#Double Vortex

[kelemengabi]

Double Vortex

[enixamyram]

So I saw someone complaining about Chaggie not showing enough physical affection like Fizz and Ozzie do. And someone replied saying they were more like Bee and Tex and yes! This is my new favourite comparison! A lovely sweet couple who is just chill and in love!

[langfield]

every time i see someone say ‘the abraxas society doesn’t live up to the vortex club parallel’ i sort of roll my eye’s because no, it doesn’t. and that’s the point. it’s one of the more subtle ways max showcases how little she’s moved on from the events of arcadia bay, how she’s still haunted by it, because it lingers everywhere she looks and constantly effects her opinion on things. these feelings are not rational or logical, they are impulsive and trauma-based. it’s just like how quickly she compares lucas and jefferson in her head when she discovers the maya thing, despite lucas being nothing like jefferson as a person. is lucas shitty? yes. but he could never kidnap girls or have sexual relations with his students or kill a person -- despite his possession of a gun, one which we never see him use against another even when max’s fear is that he will. but lucas’s voice overlaps with jefferson’s during max’s dark room experience, and yet max is constantly creeped out by lucas whenever in his presence and struggles to empathize with him, even at the start of the game where he was a harmless, albeit egotistical, teacher. just the mere prospect of a traditionally handsome man being worshipped by younger girls was enough to scare her. there’s also the explicit connection between reggie and max’s ‘old friends’, to which she doesn’t elaborate upon but because of that reminder, she seems to coddle reggie a bit more than other students. there’s other examples of this but basically, max drawing these parallels isn’t supposed to be something we inherently believe. she is supposed to be wrong. abraxas society isn’t supposed to be like the vortex club, lucas isn’t supposed to be a complete comparison to jefferson, reggie isn’t some cheap copy of a blackwell student we used to know, maya is nothing like rachel, safi’s and chloe’s fates aren’t the same thing, etc. max is merely blinded by the past and sees it everywhere, and is ( in turn ) controlled by it. caledon is flawed, but it will never be blackwell because that’s the past, a past max needs to let go of in order to move forward.

[sigery]

If the Void party ever does happen, could Rogue be invited too? He's not a Void, but he is a nature/plant guy too. He wants to be included.

Vortex has met him. Please invite Rogue, he wants to see his little bud again.

@amphiptere-art @madcatdaderpydrawer-blog

[ellipsea]

ACHIEVEMENT GET: your DM dropped you 500 feet and you took the maximum 20d6 falling damage and lived!

[vanellygal]

I always loved vortex as a kid. It was fantastic.... up until I was tall enough where my head hit the sides of the over the shoulder restraints. My last ride left my head bleeding from where my earrings were slammed into it. I still miss it tho. Such a good ride. Thank you for reminding of that video I shot so long ago. 🥺🥺🥺🥺

Ouch, yeah that sounds believable. You never knew what kind of ride you'd get with Vortex! Sometimes the ride was extra smooth, other times not. I think it depended on the day, where you sat, and how you braced yourself. It was such an amazing Arrow, plus a beauty to look at too. I still remember my final ride on it, and it's nice to look back.

Luckily I have a piece of track to remember it by. Anyways, you're so very welcome! Thank you for sharing it to Tumblr :)

[lifewithaview]

Jim Parsons and Kunal Nayyar in The Big Bang Theory (2007) The Psychic Vortex

S3E12

With Leonard and Howard going on a double date, Raj talks a reluctant Sheldon into attending a mixer at the university. Surprisingly, Raj and Sheldon end up meeting and having a good time with two beautiful, fun loving women named Abby and Martha. Raj and Sheldon have vastly differing opinions on what they want to get out of a second date that Abby and Martha want with them. Meanwhile, Leonard reconsiders his relationship with Penny when he learns that she believes in psychics. Penny reconsiders her relationship with Leonard after he mocks her belief in psychics. One of the two is going to have to compromise their steadfast belief if their relationship is to continue.

*The characters of Abby and Martha are actually a tribute to Joseph Kesselring's Arsenic and Old Lace (1944). Abby and Martha are the names of the homicidal spinster aunts.

[brightstaralu]

What is the benefit of aluminum chips vortex melting furnace for scrap aluminum recycling?

Energy saving and reducing burning loss

[addedsugars]

being in a self shipping community generally instead of like a selfship community for a specific fandom is really weird because we’re all talking about the same thing but we’re not. we could talking about our little fictional partners or whatever planning little double dates blah blah blah and then oomf could drop “well it’s sorta complicated after the time vortex” and its like time vortex? your man was in a time vortex? who put your man in a time vortex? is he. is he good or like

[kelemengabi]

[cosmique-oddity]

*cry because of too much feelings*

Chapter 3 of Blurr’s storyline in Mecha AU!

