# Explore tagged Tumblr posts

[sharkylass]

Okay, before I talk about au stuff-ART FIGHT HAS OFFICIALLY ENDED!!

This year I was super busy, and yet this has somehow turned out to me my most productive year on artfight to date with 24 total attacks (and I wanted to do more, but again, this month had me in a chokehold) SO HERE ARE MY CONTRIBUTIONS!

In order, credit for character designs goes to: First two are for @rose-petal123 next is @princess-self-shipping , @clawcakes , @sweetkiller690 , @camilieroart , @anixolt , @artilite, @krdrawsnext two are both for @kazehita @bleeding-fairy-helmet , Curb Animates (on youtube), @donniipao , @wonder-of-the-stars , @bluesgras , @feloplip , @princemonarchempress, @tfrost , @tealgoat , @sketchz42 , @saltyhibiscus And the last two are for @sharoo

(For some reason the tags aren't working, but if you're curious, I mentioned everyone in the notes in the same order!)

[aventurineswife]

Dear [Name],

The sound of your voice still haunts my thoughts—sharp, biting, and final. Two Augusts ago, that moment carved itself into me like the searing heat of Sigonia's sun. I told you the truth. A gamble, of course, like all things in my life, except this time I lost.

You didn’t like it, that truth. You left.

I remember standing by the gate of your home, the sharp scent of ozone from the desert storm overhead mingling with the iron tang of regret. Your car idled for a second too long. I thought—hoped—you might change your mind. But you drove off, taillights disappearing into the storm.

You in your Benz, and me, well… I stayed behind. Always behind.

Now, I fill my nights charming rooms full of people who adore my tricks and laugh at my lies. They think they know me—the dashing risk-taker, the lucky gambler. But luck had nothing to do with us. With you.

And what’s worse? I meant well, I really did. I just aimed low, didn’t I? Played my hand with all the finesse of a child at their first roulette table. I wanted to keep you, but my methods… I’ll make it known now: I failed.

Still, that’s just the way life goes, doesn’t it? Slam the door, spin the wheel, wait for fate to mock you. Trust me, I know—it’s always about me.

But I loved you.

And I’m sorry.

Two summers from now, I think we’ll be talking again, though not much. Just enough to pretend we’re “cool.” You’ll have your life, maybe someone who looks at you like I should have. I’ll be out on a boat somewhere, distracting myself with the sunset, the water, the drinks that never quite drown me.

I’ll wonder where you are—on a plane, I’d bet. Off to somewhere better, somewhere safe. Somewhere I could never take you.

And I’ll think, for just a moment, how surreal it all feels. Losing you.

Then I’ll remind myself that it’s okay, because that’s the way life goes. Push your luck until it breaks.

I wonder, do you remember the good parts of us? Because I do. And sometimes, they make the bad parts even harder to stomach. You were the best—and the worst. The way you could see through me, strip me bare with a single look, that sharp wit of yours like a scalpel. It terrified me.

As sick as it sounds, I loved you first for it.

But I was a dick, wasn’t I? It’s what I do, this age-old curse of mine. A gambler’s folly, thinking I could bluff my way through love the same way I do through life. You called me out, and I folded.

Now, when I laugh, it’s too loud. Too hollow. It’s the only way I know how to fill the silence you left behind.

Two years. That’s all it took for us to crash. And I stare at that wreckage every day, wondering what I could have done differently. But the truth? I don’t know if I’d have had the courage to be the man you deserved.

I try to make amends, sometimes. Not with you directly—I wouldn’t dare. I hurt you enough already. But with the world, in small ways. It’s a pathetic gesture, I know, but it’s all I have.

I’m wrong again.

Wrong for you, wrong for me.

And yet, when I joyride down the roads we once traveled together, I can’t help but lay on the horn, just to hear the echo. To prove, to myself more than anyone else, that the past still haunts me.

I love you.

And I’m sorry.

As I sit here now, pen in hand, this letter will likely never reach you. But maybe that’s for the best. You’ve moved on—I hope you have. You deserve peace.

Me? I’ll stay behind. Always behind. Watching the roulette wheel spin and wondering what might have been if only I’d played my cards right.

Because that’s the way life goes, isn’t it?

And in the quiet of my thoughts, in the shadows of my regrets, I’ll whisper the words you’ll never hear.

I love you, I’m sorry.

Yours Truly,

Kakavasha

[staycalmandhugaclone]

Fool's Errand Pt 10

Part (10) of Fool's Errand, the next arc of Doc's Misadventures! If you're new, start at the beginning with Touch Starved!

Sorry! I know I owe responses to that fluffy little holiday thing, but I really wanted to get this out, too! (Also... big sorry... you'll see why)

Warnings: mild suspense, vague injury descriptions, decent bit of cursing, minor character death (very minor), (is there a warning for a kid wielding a gun?)

WC: 3,403

Droids don’t need the light. Not like we do. In the darkness, only the automated sound of whirring gears and clacking metal narrate movements governed by near perfect synchrony. The silence that surrounded those movements was deafening. It was easy to forget just how dangerous those machines truly were when watching the incredible ease with which the soldiers of the GAR could tear through them. But up close, when nothing lay between us but darkness and an armor that suddenly felt far too thin, the droids were monstrous; emotionless; streamlined and refined toward a single purpose: destruction.

I tried not to think about the simple fact that the same was often said of the entirety of the clone population; how readily society at large welcomed beliefs of unthinking, unfeeling suits of armor in the stead of the very real people that armor concealed. I tried not to think about how that mentality might linger and fester into resentment and fear once the end of the war offered some hope of integration, nor of the unending hardships that were inevitable with such naïve mentality. As I sat crouched in the nook of the freezing ventilation shaft, I tried not to think about anything at all save the near impossible task of silencing my own heavy breaths, attention trained on the endless rows of automatons marching barely a handful of feet away from me.

Wrecker had made it to the maintenance closet several meters ahead, but I’d still been fighting to force the adhesive of the deceptively small explosive to seal with the chilled metal of the duct, and what few seconds that cost me proved just enough to force me to hide as the echoing orchestra of marching droids approached us. We knew they were coming. Thanks to Echo, we knew exactly when to expect every routine patrol scheduled to monitor these halls, but the sheer frequency of their presence was staggering.

Neither of us moved for several seconds after the last droid finally vanished behind the rear door.

“You alright?” Even whispered, my body tensed slightly at the suddenness of Wrecker’s voice calling through the speaker of my helm, and I had to release a quick breath before responding.

“Yeah.” I murmured, glancing back at the detonator as I carefully began easing my way out of the small shaft. “Had trouble getting this one attached, but looks fine now.” A quiet grumble reverberated around me, and I could clearly imagine the troubled frown tugging at his lips.

My eyes flashed to the timer in the corner of my HUD steadily counting down to the moment Crosshair was supposed to take out the decoy power transformer. We still had several targets to rig if we wanted to level the station in time.

Wrecker led the way forward without another word, quick strides shockingly silent. It would never cease to amaze me how easily the man before me could dance between the kind, boisterous goofball and this: lethal, efficient; movements far too quiet for the terrifying mass of his powerful form. I’d worked with astounding soldiers before, but these men were different. Boost, Comet, and Warthog were frightfully capable, but Wrecker and his brothers…

His hand flashed out, pointing to the spot he wanted the next charge placed. He didn’t pause before moving on to set his own, leaving me to my job without so much as a backward glance. Even now, after so many months of working with them, it still felt odd to be trusted so explicitly, but there wasn’t time for even a moment of self-doubt as I quickly dropped to a knee to begin working. Despite the utter simplicity of these explosives, still, Wrecker could finish two in the time it took me to prime one, but he showed no hint of impatience; merely moved on to the next spot until the room was cleared.

We both paused upon turning to the door. It was quiet. It shouldn’t be. By now, we should have been able to make out the distant chorus of the next patrol.

“Status.” Wrecker called, voice just loud enough to be picked up by the mic. My shoulders ached from how taut the muscles were. He didn’t talk like that, governed by that stark militaristic sharpness… not unless something was wrong.

“In position.” Crosshair responded coolly.

“En route.” Tech answered next.

“Wrecker, update.” Hunter’s order came in far crisper than the others, the Marauder’s comms undistorted despite the metal walls of the facility.

“Clanker’s missed a patrol. Pretty sure they haven’t noticed us, though.” He replied curtly, head pivoting behind us before turning back to the forward door as though half-expecting a troop of droids to come rushing in at any second.

“Crosshair, any change?” The Sargeant called. I could hear the growing tension in his voice and knew he was standing tensely over the intercom, hands grinding into the metal corners.

“No, but this sector isn’t supposed to have another patrol for over four more minutes.” Cross reminded him, voice low.

“Keep an eye on your escape routes,” Hunter instructed, “and report any more abnormalities.”

A series of ‘roger’s answer him in quick succession before Wrecker continued forward, heavy blaster balanced against his shoulder. My pistols felt miniscule in comparison, but I still held them at ready as he cracked open the door. Beyond was a cavernous room dotted with Separatist transports. If things went south, Wrecker and I would blow a series of bombs starting with two at either end of the massive bay, granting us an exit route while several other explosions went off at pre-set intervals to mask our escape. If it came to that, however, there was little hope in retrieving that little girl’s father…

“… don’t like this…” Wrecker muttered after muting his com.

“How many more do we have?” I asked, treading closer to him so my whispered words would reach him.

“Ten. Twelve if we wanna hit the control tower, but…” He let the thought trail off as he peaked around the corner of the doorway to stare at the massive sheets of metal suspended overhead on thick tracks.

“So, we finish those ten and re-evaluate.” I offered quietly. He didn’t respond for a long moment, the fearsome visage of that feral skull still studying the distant bay walls.

“Yeah…” He mumbled absently, but a few more tense seconds passed before he drew a quick breath and moved through the door, strides measured and quick, stance low.

Our HUD timers had been perfectly synced. I’d known that there would be no delay between that small clock striking zero and the distant rumble of an explosion preceding at least a momentary flicker of the lights. Still, my body snapped taut as the world around us trembled, even if only for a moment. And then the darkness descended in earnest.

Our visors were designed for this: to grant us clear images even in the darkest nightmares of distant worlds. Regardless, I felt myself tense, adrenaline flooding my chest as I studied every shadow of the now monochrome display before me. Already, the Separatist forces were responding, dozens of squads activating and filing across the vast expanse of the hanger in precise, unhurried movements. Several took positions at entry points about the bay, though most marched out of sight, undoubtedly en route to the now destroyed power station.

“Yuh got some fun headin’ your way, Cross.” Wrecker warned, large hand reaching into his bag for another charge, attention trained once more on the command post.

“They won’t find anything.” He responded haughtily, words only just betraying a slight breathiness as he sprinted back across the rocky outcropping surrounding the north end of the hanger.

“Imma see how many a’ these I can stick before the others get here.” There was a subtle glee in his voice, thrilled at the promise of even that simple challenge.

“I’ll keep watch.” I drawled slightly, the eyeroll audible amidst my quiet chuckle. That tension was still there; creeping across my skin and keeping the muscles stretching up my spine taut, but this was their world – our world: impossible missions with unending dangers in which we still managed to find some taste of joy.

“…Kriff.” Every wisp of that joy instantly went cold.

“Cross?” Hunter called quickly, voice full of the same sharp concern that turned my blood to ice. Wrecker had just begun setting the fourth detonator and visibly froze, waiting anxiously for a response.

“…trap… -utoff from… -ing around…” His rushed reply broke between bursts of static.

“Dammit, they’re trying to block your comms! Where are you?!” Hunter shouted. The distorted reply was too muffled for me to make out, but the pained shout that followed was nauseatingly clear. “I can’t reach you with the Marauder. En route on foot.” His words left in a growl, voice now muffled with that telltale distortion as he abandoned the protection of the ship, the sound of the ramp lowering in the background just loud enough for the mic to pick up.

I didn’t need to see Wrecker’s face to know he was struck with the same dread as me, and, with a sharp nod of his domed helm, motioned toward the rear wall of the hanger. I was already running when the first explosion erupted through the air, but the sudden scream that tore through the speakers was all I could hear.

“Crosshair!” His name shouted from me in a burst of panic, but his desperate cry didn’t stop. The natural rasp of his voice broke in choked gasps between sounds of an agony that left my skin crawling. Blasterfire shrieked behind me in rapid flurries. I didn’t bother looking back, certain that Wrecker was eagerly providing a distraction to cover my retreat, but the droids weren’t fooled.

A curse caught on my lips as I dropped into a sharp slide, just managing to dart behind a supply crate as a troop of B1s trained their sites on me, and the volley of shots that seared the metal casing left my heart racing even faster. My arm was moving before conscious thought registered what I was doing, hand snatching at one of the few remaining charges. I didn’t know if this would work, fully aware that some explosives were perfectly stable until intentionally set off with a detonator. Regardless, I launched the small device toward them, HUD automatically following my gaze to lock onto it as I raised my own weapons, standing to face down the dozen droids targeting me.

The scent of burnt plastoid filled my senses before noting the faint line of red seared into my shoulder pauldron as I pulled the trigger.

Ringing. By now, I recognized the disorientated daze of shellshock and clung to the sense of annoyance rather than any fear or pain lingering beyond that confusion. Move. There wasn’t time for this… Before the thoughts even solidified in my mind, I could feel my body struggling back to my feet, balance wavering precariously for several seconds even as I staggered forward.

“…!” A voice rang loudly around me, but it took a moment of actual concentration to truly hear him. “-oc! Wha’ happened?!” Wrecker. He was shouting. I glanced over my shoulder to see him quickly backtracking toward me and gave my head a hard shake in some vain effort to clear the lingering fog.

“…m… I’m fine!” I called out, lips sluggish. “Used a charge to… clear the path.” He looked toward me only briefly before returning his attention to the encroaching units. Still, I could see the air of hesitation in his movements, the reluctance to risk creating any additional distance between us, so I took that decision away from him, jaw set as I forced myself through the still smoldering crater blown into the thick wall.

