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aqueeracademic · 6 months

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crowley // your needs, my needs

Oh well, who was I? Who was I to watch you wilt? You ain't gotta tell me what it means. Trace the outlines of your dreams. You'll always be a flower on my skin, and the pain that I am in.

Crowley didn’t know where he was going, but his foot had flattened the gas pedal and he was letting the Bentley take him wherever it thought was best. He hadn’t cried, he refused to. He felt cruel, crueler than he had since the Spanish Inquisition and that wasn’t even his fault. This was. He had chosen to tell Aziraphale what he had. He had made that decision and he had to live forever with the guilt of that. His mouth ached, his lips felt cold and tingly where he had just pressed them against his best friend’s. His hand found its way to his mouth and he traced it, flashes of Alpha Centauri crossed with Aziraphale’s face, shocked - no, disgusted - at what he had done. I would always know it was there, underneath, the angel had said. Now, more than ever, Crowley knew what he meant. And that would be the feeling Crowley would be burdened with forever. He punched the steering wheel.

It's all the same, the losing touch, the waiting game. You cross that county line; I promise to be there this time, alright?

He didn’t know where the Bentley was going, but he let it carry on at an alarming rate. In the meantime, he thought hard about where he went wrong. He wondered which touch of his it was that made Aziraphale shudder, which one of his quips or subtle flirtations were too soon. What is too soon for 6000 years? he wonders. You go too fast for me, Crowley. Apparently everything is. Everything is too soon. Aziraphale left too soon, Crowley left too soon. He pondered those final moments he had, looking at Aziraphale across the busy street, no one recognizing the importance, the ache of the moment except for them. Or, maybe, just him. He was so resolute so quickly, rejecting the promises Aziraphale began making before either of them could take it back. He couldn’t go back to Heaven. He thought the angel knew that; he thought he knew why. If he could take it back, though, if he could go back and be asked by Aziraphale again to reside in Heaven and save the world over and over and over again… would he?

You were a work of art. That's the hardest part.

The car carried on. Crowley was looking at the road, but he couldn’t see anything. His vision was clouded. He thought about the first time he encountered Aziraphale after the Fall, on the wall at the Garden, and how he knew that the feeling he had pent up from their first meeting had not been ripped from him as everything else had been. This was infuriating. It didn’t become less infuriating as the years passed. It became tolerable. An ache buried in his chest that felt like a bruise being poked every time he looked at the angel. If Crowley had not been damned for asking questions, he would have been damned for that; for worshiping every part of Aziraphale as if he were God, for wanting to memorize him, know him as he was meant to know religion, trust him as he was meant to trust the Ineffable Plan. For years, centuries even, he had a sick part of himself that was glad of the Fall, glad he had been banished, so he could feel that way about Aziraphale without fearing the repercussions. And then the feeling would be stamped out by the other fear, that Aziraphale would hate him if he ever knew, that Aziraphale hated him already. But looking was enough, reaching out but never touching. It killed him, sure, but it was enough. Until it wasn’t.

Howling like dogs in the light of the moon; holding our breath after 132.

The car swung a violent left turn and Crowley began to cry. The memories had started and wouldn’t stop. He thought about the second World War, how he had walked on hallowed ground for him. He thought about Aziraphale giving him Holy Water. He thought about the Beginning and the End of all things, and everything that happened after the End. Crowley’s skin was hot, burning even, the same way it had when he Fell. Mostly, though, he thought about the Ritz. Crowley wanted to drive something sharp into his skull as those meals danced through his head; him sitting and watching Aziraphale indulge, only wondering if he indulged in anything else. If he would be willing to indulge himself, that is, in anything else. He thought about the wine and their silly toasts. To the world, they had said. Crowley’s stomach twisted at the remembrance of those words. Because Aziraphale had meant exactly that. “To the world” for him meant Earth. It meant humankind and all the planet had to offer in its limited capacity. “To the world” for Crowley, though, just meant Aziraphale. It meant his love and his dedication and his realism and his joy. It didn’t take many decades for Aziraphale to become his everything, for the bruise in his chest to ache more insistently. “Go up there and tempt the world!” Beelzebub had said. And Crowley had, in his own way. His temptations just weren’t good enough. He just wasn’t good enough, he supposed.

You asked me why I wasn't sayin' a word. I'm namin' the stars in the sky after you.

The Bentley changed gears as it made its way back onto a rather busy street. Crowley leaned back in his chair and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to stop the tears. Lights danced behind his eyes as he clenched them, and he thought about creating the universe with Aziraphale by his side. He remembered laughing, smiling harder than he perhaps ever had in his entire existence. And Aziraphale was there. He could feel his eyes on him as he watched the nebulas and galaxies form, rotating in and around themselves, creating the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. Until he looked at Aziraphale, who was gazing at him expectantly, curiously. And, God, he loved what he had created, but looking at the angel next to him felt different. He remembered how Aziraphale had tipped his head to the side like a little puppy, which hadn’t been created yet, as Crowley pre-maturely mourned the death of this beauty all around them and that that was the first time he felt the ache in his chest. He remembered that he had pointed to a star, brand new, bright and innocent just like the ethereal being next to him, and decided it would be named Aziraphale. He blessed it, so it would keep shining even when the rest of the universe was gone. He watched as nine little spheres began to circle around that star, drawn to it just as Crowley was drawn to Aziraphale.

It was a work of art. That's the hardest part.

What Crowley had created when he was still considered an angel was beautiful, he knew that. He had lived for centuries in reverence of the stars, weighing the best ways to repent for what he had done without Hell catching him, wishing that God would somehow return him to his place among them. But She wouldn’t. He knew that. But maybe if She did, maybe if She had restored his angelic status a couple hundred years ago when She saw that Crowley wasn’t all that set on being a demon, Aziraphale would have looked twice. And yet he wore black and he tempted his angel to Earthly goods and he questioned the divinity of Heaven. Aziraphale would have to be an idiot to even consider him as anything more than vermin beneath his feet; weak vermin, but vermin all the same. Aziraphale, though, was rather smart. The tears had stopped and he readjusted his grip on the steering wheel, rubbing away the aching beating in his chest. The sun was going down, now, the stars were coming out. He doubted he would even be able to see them from this part of London. He was unsure, still, where he was. He couldn’t get his eyes to adjust or adapt or understand the street signs but he let the Bentley carry on, doing whatever it wanted. He considered his next move.

To spiral out, to try and float. To see a friend, to see a ghost.

He could start a war. Or invent a new type of social media that would really mess with people’s self images. He could leave the country and see what the modern happenings in Brazil or New Zealand were. He could go off on his own to Alpha Centauri. But he knew, and this pressed that same bruise in his chest, that Aziraphale would always be able to figure out where he had gone and that only made him feel worse. He wanted to slink into a hole and curl up on himself and vanish completely, but he would never be able to escape those prying eyes. He never wanted Aziraphale to look at him again, not after he had looked at him the way he had in the bookshop. As he drove, or, rather, as the car went along its merry way, he swore he kept passing that same street in SoHo over and over again. He felt he must be mistaken and continued his brainstorm.

Bitter-brained, always drunk. Rail-thin, Zoloft.

He was bold to even assume that Aziraphale would look down on him from time to time. He couldn’t even kiss him back. What made Crowley think he would bother to check up? I forgive you. Ah, yes. Forgiveness. The sin of lust, the sin of wanting more than you’re allowed to have. Indulging in something as human as love. He disgusted himself and could only imagine how Aziraphale must have felt just then, fingertips pressed to his lips, eyes wide, trembling and searching for something to say. He thought that the kiss might have done it. He couldn’t bear to risk any confusion in what it was he was telling Aziraphale, and despite their endless teasing of human customs in the way of love, he felt that that was the only way his angel would really get the message. Besides, what he felt for Aziraphale, he feared, was very human. His skin crawled. It felt like he was Falling all over again, the transgression of only an hour prior eating him from the inside out. The bruise burned. He decided a bender would do it. Crowley figured he could reenact the bacchanalia of the 1980s, just without Freddie Mercury or Mick Jagger around to curb his broader enthusiasms. His bony wrists ached with the strength of which he grabbed the wheel. He didn’t know what to do next. He didn’t know. He shuddered. The car sped up.

Subtle change, shorter days. Dead-eyed, dead weight.

Crowley could feel himself retreating inside. Whatever was left of his soul was withering quicker than the car was driving. He imagined Aziraphale was already in Heaven, that he had already changed into his new clothes and was being informed what the next order of business would be. It would all be rather overwhelming for him, Crowley imagined. But, then, no it wouldn’t. Aziraphale, a better being than him, would do his job right. And Crowley would watch. The aching stopped. Crowley stared dead ahead and felt the bruise under his ribs fade into almost nothing.

Your life, your dreams. Your mind, your needs. My needs. Your needs, my needs.

He figured that, in some ways, Aziraphale had done the right thing. But Crowley was selfish by nature; it was in his redesigned DNA to think of himself first. And he had been abandoned, first by the God he revered, and then by the man he worshiped, and he couldn’t take much more of this. The angel had always dreamed of returning to Heaven, of being allowed to go back and finding acceptance in his home. And he had been given a really good deal, all things considered. Aziraphale knew what he was doing. He needed to go back. But Crowley needed him. He wished so badly he could respect the angel’s wishes, that he would have told him he was happy for him and that he’d be waiting right there in the bookshop for him to come back. But Crowley didn’t say that. He told him - tried to tell him - that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with him. Aziraphale did not return the sentiment, which hurt more than anything else. Even if they couldn’t actually do it, he wished that Aziraphale would have pretended, for the briefest of moments, that he wanted to, that he wouldn’t leave Crowley like a dog at the door. Crowley had waited for him for thousands of years. He wouldn’t wait for the angel anymore.

To spiral out, to try and float. To see a friend, to see a ghost. To see a ghost, to see a ghost. To see a ghost.

Crowley had just decided that the bruise of affection was gone, that the urge to wait for centuries for the angel to come back was no more, that the sensation on his lips was fading when the Bentley rolled to a rumbling stop. Crowley pulled his glasses off his face and looked up, out the window. Oh. The bruise ached, and he knew that he would be here forever. The car had driven him all around London, only to drag him back to the bookstore where it paused, as if expecting Aziraphale to come bounding out of the shop and join them in the passenger seat. Hundreds of miles and thousands of years from Eden, and Crowley still slithered to rest outside Aziraphale’s door even when he didn’t mean to. There was a shadow moving around inside the shop, and for a moment Crowley’s heart leapt. And then he remembered that Muriel was in there, eager to continue the work Aziraphale had left behind. Hoping she never sold a single one of those books, Crowley nudged the car away from the curb and drove away again.