Previous chapter

“Speaking of Mechs.” continues Blurr, ”That thing's evacuation system sucks. What if you were stunned by the fall? What if something short-circuits and starts a fire???”

Swindle just clenches the glass in his hands. Feels the cold moisture of condensation dripping down onto his fingers.

“Then I'd burn.” he doesn't say

Under the cut⤵️

——————————————————

It's Swindle's birthday.

He thinks it is.

He's pretty sure.

Since he was taken into the program, it's always hard to tell. It's like time flows differently here. He had a calendar, but Brawl put it somewhere a while ago and then forgot where it was. And they're not allowed to have phones yet. Though Swindle assumes Onslaught managed to steal one from someone anyway.

Shit. Where's the calendar?

Swindle remembers the date, but can't remember the month.

There's a strange static tingling sensation in the back of his head. If he turns his head too fast, it'll grow into an unpleasant pricking pain.

The last time in the lab was disgusting.

He can't remember what month it is. He's not even sure why it bothers him so much. Not that birthdays mean anything within the walls of the program.

He stops in the middle of the living room and looks around with a meticulous eye. He's already checked the beds, desk, and nightstands...hah.

“Hey have any of you seen my calendar?”

Vortex, sitting on top of the bunk bed shakes the ash off his cigarette right down into Blast Off's lap.

“Nope.”

“TEX YOU'RE LITTERING ON MY BED.”

“I could have ..torn it up” offers Brawl from across the room.

Swindle turns on his heels and angrily rests his arms at his sides.

“You tore it?”

“I might have,” Brawl scratches the back of his head.

Swindle pinches the bridge of his nose

That's fine. Not that he cares that much. Not that any celebration at all would save the crappy day.

He has some new “experimental” medical procedure scheduled for later, which generally means suffering. Or if he's lucky, some critter will attack the city and instead of squirming on the slab, he'll have to go cuddle with huge nasty beasts. Which is slightly better than the actual procedures. He'd like that to happen. If only his head would also stop buzzing....

“Happy birthday to me” Swindle thinks, sticking his Mech hand under the plates of a particularly ugly monster and pulling something disgustingly oozing green blood out of there. He can see the faces of the random gawkers who didn't have time to evacuate. Ooh, some of them got that nasty stuff on their faces. Swindle has no time to feel sorry for them.

The monster did attack, but it's entirely possible that this monster ended the last meager supply of luck Swindle had. Because somewhere. Something. In his head begins to hurt again and the world in front of his eyes begins to slowly blur and..

ahh FUCK….

The monster grabs him knocks him to the ground and Swindle can literally feel in his bones that something's wrong, but the data from his Mech doesn't give him any useful information. Which isn't that uncommon. These things are glitchy as hell and aren't designed to recognize anything but the most basic popular malfunctions.

The word “error” shines mockingly in his face. Blurring in his eyes and reflecting in red on his uniform.

Error, error, what the hell is this error. He needs to know what's wrong so he doesn't accidentally kill himself, but all this bucket offers him is oops. You're in trouble teeheee~

He can hear the sound of Blast Off's giant cannon in the distance. And the loud rumble where Vortex and Onslaught are trying to get out of the ring of monsters.

His Mech is unresponsive. His damn machine refuses to move and Swindle isn't quite sure if it's the Mech that's the problem, because his head feels like a piece of raw rotten meat and maybe the error meant that what's broken is him.

The monster leans over him, trying to rip off whatever it can rip off and thank god this thing apparently isn't smart enough to realize that the Mech is controlled from the head because it's aiming straight for his chest.

He needs to get out. If he can't get this thing to move, he needs to get the fuck out of it before the alien gets him.

He manages to open the emergency hatch and quietly slip out and ohhhh the world is spinning, this is not bloody good.

He manages to take a few steps before a loud B A N G comes from somewhere above and IS THAT A TRAIN???? Who in their right mind would think of using a fucking train as a throwing weapon???? Is that Brawl? It's got to be Brawl. Oh, Swindle is so gonna kill him.

Because (sadly) in addition to the monster, the train and Swindle, there's also physics involved in this circus.

So while the monster is effectively brought to rest and knocked sideways with a hole in it’s head, the train stops its forward motion and starts its downward motion.

Right onto Swindle's head.