Crosshair was still screaming, growled cries catching on choppy breaths muffled behind ground teeth.

“Hunter, do you have eyes on him?” I shouted, sprinting toward the cover of trees surrounding the station as I silently cursed the steep incline leading toward the ship.

“Not yet, there’s… - dammit -... They sent a kriffing… platoon after him.” I could hear the strain pulling at his every word, and that dread returned en force, fear spiking at the thought of how easily he could find himself incapacitated as well just from exacerbating his preexisting injuries.

“Echo and I can provide backup.” Tech offered. Even his voice held that deep worry.

“No – continue with the mission. We’ll be halfway to the Marauder by the time you’d even reach us.” He ordered. “Doc-”

“I’m already en route,” I interrupted quickly, “just send me your location.” He didn’t respond for a long moment, and I had to fight to keep from shouting my impatience.

That earlier fear was gone. I barely bothered glancing between branches in search of enemy troops, the threat of what danger my brief isolation from the others might pose forgotten in the echo of Crosshair’s pain. My entire focus was on reaching them as quickly as I could, cursing every fallen log and sleek boulder that hindered my progress.

“I’ve got him.” He was panting, pain clear in the breathy words, and my heart twisted at the endless possible reasons for that pain. The keening gasps still sounding from Crosshair’s mic were the only thing silencing some sharp rebuke demanding he stop. There was no right answer here; no way forward without the risk of a sacrifice I couldn’t begin to fathom.

“Might still be s… s’me droids… but think I got ‘m all.” His uncertainty was just as concerning as the slight slur dampening his smoky voice. That meant his focus was dwindling; that inhuman ability to feel the dance of electricity connecting the world around him was overcome by his own pain or exhaustion or something far worse.

“Dammit, Hunter! Just send me your location before you kriffing keel over!” I ordered harshly, no longer making an effort to mask that impatience.

“Tracker… tracker’s on… H… headed back.” Curses flowing unapologetically between ground teeth, I snatched the datapad from my waist, fingers stabbing at the screen far harsher than necessary as I locked in on his signal. The Marauder was just over a klick away, and Hunter’s signal was another half klick beyond that, speed frightfully slow as he made his way back.

“Talk to me, Hunter, or I’ll start using the karking pain scale questions.” I threatened, and was relieved to hear a huff of laughter. It was weak, but it was there.

“Damaged… damaged his helmet… Visor broke…” In an instant, that relief abandoned me. “Gave him… gave him what I had, but… it’s… it’s barely taking the e-edge off.” He panted.

“Burns?” I asked, straining to hide the depth of my fear at the very thought of what damage that might cause, but Hunter quickly dismissed that fear with something far worse.

“No… think it’s… There was a – a gas…” My stride nearly faltered. A gas… Chemical burns were far more difficult to treat…

“Listen to me: when you get him back to the ship, don’t try to rinse it out with water.” I instructed quickly.

“I kn- I know.” There was an unmistakable wheeze in the gasp robbing his retort of whatever annoyance he’d meant it to hold.

“What about you, Hunter? Were you exposed?” I made no effort to hide the harshness in my own voice, words quickly growing breathy as I sprinted from the base.

“N… no, my… my kit’s f-fine.” His response offered no taste of relief, the clear strain sown through each word quickly growing worse.

“Echo and I have secured a low-atmo speeder. We can reach you-”

“Ey, I think I see ‘im.” Wrecker interrupted.

“Ca- can you i-intercept?” Hunter’s vain attempt to maintain that indominable façade only further emphasized how just much he was clearly struggling.

“Uh… only if I start blowing stuff up early.” There was no glee in what should have been an overly eager plea, attention clearly torn between the task before him and worry for his brothers.

“Delay as – as long as you can.” Hunter ordered firmly. “Tech, Ech… Echo… con-continue a-approach.”

“Hunter, if you’re having trouble breathing again, you need to stop moving!” I ordered in a shout.

“Neg… neg’tive… Mar’der’s… in sight.” My lips curled into a snarl.

“I can’t carry you both, dammit!” There was a brief pause, and then,

“Roger.”

I was going to strangle him.

Sweat had long since soaked through my blacks. My muscles burned, blood like acid pounding through my veins, and I tried not to think about how loud my own breathing was, mic pointedly muted as I listened to quick bursts of communication bounce between the others illustrating the progress of a mission I struggled to find even a whisper of concern for. My own attention remained locked on the tracker beacon, noting how near to the ship Hunter and Crosshair finally were; how wretchedly slow their progress had become; how much distance yet lay between us as that accursed hill robbed my speed.

He didn’t check in when he finally stopped, their beacons stalling at the very foot of the ramp.

“Hunter, are you inside?” I asked. He didn’t respond. “Hunter, what’s your status?” I pressed, words growing harsher. Silence. “Hunter?! Cross, do either of you read me?!”

“The Marauder’s ramp appears to have lowered but hasn’t been closed since they arrived.” Tech’s voice was carefully even, but I could hear the faint rush of an anxiety that I had no doubt resonated between all of us.

“I’m almost there.” I assured them, and, mere seconds later, let out a sharp huff of relief upon finally seeing the very tip of the dorsal fin.

The first time I’d seen the complicated overlay of the HUD used by GAR equipment, it hadn’t been during my training to join the 104th. It was in the aftermath of a battle I’d only seen in the darkness of night, sneaking through ruined transports and far too much gore to ever be warranted under the guise of seeking peace. It was maybe the fourth such scene Emmy and I had visited. We didn’t even have a ship then; just us and a pair of overstuffed medbags with no thought toward secession or consequence or even what to do with those we tried to save.

We’d only found one soldier still clinging to life, and it had taken only moments to realize that nothing we did would save him from joining his brothers. He hadn’t blamed us. I think I wanted him to… but he merely got quiet when he understood… peaceful. He’d been a flirt, and I think we both fell in love with him a bit. He’d insisted we try his helmet on – had said something inappropriate about seeing his gear on a couple cute nurses. Neither of us corrected him, and I’d been shocked at the flurry of information that had bombarded me the instant it flickered to life before my eyes. He’d laughed. I’d never forget that laugh. It was free; weightless; haunting in a way that both crushed me and justified every risk we were taking in trying to offer what meager help we could. And then he'd died.

That nauseating hurricane of endless data and alerts was still just as overwhelming now as it was then, but I’d learned to filter it out, to prioritize only what was needed in that moment. When the sudden flash of a warning lit the screen, I didn’t hesitate; didn’t waste time for even a moment’s thought before my body dropped into a slide, just barely dodging the pair of blue bolts that screamed passed me as my hands instantly snatched the pistols from my hips, but then that wealth of data began to coalesce, and I quickly released my weapons, empty hands raising in surrender.

“Wait-wait-wait! It’s me!!” I shouted, wrenching the still flashing helm from my head, and my heart churned at the sight of the terrified girl cowering just inside the Marauder’s main cabin, at the horror and fear and overwhelming relief that left her near sobbing the instant recognition finally stole through her. Then I saw the two forms lying far too still at her feet. And that same terror ripped the air from my lungs in a sob of my own.

Next Chapter

Click here or message me if you'd like to be added to a taglist!

Click here for my Masterlist.

Taglist: @arctrooper69 @eclec-tech @jennrosefx @echos-girlfriend @starqueensthings @manofworm @merkitty49 @idoubleswearimawriter @abigfanofstarwars @chopper-base @daftdarling222 @pb-jellybeans @bacta-the-future @rosechi @legalpadawan @drummergirl1701 @6oceansofmoons @dangraccoon @ji5hine @dathomiri-mudpuppy @mooncommlink @inneedoffanfics @totally-not-your-babe @delialeigh @callsign-denmark @blondie-bluue @ray-rook @iabrokengirl @arcsimper5 @rndmpeep @amorfista @flawsandgoodintent @passionofthesith @followthepurrgil @heidnspeak @roam-rs @foodmoneyandcats @savebytheodoresnonjosestuff @9902sgirl @captainrex89 @waytoooldforthis78 @msmeredithrose @mythical-illustrator @sleepycreativewriter @anythingandeveythingstarwars @littlefeatherr @thegreatpipster @melonmochii @totallyunidentified @mickeyp03 @hipwell @echos_pile_of_bones @leotawrites @Asgre_Thar @fruityfucker @babyscilence @skellymom @youreababboon @echo9821

[honeybeeboppin]

Wait hold on.

What if the reason the paprika hendl was so spicy to Johnathan is because the locals heard he was going to stay with Dracula and absolutely loaded the dish up with garlic?

[kalpeavaris]

To Be Among Stars

Find the story on AO3

(sadly, tumblr acts like like the AO3 URL itself is 'not a complete link' despite working just fine when send to other people or used as hyperlink, so this will have to do-)

Some doomed Jessa, a one-shot I wrote :] This is not canon to the other MD AUs/stories I have, so no worries- anything happening in the one-shots stay in the one-shots.

This one in particular experiments with the "What If" scenario of J not surviving her injuries aquired in the fall she took in the final battle against the Solver - and how it'll end for her.

Please heed the tags/warnings. o7

[kana7o]

kofi sketches!

[dyemelikeasunset]

(jfc 3K word count blurb about my babygirls I GUESS. This takes place between the end of you&i and t he beginning of dom&mor)

---

After all of that was taken care of, but before they moved in together, Morgan and Dom spent several months working on themselves.

Mor was doing her best not to UHaul like she did with her past relationships. Part of her was hoping Dominique didn't even know what it meant, part of her also hoped Dom would ask first. But she was patient, she had to be patient. Domi was doing physical therapy and getting back in touch with her agency, getting her life back together.

Morgan was too-- she was still juggling her mental health and work, and she knew they both had to take it slow-- but the nights alone were getting harder and harder. On the best nights, Mor would get restless and not be able to stop thinking about Domi, wondering how she was doing, if she was eating, if she was lonely, if she missed Mor the same way.

On the worst nights alone, she kept remembering everything that happened and still felt anxiety being in her apartment by herself. It was gone now-- that's what Domi told her every time she visited, and Whisper didn't hiss at the closet anymore-- but the bad memories always swirled together into an unease and emptiness that made the apartment linger with an aura.

But it was too soon to think about how they would progress their relationship. Too soon to start thinking about moving in. Truthfully, Mor didn't even know if Dom wanted to live together. She tried not to think about that possibility.

---

It took a full month after Domi's physical therapy ended before she invited Mor to come to her place. She promised she'd gotten more furniture. "There's, um, I have a couch now," Dom had told Morgan shyly on the phone. Mor couldn't help but laugh incredulously, but gently. She was proud of her and agreed to visit.

Mor hadn't been to Dom's apartment since everything had happened. It wasn't until she was pulling up to the highrise complex that she realized it was actually her first time driving there. She texted Dom if she could park in her designated parking spot. Dom texted back that she forgot she had one, and then, "Of course you can park there. You know I don't have a car, you can always park there from now on." Mor could practically hear that shy little smile in Dom's voice from her text. Before that moment, Morgan didn't know parking could feel romantic.

Domi had ordered in dinner and had it all set out on the table by the time Mor came through the door. The apartment was still abysmally empty, but there was a couch, as promised. Mor knew she was working on it, on having things to call her own, but kept trying to tell herself it was Dom's minimalist aesthetic to keep herself from worrying.

They ate, talked, updated each other on how life was going. Mor found herself rambling about her latest project while tangled up in Domi's long legs on the new couch. Dom was watching her with that fascinated and warm look in her eyes, that look that made Morgan feel incredibly shy and peter off. Dom asked her some questions to prompt her back into talking, but Mor was feeling so warm under her gaze that she couldn't find it in her anymore. She leaned in and kissed her instead, realizing she hadn't kissed Domi in months. Mor tried to pull back before she got too desperate, but Dom's eyes smiled at her in that lovedrunk way that Morgan couldn't look away from. She cupped Mor's face and lulled her into a second kiss, and a third, and the count melted together after that.

By the time they finished kissing, Mor was laying fully on top of her, face cradled in Dom's neck. Dom pet her hair gently, always careful to not tangle her fingers through it, holding her close, safely. Mor let the rise and fall of Dom's chest comfort her as she traced the scar on her neck.

Going home that night was one of the most painful things Morgan ever had to do.

---

The next time, Mor was the one who popped the question. During the last visit, she had seen how empty and weirdly clean Dom's refrigerator was while they tidied after dinner. Mor couldn't stop worrying so she texted Dom if she could come over to make her dinner. Domi was surprised but agreed enthusiastically. Morgan fed Whisper extra well that afternoon before driving over with her mountain of tupperware. She was determined to make enough to have leftovers to last Dom a week at the least.

Parking in Dom's spot again made her smile. "Mor, you're being an idiot," she hissed at herself before grabbing her bag and making her way inside.

When Dom answered the door, Mor could tell from the slightly damp hair that fell in her face that Domi had just finished getting ready. Morgan couldn't stop the huge smile that spread on her face. It was always so cute to see Dom get excited, and even though Mor tried and tried to convince herself she wasn't that special, even her bad self-esteem had to make concessions when Dom acted so obviously eager to see her. Maybe it was Dom's lack of dating experience-- lack of even understanding romantic feelings before now-- that made her so easy to read. Like she didn't even know hiding your feelings was part of the dating game. She was honest and innocent and it was somehow touching.

As Mor set up in the kitchen, Domi kept hovering, being accommodating and asking if she could help. Mor finally caved. It was hard to say no when Dom was being so sweet and fussy. Morgan found out that Domi is actually very good at cutting vegetables, but that she didn't know the difference between boiling and braising.

Mor did manage to make a pile of leftovers. As she was explaining how to best store and reheat them, she noticed Dom writing the instructions down diligently. She tried but failed not to laugh at Domi's sincerity.

After dinner, Dom showed Mor her new closet, bed and headboard-- the whole thing was really fancy actually. Mor worried about Dom's savings, but Domi insisted everything was going well.

