#she is shrouded in shadow when she is telling him to trust noone

[calypsolemon]

something about the way Kitty can't help but end up trusting and loving others despite all the ways she has been hurt, and her own insistence that she does not trust others. The way that she so naturally falls into trusting Puss when he shows a modicum of honesty and genuine emotion to her.

I think Kitty is someone who has a lot of love in her heart, a fact she hates about herself because it leads to her getting burned quite often. She feels like she cannot ever truly practice what she preaches and just stay away from caring. Even, towards the end, she gives up her wish to Puss, not because she thinks he deserves it more, but because at that point, even wishing for someone to trust feels like a failure on the part of herself to just learn her damn lesson and stay away.

Which is why it is so important that she finally gets what she needs through Puss. That she witnesses him fighting for his life instead of running, fighting for his right to love her for the short time on this earth that he has left. She needed to hear this from somebody, that she is worth caring about. More than just a cute pet that looses its luster when it starts scratching the furniture, more than just a fleeting fancy abandoned the moment something goes wrong. She finally has someone tell her she is worth recieving the love and trust she so easily gives, in equal measure.

#puss in boots the last wish #kitty softpaws #i couldn't fit this into the post without it being awkward but the scene with her and perrito #she is shrouded in shadow when she is telling him to trust noone #which is the way the movie signals that a character is lying or omitting something #(see: earlier scenes where goldie is shrouded in shadow when she refuses to tell her wish) #Pussy Analysis

[timeinabottle]

Danse Macabre | Jopper AU | Stranger Things

William Byers disappears into thin air in 1883. His distraught mother, Joyce must put aside her differences with the only man that can help her now. In their desperate search for her son, they uncover the dark world of the occult, a terrible haunting and something the Witch's daughter calls... the Other Side.

Stranger things have happened...

Read on AO3 {X}

Listen to the soundtrack on spotify {X}

Chapter One: The Vanishing of William Byers

Hawkins, Indiana October 26,1883 Sleep riddled James Hopper’s head like a dense cloud, letting him forget where he was for the foggy moment between dreams. He reached across the bed for the warmth a woman who was not there. His hands grasped at thin air instead, and the cold, twisted sheets that wrapped around him like a tourniquet.

When he finally stumbled out of bed and shook the cobwebs off, he caught a glimpse of the clock and cursed. He was late for work again.

He hastily made his way to the medicine cabinet and took a swig off a dark glass bottle. The bitter tincture burned on the way down, but he didn’t care. He looked forward to the sting every morning. And periodically throughout the day... And twice again before bed. Initially prescribed by a physician for a chronic case of melancholy and fever three years earlier, Hopper reasoned it was the only thing keeping him going at this point.

As he got dressed, he chased the tonic with a nip or three of whiskey and half a cigarette leftover from the night before. A touch of cologne was the finishing touch to mask the scent of his morning routine. He strapped his sidearm and fixed the crooked badge on his uniform before stepping out into the low autumn sun.

Fall had swept through the Midwest with a cold fury that year, turning the trees into an ocean of fiery yellows and reds as far as the eye could see. The clear cornflower-blue skies of summer had given way to brooding clouds. They hung over the town like a death shroud, a shadow veil hiding the sun, and bringing with it the acrid perfume of decay.

As the days grew shorter, so did Hopper’s patience. Once a loving and devoted husband and father, he felt dead inside now. Utterly devoid of human emotion. His wife Diane and his darling little Sara were taken within days of each other by a nasty bout of consumption almost four years previous. It wiped out half of Manhattan’s Eleventh Ward before he realized New York had left him with nothing, and he retreated to the comforting arms of his hometown.

Looking up from rock bottom, sleepy little Hawkins seemed like the only choice left for him. It was somewhere he felt safe enough to collapse; to mend a shattered heart and ride out the rest of his years in relative ease. After all he fought for during the war and carried with him still, the tragedy of losing his girls was too much to bear. It left him feeling empty.

More than empty; like a dark star, ready to collapse in on itself.

He found as the years passed by, and despite his best efforts, the broken pieces of his heart would not fit back together, no matter how hard he tried to make it work. He was watching himself turn into a lonely and embittered man in the mirror. He was slowly becoming his father and couldn’t think of a worse fate.

Just like his father, he only had a small circle of people who he could trust. His closest friends were former soldiers in the war, now his deputy officers, Callahan and Powell. He could barely admit it to himself, but he spent most of his time with those two fools either at work or at the tavern after work. His friends had their own young families to focus on though, so after he sent them home for the day, Hopper would spend the latter half of his evenings closing down the bar and chasing after the available women in town, breaking their hearts before they could barely get attached.

He was alone in this world and was starting to think that nothing would ever change. It was his lot in life. Eventually, he accepted his fate and stopped caring. He became lazy. Mid-morning arrivals to work had become the norm, but no one seemed to notice or care.