He just has time to think that dying from a train falling out of the sky is a pretty creative death. His legs are shaking, his head is buzzing and he only manages to take half a sluggish step in an attempt to avoid the inevitable when a loud “MOVE” comes to his ears and something yanks him to the side.

The tug sends fire down his spine and head. The ensuing landing reverberates with pain in his shoulder and sides. He barely has time to process the first two sensations until a moment later he hears a rumble so deafening that he thinks his eardrums are about to burst.

Swindle props himself up on his elbows and hisses in pain as the movement causes the back of his head to sting.

“Ah I'll fuckin' kill him...”

A voice comes above him

“Ouw dude. You okay?”

There's.. Some teenager hovering over him. And behind him is lying...the wrecked train...right where Swindle himself was standing a second ago.

The strange teen frowns worriedly and pulls Swindle upright and drags him somewhere else

“Come on, it's best not to be in the open during monster attacks”

“Ah” thinks Swindle ”right. Without Mech you're a pathetic tiny piece of chop begging to be stomped on by Brawl.”

He tries to focus on balance so he doesn't hang too much on this kid.

They find the nearest unlocked door, which turns out to be the entrance to an underground bar.

“So” says the stranger, letting go of Swindle and shaking the dust off his hair ” You're a pilot! That's so cool, but you're kinda small for a pilot.”

Swindle sighs sullenly.

“I'll let you have that one comment about my height because you helped me, but next time you're dead.”

“Helped? I saved your ass.”

“Helped a lot” says Swindle grudgingly. “Thanks.”

The teen laughs and climbs into the bar. It's a mess everywhere, people clearly evacuated in a hurry and threw everything in haste.

“What's your name? Oh, or, wait. Do you guys use code names? I've heard pilots call each other by call signs, but half the time those call signs sound so dumb, I don't see how they can respond to that.”

He waits for the kid to cut off his flow of words to take a breath. Man, what a chatty boy.

“You can call me Swindle.”

“Kay” the kid pulls out a couple glasses ”I'm Blurr. Would you like something Swindle? I don't mean to brag, but I'm pretty good at mixing cocktails.”

Swindle looks around the room suspiciously. The bar, even though it's underground, looks pretty good. Too good, in fact. The place is clearly not for the poor.

He walks over to the bar and climbs onto a bar stool. There's no one else in here but them, but the electricity is on so he doesn't doubt for a second that they're being filmed by a security camera right now. Maybe a few even.

Blurr throws him an expectant look.

Swindle pretends to go through his pockets. As if there could be money in them out of nowhere. Then he makes a comically confused face and spreads his hands.

“Oh, no, I think I left my millions at home. What's the cheapest thing you have?”

Blurr snorts.

“Ice is free.”

“I'll take the ice then” nods Swindle.

There is a loud rumbling sound above them. It must be Vortex having fun again bouncing on the aliens that have fallen to the ground, crushing their heads.

Swindle is just. He takes off his helmet, takes a glass of ice and presses it to his head enjoying the way the nasty buzzing recedes.

Blurr waits for the rumbling to recede before speaking again.

“But really. You're a pilot but...uh. Are you even old enough to drink?”

Swindle sends him his best grumpy look. It's not exactly a joke about his height, but it's damn close.

“Are you old enough to pour?”

“Sure,” says Blurr too fast for it to be true. If Swindle had to guess, he'd say the guy in front of him is no older than seventeen. The tattered jeans and the T-shirt with the F1 logo printed on it definitely don't help. And, hey, those headphones look very expensive. So do the sneakers. Kid's clearly from a wealthy family.

Blurr pulls out a bottle of syrup from somewhere and pours it straight into his mouth. Doesn't miss, which is amusing. Doesn't wince, which is frankly impressive. Swindle feels the unbearable sweetness just looking at him.

It suddenly hits him

“Hey, do you have a phone?”

“Sure,” Blurr pours himself more syrup. Swindle twitches.

“What's the day today?”

Blurr's mouth is full of an unimaginable amount of sugar, so he just pulls out his phone and turns its screen toward Swindle and oh...oh. He was wrong about the date. And the month, too. It's not his birthday. His birthday was a week ago...

Does that mean he must be nineteen now? Yeah, that makes him nineteen.

Blurr takes the phone back and slips it into his pocket.

“Your face looks funny.”

“I just realized it's my birthday today,” smiles Swindle.

“Oooooooohh~~~” rejoices Blurr ”Congratulations! It's kind of poetic that you almost died just today. Can you imagine how funny the numbers on your tombstone would have looked.”

Swindle chokes on air.

“That's certainly a very appropriate comment, thank you...”

