ahead of them, each of the pairs released from the starting point in "waves" so that they can be timed. Both of the boys sigh out audibly as they take in the view, not taking too much time as they swiftly climb to their feet and leap from the top, reaching for the heavy ropes hanging from a structure across from them, the rough material grazing their hands painfully as they slip down it a little. Ignoring the discomfort, they swing their legs in time with the momentum of the rope and kick off it, landing on a far platform, rolling as they land, ending up face first in yet more dirt, signifying the beginning of a net crawl.

"You know who I mean, Edgar. (Y/n)! You should talk to her." Alan manages to explain, voice strained from the exertion required to pull his body through thick mud.

"Why should I talk to her?" Edgar grits out, hands scrabbling frantically in the filth as he struggles to pull himself through this particular obstacle, glad to see the end if it not far out of sight.

"Because it's very obvious that you like her."

"I don't like her." The response is almost automatic, a reflex designed to protect his real feelings about their fellow trainee.

In truth, Edgar had had a crush on the girl for a good few months, having been interested in her as soon as he first laid eyes on her, nearly six months ago, when he and his brother signed up for the SRS. Neither of them had ever really thought about taking their vampire hunting that seriously, but this all changed when the dark-clad Soldiers converged on Santa Carla, their hometown, a couple of years ago, hunting down one of their own, who was seen as a traitor. The hooded men had come into the comic shop searching for some help, only to be confused by the Frog's zealous attitude and rough introduction to the supernatural side of the town, swiftly recognising potential in them. When their Hunt was over, the result of which they never found out, the men returned to the shop, offering to enlist them in the training program as soon as they turned the correct age, stating that the minimum age for joining the SRS is sixteen. Now at that age, the Frog brothers were quick to travel to New Orleans, where they found the headquarters and signed up, completing the theory section with flying colours before they moved onto the physically demanding practical side: hunting.

When they first started this stage, the two of them were easily overshadowed by some of the others in the group, despite already having four kills under their belts (so to speak), their smaller stature allowing some of the larger, physically stronger cadets to overtake them in the rankings, though it was much to their surprise when they found out one of the best was a girl named (Y/n). With a pretty much unknown backstory, the sixteen year old girl had shown up many of the other cadets, holding her own in many of the harder exercises, showing off her aptitude for shooting and fighting, flooring some of the most muscular rookies training with them with ease. It was no wonder Edgar developed a crush on her.

"Frog! I do hope you intend on moving soon, or you'll be stuck on clearing duty for a week!" A senior officer snaps at him from somewhere to his left, drawing him from his brief lapse into his head.

"Yes, ma'am!" He shouts back, knowing how they hate to be ignored.

"Get a move on!"

Gritting his teeth, Edgar follows his brother out onto the next stage - a variety of elevated logs providing bridges across a swampy areas of ground. In the pouring rain the logs have already become waterlogged, making them slippery and dangerous.

Approaching one, he leaps up and grabs the end of it, quickly heaving himself onto the narrow stretch of wood, catching his balance before he steadily steps along it, going with the incline as much as possible, biting his lip as his feet slip a little on the wood. Nearing the end of the log, he locates the closest one to it and jumps to it, landing shakily on the lifted end, repeating the process until he has safely crossed it, catching up to his brother as they run the last few kilometres across the marshy land, breathing heavily in the pouring rain. The finish line comes into view, the posts signifying its presence only just visible through the rain, the flags topping them slapping wetly against the poles they are attached to, concealing the familiar insignia of the SRS from view.

With one last push, Edgar and Alan throw themselves over the finish line, trying not to collapse in exhaustion as they quickly stretch out their stiffening muscles, neither of them saying a word until they've caught their breath back, going to stand with the other cadets who have already finished it.

"One hour, fourteen minutes and forty-three seconds. Not bad, Frogs, not bad." The drillmaster informs them as they get close, the two of them brightening up slightly at the sound of that; it's a new personal best.

"Nice one, you two." A familiar voice congratulates them, the two of them turning to find (Y/n) standing there, a genuine smile on her features, mud striping her cheeks like war paint, most likely the result of her team mate getting a little over-zealous on one of the obstacles.

"Thanks." Alan smiles back, looking to Edgar as he struggles to reply.

"Err, yeah, thanks, you did really well, too." He finally manages, blushing as he looks away, suddenly feeling very hot.

"Thank you." She acknowledges, making eye contact briefly before turning away, going back to her team mate.

"You're smitten." Alan rolls his eyes, looking over at his brother in exasperation.

"Huh? What do you mean?"

"Stop trying to hide it, Edgar, I'm your brother, I see all these things."

The drillmaster's words ring clearly in Edgar's head as he steps through the darkened corridors, making his way in and around broken furniture and piles of ceiling debris, his helmet limiting his vision greatly.

"Don't get caught off guard, or they'll have your ass for breakfast."

Of course, you'd hope that he was being metaphorical, but the cadets are all aware of one fact: he isn't. Not when they've all been tasked with clearing an abandoned hospital of the supernatural beings squatting there, particularly the wraithes and their carnivorous tendencies, most of which are to blame for the hospital's fall in the first place.

A piece of glass shattering behind him snaps him from his thoughts, the sound instilling a sense of fear into him as he slowly turns, freezing in place when he sees a shape in the hallway behind him. From where he is, he can't tell what it is, but he knows it won't hesitate to kill him, so he lifts the gun in his hands to shoulder level, cocking it gingerly, body shaking in fear. Aiming steadily, he let's the flashlight roam across the shape, only to let out a breath when he sees what, or rather who, it is.

"(Y/n)?!" He hisses out to her, surprised that she is in this part of the building.

"Edgar? Is that you?" Her voice floats back over to him, the cadet holding up a hand to shield her eyes from the bright light.

"Yeah, it's me. You found anything yet?" He responds, secretly pleased that she actually remembers his name.

"No. Have you?" She clarifies, coming over to him, her gun held comfortably over her abdomen as she stays prepared, ready to shoot anything dangerous.

"Not yet."

"That's good." She looks him in the eye, "I kinda wanted to talk to you, though this probably isn't the best time."

Edgar gazes at her, surprised at what she is saying, an eyebrow lifting under the visor of his protective helmet.

"You wanted to talk to me?" He asks, incredulous.

"Yeah, I do." She nods, looking away again, her fingers tapping nervously on the stock of the gun.

"What about?"

She is silent for a minute, before she takes a deep breath and responds, relaxing her shoulders as she tries to stay calm.

"I just wanted to tell you about how I feel about you. Edgar, I know this is weird because we don't really know each other, and you probably don't feel the same way, but I, well, I like you. A lot."

There is an awkward moment of quiet between us as he tries to figure out how to respond correctly.

"You...you like me?" He finally manages to ask, not quite believing what he heard before.

"Yeah, I do. I understand if you don't feel the same way, but I just thought you should know." (Y/n) explains, going to move past him, before he stops her with a hand on her arm.

"(Y/n), I've had a crush on you for the longest time, I just didn't know how to tell you." He informs her, waiting for a reaction.

"...really?"

"Yeah. Just ask my brother, he figured it out pretty quickly."

She smiles beneath her visor, clearly much happier now that the initial worry is over.

"I'm glad. Maybe when we get some free time, we could go on a date?" She suggests, adjusting her grip on the weapon.

Edgar smiles back at her.

"I'd like that."

#the lost boys #joel schumacher #vampire #Edgar frog #Alan frog #Edgar frog x reader #request #Edgar frog imagine

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crystalirises · 3 years

Text

Of Spies and Electricity

The one-shot in which I proceed to have two breakdowns while writing.

I apologize to the prompter if this veered off to the darkside. I saw the words "spy" and "find out" and just had to make it about Fundy's spy arc.

TW: Abuse, Animal Abuse (sort of), Execution, Major Character Death, Electrical Shocks (Torture to Death, Violence, Villain Wilbur Soot (minor mention, and not the cause of the aforementioned trigger warnings), and Mentions of Blood

Ao3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28886223/chapters/79168267

He felt a hand scratch the top of his head, the fingertips sticky with alcohol and stained with smoke dust. He shivered, forcing himself to purr and lean further into the touch. Schlatt chuckled, patting him in between the ears before returning his attention to the pile of papers on his desk.

He let out a small yawn, feigning sleep before jumping down the man’s lap before skittering out the open door. Schlatt wouldn’t chase after him, the man was too drunk to probably even stand. He ran past the darkening hallway, the moonlight filtering through the tall glass windows that lined the wall. Quackity and Tubbo were both stuck in their respective offices, so there would be no one to stop him from leaving the White House. He ran around, looking for an open window or an open door to the outside. He finally found an escape route in the kitchen, an open window left open to let in some fresh air. He sniffed at the air, stomach grumbling at the scent of bread.

He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d had a decent meal. Schlatt only fed him old sweet berries, and would try to make him drink alcohol when he was too lazy to get him actual water.

He shook his head, breaking himself from the stray thought of sneaking back to grab a loaf of bread. He couldn’t waste time, or risk getting caught. He jumped out the window, landing on a small flower bush that no one would really miss. He waited for a few seconds, nose sniffing at the air before racing out of his hiding spot. There were a few people milling the streets, but no one tried to stop him or give him a momentary glance. Some even darted out of his way the moment he appeared within view. Nausea curled up in his gut at the reaction, knowing that they probably recognized him as Schlatt’s pet fox. It didn’t help that the man had placed a collar around his neck, gold and easily seen underneath the shine of the sun. He wanted to burn it.

It was the first on his list of stuff to-do once Schlatt was dead and buried six feet under the ground, alongside giving his dad a hug, of course. He hurriedly made his way to the flag, growling at the dark flag that hung overhead like a shadow. He missed Niki’s flag, the real flag of L’Manburg. He sniffled, wiping his snout with his paw before racing behind the pole. He looked around, golden-flecked brown eyes scanning the area before he began to dig down.

He hoped nobody had found his little bunker. The earth seemed untouched…

With one last sniff at the air, he quickly dropped down into the small hole that he had dug into the earth. His soft paws landed against the concrete platform below, his eyes adjusting to the dark. There were only two sources of light that lit up his path, the small beam that came from his entrance way and the glowstone at the bottom of the stairs. He backed away from the entrance, taking a deep breath before shifting. He heard the snap of bones, felt the sharp pain in his chest while his body morphed into a human form. He bit back a groan, fearful in the case that someone might accidentally hear him. He bit the inside of his cheek, bitter metal blooming on his tongue.

After seconds of burning agony racing through his entire body, he collapsed in an exhausted heap against the floor, gasping into his jacket sleeve. His throat felt like it was on fire, and his bones felt like someone had taken an axe to them. Fundy crawled towards the small beam of light, reaching into his inventory for a single piece of dirt. He needed to cover up his tracks. He couldn’t afford to be caught. His hand gripped at the block, forcing himself to stand and reach up towards the hole. He blocked it up, praying that nobody had noticed. His ears stood on alert, straining to hear a single noise that could mean that his cover was blown. All was silent. He sighed, reaching up to grasp the collar that was still wrapped around his neck. His claws scratched at the surface, a low growl escaping his throat. He wanted to get it off of him so badly, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t risk forgetting about the collar. Schlatt would find that suspicious.

He shook his head, heading down the stairs towards the room where he’d left the diary. Schlatt seems weaker today, nearly collapsing at one point if Quackity hadn’t caught him by the arm.

Fundy reached the bottom of the steps, reaching towards the button on the wall. This far down, nobody would be able to hear the clank of metal. The scent of stale air hit him, his nose twitching for a moment before he took step into the room. His bed was unmade, the same way he had left it that morning. He headed towards the small chest in the corner, opening it to reach for the diary. He sighed in relief, his fingers grazing the leather surface. It was in the same place he’d left it. No one had discovered him. He leaned back against the wall, flipping the diary open.

A glass shard fell out from one of the pages.

He heard the distinct sound of footsteps at the top of the stairs.

Fundy tossed the diary into the chest.

He didn’t have the time to shift.

Schlatt met him at the bottom of the stairs. The man smiled. “So. You’re Wilbur’s son, huh?”

---

He sniffled, wincing when he felt a hand wrap around his ear and pull. Tubbo was doing his speech at the front of the podium while Schlatt held him tightly - enough to bruise - in his arms.

His fur bristled when he felt Schlatt stand up, a round of applause ringing through the air the moment Tubbo finished with his speech. He knew what was coming. Quackity followed after Schlatt, tossing Fundy a side-eye smirk that made him want to bite the man. With him trapped in Schlatt’s arms, the man began to make his own announcement about the festival, lacing his words with sincerity despite the clearly mocking tone in his voice. He wanted to growl, to bite down on the man’s arm and run away. But Schlatt had tampered with the collar, made it worse. Schlatt tapped on the mic, chuckling when it let out a high-pitched static noise. It was painful against Fundy’s ears “Before the festivities begin, I would like to make a very important announcement. A few weeks ago, we discovered a spy. Well we can’t have that now, can we?”

Without warning, Schlatt dropped him.

He whimpered, his head smacking against the wooden floor. His paws unable to catch him on time. A few people within the crowd cried out, the loudest being Niki. Fundy shivered, curling into himself when he saw Schlatt pull out a familiar remote. A little warning of what would happen if he tried to make a break for it. His tail curled around himself, ears pressed to the back of his head while he tried to put some semblance of distance between him and Schlatt. The man didn’t like that. Electricity coursed through his whole body, agony blooming everywhere. He let out a scream, bloodcurdling and downright terrifying to anyone who’s never heard a fox scream before. He whined, collapsing back against the ground. Schlatt had stopped the electric shock.

“Schlatt, what are you doing?!” He wanted to cry. Niki’s voice soothed him despite the pain. He forced himself to stand back up, casting Schlatt a hateful glare, which only caused the man to chuckle. The moment he got back up on all four feet, he felt a sharp kick against his side. He shrieked, falling back against the ground. The man’s shoe was pressed against him, keeping him down and unable to move. Schlatt was playing with the remote, fingers hovering mockingly over the dial. He bit back the low growl in his throat. Schlatt wouldn’t hesitate to hurt him again. He looked down, tamed. “This… This is outrageous! You can’t do that Schlatt! You’re hurting it!”

“Him,” Schlatt corrected, a sly grin on his face. “This isn’t an ordinary fox, Ms. Niki.”

Another stream of agony ran throughout his body, the pain worse than before. Schlatt had turned up the dial. He whimpered. Schlatt didn’t need to tell him what to do. He took a deep breath, shallow and tired. He wasn’t sure if he could even shift. His body was in too much pain, and the shift would be unbearable. But he had no choice. He trembled, willing himself to return back to his human form. His bones cracked, the noise breaking through the silence. He could hear screaming, or maybe that was him. He focused past the pain, trying to focus on his human form.

He finished shifting. He didn’t need to look at the audience to see their shocked gazes.

“Fundy Soot. Son of the currently exiled former president, Wilbur Soot.” Was that Quackity or Schlatt talking, Fundy wasn’t sure. His head felt heavy, like it could barely balance itself on his neck. There was a loud ringing in his ears, his whole body spasming. He was coughing, he thinks, warm blood spilling past his lips while he tried to force himself to remain lucid. Everything hurts. “He’s a fox shapeshifter and was probably sent to be a spy by his own father.”

That wasn’t true at all. He wrapped an arm around his stomach, the other grasping the bottom of the collar. He wished he was strong enough to rip it away from him. The pain would stop once he got the collar away from him. His gaze snapped towards the crowd, feeling slightly ashamed for getting caught. He thought… He thought he could do it. That he could be a spy for his dad, help save L’Manburg from Schlatt’s iron grip. He knew the last time people had seen was during his dad and Tommy’s exile. He wondered what people thought about his sudden disappearance. Did they think he ran away? He hoped they did. He didn’t want to think that they’d assume he’d… Fundy shuddered. It really didn’t matter anymore. He’d been caught. He looked up at Schlatt, shivering once the man’s golden eyes caught his stare. His fingers were on the dial. Fundy looked at the options. There were three. He had no doubt that the last option would be fatal.

“Shame, you were a great pet to have, Furball.”

Gods, that stupid pet name…

He looked up towards the sky, catching a glimpse of a familiar face on top of a nearby building.

He felt the sharp burn of pain around his neck.

Then all he saw was white.

---

There was a wet cloth pressed against his neck, phantom pain spasming through his body while he tried to push against the hand that kept the cloth in place. He heard someone shush him, a hand running gently through his hair before patting his ears. He whined, ears pressing themselves against the top of his head. A part of him was scared, terrified that those fingers would turn cruel and yank at his ears. The hand withdrew, a muttered curse following soon after. He would have laughed if it weren’t for the agony in his throat. It felt impossibly dry and like someone had raked burning coals against the skin. Someone was talking to him, their words muffled and incomprehensible. He tried to latch onto them, groaning in frustration when he couldn’t seem to understand. He wanted to hear - wanted to answer - but he couldn’t bring himself to speak.

He was lying on a bed, that much he can tell. It was hard, not quite comfortable but he wasn’t sure if he was in any place to complain. Someone had placed a pillow below his head, or maybe they’d placed his head on the pillow he wasn’t sure. He clung to the cushion, feeling his claws dig into the cotton. He could only hope that his caretakers wouldn’t be angered by that action.