They sat on the bed and talked about the latest novel they were both reading, and as the hours dragged on, Mor found herself tangled in Dom's legs again, found herself laying on Domi and kissing her again, found herself feeling less satisfied than last time. She stared, lost, in Domi's expressions, before realizing it was past midnight. Mor panicked and sat up abruptly, but Domi blurted out that she should stay the night. Morgan argued weakly that she didn't bring a toothbrush or change of clothes-- she didn't bring her bonnet either but she wasn't sure if she was ready to let Dom see that side of her. Domi desperately held onto Morgan's wrist and stuttered "You can wear my clothes, and-- and there's a 24/7 CVS on the corner."

"Domi, you want to buy a toothbrush at this hour? It'll be so," Mor couldn't stop her giggle, "it'd be so obvious--"

"What's wrong with that..?"

Mor stopped giggling and she let her eyes focus on Dom, taking in the quiet desperation in her eyes. It never struck her that Domi would be feeling lonely too, even though she knew Dom was a really lonely person. Mor felt a squeeze in her chest.

"Okay Baby, let's go."

It was only by a year, but when Dom smiled like that, Morgan remembered she was younger and would be overwhelmed with the desire to dote on her.

They threw their shoes on and ran downstairs into the now 2am night. Mor was shocked to see how fast Dom could run in 4-inch heels. Why didn't she put on sneakers? Dom laughed at the question and admitted between gasps of air that she doesn't own sneakers. The CVS employee stared at them tired but knowingly, just as Mor feared but somehow couldn't bring herself to care anymore. Domi's excitement melted away all her anxiety. It wasn't until they were running back to the apartment that Mor realized Dom had also bought a box of ice cream. Her breath made little white puffs in the night air as she laughed. It reminded her of the time they were almost caught by the security guard for playing on the roped-off mall piano.

Morgan never knew brushing her teeth could be fun.

As they tangled up in bed, Morgan could still feel the silly exhilaration pulsing through her body. Her legs rubbed all over Dom as they both giggled and suddenly Mor felt the months of abstinence catching up to her. She stared at Dom in the dark, wondering, but trying to suppress it. They were having such a sweet night and they were just supposed to sleep and Dom was still figuring it out and, and-- Dom's pitch black eyes pierced through the dark and Mor tried to breathe but she couldn't. As the quiet settled between them, Morgan couldn't stop herself from squeezing her legs around Dom. She swore Dom could hear her swallow.

As if reading her mind, Dom quietly asked if she could take care of her. Morgan couldn't even try to hide it, but even in the dark, her eyes had acclimated enough to see the gentle smile that melted her insecurities away. There was something about the way Domi was straight-forward, the way her low voice whispered very gently but directly, lovingly, "Let's have sex," that made Morgan's head swim and chest swell. Feeling the bed shift as Dom moved on top of her sent an ache pulsing through her hips. She missed the feeling of holding onto Dom's broad, bare shoulders, feeling her shoulder blades tense and move under her fingernails as she dug in. She missed the smell of Dom's cologne mixing with her sweat, missed the way her soft voice got heavier as she started panting. She missed her wide hands and the way they held her possessively and sunk into her deeply, missed the way Dom looked down at her like she was the most precious thing in the world. She missed her, she missed her.

The next morning, Domi took Morgan out for breakfast at a nearby cafe before seeing her off. Mor went home in a daze and tried to supress the desire to UHaul for the hundredth time.

---

Another night, Domi texted Mor out of the blue saying she was nearby after a photoshoot. Mor immediately invited her over.

It'd been a while since Domi had been to her place, but Whisper still remembered her and still had the same strange, quiet obsession with her. Domi was learning how to play with her better, even though she was still adorably awkward. Morgan made them dinner and Domi excitedly told Mor about the jobs she was picking up. They kept talking on Mor's twin bed, tangled together out of necessity this time. Mor's apartment was so much smaller and so much more cluttered, but Dom always seemed to like it. She would ask Mor about all her little trinkets and wall art, always seeming to find a new interesting thing. It reminded her of the first time Dom asked about her tattoos. After her show and tell, Mor decided to gift Dom one of the little figures on her bookshelf. If it had been anyone else, Mor would have laughed, but seeing Dom reverently hold a Sanrio figurine in her big hand made Mor so unbelievably happy. "Yes, Baby, you can keep it. Please keep it." Dom looked ready to cry.

They ended up talking too long again, so Mor invited Dom to stay over this time. Domi smiled shyly and said she actually did have a toothbrush in her purse.

"So you were planning this?"

"Maybe..."

Mor laughed. She was so happy.

They cuddled all night. Morgan wanted to sleep like that for the next five thousand years.

---

Between the visits and overnight stays, Mor noticed that Domi would sometimes forget her clothes at Morgan's apartment. She asked for permission the first time, but soon started wearing Dom's shirts without asking. It was never her buttonups, they were too tight and better for hugging as she fell asleep, but Dom had some pullovers and tees that started making a permanent residence in Mor's closet. She always giggled at seeing the brand name tags. Mor would only give them back when the smell started to fade. She couldn't bring herself to confess to Dom that she had masturbated while wearing one of them once-- surrounded by the hints of her gentle musk-- even though she somehow knew Dom wouldn't mind, she was just too guilty. She didn't know that Dom would sometimes postpone washing them because she liked having Morgan's smell on them too.

Mor also started leaving things at Dom's place. The first time was an accident, but then she started doing it on purpose. It was simple things, like one of her oversized sweaters, a throw blanket, or sauces and spices so that she didn't have to take so many things back and forth when she wanted to cook for her. She started using them as an excuse to come over more. She wanted to feed her, wanted to help fill her void of an apartment, wanted to see if Dom would wear her clothes, wanted to make love until her sweet fashion model smelled more like pomegranate and shea butter than she did of Yves Saint Laurent cologne. Really, Morgan just wanted to be together all the time. She wanted to live together, but she was struggling to ask.

Was it always this hard to ask?

---

The first time Dom spent a full weekend at Morgan's place, they ate, watched movies, and somehow ended up fucking every four hours. It always confused Mor how Dom seemed to enjoy servicing her every time-- or where she got the energy-- but she couldn't deny she felt so spoiled. It was hard to resist when Dom looked at her like that. Like she'd never seen a more beautiful woman, like she was at the mercy of her feelings spilling out of her at any moment.

Mor felt delirious from the way Dom would quietly and reverently praise how pretty her voice was, how soft her skin was, how good she felt. It made Mor feel submissive, but she knew Domi didn't mean it like that-- she knew she meant it adoring, worshipping. She never thought anyone could ever love her this way, but more than that, she never thought she could believe it.

Mor spent both nights of that weekend watching Dom sleep and wondering. When was the right time? How much longer could she take the separations and gaps? Was Dom pent up from their time apart? Even though she didn't want Domi to be lonely, there was a selfish part of her that wished she was sad when they were apart.

---

As a reward for finishing a big design project, Dom suggested that Mor bring Whisper over and spend a full week at her place. Mor agreed excitedly and made sure to get wash day out of the way before she went. She hoped she could make it through the week, but in exchange she felt she should try to protect her hair for bed around Dom this time. To her surprise, Dom didn't comment on it at all, and wrapped Mor in her arms as she fell asleep as usual. Mor couldn't quite explain how it made her feel, but it was undeniably warm.

Dom had odd work days, so Mor would be left alone in the apartment sometimes. But instead of feeling lonely, she felt a strange sense of belonging. Maybe it was the way Dom had casually given her a key, or how Mor's things had been slowly accumulating, or the fact Whisper settled in quite nicely, or that the kitchen was full of Mor's cooking.

In her mind, Morgan started redecorating the apartment and wondering where her things would go.

On the fourth day, Mor realized she forgot to refill her meds. Without thinking, she left Whisper with Dom and ran out. It wasn't until she was already back and unlocking the door that she realized the chaos she might've left Dom in. But to her relief, she opened the door to the sight of Dom playing with Whisper. Morgan wondered if this is what straight women felt when seeing their husbands taking care of their kids. She stood in the doorway and watched until Dom noticed and welcomed her home. Morgan wanted so badly to call this home.

The morning of the last day, Dom woke Morgan up with neck kisses and made love to her quietly, tangled up under the white sheets. They both lingered wordlessly, naked bodies wrapped up together. When Morgan realized she hadn't taken off her bonnet, she laughed, embarrassed, and asked why Dom hadn't removed it before having sex with her. Dom didn't understand what the problem was, and as Mor navigated out of her embarrassment, her bashful laughter faded. She stared at Dom and slipped out a hushed "I don't want to go home."

Morgan blinked several times in quick succession, realizing what she'd said and that she was already welling up from a mix of yearning and shame.

"I'm sorry, I--"

"Then stay. Move in with me."

It took a full minute for Morgan to take in what Dom had said. She finally looked up at her and was met with that same sincerity she knew Dom carried with her at all times.

"Morgan, I want to live together. I- I miss you all the time..."

Mor didn't know how much longer she could run from Domi's open, honest love. How much longer her doubt could convince her that this woman was not head over heels for her.

"Yes. Yes. of course I'll move in."

Morgan would never forget the way Dom smiled that morning.

[onthevirgeofdestruction]

Welcome to "Come into the Water" by @annaizscribbling

You won't be coming back out the same person. We were paired together for the @tss-storytime and this story is an absolutely fantastic trip you should go on.

(no reposting/editing/feeding to an AI, etc. be respectful and also go read the fic, thanks! give Anais comments!)

[nettleclan-clangen]

[Moon 21, Bonus!] [Lore and a written story below.]

"I'm Flailpaw, the first Nettleclan Wayfinder." Says the young tom, helping Longpaw to his feet. Longpaw feels overwhelmed by everything... but at least these new, strange cats aren't crowding him.

"What's a Wayfinder?" He asks, as Pebblepaw stands close to him.

"I find the dead cats in the waking world and bring them to the Sea." Flailpaw has a big smile on his face as he speaks. "Whether or not they're a clan cat doesn't matter. Everything goes to the Sea. Just depends on the location." Longpaw felt his pelt prickle.

"Is... T-that sounds sinister..." He can't help but say.

"AHAHA- yeah, it's supposed to." Flailpaw's smile grows, all teeth, and nudges the worried Longpaw with his hip.

"You're weird... And a little skinny..." He thinks aloud. Flailpaw shakes his head and rolls his eyes.

"Wow, thanks. I starved to death in the sand caves." Flailpaw shrugs.

"I fell on a rock!" Pebblepaw interjects, happily. Longpaw gives him a worried look.

"Is... that why your face is wet?" Longpaw lifts a paw, to touch his own face as a gesture.

"Mhm! Every Death Wound a cat gets turns into their own little mini-sea! I keep bluegill and catfish in mine. We can find you your own fishies to keep for yours!" Pebblepaw touches the back of Longpaw's head, to which he shivers.

It's wet. He can feel the cold-yet-warmth of Pebblepaw's toe-pads on the surface of his wound, rippling around like a proper body of water. Is that really what he died from!?

"Don't do that, Pebblepaw, he's still fresh." Firestripe finally says, batting away Pebblepaw's intruding hand. "We can worry about all that later... I think he should get some rest. A-and let him adjust to all this... The Sea knows how long it took for me to adjust..." Firestripe lays his fluffy tail on Longpaw's back, and leads him away from pure blue space they were at.

As they moved to a more familiar location, Longpaw recognized it as the beach just outside the clan's camp. He could see Greydrizzle, Meadowshade, Juniperstar, and the rest of the clan huddled around his body. Honeypaw was there, too, leaning on a sobbing Mousepaw. Meadowshade was digging a hole for his body, deep into the sand, with Juniperstar helping.

Longpaw watched, as Firestripe walked over and sat next to Fennelspots. He wrapped his tail around theirs, but they didn't respond. Longpaw hurried over to his siblings, pressing his pelt against Honeypaw's. He shivered, and looked around. There was no wind. Longpaw frowned, but... He wanted to be there, for his siblings, even if it was his own funeral. He watched as Meadowshade and Juniperstar jumped out his grave, and they took his body, and took it down into that sandy hole. Longpaw cringed at seeing his head bust open at the back. He felt ever more aware of his personal ocean as it dripped down his shoulders, uncomfortable.

Meadowshade and Juniperstar, his mom and the clan's leader, began to speak. Remembering the little things, crying, telling everyone how loved Longpaw was. He tucked his head into his chest, feeling warmth as everyone had something to say. Firestripe even muttered what he liked about Longpaw when everyone had finished, leaving the living to bow their heads in mourning.

Longpaw couldn't help but notice Billowspot was staring right at Firestripe.

[theanoninyourinbox]

I need to know about Brambleclaw in your Longstar au. Tell me everything about that traitor! Please.

Bramblekit was normal, as kits go. Small, maybe a little rough with Snowkit and a bit selfish, not noticing if others were affected by his misadventures or little clawed swipes, but no one save Speckletail and Goldenflower noticed anything amiss. When the fire struck camp, and Fireheart bravely saved him from the flames, he seemed starstruck. Wanted to be a brave warrior who saved everyone!

And then his Father left.

The clan seemed to turn on him all at once. They all hated him! Just him!! (He never saw Goldenflower shudder her tears away, never saw his sister flinch at the stares and whispers. He never saw Fireheart try to shield him, or Longtail glare down the elders. His greatest flaw was never seeing how others felt.) Darkstripe brought him to see Tigerclaw, who promised that HE was protecting Bramble from the horrors of a weak clan, and whispered to the malleable kit lies and half truths and just play along until I take control. So Bramble did.

Then Tawnypaw LEFT HIM TOO. How dare she, he would say to others, how dare she go to the terrible cat and his terrible clan! (How dare she go, he would say to himself, it was supposed to be me! Now I am watched, and cannot meet my fatherteacherleader!!

And in his dreams, Tigerstar came to him. For you, my true heir, the true training of a strong leader. The Miretrees welcomed him with grasping claws, and he relished it.)

(Any guilt or morals were lashed away by the thorns and the shadows of a thousand hateful cats.)

He played his part - saving Whitestorm, mourning the dead and verbally disavowing Tigerstar (he did not fail he still yet lives in the Mire of nightmares), becoming a Brawler (all the better to defend my clan, he says to Longstar) (give me Claws, he says, to redeem the naming of my father, he says), dotes on his mother, hunts and fights and returns in the night to his bloody-bellied fatherkingruler.