“Sorry haha said without thinking.” Blurr reaches under the counter again and pulls out a bottle from there “Hey, they have more syrups!”

There's another loud rumble from upstairs.

Blurr presses his head into his shoulders and stares up at the ceiling as if hoping to see something through it.

Swindle puts his elbows and head on the tabletop

“Don't worry, it's just Brawl.”

Blurr doesn't take his eyes off the ceiling

“ You can tell that by the sound of falling concrete?”

Swindle lazily dangles his feet. The chair is high and even the toes of his shoes don't reach the floor.

“Brawl is the loudest. And the heaviest, too. He's always crashing into everything, throwing things and breaking things too. You can hear him a mile away.”

He pauses to listen

“And that kch-ooooooooomm is Blast Off's cannon. It's some super rare experimentally advanced one, so it sounds like something out of a space movie. He couldn't stop bragging about it for half a year when he got it.”

Blurr chuckles and leans his elbows on the counter, relaxing.

“ And this...uh...what's this?”

“That's Vortex, he's our local lunatic. Best not to listen too much to what he does, it's almost always disgusting in ways you would never even consider.”

Blurr makes a disgruntled face and is silent for a couple minutes.

“It's weird hearing you call them by their names. I mean, I kind of always knew Mechs were run by people but you guys are never seen, so most of the time it's just.. Huge robots and huge monsters. You know what I mean. I was actually surprised when I saw you get out of that Mech.”

Swindle just nods. Because, what else is there to add.

“Speaking of Mechs.” continues Blurr, ”That thing's evacuation system sucks. What if you were stunned by the fall? What if something short-circuits and starts a fire???”.

Swindle just clenches the glass in his hands. Feels the cold moisture of condensation dripping down onto his fingers

“Then I'd burn.” he doesn't say

Blurr doesn't seem to notice his glum mood

“Oh, hey. If it's no secret, why did you go into piloting in the first place?”

Because he had no choice? He can't answer that, that information isn't for civilians.

Because he didn't know what he was getting into until it was too late? That's not vague enough either.

Because he was up to his neck in debt and barely into college before a smiling man showed up on his doorstep and offered him good money if he agreed to a couple tests...?

“I had to do it for the people.” Swindle decides to repeat a line of propaganda.

“Ohhhh.... That's...a good reason. The monsters are disgusting, of course. But the reason is cool.”

Swindle just. Holds his glass of melting ice, listens to Blurr's mutterings, and enjoys the peace. This random teenager is not his superior or colleague and has nothing to do with the organization at all. Swindle doesn't have to remember to salute or follow orders or fear being reported to his superiors.

He can just. Be.

Just him and his free ice and his saved for free life.

That's. Sweet.

Blurr's drinking syrup again.

...and a little disgusting.

—————————-

Brawl jumps out of bed, hits his head on a shelf hanging on the wall and drops everything on it onto Blast Off's head

“Swindle!!!” yells Brawl.

“Why are these books sticky???” shrieks Blast Off.

“You don't wanna know~” giggles Vortex.

Swindle sighs.

“You're alive!!!” ignores Blast Off Brawl's complaints. And a second later runs up and pulls Swindle off the floor in a crushing bear hug.

Behind them, Blast Off, with his face wrinkled in disgust, gathers all the dropped books back onto the shelf.

Swindle wheezes pathetically and slaps Brawl's arm with his palm, either to reciprocate the gesture or to beg for mercy

“Br...khaaaaah...Brawl I can't breathh.”

“OH. I'm uh. Here. Wait.”

Brawl puts him back on the floor and runs back to the shelf.

Onslaught, who has peeked into the room, puts a hand on Swindle's shoulder

“You've been gone a long time. Boss said you tried to escape.”

His tone isn't judgmental. And not pressuring. Not even questioning, but Swindle knows Onslaught wants more information. Swindle clutches a piece of napkin with a phone number in his pocket and smiles weakly.

“I've found a...friend? I think?”

Onslaught nods. In a manner that only he knows how to do. Not giving an opinion, not encouraging or condemning. Just taking in the information. Swindle admires him for that.

Behind them, Brawl pulls some piece of paper out from under the books that have just been put away and drops them again

“FUCK!” yells Blast Off. Vortex just starts hooting like a hyena.

“Hey Swindle I found the calendar!” yells Brawl waving the paper.

Swindle frowns in surprise.

“It's a different calendar...”

“I found you a new one.” nods Brawl.

“...Why...is it...it's torn in half?”

“It had stupid flowers drawn on it, so I ripped them off. And I accidentally ripped off more than I needed.”