#i did it #it’s not great #it was better as a video in my mind #but it’s okay #enjoy #crowley #good omens #crowly x aziraphale #aziraphale x crowley #aziracrow #azirowley #aziraphale #azicrow #noah kahan #your needs my needs

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littleeyesofpallas · 6 months

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Can you do the new sternritter's Vollstandig Name in the new anime?

Oh yeah, I wasn't sure if there had been any kanji released for that but it seems like the Bleach wiki has something up there for them, although they haven't cited their sources, as usual... They cite the chapter and episode they each appear in respectively, but go figure, you guys... the anime appearance does not include t e x t. So no idea where either the kanji or the romanized names came from.(wait did they get the kanji and katakana from Japanese closedcaptioning? Do they include furigana on [cc] in Japan??)

This wound up way longer than I'd intended...

Barbarriel[神の雷霆] phonetically, BA-RU-BA-RI-E-RU[バルバリエル]. So weirdly this is how Japanese defines the name Ramiel/Remiel/Reniel[רַעַמְאֵל] the name of an actual biblical angel, so both Japanese epithets here, plus the original hebrew all translate as "Thunder of God." But oddly it sounds a lot more like Bariel, which is an angel named in the Ars Paulonia, part of the Lesser Key of Solomon, a grimoire foundational to a lot of the surviving legacy of Christian occultism and demonology nonsense.(i.e. It was some nerd's 18th century Pokedex of fanfic and headcanons.) That being said, it has no actual meaning the way biblical angels(Gabriel, Raphael, Ariel, Uriel, Michael, etc...) do, because it's not hebrew and the idiot who made it up in the 1800s obviously didn't know what he was talking about. It is of course the exact same kanji used for her Schrift The Thunderbolt[雷霆].

Azhalbiora[神の死] meaning "Death of God" and written as phonetically A-ZA-RU-BI-O-RA[アザルビオラ]. Other than seemingly a little lazy the name just kinda doesn't make a lot of sense as a name for her power. Also since i have no idea where they got these I don't really know if that's an -AL- or an -AR-, a -BI- or a -VI-, or a -ORA or an -OLA. And once again there is no apparent basis in actual angelic names so it's not like there's context to work with. It has an almost vaguely fake "arabic" sound to it? Like the sort of shit H.P Lovecraft would've come up with?

Pornipora[神の力] I'm sure any weeb worth their salt can recognize the kanji for "power," so it's "Power of God." And the phonetics are POO-NI-PO-RA[ポーニポラ], again, PORA? POLA? Who can say.

Gagael[神の飢え] at last something resembling creative input! "Hunger of God," in which [飢え] is not just directly lifted from her existing Schrift. ([食いしんぼう]: "Glutton/Gourmand." Same root kanji though so they weren't thinking that hard.) And while the phonetics, GA-GA-E-RU[ガガエル] are yet more gibberish, they at least go back to the sort of appropriated hebrew -el[אֵל] meaning "of god" used in the names of the aforementioned biblical archangels.

[edit]: and since there's a new one to add to this list...

So, you've probably noticed these all just use the same kanji as the girls' actual Schrifts, so there's nothing terribly clever going on, which isn't too surprising but is kind of a shame no one took the opportunity to get creative with it. (Even the attacks names they peppered into the extended fight scene were a little too goofy and bland for my taste. I mean, come on, giving Lili attacks called Spork and Spife?? Really?)

Thunder[雷霆] and Thunder[雷霆]

Deadperson[死者] and Dead[死]

Power[力] and Power[力]

Glutton[食いしんぼう] and Hunger[飢え]

For comparison the side by side on Kubo's actual Vollstandig and associated Schrift were:

Prison[監獄] vs Righteouness[正義]

Fear[恐怖*] vs Be afraid(of)[怯え] (*technically As Nodt's Schrift was never written out, but that's the kanji he used talking about "Fear" all the time when using it so I consider it a safe assumption.)

Love[愛] vs Love[情愛] (I don't know how to clarify the distinction between these two words... the former is more broad? Like it can include a few extra examples the latter can't?)

Penetrate Everything[万物貫通] vs Judgement[裁き]

Lethal Dose[致死量] vs Tasting(for poison)[毒見]

Miracle[奇跡] vs Authority[権能]

Oh and also the names

Piskiel[ピスキエル]

Grimaniel[グリマニエル]

Tatarforas[タタルフォラス]

Gudoero[グドエロ]

Jilliel[ジリエル]

Hasshein[ハスハイン]

Aschetonig[アシュトニグ]

Are basically all gibberish too, so I can't exactly say the names don't fit a "pattern," since there isn't on, but they still don't feel quite right to me, save maybe Lili's. Hasshein and Aschetonig are at least clearly playing with German-esque phonetics*, and Piskiel, Grimaniel, and Jilliel are all playing into recognizable angelology cliches. (Gudoero/Gudoel might be too, but in a way that's hard to separate it from the clearl intentional "ero" wordplay. It just doesn't work outside of th eJapanese phonetics.) And Tartarforas is just suspiciously close to Tartarus but otherwise doesn't really register to my ear as any language that would make sense in the context of the Quincy's associations...

Wait... The German sounding ones might actually be German after all. Like, bad German, but technically German...

*Asche is a n fact German for "Ash," and Ton is "Clay," in fact Tonig can mean "Clayley" as in "Clay-like" so I guess Gerard's actually is German for "Clay-like Ash"... That's actually kind of cool, and vaguely biblical? Adam being sculpted from clay, and "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust" and all that? Huh... Weird I never bothered to actually check that I guess, I just assumed if most of them were nonsense that even the ones that sounded more legit would be too...

Wait... Damn... have I really been slacking this much???

The Haß sound in Hasshein could be the German for "Hate" and although it's not really a ""word"" in a functional sense by itself, hein is a part of the term Freund Hein is a kind of grim reaper where, I guess "Hein" was kind of an old euphemism for the devil for some reason? So, Death personified is the "Friend (of) Hein/TheDevil" but I'd bet the intended reading of Kubo's slapdash German here would be "Hate(s) Death" as is suitable to Askin's whole shtick of narrowly avoiding death.

I'm mad I never sat down and tried to hash those out sooner...

#bleach #bleach meta #quincy #sternritter #vollstandig #candice catnipp #giselle gewelle #liltotto lamperd #meninas mcallon

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pixelkip · 8 months

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I was gonna add to my old fnaf 4 post about how I hate the retconning of fnaf 4's story but I can't find it (thanks tumblr search) and I can't be bothered to scroll that far so

No yea I still stand by that post. That One new book revealing that Ermmmb ackshually fnaf 4 was William Afton using some kinda gas on children to make them hallucinate mannequins to be horrifying nightmare robots or whatever is stupid as hell. And as a long time fnaf fan I am so tired of the story getting more and more into contrived scifi territory

I'm just about convinced they're just retconning everything to keep up the whole "its so mysterious its so hard to solve fnaf's mysteries" we just about did. And then you changed it.

Like . You wanna know why this bothers me so much?? Consider:

Fnaf 4 places you in a child's bedroom in the middle of the night. There's little to no ambience, it's just quiet. Your player character is obviously a child considering their size. There's monsters in the hallways you face by only taking tiny peeks at them at a time. Youre made to jump at the tiniest sound just like a young child might after waking up in the dead of night. Your toys are turning into monsters that are trying to kill you. Fnaf 4's setting feels so much closer to home (literally and figuratively), than any other game in the series.

The minigames paint a picture of a young kid whose been made to feel like the world is out to get him, everyone around him either makes fun of him or tries to scare him for laughs, whoever the fuck the fredbear plush is supposed to be only reinforces his fears, and finally we see him have all his anxiety about the animatronics and his brother and his peers confirmed during the bite. On his deathbed his brother is desperately trying to tell him he's sorry. he doesn't even get any kind of "I love you" or "I wish I had been there to help you" or "I hope you find peace" from a parent. Only "I will put you back together". A vague promise that he had no way of understanding but that we know probably means the kid won't even have the luxury of peacefully passing, only possessing the exact thing that terrified him and eventually killed him for the next 30+ years.

Buuuuut FUCK that decently well-crafted and actually interesting story!!! Now it's actually just about William "apparently-a-mad-scientist-now" Afton gassing children into hallucinating for his evil experiments !!!!!

This post got longer than i wanted it to be but fuck dude. Am I the only one who's getting sick of this outside of for "aw dang we gotta rework our theories" reasons???

#before you come at me about dream theory. i will fucking bite your toes off.#fnaf 4 was still super compelling even after scott decided dream theory was a no-go.#the point of this is the actual content of the game creates a pretty great story on its own that the fandom loved #and that this retcon ruins it.#the kinda shit that makes me both excited and worried for the fnaf movie #bc it seems to be based on the story of the classic games!!! so if they pull the contrived scifi shit i will kill someone #fnaf #five nights at freddy's #fnaf 4 #ramble post #long post #<= sorry about that :/

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raven-at-the-writing-desk · 2 years

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You know on the topic of mer forms and whatnot I know part of the camp the octatrio were apart of kne thing they had to learn was how to breath which made me scratch my head a little cause from the little mermaid we know that mermaids can partly breath on land case yknow half human

then a few months ago I learned about how the tweels have their gills on the sides of their chests hence the lines (im assuming azul may be the same),and it made me realize that just like appearance wise not all mermaids breath the exact say way in water and like I find details like this fascinating cause thats something to easily look over-

[Referencing this post!]

Oh, are you taking about these marks yes I am biased so I am using Jade’s merform as the example instead of Floyd?? ADDENDUM: I checked the Magical Archives recently; it does indeed say on Jade’s page that he has gills on his sides and on the back. These appear to be more fish-like in nature than similar to an actual real life moray eel’s gills. Azul seems to have a similar style of gill—again, very fish-like.

(Random fun fact about real life eels; their gills are small and circular! This is a departure from the shape we normally associate with gills, as is seen on the typical fish. And octopuses apparently have their gills… inside their mantles (heads)…? Which then extends to outside the mantle!

It’s confusing but also quite interesting to take note of the anatomy of different animals! Errr 😅 though it also makes it challenging to think about how mixing that anatomy with a human’s would work out?? I remember speculating about the twins have second jaws and Azul having three hearts like their pure animal brethren a while ago, so it’s definitely a topic people have thought of.)

Twisted Wonderland has introduced more humanoid merfolk to us by way of the museum guards in episode 3. These more closely resemble the more humanoid merfolk presented to us in The Little Mermaid.