He becomes defined, in the secret bloodybeatingcloying spaces of his heart, in the shadows of his mind, by three things.

Pride. Envy. Wrath.

He is Proud of his prowess, of his acting, of his untouched pelt (the claws of the Dark Forest are too slow for him, only catching on his soul) and his place of honor - he is TRUSTED by the falsefoolishleader Longstar, to watch his kits and protect them from danger. HE is the danger that no one sees! HE will sink his teeth into the unprotected spines of the clan! But not yet. Brambleclaw waits. He is Proud to have a true leadershadowboundruler like Tigerstar, the cunning to Brambleclaw's battle skills. He is Proud. And that is a piece of his downfall.

He is Envious, of Longstar and Flamewish. Of Tawnypelt and Foxpaw and Swiftpaw and Darkpaw. And eventually of Hawkfrost and Mothwing and Crowfeather. He WANTS the power to command a clan to move, and be obeyed at every turn! (He does not see the elders balk, Whitestorm advising, the historians and tacticians guiding the clan as well) He WANTS the love of a mate, one who is devoted only to him (he misses the work that Longstar and Flamewish put in to their relationship, their arguments and apologies, the devotion going both ways) (He misses how his sister is loved, by her clan, truly trusted, how Rowanclaw is her FRIEND before her lover) He WANTS his father to be there, to be watching him grow effortlessly (he misses the little spats, the drama, the fears, and does not see the love that the family cultivates) (He could have been another son to the leader, or even the deputy, but it is far too late for that) (He barely recognizes that Goldenflower loves him, cherishes him, and is Proud of him. She does not matter. Mollies' opinions do not matter, his father taught him well) He WANTS a sibling relationship like Hawk and Moth, he WANTS to be cherished by many clans like TadpoleCrowfeather (He is blind to how Tawnypelt loves him, how Stormfur asks for his advice, how Feathertail flirts) (His plans for Foxpawflight are NOT ruined by her affections for ShrewpawLeg he WILL be her mate) He is Envious. And that is a piece of his downfall.

He is Wrathful, his hate of the Clan he was born into catching on his ribcage and twisting in his intestines, burrowing into his marrow. He claws the turf to pieces in fury, how DARE his father leave! He knocks eggs from their nest is rage, how could Tawnypaw leave him too!? He tears the pelts off of rogues and loners, MY FATHERLEADERKING IS NO FAILURE!!! He scatters stones on the cliffsides, why won't Foxpaw realize she's MINE!? He screeches as he drives rogues away, MY BROTHER!! MINE!! He is Wrathful, and that is one piece of his downfall.

He stands over the foolishfalseidiotLongstar, his truebrotheronlyally looking upon him and their prey. Join me finally, Brambleclaw crows, join me and we can be what we were meant to be!

(He has always missed how Hawkfrost looks at Tigerstar, looks at him. With building horror and regret)

And Hawkfrost

Says

No

Brambleclaw is Proud (he trust his battle prowess, but Hawkfrost is quick and lean and won't hoLD STILL)

Brambleclaw is Envious (you are MY BROTHER he screams, and the denial from Hawkfrost cuts through his blackening heart)

Brambleclaw is Wrathful (red tinges his vision, his father's voice in his ears stop him stOP HIM KILLHIM)

The silvery spike in his throat tastes like failure

[kinglazrus]

The Cracks in the Mask

Sequel to The Moment it Breaks. Written for @invisobang 2023!

AO3 | FFN

Rating: T

Words: 9156

Warnings: mild panic attack, nondescript mention of vomiting, temporary dismemberment, graphic description injury

Description: Danny has been struggling for months. Balancing ghost hunting, school, and keeping his powers a secret has drained him both physically and mentally. And it all comes crumbling down when an identity is exposed—but not Danny's. Tucker Foley, his best, is a ghost hunter. And not just any ghost hunter, but the Tech Hunter. The same hunter who, just three days ago, pressed a cannon to Phantom's chest and fired without mercy.

This is fine, right? Everything is fine.

Check out the amazing art made for this fic by @popjeckdoom!

Cover | first scene | second scene

—

Danny can still feel Tucker's hands on him. Not in some aching, metaphysical way like when they bump shoulders, and the warmth of that contact lingers for hours afterwards. This isn’t warmth, but heat. Tucker’s fingertips had only brushed the hollow of Danny’s throat during that final grab, yet the spot burns now.

He stops in the middle of the sidewalk, turning toward a storefront window as he checks his reflection, pulling the collar of his hoodie down. Splotches the colour of old bruises litter his throat, tinged green around the edges and dotted with red. The rash and micro-cuts left by Tech’s nanobots are unmistakable. Had Tucker noticed how the nanobots coated his fingers as he reached for Danny, seen how they wounded him?

Of course, he didn’t. There is so much Tucker never notices.

The hoodie isn’t damaged, but that doesn’t surprise Danny. Tech’s touch has always hurt, and it was always designed to hurt ghosts.

It never destroys anything man-made.

Never harms anything human.

Danny clenches his fists to stop his hands from shaking. It’s getting harder and harder to lift his feet with each step. The wobble of his left knee, the stabbing in his chest every time he breathes, the itch of his throat. It all weighs him down. And atop that, something far heavier bears down upon him, a bone-deep dread that twists his stomach into knots. He has felt the press of that unseen force from the moment Tucker stepped into Lancer’s office.

Danny sways under a bout of dizziness, nearly stumbling into the street when he tries to catch his footing. Unable to breathe deeply, he compensates with quick, shallow breaths.

And the itch on his throat persists, like bugs creeping under his skin, gnawing on his insides. They skitter from his throat to his chest, spreading from his ribs to his heart, his lungs, burrowing deep.

Danny doesn’t notice his hand roaming under his hoodie until a nail slips between the bandages on his chest and pricks the open wound. A passing woman glares at him when he yelps, muttering something about delinquents under her breath. Danny ignores her.

At least he isn’t thinking about the itching now. He presses the heel of his palm into the bandages, grimacing through the lingering sting, waiting for it to dull into the ever-present throb. To be safe, he clasps his hands in his pocket, so he won’t scratch again as he continues down the street.

Despite how bright the sun shines, the air is cold. Or, it had been when he left for school that morning. He remembers looking out the window—seconds before realizing he was three hours late for class—seeing how crisp and clear everything looked, how the snow sparkled in the sunlight, and knowing it would be cold. But he's not cold now. He almost feels too hot, and the temptation to rip his hoodie off grows along with his weariness.

A red-hot coil burns in his chest, hissing as it brands the inside of his ribs. He exhales the steam in shallow puffs and wipes sweat from his forehead.

Something yellow glints at the edge of his vision, causing Danny's heart to leap into his throat. He throws himself to the side, slipping in the snow as he tries to get out of Tech's reach.

But Tech's not here. Tech is at school.

The taxi that caught Danny’s eye passes harmlessly by.

He leans against the nearest wall as he tries to catch his breath, which is hard when the bandages around his chest are so tight that his ribs creak. He reaches under his sweater again and probes the bandages, finding the loose loop his scratching had created. His fingers come away damp, but that could be blood or sweat. He doesn’t want to know which, wiping his hand on the inside of the hoodie.

It's too damn hot out here. His skin crawls. There's so much yellow everywhere, every flash cranking Danny’s nerves up. It all becomes too much, and he crashes to his knees as his stomach revolts.

No one pauses at the sight of a kid gagging on the sidewalk. Danny wonders what they think of him but decides he doesn't care as he retches again. Nothing but bile comes up. When was the last time he ate or drank anything besides ectoplasm? When did he even have that last? He has a foggy memory of opening the box he keeps his supply in and downing the last three vials at once, but he can't say when that was. As for actual food, that must have been on Friday, before the fight. That was three days ago, and he hasn’t had a bite to eat since.

Danny's head spins.

He should go home. Lancer told him to go home. Actually, no. He said he would send Danny home. With a parent, probably. Parents who already hadn't been answering the secretary's calls, which would have left Jazz as the remaining option. Danny won’t be surprised if she had put herself down as one of his emergency contacts the second she turned eighteen last month. But going home with her would either mean waiting at school all day for classes to end or pulling her out of class so that she could take him home.

Danny's stomach churns again. No. He wouldn't have let that happen. Even if he hadn’t stormed off, he still would have left.

He slumps against the wall behind him. During the fight on Friday, he landed poorly, and his left knee has been smarting ever since. It protests a bit more loudly now, especially after getting jostled around by Tucker. A few seconds to rest and stretch it out will do him some good.

Snow soaks into his jeans, but he doesn't care. Taking a handful of snow, he shoves it in his mouth, swishing it around until it melts, trying to get rid of the bile taste. He doesn't have anything else to wash it down with. He doesn’t even have his backpack, for that matter. Maybe it's still at home, sitting by the front door. Or he left it in the school office. He can't remember.

He doesn't remember much of anything since Friday. Just the pain, and the blood, and the cracking of his heart as he glimpsed those familiar green eyes underneath the visor.

A few snowflakes fall onto Danny's lashes. His eyelids flutter.

Why is it so hot?

After checking that people still aren't paying attention to him—they aren't—he closes his eyes and tugs on his core. Cold floods his veins as his ice powers activate. It soothes the bruises that spread across his back and stomach. He focuses on the palm against his chest, concentrating on his worst injury.

The cold is a balm. It pushes back against the heat in his cheeks and helps him forget about the burn of Tucker's hand.

Danny doesn't know how much time has passed before he hears a vehicle pulling up. The cold bites at his nose and ears, but his cheeks are still far too warm. He still hasn’t caught his breath.

He hears tires rolling over broken concrete. This must have been where he fought Johnny a couple of weeks ago. The city is usually pretty good at cleaning up Danny's messes, but sometimes the smaller debris gets missed. Most people have learned to ignore it by now, but Danny always notices.

A window rolls down.

Danny squeezes his eyes tighter, hoping he hasn't been mistaken for a vagrant. A scrawny kid with no backpack, huddled on the street during school hours in winter, wearing nothing but a hoodie. He pulls his knees up to make himself smaller. Bending his left knee hurts a bit more than it should, more than it ever has with bad landings in the past, but he ignores it.

“Danny, do you need a ride?”

It takes Danny a second to recognize the voice and the truck. Mr. Foley leans over the passenger seat and peers at him through the open window.

It takes another second for Danny to remember his ice powers and cut them off. He misses the cold as soon as it's gone. He always feels better when the cold comes from within, numbing his body from the bones outward. But he can't have Mr. Foley noticing the glow in his eyes. Despite the delay, Mr. Foley doesn't react.

“Where's your jacket? I almost didn't recognize you and had to turn back around,” Mr. Foley says.

“I don't need a jacket.”

“Everyone needs a jacket. You're going to freeze.”

Danny brushes the snowflakes off his lashes and stares hard. “Where's Tucker?”

“At the school. We got him set up with that student tutor program, and he's working on that for the rest of the afternoon. He has to catch up on all the work he missed from ghost hunting.”

“Oh.” Isn't that nice?

Danny almost says no. He has known the Foleys his whole life, considers them family, and would go so far as to call them his honorary aunt and uncle. There had once been a time when, if he couldn't go to his parents for something, he would go to the Foleys. But he almost says no.

Mr. Foley must notice his hesitation because he rolls his eyes and says, “Just get in the damn truck.”

Danny gets in the damn truck. Hot air blasts into his face once he's inside.

Mr. Foley waits until Danny, who first closes the vents on his side of the truck, has buckled himself in before speaking again. “I'm disappointed in you.”

How diabolical of him to wait until Danny can't easily escape.

“There's a jacket in my locker,” Danny mutters.

“Not because of that. Although, yes. You're going to get sick if you aren't already. Do you remember when you boys were little? Whenever you and Tucker played in the snow, you always took your jacket off. We couldn't leave you alone outside, or you'd come in three hours later with the worst cold we'd ever seen.” Mr. Foley shakes his head with a smile, although it fades quickly.

“I don’t know what’s going on between you and Tucker, but it’s not like you to lash out,” he continues. “It’s obvious you’re going through something, and I’m here if you need to talk. But what you did in there wasn’t okay.

Danny watches the sidewalk as they pull into traffic, staring at the indent he left behind. He hadn’t noticed how much it was snowing when he was sitting, but a pile nearly three inches tall marks where he had been.

“I can’t say I’m not mad, but… I’m just disappointed.”

Danny wants to say he didn't mean to hurt Tucker, but he can't. Tucker is his best friend, but Tech? Thinking of Tucker's alter ego makes Danny's heart pound, and not in a good way. Not the way he's used to. Thinking of Tucker as Tech? He wants to throw up again.

Every bruise, every burn, every little cut Danny has gathered this past month throbs at the thought of that golden armour. He checks over his shoulder, but no one is there.

Tucker's at school. Tucker's at school. Tech is at school.

“You don't have anything to say?” Mr. Foley asks.

Danny shrugs.

“Tucker's okay, by the way. You didn't hurt him any more than he already was.” Mr. Foley pauses, giving Danny space to respond, but he doesn't. “This is an upsetting situation. Tucker is hurt and has been getting hurt for some time. Going out and hunting ghosts—” Mr. Foley shakes his head. “It's funny how much a mask can trick you. Tucker made me follow all the 'official' Tech Hunter accounts. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen everything there is to see of Tech online. It seems obvious now that I know. I always thought he was just a fan.”

Mr. Foley's grip on the steering wheel tightens. “But some of those videos…”

Danny doesn’t need to hear it. He has seen them, too. Clips of Tech zooming through the city, using gadgets and gizmos to take down ghosts with ease. They started fun. Even Danny enjoyed the videos at first. He felt a kinship with this new hunter, who didn't seem much older than him. But then the tech got bigger, the fights more brutal, the targets more… familiar. Danny stopped watching the videos a while ago, after he became the ghost in them.

“These last few weeks alone… I swear he was hunting down Phantom every day. I was starting to feel sorry for Phantom until—well. Until.”