“Ah,” says Swindle, clutching the calendar, ”That's...Thanks. I forgive you for losing the previous one.”

Behind them, Blast Off is trying to strangle Vortex with a jacket.

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

Blurr waves his arms happily like a hyperactive windmill.

“Swindle!!!”

Swindle smiles and adjusts his glasses

“Your party can be seen from across city.”

“I know~~” primps Blurr “Are you hungry? There was a snack table around here somewhere.”

“I didn't bring any money.” lies Swindle.

“Hey man, it's a party. Help yourself, it's free.”

“Оh.” Swindle's mood instantly brightens. “All right, then.”

“You look terrible” Blurr decides to share.

Swindle, busy shoveling food into his pockets, nods.

“I've had a rough week. Actually, it'd be cool if you didn't tell anyone you saw me here. I'm kind of not supposed to be here.”

He doesn't elaborate.

Blurr is a civilian. In his mind, a rough week is rude people or an exam or bad weather. Swindle's bad week is strap marks on his wrists and double vision. It's nausea from injections and sleepless nights because Vortex won't stop screaming in his sleep.

Blurr doesn't know that. With him, Swindle can pretend to be somewhat normal.

-----------

“Heeeeey“ says Blurr ‘I haven't seen you in a long time~"

“That” thinks Swindle ”is a pretty standard phrase for both of them.

Blurr looks older. Taller too. He was taller than Swindle before, but now that difference is starting to look almost comical. He's also flaunting a cast on his arm.

“Did you get hurt?”

“Didn't make a turn at training” waves Blurr off “It's no big deal. Wanna go find something to eat?”

Blurr is always trying to feed him, Swindle notices over time. Offers him drinks or snacks or whatever.

“ I like your uh..cap?”

“I got a promotion” Swindle smiles proudly “Me and the guys were made a special group...actually you're not allowed to know more than that, so you'll have to take my word for it when I say we are officially cool.”

He purposely adjusts his cap by the brim so Blurr can get a good look at it.

Blurr makes a delighted sound. Something between a “wow” and a giggle. He generally makes a lot of sounds all the time. Tapping his fingers on every hard surface, stomping in place like he's always late for something, laughing, whistling, clicking his tongue. A human orchestra.

__________

Onslaught sits down next to Swindle and clutches his hands in his lap in front of him. This makes the bed legs squeak pitifully. Onslaught has grown surprisingly large. He can almost rival Brawl in height already. Most people find that intimidating, but Swindle just thinks Onslaught is like a wall. A big, solid concrete wall that's so good to hide behind.

“Be careful with what you tell this guy.”

“Don't worry” says Swindle ”He's not the type of friend you tell secrets to. He's just a fun dude who's great to hang out with.”

Onslaught hums.

“And who feeds you for free.”

“If that's how you're trying to ask me to share, you're not doing a very good job.”

Vortex snaps his fingers as he walks past them

“Hey Swindler, the lab is closed for today. It's your day off.”

“Wha...”

Onslaught tilts his head.

“Vortex. What did you do?”

“I spat in their dna sample vault” proudly proclaims Vortex “and didn't tell them exactly where.”

-----———————-

Blurr frowns.

“Hey...are you okay?”

“No” thinks Swindle.

“My friend died” he says instead.

He's not okay. He feels like an animal caught in a beartrap, trying to chew off its own paw to get free.

Except the trap is closed around Swindle's head and it's not a body part he can afford to lose.

There's been a lot of talk. Even more rumors. Swindle listened but tried not to believe.

And then one of pilots, Shockwave… was taken to the lab and brought back a different damn man and it felt like Swindle had the rug pulled out from under his feet with hot coals underneath.

Because Swindle's boss, with his stupid, rehearsed smile, started writing reports about how “human personality flaws are something that can be fixed. That challenging behavior is something that can be repaired with tools.

Blurr freezes.

“Who?”

“Vortex.”

Because of course it's Vortex. Talented but difficult to handle. Powerful but uncontrollable.

They wanted a pilot who would be a beast on the battlefield and a loyal dog on base. And who else would be a more ideal test subject than him?

Vortex was being very rude that day, even by Vortex standards. Yelling and swearing and throwing things around. Kept saying that no shitty lab could make him “a fucking puppet.”

Scratching the stitches on his head until he started leaving a trail of blood behind him.

He went on a mission.

And never came back.

The reports said it was all the monsters' fault. That Vortex was unstable. That the accident had nothing to do with the new technology. But it was nevertheless suspended.