No one, except Florence.

The police department’s secretary was all but tapping her foot at his late arrival, waiting for him when he arrived. She took his coat from his arms and the still burning cigarette from his mouth disapprovingly. He nodded to the boys in the bullpen as he made his grand, yet fashionably late entrance.

Callahan piped up, “You look miserable, Chief.”

“Funny, your wife hardly looked any better when I left this morning,” Hopper didn’t skip a beat, smiling snidely to the young officer as he walked by his desk. Powell hid his chuckle behind his cup of coffee and watched Callahan struggle to find a suitable response for his superior.

“Thank you very much for gracing us with your presence, James,” Florence interrupted, handing him his day's work and a cup of steaming black coffee as he passed by her desk. A schoolmarm in her younger days, she played the part well enough around the office, making sure all of Hawkins finest were running on time. Her only problem child now… was the chief.

Her hands found her hips when he didn’t acknowledge her, “You have a visitor this morning.”

Hopper grumbled into his cup, “Already? It’s only… half past ten. Did I not make myself clear before? No appointments before noon; my mornings are for coffee... and contemplation.”

Yes, that sounded about right.

“I didn’t have a choice in the matter,” Florence explained with a huff, handing him the paperwork she had already started and following him through the bullpen to his office in the back of the building. “The young lady insisted she speak with you immediately and pushed right through to your office. She won’t budge until she sees you, and only you — stubborn thing. Of course, I’ve been keeping her calm while you took your time getting here this morning,” the older woman’s voice dripped with sarcasm. Hopper would have told her that particular tone didn’t suit a woman of her age… if only he were a braver man.

“Please tell me the pushy little lady that’s waiting for me is beautiful, or at the very least, eligible,” he grunted as he stuffed the paperwork in his uniform pocket, not able to muster enough care to look it over. He was confident the matter was a stolen purse or a civil disagreement, something that didn't require his personal attention — that's what he had the two buffoons sitting in the bullpen for.

“It’s Joyce Byers, Chief. She says her son is missing.”

That stopped him in his tracks. It felt like a lifetime since he had heard that name, and it sounded so foreign to him now as his secretary said it. A pang of nostalgia caught his attention, which quickly turned to hurt, remembering how much heartache that confounded woman had caused him in a previous life. He felt a burning agitation growing in his chest at the parting memory he had of her… or perhaps that was the laudanum finally kicking in.

“Did you ask the Widow Byers if she remembers where she left him?”

“That’s not appropriate James,” Florence tutted at him, giving him a stern look over her spectacles. “She’s rather upset.”

Hopper took a deep breath before opening the door to his office, preparing himself for a maddening interaction. His guard dropped slightly when he saw her sitting there, looking lost and forlorn. A small nagging thought played at him, a reminder that she had played this game with him before, and he was the one who lost; she could always play the victim so well.

As the door closed behind him and he stepped into the room, he got a better look at her under the dim light from the window. Her hair was a matted, frizzy mess tucked under the net of her fascinator, a futile attempt to look put together. Her hollow eyes stood out against the sharp pallor of her skin, betraying her weak constitution. She was so far removed from the young, vibrant woman he once knew. It was if a stranger was standing across the room from him now.

“Police Chief Hopper,” she curtsied as he walked around her to his desk, much to his chagrin. Her tone was polite, but he could hear an underlying hint of irritation as she spoke. No doubt for having to wait over an hour to see him. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”

“We can drop the formalities, Joyce. You know damn well you didn’t give me a choice in the matter. Safe to say we’re beyond pleasantries now,” he was stern, not wanting to play games with her, just wanting to get this over with and move on with his day. Yet, despite everything that had gone on between them in their formative years — and the resentment he felt thinking about it again — seeing her looking like this was pulling at a small part of him he thought was long buried.

“Oh, well. My apologies... Hop,” her head dipped at her slight and his correction, but she made a point of saying his name as only she knew it.

Joyce looked like an awkward little bird with a broken wing that needed mending. As he sat down behind his desk, she followed suit, and he observed her nervously plucking at her wrinkled skirts while she waited for him to get settled. It looked to him like she had been wearing the same dress for days and Hopper supposed that was very likely the case if her son was indeed missing. If he knew anything about Joyce, it was that she loved her sons more than life itself. He also knew her to be flighty and forgetful too, so it was hard to say if Will was truly missing or she had just lost track of his whereabouts in this state she was in. Regardless, he could tell that whatever had happened was clearly impeding her mental faculties — she was a vibrating, nervous wreck. Gazing at her pitiful form, he supposed he could give her the benefit of the doubt, one last time.

“All right then, why don’t you tell me what happened. From the start,” Hopper set out a pen and ink, and some paper to take notes as Joyce spoke.

She took a trembling breath, looking down at a small cabinet card with her son’s image on it, and held it tight in her hand as if in prayer. Steadying herself, she began, “My son, William -- Will was out visiting friends two days ago after school. He never made it back home.”