Danny rubs his knee. Despite having time to rest, it still hurts. Touching it is like pressing on a fresh bruise.

“I'm sorry,” Mr. Foley says. “It's been a stressful few days, but it's not appropriate for me to dump this all on you. You need to worry about school, not ghosts. I just always thought Phantom was a good one. It doesn't seem right that all ghosts could be bad.”

“Well, you were wrong. Everyone knows ghosts are bad.”

“Danny, your parents—”

“Were right all along. We all should have listened to them. Ghosts aren't good.” Danny squeezes his knee. “They can't be good. They're monsters, right? Because only a monster would hurt Tucker like that. Wouldn't see the person behind the mask. It—Phantom—Tucker was there the whole time, and Phantom couldn't see that. He just kept hurting him. He should have known!”

The soft voice of the radio fills the cab. And then Mr. Foley turns it off, and there's only silence. Danny can't look. He lets go of his knee, flexing his fingers. They're numb from how tightly he clenched his hand.

He wants to make himself small, curl up and disappear into nothing. He doesn’t want to be seen or heard or perceived. If only a portal would open up beneath him and take him to an endless void—there must be one somewhere in the Infinite Realms—where he can stop existing for a while.

“Danny,” Mr. Foley says.

Stop it.

“Danny, I'm worried about you.”

Stop looking at me.

“Your parents are good people, but I don't like it when you start saying these things. And you've been different lately.”

No, no, no!

The heat of the cab bears down on him. His bandages are damp, and he is cold and hot and too many things all at once. Mr. Foley keeps talking, but his words don't reach Danny. The pounding of his heart drowns them out. The truck turns a corner, making Danny's view spin, but when the vehicle straightens out, the world does not.

“I—” a voice says. “Please. I need—”

“Are you okay?” Something hot touches Danny's forehead. “You're burning up.”

A hand reaches for the door. A monster's hand with pale, bony fingers and scabby knuckles. It pops the door open. The truck screeches as Mr. Foley slams on the brakes, but Danny is already out the door, part of him phasing through the metal when it can't open fast enough. He hits the ground running.

“Danny!” Mr. Foley shouts after him, but Danny is gone before the truck stops.

He doesn't know where he's going. Snow pelts his face, nearly blinding him. The wind has gone from nipping at his cheeks to slicing through him, whipping into a storm. In the distance, a haze of green and orange glows behind the snow. Danny veers away from it and pivots down the nearest street. As he turns, he skids on a patch of ice and loses his footing, careening into a mailbox. The corner drives into his chest, and his world goes white.

Danny comes to face down in the snow with ringing in his ears. He doesn’t know how long he was out, but it is long enough that the flood of adrenaline has ebbed. As the tide recedes, it uncovers all the aches he had ignored for the past few minutes.

Every breath drives a dagger through his chest. He doesn't know if he wants to cry, puke, or collapse. Or all three at once. Through the flurry of snow, he hears a shout.

“Danny!”

He has to keep going.

“Danny, where are you?!”

Leaning on the mailbox for support, he drags himself up, pivoting on his left leg.

He hears a pop. A crackling, like stepping on broken glass. Danny crumples with a scream as a searing pain tears through his knee. It’s here and gone in seconds, leaving his whole body trembling as he lays in the snow. He tries to rise, but his knee immediately gives out.

A hand touches his shoulder before he can try again.

“Daniel.”

He tries to clamber away from the hand, the voice, but his leg can’t bear the weight, even when sliding across the ground. His entire side spasms when he accidentally knocks his knee, and he lashes out at the hand reaching for him, stopping just sort of crushing those fingers in his grip.

He whimpers. “Leave me 'lone.”

“Don't be stupid. You're coming with me.”

Danny is scooped up before he can protest. He doesn't even have the energy to squirm. Anything that isn't snow is just a blur of colour. The face above him. The car ahead of them. As they approach, Danny’s shaking stops. Not because he adjusts to the pain, his body just stops. No breathing. No heartbeat. Nothing. All at once, everything has become very far away.

“Not so much fight in you today, little badger.”

He tenses as the car door opens, but inside is barely warmer than out in the snow. Danny lies in the backseat, cheek pressed to the chill leather. He tries to keep his eyes open, but staring at the seat ahead of him while the car moves turns his stomach. Again, nothing but bile comes up.

He closes his eyes, drifting into nothing as the darkness takes him.

—

A tether pulls Danny along. His body moves, and he moves with it, but he isn't moving it. “Danny” and “Danny's body” are not the same right now. His body feels the arms around his shoulders and under his knees. Danny does not. His body lifts its hand to stare at its scarred fingers. Danny does not.

Danny drifts behind, watching but not seeing, as the world moves around him. It is dull and flat and not quite real. It’s like possessing his Doomed avatar all over again.

That changes when he is set down on a cold table in front of a glowing expanse. The swirling green fog beckons him forward. He tries to rise, but those hands grab him again and sit him back down. This time, he feels the pressure on his shoulder as if through layers of thick cloth. One hand moves to his head, dragging through his hair. Danny doesn't try getting up again after that. He sits, content watching the ebb and flow, breathing in the sour air.

The one time Danny's friends had been in his parents' lab, they called the air acrid. Danny would have agreed with them before. Now, that smell comforts him. The same way people enjoy citrus, vanilla, or pine, Danny savours the scent—and taste—of ecto-rich air. The longer he sits there, the more “Danny” and “Danny's body” feel like one thing again. The table beneath him becomes solid, real. His breathing, although far from easy, evens out. The haze over his mind creeps away like fog in the sunlight.

The trembling starts immediately. Danny closes his eyes, taking as deep a breath as possible, ignoring how shaky it is. He wants to curl into a ball and wallow, but this isn’t the place for that. Not anymore. Instead, he gives himself ten seconds.

One.

Ten seconds to be miserable.

Two.

To wonder how badly he screwed up this time.

Three.

Four.

To wonder if he cracked a rib when he hit that mailbox.

Five.

Six.

Or what he might have torn in his knee.

Seven.

Eight.

Nine.

To pretend he’s just a normal kid having a shitty day.

Ten.

Danny sits up straight and turns. Now that his panic has retreated—not gone, but tucked into a corner of his mind like a wild animal—he realizes where he is. Who he's with.

Danny didn't notice when Vlad pulled away. Part of him, much larger than he wants to admit, laments the loss of contact. Now, Vlad leans against the console of his lab. A large monitor rises behind him, with several smaller screens angled beside it. They can function as individual screens or act as one massive display. Danny has played Doomed on those screens many times in the past year. He can see the game's case just behind Vlad, alongside his NASA mug and a pair of headphones he has never seen before.

Vlad follows Danny’s gaze to the items on the desk. He smiles and picks up the headphones. “Do you like them? They just came in. I know your old headphones got damaged in a fight.”

“Yeah.” The ear pads on the headphones are planets, and stripes like the rings of Saturn decorate the headband. It will not be the first gift Vlad has given him. Danny swallows before adding, “With Tech.”

Vlad puts the headphones down and comes forward. “I'm sure you heard the news by now. It's all over Amity Park. I'm sorry your best friend turned out to be a ghost hunter.” He rests a hand on Danny's head in a paternal gesture, which Danny normally finds comforting. “It must be hard. Are you all right?”

Danny takes in the lab, which has grown more familiar to him than his own home. The day Vlad showed him this place and revealed himself, something in Danny changed.

You're like me, Danny had thought. You understand me.

Any ghost can stumble into Vlad's lab, but he and Danny are the only humans able to reach it. It became his haven. Here, he could be himself without worrying about anyone else seeing. And Vlad gave him that.

Tucker's words, which had never left Danny's mind, resurface.

Vlad told me to.

Danny jerks away from Vlad's hand, leaving it hanging between them. Something changes in Vlad's expression. It's so minute that someone else might not have caught it, but Danny has spent too much time with the man not to notice. Vlad's nostrils flare, and his mouth twitches downward. Danny blinks, and Vlad's smile is back at full brightness, but it's too late. Danny saw the mask crack.

Vlad clasps his hands behind his back and starts pacing. “I heard about your suspension. Your father added me to your list of emergency contacts after I came to Amity, and when you left without waiting for an adult, the school contacted me. You're lucky I found you. Have you even treated your injuries yet?”

“Vlad.” Danny's tone could make a ghost shiver.

Vlad pauses for a second. “Daniel. What did I do to lose my uncle privileges?”

“Whatever you did to Tucker.”

“Oh, dear. Is this about the press conference? I promise it won't be anything bad, but this is a big revelation for the city. I would be remiss not to address it.”

“No, I—press conference?” Danny shakes his head. “Stop it. Stop deflecting. Tucker told me.”

Vlad's jaw tenses. Another crack. “What do you mean? What did he tell you?”

“Everything!”

Vlad looks Danny up and down, then swivels, heading back for the console. He swipes the NASA mug up and swirls around the liquid inside. Some week-old energy drink, probably. He sniffs at it and makes a disgusted face, then dumps the contents over a nearby floor drain. Vlad takes his time going to the eyewash station, filling the mug with water and cleaning it.

Two minutes pass before Vlad returns to the console and leans against it, giving Danny a long stare. Unable to straighten with the gnawing in his chest, Danny curls in instead. Vlad smirks.

The expression makes Danny bristle. He knows that face. It's the smile Vlad gives him when they've both seen something stupid—a private joke passing between them. Danny doesn't smile back. He doesn't see any jokes around here except for himself.

“I don't know what you're talking about. Is your fever getting to you?” Vlad says.

“You knew who he was! Tucker said so!”

“Oh. I found out by mistake. I knew it would only hurt you, so I gave him some advice. I would have told you sooner if I thought it would end like this. But you know how unstable you—”

“LIAR!” Danny howls, the sound tearing from Danny’s throat, shaking the lab. It cracks the monitors and shatters the mug in Vlad’s hand. He scowls, shaking off glass and blood, while Danny cries out. “Why would you make me hurt him?!”

“I didn't make you do anything. You said you wanted to help, so I gave you a task. You did get the relic, didn't you?” Vlad pauses, but not long enough for Danny to answer. “How exactly you went about getting it was entirely up to you. I have plenty of resources you could have used to track it down before Tech got to it.”

“I wasn't going to use one of your ghosts!”

“Oh, that's delightful.” There is nothing friendly in Vlad's smile now.

The shift takes Danny aback. Despite the cracks he saw, he doesn’t want to believe the mask is there, to see it crumble. This isn’t supposed to happen. Vlad should be smiling at him—warmly—and offering some sage advice that sounds pompous but ultimately helps Danny figure this out. And, after taking care of Danny’s wounds, they will go upstairs and watch something in Vlad’s home theatre. An old Packers game if Vlad reaches the TV first, during which he’ll recite the same hundred facts Danny has heard a thousand times over. Some kind of monster flick if Danny gets there first, or a space documentary if he wants to annoy Vlad. But no matter what they watch, they’ll spend the hours crafting a perfect lie about his behaviour for Danny’s parents, and when Danny goes to sleep later, he can rest easy knowing that Vlad has his back. Even if no one else does.

Danny wants his Uncle Vlad.

He doesn’t want this.

“You really think you're a monster, don't you?”

Danny fights back tears, saying, “I'm not like them! I have a heartbeat. I still feel things. I don't just hurt people because I can!” He doesn't even convince himself.

“There's more than one way to be a monster.” Vlad presses a button on the console.

The screens, cracked but still functional, light up. All seven show the same thing: a clip from Friday's fight. It isn't in the video circling online, but Danny remembers this moment. It happened not long after the fight began.

Phantom grabs Tech by the chest piece, lifts him, and then slams him down on the ground. Hard enough that the pavement beneath Tech fractures and his suit glitches. The video closes in on the ghost's snarling face. Its bared fangs. The wild, inhuman eyes.

“Shut up!” Danny launches himself at Vlad. In the second it takes to cross the lab, he transforms from human to ghost. His claws tear into Vlad’s suit as they collide and crash into the main monitor. It shatters, glass raining down around them, but the video doesn’t stop.

The screens on either side show the clip on a loop. The same scene is happening here, in a different place, with a different friend, but the same feral look on Phantom's face.

“I didn't want to! You made me do it!” Danny slams Vlad down again and again and again. All the while, that recording taunts him from the edges of his vision. Danny's attention snaps to the screens on his right. Beams of ectoplasm explode from his eyes and carve through the screens, scorching the walls as he turns from right to left.

Vlad shoves his palm under Danny's chin and fires. Pink overtakes Danny’s vision as the ecto-blast goes off, throwing him across the lab. The smell of smoke and singed flesh overpowers the comforting tang of ectoplasm. Danny stares at the ceiling, panting, and swallows. It hurts.

“Little badger, look at yourself. You're not in the right state for this.”

Danny pushes himself up and finds Vlad, now transformed, floating closer. The front of his suit is torn, but the injuries beneath are little more than paper cuts to him. Danny flicks the blood off his claws and tries to stand. His knee gives out beneath him.

“You can't walk.”

Danny tries to respond but cuts off with a sharp gasp. He touches a hand to his throat. When he pulls away, he finds ectoplasm dripping from his claws.

“You can't speak.”

Danny snarls.

“I thought you said you weren't a monster?”

With a screech, Danny throws himself forward again. Vlad dodges to the side. They've been here before. How many times has Danny tested himself against Vlad, tried out new powers on him, and sparred in the lab?

How many times has Danny lost to Vlad in these friendly sessions?

That doesn’t stop Danny from throwing himself, again and again, at the man he trusts. The man he sees as a mentor, an uncle, and maybe even a father figure. He lashes out with claws, and teeth, and ectoplasm, but nothing hits. Vlad keeps slipping out of the way, unbothered, as if this means nothing to him. Danny's whole world is crashing down around him, and no one cares.

He tries to duplicate, desperate for any edge he can get over Vlad, and gets so far as having two right forearms sprouting from his elbow before something inside of him fizzles.

“No, no, no!” Danny croaks. A ring flickers around his chest. He forces it back, barely, and leaps at Vlad again, charging ecto-blasts in all three palms.