It’s possible that more humanoid merfolk (like these guards) don’t struggle to breathe when they’re not submerged in water, whereas more animalistic (for lack of a better term) merfolk like the twins and Azul (who presumably have gills) can’t do the same. Merfolk are an imaginary race, so it’s not too farfetched to think the humanoid merfolk either have gills and human-like lungs, or they simply have some magical method of breathing underwater which doesn’t require gills.

Interestingly, some sea life (yes, including octopuses and eels) can still survive for limited amounts of time outside of water as long as they stay moist. This is because some gas exchange can still occur through damp skin. Following this logic, it’s also possible that the Octa boys can breathe on land in their merforms, but only provided they stay wet. (This would play into the fear that merfolk have of becoming dehydrated, as is mentioned in Terror is Trending.) I’m guessing that another possibility is that the breathing lessons mentioned in boot camp may refer to them being taught to breathe why dry and/or for prolonged periods of time when away from sources of water.

#Jade Leech #Azul Ashengrotto #Floyd Leech #Octavinelle #Tweels #notes from the writing raven #spoilers #twst theory #twst theories #twisted wonderland theory #twisted wonderland theories

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blackjackkent · 3 months

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Everyone loves a good camp fight.

Sadly, no one else in camp came to help fight the spawn except the current main party (and Astarion, obviously). On the bright side, this is apparently counted as before the long rest, so Hector still had his cloud giant potion up and could absolutely wreck face.

Highly entertained by Astarion's combat, which was AI controlled while the rest of the party was under my control. When it came around to his turn, Astarion wandered over to Hector, cast Invisibility on him despite both of them being DIRECTLY in front of one of the spawn, then moseyed on behind said spawn, tried to hit it with Flourish as a bonus action, missed, wandered away and was smacked by two different opportunity attacks, and then watched as the spawn cast Sense Hidden Presence and knocked Hector right back out of invisiblity.

Phenomenal. Stunning. 10/10 no notes.

Unsurprisingly, all of the spawns vanished into gas clouds and drifted away when they were "killed" so presumably we'll see them again later. (And, probably, they'll tell Cazador that we're coming and planning to kick his ass, but I can't imagine he hasn't guessed that already anyway.)

At the end of the fight, I tried four times to arrange everyone in positions such that Hector would get the post-fight conversation with Astarion; I put him closest to Astarion, I put him farthest away, I made sure Hector was getting the last hit on his turn, but no matter what I did, Astarion would ONLY talk to Karlach for this conversation and I couldn't figure out how to convince him otherwise.

I mean I don't blame him, because Karlach is great, but I would like my player character to have the conversations please. XD

That said - this turned out to be a strangely poignant interaction just because it ended up being these two characters specifically.

I'm going to go with the explanation that Hector darted off to do a perimeter sweep of the camp with Minsc and Jaheira and make sure there were no other lurking spawn hanging about, and Karlach (because she is a sweetheart) hung out with Astarion to make sure he was okay.

"What a mess. Well, at least you've met my family now."

He's smiling slightly, offhandedly, as if it doesn't matter, but it's not fooling anyone, least of all Karlach, who is a master herself at laughing jocularly at terrible situations she is stuck in.

"Was it true what they said? That you gave up fighting him long ago?"

It occurs to me that Karlach can relate to that too. Ten years she spent in Zariel's employ (not long for a vampire, but very long for a living tiefling), and there must have come a point where she realized that trying to resist was pointless and doing what was necessary to survive was the only thing left to her (at least until the beacon of hope that was the nautiloid came crashing through the Hells).

Astarion, however, recoils - clearly taking it as a criticism, a condemnation.

"You don't know what it was like," he snarls. "There was no way out! Once--" His voice cracks abruptly, and he stops and has to take a breath before he can continue. "In my first decade of slavery, I found a... darling boy, who I couldn't bear to bring back to him." He swallows. "So I ran, instead of hurting that... sweet man..."

His voice is thick with the memory, with pain and grief and fear overlaid on themselves across centuries.

"After Cazador caught me, the bastard sealed me, starving, inside a dusty tomb, all on my own... for an entire year."

"A year of silence. Months of scratching my hands raw, trying to carve my way out. More months of not moving at all. Months wishing only for death."

His mouth tightens - whether with anger or tears or both, it's hard to tell.

"So don't you ever judge me for doing what Cazador ordered."

(A/N: Someone bring Neil Newbon back and give him another award please.)

Karlach had the saddest fucking expression on her face through this whole little speech. Perhaps she considers telling him what she went through in return. How Zariel had her trapped in a war she wanted no part of, killing people she had no quarrel with. How sometimes she considered running away but had nowhere to go; how disobedience meant punishment - sometimes of a military sort and sometimes far more personal. How she understands about doing what is necessary to survive, about being trapped in another's cruelty.

But all she says is, "I have no words. I'm so sorry."

He notices none of the nuance of her response; his expression is twisted in rage at the memories, an anger that is trying to blot out the thickness of tears audible in his voice. "Nothing can make up for that," he mutters hoarsely. "Not even Cazador's death."

Without waiting for a response, he turns and walks away.

#bjk plays baldur's gate 3 #hector carlisle #WELL THAT WAS UPSETTING

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liseenle · 2 years

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𝐁𝐑𝐎𝐊𝐄𝐍

ANGST/FLUFF Eddie Munson x reader

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: after a bad fight with her brother, y/n discovers why Eddie has been avoiding her and goes to look for him

A/N: arguing, crying

It was la late winter’s night. Rain kept pouring on and on and there was no one whatsoever in all of Hawkins.

The lights of the houses reflected on the wet roads and through one of these windows one could make out two people arguing. Screams echoing throughout the house, nasty things being said: y/n was once again arguing with her older brother. But this time was different, worse.

“FINE” she screamed

“YEAH JUST FINE” he answered back

“You are such a douchebag, I’m out” y/n cried as she hastily took her bag and opened the door. The sound of the rain was now overwhelming, infinitely closer. “Where do you think you are going?!” “Not your damn business, you idiot” she told him, angrily. “Oh yeah, I get it. Running away again. As you always do when things get tough” he smirked and continued “and then, let me guess, you’re going to run to him for comfort, won’t you?“ “You don’t know what you are talking about” she whispered “Oh but yes I do, y/n” he said laughing, “but he knows better now. He knows how broken you are. He knows you’re just playing. He knows you’re not capable of loving, and that you simply can’t be loved”.

That, apparently, had hit home. Y/n remained speechless, her eyes looking steadily into his, tears starting to trickle down her face. Y/n’s own, intimate, deep thoughts on herself were not only hers, then. She closed the door behind her, running under the rain towards her car. And there she went, driving, speeding through the city, without fear of risk or pain. Trying hard to forget how she felt. Yet… she was still thinking about him, about Eddie. Eddie, the boy who she so desperately loved, but to whom she couldn’t allow herself to give love or to be loved. It was as if she were stuck, whenever y/n got too close to him she’d simply ran away, scared. But now she was regretting this behaviour, now more than ever, as she realised that by doing so she might have lost him, even as a friend.

So, was that why he seemed to be avoiding her these past few days? Was this why he didn’t smile back to her? She really didn’t know what to do. She wanted to hug him, to tell him the truth, to explain herself. But she couldn’t, she didn’t have the courage. Or at least she thought so. As if she had just woken up from a trance, y/n realised she had been mindlessly driving towards Eddie’s house, down at the trailer park, without even noticing. She looked at the clock: it was nearly midnight. She was now starting to panic, thinking of a reason for why she would be there in the first place. “Max lives here” she thought to herself, “I could just say I dropped by to say hi”. But who was she kidding? She had stopped crying but she felt that… that lump in her throat. The one that always blocked her, that made her impossible to speak when she was upset. She’d nock on the door and then what? Silence. Possibly with a bit of crying.

But here goes, she had parked. Right in front of his trailer. Y/n couldn’t escape now, yet she couldn’t force herself out of the car, she couldn’t even look at the house itself. She just sort of… sat still, staring at her hands on her thighs. “It’s just Eddie”, she told herself. But he wasn’t just Eddie. Hot tears started streaming down her face again, the rain giving the scene the right amount of melancholy that it needed. She pushed her hands on her eyes, trying to stop that flow from going down her cheeks, her head propped up against the wheel.

Eddie, on the other hand, had noticed her presence. He waited for her to knock but, not seeing her getting out of the car, he took matters into his own hands. His knuckles brushed lightly against the car’s window, making y/n jump inside. It was now raining heavily. And it was really cold outside. But he didn’t care.

“What are you doing here?” He asked her. But y/n remained silent, avoiding his gaze. She felt defeated. Eddie took her by the hand, “come on, let’s get inside”. They ran to the house, closing the door after them. As soon as they did, Y/n got hit by Eddie’s smell, soon filling her lungs completely. And she couldn’t stop crying.

Eddie’s hands wrapped around her jaw, forcing her to look at him in the eyes.

“Why are you here? It’s late” for a moment he looked worried… but soon a dark shadow laid down on his face.

The truth is, Eddie was trying his best to hate y/n, to stop caring about her. But it was just so difficult, it was making him so unhappy. He wanted to forget her and to be forgotten, to start again, to not having to always think about her. But she was here, once again, in front of him. Her sad and sweet eyes, her messy and wet hair. So stunningly pretty, even after having cried, even after the rain, even after. He couldn’t resist her, he had tried to, but he simply couldn’t. Hate soon washed away from his features, softening again.

“Tell me what it is and I will make it go away” he thought, “tell me, and I will try and solve every single one of your problems”.

His fingers brushed mindlessly on her chin.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be here. But… I can’t stop thinking about it and I need to know. Do you hate me, Eddie?” She said quickly, “I noticed you don’t look at me anymore, at least not in the same way. You don’t come looking for me, too. Normally you would always smile to me at school, between lessons, at lunch. You always used to check up on me, chat with me before going home after school. Normally you’d come to see me at my races, you’d even hug me when I won. But it’s been weeks and I haven’t seen you, not even once. You don’t even pick up the phone when it’s me, do you? Do you hate me Eddie? Why? Did I hurt you?” She asked him. This was intolerable, all of this. Y/n’s heart was aching and she knew, she had this feeling that she was going to lose him that night.

“No, I just had other things to do”

A flash of hurt played in Y/n’s eyes. Eddie felt sick. But it was the right thing to do, he told himself, because she didn’t love him as he did. But still, he really didn’t like to see her like this. He just wished he could wrap her in his arms, calm her down until she fell asleep.

“No, Eddie, she doesn’t love you” he reminded himself.