“Did he tell you when he would be back?”

She nodded, elaborating, “He said that morning he would be home for dinner. It’s not like him, but he’s getting older now. When he didn’t make it back, I just assumed he stayed with friends. I called on all of them yesterday, and all they could tell me was they had been at the river that afternoon, and he had left an hour before I expected him home.” Her words were clipped. She was trying her best not to cry.

He wrote down her answers languidly as he continued the inquisition, “And you’ve searched the property for him? Your house is at the edge of Mirkwood, isn’t it?”

“Yes. My oldest and I have torn the forest apart. It’s as if Will disappeared into thin air…” she wrung her hands in worry and bit her bottom lip hard as if willing herself not to think such things.

Hopper paused for a long moment to light a cigarette and offer another to Joyce, who took it as if she had been starving for one. Watching as she brought it to her lips with a shaky hand, he bided his time before he spoke again, wanting to choose his words with particular delicacy.

“Have you considered that he might have run away? Boys of his age will do that, you know. Do you still have relatives in Illinois? Is it possible he went to visit them?”

“No,” she couldn’t help but raise her voice at the underlying suggestion that she was a bad mother and couldn’t keep track of her boy. “I know my son; he wouldn’t do something like that without telling me. It’s been almost two full days! Even if he did, he would have contacted me by now,” she cast her eyes to the floor, the uncertainty starting to creep in. ”I’m sure of it.”

“I stole away when I was a teenager to go fight in the war, Joyce. I didn’t tell anyone until I had to,” Hopper spoke gently, confident she didn’t need the reminder of the abrupt end to the trysts of their youth.

“The war is over if you recall, and… and he’s not like you!" Joyce snapped at him and her face twisted, vexed at his words. He could tell she was holding her tongue to keep from insulting him.

She took a deep breath before she continued. Hopper was her only hope now, and he could tell she was desperate for his help.

“And he’s not like me. He’s not like most. He’s a sensitive soul, creative… and smart… the other children tease him and call him awful names.” She went back to wringing her hands, getting lost in her thoughts, “Something is wrong, I just know it.”

Her eyes locked onto his from across the desk, imploring. Hopper sighed. There was no getting out of this, was there?

“Well, the first thing we should do is organize a search party and get his image in front of as many people as we can. You have that picture card of him?”

She looked down to the card in her hands, tracing the grey image of Will with her fingertips; likely the only memento she had of her beloved son. Hopper only wished he had the same of his sweet Sara.

“Take that to the printers on the way home and have them draft up some posters with his vital information.” Hopper wrote down what she would need to give to the pressman and passed it to her. “I will organize the rest, but I have to be honest with you Joyce… Your reputation around town won’t help us much.”

Joyce’s set her jaw at his words and heaved a drawn-out sigh as if she had been expecting him to say it.

“I can certainly pay your department for the time if that is what it’s going to take to get this process started.” She stuck the cigarette in her mouth in a very un-lady-like fashion to open her coin purse with both hands, as if expecting his outstretched palm, but Hopper waved her off.

“That won’t be necessary. You’re entitled to public services as much as anyone. I’m just uncertain how many volunteers we can muster up for someone who’s known as the Widowed Witch of Mirkwood…” his voice trailed off, regretting the words, as he watched her face cloud over.

Joyce frowned at the ridiculous name the townsfolk had given her. She knew it all too well.

Her husband had died a mysterious and sudden death the year previous. Joyce never spoke of it to anyone, but they all knew. His body wasn’t even in the ground before she took advantage of the life insurance policy in his name at the factory. It seemed that dying had been the one and only good thing Lonnie Byers ever did for his family. And despite being given every opportunity to mourn, Joyce had refused her social obligation. How could she possibly be expected to grieve for the drunken brute of a man she had married? Someone who beat her and her sons if they stepped out of line. Someone who treated her like a dog when they were out in public and didn’t even bother to hide his frequent visits to the bawdy house. From the outside looking in, Hopper could understand why she couldn’t bring herself to mourn that monster of a man, but the community couldn’t ignore her disregard for societal norms, and she was quickly shunned.

Joyce only fanned the flames. Instead of indulging the proper grieving period, she splurged on a new wardrobe. She wore jewel-toned velvets and pastel chantilly lace loudly around town, just to make sure her true feelings toward her dead husband were well known. It didn’t take long for the townsfolk to start talking after that.

Did you hear? Joyce Byers murdered her husband. She only did it for the money.

Hawkins ran wild with whispers and lies: She went crazy and poisoned him. She cut his body up and buried him in the woods behind their house. A secret lover helped her do it, and they danced naked under the full moon… on his grave!

Soon, rumor had it she had summoned a demon to do her bidding. She was labeled an outcast. A scarlet letter. A particular kind of witch.