Someone was trying to move him up, propping the pillow so that his back was resting against it. His eyelids fluttered open, a part of him sighing contentedly at the lack of light. He wasn’t sure if his head could handle any bright lights. The person next to him was still trying to talk to him, but he could barely understand anything. There were a few words here and there that he managed to pick up, but not enough to understand the person’s full meaning. He tried to roll over on his side, wincing when a pinch of pain rose from his neck. He shuddered, nearly collapsing if it weren’t for the arms that caught him. They gently placed him back on the bed, shushing him even when all he could do was whimper. His neck hurt. He didn’t know why it hurt. The hand was back in his hair again, this time he leaned into it. The person hesitated, but they began to scratch behind his ear, soothing him into a sense of calm. He purred, letting himself fall back into kind slumber.

Wilbur sighed, honestly glad to see his son go back to sleep. Fundy had clung to the pillow, like he used to do when he was a kid and he’d misplaced his plushie somewhere. He still felt nauseous, a part of him seething with anger while the other part of him just wanted to puke. It had been an awful display, watching an execution unravel before one’s eyes. His son’s execution. He hadn’t seen Fundy in so long, and he had been so terrified of what had happened to him. He didn’t know his son was a fox shapeshifter. Fundy had always been a fox hybrid, ever since he was a little boy. Wilbur didn’t know. He’d seen Schlatt pet fox and he hadn’t known. He felt sick.

He glanced down at his bloody and scratched fingers. When Fundy had been… killed at the festival, all hell broke loose. A few people - a lot, actually - had instigated a fight, causing complete and utter mayhem. He hadn’t had the time to press the button, too busy trying to find where his son’s respawn point was. Techno had aided him, which was a surprise since he thought he would want to partake in the chaos. They managed to track him down to a hidden bunker underneath the flagpole, that damned golden collar still around his neck. Wilbur had lost it.

He had clawed at the collar, desperate to get it off Fundy. Techno had been the one to get it off, the man keeping a level-head even while Wilbur was having a breakdown. They managed to get out of Manburg after that. Wilbur raced to get Fundy to safety while Techno guarded them from anyone who might decide to chase after them. He sighed, shaking while he rested his face in his hands. He couldn’t believe that he had thought that his son had run away, when all this time…

Wilbur held onto his son’s hand, thumb gently caressing the knuckles. His manic gaze settled on his son’s neck, gritting his teeth at the clear burn marks that marred his son’s pale skin. Gods…

Fundy whimpered the whole way back to Pogtopia and during unconsciousness, sometimes he would even call out for Wilbur. Those moments were the worst in his opinion. He couldn’t stand the thought of his son being in so much pain. He should have known. He should have fucking known that his son was a shapeshifter then none of this would be fucking happening. Wilbur clawed at his hair, tugging until the pain forced him to stop. That shithole of a country needed to go. This didn’t change anything. His hands curled into tight fists, nails biting into the palms of his hands, drawing bits of blood. Schlatt needed to pay. L’Manburg, Manburg, whatever that nation was, it needed to pay. Wilbur sat up a little straighter in his seat. The whole place was still rigged with TNT. All he needed to do was go back and push that damned button. Then boom!

“Bye L’Manburg.” He sing-songed himself, tone nearly giddy. Wilbur kept himself from racing to the button. His son needed him. Wilbur shook his head, pulling the chair closer to the bed. His whole being burned at the sight of his son. One part was still screaming that Fundy had betrayed him by running against him in the first place… but now his son was injured because of him.

“D-dad…? Dad, help me… please help me… I’m scared… Dad…”

He quickly reaches for his son, wrapping an arm around his son’s shoulders.

He holds him close, whispering words of comfort and assurance.

He still had a nation to destroy. But for now, he needed to care for his son, his little champion.

“I’m here, Fundy. I’m right here.”

He holds his injured son close, and swears, “He won’t hurt you again. I’ll make sure of it.”

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

Clarification: So Fundy pretended to be a regular fox to get close to Schlatt and spy on him. So as far as people know, Fundy disappeared around the time of Schlatt's win of presidency. Some people assume he was jailed (like Niki) for being Wilbur's son, while others think he ran away. Wilbur thought of both scenarios, thinking that both are possible, but he honestly preferred that Fundy had run away cause then he'd at least be safe.

#fundy #schlatt #wilbur soot #dream smp #there is a lot of pain #and I am sorry

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ruinousrealms · 3 years

Text

Flayer

It was half past nightfall when we crossed the Rio Nuevo into Las Verdantes. Our outfit was fifteen men strong, pushing half a thousand cattle for Erlen Baymer, one of the state's lesser cattlemen. In truth he was a hard boss, a hard man who had captained a company of border raiders during the war and never tired of bragging about his service.

A favorite story of his was the time he and his men came across a family of free black farmers in southern Kansas. Baymer had approached on horseback, riding through the fields with the self-confident swagger of a plantation overlord surveying his property. He asked the father whose plantation he had run away from, and for response the black said he had been born free.

Now, Erlen Baymer was a devout Christian, and he knew the black race were descendants of Ham, son of Noah, and that for his transgression against God, he and his descendants were evermore cursed to servitude, to hew wood and draw water and be servants unto servants. He did of course explain this position to the black, as he ordered his men to strip him naked to find the truth of his claims. No man is born into slavery but he feels the whip, and so if he were born free, his back should be free from blemish.

Indeed, the man's back was smooth, free from the lumpy scars of the lash. A novelty, many of his company had come up to gawk and ask questions. How did the negro know what to plant and when without any white man to tell him? How did he work the fields without a lash to urge his lazy, indolent soul?

At length Captain Baymer ended this game and pronounced the sentence. The man was to be hung for his crimes against the Confederate States of America, those crimes being largely related to the color of his skin and the manner of his livelihood. It was understood that, if he were truly a born freeman, then surely his father and mother were somebody’s escaped property. Thus his very existence constituted the crime of theft. The children were brought back to Tennessee and dispersed among the slave markets.

The freeman’s remarkable back, Erlen Baymer had a leathersmith tan it and stitch it into a saddle. He rode that very saddle, decked out in silver dollar conchos and a rebel flag tied round the post, when we crossed the river that night in 1868.

Now, the facts of that night - I’m going to relate them to you here, plain and simple and just as they happened, like I’m some fancy New York journalist-reporter type. I grant you some of what I’m about to say may seem unbelievable. Well, there’s nothing I can do about that. I don’t got any proof, any evidence beyond what I saw that night with my own two eyes. The way Erlen Baymer died, and the things that happened to us in his trail crew before and after… I tell you boy, it’s a curse, the things I seen with these eyes. It’s what drives a man to whiskey.

The country there was flat as flapjacks, and the only place we could find to camp out of the wind was in a dried up riverbank. There we laid out our beds, cocooning ourselves in canvas sheets and wool blankets and shivering in the chill night air. The southwestern desert is hotter than a griddle all day long, but come nightfall and it’s as cold as the north pole.

Well, it was cold that night, like I said, and the wind was howling and kicking up a whole storm of dust. Me and some of the boys, those being Joe Merwin and Caul Bretton and Micah Sanchez, we took turns digging a hole in the side of the riverbank. It wasn’t like a cave, just a dirt overhang a few feet deep, with the excavated dirt piled up to protect our side from the wind.

I wouldn’t say it was the hole we dug that saved us. It sure didn’t save poor Caul, and from what I hear Micah’s still out of his mind up at one of those New England asylums. I’d say it kept us from getting noticed long enough to save our lives, for whatever that's worth.

Now we’d been seeing the makings of a dust storm in the distance for most of the afternoon. They’re common enough out here and we didn’t make much of it beyond what we’d have to do to keep the cattle from scattering. A herd of dumb heifers can scatter to the four winds during a dust-up if you’re not careful with where you lay them down.

The cows stretched out for more than a mile down the riverbed, but they wouldn’t bed down quietly. Whips of dust kept kicking up and no sooner had they sat down than they were on their hooves again, bellowing out loud.

Erlen Baymer kept riding up and down the line cursing to high heaven, kicking the sentries when he came upon them and telling them to get off their lazy god damned bean-eating asses and put the god damned cows to god damned sleep. The only effect that had was making it impossible for any of us to get sleep - But that probably saved us.

It was so dusty at that point that when dark fell there wasn’t a moon nor a star to be seen. A man could just see the dots of cattle guards’ lanterns like the windows of distant farmsteads. Weren’t no use keeping your eyes open, the wind kept kicking the stinging dust up and there weren’t anything to see anyways. I pulled my bandana up over my nose and pushed the brim of my hat down over my eyes and tried to get some shuteye.

I might even have caught a wink of sleep. The cattle down at the far end of the line were getting riled up, bellowing and braying into the night, and that got the whole herd nervous. A nervous longhorner is a dangerous longhorner, and a whole herd of nervous longhorners is a stampede waiting to happen. Joe Merwin went out to see what was the matter and lend a hand if need be. That left just the three of us.

The screaming started soon after. I think it was Tadd Murfree, but from the sound it was hard to tell whose voice it was. There are sounds and intonations particular to men and sounds and intonations particular to animals, and only in the extremity of fear, agony or ecstasy can one make the sounds of another. I don’t think poor Tadd was in ecstasy that night.

More screams started up, and the horses neighing, and the braying and bellowing filled the night air with a mad cacophony. I wager nobody’s ever heard a sound like that before, that of half a thousand screaming and panicking cattle. The hoofbeats were like thunder, like cannonfire, like a thousand drummers pounding madly out of time.

The three of us huddled at the back of our shallow hole in the edge of the riverbank, wishing we’d dug in even deeper and almost thankful Joe Merwin wasn’t here, because he was a big man and there wouldn’t have been room to hide.

I had a small trail lantern whose flickering light we used to play cards. It took five tries to get a match lit, my hands were shaking so much. It lit up our little hole just fine; I saw Micah had his revolver out, and his knuckles were white around the oakwood grip.

“Put that thing away, Micah, do you mean to shoot something?”

“I intend to be ready,” He said, which was reasonable enough.

I crawled to the entrance of the hole. As we were digging we piled the dirt up at the entrance to serve as a wind-break while we slept. I crawled up to it like a trench’s parapet and peered over with my little lamp. It didn’t illuminate much, but in its glow I could see a rush of cattle, a torrent of bovinity running full-tilt down the length of the riverbed. A lot of the animals had raw bloody wounds, some so flayed they appeared to be covered in red patches like a hellishly perverse Holstein.

These animals were panicking for a reason, fleeing some unknown predator, but what on God’s earth it could be I had no idea. Suddenly a cow fell headlong into the side of the embankment near us, sending a shower of dirt down from the roof of our little dugout. It kept trying to get up, but couldn’t; And when it rolled over I could see one whole side of its hip had been laid open and the bloody pink bone was visible. Well, I put the poor bellowing beast out of its misery and hurled my dinner over the side of the dirt heap.

And you see, that’s when Erlen Baymer rode past us. God, if the sight don’t haunt me. I once seen a drawing of the Third Horseman, Famine, a rotting man riding atop a rotting stallion. That’s what I saw. That’s the scene I’ve got to describe to you, to make you understand why I can’t sleep at night no more.

The horse looked like it had been dead and rotting for a week. It had hardly a hair of fur left on its body, and the skin… It looked like somebody had taken a cheese grater to the poor beast. Through flapping bits of flesh I saw muscles moving like an accursed anatomical flipbook. The horse’s jaw was hanging on by a thread of tendon and it was screaming, just screaming with that stump of a tongue hanging out.

The poor girl had been beautiful, just absolutely beautiful, with a black coat that shone like oil in the sunlight. Thinking back on it now I wish I’d have drawn my pistol and put an end to the poor thing, but at the time I was too shocked to do anything but watch as it thundered past, carrying its shrieking, flailing load.

Erlen Baymer was naked as Adam in Eden, and it was plain whatever was happening to the horse was occurring to him as well. He was flailing like a man possessed, slapping at himself as if desperately beating out flames; There were no flames, just raw red meat that spurted every time he touched it. He raised his arm and I caught a glimpse of the frayed ends of muscles poking through a bicep.

Something fell with a wet thud near our little hollow, and leaning over just slightly with the lantern, I saw a withered human leg severed at the knee, as if the joint had been so weakened it simply fell off. It seemed to be writhing as if covered by a hundred thousand ravenous little insects, methodically stripping it down to the bone before my very eyes. It was wearing one of Erlen Baymer’s fancy gatorskin ropers. Once the flesh was gone, the carnivorous beasties went to work eating the leather of the boot, anything fleshy enough to be consumed, till all that remained were bones and a silver spur.

I crawled back in the hole, barely able to process what I had just seen. “Alright, boys, what in the hell do we do?” I asked, and Micah Sanchez said what we three all were thinking - Make a run for the horses.

Well, you didn’t have to tell us twice. We three all crawled up to the opening, and Micah and Caul took off at a full tilt. I stayed behind a second - I’d just glanced at the body of the cow beside our dugout. It had been picked to the bone.

Just as I scrambled to my feet, Caul fell and started screaming.

“No! God, no!” Caul frantically started beating at the lower hem of his pant-legs. We didn’t know what in the hell was happening; Micah rushed over with the lamp and pulled up his trouser leg. Micah screamed and dropped the lantern, bringing the infernal night down around us once more. Caul let out a kind of a long drawn-out moan, with notes of fear, sadness and resignation. At the time what it reminded me of, more than anything, was a deer that’s gotten itself trapped in some crevasse it can’t get out, and the more it struggles the more stuck it gets, till it’s exhausted itself and all it can do is bray and wait to die.

A gunshot lit up the darkness for a moment, and the afterimage stayed in my eyes for a long time, like looking too long into a fire. Caul’s body slumped down almost casually, but the upper part of his head sprayed across the sand. I heard Micah’s running footsteps and his heavy gasping breath, and he thudded down next to me and skittered like a rat into our little safe haven.

“Flies!” Micah’s fingertips dug into my shoulders like blades, his dirty breath blowing in my face, “It’s flies! Must be millions of them! They were eating him right up! Cleaned his ankles down to the bone, I’m telling you!”

I told him to shut up.

“That’s why he fell, there weren’t nothing holding his foot bones to his leg!”

Maybe the reader will judge me for what I did next. I hope you’ll take into account the things I’d seen, and the stress I was under at the time. Micah was raving mad, clenching me for dear life like a survivor of a shipwreck clinging to a broken mast. I’d just seen him blow a man’s brains out - Though thinking back to it, he may have been right. It would have been cruel to leave him to be eaten alive, and if Micah had tried dragging him back, he’d have brought the carnivorous flies with him. He put him out of his misery as you would an old cow. But at that time I was still in shock, and the only thought that came to mind was of Caul Bretten, whom I hardly knew, but with whom I’d shared campfires and kettles of coffee, and whose brains were steaming in the cool desert night.

Thinking only of justice, I reached for my lantern and brought it down on Micah’s head, extinguishing the light and silencing his ramblings. I didn’t know whether or not I’d killed him. He was quiet. We lay there together a long time. I must have nodded off and woken several times. At one point, I woke to see Abraham Lincoln delivering the Gettysburg Address in the corner of our cave. Again I woke, this time to see a skinless and eyeless cow wandering blind in the dim pre-dawn light. It walked past absolutely silently.

When morning came, the desert was still and not a thing moved. The sun was well up in the sky before I dared move. I was caked in dust from head to toe, cracking and falling as I stirred.

Micah’s face was red and my first thought, as the events of the night came rushing back to me, was that he too was being consumed alive by those unstoppably ravenous insects. But no; My lantern blow had split his scalp and dry blood painted his face red as an Apache warrior. He was still breathing softly, so I left him there and took a gander outside.

The dry riverbed at first seemed to be decorated with a vast elaborate network of ice sculptures, gleaming a blinding white in the sun. These were the bones of cattle and cattlemen, five hundred dead heifers stripped of skin and meat and life. A lot of them had broken and ran, and their bones shone white in the distant desert sand. Clambering up the slope, the impression one got was of an overflowing river turned to ice in the blink of an eye, as if by magic.

Here and there the bones of the sentries. I recognized Eustace Bagge from his cigarette case. The leather had been eaten away, but the copper badge bearing the name of the regiment he served in the war was still perfect.

Two or three miles down, laying near some scrub was the skeleton of a horse surrounded by silver dollar conchos. I picked one up, turned it over; It could only be Erlen Baymer’s horse and saddle. The saddle, however, was gone but for the metal pegs that held it together. The freedman’s dark skin, that nightmarish piece of leatherwork, had been completely eaten away by the swarm.

The man himself had crawled away from his dead horse and left a trail of bones. He lost a lot more than the one leg; Toe and finger bones poked from the sand like pebbles, and the larger ones, a femur, most of a hand and the arm up to the elbow. I found gold teeth, and his revolver with the tacks that had held together the holster.

A bit further on I found Erlen Baymer. I turned and went back down the riverbank.

Micah had woken up and I found him wandering dazed and confused amongst the skeletons. I spoke to him but he didn’t reply; He never said a word to me again, and from what I’ve heard those New England brain-doctors haven’t gotten him talking. There was something wrong with his eyes. I couldn’t tell you what. He just kept staring past me.

He followed me without resistance. We followed the riverbed. We must have walked ten miles the first day and ten miles the next. The whole time we were stepping around skeletons. A herd can go surprisingly far in panic; The only reason they hadn’t gotten farther was, well, they were being eaten alive at the time.

The sun was our enemy. We had our canteens; I kept pouring little slips down Micah’s mouth, worried he’d choke but even more worried he’d die of thirst. At some point the brim started falling off my hat and letting sunlight hit my forehead, searing the skin red and raw.