But she kept staring at him through her tears and he finally gave up:

“Your brother told me something, something that resonated in me a lot” he said, now mad “he told me you’ve been using me”

The sting in Y/n’s heart now grew even bigger. Used? Why? He thought she was using him? Yes, it was true that Y/n had accepted every single hug, every secret smile, every caress he had gifted her. Yes, she had ran to him whenever she felt ever so broken, she had even tried to open her heart to him on the few times her world had seem to collapse on itself. But that wasn’t because she was using him, it was just because she was in love with him and she was learning to trust him. But maybe she hadn’t reciprocated as one should, maybe she once again had failed to show him how grateful she were, how much she truly cared about him, she thought. But one thing was for sure: her brother wasn’t right, and it pained her that Eddie had believed so.

“It’s not true. It isn’t Eddie. I’m in love with you” she cried to him.

“I fucking love you. I’ve been thinking about you constantly, for months. You are in everything I do, I say, I feel. I see you everywhere, in every object, in every film I watch. And I look for you wherever I go. I have been watching you so much that I now know so many little things about you. For example, I know that when you’re stressed, or embarrassed, you fidget with your rings, one in particular. I know that you love night time, that you like to stay up all night and listen to Metallica or whatever, as you look out of the window, and I know that you struggle to keep your eyes open the next morning. I know that on Mondays you wear the Boomtown rats’ t-shirt, because they have a pop song called “I don’t like Mondays”. I know that you like the smell of my hair, that you like to draw monsters and heroes. I know you speak in your sleep and I know that you always kiss your guitar hello when you come home. I don’t mean this in a creepy way, because it sure does sound like that, but I need you to know that I have always looked at you. That when you’re not with me I feel like shit, that when I’m sick or sad you’re the only person I want with me. The only one I give permission to see me in my fragile state. You’re the only one I want to call when I’m happy, and when I had a good day. I want you to know that I love you. I don’t know why I didn’t tell you sooner. I guess I’m convinced you’d do better without me or that you could do better than me. And that’s fine, because I know you’re probably not in love with me, but it’s fine, I accept it and I know that in the long ran it will have been better. I know I’m broken Eddie, but I love you anyway, even if you don’t love me back.

Eddie was looking at y/n, rambling on and on in front of him, his expression in full confusion mode. He swallowed hard as she cried her heart out, once again. Suddenly, he looked at the clock, thinking hard.

“Why won’t he say something?” Y/n asked herself. But when he finally broke the silence it was only to say:

“I have a customer coming… ehm… could you like… wait for a bit in my room?” Y/n was once again out of words.

“Alright fuck this” she thought to herself. But yet she found herself following his instructions, although reluctantly. She followed him into his bedroom. His scent was unbelievably overwhelming in there, it nearly nauseated her. She quickly realised it was starting to be really difficult to be any place near Eddie, in that moment.

“You can sit on the bed and listen to some music… I don’t know if I actually have anything of your liking but you can look around ok?” His voice was sweet but Y/n didn’t even notice.

At this point, she was completely gone, in her own little world, thinking hard, feeling too much.

She heard him closing the door behind him and, just as if a spell had been withdrawn, she flopped to the floor, curling her legs up.

In the next few minutes y/n heard someone knocking the door, and a few minutes after that she also heard Eddie laugh. Everything seemed to have played cool, at least for him. But that wasn’t the same for her, was it? Y/n couldn’t believe that after having admitted her feelings, her thoughts to him, he was laughing as if nothing had ever happened in the first place. But this woke her up. It made her realise, accept that it was over. That she would go back home and the next day she would have to start over, without Eddie. Even if it stung, even if she felt like she was about to explode, she understood that knowing the truth was better, that it couldn’t hurt more than that.

So she looked around her and it dawned on her that that was going to be the last time she seed his bedroom. So she started observing around her. His guitar, his clothes everywhere, his cassettes, the books. Even the smell, even though it still made her feel kind of sick.

Time went on and at a certain point Eddie knocked on the door, letting himself in. He watches her, and he realises that what he’s watching is a young girl, small and pretty, but so very, very sad. Nearly empty, in fact. In the middle of his messy room.

His heart skipped a bit at the thought and he jumped on his knees in front of y/n and grazed her cheek.

“Y/n look at me. I’m here” he kept telling her, an unknown expression on her face. He needed to act fast, or he was going to lose her. “Y/n I’m so fucking sorry” his voice cracking up as he said it, “I’m sorry… please say something” y/n looked at him, her eyes shining as she tried to take a mental picture of him, of his handsomeness, his small blackish eyes, the way his curls rest on his forehead.

But what she didn’t notice were his shaky breaths, nor the hands that were enveloping her slowly, carefully, as one does with porcelain. He took her into his arms, his right hand cupping her face, his left hand keeping her near to his heart. And he kissed her. He kissed her into oblivion, as if he had never breathed before. And when they finally broke apart, he was still cupping her face, ready to speak his truth, now too.“Fuck your brother. Fuck the horrible things he said to you. Fuck me too, ‘cause I chose to believe him. I’m sorry. But I love you too. You’re not broken, no more than I am. Maybe we can be “not broken together”. But… you need to stop running away from me. Just… just let me love you for real, let me love you even when you’re sad, mad or sick, ok?. Let me love you whenever. But just… just let me love you for fuck’s sake, and don’t run away from me” he tells her all in one, big breath. A small smile appears on her lips. “You love me?” She asks him sweetly “Yes, you’re my love” he answers slowly. Y/n puts her head on his shoulder and holds him tight as she whispers into his ear “I will love you in return, the right way this time”.

sorry, this was a long one :,)

#stranger things #eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #hellfire club #angst #fluff #stranger things x reader

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dossantosbooks · 9 months

Text

Nightmare Junction

(i once started a book, but it ended up as a short story that won a Writers of the Future Honorable Mention, and was longlisted for First Chapters Contest at Voyage YA Magazine, and now I share it with you)

NIGHTMARE JUNCTION.

My mother needs more Venom.

"Laina," she whispers, reaching for my hand as I sit on her bed. Her skin is cold and clammy. Fear seeps in through my pores from her trembling fingers and digs under my skin.

"You okay, Momma?"

She nods but the tight lines around her mouth betray her. Her face is thin and sallow, her curly hair brittle. Her pain is, at times, unbearable as her body turns against itself; her hopelessness suffocating. She wants to hide it from me, but I can feel it almost as if it were my own--courtesy of my enhancement for heightened empathic intelligence--and my mother knows it. Knowing her pain in this way, so close and intimate, stokes the guilt burning inside of me.

It's my fault my mother is dying after all.

Microchimerism, the doctors call it, bits of genetic material passed from fetus to mother during pregnancy. In most people, nothing comes of it, but I have a 47th techno-chromosome-- added for genetic enhancements--and it triggered an autoimmune disorder in my mother.

My extra man-made chromosome is, apparently, a killer.

I want to pull my hand away, but I squeeze hers instead, then I grab a box of syringes from the nightstand drawer and a small, brown bottle of Venom. I don't need to shake it to know it's only half full. I always know how much Venom we have and it's never enough.

"Do you need help?" I ask her.

"Please." Her hands have become too unsteady. Lately, on the really bad days, they curl inward, tendons and muscles all haywire, though it is unclear at this point how much of it is the autoimmune disorder and how much it's the drugs ravaging her nervous system while providing pain relief. Venom is made with a compound from a snake's venom, hence the name. It's illegal and highly addictive, and the only thing we can afford to help with the pain. The Venom will likely kill her if her body doesn't fail her first.

There is a cure, but we can't afford it, and insurance won't pay for it on the grounds my mother volunteered to participate in the experiment twenty years ago, signing all kinds of waivers she shouldn't have. I don't allow myself to think about it much, how the company took advantage of thousands of poor young girls, how the government has done nothing to protect them or help the ones who, twenty years later, are suffering.

I prep the syringe while my mother ties a tourniquet around an arm that is all bone and sagging skin. She closes her eyes. I insert the needle into her vein and pump the cocktail of synthetic drugs into her. The first time she asked for help, my hands shook worse than hers. She ended up crying the rest of the day--not because I hurt her, but for making her daughter complicit in this war against her body. I decided that day my hands would never shake again, but the sour taste of guilt still coats my mouth every single time.

I throw the used needle in the trash and put everything else back in the drawer with a sinking heart. We only have enough Venom to last us a couple more days, maybe.

"Thanks, baby," she says, the lines around her eyes and mouth softening, her voice thickening with relief. "Are you working tonight?"

The question launches my heart into a frantic rhythm against my ribcage. I hate lying to her, but I can't tell her I got fired two weeks ago and haven't been able to find work since. No one will hire 47s.

I can't tell her we're running out of money for bills. For food. For Venom. Instead, I smile, and I nod.

It's not a lie, not entirely.

Tonight, I go to the Nightmare Junction.

I hurry through blocks of graffiti decorated storefronts and overflowing garbage cans hugging the edge of sidewalks. Rusted, gas-guzzling cars turned prime real estate for the homeless line the streets. Some have plastic covering the windows, some have cardboard, very few still have glass. When a tank of gas costs more than a month's rent, the poor stay put. I turn onto Commerce Drive and spot a group of men gathered around the next intersection.

Protestors.

Handmade signs bobbing up in the air and all.

I slow my pace.

They pop up every so often to remind us all the Enhanced are the damnation of the human race. Very holy of them. Last year, an enhanced kid was beaten to death. The murderers's defense: enhanced aren't human because of their extra manufactured chromosome. Human or not, those bastards are serving two life sentences.

There's no way for me to avoid them completely, but I cross the street to keep as much distance as I possibly can. One of the men, short but broad shouldered with thick hands fisted around the signpost, stares straight at me. Heat spreads from my chest all the way to my face under scrutinizing eyes--he knows he knows he knows.

I reach for the small blade I keep on me whenever I go out.

"They belong in Hell's fires," he yells, raising his sign up in the air. It has a proverb written on it, and I can't help but imagine its pointy handle coming down on my head. Like a stake.

He can't know, I remind myself over the panic ballooning in my chest that's making it hard to breathe. Our ultraviolet markers are tattooed just below the clavicle where it meets the shoulder--easy to cover--but I hold onto the blade nonetheless, and keep my senses on high alert until I round the next street corner. It's not until I'm a couple of blocks away that my heart finally settles back into its place.

By the time I reach the industrial park on the edge of the city, the sun has set and my nerves are back on overdrive. There are just enough working street lamps left to illuminate a long row of abandoned factory buildings. I search for number twenty-seven, which is easy enough to find given the cars parked in the lot across the street, and take the ramp leading to a door. I try it. It's locked. I'm about to bang on it when a voice startles me. "Try the doorbell."

The buzzer mocks me on the wall next to the door. I go to ring it, but the door buzzes before I do, and I scramble to open it before the person changes their mind. I imagine them watching me from a camera and laughing. My cheeks burn in the dark.

