KURO WEEK - DAY 3: Mirror / Reflection

MindControl

Just got home not too long ago, but just skating in with Day #6′s theme based upon the ever lovely and talented @theprojectava  ‘s Kuro story. I hope to have the next one out soonish, though late for the day no less. 

It’s otherworldly. This electric pulse of a presence that ghosts along the periphery of his mind. Small at first, it builds and it builds until it’s not just an inconsistent buzzing at the back of his skull but a defined being.

Another mind spilling into his, and for a moment, Kuro thinks he has finally lost. This is the crack the Druids put inside of him, and instead of things spilling out, they’re tumbling in, trying to claim whatever they can of him. Impulse tells him to fight it.

Resist. Resist. Resist.

He’s isn’t broken yet.

Something else whispers to him of patience. It tells him this is not the same black that the Druids try to infuse him with. Neither callous nor cold, it offers a warmth, something innate to its very being. It flickers white then red, then black marbles throughout both hues until it’s burning within the back of his mind.

Persistent.

It wants something of him, something he thinks he can give and willingly at that. So, Kuro reaches out to it. He sets his hands upon that glowing orb, feels the heat beneath his fingertips, making his blood sing with life. It tells him he is his own entity, that the heart within his chest is his own and that it aches with concern for the one it had been modeled after.

The ones calling out to him ache just as much.

No.

More.

The feelings that steep into his bloodstream carry a desperation far deeper than anything Kuro has ever known for the man called Takashi. It’s a desperation born of intimacy, of hearts bound more closely to Shiro’s than Kuro could have ever claimed, and somehow, it’s that very thought that brings him to inviting them inside of all that he is. Because Kuro wants to know that too, wants to know what could bring someone - or someones - to the brink of hell itself for a man who had been built upon a lie.

Kuro wants to know what makes someone want to thread their lives together with another being so much they would risk everything for him.

So, he lets him in, the one whose voice called out the loudest inside of his mind. He gives him control, and he watches as Shiro stirs in response, called back from the remorseless depths of his own mind. And it sparks a quiet curiosity within himself, to see how someone can respond to a simple change, how someone can know the difference from one being to another just because of the energy they give off.

As if there’s a frequency inside of every heart, and Kuro’s has now magically aligned to another, and he’s watching as it matches Shiro’s, as it calls him home.

And from the observation deck of his own mind, he thinks yet again of how Shiro fought in the Arena. Because this, right here, is everything the man had been fighting for.

He thinks that a human heart isn’t such a bad thing to be beating within his chest.

hang on he just has to do keith’s hair THEY’LL BE RIGHT THERE

“So wake up, wake up dreaming,And lie here with me.” - Ryan Star, Start a Fire.

a klance piece I had in mind for a long time! i wanted to make something soft and relaxing,yet, filled with feels, @asterein‘s arts inspired me a lot for this one!

Madness

So, @theprojectava drew the beginnings of her fantastic Kuro and like most things I see of hers, I itch to write something. SO - in honor of Kuro Week, a short little piece spun out of her description and drawing! 

There was method, and there was madness. Kuro knew the Druids were capable of both, had experienced it himself through countless excursions into the Arena, under numerous torments all excused in the name of science and learning.

He would be a crowning achievement. A hero, a thing to be feared and rightly so.

Ah, but he wasn’t Kuro then. He was Zero, a starting place, a nothing and a beginning. He was the launching point for a counter-resistance. He would be everything the Black Paladin was not, and in that he was supposed to be better. But how did a nameless experiment prove itself more than the original?

A name was something that grounded. It gave meaning. It defined an existence.

And he certainly existed. You had to be alive to feel the pain, and you had to have a heart to know that some of this was wrong. Very wrong.

So, how did he define himself?

He knew he didn’t want this. He knew he wasn’t Shiroor Champion, that he wasn’t better because an entity in and of itself could not be out-made as it was the only one of its kind. He knew you could share blood and genetics, but a heart and mind were something all one’s own. And he didn’t want the Druids to suffocate either of those, for they were his, and they told him he was better than this.

Better than the forced fights in the Arena. Better than a mechanical arm. Better than the endless hours of torture on that cold metal slab of a table. Better than the monster they told him he needed to be because that somehow made him better than a champion.

The Druids tried to define him by their methods, trying to carve him out of pain and slaughtering his fears, trying to fortify him with a killer’s finely honed instincts. They tried to make him something lesser while claiming he would be greater. And he may not have known much, but he knew this was a lie.

Their words sat like snakes in the very core of his being, writhing over one another and threatening to strike if he made one false step, let slip one too-human word.

So, he learned.

He became ruthless, digging his hands into the worst of all he ever imagined he could be. He tore through opponents, standing in the crimson of desired victory, and held silent at the knives slipping beneath his skin and the way his veins would sing with fire. The fear of death slowly drained from his eyes as they spoke of him, of the ways to make him better, of how best to strip the human from his heart.

He embraced madness, wore it like a second skin until the Druids stopping whispering malcontent and started to smile. And as their words fell to quiet murmurs, just enough to remind, he knew that he could play this role, bit by bit letting the blood run out on his humanity with every win in the Arena.

Bit by bit building a wall of iron around his heart.

He was zero, a nothing and a somebody.

You and me at the beginning of the world.

GREETINGS EVERYONE!!! I've spent the last couple of months working on a full length comic adaption of @goodlucktai's beautiful 'fishbowl' fanfic!!! Below you can read the fruits of my efforts :) Enjoy!

This comic takes place before Dressrosa

CONTINUE >>>

((Happy Birthday From Monster Sides To All The Sides of Thomas Sanders!))