Round noon of the third day, we came to an old covered bridge where we took shelter from the sun for a while, then started out along the road. After two and a half days walking, we were near dead. I had to pull Micah along, but he’d only move at a snail’s pace. I was terrified that he’d eventually fall down and just refuse to get back up; It’d be the end for him, and my own couldn’t be far away.

And then, as if by magic, a carriage appeared. One moment we were walking and then, the sound and smell of horses and a voice crying out in Spanish, “Quitate de en medio, idiotas!”

Well, I spoke a peck of Spanish, just enough for him to understand that we were in trouble, and the kind old man stepped down and helped me load Micah into the back, building a little bed for him out of bags of corn, and setting up a tarp to keep him out of the sun.

We rode to a hacienda named Soledad El Aquelarre, and the women bathed us and fed us and fussed over poor Micah. There was a nunnery not far away and the old man sent for the holy sisters to tend his needs, but beyond keeping him fed and cleaning up after him, there was little they could do.

I never told him a word of what happened. My lack of Spanish helped in that respect; Whenever he asked, I could pretend not to understand. He was kind, too kind for the likes of us, and I do feel guilty about lying to him, but I didn’t think he could comprehend what we’d been through, let alone understand. I barely could, and as I lay there day after day I got to wondering if the whole thing hadn’t been some sort of insane dream. I could see the workers in the fields through my window and beyond them the bone white desert stretched out gleaming, a thousand miles of dust to the gulf of Mexico.

One night, however, I was visited in my room by one of the sisters. She spoke good English and introduced herself as Sister Clarita. She was one of the sisters tending to Micah. She didn’t ask me what had happened, because she already knew. There were stories in this region going back centuries, of caravans going missing in the desert night, and by light of day all that are found are the polished white bones. The monastery library held many such reports going back to the days of the conquistadors. Sister Clarita thought it must have been going on a lot longer; The native tribes shunned this entire area, considering it an unclean place to visit and avoiding the entire hundred-mile stretch of desert as we Americans avoid the cesspit or the slums.

There were other books, too. Books on biology and entomology, and the evolution and adaptation of species. Sister Clarita suggested that a species of small insect, like the tiny mites and fleas that live among grains of sand and are so small as to be almost indistinguishable, may have become adapted, over many centuries, to the consumption of flesh. That such a diet would cause changes in the bodies of the insects making them more adept at catching their prey; Perhaps their mandibles had developed a razor’s edge for slicing off bits of flesh. Or maybe they coated their victims in digestive acid and slurped up the liquified flesh. Sister Clarita knew of several insects that consumed their prey in just such a manner, though none that she knew had ever gone after so large a prey as a man or a cow.

“But Sister, if these really are man-eating insects, why do they stay out here in the desert? Every animal migrates toward its food source; These things could strip a town clean of flesh overnight! Why aren’t they swarming through the cities, just… Everywhere?”

“Perhaps they just like the weather here,” Sister Clarita said and kissed her rosary.

After a week of recovery, I felt well enough to travel. I collected Micah from the sisters, who protested, but I thought if anyone could help him it would be at one of those new asylums up in New England. The old man took us as far as the train station in Las Friolero del Resol, and there he bade us goodbye.

Two days later we were back in Texas. First thing I went to the barber to shave off the wild beard I’d grown. Then I walked into the nearest sheriff’s office to report the fate of the Erlen Baymer Cattle Drive.

Well, they didn’t believe a word of what I told them and locked me and Micah up for murder. To hear them tell it, the two of us got up one night and slit everybody’s throats. Didn’t matter to them what I said, nor the state Micah was in; They left us to rot six weeks before the circuit judge came ‘round to pronounce the sentence.

He had expected an open-and-shut murder case; When we were brought to stand before him, he saw my sleepless eyes and the empty shell of a man that was Micah. He listened to my story silently, nodding occasionally for me to continue, and when it was done he pronounced the sentence.

“I, Judge Howard Lorbbock of the Great State of Texas, do hereby declare these two men to be mentally insane. No doubt they were driven mad by the ordeal they suffered, of crossing the desert after their cattle drive was destroyed by Apaches.”

There weren’t any damn Apaches in that part of Mexico, but I kept my mouth shut. The sheriff was making enough noise as it was, imploring the judge that “What the people of this town need to see is a good old fashioned hanging!”

Well, we were sent to Houston for treatment. Micah was considered such a specialty case that he was sent up north to New England, to the asylum in some town called Arkham.

I stayed behind at the Houston madhouse. The medicine they gave me made me sleep, but nothing can stop the dreams. When I close my eyes, all I can see are Erlen Baymer’s lidless eyeballs rolling round and round in his red skull-face.

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mattzerella-sticks · 5 years

Text

Park Your Car in My Gay-rage

Castiel moved out West so he could live freely and with pride. However an anonymous act of bigotry chips away at his faith that he can live life without facing prejudice. And with each repair shop that turns him down the cracks keep growing. Why would Singer's Auto be any different?

Will his car ever be fixed? And could a certain mechanic restore more than just his car?

(Link to ao3)

Castiel slumps against his car, snapping his cell phone shut in frustration. Banging his hand against the hood he grumbles out a string of expletives as he gives up hope. Meg, leaning against the hood, drums her fingers on the closed Yellow Pages while watching him.

“So,” Meg says, “it a bust, too?”

He sighs, tapping his phone on his forehead. “More than that. The mechanic laughed me off after I told him what I needed and had a few choice opinions to tell me.”

Meg’s lips purse, and she steps back onto the sidewalk to stare at the rough scratches across her friend’s beige paint. The word was interrupted by the open driver seat’s door, but when closed all together the crude artist spelled out ‘FAGGOT’. “Maybe he knew the jackass who did this…”

Castiel ignores her, chewing on his lip. “How am I going to get this fixed…? I can’t drive around town like this.”

“And I’m sick and tired of looking through that thing,” she jerks her thumb at the offensive phone book, “Do you ever think searching for stuff will be easier? Like, I don’t know… all these names and numbers stored somewhere and it’d only take a few seconds to find exactly what you’re looking for?”

Frown slashed heavily across his face, Castiel turns to glare at her. “What the hell are you talking about?”

She shrugs, “I don’t know… digging through that reminded me of this girl I went out with a couple’a times. Total geek, spent at least two dates going on and on about those huge, clunky computer things. Think she lived in an Internet Café… wait a minute!” She digs into her leather jacket pocket and pulls out her phone, flicking it open and clicking away.

He hops off his car, stepping closer out of curiosity. “What are you doing?”

“I just remembered,” she starts, not even looking at him, “she mentioned how she works at this garage –“

“Meg, we’ve tried all the garages in the area –“

“C’mon, trust me,” Meg continues, “place has to be good if they hired a lesbian.”

Castiel rolls his eyes. “Forgive me if I don’t trust straight men’s views on lesbianism.” At that Meg stops staring at her phone to shoot Castiel a flat look. He hisses out a breath and runs tired fingers through his hair. “Sorry, I’m just tired and frustrated about all this… why is it so hard to find somebody for a body job?”

“Because unfortunately most people today are ignorant, Clarence,” Meg tells him, holding her phone against her ear, “And we’re not going to see any real change for years… maybe not until we’re all old and shriveled and grey.”

Huffing, Castiel crosses his arms against his chest and spins on his heel. He lets Meg talk to his back, done with their bleak conversation. Still, a part of him agrees with her opinion of the future for those like them. It wasn’t too long ago Castiel was trapped in his old hometown in Illinois, looking over his shoulder every weeknight to make sure no one followed him home. Fearful that one day his face would be a blip in the newsreel, another name to add to the wall like Matthew Shepard.

“I moved here to escape all that,” he mumbles to himself, “but apparently hatred can grow anywhere… even in California.”

Meg hops onto his back, interrupting his musings. She chokes him, forcing him to twirl her around until Castiel can pry her arms off of him. After wheezing in a good-sized breath, he asks what that was about.

“They’d be happy to take a look,” Meg says, “Free of charge!”

Castiel blinks at her. “What?”

“I told you this was a good place, Clarence. Hurry up though, they’re not gonna keep the shop open for you.” She rattles off the directions, having to repeat herself once Castiel shakes away the dazed look in his eye. “…And when you get there you’re supposed to ask for Dean,” she finishes, “Dean Winchester.”

“Why?”

“Guy overheard us talking and said he’d take care of it personally.”

“But… why?”

She shrugs, “Who knows, but he’s waving his fees. Don’t look a gift mechanic in the mouth, my gorgeous unicorn.” Meg pockets her phone and skips backwards, waving goodbye.

“Wait,” Castiel follows her, “you’re not coming with?”

“Band practice,” she says, “I’ve gotta swing over to my place and pick up my bass. You’ll do fine!” With a loud smack of her lips she disappears behind a corner, off on her own way.

Castiel waits a beat before he actually leaves. He starts the engine, idling some more to switch out the CD in the drive, so instead of blasting Indigo Girls he could drive to the music of the Cranberries. Skipping until he reached ‘Zombie’, Castiel nods his head along as he begins his journey over to Singer’s Auto Repair.

It wasn’t too confusing following Meg’s directions. Halfway through her second explanation Castiel realized he was familiar with the route. He’s driven that way countless time to visit a small bookstore he loves. The only one he’d been able to find that stocks trashy romance novels of more diverse backgrounds. Perks of living near West Hollywood, Castiel always knows where to go to find shops catered to others like him.

But he would have remembered seeing a car garage there.

Rounding the final corner, Castiel slows down and crawls along the street, head swerving left and right while ‘Yeat’s Grave’ plays on. After passing his bookstore, he spots a faded sign a few storefronts down.

“How have I never seen this before?”

Unassuming from the front, with faded brick and rusted steel, Bobby’s Auto Shop sits next to a leather shop and spans all the way to the corner. A single rainbow flag hangs from a pole jutting off the side of the building. Castiel pulls into an open garage, parking near the front and cutting the music off before the next song could begin. He steps out of the car and looks around.

There are at least five vehicles stationed inside the building at the moment. He sees one hefted up on a lift, a burly man inspecting it from below. Across from him two other mechanics argue over the exposed engine of a truck, long hair pulled back into tight ponytails. At a lounge area a black couple share a bag of chips.

Looking to the other side at what Castiel expects to be only a blank wall he spies a cluttered corkboard.

Castiel walks away from his car and over to it, scanning the different fliers tacked on. Notices for events like poetry readings and charity brunches to raise funds for AIDs research. A picture of a drag queen hangs next to an ad selling a lounger with a few of the tabs ripped off. There’s even a poster for Meg’s band, ‘The Demon Queens’ that he recognizes, having done the design for them.

“You find something you like?” a rough drawl from behind startles him. Castiel spins, coming face to face with a man who shouldn’t look so handsome streaked with oil. He stares into sparkling green eyes, the color only highlighted by the dark marks on his cheeks. The mechanic smirks, cocking one brow higher than the other. “You all right there?”

“Yeah-yeah-yes,” Castiel clears his throat, “Yes I am, sorry I… what did you ask?”

He chuckles, running dirty fingers through his light brown hair, coloring it darker. “You here for some work?”

Castiel nods. “I’m supposed to ask for a Dean… Winchester?”

Mechanic’s gaze widens, glancing back at Castiel’s car before returning to him. “You’re Meg’s friend?” he asks, grinning.

“Yes…?”

“Hmm… not what I was expecting,” he says, holding a hand out, “I’m Dean.”

Castiel flushes, cursing his luck. Of course the only mechanic who would work on his car would be the man who stepped off the set of a calendar shoot.

Pretty boys have always been Castiel’s weakness. From high school when he first understood where his attractions laid to now, something about them makes his brain shuts down. His tongue works against him and sweat pours out from everywhere; thoughts bottleneck behind the embarrassing urge to blurt out ‘you’re pretty’. Castiel ceases to function normally when presented with a pretty boy.

It’s been an uncomfortable amount of time where Dean’s hand hangs in the air. Castiel realizes it when the smile on his face slowly starts to fall.

He jerks his hand out in a panic, latching onto Dean’s with as relaxed a face he can force. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Dean.” His handshake is tight and fast, quickly pulling away as if burned.

Feeling something wet coating his palm Castiel prays Dean didn’t notice his sweat. However looking at it he belatedly remembers Dean’s hands were covered in oil.

“Shit,” Dean says, “Totally forgot to clean up… that’s my bad.”

“It’s fine,” Castiel tell him, “I’ve had worse… my hands are usually messy and covered in whatever.”

“Really? Like what?”

“Paints, clay… those types of things.”

“You an artist?”

“On my days off.”

Dean motions for Castiel to follow. He does. “You do any galleries?” he asks.

Castiel frowns, “I’ve been in one or two, but never on my own. Don’t have the money to afford a space.”

“If you ever do, feel free to advertise here,” Dean says, stopping by a large sink, “As you already know we have a place for a poster or two.”

“Duly noted.” He waits for Dean to turn on the faucet, letting him run his hands under the stream first. Once he finishes Castiel half-heartedly scrubs at the oil. There wasn’t much on his hand, and making any effort to wash it away wouldn’t fit with the cool façade Castiel tried to keep.

“Y’know,” Dean starts, hands hidden in a fluffy towel, “when Charlie told me about you, I thought you’d look a hell of a lot different.”

Castiel skews his head to the side. “How so?”

“Well I figured you’d be a girl,” he shrugs, “friend of an ex from Charlie, nine out of ten it’d be another lesbian or at least bisexual…“ Dean tosses the towel to Castiel, “egg on my face, right?”

He catches it haphazardly. “More like oil.” When Dean’s brows pinch together, Castiel mock wipes at his face with the towel.

“Really?” Dean whines, “You probably think I’m a slob.” He hurriedly splashes some more water on his face and snatches the towel back.

“Honestly?” Castiel says, “I don’t know enough about you to form an opinion.”

Dean looks up from the towel and smiles, dimples clear on his freckled cheeks. “We’ll have to fix that, then.” Before Castiel can overthink what that means Dean walks away and over to his car, Castiel racing to keep up. “So someone marked up your car?”

He sighs, “Yeah… I woke up the other day to find that – that word scratched on the side along with some… other things.” Castiel doesn’t dive in to the details of the torn up rainbow flag outside his apartment and the already painted over slurs carved onto his door. “That’s what I get for celebrating the first day of Pride, I guess.”

Dean frowns, running a hand across his car’s ugly scar. “You know the person who did this?”

Castiel shrugs. “Suspicions… but nothing concrete enough to make a claim or file a report.”

“If it were me I’d do more than that. Bastard would be walking with a limp – if at all – if they messed up my Baby.”

The threat brings a smile to Castiel’s face. He straightens out of the curled up posture he fell into. “Your ‘Baby’?”

“My car,” Dean explains, turning to him, “older model in black. A ‘67 Chevy Impala.”

“I must confess… I don’t know that much about cars.”

“Really?”

“I don’t quite know the model of my own car let alone what an Impala looks like.”

“That’s a damn shame,” Dean tells him, “Going your whole life without knowing what true beauty is? I’d take you out to see her now if I didn’t have to park so far away today.”

“You don’t have your own parking?”

He shakes his head. “Usually I snag a spot on the block but by the time I made it out of bed they were all taken. So I’m about three down in front of this deli. Anyway…” Dean kneels down again, inspecting his car closely. “This shouldn’t be tough… probably have it ready by tomorrow if nothing comes up.”

“Are you sure?” Castiel asks, “If you have other clients waiting –“

“Nah I finished up my last appointment for the day already. Don’t stress about it.”

“That’s very nice of you,” he says, “all the other places I tried wouldn’t help me and here you make it sound so easy…” Then, Castiel remembers what Meg told him. “And for no pay? I don’t mind, I have the money –“

Dean reaches out for Castiel, grabbing his wrist to stop him from taking out his wallet. “I insist. I’m always looking for ways to give back to our community.”

Castiel smiles, his skin burning from Dean’s touch. “Our – ah… our community?” he starts, “do you mean that in a friendly neighborhood sense or…”

He rolls his eyes. “In a rainbow way.”

“Ah.” Castiel glances around the garage, gaze unable to land on any one point for long. “I was wondering… this is a very progressive garage.”

“Has been since the beginning,” Dean tells him, leaning against Castiel’s car, “Bobby’s been a staple here for a long time ever since he and his wife Karen moved in years ago.”

“Bobby?”

“Bobby Singer, the big ol’ boss of this place,” he explains, “He and Karen came here when things got dangerous for them back where they used to live.”

“Why was that?”

Dean launches Castiel back into the past, where a newly married Bobby and Karen were being threatened nearly every night when one of the women in Sioux Falls discovered Karen hadn’t always been called Karen. Gangs of men hung out in front of their house, dumping cigarette butts on their lawn. Every time they went out they were watched and followed, confronted on the days when people had a little more confidence than normal. Any room they entered became so silent a cough could shatter glass. Neither Bobby nor Karen was willing to move at first, until the first rock was thrown through their window. They packed their bags and left in the early morning, not stopping until their car broke down in California.

Bobby pushed it all the way to the closest garage. “It was closing,” Dean says, “And the only one there was the owner – and he didn’t see why he should help. So Bobby grabbed a box of tools and set to work. Halfway through fixing his own car, someone pulled up and asked Bobby to look under his hood. He did and made the engine purr. Owner saw and demanded Bobby give him the money from that. Made a deal and bought the place with what was left of their savings.”

“And he turned it into this,” Castiel says, “I wish I knew about Singer’s sooner… would have saved me a lot of guff whenever I needed my oil changed.”