Inside, an astringent smell of chemicals and plastics fills my nostrils. I look around, unsure of where to go. Across the way, on the other side of the large loading area, I spot a door with soft light glowing through a small viewing window. I hustle towards it before I change my mind, taking careful steps to avoid puddles of water dotting the concrete floor. I go down a flight of stairs and through another door.

A guy sits on a stool, arms crossed over his chest. Everything about him is hard and mean looking.

"I'm looking for Victor" I say, a little breathless, a little unsure.

He makes a motion with his hands I don't understand, so he gets up, reaches under my arms, and slaps them up. I stiffen. "Sorry, sweetheart," he says, his voice deep and rough like he just swallowed glass, while he pats me down. "We check everyone that walks through the door." He finds my pocket knife and throws it in a box behind his stool. Before I can protest, he adds, "You can get it back on your way out." And then I'm following him through a large open area that seems to run the length of the building.

Old shop machines are pushed up against the walls. Men stand around an elevated area--like a boxing ring. Screens hang from the ceiling over it. Everyone's eyes are on them, but I can't make out what they're looking at. The air reeks of cigarettes, hard liquor and sweat. On the opposite end of the floor, he leads me down a short hallway and into an office.

Victor sits behind a desk. Green, cunning eyes seem to glow against the warm light brown of his skin.

"A friend told me to come see you about the games," I say, though drug dealer is a more accurate description for Chipper than friend. When I didn't have enough money to buy more drugs after being fired, Chipper told me I could make more than enough money playing a virtual reality game.

Victor puts out a cigarette in an already full ashtray, reaches for the whiskey next to it, and motions for me to sit in a plastic chair across from him, "It's fifty a game," he says, swirling the liquid. Ice clinks against the glass. "You get it back if you win plus a percentage of my winnings."

"I don't have that kind of money." I have so little of it left, the idea of losing it all knots my insides.

He leans back on his chair, eyes never wavering from mine. "I'll make you a deal. I'll front you the entry fees and if you win, you get the drugs you need for your mother. If you lose, you owe me the fee plus ten percent interest."

My blood thickens in my veins. I want to ask him how he knows about my mother, but I already know the answer. Chipper.

"Venom is cheaper than your entry fees," I say, straightening up in the chair.

"It is, only no one in this city will sell it to you after tonight."

I frown, trying to understand the meaning behind his words, but when he picks up his drink and downs the whole thing in one gulp, I see it.

The tattoo.

A red circle with a GS in the center of it--the gang symbol for the Great Sharks--peeks from the cuff of his shirt. This part of the city belongs to the Sharks, and the Sharks control drug supplies.

My heart sinks.

Victor sets the glass down and smiles. There's no tension in the lines around his mouth, and for a moment I'm confused by the sincerity behind it, then realize it's not sincerity but a knowing.

He's just made it impossible for me to walk away.

Victor sends me into another office where I have nanobots injected into me by Joaquim who most definitely does not look like a doctor.

The bots will travel to the part of the brain involved in dreaming and transmit the game directly into my dream center. Right before a match, he tells me, I'll be given a quick acting sedative that also blocks hypocretin receptors, sending me straight into REM sleep and a state of lucid dreaming.

I imagine tiny robots traveling through my body, conquering my brain, turning me into a robot

"Welcome to the Junction," Joaquin says, then sends me into the Pit.

The Pit is where the players wait for their turn to play. The whole room goes silent when I walk in. The floor is dirty, the walls grey and dingy, the lack of windows suffocating.

I stand, unsure, at the door, heart hammering in my chest. A few guys sitting around a table watch me. One of them says something I don't catch, and they all laugh. My fingers itch for the knife I no longer have.

This room is a storm of excitement and dread and a hunger I don’t quite understand; it rattles my bones. It feels like war.

Across the room, a girl sitting on top of a counter waves me over. A wide smile cracks her mouth open, and my feet make the decision for me before my brain does, releasing my breath when the room fills with the clatter of chatter once again.

"I'm Arlington," she says.

"Laina."

Her knee bounces up and down. Up and down. Fast and manic, her energy is prickly and consuming. I pull in a few deep, centering breaths to help me keep her erratic energy at bay, but I’m struggling. A headache is starting to form at my temples, and I can't tell if it's the late hour or the exertion of keeping myself from drowning in the midst of so much energy.

"That's Mario," she says, nodding at a kid sitting at the other end of the counter, doodling on his jeans with a black pen. He glances up--he has round, soft features, like puberty hasn't quite made its mark on him yet--but gets back to his drawing without saying anything.

The tingly feeling of someone watching me creeps up my spine. I scan the room and find menacing eyes boring into me from one of the guys sitting at the table. He’s tall, lanky, dark hair and sharp features. The intensity coming off of him is unsettling. Violent. I jut my chin out, not wanting to show how nervous I actually am.

"That's Razor," Arlington says, having noticed him staring as well. "Stay out of his way if you can."

"Is he any good?" I ask, glad for a reason to let my gaze travel to a board hanging on a wall with names on it, but not before catching the start of a smirk pulling at his lips.

His name is at the top.

"Undefeated," she says. "He's a beast, afraid of nothing. He's also the mayor's son." She offers that last bit of information like a warning I don't quite grasp.

My own name has been added to the bottom of the list. There are numbers next to some of the names, which Arlington tells me are scores. "What's with the stars on some of the names?" I ask, noticing one next to mine.

"Enhanced players."

Panic rises in my chest, and I feel the blood drain from my face. My eyes slide back to Razor, thinking about the violence I had sensed from him, and Arlington's earlier warning about his father being the Mayor. Razor's attention is on the guy next to him talking. I let out my breath, slowly. The Mayor has been vocal about his belief that the Enhanced don't have the right to privacy, that we are a threat to society and should be monitored at all times. Because of him, I’ve had to report to social services for an yearly interview that feels like an interrogation. He has made our lives harder than they ever needed to be in this city; he has made me feel like a criminal.

Keeping the truth of my enhancement hidden as much as possible has always felt like a matter of survival, but now it is being displayed for all in this room to see--maybe even the people watching out there--and I have no idea what they will do with this information.

Arlington, too, has a star.

When I turn back to her, she points at the kid doodling on his pants and says, "The three of us."

"I've never..."

She grins. “Wild, right?”

The impossibility of it makes me lightheaded. I have never met another Enhanced, though I know there are others who live in this city. Most hide what we are.

Arlington doesn't appear to be scared that everyone here knows about us. I glance at Mario. His energy is murky, I can't quite read it unless I were to reach out to him--place a hand on his knee, grab his hand--which I'm not going to. I know what it feels like to have someone disregard my right to privacy.

"Game's on!" someone shouts. Everyone hushes and turns their attention to a large screen hanging next to the board with all the players's names.

The screen splits in half.

Player one is in a bedroom, player two in a living room. The camera in the bedroom starts to move and I realize we're watching from the players point of view. The players are exploring around, one moving quicker than the other.

There's a sound, like a door slamming shut, and both players freeze. In hushed whispers, Arlington explains what's happening, which I am thankful for. No one else has, outside of the basics.

"Each player gets dropped in a different part of the level,” she says, ”but eventually, you either run into each other, or the game brings you together. The goal is to fight your opponent until one of you wakes up. The game leaves parts of the environment blank, including what your opponent looks like, and because you are in a dream state, your subconscious fills those blanks in with stuff that's personal to you. And--" the pitch of her voice rises. Her energy crashes against me, and I lean away from her. "--since your fear center has been stimulated, your subconscious is more likely to fill those blanks with things that scare you. Like a nightmare. It's fucking brilliant."

There's a flurry of movement on the screen. My eyes dart from one player to the other trying to understand what I'm looking at. A growl rips through the air, then both players start running. Player one is being chased by player two down a darkly lit hallway that seems to have no end. For a few moments there's only the sound of feet pounding, and someone panting. Their panic comes in short bursts of air, in and out, in and out, and I find my pulse quickening to match their rhythm.

Another growl, raspy and wet and desperately hungry, cuts through the air as player two leaps forward. Something metal glints in the screen, and it's not until it connects with player one's shoulder that I realize they're claws. Metal claws that slash down his back. There's a cry, either of pain or fear, I can't tell, and the screen goes black.

I hold my breath, staring at the screen waiting for it to come back on. It doesn't. The other side of the room fills with cheering and laughter.

"What just happened?" I ask.

"Game's over," Arlington answers.

"Laina! Joshua! You're up." Someone calls out.

My heart sinks.

The crowd is thick and loud, and I'm barely keeping it together with everyone's energy encroaching on me. I can't feel my legs when I climb the three steps up to the ring. My opponent is already sitting in a chair. His eyes are closed.

Joaquin, the guy that injected the nanobots into me, stands behind a table full of computers.

I take the chair across from my opponent and look out into the crowd, into the sea of faces. The room is suddenly a million degrees warmer, melting my limbs until I can't feel them. I fix my gaze on my clasped hands resting on my lap and focus on evening my breathing.

"Lean forward," Joaquin says, and I feel a calloused finger on my neck, feeling and prodding between my vertebrae. I tense. Something cold and hard touches my neck. "Relax and don't move," he says. A moment later I feel a pinching that sends an electrical current up and down my spine. My eyes well up with tears. "It's just the stimulant, now lean back."

He lowers the back of my chair until I'm staring at the wires coming off the screens hanging from the ceiling. I touch the back of my neck and find nothing even though I feel a weight hanging from it. My heart races, unnaturally fast, and my hands are tingling, like they have fallen asleep.

"Players ready for the Junction," Joaquin calls out.

I want to tell him I'm not ready, that this whole night already feels like a nightmare, but loud cries and cheers erupt from the crowd and the words dry up in my throat. I close my eyes and breathe slowly, trying to block out all the noise.

In and out.

This is for my mother.

In and out.

It's just a game.

The countdown starts.

Five...four...three--

The sound of metal clanking startles me, and I spin around. I'm standing in the middle of a deserted street I don't recognize. A street lamp a few feet away casts a dull light that glints on wet pavement. I squint and focus on a plaque hanging from the lamp post. Nightmare Junction, it reads. The words tug at me, the feeling like I should know its meaning.

A bitter cold wind cuts through my clothes, rattling my bones and I'm suddenly aware it's raining. It's just a drizzle but it stings when it hits my face. Shivering, I pull my sleeves over my hands.

I can hear traffic off in the distance.

There's that scraping sound again.

It's coming from a different direction now, but I can't tell from where. I walk towards the traffic noises because it feels like that's where I'm meant to go. Or should go. The buildings on both sides of the street are inching closer. I blink several times. It's the rain and the darkness making the world seem distorted, I tell myself. Buildings can't move.