KURO WEEK - DAY 5: Nightmares

Eeeh… so this is kinda long. But I loved writing it. Also: it’s from Shiro’s POV. So… have this:

Monsters don’t have nightmares…

It took everything in him not to scream. He wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. Wouldn’t let them know how afraid he really was.

No…

He had survived this once… He would do it again. Because now he knew how the cruel machinery of the arena worked, relentless and precise like clockwork. He knew what the Druids would do to him. He knew the rules.

Stick to the rules and survive.

And rule number one was to never show your fear.

Shiro could do this, he would survive and find his way back home. Home… wherever that was. A small, fragile smile crept onto his face. Of course he knew where home was. It was somewhere among the stars… Sitting in a giant robot lion and hunting every single Galra cruiser down in order to find him. He would survive this… for now there was Keith, burning with the force of a thousand suns, fiery red and blazing with anger. He had seen glimpses of what the Red Paladin was capable of… This man would tear the universe apart and burn the whole Empire to ashes, if that’s what it took to get Shiro back.

For now he would stick to the rules and buy his friends as much time as possible to come and find him. Him and-

Movement from the shadows caught his attention, followed by a soft sob. If it hadn’t been so eerily quiet in their cell, he might’ve missed it. Shiro froze at the sound, eyes trained on the the figure that laid curled up on one of the cots.

The first time he’d seen him, Shiro had actually lost it. He still had no idea where he came from – it didn’t really matter anyway. Because he was there nonetheless. He existed. He breathed. There was a soul in his yellow eyes, when he gave Shiro that look. That look of utter betrayal, like he’d hoped for something more, something that was definitely not a beaten and bruised Shiro.

He couldn’t really remember when or how the guards had maneuvered him into the same cell he occupied. At some point he’d simply checked out, mind going blank and numb, because it was all too much.

The Druids had taken his arm, stripped him off any right he thought he had, put him through fights against aliens twice his size… but THIS. This had been the last straw.

It was the day he met his clone, that Shiro actually cried for the first time in ages. He cried for himself. It was the same day he realized, that this would never end. They’d always find a way to break him, to bend and twist him, until his mind turned into something ugly. The evidence, the actual personification of their madness driven efforts, sat right in front of him and stared at him with piercing yellow eyes.

He had no idea how long they’d stayed like this. Huddled against opposite walls of the same cell and staring off into nothingness, until one of them had started talking. It had been awkward, looking at his own face and listening to his own voice, somewhat sounding off. More guttural. Some words even sounded a little…purred? It was almost off-putting to see his own face staring back at him and moving with expressions that weren’t his. It felt like watching yourself in a mirror, but your reflection suddenly stops moving along with you. Familiar features turned into something otherworldly, because someone else controlled them and poured their very soul into every twitch and pull of muscle.

They’d created a whole new being. The clone might’ve looked like Shiro, but under their shared features, there was a different person. Individual. Original. And so, so human. He even had a name.

Kuro.

How fitting, Shiro had thought at first. But he’d come to realize quite fast, that Kuro wasn’t the dark, evil minded counterpart he’d expected to hide behind that name.

In fact, the more they talked, the more Shiro got the impression, that their Galra-hybrid was more human than most people Shiro had met back on earth.

He had suffered. He had seen horrible things, survived even worse. He’d been ripped open and put back together, just to be torn apart again. Some days he would find the strengh to laugh at all of this… And some days he would break under the pressure and fear. Like any human being would do.

Days had passed. It was easy - too easy - to believe that Kuro was anything but a monster. Especially so, after he’d been carried back into their cell, right after one particular hard fight. Kuro had won, of course… But was the damage his body and mind had taken really worth it?

Seeing him like this morphed repulsion and mistrust first into pity, then into something else. Something Shiro didn’t really want to think about. It felt way too close to compassion.

He couldn’t let that happen.

Stick to the rules and survive.

And sticking to the rules meant no sympathy for Galra-clones.

In the end the universe wouldn’t have any of it.

Another sob brought him back to reality. It tore through the silence that hung between them. As far as he could tell, Kuro was still asleep on his small cot, but he thrashed wildly against invisible enemies and restraints. Maybe he relived his latest fight? His latest torture? Tears glistened in the dim purple lights.

In this moment he looked almost completely human… Vulnerable and scared and just so much younger.

Shiros throat went dry. Kuro wasn’t a monster… never had been… And that tore at his heart.

Despite what the Druids wanted him to be, Kuro was anything but a monster.

Without thinking, Shiro stood up from where he sat, back against the wall, and silently made his way towards the clone. Said clone was a mess; twitching and and clawing at the nightmares that plagued him.

Another whimper. Small and heartbreaking. He couldn’t take it.

Shiro couldn’t stop himself from reaching out, trying to soothe Kuro with a warm hand on his shoulder. But it wasn’t enough to make the nightmares stop…

Fuck the rules.

Soon he found himself huddled up on the small cot next to the other man, arms wrapped around shaking shoulders and metal fingers stroking carefully over a tense back. There were scars on his back. So. So many… Shiro didn’t even want to know what had caused these scars. Or the nightmares.

This man was definitely no monster.

Because monsters

didn’t have nightmares…

___

I know I promised there will be a happy ending to my Kuro week… But for now… suffer with me? @kuroweek

he’s a little confused but he’s got the spirit

angsty bonus:

after a long and heartfelt hug he and Iroh had The Talk™ gay edition

I love your prosthetic design for Leo!! Can we see more of that design?

I just really like the headcanon that Leo lost his arm in the invasion to parallel what happened in the bad timeline

I also like the concept of Donnie putting his logo on literally anything and everything