Swindle is both bitter and amused by this. Vortex would eat the same monsters for breakfast any other day. The bastard was unkillable.

“Oh my god” says Blurr “I'm so sorry to hear that.”

He says something else. Probably comforting. About how Vortex died protecting people, maybe. About Vortex being a hero.

“Vortex,” thinks Swindle, ”loved life. He loved adrenaline and danger and pain and thrill and fear, but he never wanted to die. They did something to him. Something that made him go over the edge.”

Vortex got his head in the trap and ripped it off to escape it.

Swindle knows him and the others are next. And knows that no one but themselves can help them.

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

Blast Off seems...very quiet. He could never stop complaining about Vortex before. Yelling about the garbage. Resenting the unmade bed and the cigarette ashes.

Vortex's bed remains unmade.

Blast Off regularly cleans everything up, but never wipes away the little circles of ash from the places where Vortex used to put out cigarettes on the furniture.

Onslaught puts his hand on Swindle's shoulder and squeezes. Not hard. Just enough for Swindle to register the gesture as important.

Standing nearby, Blast Off lights a cigarette and leans on Onslaught.

“Ons told me about your plan. I want to join in.”

“What kind of plan? Can I get involved?” inquires Brawl.

Onslaught sighs.

“Repeat after me - I don't know, they don't tell me anything.”

“I don't know, they don't tell me anything.”

“Good job” nods Onslaught “From now on, every time they ask you any - listen. Any! Question about us, you will answer them with this phrase.”

“Got it,” grins Brawl.

Swindle smiles.

“Gentlemen, it's time to violate all that is written, and rewrite all that is violated.”

__________________

Blurr lazily takes his eyes off the phone. He's wearing a racing suit and tons of hairspray. He's shiny and gleaming like a fine collectible figurine that should be on the shelf of an expensive exhibit. He's also bored.

“Sorry buddy, the interview is long over, if you have any questions you'll have to pay for the session.”

Swindle smiles.

“How about one tiny little question?”

Blurr makes funny big eyes.

“SWINDLE!!! I haven't seen you in a thousand years! You...oh I didn't recognize you haha sorry. Nice coat. You quit being a pilot?”

Swindle proudly adjusts his glasses. He's wearing a brand-new, ironed shirt that's exactly his size. Nice neat tie, expensive coat. Swindle isn't surprised Blurr didn't recognize him immediately. Sometimes he looks in the mirror and doesn't recognize himself. After all those years of wearing the pilot's uniform, he felt almost attached to it. And yet here he is.

“You could say I moved.” he winks snarkily, “Up. All the Mechs you see on the streets now are my Mechs~”

Blurr completely forgets about his phone.

“REALLY?? Oh man congrats to you!”

“Thanks” nods Swindle ��You want something to drink? I'm buying.”

———————-

Onslaught adjusts his tie. It's still, years later, a little strange to see him in a uniform instead of a pilot's suit.

“You do realize it's going to be hard to find a person like that, right? We need someone famous enough to be effective and dumb enough to want to save mankind instead of sunbathing on a yacht.”

Swindle adjusts his glasses and leans back in his chair.

Someone outgoing so they can quickly befriend all the right people. Handsome enough to have their face printed on a poster. Smart just enough not to say too much. And not associated with Mecha program so they can't be accused of trying to get promoted through their acquaintances.

Someone who already has everything but still willing to put themselves at risk for the cause.

“You know, I think I have a possible candidate.”

[boy-with-the-pink-hair]

Yeah, I made a comic. Why? Cuz, I love to suffer. OTL

Based on my fic.*shameless self-promo* Relevant snippet below the cut.

...

Stepping deeper now into the cavernous inner chamber, he kept a hand on the wall to guide him as he peered into the gloom, wondering what could've caused the machine to malfunction. He took another few steps forward, nearing the far end of the chamber, his hand sliding along the wall until it passed over an open panel and a small round protrusion. Suddenly, his foot bumped against a thick cable on the floor and he shifted his weight in surprise. That's when he felt the protrusion beneath his hand sink into the wall with a click!

He stumbled back and saw the control panel where his hand had been, the buttons labeled on and off. He soon realized what he'd done as the chamber let out a heavy CLUNK and began to whir and hum, the glowing lines of circuitry growing brighter as the sound crescendo'd to a deafening peak. Danny heard his friends calling out to him in surprise, but he found himself frozen in place as he turned to see a bright green light bloom at the end of the chamber into a brilliantly blinding flash!