Off in the distance, headlights zoom by. I quicken my pace, wanting to find people, but the lights are getting farther away instead of closer. What the hell? I break into a run, determined to catch up, but the faster I run, the farther they get, like that end of the street is being pulled away from me, stretching the already narrow street too thin, forcing the buildings on either side of me closer together.

I run faster and faster, gasping for air as the buildings loom closer and closer. Laughter erupts all around me and I trip over my own feet and fall. A sharp pain shoots up my elbow, I cry out but jump back up to my feet and spin around, wanting to know who the laughter belongs to.

There's no one.

My right hand burns. The skin has been scraped off my knuckles. They are red and raw and the tips of my fingers burn from the cold and the pain. Everything is blurry, and I can't tell if it's the rain or tears. I wipe my eyes on my sleeves. I need to keep going towards the lights, but just as I think this, I spot a door to the right. I hesitate. Something about the door pulls at me, beckoning, but I'm overcome with the feeling that I am safer out here on the street.

I will my feet to move, and suddenly, the world explodes with noise, like a bomb went off right above me and the world comes crashing on my head. I cover my ears and drop to the ground, this time on purpose, and fold into myself. I might be screaming but I can't be sure. The ringing in my ears is deafening.

Underneath me, the ground trembles, gently at first, but the trembling quickly strengthens, and the earth is cracking open and about to swallow me whole. I scream again, this time I am sure sound erupts from my throat though I can't hear it. Another explosion. I throw my arms over my head in an attempt to protect myself.

This is it. This is where I die, buried underneath these buildings on a street I don't even recognize.

And then, everything--the noise, the shaking-- stops just as suddenly as it started. My mouth and throat are coated with dust.

My breath catches.

The buildings have jumped. Close together. My brain tries to make sense of it, it's no illusion. Their walls are cracked, the windows shattered. I stand, cradling my elbow. Heart racing. The buildings start to move again, slowly this time, silently.

They're going to crush me.

"Please stop!"

I catch a glimpse of the door again. It's open now. I still don't want to go in, but it's either that or be crushed between walls.

I'm inside a living room. Sheets cover the furniture, the windows so caked in dirt there's barely any light coming in from the outside. The air is damp and musty, and underneath it there's a pungent smell, like something has died and is rotting away. My pulse quickens at all the possibilities running through my mind that could explain the smell of rot. There's a knock on the door even though I don't remember closing it.

"Who's there?"

My throat is still burning from all the screaming and the dust from the city, but that seems to have been so long ago.

"Laina?"

"Oh God, Momma!" I run to open the door and fumble with the chain. I'm so happy to have finally found her. Was I looking for her? Yes, I must have been. I finally get the chain and throw the door open but it's not my mother on the other side.

A man smiles with a mouth full of tiny razor sharp teeth. Dark angry eyes bore into me. "I've been looking for you," he says and when he speaks the air fills with the scent of death. I stumble backwards. He steps into the room, a wooden spike resting over his shoulder.

I scramble back, my legs hit a couch and he's suddenly on me, trapping me against the couch. "I've been cleaning the world of filth," he says, grabbing the spike with both hands. As he brings it forward, in front of him, the other end of it rises up into the air.

And there, at the top of it there's a head. A human head. His mouth cracks open into what I think he means to be a smile. "It's your turn," he says at the exact same moment dead eyes meet mine. He lifts the spike over my head.

I scream and--

Gasping for breath, I bring my hand up to shield my eyes from the bright lights, and will myself not to cry. The man's face flashes in my mind's eye and bile rises in my throat as I suddenly realize where I know him from. He was the protestor I saw on the way here.

I avoid looking into the crowd, into the eyes of all these men who have seen the inside of my head, and the worst part is, I realize I didn’t even know I was in the game. It felt like a real nightmare. Across from me, my opponent stands. He is tall, with gangly arms dangling by his side. I wonder what kind of monster I was in his head. I want to tell him that I'm sorry, but when our eyes meet, his mouth twists into a smirk, reminding me that I am the loser here.

We ran out of Venom two days ago.

My mother tried to stretch it as much as she could, but there's only so much pain she can handle. I've barely slept the past two nights, I'm so afraid something will happen to her while I sleep. She tries to hide the pain, but I can hear her soft, muffled cries. I can feel it in her energy every time I walk into her bedroom.

So tonight, as I walk into the games, I tell myself over and over that I have no choice but to win.

I just need to focus.

When I walk into the Pit, Razor is standing by the door, like a sentinel. "You're back," he says, face twisted into a scowl.

"Why wouldn't I be?" I try to sound relaxed, but every ounce of self-preservation I own is screaming danger at me.

"Figured after losing last week, you'd realize this isn't girl's play." He means it to be mocking but his tone is much too serious.

"And yet," I say before I can stop myself, "you sound worried."

Surprise flickers in his eyes, and I know I've got it right. He's threatened. I just don't know by what. It can't be me. I'm at the bottom of the pyramid, and he is at the very top. He leans in, too close, and hatred washes over me with such force, my breath catches.

"You think you're better than us,” he says, “but I'm going to make you regret ever walking through that door." Then saunters to the table and sits next to his buddies, laughing like he didn't just leave a ticking bomb at my feet.

When my turn to play comes, I stare at the wires and screens above my head, the buzzing of the crowd scratching against my awareness.

My head is stuffed with ants crawling all over my brain as I listen to the countdown and sink into the game.

The burning sensation comes into focus before the room does.

I hold a cup. Hot water runs from the faucet into it and overflows, burning my hands. I drop the cup and it shatters against the porcelain sink. I turn the hot water off and turn on the cold, hoping to soothe the stinging. The pipes groan in protest then sputter out something that's not water, but dark and thick, and the smell of rotten eggs fills my nostrils and I shut that off too. I was filling the cup for something important, but I can't remember what that might have been now.

I pat my hands on my jeans and look out the window above the sink. Slim naked trees are black against a bruised sky. The feeling of being watched washes over me, so I turn away from the window.

It's dark inside save for a single lit candle in the middle of a kitchen table. The flame struggles to stay alive against the drafty old house. I walk towards it, slowly, carefully, holding my breath, afraid the candle might go out if I release it. The top of the wooden table has carvings on it. I can't make sense of most of it, but one thing catches my eye, the words Nightmare Junction.

As soon as I read it, the candle goes out. My pulse quickens. The words are familiar but I can't quite place where I have heard them before and I'm overcome with the sense that I need to get out of here. As soon as I think this though, I hear it. Running water.

I turn back to the sink. It's not coming from there.

It's nearly pitch black but my eyes have adjusted enough that I can make out the furniture as I go around the table and into the living room. There are stairs to my left, and there's the sound of water again. I seem to have forgotten it for a moment, but it is coming from upstairs.

The steps creak under my weight. There are pictures on the wall leading up to the second floor. Family portraits. I stop halfway up the staircase to take a closer look, wanting to know whose house this is. I have to get really close and squint to see, like the pictures might be out of focus. It's the same woman in all of them. She's in her mid-twenties, long curly hair. She's expressionless, her eyes missing a spark so that she doesn't quite seem human.

A shiver runs down my spine and I start back up the stairs, still looking at the pictures, but not as closely.

There's a thumping sound. I stop. There's another, then another, like footsteps going up the stairs. But there is only me. My heart quickens. It sounds like it's coming from the other side of the wall so I press my ear to it and listen.

"Hello?"

The thumping stops.

I imagine whoever is on the other side has their ear on the wall too.

Listening back.

The longer I stand here with my ear pressed against the wall the more I feel like I'm not just being listened for, but also watched. Dread snakes up my spine and I run up the stairs, the sound of water dripping filling my head.

The bathroom door is open, water overflows from an iron claw tub. I look down. The water level is at my knees, which seems impossible, and rising quickly. I try to hurry towards the tub, but my movements are slow and sluggish, like I'm walking knee deep in mud instead of bathwater.

"There you are," a voice says.

I whip around.

It's my mother, and I realize she's the woman in all the pictures. A younger version of her. There's no water where my mother stands even though she's just a few feet away.

"Help me," I say, but my mother doesn't move, her eyes are as empty as they were in the pictures.

The water is up to my chest and I'm suddenly aware of how cold it is. I start shivering. My whole body aches from it. I look down at my feet, willing them to move. They do not.

When I look back up, my mother is standing mere inches in front of me.

A stone statue, mouth wide in a silent scream, eyes are black holes, hand raised over her head. She holds a needle. And though her face is frozen, like an angel of death, she says, "I've got your Venom."

And plunges the needle into my chest.

I wake up to the burning of bile rising up my throat. My eyes water. I press my hands into my eyes to push back the tears. I will not cry. My skin's cool and moist. My chest aches where my heart thrums against it from the adrenaline rush. This part I hate, the shakiness and jumpiness. Last week it took hours for the effects of the stimulant to wear off.

Joaquin has that same look as last time, a mix of kindness and pity, but he doesn't say anything about that. Instead, he says, "Victor wants to see you."

I avoid looking into the crowd. Into the eyes of all these men who have seen the inside of my head.

Victor stands outside his office talking to some guy. I slow my pace and wait for him to be done. When I'm within his reach, he grabs my arm and pulls me close. His bald head glistens with sweat. His nostrils flare. His fingers dig into my arm, and I wince.

"Let go of me." I try to jerk free. His energy rams against me. It’s all anger.

"I took you on to win. Not to cower and hide every time the boogeyman shows up."

"There was nothing I could do," I say, the tremble in my voice giving away the fear rattling inside my chest.

"It's a fucking game, fight back."

"I'll do better next time. I promise."

"Next time is all you have." He lets go of me and walks away leaving me with a bruised arm and a pit of fear in my stomach. I am deeper in the hole and farther away from being able to get Venom for my mom.

I splash cold water on my face. The restroom is small, two stalls covered in graffiti and a sink. The mirror looks as if it has never been cleaned. It stinks of urine and mildew and cigarette smoke.

My whole body hurts, like I strained during the game when in reality, I was paralyzed by fear.

Arlington comes out of one of the stalls, leans on the wall behind her and meets my gaze in the mirror. "You okay?"

"I can't even tell I'm in the game," I say, trying to hold back tears.

“The words Nightmare Junction always show up right away,” she says, “that’s your clue. Sometimes it takes our brains a few games to figure it out, though. To adjust the way the game works and remember it’s not a real dream. But once it clicks, you’ll be fine.”

I grip the edge of the sink. "I don’t have a few games. Victor wants me to play again tonight, and if I lose again, I'm out."