Vlad dodges the first blast and the second but slips right into the path of the third. Triumph fills Danny as the ecto-blast explodes, until a hand shoots out and grabs his wrist.

“Don’t forget who taught you all of your tricks.” The duplicate Vlad left behind to take the hit melts away as the real Vlad steps back, claws sinking into Danny’s flesh. He smiles before wrenching Danny’s arm upward.

Danny screams over the squelch of the limb tearing from his body. He crumples on the floor, groping at his elbow. Threads of muscle coated in blood and ectoplasm twitch beneath his fingers. Their tattered ends dangle from the arm in Vlad’s grip, a jagged bone poking out between the flesh.

Danny retches when he feels the muscles twitching. Darkness creeps into his vision, and he has to fight it back.

His arm. His arm. Vlad ripped off his arm.

A string of muscle slips out of the severed arm and hits the floor. Globs of ectoplasm follow, splattering against the tile. The flesh shrivels, sloughing off in chunks, followed by the remaining muscle, and the bones crumble in Vlad's grip as the arm corrodes from the inside out. Danny flinches at each wet smack, unable to tear his eyes away from the decaying limb. Every time a piece of it falls, his elbow spasms. He cups the wound, expecting his hand to close around a stump, but finds solid flesh instead. Slowly, his gaze lowers.

Ectoplasm oozes between his fingers. Pulling his hand away, he watches the last dangling thread of muscle fall, joining the mass on the floor. The ectoplasm on his elbow bubbles and smooths out into pale, unblemished skin.

Between the swimming in his head and the darkness creeping into his vision, it takes him a while to truly process what he sees. His right arm, from his shoulder all the way down to his fingertips, is still there.

The melting limb is fake—the duplicate.

It is the duplicate, right? Danny flexes his real—please, please be real—hand. The crumbling remains of his other fingers twitch, sending a jolt up his arm. Muscles that did not exist before—and exist no longer—strain to move a part of him that isn't there.

The limb is fake.

But it feels real.

Every second of agony as his flesh decays before his eyes.

When the rings come again, Danny doesn't have the energy to fight them off.

“Remember: it didn't have to be like this, little badger. If it weren't for your stubbornness, we could have kept going as we were. But I suppose you've ruined it.” Vlad waves his hand, creating a shield of ectoplasm. With a push, it shoots forward, pinning Danny to the ground, moulding around his body as it binds him.

The last chunks of his arm dissolve, and Danny’s eyes widen when the puddle inches toward him. He squirms, breath hitching as he tries to get away, but there’s nowhere to go. His bindings tighten, forcing his elbows into his ribs, cutting into his wrists until his fingers go numb.

The ectoplasm seeps into his hair. When he whips his head around, droplets splatter against his cheek. One lands on his lips.

The taste of lime. The smell. Burnt. Rotting.

Vlad rests a foot on Danny's chest, on his injury. It draws Danny’s attention, but one word lingers in the back of Danny’s mind.

Acrid.

“And I could have done so much for you,” Vlad says, then digs his heel in.

Danny is too busy howling at his cracking bones to see the foot come for his head next.

—

Danny was bleeding the first time they met. It was the standard for their first few run-ins, spread over the following weeks. Even now, it seems that Danny always bleeds in Vlad’s presence.

He had been late coming home from school, caught in a fight on his way. He pelted toward the stairs, clutching his backpack against his stomach—the fifth backpack he would lose after his accident. Before he started climbing, his dad beckoned him to the living room. Danny didn't have time for whatever his dad wanted. He could feel the wet spot on his side growing. If he didn't get behind a closed door soon, someone might notice the stain spreading on his shirt. He cared more about that than the grey tint slowly overcoming his vision.

“Danny? Are you coming?” his dad called again.

Danny made the mistake of looking back. His dad’s eyes were filled with so much hope. Danny knew his parents were eccentric and that put people off, but how could anyone ever say no to Jack Fenton when he radiated such joy?

Danny's earliest memory is the glint of his dad's smile. The warmth of his arms.

At that moment, Danny was bleeding into his backpack. His vision was growing dimmer by the second, and he wasn't sure if he could walk straight. But his dad smiled and waved him forward, and suddenly Danny was a toddler again, taking his first wobbling steps toward his favourite person in the world.

His dad’s beckoning hand pulled him toward the promise of that warmth, and he stumbled into the living room.

He didn't know the man sitting on the couch. Didn't hear anything his parents said, either. Danny rushed through an introduction (Hi, I'm Danny, nice to meet you—I'm going to my room now) and fled as soon as possible.

Once locked behind the bathroom door, he stuffed his bloody shirt into his bloodier backpack and started fixing himself up. He had to dig a pellet of ice from his abdomen and was surprised it hadn't melted yet. That ghost—what was his name… Klemper?—had been tossing snowballs left and right. Danny hadn’t expected it to hurt once he got hit with one, much less bury a chunk of ice in his stomach.

So much for making friends.

Once the shard was out, blood flowed freely from the wound. Danny nearly passed out at the sight of it. It was the first time he had bled so much from a ghost fight. He impressed himself by holding it together, until he tried to stitch himself up with a travel sewing kit. As the needle dug into his skin, his world went black.

An hour later, Danny was bandaged—but no stitches, never again—and the bathroom was clear. He had stuffed the toilet paper and towels he used to mop up the blood into his backpack, intent on tossing the whole thing in the dumpster once night fell. Satisfied with his cleanup job, he slunk into the hall, shirtless, once again hiding behind his backpack.

Danny had been so busy checking if Jazz's door was closed that he hadn’t noticed the body before him until he buried his nose in a cashmere jacket. He looked up into the stunned face of the man his dad had wanted him to meet. Some old friend of his parents’ from their college days. Danny had already forgotten his name.

He wouldn't find out for weeks how the man noticed the only drop of blood Danny had missed—a stain the size of a quarter on the hem of his jeans. In the moment, all he saw was the man's shocked expression melting into amusement, and something else, something Danny couldn't name but recognized on an instinctive level. Something that made him take a step back.

The man surprised Danny with a pat on the head. “Try dish soap. And cold water,” he said before gliding past into the bathroom.

Danny spent the rest of that evening hiding in his bedroom, afraid that at any second, his parents would come bursting in because their friend saw him bleeding. They never did.

To anyone else, that interaction would have been insignificant—a few harried seconds easily forgotten. But to Danny, who had already been through so much, it meant one thing:

There was an adult he could trust.

—

Danny wakes up to a fever and a ceiling covered in stars. Not the dollar-store, glow-in-the-dark stickers he grew up with, which his dad helped him put up when he was five, but a light projection from a lamp on the nightstand. With the curtains drawn, only the stars provide light for the room. Danny is thankful for that. He can barely keep his eyes open with how much his head pounds.

He reaches to peel off the blanket, but freezes. His right arm hovers in front of him, trembling. It comes back to him quickly: the sound, the smell, the taste. The slow decay of the phantom limb.

It was fake, he tells himself, squeezing his hand into a fist. That wasn’t real.

The rest of his body feels stiff, fresh bruises blooming across his back and shoulders, and he can’t catch his breath. It’s like there’s a knife in his back, held in place by Vlad’s heel, and even the smallest inhale pushes Danny’s chest back into the blade.

His throat is a footnote in comparison, barely worth his notice.

But his knee… This morning, Danny’s knee twinged. There was discomfort, but he could walk. Comparing his pain from then to now is like comparing a bruise to a bullet wound. He knows the disparity between those two injuries.

He pushes himself up, peeling away from the sweat-soaked sheets, and bites back a cry when his leg shifts. He has to stop twice and grit his teeth before he manages to sit upright.

The blanket falls into his lap just as he spots his reflection in the mirror across the room. His chest and throat have been bandaged with care. The edges of his injuries creep out from beneath the bandages, flares of red skin touching his collarbone and ribs. The bandages on his throat are also damp, but not from sweat. Danny recognizes the slightly tacky sensation of Vlad’s healing salve—a concoction made to soothe ectoplasmic injuries. It works best on surface wounds.

Beneath the blanket, he discovers unfamiliar pyjamas. Pulling up the left leg reveals a compression bandage around his knee. If it’s supposed to help, it’s not doing much.

There is little else in the room besides him, the bed, and the mirror. The projector and the nightstand, of course. A dresser beneath the mirror. A Dumpty Humpty poster on the door. This room is one of many that Danny had yet to explore in Vlad's manor. Despite this, he immediately knows what, or who, it's for.

This is Danny's room.

Only a day ago, that realization might have warmed him. Now, it fills him with disgust. He needs to leave as soon as possible, but he can't go out in a pair of flannel pyjama pants. Scanning the room again, he doesn't see his hoodie or sweatpants, but he notices a stack of clothes on the corner of the bed.

Designer jeans, a Vladco polo shirt, and a fur-lined leather jacket. No way Danny is putting those on.

He goes to transform, tugging on his core, but a jolt of electricity stops him. It rips through his body and leaves him breathless, clutching his chest. He doesn’t try again.

He should. If he wants to get out of here quickly, he only has one option. But just turning his hand intangible makes his insides itch. He doesn’t want to know how intense that would feel across his whole body. Doesn’t want to hurt any more than he already does.

Danny berates himself for his weakness.

He changes into the clothes and hates every second of it, but he doesn't have another option. It takes an embarrassingly long time since he has to manoeuvre his bad knee. Bending it hurts. Straightening it hurts. He can’t even let it lay limp without some discomfort. But he manages, grimacing when he catches his reflection, and starts the arduous process of limping through the manor.

He may not have explored every inch of Vlad’s home, but he knows the layout well enough to find his way to the front door. He keeps one hand on the wall to help his balance, but he still falls a few times.

By the time he reaches the stairs, the wall is the only thing holding him up. Every time he puts weight on his left leg, his knee slides beneath his skin. His right thigh aches from hopping across the manor on one leg. While ghost hunting keeps Danny in shape, the last few days have drained him so much that he feels like a weak freshman again, barely able to run a mile.

As he peers down the stairs from the third-floor landing, part of him whispers that he should go back and collapse into that soft bed. But he hasn’t sunk that low yet. As he debates the least painful way to make it down, a voice floats up to him.

“—wake him up. I don't want to take up more of your time,” Jazz says.

“It's not a problem, dear.” Danny's heart quickens at Vlad's voice. “Danny visits often enough. I don't mind him taking up one of my spare bedrooms for a few hours. I'm just glad I found him so quickly.”

Danny clings to the newel post as he lowers himself to the floor, starting the long process of scooting down the stairs one step at a time.

“Thanks again for calling the school back. Lancer said he didn't want to pull me out of class, but someone needed to be here for Danny.”

“He was fine with me.”

“Family, I mean.”

“Right. Of course. But you could have waited for school to end.”

Danny glances at the grandfather clock on the main floor, visible at the back of the hall now that he's worked his way down to the second landing. It's not even three yet. Jazz had to leave school early because of him. A bitter taste spreads across his tongue. He swallows a few times, but the taste lingers. He can't get rid of his guilt that easily.

“Yeah, that's not happening. Danny comes first.”

He wishes she would stop saying stupid things.

When Danny finally reaches the bottom floor, he stops to gather himself. A few quick breaths, so close to hyperventilating that he wonders if his panic has reared its head again, before he strides over to the doorway leading to Vlad's sitting room. He almost makes it all the way, but on the last step, his leg buckles, and he clings to the door frame to keep himself up. Jazz’s head jerks up at the sound of him hitting the doorway, and her face lights up when she spots him.

“Danny!” She is upon him instantly, leaping across the room to reach him, rubbing his hair, touching his forehead, and fussing with the jacket. “Oh. This is new?”

“His clothes were soaked, and he didn’t have a good coat. I couldn't in good conscience leave him like that.”

While Jazz frets, Danny stares past her. Vlad sits in a lavish armchair with his back to them but watches through the mirror above the mantle. He has a thing for mirrors.

Their eyes meet, and Vlad's flash red. Danny pales.

“Are you even listening to me?” Jazz asks.

Danny, unable to speak, nods. The way Jazz fusses, she keeps pushing him back, forcing more weight onto his injured knee. Tears spring to his eyes.

“Oh, Danny.” Jazz lifts a hand to wipe the tears away, but Danny flinches back.

“Careful.” Vlad rises from his chair. The movement yanks Danny's attention back to him as he approaches. “I think I might have bruised his ego when I had to carry him inside. He must be sulking.”

Danny can feel Jazz's eyes on him, but he can't look away from Vlad. Danny hasn't stopped shaking since they made eye contact. Vlad raises a hand to fix his sleeve, and Danny flinches again.

“Oh.” Jazz's hand finds Danny's wrist and squeezes it once. “Well, thank you again. I'm taking Danny home now if that's all right.”

Her tone says she doesn't care if it's all right; they're going home now.

“By all means,” Vlad says.

No one moves. Danny doesn’t want to look away from Vlad, afraid of what might happen the second he turns his back. Jazz must pick up on his wariness because she keeps looking between them as if she, too, is waiting for something to happen.

Vlad finally breaks the spell over them by gesturing to the door.

Jazz takes Danny’s hand and pulls him away. He stays behind her, so she can’t see him limping. Unfortunately, they’re nowhere near the wall, and he has no way to hold himself up when his leg gives out again. His hand rips from Jazz’s as he stumbles, barely catching himself from face-planting.

Jazz spins around, lips parting, but Danny snaps, “What?” before she can say anything.

Hurt flashes across her face. “Are you…?”

“I’m fine.” He drops to one knee, ducking his head to hide his grimace, and mutters, “Tripped on my shoelace.”

Jazz doesn’t say anything else, and he doesn’t lift his head to see what face she’s making. Danny fiddles with his perfectly tied laces until Jazz’s feet turn away from him and head for the door. He stays on the ground, breathing softly through his nose until he’s ready to stand, rising on one leg. His left knee spasms.

He massages it through his jeans, although it doesn’t help. The compression bandage doesn’t seem to be doing anything, either. It feels like someone sliced his knee open, chipped the bone to pieces, and filled the hole with oozing ectoplasm.