Suddenly, a massive surge of energy ripped into his body! It took his breath away--pulled from his lungs in a painful scream as his muscles contracted violently, body spasming and convulsing as every nerve burned and sizzled! His heart pounded erratically in his chest, harder and faster than he'd ever felt in his life, as though it might explode! He clutched at his chest with another painful spasm, doubling over in pain as he tried to take a breath. It was an agony like nothing he'd ever felt before. It felt like dying. Like his body was being ripped apart, molecule by molecule.

Then as quickly as it began, it was over. His eyes rolled back as he collapsed to the floor, a blackness overtaking everything.

...

While the two friends busied themselves with their own activities, they didn't notice the atmosphere of the lab change... until it was too late. The CLUNK of the machine quickly drew their attention and both Sam and Tucker dropped what they were doing to watch in horror as it whirred to life. The hum of the machine grew louder and louder--a growing static-charge making the air feel crispy--and Sam's heart sank in dread. "Danny?" she called out to her friend, "Danny, what's happening?!" Tucker rushed back to the portal entrance to see what was happening, and joined in Sam's concern. "Danny, get out of there! Something's wrong!" he shouted over the noise, but it was too late. A bright flash of light burst from the machine, forcing the pair to shield their eyes as the deafening hum was replaced by Danny's agonized screaming and the crackle of electricity. "DANNY!!" Sam dropped her camera and lurched toward the portal entrance, but Tucker caught her by the waist and pulled her back. "Sam, don't! It's too dangerous! You could get hurt!" "But Danny's IN THERE!! We have to SAVE him!!" she argued, pulling against his grip, but Tucker held tight. "I’m sorry, Sam... there's nothing we can do." He knew the odds of saving their friend were slim, and the odds of joining his tragic predicament, extremely high. But Sam refused to just stand by and do nothing while her best-friend was in danger. She broke free of Tucker's arms and rushed forward-- but it was already over. Danny's body crumpled to the floor with a thud and laid motionless beyond the threshold of the machine as the chamber crackled and a swirling green vortex formed inside.

The two friends stared in quiet horror, before Sam stumbled forward into the machine, dropping down beside Danny's still form. She knew immediately that something was wrong and quickly moved to drag his limp body back from that sinister green vortex, as it grew to fill the entire chamber. She felt her heart clench as she dragged him back into the lab and laid him onto his back. His hair, once a jet-black, was now a shock of white, and he felt cold beneath her fingers. A faint stench of burnt flesh wafted from his body, his suit a charred black and the rubber ashen. She knelt beside him, a hand on his chest, the other gently brushing the hair from his face. "Tucker..." She looked back at the other boy in restrained panic, her voice wavering as she spoke. "He-- He's not breathing."

---

Read the rest here.

[yuansie]

(3) even when there was rain, sunshine came

pairing. caleb x fem! childhood friend! non mc! reader (x childhood bsf! zayne)

synopsis. caleb planted a seed in your heart when you were both young, nurturing it without meaning to until it sprouted and blossomed. it shouldn't have grown this much, not when you knew you could never have him.

genres/aus. angst, fluff, f2l, unrequited love, childhood f2l

warnings. mentions of death, attending (a) funeral(s), lots of crying, reader goes down an emotionally unavailable time period but worry she feels better afterwards, small and and brief mentions of hatred oops, and cursing bc someone now does that double oops! if there's anything i'm missing, please let me know!

rating. pg-13 whoops.

wc. 5 k

a/n. not proof read as always lol also... mayhaps a double update is coming... maybe... also that last bit may be wonky bc obvi i havent graduated from uni yet so ion know how that looks like WHOOPS ❤️‍🔥

your fifteenth spring teaches you the reality of what it is like to truly mourn for someone. the news came to you in the midst of exams week at the aerospace academy, and it came to you in the form of your dad’s lieutenant colonel—his best friend. when you open the door to your dorm, you knew what it meant when you saw the man stand before you, his cap tucked in between his arm and side, his gaze downcast. your ears rang so loudly that you didn’t hear when he apologized.

and the rest of that week went by in a blur.

you took your exams and promptly prepared for the funeral the farspace fleet would give your dad in skyhaven.

it was an odd feeling.

attending your dad’s funeral in skyhaven was like a nightmare, a surreal experience that you wanted to wake up from. you always thought your dad would die of old age and be buried in bloomshore’s cemetery, long after retiring. yet, here you are: at the farspace fleet, watching as the general gave a speech about the brightest alum of the aesrospace academy and the best colonel he had the pleasure of training when he was a lieutenant. honestly, you don’t even pay attention to the old man. you know your mom isn’t either. you pay attention to the casket, the way the polished surface shines brightly against the unforgiving sun.

it’s an odd thing: attending a funeral when there is nothing in the casket.

because your dad died in the deepspace tunnel, the only casualty of the patrol team he was leading. you heard of his pilots’ recounts of the event, heard of it from his second-in-command. everything was normal, everything was going smoothly. then, the space felt weird. everything felt still for a second.

there was a vibration in the air, a low hum that intensified.