Of course, Hopper didn’t believe any of the rumors… but he did think that maybe she had it coming. After all, it was Lonnie’s arms she ran to when Hopper didn’t court her fast enough for her liking in the summer of 1863. It wasn’t soon after she broke his heart, Hopper left her and Hawkins behind to fight for the Union, severing any remaining threads that kept them bound together.

“Those rumors are completely unfounded,” she started, trying her best to contain the rage bubbling up inside of her. “And they have nothing to do with my Will.”

“I know they are, Joyce,” Hopper rubbed his tired eyes. “You’re right, it has nothing to do with Will. I’m just saying this might be a bit of an uphill battle for us if we want any information on the whereabouts of your son.”

Her face clouded over at the realization sunk in. Even though he was six feet under, Lonnie Byers’ was still causing her trouble in this life. That son of a bitch.

“I was awfully sorry to hear about your husband,” Hopper cleared his throat, though his voice betrayed him; Joyce picked up on his lack of sincerity immediately.

“Please, spare me your condolences,” she held her hand up to him to stop right there and save them both the discomfort of going through the motions. “We both know what type of man my husband was. My sons and I are much better off now…” she trailed off, a look of distress adorning her delicate, worn features. “Or rather, we were, until my poor b-” she choked on a sob, clutching the picture to her chest. Hopper passed her his handkerchief and gave her a quiet moment to lament her missing child.

He was all too familiar with the pain she was going through, and as she wept, he resolved to put the past aside. He felt compelled to help this broken little bird, despite himself and their history. At least there was still hope for her that Will would return home safely. He’d be damned if he let her lose the fleeting chance to bring him back; something he never had.

When she composed herself again and looked back at him, it was with glassy, pleading eyes, “I need you to find him, Hop.”

“We will find him,” Hopper hoped she would see the truth in his eyes, even if he didn’t feel it himself. “I promise.”

There was nothing more he could do right then but comfort her with a pledge that he prayed he could keep.

For the first time since he laid eyes on her that morning, a small smile graced Joyce’s delicate features. “Thank you,” she extinguished her forgotten cigarette out in the ashtray on his desk and stood up to shake his hand. The gesture felt strange coming from her.

He took her proffered hand with both of his and watched as her lips parted with the shock of his touch. He waited for her to say something more, but she never did; the space between them heavy with everything that would remain unsaid. He couldn’t shake the sudden feeling that they had done this all before. Déjà vu.

When the strange moment passed, he was the first to let go, and he guided her to the door, giving her brief instructions on her next steps.

“Take that picture to the printing press and then go home straight away. I’ll take care of everything else. Get some rest. I will stop by as soon as I have more information for you.”

She paused before leaving, her hand clutching his forearm. Her eyes searched his, one more time.

“You’ll find him for me?”

He nodded, “I swear.” That time it felt like the God’s honest truth.

She nodded solemnly, holding the slip of paper and image of Will tight to her chest, taking his promise and her orders with her as he escorted her out of his office. She seemed to float down the dark hall towards the station’s front door, and as he watched her exit, he wondered how he would manage this mess. Just when he thought he had enough of his own problems to deal with, she had to show up at his doorstep with a doozy.

How could he expect anything less from Joyce Byers?

As Joyce stepped out onto Main Street, the gravity of the situation finally hit her, along with the heavy door to the Police Department. It slammed shut behind her, clanging like a gong, waking her up to the sudden realization that this was all too real, and the dark, dreaded feeling, that nothing would ever be the same again. A horse tied to the hitching post outside the building whinnied, startling her once more, just as a young man walked by. He gawked at her until he rounded the corner, out of sight, as if he saw a ghost. It took all her strength not to break down right then and there. She couldn’t, not yet. Her heart was heavy with the weight of the tasks laid out for her: Visit the printing press, then home to rest. Miles to go before she could sleep.

Joyce felt like she was drifting above herself, tethered to her body, as she glided down Main Street like a ghost. Another woman caught her eye, her face twisted into a disgusted sneer. She imagined she was a sight to be seen, practically un-dead; a shell of the woman she was the day before last. Her reputation was preceding, and her current appearance didn’t help, but she didn’t give a damn about any of that anymore. If they only knew…

She could feel the townsfolk eyes on her. She could even hear them whispering. Her cheeks burned red from resisting the urge to lash out at the next person to point at her or titter to their acquaintance. Joyce bit her tongue, knowing that she would need these people on her side if she wanted even the slightest chance to find her boy. She kept her eyes down and focused on her steps, one foot in front of the other.

Printing press. Home. Sleep. Press. Home. Sleep.

It became her mantra as she made her way through the center of town. It was taking everything not to collapse on the street under the righteous scrutiny and the unbearable burden she carried. There was nothing else left to do but carry on.