The front door opens and shuts.

Danny only has a second to process what that means before he jerks toward Vlad, just in time to see a syringe of orange fluid jabbed into his arm. Danny rips his arm away, but Vlad is faster. By the time Danny stumbles back, the syringe is empty.

“I've done a lot for you, little badger. I still will.” Vlad closes his fist around the syringe. There's a flash of pink, and then ash falls from his hand. “You'll be thanking me in a couple of hours when that kicks in. Remember, I only want what's best for you.” He turns but pauses halfway. “Oh… and keep that relic safe for me, won't you? I'll be needing it soon enough,” he says before drifting out of sight.

—

The car shakes as Danny drops into the passenger seat, and once more when he slams the door shut.

“Hey, not so hard,” Jazz says.

Danny ignores her, facing the window as he scrubs his face. He can still taste the salt on his lips, and the red around his eyes is prominent. He tries to rub it away, but there’s no helping it. After a few fruitless seconds, he gives up, pulling the bar under his seat to slide the chair back and give his legs some room. He cranks the lever on the side as well, putting the back down, and drapes a hand over his eyes.

“Hey.” Jazz prods him. “Upright, seatbelt on. That's not safe if we crash.”

“Do you plan on crashing?” The words drag at his throat, which quickly went hoarse during his minute of alone time. His voice comes out raspy and quiet. Danny doesn't know what Jazz sees, or what she makes of him right now.

After a few seconds of staring, she sighs and turns the engine on. “Just wear your seatbelt.”

Danny clicks it into place with the hand not draped over his eyes. If Jazz sees the redness, she’ll know that he was crying. Stupid. Fourteen years old and crying like a child. Danny's fingers dig into his scalp. His nails aren't quite claws when he's human, but they're sharper than normal and prick his skin. Every time he cuts them, they start growing back to a point. He always trims them before it gets too obvious.

They drive in silence. Danny grits his teeth, focusing on not hissing in pain every time they hit a pothole. Hold it together, he tells himself. Only a few more minutes to home, and then he can fall apart in private. Until then, he just has to be okay.

Everything is okay.

Everything is okay.

Jazz doesn’t try to talk again, which is better for Danny. He’s unsure if he can open his mouth without some strained sound escaping him. The inside of his lip is already ragged and bleeding from how hard he bites down.

When they turn onto their street, he thinks he’s in the clear. Jazz parks on the backstreet, in front of their garage, and Danny hears her shuffling around. At first, he thinks she’s getting out, and hopes he can wait her out and go inside a minute later. His hopes are dashed when something drops onto his chest.

Danny bites his tongue to keep from crying out.

“You left your backpack at school,” Jazz says. “After you got suspended. Do you want to talk about it?”

Danny clenches his jaw, breathing as deep as he can through his nose, and swallows the blood pooling in his mouth. Once he can speak without gasping, he says, “Yeah. I put it down, and then I forgot it was there, and then I left because I'm not allowed to be there anymore.”

“Only two weeks, and you still have to do schoolwork. I'll be bringing it home for you. Maybe you can use the rest of the time to get caught up on everything else you haven't done yet. And then you can tell me what the hell happened with Vlad back there.”

“Can we just… not do this right now.”

“Danny—”

“Jazz.” He doesn’t mean for it to come out angry, but there’s a bite to her name that he can’t take back. Being in this car, with her, is too much right now. He doesn’t need this. He needs things back to the way they were when he was oblivious and hurt, but not as hurt as he is now.

Jazz purses her lips. “Okay. I'll tell Mom and Dad about the suspension. You can talk to me—and them—when you're ready.”

“Yeah. Right.” Danny gets out before Jazz can say anything else. She follows, but he refuses to look back, fighting to hide his limp. He doesn't stop until he's inside, up the stairs, and in his bedroom. He doesn't even make it to the bed, crumpling against the door, curling over his knee as tears prick his eyes.

There are daggers under his skin, chipping away at bone and muscle, driven deeper with every step he forced himself to take. He thumps his head against the door, mouth open in a soundless scream as he lets the pain wash over him. It tears through his body, every bruise and burn throbbing in time with his heartbeat.

Outside his room, the house comes alive as his parents return, their voices filling all the empty spaces. Danny's room stays dead and quiet.

For hours, he leans against his door, staring up at the stickers on his ceiling. While his eyes trace the familiar constellations, his mind has receded deep within himself. Moving from his head to his toes, he focuses on all his aches and pains, giving himself a few moments to feel each one before shoving them out of mind.

Some pains are worse than others. The bruises, he files away without a second thought. The headache and the twist in his gut take a bit more effort. But his chest? His knee? Danny doesn’t have the words to describe how much they wreck him before he can push them away.

It’s just pain. He can handle pain.

At some point, someone comes by and knocks on his door. Danny doesn’t answer, barely conscious enough to hear it. His chin dips to his chest as he watches the shadow until it leaves, relaxing only a fraction when it does.

Eventually, the sounds outside dim. Jazz whispers goodnight. The floorboards in the hall creak, first under his mom’s light steps, and then they groan as his dad traipses across them. A door closes. Everything goes quiet. With the quiet comes an all-encompassing numbness.

The clock on Danny’s nightstand reads two a.m. by the time he drags himself from his stupor. In his backpack, abandoned at his side the second he sat down, something glows. Danny reaches inside and gropes around until he finds it, small and cold to the touch. He draws the item out.

“This is all your fault,” Danny mutters. Whether that is to himself or the relic in his hand, he doesn't know. Doesn't care. Both are true.

As Danny opens his palm, the Ring of Rage glows brighter.

[ikkaku-of-heart]

Of Bodice Rippers and Delightful Discoveries

(Ikkaku visits an old, used bookstore while in port, hoping to hunt down some classic bodice rippers to entertain herself with on the next voyage. What she finds is a new subgenre, complete with some unexpected - and likely unsuspecting - stars.)

The scent of the used bookstore was so different from the Polar Tang. Instead of steel and salt, Ikkaku breathed in the earthy, musty smell of paper and ink. She may have been an engineer, thriving among gears and pistons, but she had found a love of more organic materials like books.

In particular, hunting down unique bodice rippers.

“Looking for something in particular, dearie?” the proprietress asked, giving her a curious smile. She didn’t seem to mind that her new customer wore a pirate’s jolly roger on her boiler suit – business was business, and all who loved books were welcome.

“Got any classic bodice rippers?” Ikkaku asked, looking around. “I’m due for a long voyage.”

“Ahhh need something to entertain on lonely nights?” she replied knowingly. “Those happen to be my favorite. The back shelves are dedicated to those. Got a lot of newer publications, but there’s just nothing like the classics.”

Ikkaku nodded enthusiastically in agreement before heading off to peruse the back shelves. She’d read everything in her expansive collection at least twice, and she was in need of something new. Something to titillate her, but also torment her nakama when they dared to tease her. Books starring Fishmen and Zoan lovers had done the job for a while, but the boys were starting to become immune. That was a sure sign it was time to switch it up.

Pulling out books at random, she shook her head in disappointment. Many of the newer books just didn’t have the lovingly painted, elaborate covers that older, classic bodice rippers had. For all people said not to judge a book by its cover, in her mind, that was half the appeal. Getting to read a book with a hunky man in an open shirt embracing a beautiful woman often got her hilariously mortified or judgmental books. Occasionally she found books that starred two women, but those beautiful covers tended to be more understated and romantic, which sadly didn’t get quite the same reaction from her friends.

She had nearly given up, ready to throw in the towel and accept she’d just have to go through her library for a third time, when she struck gold. An old paperback novel peeked out from the stacks, and she could tell right away that the cover was that classic style she so loved. Tugging it out almost reverently, her gaze greedily ate up the image.

The woman was a beautiful, buxom nun, dressed in the classic black gown and habit, clutching a cross as she attempted to resist the charms of the man embracing her. Though, by the look on her face, she was failing spectacularly, eyes shut and head thrown back in pleasure. The man on the cover was what really drew the eye, however. The artist clearly put a little extra effort into him, like he was the main draw of the book. He towered over the woman in his arms, biceps bulging as they wrapped around her petite waist, his purple shirt open to show off a tantalizing glimpse of his hard pecs. His jaw and chin were chiseled and his cheekbones could have cut glass. Long hair as black as engine oil and smoke were pulled back in a sleek ponytail that dangled over his shoulder. His lips were curved in a devilish smirk, a long cigarette dangling tantalizingly between them.

The First Mate's Dangerous Temptation the elegant cursive of the title read. The tagline was just as cheesy; She devoted herself to God, but then a devilish pirate sailed into her life.

“Ok, you’re showing some promise,” Ikkaku chuckled, cracking open the book and flipping through the pages in hopes of finding a decent sex scene. Hopefully it lived up to the cover’s hype. Quickly, she found some smut, and eagerly she began to read.

“God really blessed you in the chest department, doll,” the pirate purred, his pectorals glistening with sweat as he pulled his pretty captive against him. The smell of the sea and tobacco paired beautifully with his masculine musk, and Chastity tried not to be taken in by way his deep voice rumbled like an earthquake, shaking her resolve. He was sin incarnate, and she mustn’t give in to the Devil’s servant.

“I’m blessed by His love every day. Perhaps you’d be similarly blessed if you ceased your sinful ways,” Chastity replied primly.

“I wouldn’t be much of a pirate if I were virtuous. Anyway, sin’s more fun. More pleasurable.” Benn gave a low chuckle before taking a long drag of his cigarette. He held the smoke in his lungs for a moment before exhaling, releasing it like a dragon. It suited him, considering the virgin damsel he held in his clutches. “And I haven’t had any complaints about my chest. I’ve seen you stare plenty.”

She gasped, outraged, though liquid hellfire shot down to the secret place between her thighs. A blush bloomed across her cheeks, and Chastity’s scolding reply died on her lips as the burly first mate released her, only to drop to his knees before her. The cigarette smoldered on the ground beside them, the thin trail of smoke even headier than the church’s incense. She attempted to step back, but a big hand wrapped around her hip, keeping her in place as he hoisted up her skirts, exposing her knickers and pale thighs. “What are you doing? This is improper!”

He chuckled again before he began peppering kisses along the smooth, untouched skin. Tongue and teeth joined his sensual lips, licking, sucking, and biting the tender flesh without a shred of shame or remorse. “Showing you what a man should really be doing on his knees,” he growled, a panther that had concerned his delicious prey and was planning to take its time devouring it. “God can’t make you scream like I can.”

Gasping again, the nun buried her fingers in his jet-black hair as his mouth delved into the apex of her thighs. Her knickers had already been growing wet just from being in his presence, but now they were soaked in anticipation and the saliva from his tongue. It stoked tantalizingly against her pearl, and Chastity felt her knees wobble almost as unsteadily as her resolve to remain pure.

“Ah! Beckman!”

“Wait,” Ikkaku gasped, staring at the name, then flipping back to the front cover. The man on the front was at least a decade younger than the wanted poster she’d seen, but if she replaced the black ponytail with a silver one, added a few years and scars to that chiseled face, and a purple cape…

“Holy shit. What’s Benn Beckman doing on a romance novel cover?!”

This was utterly insane. Of course the first mate of the Red Hair Pirates was hot, both in his youth and now. He was known as a playboy, too, with admirers and lovers across the Grand Line. But the star of a bodice ripper? It wasn’t even trying to hide his identity!

Flipping the paperback over, Ikkaku scanned the back cover, looking for clues. The publication date was fifteen years ago, and it was apparently part of a series. An extensive one, from the look of things.

Pirate romance novels. Ikkaku shouldn’t have been surprised they existed. Outlaws like them weren’t exactly protected by copyright laws or could make cases against libel. And people did so love their forbidden fruit, but not everyone had the guts to actually proposition a pirate. So no wonder someone decided to make a buck off of the fantasy. The real question was, did Benn Beckman know?

Curiosity piqued, Ikkaku glanced along the shelves and quickly found another book by the same author. Once again the cover was lovingly and beautifully painted. The woman was once again beautiful, though this time her generous cleavage was on full display thanks to a low-cut blouse and cinched corset. She was being embraced by yet another muscular man. He was shirtless and his trousers hung loose, threatening to slip down his hips to expose himself. The cocky smirk and come hither expression made it clear he had nothing but impure intentions with the woman he was holding. One arm was beneath her thighs and backside, hoisting her up into the air, while the other held the ropes dangling from the sails of his ship. For a moment, the two arms threw her off, but it was soon clear by the blood red hair and three familiar scars over his left eye that this was, indeed, Red Haired Shanks.

The title was once again in fancy cursive but this time didn’t bother to hide the star’s identity. Ravished by the Red Haired Captain – She yearned for adventure on the high seas. What she got was unfathomable pleasure in the captain’s quarters.

“Damn,” Ikkaku muttered, once again seeking out a sex scene. She absolutely needed to know what the deal was with these books. “This must’ve been early in his career, but he was already building a fanbase. And probably didn’t get a single berri in royalties. Poor bastard.”

Cassandra gasped as she was bent over the bar counter, heaving chest pressed across the cool, polished wood decadently. Shanks’ left had splayed across her back, keeping her in place as he pressed his throbbing member against her pert bottom.

“That’s a good lass,” he murmured, rolling his hips so she could get the full understanding of just what her lovely curves did to him. He may have been a mighty pirate captain, but he was only a man, after all. And there was only so much a man like him could take. “You’ve been temptin’ me all day, serving drinks while shaking that ass and fluttering your lashes at all the customers. But now you’re gonna get a reminder that you’re my pretty wench.”

“I wasn’t—Ah!—tying to tempt you,” she insisted, though the mewl of pleasure at the feeling of his thick mast prodding at her most secret cavern through her skirts made that difficult to believe. The truth was, she hadn’t consciously been trying to tease him, but it was hard not to sway her hips a little more when she felt his eyes on them. Nor could she avoid lowering her neckline a bit more to relieve herself of some of the heat his presence sparked inside her.