“I’ll admit we can do better in advertising,” Dean shrugs, “Mainly we rely on word-of-mouth… although we did get a lot of customers after Benny namedropped us in one of his shows.”

“Benny?”

Dean jerks his thumb over towards the burly man from earlier, chatting with the previously bickering mechanics by the truck. “He’s a drag queen. Performs over at the Roadhouse every Wednesday as ‘The Vamp’. I mentioned he should promote the garage in his act one night when I was helping him do his make-up.”

Castiel recalls the picture of the drag queen he saw pinned to the cork board, notices the similarities between the figure captured and the one in front of him. “Is everyone who works here a… um, on the rainbow?”

“More or less,” Dean shrugs, “Jo – the blonde – been on Estrogen for two years, has her first round of surgery coming up in a few weeks. Dorothy doesn’t conscribe to the binary but they still identify as a lesbian…” He swings his finger over to the lounge area. “Max is as gay as the next guy but his sister Alicia’s our token straight.” Turning back to face Castiel he says, “And Charlie you already know only goes for chicks.”

“And you?”

“Me?” Dean chuckles, “Why I’m bi as fuck!”

Castiel laughs as well. “Are you trying to collect all the letters?”

“Like queer Pokémon,” Dean nods, earning another round of snickers. “Nah, we all kinda drifted together. Jo and the Banes twins lived in the area – Jo’s mom actually owns the Roadhouse. But the rest of us… Bobby took under his wing in one way or another.”

Storm clouds brew in the timbre of Dean’s voice, the shiny jewels of his eyes losing their luster. Castiel feels the temperature between them dip low by tens of degrees. Whatever Dean doesn’t say must weigh heavily to flatten the good mood he was in.

It’s a familiar burden Castiel knows all too well.

“Do you know what my name means?”

Dean blinks, thrown off by the sudden shift in topics. “Uh… no –“

“It’s a bastardized version of an angel’s name,” he explains, “Cassiel. They thought the extra ‘s’ was too… feminine. But I was born on a Thursday and…” Castiel trails off, grimacing.

“Religious family?” Dean asks.

He nods. “My dad was heavily involved with our local Church.”

“So when you…”

“It was not a fun time,” Castiel says, “I didn’t go home for the first two years after I left for college but… we learned not to speak about it. Although every now and then my mother sends me pamphlets for seminary school.”

Dean barks out a rough laugh, biting his lip. A brief, charged silence stands between them where Castiel can’t breathe. He nearly backs away, tells Dean that it’s okay. They’re strangers – all he needs is a body job, not a life story. But then he sucks his lower lip under his teeth and starts.

“My dad caught me fooling around with another boy when I was sixteen,” he says, “And after the punches kicked me out on my ass. Joke’s on him, though, because I managed to snag the keys to the car. Drove around for the first year seeing the sights until I found my way to Bobby’s. Picked up shifts part-time until he noticed me sleeping in my car. Cuffed me on the head and told me to take the spare room in the apartment above.”

“Karen didn’t mind?”

“Karen died years earlier,” Dean smiles ruefully, “Cancer. But she would’ve done the same thing. Wish I could’ve met her, though, heard she made killer apple pie.”

And in that moment, Castiel finds himself wishing he had the chance as well. Dean talks about his family with so much love he wants to meet them all, or at least here him tell more stories about them. Knowing that this group of people have found each other and are happy gives Castiel more hope for the future for people like them.

Dean Winchester’s gravitation is too powerful to resist, and Castiel falls into his orbit happily.

A set of squeaky wheels interrupts their conversation, an older man in a trucker’s cap rolling up to them. “Winchester,” he barks, “I don’t pay you to stand around and flirt. Git to work on this poor boy’s car!”

They break apart, both their cheeks bright red. Dean hangs his head, rubbing his hands against his coveralls. “Right away, Bobby.”

Bobby shakes his head, leaving them. “Idjits…”

Castiel shuffles his feet, wringing his hands together. He waits until the other man is far away before speaking again. “So… that’s Bobby.”

“Yeah,” he huffs, “Bastard’s usually never this ornery… probably getting me back for walking in on him and his boyfriend the other night.” Dean scoffs, crossing his arms, “Not my fault Crowley didn’t lock the damn door…”

The past few minutes catch up with Castiel and he feels the awkwardness creeping back up his spine like a spider. “I… I should be going,” he stutters out, startling Dean.

“Really?” Dean asks, his frown confusing to Castiel’s already addled mind.

He nods, pacing backwards. “Thank you for your help and… and the talk.” Then before Dean could respond Castiel races out the garage door and doesn’t look back. Castiel makes it past the leather shop before he falls back against the storefront and gasps for breath.

“Castiel,” he mumbles to himself, “stupid… ‘and the talk’. Why can’t you talk to pretty boys without losing your head.”

He knocks his head against the brick latticework repeatedly, angry with how he blew his shot with the pretty mechanic. In between the heavy pounding she gives himself he hears a slight cough to his right.

Squinting an eye open Castiel sees Dean watching him with an amused grin across his face. Throwing himself away from the wall, Castiel turns to face him. “Dean?” he starts, “What are… what are you doing here?”

Dean steps closer, invading Castiel’s space. The smell of motor oil and cologne makes him dizzy. “You left in such a hurry, Cas, you forgot to give me your phone number.”

His heart skips over itself as a sunny ray of hope shoots across his chest. Clouds return to cover it when he remembers past garage experiences where mechanics needed it to reach him. He deflates. “Right, so you can tell me when my car’s ready.”

Dean juts his lower lip out, head bobbing as he considers Castiel’s statement. “Yeah for that, too.”

“Too?”

“Well I mean how else can I ask you out if I don’t have your number?”

A stone lodges itself in Castiel’s throat. “You… you want to ask me out… on a date?”

His eyebrows jump up. “I… I wasn’t misreading anything… was I?”

That spurs Castiel into action. “No, no! You weren't… I am… I’m interested.”

Dean relaxes, hand splayed against his chest. “Good, got nervous there for a second.” He looks to Castiel, waiting. “So…?”

They exchange numbers, Dean handing Castiel’s phone back with a wink and a promise to call later. Then he heads back to the garage to smooth out the scratches on his car.

Castiel stands there, outside the leather shop, too shocked to move. Somehow he gains control of his legs again and picks one up after the other.

When he makes it to the bus stop, Castiel pulls his phone out and stares at Dean’s number. Butterflies flutter in his stomach as the largest smile blossoms on his face.

It stays there all the way back to his apartment.

#Supernatural #Spn #Supernatural fanfiction #Spn fanfic #Dean Winchester #Castiel #Destiel #deancas #destiel fanfiction #deancas fanfic #bisexual dean winchester #tw: homophobic language

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alloveroliver · 5 years

Text

Evil!Harr, Part 2

harr anon bringing part deux to the table :D again, i LIVE for cradle gothic so there are some elements ahead!

apologies for the lateness too, i actually had an extra 3000 words on this for an epilogue (with some harr/loki/alice content :3c) but i shaved it off to save time/stop rambling. even though this still came out to 5000 words *shrug* for the harr lovers out there, we are so starved for content, its a case of go big or go home!

warning ahead: NS-FW (rated content, yandere vibes from our new overlord silver, sad loki)

please enjoy!

…

By the time Alice wakes, she finds herself beneath a curtain of stars.

Incense sticks burning out around her head, she pushes the heavy bed sheets down the length of her body amidst soft plumes of fragranced smoke. Trailing small wisps of blue and purple in the faint moonlight, she watches as they dissipate overhead, until they fade from sight. Their fumes sting her eyes a little, but perhaps it was getting used to them that bothers her so much.

Harr had suggested they would require a moment to adjust to.

Speaking of…

While her mind had been foggy, there was no doubt she had not gone to bed alone. The duvet is crumpled at her side, stray dark hairs against the pillow…but they are ice cold when her fingers play over the fabric. The tattered robe is no longer on the floor, neither are his shoes, his shirt, his trousers…

Alice shivers as the wind howls through the pillars above her head. It seems so much scarier when she is alone.

Quietly stepping out from beneath the covers, Alice places her bare feet upon the frigid marble floor. It stings to the touch - how long have I been asleep? - and her legs wobble uncomfortably, until she manages to plant her hands over the vanity table beside her and regain some balance. The movements feel slow, almost dream-like in their fluidity, but that only serves to leave Alice trembling even harder.

The ornate pillars are oppressive in their structure, more akin to the bars of a prison cell, with the view of Cradle beneath as a reality too far to reach. The wind clatters new black flags against their poles, etchings of a new order now ruling where Amon once stood, and yet…the unease remains the same.

Personally, she couldn’t quite remember the sequence of events that had led to her coming here. Above all others, held in the Magic Tower’s highest room, as though she were the Cradle equivalent of a very bewildered Rapunzel. No matter how hard she tries, hands balling into fists so tight she almost cuts her palms with her nails, she struggles to make heads or tails of how she found herself slumbering here, without Harr by her side.

Indeed…where was he?

“Alice? What are you doing out of bed?”

As if summoned by her mere thoughts, he arrives on heavy footsteps, draped in a cloak as dark as a crow’s wing. His crimson eye is wide and glassy, as if shocked by the sight of Alice up and out of her bed. Their bed, she wants to say. But when he never seems to be beside her when she wakes…can she even say that at all?

“I just woke up now,” she replies, though judging by the look of shock Harr gives her, it seems that was enough to have him on edge. “I couldn’t find you when I woke up so I just-”

“Well, I’m here now, dear,” comes the soothing reply, as the sorcerer gently places the tray upon the stand and takes Alice’s hands in his own. The touch is familiar…the scene is familiar…but she finds herself struggling to remember just how. “And there’s nothing to be afraid of.”

Afraid? Afraid…of what, exactly? She can’t be sure, but given how Harr is suddenly so skittish, it doesn’t bode well. “Oh…well, I’m glad about that. Then how about we go outside tonight? We could go for a walk, like we used to do.”

“No…no, no, no…Alice, you can’t go out there.” Urgency tinges every word from Harr’s lips, and he almost trips over himself in his haste to gently press his hand against Alice’s lower back.

But she doesn’t budge. Instead, a veil of frost settles in her words. “Harr, talk to me. Please tell me what’s happening.”

“It’s not safe for you right now. I want you to stay here, where I can protect you.”

“From what? What’s out there?”

“The last dregs of Amon’s miserable campaign…I fear they may come to take you from me.”

At those simple words, Alice feels her blood freeze in her veins. Her pale gaze goes wide, waiting for Harr to simply say it was a joke, a joke in such poor taste that it wouldn’t even have been funny.

“My dear, it’s complicated…,” But Harr only sits at the foot of her bed, gently patting the spot beside him for Alice to copy the motion. She smoothes her nightdress and cocks her head as he sighs, as though he is struggling to place his words in a satisfactory manner. “At least let me give you a drink before I start. You must be parched.”

But as Alice reaches out to take the teacup from the tray, Harr takes hold and raises the rim to his lips. He takes a mouthful, a glint of mischief in his eye, and crooks two fingers to beckon her closer.

A small sigh breaks the silence. The bed squeaks as she crawls closer to almost rest on his lap. “Even in these moments, you find the time to tease me.”

When his lips touch hers, the taste is unbelievable. A saccharine sensation, as though his lips had been coated in sugar, floods her taste buds and spills down her throat. The tea is warm and soothing as she drinks from his lips, even as her hands come to gently hold his cheeks, lapping at his lips for more.

Parting for a moment, a light flush tinges his cheeks as he feeds her again. Each kiss lasts longer between mouthfuls of warm tea, until Alice no longer minds the sweetness numbing her tongue, not when it’s chased with such dizzying pleasure.

As the cup runs empty, Harr holds her face with tender hands. “You look so beautiful right now,” he murmurs, tongue running against his lips. The blood beneath her skin, pounding and flushing, tints her face a gorgeous shade of pink. “I don’t want to lose you to the outside. Not when I see you like this.”

“But I know you could protect me,” she counters.

Despite that, Harr only laughs softly and shakes his head. “When Amon fell and I overthrew the Tower, some of his lackeys managed to flee into the forest and into Cradle itself,” he begins, gently taking Alice’s hand in his own. The touch is warm, comforting after so long. “They may be small and they may be few, but the fact that they worked for the Tower is already an issue I cannot let slide. They know you’re here, and I wouldn’t feel comfortable leaving loose ends.”

“And the Red and Black Armies? Would they not be able to help?”

“I have friends in both sides now, but I don’t imagine it would be enough.”

“What would be enough for us, Harr?”

“I don’t know…not yet, at least. I’m afraid I haven’t quite finished making Cradle safe enough for you just yet.” Making Cradle safe? What did he mean by that? “But you only need to wait for me a little longer, when I can finally show you what I’ve been working on.”

Something wants to protest inside her. But…every time the thought was just in grasp…just underneath her claws…it scrambles away into the recesses of her mind. Instead, the sugary tang of Harr’s sweet tea takes its place. A replacement of thoughts, a candied distraction that lured her into silence, perhaps?

Her tongue doesn’t allow her to object to the suspicious words that spill from her lover’s lips. And the conversation moves on.

Harr speaks of the weather and of the world, but doesn’t permit her to see it yet. He weaves light tales of how the Black Army is doing in an era of newly-founded freedom, how the Red Army is coping after the exposure of Amon Jabberwock’s nest of lies. Lancelot Kingsley has a ‘change of heart’, he says, and wishes to abdicate the throne, longing for a better life without the pressures associated with being the King of Hearts. Ray Blackwell remains silent for now, but Harr suspects there are similar motions being made under the cloak of ravens’ wings.

And Alice believes it. She swallows these words as easily as each mouthful of tea.

…

“If the world outside is so dangerous, Harr…am I truly any safer being kept in here?”

Setting down the empty teacup upon the stand, Harr holds his love with a questioning glance. Of course she would be curious - such seems to be the in the blood of every resident from the Land of Reason - but he is already prepared.

He shakes his head at her question. “I can guarantee your safety here, darling. I can’t guarantee it outside these walls. Not until I am sure Amon’s servants are caught.”

“But what if they find me here? All of Cradle knows who I am.”

“And all of Cradle knows who I am. They would be fools to try and take you from my side. As I say, I guarantee your safety.”

“You can…how?”

Alice watches as Harr wraps his cloak around himself, rising from the bed with quiet elegance. “I am the most powerful wizard that has ever existed in Cradle. My life has been devoted to honing my talent into the purest form of sorcery, and my knowledge of the magical arts surpasses all those in the Magic Tower and the armies combined,” He turns to face his love with a knowing grin, as though flaunting his expertise. “When it comes to magic, I believe I can offer my solid word.”

“But does it not drain you? To constantly protect me?”

“Charms and concoctions imbued with magic are not hard to create, especially when I need to defend the one I love. These incense sticks are one such thing,” he murmurs, summoning a small flame on his fingertip to reignite fresh sticks that hang from an owl-shaped dish, and fill the air with perfume. “An ancient herbal formula to hide your presence from those who would hunt you, from those who would hurt you.”

Alice watches with cloudy eyes as he lights more sticks, until the scent has her eyelids growing heavier and her heartbeat slowing. But above her headboard, her fingers find purchase over the woven fabric nailed to the wood, images of animals and figures running over a green field. Crimson dogs and midnight wolves, accompanied by purple-cloaked masters, seem to give chase to a small yellow bird, but never quite in reach.

As hard as she tries, she can’t remember this tapestry. Even the material feels foreign under her palm, no matter how hard she tries to recall. “And this?”

Harr’s smile is gentle, sweeter than before. “Woven with love and magic. No matter what monsters try to chase you, they will never catch you as you sleep with that charm above your bed.”

Of course he would say something so charming. He always had a way of soothing Alice’s worries, and now is no exception. She snuggles under the duvet once more as Harr’s broad chest looms overhead, gently stoking fresh fires in the oil lanterns.

Not enough so she could see the deep red of his eye, however. That was something she didn’t need to notice…not before the incantations took effect.

She didn’t need to know their real purpose. How those incense stocks were to lower her resistance to persuasion, the woven charms to dampen her repelling energies, the elixir she consumed from his lips to stimulate pleasure from her nerves.

In time, of course.

Ignorance is bliss, and it makes Alice’s essence all the more sweeter for consumption.

…

As the night grows longer, Alice finds her belly growing warm.

Perhaps the tea had helped to raise her temperature, she muses, but it doesn’t feel quite the same. Her chest doesn’t feel as tight as it usually would when she drinks something too hot, and the energy seems to gather in the pit of her stomach, instead of the top. It reminds her of other forms of heat, but she can only flush and shake her head in dismay. As inappropriate she finds it to be, there is little she can do to avoid Harr’s sudden roving eye and piqued interest.

“You’re feeling rather warm, dear,” He places his hand upon Alice’s forehead, soon followed by his own. The vivid scarlet of his eye is mesmerizing, and Alice finds herself subtly shifting her position to accommodate how sticky she is suddenly feeling. He breathes in, deep and even, eye fluttering closed. “And your heart…it’s racing in your chest.”

“I don’t…I don’t know what’s come over me,” Alice finds herself panting at every little touch that the wizard casts upon her, and she scolds herself for how lustful she has become in his presence. “I feel so…hot, I…,” But the sensations aren’t unwelcome, and as Harr gently rests his palm over her left breast, inhibition flees her as her breath gives way to a plaintive mewl. “Oh, Harr…”

Harr’s eye widens for a heartbeat, but the flush on his face matches the hunger in his gaze. “Perhaps it has been too long. I’ve been neglecting you, haven’t I?”