Her gaze drops to my hands. "Too much of that shit will mess you up."

"I don't have a choice."

"Victor doesn’t fucking care if it kills us, you know that, right?" There's something in her tone I don't understand. An urgency. A warning.

She closes the distance between us, our gazes still locked in the mirror. "No one cares what happens to us, Laina. They look at us like we're not even human."

I drop my gaze, afraid Arlington will see the ugly truth. That maybe I believe it too, that the techno-chromosome has made us something other.

"They're wrong," Arlington insists, like she can hear my thoughts. She starts pacing the short distance between the wall and the sink. I focus on keeping her energy at bay. I want her to stop talking, to stop moving, but she just keeps going. "They took advantage of our mothers and used them as lab rats. And now, they make us feel ashamed so we hide who we are, so they don't have to face the consequences of their carelessness and can go on about their lives without guilt."

The bathroom is suddenly too small for this storm. My mouth and throat go dry. Arlington is putting words to feelings I've worked hard to trample down.

"They didn't know what the consequences would be," I say. "How could they?"

Arlington comes to an abrupt stop. "Oh come on! They made us sterile, Laina. They knew how risky the experiment was and they made sure if shit went wrong, it'd end with us." She turns to the mirror, leans in closer and stares at her reflection.

I want to ask her what her enhancement is. I want to know her, but I'm afraid. And yet, she is right. I know she is. We hide, we're scared, but the world made us this way. We never asked for it.

"I can read minds," I blurt out, and my heart stops. Arlignton's eyes grow wide in the mirror, but I push through the panic welling up in my chest. "Sort of," I add. "If someone is feeling something strongly and I touch them, I can..." I look for the right word because It's not that I can hear their thoughts exactly, it’s a knowing. "I get an impression of what they are thinking or feeling, I guess."

Arlington grins. "Holy shit, you have a legit superpower."

A nervous laugh escapes me. "No, it's not like that. I can feel people's energy really well, but lots of people can do that, you know? The knowing what they are thinking, that's more... well, I don't know how accurate it is or isn't, exactly, because I've spent my life tamping it down."

Arlington nods. "Out of fear."

I nod back. "I've spent my life protecting them from me."

"It's no wonder you always look like you're about to fold into yourself," she says, then she grows serious.

For the first time in my life, as we stand in a filthy restroom, in silence, I feel like I am no longer alone. Tears prick the back of my eyes.

A smile begins to crack her mouth open--slowly. She reaches for my hand. I'm startled, but fight the urge to pull away. Her hands are warm. Her energy is like a derailed train. I've never felt anything quite like it. It's overwhelming, and I wonder if she knows this is what she feels like. Would she want to know? And it hits me: Arlington touched me knowing what I can do.

She isn't afraid.

She doesn't think I'm a monster.

"You're a train wreck," I say, a little breathless.

She laughs. "They erased my fear center. I've been a danger to myself and others from the moment I was born." She squeezes my hand, and when she lets go, it feels a little like falling, and I need a moment to steady myself.

"Laina," she says, leaning in, eyes boring into me, "use your enhancement in the game. You--who you are--is how you win."

The crowd is loud and expectant, its energy humming against my skin until it burns. As I approach the ring, Arlington's words crash against my skull, the desperate need to help my mother and the fear of being found out at war with each other. I remind myself everyone here already knows I’m enhanced.

I'm playing Jordan next. He's not one of the best players, but certainly better than I am. Everyone is. If I lose, I'll have failed my mother. Fear coils in my stomach, ready to strike. When I reach the steps, I move aside to let my opponent go first, wanting to buy myself an extra few seconds to think through what I'm going to do.

The crowd breaks into hollers and cheers. I frown, then climb the first step and crane my neck to see over the sea of heads.

My heart sinks.

It's not Jordan walking out of the Pit.

It's Razor.

The crowd parts for him, slapping his back, already congratulating him on his win. This is wrong. I'm supposed to play Jordan, not Razor, the best player in the games.

I swallow the bile burning up my throat.

He saunters up the stairs, his mouth cracks into a malicious grin, the ticking bomb ready to detonate, but before he can get away from me, I grab his hand. I don’t know if it will work, but I have to try something.

He pauses, gaze dropping to our hands. His is hot and sweaty, and I fight the urge to pull away. "Good luck," I say, smiling, because I have no other choice.

Confusion flickers in his eyes, and he yanks his hand back.

My smile widens. It was enough.

I follow behind him. I plop on the chair, then Joaquin's fingers are on my neck, and there’s the pinch that follows. I let the crowd's energy wash over me. I wait for the shame of what I have just done to come crashing down and drown me, but instead, as the countdown into the Nightmare Junction begins, all I can think is about Razor's older brother. How afraid he is of him, and how terrified he is his brother will show up in the game.

I have no idea what I’ll do with this once in the game, but if I can win against Razor, if I can find a way to win these games, I can renegotiate my agreement with Victor and,maybe even make enough money to pay for the treatment that will cure my mother.

A single bulb swings from the ceiling. I glance over my shoulders. Behind me there's only darkness.

"Hello?" I call out through the fear thickening in my throat.

No one answers. I start towards the light. The floor is sticky under my boots. The hallway is not very wide, if I reach out I can touch both sides before having to extend both of my arms out. I don't.

As I near the light I can make out stains in the walls. Wet stains. There's a metallic smell in the air. I can taste it. When I'm under the light, I realize those are not stains on the walls, but writing. Symbols I don't understand. My gaze follows it all the way up the wall and onto the ceiling. I tilt my head all the way.

Nightmare Junction is written on the ceiling around the single lightbulb.

At the sight of the words, something clicks.

I smile.

I’m in the game.

There's the sound clicking and scratching somewhere behind me, and I turn. It takes me a moment to realize it's claws. Claws scraping at metal. And then there's growling. It's getting closer. I can hear someone or something, breathing fast and ragged.

My whole body tenses, and I'm frozen in place, but when the growling comes again, I forget everything and I run. Away from the light. Now there's only darkness approaching, the sound of my boots pounding the floor, and my heart punching my chest.

The hallway seems to go on forever and I have to slow down because I can't see very well. Whatever is behind me has also slowed down. I realize too late I should have stayed where there was light and fought back, but in that moment, my flight response took over.

I have one arm straight out in front of me, and the other feeling the wall on my right. The tips of my fingers feel for what's coming ahead as they brush the wall's uneven surface and feel the wetness of the paint, or at least I hope that's still what I'm touching.

And then, there's nothing.

It's disorienting, and I sway.

I reach to the right, extending my arm even more and find nothing. I feel for the wall on the left. Still there.

I hesitate, unsure of what to do, but then I hear the growling and it's much too close and I swear I can feel hot breath on my neck.

I veer to the right and break into a run.

Up ahead there's a red glow, as I get closer the word Exit sharpens. I run faster as a laugh bubbles in my chest. I win if I can just get to the exit. I run and run and then it's gone. The sign is gone, and I realize too late it's a trick, I try to slow my pace and turn but still slam my shoulder into a wall, screaming as loud as I can. Searing pain shoots through me. It's blinding and I fall to my knees. Hot tears stream down my face and I'm having trouble breathing, my arm hurts so bad.

It's just a game.

The growling is back, and I know the monster is coming. Grabbing my shoulder, I get to my feet and press my back against the wall because my legs feel like they might give in from under me. My heart beats in my throat. Think Laina. Think through the pain.

Play the game.

There is no monster, only Razor. The boy who is afraid of his brother. I can only see a couple of feet in front of me. "Come on, give me something,' I whisper, willing the game to obey me, as I look all around me.

Anything.

And it does. An axe leans against the wall just behind me. I wonder if I just ran past it, or if I actually made it appear. It doesn't matter. The monster is coming straight at me, growling like I'm a meal.

He can't hurt me.

This is just a dream.

I reach for the axe, my shoulder burning like someone is trying to rip my arm off as I swing it over my head.

"Hey, little brother," I say, right before Razor comes into view, and at my words, he stops.

I step forward, hope blooming in my chest. “I’m coming to get you.” The words tumble out of me. I don’t recognize my own voice, all sing-song-like, but it has the desired effect.

When I step close enough that I can finally see him, and he can see me, I hesitate. He is a nasty thing, all sharp teeth and claws--a nightmare from my own brain. I think he's about to retreat, but I don't wait.

I am here to win.

I let the axe come down on the monster's head.

I squint against the bright lights blinding me, and I laugh.

My mother will get her Venom tonight.

#writing #short story #scifi #virtual reality #writers of the future #authors #am writing #ya books

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mrthenarrator · 6 days

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Hi! Hi hello! So um- I may or may not be having a crisis right now. So it turns out the frozen human- IS me. I was scavenging documents and- I died and they- made an AI out of me. Now besides that point apparently Sarah knows im the reason she's in here- I mean- I saved her. If I left he be she would have died from the gas leaks which wasn't my fault! I can only digitize one person at a time and- okay she was the only one I wanted to digitize…

Okay so she didn't get lost she ran off- she's not trapped she's looking for a way out- and I don't know- I know there is a way out but- I'll be honest what happens is like what happens in your game with the button or whatever! I will be completely and utterly alone! And I put her in here for that reason and now I don't know if- I should let her go. She would be happy that way- I mean… she has kids… but it's not like they know she's alive… for all we know it's been minutes out there and millennia in here! I have no idea how time passes!

There is something wrong with me. Something very wrong with me… And now my name isn't even Natalie. That's just what Sarah called me…

And now im here telling practically a stranger about my problems! Well Stranger… but idol in a way. Who knew giving your main character choice would basically end your world.

I'm ready to burn this stupid lab to the ground… why did I ever keep this? Sarah didn't need to stay a chemist. I didn't have to make a little fake world for her. To make her happy. She didn't need other people. If I had just made a world for her and me none of this would have happened...

I don't even know why im telling you this! I guess- have you ever been scared of losing everything you've ever done in your existence?

Maybe I just want some insight… if you have any I guess its appreciated…

(I sincerely apologize for this I needed to just lore)

...Oh goodness.

I suppose I do have some insight on this.

When Oswin and I started talking a few months ago, he offered to work on finding a way for me to escape. At the time, the idea of leaving the Parable was something I never thought I could consider. Especially since we weren't sure we could bring Stanley until much later. And even then I wasn't sure he would even want to stay if he did manage to escape the Parable.

In addition, moving to the real world meant I wouldn't have my developer tools or abilities to help me do things. I would have to learn how to do everything without the games code to assist me. And that uncertainty scared me.

Having that uncertainty, plus Stanley possibly leaving made me absolutely certain on not leaving the Parable. At least until Stanley and I talked privately about the matter before finally deciding to try.