Another gasp escaped Cassandra’s plump lips as she felt Shanks pull up her skirts to expose her wet and waiting netherlips, the cool air kissing them gently. “No knickers? Now you can’t tell me you didn’t plan this.”

“I just forgot to put them on this morning—”

Her excuse was interrupted by a firm smack to her buttock, the sting a delicious pain even as the tavern maid yelped in surprise and outrage.

“You’re lying to me. If you really want to come aboard my ship and sail with me, you’re going to have to learn to be honest with your captain,” Shanks growled sensually, trailing his fingers across the bright red welt his big, rough hand left behind. “Now let’s try again. Why aren’t you wearing knickers, Miss Cassandra?”

He squeezed the soft meat of her shapely rear end, fingers dancing dangerously close to her oh-so-wet entrance, and Cassandra knew she was done for. How could she resist the sexual magnetism of such a charming pirate?

“Because I wanted you to be able to fuck me whenever you pleased, Captain Shanks!” she cried, and was swiftly rewarded by the feeling of his thick rod plunging into her without hesitation.

“Wooooow,” Ikkaku mumbled to herself, snickering slightly at the writing, though she could admit that the scene was still fairly hot due to Red-Haired Shanks being the star. “Gods, I wonder if he knows this exists. What would he think of this? Would he and Beckman compare books?”

Another thought came to her, and once more she began looking through the books. Who else has been featured in these?

She got her answer, a surprised and delighted laugh bubbling up in her throat upon finding the next book in the series. This time, the heroine was clearly a Marine, her white uniform tastefully disheveled from a struggle as she was pinned against the wall by her opponent’s hips, though the way her long leg was wrapped around the man’s waist, it was clear this was a fight that was meant to shift into something more pleasurable. Of course, the man in question was unmistakable, even without his trademark long coat. After all, his pointed sideburns and goatee, along with those golden, piercing eyes, were nearly as iconic as the wide brimmed feathered hat on his head. Yoru was strapped to his shirtless back with a leather harness that was probably rather impractical, even if it did accent his back muscles nicely. But what was most striking was the sensual grin on his lips, curled in both arousal and amusement.

Prey of the Hawk-Eyed Hunter – Her mission was to apprehend him, but he takes her heart prisoner instead.

“He’s smiling? Well now I know this is a fantasy,” Ikkaku quipped, recalling the few times she’d seen him at the Warlord meetings. The man was grim and antisocial at best, and the few times she’d heard him speak, his comments had been bored and biting. Honestly, Ikkaku felt those made the otherwise irritating and dull meetings more entertaining.

For the third time Ikkaku cracked open a bodice ripper, eyes glittering with mischievous delight as she greedily took in the pages.

“You keep trying to fly away from me, little dove,” a deep, accented voice purred from the doorway. Calliope froze, the incriminatingly wide-open window to her bedroom making it undeniable that she had once again attempted to escape his fortress hideaway. “And dressed so indecently, too. Didn’t your superiors teach you about proper dress protocol?”

The Marine captain spun around, defiant even as she trembled a bit under his stare. Heavens above, those yellow eyes were always so intense. It didn’t matter if he was talking to her, fighting her, or staring at her in silence, they made him appear like he wished to devour her.

Calliope’s tongue darted out to wet her lips nervously, and that gaze flicked down to watch the movement. Heat shot between her legs while her nipples hardened against the thin blouse that was her only barrier between her skin and the cold air.

Golden eyes swept down her shapely figure, down to her chest, her slim torso, her bare thighs, her long legs, and then traveled back up again to meet her gaze, lingering on the comely flush that colored her cheeks. A devious smirk curled his lips as he stalked towards her. “Perhaps I should chain you to the bed, as your cage is proving insufficient.”

“You wouldn’t dare!” Calliope insisted, attempting to strike him, to make an attack against the infamous Marine Hunter she had been tasked with arresting, but he deftly caught her wrist with speed only an expert swordsman could manage. He snatched her other wrist before it could even think to lash out before flinging them both onto the bed, pinning the smaller woman’s hips beneath his muscular thighs. He adjusted his grip to lock both of her narrow wrists in one palm, freeing up his right hand while keeping her trapped beneath him, helpless.

“You are my prisoner. My prize. I’ll do as I please with you.” As if to prove his point, he trailed his long, calloused fingers down the soft, delicate skin of her throat, down her collarbone, over her thundering heart, before cupping a full breast. Calliope released a shuddering breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding at his bold touch. Why did this murderer’s touch inspire such feelings of desire in her?

She attempted to buck him off of her, but he wouldn’t budge. In fact, he let out a husky moan in response. Surprised, she looked down between their bodies to find the telltale bulge of his manhood straining against his leather trousers. “Is…is that a sword in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?” she quipped, attempting to hide her mortification and, worse, arousal.

Alas, Mihawk could detect her desire like a shark smells blood in the water and was not fooled. Instead, he laughed before capturing her lips in a fierce, dominating kiss. Calliope attempted to struggle, to resist, but his sensual tongue and teasing teeth coaxed her lips to part for him. His tongue delved between them, conquering her hot, moist cavern, giving no quarter and showing no mercy, leaving her gasping and flushed when he finally pulled away so she could breathe.

“Oh, I’ll be very happy to see you writhing and moaning beneath me as I make you a sheath for my most powerful sword,” he purred, nipping at her throat as he rolled his hips against her, swollen member growing harder at the friction the motion caused.

“Tonight, I’m claiming you completely, my dove. No more escape attempts – I doubt you’ll be able to walk after I’m through with you. And even then, I might just keep you impaled on my cock for good measure.”

“Ha! I don’t remember Mihawk being even half that talkative at Warlord meetings,” Ikkaku snickered, though there was a faint dusting of a blush on her cheeks.

Damn it. These books were over-the-top and flowery, but they were raunchy enough that she could completely understand the appeal and wanted to read more. Besides, weren’t over-the-top, ridiculous bodice rippers what she came in here for in the first place? Her fellow Hearts would be utterly mortified if she started reading aloud sex scenes starring a Yonko, his first mate, or the World’s Greatest Swordsman.

Plus, she needed to prove these existed. There was no way any of the guys would believe her on just her word. It was too crazy! So it was important that she buy all three books so she could prove they existed. And what if she ever ran into the stars themselves? Didn’t they deserve to know they had starred in fictional sexual encounters and weren’t paid a dime for it? Informing them was the moral thing to do in that case. She may have been a pirate, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t do a good deed.

Yes. That was totally why she was buying them and not because, despite herself, they were rather titillating. She would simply be reading them for blackmail and tormenting purposes. Not because any of the three men were quite the hotties in their prime.

Or in present day, but she certainly wouldn’t admit that aloud.

“Find what you were looking for, young lady?” the shopkeeper asked as she rang up Ikkaku’s purchase. She smiled down at the books, clearly pleased with her choice. “Like I said, nothing beats the classics.”

“You’re not wrong,” Ikkaku chuckled, giving her a curious smile. “These, ah, seem to be part of a series. You don’t happen to know if there are any starring women? Like, a female protagonist and a sexy lady pirate as the lovers?” She tried not to get her hopes up, but today had been full of surprises. Perhaps her bisexual prayers would be answered.

The shopkeeper gave a knowing smile. “Come back tomorrow. I know for a fact that I have a copy of  Seduced by the Ice Witch somewhere around here. Whitey Bay does quite a good job making the heroine swoon and tremble. Not that I can blame her in the least.”

The engineer’s smile could have illuminated the darkest ocean as she nodded enthusiastically. “I’ll take it, along with any others you might dig up!” she exclaimed as she handed over her berri, already eager to start her newest book series and method of messing with her dear nakama.

Though, she had already decided that Seduced by the Ice Witch would be kept to herself.

[fourwingedwriter]

Godly Warriors - Canid Capture pt. 3

AN: I'm a a day ahead for the first time in a long time. Loving this a lot. Had a challenge of writing more detailed sensory experiences and Canid is great for this with her sense of smell

First Part - Previous - Intro/Master Post

CWs: immortal whump, sensory whump/overload, nonhuman whump, lady whump, passing out, threats, mild gore (bone sounds)

Canid POV

----

Lepid looked at me. His large wings shuffled, antenna on end, exemplifying how alarmed he was. He looked between the soldier and my wound, "Shit."

Screams could be heard from outside. Ear splitting screams I couldn't handle listening to for much longer. It was the closest I've ever been to the poachers, my goddess always keeping me far from them.

I started trying to stand. I didn't shift my weight onto the bad leg, or at least I didn't do it consciously. But when I accidentally tried, I immediately collapsed in a heap of pain on the floor.

"Dammit- Canid stop moving you're going to kill yourself." He demands, the shouting coming from his lips contradicting the nature I knew him to posess. He looked down at me and I could smell the fear radiating from him, coming through heavily in the stress induced sweat he aquired.

"Leave me! Go!" I shouted at him, barely lifting myself from the floor as the adrenaline numbs my pain further.

Lepid flinched, hesitating briefly before I watch him commit to an idea, "This is gonna hurt like a bitch."

"Wha-"

My upper body is hauled upwards at a speed I wasn't prepared for. Before I realized what he was doing, my vision flipped as he practically threw me over his shoulder and into a position where my thigh was pressing into his shoulder.

I screamed, feeling my senses both heighten and become muddy as I'm hauled out of the wagon. My vision swims with tears, but my other senses are far too good for my liking.

I could hear the sickening screams of the soldiers. The scraping noise of a blade against bone, sending an involuntary shudder through my body. The yells of those who are still fighting and the distressed shouts of the friends of the fallen.

Worst of all was the scents. Fresh blood was never a scent I willingly subjected myself to, the metallic stench filling my nostrils. Only rivaled by the agressive amount of information coming from Lepid.

I could smell a concoction of illnesses, both chronic and acute, the sickly sweet scent of flower nectars and honey, then on top of it all, the most intense fear I've ever been forced to behold. It practically overwhelmed my senses as I was hauled through the forest.

Barely conscious, I heard him speak, "Stay with me. Please stay with me. They can't win."

I fought the growing darkness, a faint groan forced through me, but it wasn't long until I passed out.

My goddess appeared above me in my unconsciousness. She floated down and cupped my cheeks in her hands, "Stay alive my Warrior. Come back to me."

"I will." I said, placing a hand over her's, "I promise I will."

She kissed my forehead and vanished, allowing me to sink deeper into the painful void of my mind and body.

-

"...HELL IS THIS? Why are you half dead and carrying that?" A voice cuts through my consciousness, unfamiliar to me and full of surprise and anxiety.

My eyes cleared just enough for me to see Lepid, his cloak ripped off, revealing his wings. They were damaged somewhat, but still demanded amazement. I could inspect them for hours, the intricate grey and white designs far more detailed than expected.

A spear was leveled over my chest for the second time, "Explain."

"Cole. Don't you fucking dare. You know how protective Mammalia is of her Warriors. For god's sake you saw Trich get killed because of it." Lepid took hold of the spear shaft and shoved it away from my body.

"Oh shit-" the spearhead vanished, paired quickly by the sound of the weapon hitting the dirt.

I blinked rapidly, my chest feeling compressed when I saw just how much of my blood coated Lepid's side. It was a bright crimson, unnatural against his greyscale body and clothes.

"Now if you would stop being a dumbass and listen. She was attacked by one of mine, the criminal was sent away immediately, likely killed by the wolven hunters before night. I was on my way to get her to a temple and we were ambushed."

The new person paused heavily, "Poachers?"

"Yes."

Had I nor such keen hearing, I wouldn't have made out the curses in their undertone before they said, "Get inside."

----

Tagging: @tildeathiwillwrite @whumperofworlds @rainbowsandwhumperflies

[ipfy-dot-tif]

have you ever wanted to be, have you ever wanted to see someone better in the mirror?

[paper-ketch]

(headcanon)

When Phil gets out of the birdhouse, his murder of crows find themselves with a bouquet of hummingbirds (yes that is what a flock of hummingbirds is called and its adorable) joining their ranks.

However, unlike the crows that seem to have their own conscience and volition, the hummingbirds react very impulsive and explosive, because when he couldn't find the comfort provided by his telepathic connection with his crows to act as his eyes in the sky, Phil had to bond with the smaller birds as they weren't trapped or panicking in the birdhouse like him.

But, that bond was built out of sheer desperation, and in his panic, Phil forgot to leave any room for the hummingbirds to have their own conscience.

People think that the crows hovering around the winged man is terrifying and should be feared, but even among the crows, it's the hummingbirds that everyone should worry about. The crows have size as their advantage, but the hummingbirds have absolutely no hesitation if Phil is even a bit upset...

***slightly graphic description undercut***

(...and having small pinpricks of sharp needles pecking you at the speed of light over and over is something that you will want to avoid experiencing ever in your life)

-

you might be thinking, "i don't think their beaks are strong enough to do that kind of damage.".

to that i say, in worst case scenario, apparently their beaks could break through skin. also, it also goes back to the third paragraph of this headcanon where they dont have their own volition, because while they tend to avoid instead of attack, their brains have been rewired to just straight up jump at the threat.

[cadavertrolls]

" Would you like to see a magic trick?"

A well dressed hemoanon approaches you, dripping in silver and platinum jewelry standing out over black on black. Fabrics with magical patterns, ancient scripts that are visible only when the light catches the silk embroidery drape in all the right places, and pooling onto the ballroom floor in a way that makes it seem like he's floating when he walks.

Will you say yes?

Reblog with your problematic highbloods (or anyone you choose, really) attending the ball to be cursed judged by ""The Telestic"", a title that doesn't ring any bells... Strange.

[Sunday, in his annual pranking event, will be approaching highbloods or anyone highblood passing and inflicting his own form of petty revenge against the hemocaste system. By reblogging you're agreeing to your troll being cursed with a relatively harmless inconvenience of his choosing, which will wear off within a few days after the event, no permanent harm done! 18+ muses only, muses attending the ball but without pictures of their outfits welcome! I and Sunday will pretend they are dressed for the occasion 🖤 Multiple reblogs welcome, but one at a time please!]