“Harr, I…oh, my dear, I need-”

The air seems to fill with the scent of flowers, sweet and fragrant, and Alice begins to wonder why her head feels like its spinning. Similar to her first tumble into Cradle, the crystal lights and burning candles glitter and fragment before her eyes and a single glint of scarlet draws her in like a moth to the flame. Harr’s breath quickens - she almost swears blind that she can hear him purring - and it is with a sigh that she tumbles into his warm embrace. Into his arms she lands, where he waits with a deceptively rough kiss.

“My dear Alice…do you want me?”

Breathless and heavy-lidded, she croons. “…Yes.”

This is rather unlike how he used to be. Harr was a gentle lover at first, sweet and soft as could be. But oh, it would have been a lie to say that a little spice wasn’t welcome right now. Because every time Alice rubs her thighs together, runs her fingers over Harr’s broad shoulders, the heat in the pit of her belly grows warmer, roars louder through her veins until her heart feels ready to burst out of her ribcage.

Unbeknownst to her, Harr almost salivates at that very thought.

“Feeling good?” he asks between kisses, one hand trailing down to rest upon the folds of her nightdress, crumpled up and barely obscuring her underwear. Alice nods and chews her lip, if only to suppress her whimpers. “And how about…here?” Another nod, and the rush of validation to his ego is purely delightful.

Harr presses his fingers down against the soft material and rubs small circles through it. Given how Alice squeaks and whines under his ministrations, even as he only stimulates her folds through her undergarments, he preens himself knowing how easily she surrenders to him. Even now, she soaks through the white fabric, dampening his fingers and matching her breathy moans with faint wet noises.

The scent is intoxicating. He knows the taste will be even more so.

“Let me make you feel even better.”

His path down the length of her torso makes a brief stop at her heaving chest, where her breasts perk even through the material of her gown. Harr gently laps at the first with his tongue, rubbing the second between two fingers until both stiffen and Alice keens against him. The fabric grows cold as he lifts his mouth away, and the sensation against bare flesh makes his lover squirm.

Kisses to the exposed skin work even better, and he lavishes both with licks and sucks, all while skilled fingers continue to press and curl at her lower lips. Alice finds her body rocking harder into the actions of its own accord, following the motions as though this were a dance she was well-versed in already, and Harr greedily welcomes the movement. She was so close to her peak already, and with barely any effort? He takes great pride in knowing her body like the back of his hand.

And so he permits himself a satisfied grin as he moves to the apex of her thighs, knowing that as the wet material slides down her legs to bunch at her ankles, he can play her like a fiddle, her pleasure entirely at his bidding.

“Hold still for me, darling. Let me taste you.”

When the first lap of his tongue reaches her core, Alice chokes on her own breath. He is ravenous in his actions, tongue and lips licking, sucking, reaching every inch of her that he possibly could.

As predicted, her essence is heavenly. Harr can’t contain each little grunt and moan as he kisses here, bites there, lets himself get absolutely lost in the heady stimulation of his every sense. Alice’s cries are the sweetest music to his ears, her nails scraping his scalp a delicious kick that makes him groan louder against her flesh. Harder, faster, he sucks at her nub and plunges his tongue and fingers, all while she can barely string together a coherent sentence above him.

With surprising speed, Alice finds herself shuddering under the force of her orgasm, teeth clenched to hold back the shriek of surprised ecstasy. The constant coaxing of her chest and neck had left her pliant and ready, until the heat in her lower stomach could no longer handle the sorcerer’s wicked mouth and hands. Her own palms raised to muffle her cries, Alice rides out the waves with drunken satisfaction.

But Harr feels her muscles contract around his fingers, thighs squeezing the sides of his head as Alice rolls her hips into his mouth to prolong her climax, and he knows that he is doing well. It’s a small victory, knowing he had total domination over her pleasure, but it greatly strokes his ego to know that as she moans and begs for only him. And that no other man will ever know such sweetness.

Harr raises his head from between Alice’s legs, tongue swiping hungrily at every trace of her that may have remained. Such a sinful tongue, she muses, but gives no protest as he crawls up the length of her body, tangling it with her own in a bruising kiss. She tastes herself in his mouth, along with hints of magic and blood. A bitter tang, her clouded brain remarks, but remains unable to voice how her palate judges it.

The thin fabric of the nightdress is ripped easily between frantic hands, baring her torso beneath him. In her muddled thoughts, she doesn’t protest, other than to stare into that hungry scarlet eye, watching how he almost growls at the prospect of devouring her. His voice is deep and beautiful, an edge of danger that clenches the muscles of her belly with ardent want. Bare beneath him, a beast chained only by a thread, her breath catches between something akin to a cry and a moan.

Outlined by the presence of the moon, his silver form looms overhead. Bare as the day he was born, hot and heavy between his legs; he takes himself in hand and presses his head between her slick folds. Alice’s muddied thoughts only amplify the pleasure, and she simply falls back into the sheets, lips parted as her lover moves to embrace her ever closer.

“Let me have you, my dear. Every inch of you. Show you how much I love you.”

As he sheathes himself within her, the tightness of her stomach unravels in seconds.

“H-Harr, wait, I–!”

Already over stimulated, Alice jerks and jolts beneath him at the brusque intrusion, torn apart by the strength of yet another climax. But Harr pays it little heed, only smiling with clear satisfaction that he was the one to bring his lover to her peak in such a fashion. Saliva dripping down her chin, eyes unfocused and bleary, chest heaving amid shreds of her negligee…she is a picture of decadence and debauchery, and it drives him forward with a fanged grin and a snap of his hips.

“Already, my dear?” he croons, taking a handful of her beautiful golden locks and bringing her face closer. The kiss he gives is burning to the touch; searing every inch of passion he can muster into the promise that this was only the beginning. “Then you’ll definitely enjoy this.”

The coupling is frenzied, a pair of wild animals caught in the depths of unbearable heat. Alice finds herself dragged and draped like a doll all across the length of her bed, and even beyond that. A shameful look crosses her beautiful face as she glances back at Harr over the shoulder, hips raised high as he takes her from behind with powerful thrusts. But such innocent expressions of guilt, knowing what they do is wrong, only serves to stir the beast in his belly; he bites down hard into her nape, pushing her forward and snapping his hips faster into her warmth.

The nausea is briefly chased away by the sheer pleasure building, as Harr seems to push himself deeper into her guts.

On all fours like an animal, Alice cries out as her thighs begin to quiver once again, the telltale knotting of her stomach indicating she is not far from another orgasm. And yet behind her, the sorcerer continues to pound into her like a man possessed. His dark hair fans over his face, his one red eye feral as sweat drips from his brow and runs his rivulets down the column of his throat. The power he must be exerting is dizzying to imagine; Alice doesn’t have to imagine hard as Harr suddenly slams his length deeper, her core pulsing and dripping around him.

When had he accrued such stamina? Where had he found such power? Alice wants to entertain the thoughts, but finds her legs rend wide as he flips her over, teeth latched in her throat.

His hands knead her breasts, grasp her hips, pull her hair…his savagery knows no bounds as he fucks her. There is no other word for it. And despite the brutality with which he claims her, Alice cannot find herself complaining at all.

“Mine…you’re mine, aren’t you…my dear,” he groans, a brief moment of lucidity as he rolls his hips into her tight warmth. “Waiting here for me, my little darling…”

The bite aches as he pulls his teeth away, and Alice swears she can feel something hot dripping from the wound. But her mind is reduced to primitive thoughts by their aggressive style of play, more akin to wild mating than the tender love-making they once had.

Yet she still pushes herself into his thrusts, screams his name, coaxes him onward. “Yes, Harr, yes! Yours!”

“Only me…only for me,” he huffs between each powerful roll of his hips, almost jerking Alice up the bed in his urgency. His stomach is tightening, the muscles taut and outlined as she runs her hands over his sides, his back, his arms, everywhere she can reach. “Mine, mine, mine.”

They fall together over the edge in a cacophony. Alice caterwauls at the top of her lungs when Harr’s slender fingers jolt and rub her nerves as he pistons into her, never letting up as she crumbles beneath him into a disordered, screaming mess. She rakes her nails down his shoulder as the floorboards threaten to splinter, his guttural roar filling her ears when each thrust suddenly warms her insides with hot stickiness. He twitches, pulses, thick and wet, all kinds of words of worship spilling from his mouth as he proceeds to fill her.

The stimulation is too much…the heat is too much for her body to take, and Alice sinks into sweet oblivion. Guided by the warm hands of her lover, lain against sweat-coated pillows as willowy fingers card through her hair and over her scalp. The gentle touch burns so sweetly, a numbing fire that tingles with an edge of magic; just enough to make her eyelids grow heavy and the strength leave her muscles.

But before sleep claims her, a lullaby of ragged panting guides her there. Hot breaths fan her neck as that sinful tongue licks over her marks, with only his husky words breaking the silence.

“My sweetheart…my dear…mine.”

…

As Alice slides into blissful numbness once more, Harr slithers up the length of her torso, only to gently card his fingers through her golden hair. The sweat begins to dry from the tips, but around her face remains a halo of strands, a stark contrast to the fading rouge of her glowing cheeks.

The time was right, her magical energy at its purest form.

He harvests what he can, the lock of hair and fresh blood safely stowed in vials for later refinement. Her sweat, her tears, her saliva, all was ripe for the taking, still seeming to crackle with traces of magic. In his heightened state of magical being, the very flow of Cradle’s universe lays itself before him, and Alice was no exception. A very different energy, yes, but one that no doubt piques the attention of the green-eyed monster that now wore his skin.

Because if he could see her potential…someone else could.

Harr knows this girl is more precious than Amon could ever have imagined. A breed from another world entirely, she was the key to his domination over Cradle.

And in her veins, the power to repel the very force that dictated his every move. She whimpers and bends to his every whim now, but to imagine how she would be sitting beside him…regal, perfect, the purest incarnation of azoth and his beloved queen.

And even better…she loves him.

A throaty purr rumbles deep within Harr’s core. “How about we dance again, my dear?” he asks, a voice as sweet and thick as molasses. His hand slides down to rest just below her navel, only to press into the soft flesh and elicit the smallest of twitches. “It’s been a long while since we indulged, and I wish to get my fill of you.”

At the most subtle of persuasions, Alice parts her thighs, still sticky, and gently flexes her spine to expose her chest. Littered with bites that the elixir refused her to feel, she looks ravished beyond compare, yet still willing and waiting for even more.

He dips his fingers into her heat with tenderness, eye trained upon the delicate expressions that run over Alice’s face. Calloused fingertips rub and curl in all the right places, lubricated by his own seed, pushing it deeper inside and swirling it around. She sighs and bucks into his touch, before an inviting smile carves over her sweet lips.

There would be plenty of time for more when they ruled Cradle side by side, when Harr could allow her to step from the birdcage in the safe knowledge he had her still in his grasp.

So as he kisses a trail down between her thighs, he allows himself another small taste of her heaven, just for now.

…

Loki jerks his head up as he hears footsteps trailing from the entrance to the staircase. They’re light and tentative - only one person had such a gait - and the young man can’t help but gasp.

If she was awake, if she was aware…what would she say of the madness Cradle had become?

But a stronger stride soon matches those steps, and he knows that Harr will have intercepted Alice before she could have even made it past the doorframe. They had this tango many a time, some of which he had been privy to through the crack in the doorway, but it was always the same.

Ever so charming, Harr would coax his lover back to their bed with a pretty little set of lies, wrapped up neatly with Amon’s dead servants as a phantom to scare her into staying, before sating his desires with Alice’s body until she was ready to slumber once again.

The cycle never ends. The snake never stops eating its own tail.

…It’s too much.

He lies down upon the marble, the wind fanning his wild locks and filling his ears with ghostly howls. It’s a cruel and unusual punishment he inflicts upon himself, to subject himself to the sounds of the distant storm, but it seems only fair. A reminder of where he came from, the sheer despair that had once yawned painfully in the depths of his soul, now acting as his comforter for the long and lonely nights.

The humorous side might have been subjective, but the ironic side was downright cruel.

Cold marble robs him of feeling as he hears Alice’s voice from the mouth of the staircase, breathless and pleading, crying out for her lovesick captor. She simpers, she howls, she croons…a voice like the wind which carries it.

Harr responds in kind to Alice’s beautiful voice, though he cannot make out the words. If she is the wind, he is the thunder; a dangerous growl that makes the younger’s skin crawl.

…And alongside their duet, the rhythmic creaking of wooden posts against a tiled floor.

It almost seems like forever before Alice’s caterwauls finally settle down into sleepy murmurs and airy laughter. But thankfully, the silence passes much faster, and Loki distracts himself with thoughts of yesterday, of when he didn’t need to fear his only true friend snapping and tearing his organs from his chest, or constantly have the gnawing loneliness left behind by one of the few good people left in this world being completely and utterly ravaged, torn apart by the fantasies of a twisted lovesick monster.

Was it a bad thing to cry now?

Knowing he had been complicit in this awful descent into insanity?

Loki instead squeezes his throat tight, fighting the urge to throw up.

#my little darling godddd!!!!#anon submittion #harr anon. this was incredible to read!#ikemen revolution #harr silver art #evil!harr silver #harr x mc #i am floored ahhhhhh #i loved this so so so much!#thank you for submitting this! you are amazing!#submission

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avengers-nextgen · 5 years

Text

We Are One X

“You’ve been unusually quiet lately,” Alex noted, sitting on a stool in Piper’s lab. “Why?”

“Just trying to work and pretend nothings happening,” Piper sighed, attempting to organize a few of her tools. “Every time I turn a corner in this place people are at each other’s throats. I miss the old days when it was harmless teasing.”

“I can’t help but agree with you there,” Alex laughed.

“I mean...when’s the last time the two of us got to hang out? Without interruption while we do something completely mundane and stupid?” Piper paused to glance at her friend. Though it was a brief look, Alex noted the melancholy hidden in Piper’s expression. She was less like her father when it came to being a hero. She was reckless but she also understood the cost of things. The price of doing such a job; people hated you or loved you, the media was everywhere, it was exhausting, and it was emotionally taxing.

“I don’t know,” Alex admitted, “but when this is over I wouldn’t mind hanging out-just the two of us. I could use some down time.”

“It just scares me that certain things are going to change in ways that we can’t fix,” Piper frowned.

“They may, but I also know everyone here is very resilient. Things have a way of working out even if it takes time,” Alex promised. Piper nodded, remaining silent for some time before pulling Alex into a hug. While the blonde was surprised, she didn’t hesitate to hug back.

Piper had been her best friend since childhood. She loved the little genius with all of her heart, and Piper was right. They’d been growing rather distant over time. It wasn’t any fault of their own, but neither of them could afford allowing crime fighting to take precedence over friendship.

— — —

“I got surveillance on a downtown issue,” Fox frowned, pulling up a hologram of a recorded scene, “unfortunately criminals never rest.”

“Alright, check rotation,” Maria sighed, “get the kids on the scene. Prep for back up if needed. We don’t know if the other supers will make an appearance or not.”

“On it,” Fox nodded, popping up from her seat and running off.

“You up to bat this time?” Arthur asked, having seen Fox scamper about rallying the troops and Enzo pull on his suit. “Going alone?”

“No, my sister’s coming and Piper too,” Enzo explained.

“Good,” Arthur sighed in relief. He couldn’t imagine Enzo handling everything on his own-especially at such a young age.

“If you say so,” Enzo shrugged.

“Hey, you okay?” Arthur frowned.

“Fine.”

Though it didn’t seem like it, Arthur accepted the response. If he pushed for information Enzo would only retreat further from him. However, Arthur had a guess at what was bothering the younger boy.

“Let’s go,” Piper called marching out into the living room fully clad in her suit.

“Let’s make this quick,” Sage remarked, stretching her arms above her head, “the faster we go the less likely we are to receive interference.”

“Be careful,” Arthur smiled thinly as he patted Enzo on the shoulder.

— — —

“I’m getting really pissed off by these guys!” Piper growled. “Step aside! You’re impeding a crime scene.”

“You know very well that won’t happen,” Killian shrugged coolly.

“You will move.”

“You will have to make us,” Killian smiled thinly. He knew very well the hot headed nature of Piper Stark. She would inevitably engage them. In truth, none of the heroes had much of a choice. They either forced Killian and his group aside or risked innocent lives.

“This is gonna hurt.” Piper raised her hand and blasted Killian straight in the chest. He went toppling like a tree. “Who’s next?”

“Enzo, find a way around. Piper and I will handle this. Worry about the civilians,” Sage ordered, deflecting a flying axe.

“I can handle this.”

“I know you can,” Sage frowned, “but someone needs to intervene with what’s going on in the bank. Now, go.”

Enzo gave a growl of reply before running off as instructed.

Piper shot forward in a blur tackling Kubu to the ground. He slid for a few feet before coming to a stop by a car. Staggering to his feet, the boy rolled his shoulders and pounced.

Sage ducked the sweeping blow of Drew’s weapon once she’d recovered it. No less than a second later, the clawed end of a whip was striking near her ankles. Keeping out of range from both enemies was proving difficult.

Eyes narrowed in concentration, Sage projected multiple forms of herself. The technique proved useful in confusing them. Able to catch her breath, Sage worked on turning the tables.

Lightning arched in Piper’s direction nearly catching her by the foot. Darting out of the way she blasted at Killian once more. Luckily for Killian, Kubu hurled a manhole cover to block the shot. Metal projectile flying, the circular slab impaled a nearby flag pole.