When she got to the printers, the Pressman was waiting for her. She never thought she would say it in her lifetime, but thank goodness for James Hopper and his keen foresight to have the operator call ahead. Joyce was grateful for the small gesture saving her from having to relive the nightmare and explain herself again. It only took a quick moment to get the information organized for the poster and an estimate on when the prints would be ready. She left with the Pressman's kind word that the photo would be returned to her within the day in the same condition she gave it to him.

Once again, she found herself standing alone and feeling lost on Main Street in her hometown — a place she knew like the back of her hand. She was restless with the urge to do something, anything to help find Will. It felt wrong to head home to idly stand-by while others held her son’s life in their hands, but Hop was right. What good would she be to the cause when she was such a mess? His word's ringing in her ears, she turned around and began the long walk home.

#stranger things fanfiction #jopper #joyce byers #jim hopper #au #joyce byers x jim hopper #victorian pulp #danse macabre

[stabbyarm]

Kay disappeared at noon. It was a hot thursday, heavy and sticky - they’d driven through the night for the past two days, had only woken her at dawn to toss her the keys to a peeling, sun-bleached motel. When she’d stepped into the room’s muggy shade, a cockroach crunched beneath her shoe. The air conditioning wheezed like a 70 year old smoker with a tube in his lungs, a metronome of dripping water beating against the faded cracked ivory plastic of the grotty shower. “Nice place,” she’d muttered as they followed, cradling Freya still asleep in their arm. They hadn’t answered. They were far from the most talkative and open person she’d ever met, so she barely noticed their sudden coldness, their grouchiness, the shortening of their temper: though to them these things screamed from every part of their being. The few words they exchanged were sharp. When they thought she wasn’t looking, she caught them glancing anxiously out of the window coated in a shroud of splattered bugs. She excused it as exhaustion - the road hadn’t just worn down the tires. When they weren’t back by 3, she began to wonder. She tried to burst the bubble of anxiety that had formed, but it lodged itself at the base of her throat, made her mind race with a hundred impossible scenarios. It wasn’t fear for them, exactly, but the uncertainty uneased her. At 5, her concern began to chill; by 7 it had fully become distrust. At 9 she could no longer be subdued by the glow of the television, snatched up their keys with gritted teeth and stormed out to the truck. Flickering busted red and blue neon coloured the car park, everything else bled grey by buzzing orange street lamps. The air was thick, heavy with screeching insects and the distant croaking of sleepy gators. The truck was totally empty, its cracked leather seats bare aside from their jacket, slumped carelessly onto the passenger seat. She snorted; she’d half expected to find them asleep in there, would have found it as cathartic as easy to yell at them for being selfish and making her worry even for a second. She opened the door anyway, as if they might have been hiding beneath the crushed soda cans at the foot of the seats. The electric yellow of the reception beckoned her from the cracked wing mirror. She spun too quickly, glowered at it as if it was hiding the secrets of the universe from her. Lowering her hood and her temper, she stalked towards it. Behind the desk was a redheaded teenager with more acne than clear skin. She gave him a plastered smile. “Hey, so, my buddy went out a while ago and was supposed to come back with beers, did you see them at all?” His expression was as vacant as the sign advertised. She clicked her tongue, gestured awkwardly at her right elbow. “Only has one arm?” His eyes lit up. “Oh!” He yelled, a little too excitedly. “With the-” he his hand curled into a faint claw as he waved it across his face, but he seemed to suddenly remember better of himself, and stopped and blanched mid sentence. Nix nodded. “Said they were looking for a lake? To like, go fishing or something. So I, uh, gave them a leaflet about the swamp.” “The swamp.” She said flatly. The kid stood up from his chair and pointed past her, to a distant gathering of stretched trees, cast black and blue in the moonlight. “Yeah, people go there sometimes when they stay here. Tourists mostly.” “Why.” “I don’t know man. But if you wanna go look for your friend you should wait till morning. There’s gators out there. And stuff.” “Uh huh.” When she finally found them, she told herself as she snatched a heavy flashlight from the glove compartment, locked the door to the room and told Freya not to wait up, she was going to fucking kill them. The swamp was smaller than it felt, as she picked her way through the winding rotten wooden path. Even now the stagnant water made the air muggy and her skin crawl. She imagined herself zipped into someone’s unwashed week old gym bag. Too pissed to be afraid she crept around sleeping toads and lizards, through clouds of whining mosquitoes. In the last hours she’d accidentally convinced herself that Kay had set them up. She hadn’t intended to and she’d grasped onto her conviction that there was an honest reason for their abrupt disappearance. But it seemed that at the first sign of uncertainty the strangeness of the situation had overwhelmed her and that, despite their willingness to shoulder as much of the burden as they could, she couldn’t trust someone that she barely knew. She had nothing to confirm or deny this, really, other than the rising hostility that she could suddenly blatantly remember. ‘Treacherous brute,’ Xeu had called them, and though she felt no warmth