While I may not understand your situation fully myself, I do understand the fear of losing everything you've ever had. Hell, I'm still scared that somehow the Parable shuts down and Stanley, Lynne, and I cease to exist.

...I don't know if I have any advice on your situation. Since your circumstances are quite different to what I've experienced. But if you do end up finding Sarah, All I can offer is that you talk to her genuinely. About what may happen to your game, To you, as well as how she may feel and want. Honesty and communication is a rather strong tool I've learnt recently.

And hopefully, you two can find a solution to it, whether it's both of you leaving together, or... whatever you two come up with.

I do hope things turn out alright between you two. And sending my best wishes to you both.

#asks #tsp narrator #tsp rp #rp #long post #(ooc: adding the long post tag bc goddamn we both typed a lot sdjkfh)#(anywho i hope this response is alright! its been a while since ive written for narry so i might be a bit rusty skdjhf)#(as well i hope what he says is alright for where ur leading the lore to)#(GENUINELY EXCITED TO KNOW WHAT HAPPENS TO SARAH AND NATALIE THO 👀👀👀👀👀)#(THE L O O O R R R E E E)

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icypantherwrites · 2 years

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2022 Whumptober Fanfictions

This Nightmare is Mine (Please Don’t Let it Become Yours)

Summary: When Shiro winds up captured in a setting that he’s starting to fear is reminiscent of his time with the Galra, his only comfort is that the rest of the team is safe and they won’t ever have to live this nightmare. And then he hears Lance scream.

A Peaceful Death

Summary: Lance had once heard that drowning was a peaceful way to die. But as his head is shoved beneath the frigid water and ice fills his lungs and the world goes dark, this time he knows for the final time, he finds that isn’t true. Because drowning to death isn’t peaceful at all. It’s absolutely terrifying.

Shaken

Summary: “Run!” Hunk screamed over the sound of more and more cracks and groan of walls as smaller rocks began to drop down at both himself — don’t panic, don’t panic, oh God don’t panic — and at Lance, who had frozen like a statue save for the visible tremble shaking him as much as the quaking ground as the cave collapsed around them.

When Hope Isn't Enough

Summary: Voltron received word from the Coalition that they had lost contact with a specialized mission team that had been sent to infiltrate a Galran stronghold. And that team? It contained Matt Holt. The hope was the team had been captured alive as given their talents and backgrounds they would likely be more valuable to the Galra alive than dead, but as Voltron only finds body after body… Hope isn’t looking like it’s going to be enough.

Summary: Lance is in trouble. He’s somehow gotten off the marked trail and now he’s not only lost in low visibility swirling toxic gas but one wrong step could send him plummeting through the brittle ground and into the deadly boiling streams that run throughout the planet. And to make matters even worse? Apparently his visor is cracked.

Red Where it Belongs

Summary: How much blood, Pidge faintly wondered, had she lost now? What percentage? The human body couldn’t lose more than forty percent of its blood before death occurred and hypovolemic shock symptoms started around fifteen percent. She stared at her blood covered hands, at the puddle growing around her, feeling the way everything was going numb and made her guess. At least twenty percent. Twenty percent more to go.

All Whumptober stories are available for supporters of my Patreon.

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jadedrrose · 2 years

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The Experiment - Chapter One

Law needs free access to everything on Punk Hazard. But Caesar Clown’s conditions are ones that affect you directly - give him a child to experiment on.

Warnings: Angst, talks of pregnancy (will be a lot of talk about that throughout the entire fic, as well), Caesar Clown is an asshole

Day One.

—

The bitter cold was biting at you, sending chills down your spine over and over again. As you walked through the deep snowy terrain, you shivered. Pulling your coat closer to yourself, trying to keep yourself as warm as possible, you couldn’t help but wonder; why did Law want to come here? Why did he have to bring you?

Well… okay, maybe that was your fault. You couldn’t bear to be away from Law for who knows how long, and it had seemed like it would be at least a few months that he’d be away. So he reluctantly allowed you to join him, much to the Heart Pirate’s disappointment. They would be without their captain but also you, the second-in-command. The one who made everything just that much better on the submarine, the one who kept Law in a good mood, meaning he’d act at least less cold towards everyone.

But in your defense, you hadn’t expected the island to be so damn cold!

There was a laboratory in sight. Was this where you’d be staying? Law hadn’t really told you much about this trip, just that it could be dangerous and that he was looking for something. But what was he looking for?

“This is the third laboratory of Punk Hazard,” Law spoke. “It’s where the explosion was caused four years ago.”

You simply listened to your husband, curious as to why he wanted to go there.

“We’ll be staying here, if he allows it.”

“He?” You inquired. Who was this ‘he’?

“A madman,” Law told you, “Caesar Clown. Apparently he wants to be the greatest scientist in the world.”

“Caesar Clown,” you repeated his words, “that’s a ridiculous name, isn’t it?”

“It may sound ridiculous, but (name)-ya, I don’t know what he’s capable of. I don’t want you around him, without me.”

Suddenly you felt fearful. This man was so awful Law wouldn’t even let you be alone with him? So how dangerous was he, truly?

Shivering once again, you jogged to catch up with Law, his long legs giving him the advantage of walking faster than you.

You huddled into him, wrapping an arm around his left one. “I’m cold, Law.”

“Of course you are. We’re on a damn ice island. Though, the other half is all fire and volcanoes. Would that suit you better?”

You didn’t reply, simply pouted and walked on with him.

—

The laboratory wasn’t too warm on the inside, although it was much better than the ice conditions outside. You let go of Law at his request, then following a bird-lady down the long hallway.

“Master Caesar is awaiting you two,” she spoke. “He’s just ahead, in the lounge.”

“But who are you, miss bird?” Law asked, clearly suspicious of her.

“I’m Monet,” she said with her disgustingly sweet voice.

You didn’t like the way she seemed instantly fond of your husband, smiling and winking at him. She didn’t even greet you or acknowledge you once.

She opened up a door to the lounge room. The tall white walls were bare or anything, there weren’t even windows. You didn’t like this one bit.

But as soon as the three of you entered the room, there was this horrific laughter that echoed off the tall, bare walls. The sound had come from a man who seemed to be floating and made of gas, his deathly pale skin only visible on his face, which wasn’t even slightly more pleasant looking…

“If it isn’t the Warlord, Trafalgar Law!” He laughed, a sinister grin upon his face.

“And you…?” He gave you an inquiring look.

“His wife,” you mumbled, scared to even speak wrong to this guy.

He laughed again, throwing his hands together. “Who would’ve thought the cold-hearted surgeon of death had a wife! Isn’t this a lovely surprise, Monet?”

She simply hummed in response, writing something in a journal.

He had the two of you sit down on a purple leather couch, and he and Law began discussing the terms of staying on the island. Law had told him some excuse of why he wanted to be here, you could tell that much.

“But how can I trust you?” Caesar asked, “I do have a few ideas in mind…”

“And what would those be?” Law bluntly asked.

“Well, for starters, using your Devil fruit, you can help me.”

Caesar then explained that the people left on the island after the explosion could not walk on their own, and needed new legs. He proposed that Law swap out their non-functioning legs with working ones from animals.

“Fine,” Law agreed to that much.

“Oh, but I’m not done,” Caesar said, a wicked smirk on his disgusting face. “I want the heart… of your wife.”

“No,” Law instantly rejected that idea altogether. “I won’t do that to her.”

“But how else can I trust you?” Caesar put a finger to his chin, as though he were deep in thought.

“I’ll give you mine,” Law offered.

You looked at him alarmed. Surely that wasn’t a good idea? And Law was willing to do such a thing? You couldn’t believe it.

Caesar hummed, thinking it all over.

“Okay,” he said, but he didn’t look satisfied, yet.

You feared what he would say next. How awful would it be? What could be worse than Law giving him his own heart?

But your stomach simply dropped as the gas man began to speak again.

“I can’t just let your wife stay here without paying, you know. She’ll have to give me something in return as well…”

“Don’t bring her into this, Law shouted, standing up, a firm grip on his katana.

“Then leave this island!” Caesar yelled back, his patience clearly wearing thin.

“Law, just let him talk!” You begged him, worry evident on your face.

Law sighed, and sat back down. You placed a hand on his arm.

“You see, I strive to be the greatest scientist ever known. I perform many experiments, all of different kinds. I’m already working on a cure for sick children, and I do wonder, can the amber lead poisoning be passed down to offspring?”

Law grit his teeth, about to yell, until you tightened your grip on his arm, squeezing it for only a second.

“Provide me a child, Trafalgar (Name), and I will do everything in my power to make sure it is not burdened by your husband’s disease!”

You stared at the man in horror, mouth hanging open. You looked between him and Law, unsure of what to do.

All you knew was that you felt like puking. You and Law had agreed that you didn’t want children, especially being pirates and all. But… you realized that this experiment meant that the child wouldn’t be in your care. Caesar would be curing it instead, right? So technically… you and Law would still be child-free, right?

Law looked more angry than you’d ever seen him in all the years you’d been with him.

“You bastard!” He yelled, “to ask her that much? How dare you!”

If Law kept protesting, it meant you two would be kicked off the island and this whole trip would be meaningless. Clearly, whatever Law was looking for was important…

“Law, stop it!” You yelled, gripping his arm even harder. “I… don’t want this mission to be pointless. If it’s the only way we can stay… then,”

You hesitated, mouth running dry. You couldn’t believe what you were about to say.

“Then I agree,” you finished.

“(Name), you can’t!” Law yelled.

“It’s fine,” you said. You didn’t know if you were trying to reassure yourself or convince Law. “This mission is important to you. I can’t be the reason it fails.”

Caesar let out the most sinister, downright evil laugh you’d ever heard. “Then it’s set! You two shall be allowed to stay here for as long as you want, even after I have acquired the child. Now, Law… your heart?”

Law stood up, a deep scowl upon his face. He quickly took out his heart, using his powers, and handed it over to Caesar.

“To earn your trust, Law, I’ll let you take Monet’s heart. Then we’re even.”

Without even hesitating, Law took her heart too.

“Very good,” Caesar tucked Law’s heart into his lab coat. “Monet will show you to a room you two can stay in. You’ll freely have access to anything in this laboratory, as well. But you must not leave this island until that child is born.”

Law didn’t even speak after that. You knew he was beyond pissed off. This was a whole new level, even for him. He grabbed your hand, holding it tightly as though he were afraid to let go of you.

With all that said and done, the three of you left the lounge, Caesar's laughter ringing out behind you.

#trafalgar law x reader #Trafalgar D Water Law x reader #law x reader #one piece fanfiction #is this fucked up? maybe.

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