Setting her jaw, Piper laid on a heavy assault. Bursts of blue ignited the space between hero and foe turning the war scene into a deadly game of dodge ball.

Planting a foot into Harper’s chest, Sage sent her sprawling onto her back. No sooner had she done this when Drew’s foot connected with the back of her knee. Going down roughly, Sage barely dodged an incoming knee to the face. Catching Drew’s leg, the Asgardian planted a vicious elbow to the knee.

With a cry of pain, Drew fell clutching at her leg. Attempting to intervene, Harper lashed out to no avail as Sage avoided the metallic tip of her whip. Getting at least one of Killian’s members into custody would drastically turn the tables.

With Piper fighting viciously to keep Killian and Kubu at bay a window of opportunity had finally opened.

Ducking another attack of Harper’s, Sage caught Drew by the back of her collar as she attempted to crawl away.

The hold didn’t last. A bulky frame crashed into the Asgardian freeing Drew. Sliding across the asphalt, Sage used her momentum to clamber back to her feet. She was greeted by the intimidating form of a Rhino. Already, Sage could feel her side bruising from the impact.

No sooner had there been a rhino than a wolf that stood in its place. With a flick of the wrists two elongated silver blades settled into the palm of Sage’s hands.

“You can rethink this.” Sage’s proposition was met with a gnash of teeth as Max took a protective stance over Drew. “So be it.”

Piper was met with a surge of electricity paralyzing the armor. Her systems couldn’t handle such power and charge all at once. Glinting silver claws racked across the face plate with an ear-aching screech. Heart pounding, Piper tried desperately to move. “Any help?Enzo? Sage?”

“I’m busy at the mo-“ Sage’s voice cut out and the sound of muffled curses greeted Piper’s ears.

Sucking in a deep breath Piper attempted to activate back up systems. When nothing happened she was already regretting not having a Will already written.

What happened next was a blur. One moment she was aware of Kubu doing his best to dissect her suit and the next he-along with Killian- were blasted backwards.

Sage’s blade settled mere inches away on the ground. Teeth clamped painfully into her shoulder with no intention of letting up, the sorceress struggled to find the upper hand.

Punching at the wolf’s nose its mouth temporarily released. Shifting for her weapon, Sage nearly grasped it when the same bloodied mouth latched on once more. With a snarl the creature shook its head as if it were tearing skin from prey. Punching again, Sage gained enough leverage to clasp the weapon firmly. Turning quickly the blade nearly pierced the wolf’s side when a blast of gold magic knocked the weapon free.

“Enzo!” Sage growled. She didn’t have to look to know her brother was responsible. At the sound of Enzo’s name the wolf retreated. Blood dribbled from its maw accompanied by drool.

“Go.” Enzo ordered. “Before I do something I regret.”

The wolf looked as if it wanted to approach him, but on second thought it tucked it’s tail and ran.

— — —

Piper sat in the medical wing observing the two siblings. Both were fuming, and yet they’d refused to talk to one another. At last Enzo broke the silence.

“You were going to stab them.”

“I didn’t have a choice.”

“Yes you did. Max could be dead because of you,” Enzo glowered.

“Next time I’ll let myself be mauled to death,” Sage shook her head.

“Please tell me your arm is still attached and we aren’t having a Bianca 2.0,” Alex worried, practically kicking down the door.

“Bianca 2.0,” Piper snorted.

“Max is my only friend!” Enzo continued.

“Max stopped being your friend the moment they decided you were responsible for their powers. Enzo, Max is against you. I know it hurts but it’s true,” Sage frowned, “don’t be blinded by false hope. Max made their choice. They’re not the same person they used to be.”

“You’re wrong, and if what you say is true-you’re not my sister. Max is exactly like you were. The only reason you started to care about anything was because someone told you too! It’s the only reason you even cared about me anyways!” Enzo yelled, wiping quickly at his eyes. “I hate you.”

“Enzo...”

“Don’t. You tried to kill the one person that actually understood me. And now you pretend like you’re some saint. You’re not! You’re as bad as you’ve always been and you don’t know me at all! So stop caring because you don’t anyways. You’re just going through the motions like always. I liked it better when you just disappeared for a year. At least then you didn’t ruin things.” Enzo marched angrily from the room slamming the door behind himself.

Piper shared a worried look with Alex who’d watched it all in confusion and surprise. Sage sat quietly fiddling with the edge of the bandage across her shoulder.

“Sage...” Alex started carefully.

“If he feels that way it’s fine,” Sage shrugged with a wince, “he’s entitled to his opinion.”

“I know, but-“

“No one’s gonna change his mind. He made it quiet clear.” Sage replied, and Alex could sense that the conversation was over. Piper walked out with Alex in tow promising to explain all that had happened but all Alex could recall was Piper’s fear. Things would permanently change between them and their friends. First it was Chloe and now it was Enzo. She couldn’t bear to think of anyone else following that path.

#avengers #avengers next gen #marvel #black widow #captain america #mcu #natasha romanoff #pepper potts #romanogers #scarlet witch #we are one #phase3

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zeltricstudio · 3 years

Text

'LOVER'S LANE'

HAPPYVILE

FEBRUARY 2010

After having finished having dinner at a restaurant, Mike and Cindy decided to drive up to Lover’s Lane to relax and enjoy each other’s company. Mike was very tall and muscly, having spent most of his high school playing football. He wore his lettermen jacket and was dressed in blue jeans and a white shirt. Cindy was of average height and was dressed in blue jeans and a light blue shirt, with a dark blue jacket on. It was around 9:00 pm as the couple drove through the woods, looking for a place to park.

“Huh, it is emptier than I expected” Cindy said, noticing the lack of parked cars or signs of other people

“Well after the police warning, I think people aren’t taking their chances anymore” Mike replied, keeping his eyes focused on the path ahead

“What?”

“Oh, you haven’t heard?” Mike said, trying to hide his smirk

“No, what?” Cindy asked, becoming a bit scared now

“Well ahem” Mike said, dramatically clearing his throat. “A few weeks ago, this lovely couple went for a night drive here and they decided to park deeper into the woods, to have total privacy. After no one had heard or seen from them in days, the police went to investigate and what they found what horrible”

“What, what did they find?” Cindy asked, now completely invested

“They found the couple in their car. The wheels were slashed and the windows shattered. In the car were the couple, excepted now brutally mutilated. I’m talking their skin slashed, guts ripped out, eyes popped out, blood everywhere”

“That sounds disgusting”

“Oh it is. The cops physically gagged when they got close and the stench hit them. After that the police put a warning to everyone not to go here”

“Is this real?”

“Oh totally” Mike said, trying to hide his smirk

“Fuck you” Cindy said when she realized he was making this up

As the couple began driving deeper into the woods, Cindy started to begin feeling uneasy.

“Where are we going?” Cindy asked

“Deep into the woods” Mike calmly replied

“Why not just park here?”

“I don’t want to be interrupted like last time. Cops are always looking to ruin a good time. Plus don’t you want to be on the news?”

“Not funny”

“It was funny to me” Mike chuckled to himself as Cindy fumed.

After a few more minutes of driving, Mike finally stopped the car in a clear space. Aside from the path leading outwards, all that surrounded them was trees, grass and logs for miles. As the car stopped running, the headlights began fading, slowly incasing them in darkness. The two sat in silence, appreciating the moment before it was broken by Mike’s phone ringing. As Mike pulled it out to decline the call Cindy noticed Will was the caller.

“Are you for real? I thought you were done with that shit” Cindy said, getting angry

“Not this again” Mike said in annoyance

“Yes this again. You promised me you stopped drinking. I know you aren’t close pals with him unless you were planning on getting drunk”

“It’s just a few drinks” Mike tried to rationalize

“Just a few drinks? Remember that pole you smashed into? Or that cop you fought when he pulled you over?” Cindy said, her voice starting to get angrier

“How could I forget when you keep reminding me”

“Mike I care about you, but this shit has to stop for real. It’s getting embarrassing how many times I have to pick you up from that fucking place”

“Can we not do this now? I want to enjoy the moment”

“No, we are going to do this now. My god, I can’t believe you”

“Fuck this” Mike said as he took the keys out of the car and began exiting the car

“Where the fuck are you going?”

“To have a smoke” Mike said as he began walking

“Since when the fuck did you start smoking again?

“I never stopped” Mike shouted as he continued going deeper into the forest.

Cindy remained sitting in the car, extremely annoyed that Mike is back to drinking again after promising that he’d stop. But this was the 6th time now and Cindy was more disappointed than angry. After a more minutes passed, Cindy texted Mike.

“CINDY: Hey”

Cindy put her phone down and waited for his reply. Almost immediately a ding came, which was odd because Mike normally takes a while to reply

“MIKE: Hey. Come here, I want to show you something”

“CINDY: What no, it’s cold AF out there. Come back”

“MIKE: Please come here, I want to show you something”

Now Cindy was beginning to grow suspicious. Mike doesn’t text back fast or make vague statements like that

“CINDY: What do you want to show me?”

“MIKE: It’s a surprise, come here so I can show you”

“CINDY: Mike I swear if this is a stupid prank I will take the keys and leave you here”

“MIKE: No sweetie I swear, please come”

This immediately set off red flags for Cindy. They never used names for each other, much less ‘sweetie’.

“MIKE: Please come here, honey. I want to show you something”

Cindy put the phone down, now she knew something was wrong. It wasn’t until the phone was put down did Cindy realise she was having a strange feeling, the kind you get when you know you’re being watched. Cindy quickly locked all car doors before sitting back down and scanning the surroundings. The woods were still silent as the night and Cindy could only see the immediate trees through the darkness. Soon, another ding came from her phone but she ignored it, still focusing on the woods. Another ding came from her phone, then another and another. Cindy finally looked at her phone.

“MIKE: Baby please come”

“MIKE: You need to see this”

“MIKE: Come here now”

The messages no longer were friendly as before, but instead more demanding

“MIKE: File attachment”

Cindy was a bit hesitant to open this file attachment, but reluctantly did so and what she saw scared her. It was a picture of her in the passenger’s seat, looking at her phone. Cindy was absolutely terrified now, her fears were now confirmed that something happened to Mike. Cindy noticed the angle and began working the courage to look up. As her eyes focused on the ground, they slowly began making their way up until it hit the trees and then, she saw it. A figure in the shadows was standing there. Aside from the figure, Cindy couldn’t make out any features of the mysterious person. Another ding came from her phone and Cindy looked down to see the message.

“MIKE: I see you, please come so I can show you this thing”

Cindy began immediately calling the police, but she had no cell service. The mysterious figure began walking up to Cindy and she was finally able to make out its features. The figure turned out to be a woman in a wedding dress, with red stains all over it, wearing a mask over her face. As the woman got closer, Cindy noticed that the mask was of another person’s face. Cindy quickly made sure the doors were locked.

The woman was now at the door’s window, staring at Cindy. Cindy now noticed that the mask she was wearing was not a mask, but instead someone’s actual face. Cindy’s skin began to crawl as noticed this. The woman never broke eye contact with Cindy, staring deep into her soul. The woman in the wedding dress lifted her arm, brandishing a butcher’s knife. She began tapping on the window, making Cindy unnerved. The woman then began scratching the window, making a shrieking sound as Cindy tried to cover the noise with her hands. The woman tried pulling the door open, but it was locked. Cindy began preparing her arms, ready to fight if needed. The woman took a few steps back and slashed the knife into the window, but all it did was just scratch the window. Cindy flinched in fear as she moved back instinctively. The woman tried hitting the window again, but like all it did was scratch the window some more. Cindy began to weigh her options. Either she stay and die or try and get the keys from Mike. As the woman was preparing to strike the window again, Cindy disengaged the lock and kicked the door open, knocking it into the woman as she was pushed back.

Cindy immediately out of the car and began running in the direction Mike ran as she heard the woman get up and start giving chase. Cindy ran through the woods, jumping over logs and after a few minutes of running, she turned and noticed the woman was no longer behind her. Cindy began slowly walking, careful not to crush any branches or leaves. After a few moments of dead silence, she began to hear someone wheezing and slowly walked over to find Mike, slumped against a tree holding his chest

“Mike” Cindy whispered as she slowly began walking to him

“Oh god, help” Mike managed to get out, breathing heavily

“What happened?” Cindy ask as she helped Mike get up

“That fucking bitch stabbed me, before stealing my phone and running off” Mike struggled to say, as he was slowly falling to the ground

“Yeah I got the texts. I knew it wasn’t you. You got your keys on you?”

“Yep” Mike said, reaching in and pulling them out

As the two continued limping, Cindy’s phone went off with a ding

“MIKE: Honey wait up”

“CINDY: Fuck off”

As soon as Cindy replied, they heard a ding behind them and quickly turned around, seeing the woman standing a few feet from them, holding a knife in one hand and the phone in the other. They all stood in silence, staring each other with only the rapid breathing of Mike breaking the silence. The woman dropped the phone and began running at the couple. Mike put his keys into Cindy’s hand and pushed her away as he began running towards the woman. Cindy was about to go back for him, but stopped when she saw how fast she was running. Mike tackled the woman to the ground, but she quickly kicked him off and began strangling him. Cindy turned and continued running, not stopping until she got to the car. She jammed the key into the lock and opened it, before flinging the door open and getting inside the driver’s seat. She put the key into the ignition and hastily turned the key, making the engine sputter. Cindy tired again and again, each time the engine sputtering longer and longer. Cindy heard footsteps and looked up to see Mike rushing to the car, now his whole body covered in blood as he was holding his throat. Cindy opened all the doors as Mike got into the backseat. Mike laid in the backseat and waved his way, signaling Cindy to begin driving. As she continued driving, the only sound she could hear was Mike wheezing in pain, holding his throat.

“Hold on, we’re going to get you to a hospital first then I’m getting the cops” Cindy said, not taking her eyes off the road as she began speeding down the path, before finally pulling out of the forest and turning onto the road.

After a few minutes of silence, Cindy looked back and saw Mike, no longer wheezing but silently breathing.

“Mike, hold on we’re almost-“ Cindy was cut off as the tip of the butcher’s knife came through her throat. Cindy was still clutching the steering wheel and her feet on the pedal as Mike poked his head to her line of sight. Up close, Cindy was able to see that it wasn’t ‘Mike’ but instead the woman, who was wearing Mike’s face, as well as his jacket and pants. The woman twisted the knife, making Cindy wince before removing it. The car began veering off the road, before crashing through the guard railing and crashing into a ditch.

A few hours later, an ambulance team arrived at the scene of the crash and they couldn’t find Cindy or the woman. All they instead found was Mike’s pants and jacket, and Cindy’s clothing covered in glass and blood. Tracking the tire treads back to the forest, the cops conducted a man hunt and managed to locate the couple, who were naked and skinned alive, their bodies slumped against the tree.

#THoS #TheHorrorsofSunshine #HorrorStory #ZeltricStudios

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surfersofbole · 3 years

Text

Going to Fall: What will you do?

This is the fifth installment in my “Going to Fall” series, which is based on Bob Dylan’s “A Hard Rain’s a-Gonna Fall.”

What will you do?

Here, your father must now mention if God has seemed unjust, unkind, then, have you paid him no attention? Our sins are many, of great kinds; punishment ‘s held with retention

not unlike the water vapor within the clouds above the world. All the clouds won’t harm a scraper, but rain upon a cardboard home turns the walls into soaked paper.

I can sense your apprehension, and I can sense your broken pride. Do you have some great dissension? Well, now, just take your small asides to relieve any contention.

Some of us find things enlightening when we must live in heavy dark. Lightning rods control the frightening and brightening flash of the short night. Umbrellas keep th’ tensions tightening.

You would think there’d be prevention - that God himself would take the lead. God wants no Earthly dimension and so he goes ahead, concedes rain must fall without suspension.

What will you do, my blue-eyed son? Somethings are hard to answer. Some… What will you do, darling young one? Think you that I should know this thing? Morning comes now with the bright sun.

Going back out before the rain starts falling

I wake up scared as hell that things are going wrong. Why? I was not quite sure of what was going on. My mind was in a cell. I lie down quietly. The motionless allure of a ceiling, empty...

A day begins anew. Will I ever arise? A thunder I have heard; the skies will be disguised. The rainclouds now accrue. I’m scared to leave this place; though, maybe I’m absurd, and I should go/make haste.

I’ll walk the beaten path; I know it will be short. All the small excursions other souls couldn’t afford... I'll face the wanton wrath because the world will fear I am leading an incursion with my mouth that all’ll hear.

The depths of the deepest, black forest

Electrified air climbs to clustered cotton fluff; screams turn to grumbles.

Some schwarzwald sunshine prawns prowl blister-black water - ice of a night sky.

Sharp whistles whittle brittle branch and bark, bitter for the burning blight.

Hollow trees topple. Then, forests from dying flames born of detritus.

The people are many, their hands are all empty

Xerotic mouths agape, facade of night entreats a dreamer thirsting not the light, "neglect a cleanly state and state that you ordain the rain to fall as it is due."

Disguising no intentions with delight, obsessed with obfuscating appetite, come cumulating nimbus clouds above haranguing with each lightning strike thereof.

In time, hard rains again will lift the plight and everyone will be an acolyte lest all the clouds they see move out of sight.

The pellets of poison flooding their waters

(The vending machine hums softly. A whirring and some clinking kick off a habit, and I press a button. A quarter? I try again. In the mechanism, it moves. Thunk. Mother's approval.)

Someone's swimming in the pool.