towards him, in their absence she was beginning to believe it. She must have walked just over a mile when she saw it in the distance, an abandoned cabin sagging under the weight of rot. In the collapsed window flickering candlelight cast long dancing shadows across the still murky water. She could hear their gruff breathing from the doorway, deep and rattling - they were slumped over the arm of a gutted sofa, writhing very slowly. At their feet were the grease stained wrappers of enough cheeseburgers to feed a family of six, countless cans that they’d crushed into coins in their stress. There was something else too, not quite crying but a soft whimpering, a cutting animal noise. Not noticing her they twitched, curled into themself like they were trying to drag themself into sleep. The bittersweet relief of actually finding them propelled her forwards, unlatched the door to her fury. “What the fuck is this?” Her shout flung them to their feet with a yell of surprise. They glared at her frantically, staggering until they found their balance. They stared at her like they’d never seen her before - she could almost hear their heartbeat fluttering in their throat - their limbs locking like a spring trap, ready to snap to action at the slightest feather touch. “What are you doing here?” they stammered. Their voice was low, shaken - their eyes, rubbed raw, flickered to the shattered windows, peered into the night’s fog, waiting, just waiting, for something vast and dark to leap out at them. “What am I doing here?” The tremor of rage that contorted her face for a second made them visibly flinch. Their hand shot to cradle their head, soothe their throbbing temples - the effort with which they clenched their teeth coloured their cheeks bright crimson. Sweat gleamed on their forehead - how much shit must they have shot into themself to get here. Their groan twisted from their core like they were being ripped in two. Just for a second, a deep cold fear tapped her on the shoulder, and she felt the colour drain from her face. “I’m s- I’m sorry-” Kay choked like they’d punctured a lung - their knuckles blanched at the collar of their shirt, hot tears left slick paths down their cheek. Their eye twitched, vision faltered for a second. “No,” they strained. Fought not to collapse as a bout of pain hit them like a stone mallet to the ribs. For the first time in hours, she actually felt a moment of doubt. Of overwhelming pity. Suddenly she couldn't shake the feeling that she’d backed them onto a cliff edge, that at any second they might throw themself off and pull her down with them. She took a step towards them, softened her voice; “Hey, you’re-” “No,” they roared - like someone had just torn out their heart. Their eyes were wild, though not with the hot rage that coloured hers - angry, yes, but wide, blanched with terror. As she watched, the copper in their russet skin drained to sickly tan. “You shouldn’t be here,” they murmured, their frightened whisper catching on the roughness of their throat. Even as they cowered away from her, they seemed bigger, their shape strangely distended. They swatted her away as she stepped toward them, whole body trembling violently. They looked as if they might throw up at any second. Dark crimson swelled at their nose, between the tight line of their lips - they dashed it away quickly with the back of their hand. It wasn’t until they sank to their knees, fighting an eye watering yell of agony as if they’d bound their own throat with coarse rope to suppress it that she stopped. The last of her broiling rage evaporated, left only the cold heavy dregs of fear deep in her gut. Ragged breaths like shredded leather shuddered from them as they curled forward, buried their face in their hand. In their locked grimace she could see the sharpening of their teeth, the swelling of their jaw, the awful crunching of their ribs. “Please,” they sobbed. Their hand pulsed, bones stretching sickeningly beneath their skin, their nails morphing into obsidian claws. Instinct told her to step away but some primal fear had rooted her in place. Her muscles seized as if encased in ice, her breaths shallow and silent in her lungs, as if any noise would summon the beast clawing its way out of them. A thunder-crack snap fired from their spine like a rifle and they threw their head back. Blood seeped from their snarl as it stretched. Bristling, tar black fur burst through their dark skin like needles into a pincushion. With every tiny, fine movement it seemed another three of their bones would crack like the lash of a long whip. She would have given anything, anything at all, to not have had to hear them scream again. And there was nothing she could do but watch. As they swelled into something that had haunted her nightmares since she was a child, all she could do was stand there and watch, unsure of when her heart had last beaten. Even if you pressed her she couldn’t tell you how long she had stared then, paralysed. How long it had been until the wretched snapping had stopped, or the wailing, how long until that unleashed body had risen to its full size, with its rippling ebony fur and steel muscles. How, even missing an arm it had consumed every millimetre of her vision as it stood in that corner, racked only by the volume of breath in its newly stretched lungs. The point of its ear twitched at the shortness of her breath- the other, scarred, half torn, flattened instantly. It turned its snout slightly; foaming drool oozed from between the locked knives of its teeth, black nose glistening. Its nostrils flared flesh pink at her scent and a low growl seeped from it at the periphery of her hearing. Claws like iron scraped against the dusty concrete, left trails of red between the fragments of their clothes, the last scrapped evidence of their humanity. Now, finally, as it turned to look at her she found the strength to back away, though fear had left her body numb and trembling. With each step she took a long breath, and though it rattled viciously and her eyes pricked somehow it stopped her from descending into panic. A breath in and out as her feet found their way towards the collapsed doorway. In and out as the beast that was once Kay stalked slowly towards her, their huge body arched, their teeth curved like scimitars. She thought of turning to run; even this gave the furnace of her imagination enough fuel that she could feel its teeth around her neck, feel its claws rip into her back, see its awful snout drip hungrily with her blood. It was close enough that she could feel its breath, hot as an oven, metallic and bitter. The same scars patterned its muzzle that cascaded over their face, raw hairless strips of leathery skin that buckled, swollen and ridged through its fur. One orange eye blazed, the hollow blackness of its huge pupil seeming to suck the light from the weathered room. The other, glazed and milky, stared at her dispassionately. Cold. Distant. If it killed her now, she wondered for a second, would Kay remember? Any hope of reason vanished in the haze of their lifeless right eye. Would they remember how she tasted? Her fingers found the cold weight of a key in her pocket. Folding it between her knuckles, she thought about the taste of her own blood. Her back met the faded brick wall with a soft thud. To her left, the chill of night air caressed her cheek, the ghost of a lover’s touch. Her arm tensed. Her fist balled around that key as if, in all conceivable senses of the phrase, her life depended on it. For the first time in many, many years, she found herself praying. Begging God not to let her miss. Fortunately, He obliged. The force of her punch drove the key sharply into their eye. Perhaps if they’d had both of their arms it might have ended differently, but they reeled far enough away from her that she could tear away, that even when they recovered she was far out of their reach. The night burned like hot coals in her lungs as she sprinted back through the knotted trees. She could hear nothing but the sound of her ragged breathing, feel nothing but the thick embrace of the night and the raw burning in her thighs. Nevertheless she ran, through stinging tears and twisting nausea, though dust-dry retching in her throat until there were no more trees, until she was past the first dimly lit byroads and into the neon safety of the motel. Only there in the car park did she sink to her knees and allow herself to sob, settle the contents of her stomach onto the cool tarmac, to shake violently until the terror had passed. The concierge’s shadow stretched curiously from the reception. Scooping herself from the ground she hurried to the plywood door, shut it definitely behind her. The rickety bed engulfed her kindly, like a warm but reassuring embrace from a stranger and, finally safe, she cried like a child until sleep took her. It was even good enough to spare her the nightmares. When she woke in the morning she still felt drained, like the mattress had pulled all of the energy from her. Behind the curtains and to her surprise, the bloody yolk of the sun was only beginning to peek above the horizon. Her eyes felt as if they’d been buried in sand and slotted back into her skull; her well worn clothes clung to her limply, like a bandaid come unstuck in a pool. Yellow light crept below the bathroom door - Freya still slept, curled up in the centre of her bed. Icy anxiety knotted her stomach again as she put her palm to the flimsy door. She half expected to find a corpse. Kay sat naked in the basin of the shower, though they were greased with enough dirt, sweat and blood that they couldn’t possibly have felt it. A cigarette barely hung from their split dry lips, its smoke listing lazily around their head. Their right eye was bluebottle-purple, two scarlet crescents looped beneath their eyes, so violently vibrant they might as well have been raw gashes. They didn’t seem to have been able to reach the shower - their tangled hair was slick with sweat. She had no way of knowing how long they’d sat there but it seemed as if they’d become a permanent fixture. Even their breath barely seemed to move them. The soles of their feet were caked with dark earth. A sliver of amber moved beneath their swollen eyelid. One slow blink and their jaw clenched weakly, their head drooped and they swallowed something sour back down that had risen in their throat. Nix felt the silence ache to be broken, not out of embarrassment but something else - simultaneously, she absolutely couldn’t look at them, but couldn’t look away. It was impossible not to think of the Wolf, but it was as absent as it was so clearly conspicuous. Looking at them now, so thoroughly shattered, she would have wondered if it ever existed. Her voice was rough as she found her words, sounded as if it might break at any second though she had wrung every tear from her eyes. “Kay, I-” she began, but they tightened their lips, shook their head faintly. “I am so, so sorry,” they said. A soft, involuntary gasp escaped her; she had forgotten that they had a voice, and, in its calm, broken tenderness, realised she had also forgotten their humanity. “I should have told you. I thought you knew. I could have killed you, I-” Their skin paled suddenly, their hand rising to their mouth as if they might throw up. Deftly it drifted to their bloodshot eyes, snatched away the spilling acid tears with a sharp frown. Pinkish liquid trickled from their stained nose. Nix pinched the bridge of her nose. “I shouldn’t have followed you, I’m sorry,” she groaned. Looking at them, she couldn’t help but feel responsible, felt that she had somehow weighed in on their pain. “No,” they croaked. They could do nothing now to stop the leaking from their