Crystalline medium with waving surface dances the light upon the ceiling.

Diving at the deep, he sinks into the bottom for the longest moment until he is diluted by the dark.

I sit beside the edge, staring.

No manacles bind us to the station we submit.

Someone's swimming in the pool, but I've a job to do. "Refill the canister with two chlorine tablets. Lock up and leave."

The home in the valley meets the damp, dirty prison

I walk to where the sidewalk ends en masse, past the concrete's blend with grass and the footstep-muddled pastures.

I found the last spot God had cried: an oasis that has dried in the desert of this life.

The rain is not the coldest where the trees have met the forest and the mountain meets the valley.

The executioner’s face, always well hidden

At mass, the priest, in his white, polyester robes, stood among pink roses.

"I say, precious Lord, look upon us and see not injustice; instead, find hope."

Among the heightened exaltations of the chorus, water came down upon us.

Back when crimes against the Lord and his people were punishable, men like Christ and Beckett, with their deaths, made leaders grovel.

King, bearing a new weight, shouldered a poor people's campaign; in his memory, we hid this struggle. In this new poor people's campaign, shall hidden faces make another man infamous?

"Do this in memory of me."

The word of the Lord makes requisite that we do things in memory of others that perhaps, through us, they could live on. Such a cause as theirs is worth perpetuating; such a love as theirs is the great communion.

"Mass has ended. You may go in peace"

Hunger is ugly, souls are forgotten

Oysters - pried apart with pearls squeezed from their soft flesh - are discarded shells that cleansed murky waterways. Layered nacre anchors banks.

Black is the color, none is the number

For the briefest second, worlds are colorful and palm fronds, like percussion sections, fill the wind with scratching sound. As raindrops themselves drive through darkness into broken asphalt, thunder-crash! The crack in night, it vanished while a youth in leather shoes and wetting socks went running to a covered walkway. Hole-filled pockets bore some grimed receipts, old notes, worn cards, and damaged pictures in a wallet that was drawn up. She inserted plastic; as the m'chine slow- processed four fast digits, vehicles blurred past and disappear until, at last, a menu let her check the balance. Black in text, a zero showed up. Buzzing lights then flickered; rain felt bitter/harder.

Tell it, think it, speak it, breathe it

False flags on steel poles; you find their real goals cause hard heads to feel soles as reeled votes steal polls. Loss is a hand that's doled to thoughtless card holders; well oiled, pristine political machines need propaganda's grist cleaned and shoveled on the screens. Greed - democracy's splotch - fills you with the scotch blues; when the night is botched, sit back up to watch news. Feel cold and say burr under a cedar tree, or passover seder with Sam Seder, see his angered, sabered tongue work hard/labor long; hundreds of lungfuls from racist uncles tapered off. Like flaming fungal masses on crumpled paper, scoffed arguments hindered turn to cinder; try not to join the splintered dense blocks of tinder, dry rot. "Freedom isn't free, son..." some person breathes on as a prison's breeze comes; truth in neon: "Freedom isn't free, and it isn't freedom." Jaime Peck 'n' Michael Brooks wait with bridled facts on homicidal cops and Congress' idled acts. The left's best anchors, hosts of the Majority Report, unveil the languor of neofascist authority.

Reflect from the mountain so all souls can see it

Guinness in my system at a Regal cinema; someone said, "I miss him." Liquor mixed with cinnamon makes my throat feel dry; is that why I'm stifled? "On everyone's behalf, when we heard you laughing at Dave Rubin's gaffes, all our sides were halfing." Why am I nervous before the final curtain? "He did the world a service, that I say with certainty." "I want to drink, alright, rather than think all night; pour shots until bar fight hour is a starlight tour." Drink my Tennessee whiskey and Hennessy briskly in backgrounds of dim-lit rooms. As this dim-wit reflects, chances look slim; the future's a grim skit. Pillow to my head and sink in like lead, a stone carelessly embedded in the river bed alone.

Stand on the ocean until I start sinking

When one recollects that the keystone oft sank in the sand before standing aloft among clouds on a mountain so solid of faith and devotion, it's then that a false step compels men, "Recover!" I noticed thrombosis had felled the calm warrior, that saint among saints that is Archangel Michael; the champion of men and proponent of justice inspires l'avant-garde to claim in it's crawling a victory not pyrrhic but won with empiric- al knowledge against an- tithetical sirens that draw men towards hatred with bigotry, envy, and greed. So, surrender your voice, but renounce not your thoughts, and remember the message borne by a colossus that called out to Lazarus, "Come forth."

Know my song well before I start singing

Cantos coming soon to a year near you!

Notes

This is the order in which the poems were written: 2, 1, 4, 3, 6, 5, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12. I plan for poem 13 to be a series of cantos based on my time walking through a park in my home town.

What will you do?

This poem was written months ago while I was still a Tumblr poet and is the introduction to the final section of the Going to Fall collection of poems I've written. The next poem will be posted when I figure out where I saved it.

The depths of the deepest, black forest

I thought I had a poem for this portion of the final section of my "Going to Fall" poetry collection, but I couldn't find it. Luckily, the haiku challenge issued for November prompted me to write this in place of the imagined poem.

The people are many, their hands are all empty

There were two prompts for this poem. The first is an obscure words poetry contest that I volunteered myself, in which I received the prompt "Xenodochial" (which means hospitable or kind to strangers). The second was from a challenge I made [for] myself [...] I had been stuck on this particular portion for months now, so I'm glad to have something appropriate and fitting.

The pellets of poison flooding their waters

Perhaps I put too much thought into a story about a guy closing up after a hallucination. The stuff in the parenthesis was typed last, but I only put it in because I could find no better way to add that the narrator is thirsty. I was going to write a twelve poem collection on this prompt, based on monthly news stories of people making the world a worse place, but the poems were scrapped. I do hope to revisit the idea under a different title.Perhaps I put too much thought into a story about a guy closing up after a hallucination. The stuff in the parenthesis was typed last, but I only put it in because I could find no better way to add that the narrator is thirsty. I was going to write a twelve poem collection on this prompt, based on monthly news stories of people making the world a worse place, but the poems were scrapped. I do hope to revisit the idea under a different title.

The home in the in the valley meets the damp dirty prison

I had the first two lines stuck in my head for a couple of days. This is the result.

Hunger is ugly, souls are forgotten

This is just a poem comparing oysters and people.

Black is the color, none is the number

October 11, 2020 corrections: *line 4 - "And" -> "As" *line 7 - "." -> "," *line 8 - "Thunder-crash!" -> "thunder-crash!" and line split. *lines 13-16 - "Hole-filled pockets - dirty, wet - hold paper/plastic cards and damaged pictures in a wallet. It is" replaced with current version. *lines 18-21 - "plastic; as the machine processed four fast digits, vehicles dove on past and then they disappeared. At" replaced with current version.

Three Poems for the Great Progressive

This poem came together from the following stanza that I spit out a couple of nights ago: Passover seder with Sam Seder under my cedar tree. Say burr, see his sabered tongue labor long. Hundred lungful's hinder cindered minds. The tinder finds a racist uncle's baseless tongueful like dry rot: the fungal waste is erased from space. Try not It includes one line I wrote a few years ago: "I drink my Tennessee whiskey and Hennessy briskly." The poem is basically about listening to the news all the time because you're sick, feeling restless, going out to the movies and bars, and finally going to sleep. July 20, 2020 update: Completed in honor of Michael Brooks. Also, I wrote the following poem soon after I heard the news, but did not put the time into it that I would have liked. The ground is dry and leaves grow thin. When the new moon is out the fuses trip, the grid's offline, and the world stands too still, I look to the sky as the gold flecks fly; ember is ash. A chill climbs up my spine; stomach can't dip lower. I cannot scout a star within the restless sky. August 11, 2020 update: I saw a contest early morning and wrote the first stanza of the third poem. The second stanza was written after I returned from work. The prompt was the first line from the Beatles' "A Day in the Life".

NOTE: This is the title for “Tell it, think it, speak it, breathe it,” “Reflect from the mountain so all souls can see it,” and “Stand on the ocean until I start sinking.”

#poem #original #spilled ink #poets on tumblr #writerscreed #Going to Fall #What will you do?#Going back out before the rain starts falling #The depths of the deepest black forest #The people are many their hands are all empty #The pellets of poison flooding their waters #The home in the valley meets the damp dirty prison #The executioner’s face always well hidden #Hunger is ugly souls are forgotten #Black is the color none is the number #Tell it think it speak it breathe it #Reflect from the mountain so all souls can see it #Stand on the ocean until I start sinking #Three Poems for the Great Progressive

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whipplefilter · 7 years

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fan fic: Baby Driver

This is for @holyporsche, who shared her UTTERLY ADORABLE HUMAN AU MCQUEEN BABY HEADCANON with me. I wanted to see if I could write the version of it where the cars are cars, and this is what I came up with! It ended up a tad more melancholy than I’d initially imagined, but I hope the cute balances it out. <3

Summary: Cruz--and the rest of the racing world--haven’t seen Lightning McQueen in five years, 183 races, and a lot of questions gone unanswered. Then one day, he shows up with a tiny plus one.

Cruz, these days, is a legend. It takes about three seconds for someone to find her and tell her she’s got visitors: McQueen and a plus one.

A tiny plus one.

The tiny plus one doesn't have a name yet, hasn't chosen one; for now, she’s just Baby. She's still nursing an automatic transmission and is just now learning how to school it out of neutral. But when Cruz charges toward her, Baby mirrors the motion.

They collide with a soft plastic clink, kissing nose to nose.

"200!" chirps Baby because no McQueen has ever learned to count 1, 2, 3, have they?

Baby sings 200, 400, 500, and Cruz shoots an impish, conspiratorial glance at Lightning.

And Cruz would never, ever tell him this, but she kinda misses the Fabulous blue. She's not used to seeing him in his new get-up, clean of sponsors and candied red, like it's the 60s all over again. He's not the 95 anymore.

Vitoline's racing the 95 this season: It's someone new and probably pleasant whom she hasn't yet met. She'll admit she hasn't tried that hard; it's been years now, but to Cruz, the 95 will always be Lightning.

The association might be even harder for Cruz to let go of than Lightning's acting like it is for him--but then, she'll probably never know how he actually feels about all this. Lightning McQueen hasn't touched tires to a Piston Cup track in half a decade. Not even to spectate.

Cruz hasn't seen him face-to-face since the end of her rookie year.

"How was Rio?" Cruz asks, because she did, at least, get that postcard last month.

Lightning makes a face, as though he's the baby and not, well, Baby. "She liked the water. A lot. She liked going very deep in the water."

"California girl, huh?"

"We live in Arizona!" Lightning objects. "But every time Sally picks our vacation, we always end up--"

"She has her mother's mouth," says Cruz, and his expression softens.

Cruz seizes the opportunity. "Which means she's gonna roast you once she learns more words."

"Nah, she's gonna know to respect her eld--" Lightning starts, as Baby coasts straight past Danny, and Storm, and takes up pole position in defiance of three forklifts, a flag car, and four formidable security SUVs who seem wholly ill-equipped to deal with this intrusion.

"Huh. And her daddy's attitude," Cruz notes. "Dangerous combination!"

But the flag car--Wesley Wheelie--he's a father of eight from a family of thirty-seven, counting all the halves and steps. So he whips out his green flag and waves it right in Baby's face. When he shoots it up over her head, she shoots forward--at a hot five miles an hour.

The actual quals aren't for another three or four hours, but Wesley keeps waving the flag in Storm's face, as though Storm's life depends on his winning this race.

"She's gonna lap you, buddy!" Wesley jibes.

Storm glares at him hard, but he's wholly at Wesley's mercy, because being made fun of is only the second to last thing on earth Storm wants in his life. The last thing he wants is to be the guy who ran over Lightning "Fabulous" McQueen's damn infant.

Danny, for his part, scratches the race almost immediately, laughing so hard he starts choking on his own exhaust fumes. Cruz hears him trying to crawl into the stands to get a better view of the field, but his hysterics win out over his handling, and he just ends up belly-down in the dirt.

"I hate you," Storm hisses at him. And Wesley. And Cruz. Lightning, he ignores.

"He says that a lot," Cruz tells Lightning, solemnly. "I think it's a term of endearment."

Baby's still making her way around the track--really flying now, eight miles an hour. She's making almost as much forward progress around the track as she is laterally.

Almost.

"She's good," Cruz says.

Lightning wheedles his LF tire through the dirt. "Well! She's seen every. single. race. of oh, some Dinoco racer. Even the ones you can only get on DVD. She's kind of obsessed."

"You've been watching?" Cruz asks.

"Obviously."

"I thought maybe--"

"Give me some credit!"

Cruz sees a glimmer of it, then. How hard it is for him to be here, how happy he is to be here, how much he wants to tear around this track, make it is again, make this world his again. How much he has now beyond this that he'd never, ever give up, that he loves more than what he loves most in the world. It's a delicate paradox, but hey, it's the language they all speak out here. Lightning wants to be here, and he absolutely doesn't. Yearning hurts.

"She wanted to meet you," Lightning says, in answer to Cruz's unspoken question. "I'm not gonna say no."

"She acts like she already has!" Cruz laughs.

Lightning laughs too, though it's more of a sheepish chuckle. "Uh, I'm not sure if she can tell the difference between you and stuffed-toy you."

"So are you--" Cruz is interrupted by a piercing wail.

Rather, she's interrupted by Lightning's reaction to a piercing wail, which she swears comes first. Lightning before thunder, he's launched himself a foot in the air before Cruz can begin to fathom why.

Baby's plowed face-first into the outer wall. Not hard, and not fast--just persistently. She doesn't know to reverse.

Lightning doesn't rush to help her, though clearly that's his base impulse. He stays corralled at the edge of the track, as though pinned there by invisible chocks, and he chants under his breath, Come on, baby. You got this! Take a breath and figure it out. There you go. Focus.

Focus.

Cruz closes her eyes and it's like she can hear it over her comm line. It's as though no time has passed at all. She thought she'd known how much she missed him. But she really hadn't--not until just now.

Come on, Cruz! You got this!

Baby don't got this. Baby's stopped crying, but she keeps prodding the wall with her nose. Maybe this time it will work. Or maybe this time. Or maybe--

"Definitely her daddy's attitude," quips Cruz.

"Haha. Ha!"

Storm catches up to her. He stares, says nothing. He's probably had his engine off since two turns ago, and he's still coasting too fast. Hits his brakes and waits. For ten seconds, Storm does absolutely nothing.

Then Baby reverses cleanly, and escapes the wall.

Danny shouts, so loud the walls of the stadium echo with his renewed laughter, "BABY WHISPERER!"

Danny departs, muttering something along the lines of, "Oh god, where's Tim? I gotta--"

Cruz snorts. "He's a dork, but he's my dork. What're you gonna do?"

Baby drives.

She overtakes Storm again.

Storm's expression is one of almost genuine agony, he's been holding still for so long. He jerks forward and ends up a full body-length ahead of her again. When again she catches up, Baby taps Storm on the rim and says, "Excuse me."

Storm says "Whuh--"

And Baby climbs. She mounts his tire, wedging her own under his fender and scrambling up to his hood. A moment of studied deliberation and she rolls, slow and lopsided, clear past Storm's bewildered eyes and plops down to the ground on his opposite side. Then she hits the gas and drives toward the Wesley's checkered flag.

"OH!" exclaims Cruz. "I GET IT. SHE DID THE--"

"Yes. We all get it," says Storm.

When Baby finally makes it past Wesley's waiting flag, Cruz extends a tire for a high-five. "You won! You won!"

Baby beams, and starstruck she accepts the high-five. Then she says, utterly nonchalant, "Cruz, next time I'll beat you."

It's Storm's turn to laugh. "You hear that, Ramirez? She's coming for you."

Before he disappears--likely to go put the fear of god in Danny--he awards Lightning with a sidelong glance, acknowledging him for the first time in six years.

"Cute baby," he says. Then he's gone.

"So are you gonna stay for the race?" Cruz asks Lightning, as they watch Wesley enchant Baby with his dancing flag. He's waving green and yellow and white all at once.

"Baby needs a nap," says Lightning. "Uh, that baby, not this baby," he clarifies quickly.

"Oh." Cruz tries not to look crestfallen.

"But uh-- Sally said she'd take her if I, if-- you know. Actually, Sally made me promise that I'd let her-- so that I'd-- Because you--" Lightning blurts out, fragmentary.

"Mr. McQueen! You were trying to get out of this, weren't you! If I hadn't asked, you were just gonna--"

"No!"

"You were gonna use your own child as an excuse!"

"Oh, please!"

"I'm telling Sally."

"Wait, no--"

"I'm really happy to see you again," Cruz says, abruptly ending the banter.

Lightning looks at her--guilty, yearning, happy. Mostly happy. "Right back atcha, Cruz."

"You don't have to stay if you don't to."

"Yeah I do, actually. And I do want to."

"Yeah, okay." Cruz smiles. "So... are we gonna be seeing more of you again, or is it back to Arizona after this?"

"Not for me to decide!" Lightning replies airily. He turns back to Wesley, and Baby, and the flags.

Then he looks Cruz straight in the eyes. Really looks. "I'll take her to all the races she wants, though.

“Gotta let her dream big, right?"

#cars fandom #pixar cars #Cruz Ramirez #Lightning McQueen #salqueen baby #jackson storm #danny swervez #wesley wheelie the flag car #cars fanfiction #holyporsche #whipple words

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ecotone99 · 5 years

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[SF] Arthur Part one

This story takes place in the Warhammer 40K universe, this one is fairly long but the future ones are to be shorter

Void shields failing

Void shields down

The cold wailing of the ship’s machine spirit faded, like the light of the fire that followed it. The space marine’s eyes shot open. His eye-lenses were shattered, but through the cracks, he saw a blue sky above. Debris from the battle above burned as it entered the atmosphere. Warning sirens from his battle plate echoed softly in his ears, but the hormones of sleep set him into hibernation again before he could address them.

He awoke again to the earthy smell of woodsmoke and the chanting of a woman. His eyes snapped open and she screamed, backing up, “Hark, the angel awakes!” He was laying on the ground in the middle of the room, a bed of leaves below his bruised and beaten body. He realized he was in mostly in his under-armor body glove Eyes darting around he quickly gathered he was in a small hut, clay walls plastered over what he assumed to be a wood frame. The roof was low, he would have to stoop if he stood. His eyes stopped on a pile of his power armor in the corner, and he felt a sharp pain in his gut. He looked back down at himself and saw where a shard of shrapnel, red with blood, had pierced his ceramite when he had worn it. How did she get the armor off? He thought as the young woman began to gather her senses. She wore a gown of some animal skin, tied together with cords along her left side. She had light skin, bright red hair down to her waist, wild and unkempt. She held a tall staff, a green-tinted wooden pole with an animal’s skull set on top. The skull was long, horned like a daemon, and bleached white.

The Space Marine wrapped a massive hand around the shard of shrapnel and yanked it out. Ignoring the horror of the woman, he crawled over to his armor and found a small vial that lay within it, slamming it into his wound. His Mucranoids immediately went into effect, covering the hole in a waxy substance that grew out of his skin. He leaned his back up against the armor, breathing hard through clenched teeth, and looked at the Woman. She held her stick out towards him. At first, he found it comical, but then he noticed the subtle flare of witchfire ringing her eyes and burning on the skull of her staff. He put his hands up, away from the armor trying to make himself seem non-threatening. He knew a rogue psyker was a dangerous thing. “No weapon,” he said, his deep voice rumbling through the hovel. “Name,” She said as she began to bring the staff back up, and the witchfire fading. “Arthur,” said the Space Marine.

Arthur stepped out of the hovel and looked around him. The building stood on a low hill, hidden in a copse of trees. All around him was the lush green of forest, but to the north was a break in the trees. Far off in the distance, A large construction of stone rose up out of the ground, tall walls and towers grey against the stark blue sky. The fortification had banners flowing down from the towers, heraldry showing a white sword stuck point down in stone on a black field. If there is a choir, it will be there thought Arthur. I may have fallen into a feral world.

He went back into the hut, the witch jumped at his entrance, he pointed at the armor on the ground. “Where did you find this, where did you find me?” She just looked at him confused and in awe. Sighing, he inspected his armor on the ground. It was worthless, shattered, burned, and with the powerpack broken beyond repair. Sorrow welled up within him. His plate had kept him alive through countless battles, it had been a second skin when he had it on. It was akin to losing a battle-brother. The sorrow washed over him, he took a deep breath, and he moved on. He had no time to let this affect him. He grabbed two more unbroken vials of the Mucranoid catalyst from their housing. He found two clips of bolter rounds and thankfully, his combat knife was maglocked to a leg plate. His bolter was nowhere to be seen. He turned to look at the witch as he gathered up his gear. Standing, he rose nearly two feet above her and weighed at least four times her weight, towering over her like the statue of a god. She probably thinks she has unleashed a giant. He felt as though he should slay the witch, an unknown psyker was a dangerous thing, but something stayed his hand.

He found a dirt path down at the bottom of the hill, he turned to follow it north towards the fortification. An hour passed, he carried his gear in his thick hands, nowhere to store the items. There was a sound like the roll of soft thunder. Arthur turned to see two human men riding out on eight-legged beasts. The creatures resembled the horses of old Terra, the descendants of which had come with humanity on its quest amongst the stars to many different worlds. The stink of unwashed men met Arthur’s nose as they approached him, they wore shirts made of small metal rings and wielded crude ancient swords. They tried to look as menacing as possible, but Arthur felt nothing but contempt for these poor examples of low humanity. “Lo!” one shouted at him as they approached, “ye knave, ye troll! drop thy blade or Wulf and I will ride thee down!”

Arthur snorted in disgust, “Standing before you is an Adeptus Astartes of the Imperial Fists, scion of Rogal Dorne and I know no fear!” The two men just looked at each other and back at Arthur and began to advance. Disappointed, Arthur began backing up, walking to the edge of the road. He stooped down as if to drop his combat blade, but instead reached for a rock. His strength was such that the man who spoke was struck before he could get another word out. In one fluid motion, Arthur spun the rock around through the air and threw it through the man’s jaw. His lower skull exploded in a shower of blood and bone as he jerked back off his horse-thing. The other one, Wulf, turned around and fled.

Arthur hated himself for doing it, but he took the bag off the fallen man, in it were a few coins, some stale bread, and a place to put the gear he already had. On a whim, he decided to add a few stones as well. He climbed atop the man’s frightened beast, finding the saddle small and uncomfortable. All the same, he turned the creature north. He worried he was too heavy for it, but it held him for now.

A short ride passed and Arthur found himself approaching a small village, plots of land tilled for farming and small hovels similar to the witch’s took the place of green trees and bushes. Up ahead stood the stone castle with the banners he had seen before. That thing would not survive a single lance strike critiqued Arthur. The villagers, human peasants living in squalor, looked at him agape as he passed. As he rode on, closer to the castle, the conditions got a little better. Arthur could hear the ring of a hammer on steel and smell fresh bread. As he rode further in, observing his surroundings with a blank countenance, a man with a large floppy hat appeared out of nowhere. “Ser Knight, Ser Knight, hast thou ridden forth to enter the lists?” he said, “I am no knight, I am an Imperial-” Arthur was interrupted. “A knight, a knight, verily, by what title shall thee ride as?” “Arthur is my Emporer-given name…” The small man interrupted him again, making marks on a sheet with a primitive pen, “Arthur, glorious, the bards shall sing your glory to the stars” and then just as soon as he appeared, he ran off. Unsure, Arthur rode on slowly, noticing larger wooden and stone buildings with many people milling about. He noticed men riding tall on their own eight-legged horses, wearing some sort of primitive armor made of steel, wearing swords belted to their waists. His combat knife was about as large as some of them. He turned his eight-legged beast and followed them as they headed towards the castle, seeing a great field of flags outside its walls.

The file rode its way further through the outlying town, the field of flags revealed itself as some sort of tourney grounds. As Arthur rode up, he noticed sidelong looks from the other armed men and their servants. Making his way into the grounds, another floppy-hatted man ran up beside him, “Noble ser! Hast thou entered into the lists?”

“Some other man like you has already asked me, what is this here” returned Arthur. “Why ser!” the man looked alarmed, “verily thou comest upon the auspicious eve of Pendragon day, on the morrow, there is to take place a joust and mighty feast, surely a knight such as yourself ride for the event?” Arthur looked at him confused, but nodded and began to ride off before a large pot-bellied man ran out next to him “Woah there, here be my…. Mine own cousin! Verily we hast invited him, unbeknownst of the celebration” The man gave a wink to Arthur. The other man, whose floppy hat swung around as he turned to face the other, said “Oh verily, excellent! May the light above guide thine arm!” Then the man trotted away, his hat flopping over his head with each step.

“What is thine name, come, follow me, thou are sure to emerge victorious on the morrow, with mine help.” The pot-bellied man said to Arthur in a hushed voice and motioned him to follow. Arthur steered his mount after the man, and they quickly arrived at a small stone building. Arthur could smell the crude musk of burning coals and hot iron. “Mine name be Witege, and thou are?”

“Arthur” responded Arthur, waiting to hear what the man had to actually say. “Verily, Arthur, a man of your size and strength, none can hold you back.” sais Witege. Arthur eyed the man, sensing his motive, “my only goal is to get back to my chapter, does this planet have a choir?” Witege looked confused, “why dost thou seek bards?” Arthur sighed, he decided he would take part in this man’s scheme, it would help him in the short run and he could figure out his next move after learning more about the planet he found himself on. “You want to ready me for this joust? Why?” Arthur responded. Witege’s eyes lit for a moment and he said “Verily! Mine own hands shall arm thee and mine own son shall be thy squire, your humble servant only begs of half the coin reward” That’s what Arthur figures the man would say. It was the best option Arthur had at the moment, so he nodded his head in assent. Witege called forth his son, an older boy named Urien who Arthur guesses to be about 15 standard years old. They got to work refitting armor to the space marine’s massive form. Arthur helped as well, his strength astonishing the mortals. The finished armor was dubbed “Wygar” by Witege. Arthur decided to hold onto his combat blade instead of taking Witege’s offered sword. The combat blade was familiar to him and made of better steel besides. By the next morning, the mortals were exhausted, Arthur found himself dozing for about half an hour, his bones still ached from the crash and he figured the rest would do him some good for the “joust” to come. Whatever that meant.

He found out that next morning, Arthur stood at the edge of the field, underneath one of the black and white banners, and watched as two men. Fully armored, rode their 8 legged horses at each other with a thin wooden barrier keeping them parallel. The beasts thundered at each other, each strike of the ground kicking up a cloud of dirt. They each carried metal shields and wooden lances that they struck against each other with a mighty crash that it reverberated through his new steel plate of armor. Both men’s lances shattered, and one went down while the other barely managed to hang on, and then he shot his hands up in triumph. A tremendous cheer went up from stands that had been built at the sides of the arena, they were stocked with humans. At the far end of the field sat a monstrous tent, a black veil obscured its insides.

As Arthur stood watching stoically, Witege walked up behind him. Arthur turned and saw the man leading a massive 8 legged mare. “This be Llameri, she fits thine stature, verily, more than thine beast thou doth approach with.” Indeed she did. Arthur couldn’t help but admire the cords of muscle hidden just below the horse’s flesh. He looked back at the man and gave him a nod. Witege looked like he was expecting more, and then continued, “mine son hast a saddle for thee as well, Llameri shall be chomping at the bit for thine ride…” Arthur nodded his appreciation, face impassive. Witege shrugged and whispered “okay ser” as he walked away, leading the beautiful beast by the reins. Arthur watched a few more of the jousts to get an idea of how it worked, coming up with plans of his own.

His name was called. He strode forth on Llameri, donned in Wygar, feeling almost as powerful as he did holding a fortified position with his battle brothers. He smiled to himself under his helmet, he could probably secure the planet for the imperium by himself if he still had his plate and bolter. Against him, a knight in shining steel arrayed himself, a bright red plume trailing off his helmet. His horse was powerfully built, but even still his foe looked considerably smaller than Arthur.

Urien ran from his cover near the stands and handed Arthur his new unpainted shield and a tourney lance as the man across from him was also equipped by a squire. The other man raised his visor, he had a face red from the heat, with a large mustache. “Verily! I face a giant this day, wherest thou hail from, O Arthur?”

Arthur thought of a suitable answer before calling back “the Imperium.”

“Arthur of the Imperium, on this day thou ridest against Cador of Camelot!” Arthur shut his visor, and Cador did the same, their mounts stamping the ground in anticipation.

A man in a floppy hat took to a stand above the middle of the lane, holding a flag aloft. When he dropped it, both riders spurred their mounts forward, readying themselves for the clash. With Arthur’s enhanced psychology and physiology, Cador didn’t stand a chance. As Llameri thundered down the lane Arthur calmly sat into position, bringing his shield up and across to meet Cador’s lance, while he brought up his own to smash into his opponent. At the last moment he arrayed his lance in a calculated position, and when they struck with the blast of splintering wood, Cador was thrown off the back of his mount. Arthur rode down the rest of the lane to the adoring cheers of the crowd, before turning and going down Cador’s side, jumping off Llameri to help the man up. “You rode well,” he said, offering a hand. Cador slid his visor open, red-faced, and smiled at Arthur and said, “Aye, and thou ridst better” before taking his hand.

As Arthur doffed Wygar and Urien took Llameri off to take care of her, he heard the crash of the next joust. The shattering of lances and the yells of men and beasts as the first pass was completed. Arthur stepped out of his tent to watch, still half armored, to see the men prepare for a second pass. As both were handed new lances, Arthur focused in on one of the knights. He sat taller than any normal man, armor painted in the red of arterial blood and the screaming face painted on his shield seemed to writhe in pain. The knights began their second pass. The bloody man’s steed screamed as it flashed down the lane, tearing clouds of dirt into the air. When his lance struck his opponent’s shield it shattered, while the other man’s split and slid from the shield with the screaming face. The man careened off his mount into the dirt as the bloody knight rode to the end of the lane, hoisting his shield into the air. Arthur’s hearts felt a chill of cold as he watched the unnatural knight. When the vanquished man tried to get up, his shield arm lay limp, broken back in a sickening angle. Arthur clenched his jaw, wary of the knight in red.

The day wore on, Arthur vanquished whoever he rode against, while watching the bloody knight do the same. That afternoon, while taking a meal in his tent between jousts, the tent flap flew open and the witch from the woods burst in. Urien ran in hot on her heels trying to hold her back. Arthur held up a hand, “I know this woman” he said to Urien. The boy looked confused and waited, the witch turned to Arthur and said, “Lo! Angel of steel, I have pierced through the mists of time. Verily, as mine own form stands before thou, mine eyes saw one who seeks to send thee to the spirits! A knight, armored in blood, blessed by dark powers beyond the light of the stars. If thou shouldst ride against him, he shall smite thee to thine end!” She heaved with excitement, eyes wide as he looked back at her from his stump. Arthur stood up, “My thanks woman, by what name are you called?” he responded, holding out his hand.

“Morgana” She said, shaking his hand, “Arthur, forsooth, this thing must not come to pass” Arthur nodded and said, “I will deal with this” he looked to Urien, and told him what to do.

The time came for the final round, the joust to crown the champion. The crowd hushed, even the wind stilled from blowing the flags as Arthur took his place across from the bloody knight. The knight lifted his visor to reveal a hard lean face, clean of any hair, even eyebrows. His eyes shone pure red. He breathed deep, sucking in air like a drowning man before calling out in a guttural voice “Mordred rides against thee, I have vanquished all before, feast thine eyes upon me and despair!”

Arthur raised his own visor to shout, “You ride against Arthur of the Imperium, a warrior of ages long forgotten here. I am a wall your lance will break upon, your malignity has no power over me!” before slamming it back into place. He still beat the man in stature, but Arthur knew Mordred carried more than just his own power in his body.

They both spurred their mounts forward, Llameri bolted down the beaten lane, bursting forward more than she had at any time previously. Arthur readied himself and couched his lance as the bloody knight grew ever closer. They crashed together, both lances shattering to splinters upon the other’s shield. Arthur absorbed the force well, and watched Mordred regain his balance after the hit. The crowd roared its approval of the spectacle. They circled, coming back around to the ends of the lane. As Urien ran up with another lance he gasped “Arthur, thine arm!”

Arthur looked down, splinters of Mordred’s lance had defied the laws of the universe, they had split off and the wood had stabbed its way through the inside of the plate on his arm, and blood now seeped out of the wound. He clenched his jaw and yanked the shards out with a grunt, and then took the new lance. “If he does not fall here, bring me the magic lance” Arthur whispered to Urien.

They readied themselves once more, Arthur spurred on Llameri and her hooves thundering with the power of the engines of a thunderhawk, flying down the line. Arthur rammed his lance home, just as Mordred did the same, but the bloody knight’s lance slid off the shield, smashing into Arthur’s breastplate. Again, shards of wood punched themselves through Wygar, and Arthur breathed hard, smelling blood, as he looked down and saw foot-long spikes porcupining his chest. Mordred had almost fallen in that pass, but he regained his composure and circled on his steed. The crowd fell into another hushed silence as the two knights circled back into position. Blood now ran in rivulets down the front of Arthur’s armor. Urien ran out, eyes wide with concern, and handed Arthur the special lance. “I’m fine” Arthur grunted out through clenched teeth, shooing the boy away. He focused himself, and spurred Llameri one last time, as Mordred did the same. The two knights thundered at each other, as they neared Arthur took a deep breath in his helmet and threw his shield to knock Mordred’s lance aside. At the same moment, he smashed his lance into the other knight’s shield, the bolter round hidden within kicking off as the lance shattered. The round smashed through the knight’s shield, ripping apart Mordred’s armor, exploding within his arm.

There was a shower of blood accompanying the loud burst of the bolter round, everyone in the crowd jumped to their feet screaming. Mordred collapsed to the ground, falling off his mount, his left arm completely blown apart. Nothing was left but a twisted mass of steel and bleeding flesh. Mordred didn’t even scream. From the ground he grabbed the saddle and his horse began to move. It dragged him through the dirt and he turned back to yell at Arthur “Thee shall see me again, O cursed Arthur!” Together they tore through the camp, headed south.

Arthur stumbled off Llameri, and fumbled into his tent to grab a vial of the Mucranoid catalyst. He smashed it into his chest, and rubbed the coarse liquid into his arm. Inhaling sharply with the pain, he tore off his helmet. He realized that outside, the crowd of mortals had gone silent. He stood up to his full height and walked out of the tent. The crowd stood in a semicircle about him, with Witege, Urien, and Morgana a few steps forward. A floppy hatted man stepped out of the crowd and said “uhh Ser Arthur, King Pendragon will see thee now”

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