eyes, to repress their torn weeping. “No, this is not your fault.” They shook their head, breathed through gritted teeth. “I can’t- I’m so sorry. So fucking sorry. Please, I-” She pressed the door closed behind her, took their hand as she crouched in front of them. She could feel her own heart rending itself in two as their eyes met hers, had to do something to calm the wrenching pain in her chest. “Kay, you didn’t - didn’t do anything wrong,” clasping their hand between hers, she silenced them before they could even begin to protest. “Following you put us both in danger. I should have trusted you. You’re not a bad person.” Her words were a twist to the knife already in them, brought them forward only into more distress. Their head nudged against her shoulder and she brought them into a careful embrace as she reassured them again, cradling their body against hers and pressing her cheek softly to the top of their head. Crying in her arms, they whispered a thousand apologies until their throat seized. Seeing them now she couldn’t believe she’d ever been afraid. Though when she closed her eyes she saw the wolf, its hulking form and cruel features, she felt their hand on her back, as gentle as the tremors which now faded from them. She helped them carefully to their feet, propped their leaden deadweight against the cracked tiled wall. When they pulled their hand from their face it was again covered in ruby blood. They sneered their distaste, asked her quietly for a towel. “Let me help you,” she said softly, fingertips brushing the swelling that coloured the right side of their face with a wince and a twist of guilt. “I’ll be alright,” they answered. They didn’t even have the energy to make it believable. “Shut up,” she smiled wryly. The shower’s heat had returned a little colour to their skin. They no longer stank of rust, sweat and rancid earth, and though still swollen, hoarse and sore, there was barely a sign that they were or had ever been anything other than entirely human. Clutching a faded sandstone towel around their waist they sat and pointed to the open cuts and scrapes that they’d accumulated through the night as Nix quickly sealed them with surgical tape. None were too deep - they showed her the raised puffy lines of those gouges they’d had to hastily sew shut themself, traced the lines of long scratches, puncture wounds made by teeth like kitchen knives. “We’re not exactly nice to each other,” they joked lightly, but it made them blush a little. As she held a chunk of the ice she’d wrapped in one of their t-shirts to their swollen eye they yelped, cursed and settled into a low groan. “Can you see okay?” she asked, wincing with them. She didn’t think she’d ever hurt anyone this badly before. It played again and again in her mind - the hardness of their skull as she’d driven the metal into it. The heat of their jet fur, the blood throbbing just beneath its surface. She didn’t want to ask if they remembered but was certain they could sense her guilt; every now and then they’d smile warmly, reassuringly, though it was strange to look at, their sad eyes glinting in the net of scars, beneath the bruise that had puffed up like a baseball mitt, the broken slant of their crooked smile. “No, but it’ll be fine. It doesn’t hurt so badly any more. It’s already starting to go down, see?” Carefully they laid her cool fingertips against the shining skin, closing their eyes as they leaned into her touch. Her breath caught as their fingers trailed down smoothly over the back of her hand and fell back into their lap. When they opened their eyes again she couldn’t meet them; their softness made something shiver in her core, inched up her spine like a silvery spider along a frozen pipe. Curiously their thumb found her cheek, traced a thread of red that she didn’t even know was sore. “Did I do this?” they murmured. She almost wanted to laugh at the hurt in their voice which was so blatantly misplaced - like they couldn’t have ripped her throat out in one movement. As if she hadn’t rammed a key into their eye. Slowly, delicately, they leaned forward and pressed their lips to her cheek - though dry and cracked they were soft and so, so gentle; so careful in their movement that she could feel their pulse, the raised white scar that split them unevenly. It froze and melted her in a second and by the time her shattered thoughts had pieced themselves back together she had taken their head in her hands and kissed them deeply. Their startled gasp tasted as warm, sweet and spiced as a winter wood fire, their lips tender and giving beneath hers. She could feel the sharp points of their teeth pry at her lower lip, the very tip of their tongue briefly flicker against hers. Their hand slipped into her short hair. She shivered as their fingers traced the lines of her skull. When they broke away, each gasping for breath, they were drawn back together immediately by some powerful invisible magnetism. Each gentle demand she made from them they reciprocated instantly, eagerly, only shaken by the faintest nervous tremor. Her lips left theirs, but now they had started something together it couldn’t easily be stopped. The tension that had been brewing between them had suddenly been smashed, like someone had taken a crowbar to a pane of glass the size of a skyscraper - now the shards were embedded so sweetly in her skin the bleeding wouldn’t stop until Kay had removed every single one of them with their bared teeth. Their hungry kisses followed her jaw, the hot line of her jugular, over the stained copper ink of her tattoo, down to the smooth ridge of her collarbone. She breathed their name as they tasted her, ran their teeth over her throat. This couldn’t conceivably end well and she knew it; but in that moment Kay would have done anything for her - and, for better or worse, she was absolutely going to let them.