“your father gave the order for the patrol team to turn back.” a pause. “we were turning around when a vortex opened and…”

the deepspace tunnel.

what an unpredictable and unforgiving thing.

you blink, and suddenly there are people you’ve never seen before giving you their condolences.

“i’ll be organizing a small funeral for your dad,” your mom mumbles to you in between the shower of apologies you receive and the pitying gazes.

you glance at her. “do you need help?”

she shakes her head. “it’ll be small… just family.”

you suck a breath in and your finger twitches in your lap. “can zayne—”

“his family will be there,” she grabs your hand, giving it a light squeeze. “they’re family, too. do you want caleb there?”

caleb.

there is a tinge of anger that tugs at the strings of your heart, searing ardently within you.

even now, when you think you can move on from the idea of him—the thought of him—he still manages to slither back in some way.

you shake your head. “no. i just want zayne there.”

what’s it to caleb, anyways?

he stopped caring in eighth grade, so he won't care now.

and you don't have time to mourn over a living person who broke your heart.

your mom was quick to organize your dad’s funeral. a week later, while you’re on spring break, you find yourself at the kitchen table with your mom.

“what do you want in the casket?”

you tilt your head at her question. “excuse me?”

she continues filling out some paperwork. “what do you want to put in his casket for tomorrow? i’m putting in his awful collection of vinyls.” she chuckles, but you see the slight tremble in her fingers.

your dad often joked that he’d like to be buried with his vinyls so no one else could have them—he mostly said that because his best friend always eyed them when they were students in the academy.

what do you want to bury?

you think of his cap, the one that sits in your dorm right by the picture of zayne you have on your desk.

“nothing.” you finally say. “i… don’t want to put anything in the casket.”

you want to keep your dad by your side, you don't want to forget him.

“okay.”

and this time around, the funeral feels real.

your throat feels tight, your heart beats faster than usual. the sky weeps along with your heart, you feel like the world is spinning too quickly and that you’re about to sink down.

everything feels like a mess.

your mom stands to your right, her eyes fixed on the casket that’s being lowered into the ground. she moves forward, standing in front of the pit. she says something you cannot hear, kisses the white flower in her hand and lets it fall inside.

a squeeze breaks you out from your daze, warmth seeping into you. from the corner of your eye, zayne nods at you. with a gulp, you take a step forwards, then another until you're in front of the pit. you stare down at the casket.

this is too real.

standing in front of his casket makes it too real.

the man who called you his little star, the man who wasn't always around but tried to be, the man who never read you the classic bedtime stories and instead told you about the different jets in the fleet, the man who made you fall in love with the sky, the man who loved you more than anyone ever will and proudly told you that as if it were an undeniable fact—he is dead.

your dad is actually gone.

dead.

and your knees give out. you’re unsure whether you’ve been crying from the start but you are now: the tears rapidly fall down your cheeks, burning in excruciating pain. you don't care about the mud that gets on your clothes, all you can focus on is that emptiness and pain you feel, the wide hole that sinks into your chest.

a warm hand touches your shoulder, gentle as if to not break you further. arms circle around you, carefully bringing your head into a familiar crook. zayne exhales softly, a hand running up and down the length of your back. the umbrella he held up now lays forgotten on the ground.

“it hurts,” you croak, grabbing a fist full of his coat. “it hurts so much, zayne… make it stop.”

he continues to hold you. “it will hurt for a long time,” he says. “because healing takes a long time. you’ll learn to live with this one day… maybe not now, but one day.”

you can only gasp in response, clinging onto zayne as your sobs begin to take over, your chest rising and falling rapidly. “he’s dead,” you shut your eyes and press yourself closer to zayne, “he’s gone.”

you feel him shake his head. “he isn’t. he lives right,” zayne leans back, the hand that once held your head now pointing at your heart, “in here. he’s always going to be there with you.”

the seasons come and go, the days blur together, and the faces you see everyday you can never put a name to. you talk to your mom every day, and you delude yourself into thinking that clipped responses are better than none at all.

it’s the most you can do, after all.

you talk to zayne less despite having lived in the same city for four years now. you pull away from him slowly, taking small steps away until the gap between you has grown into what it is now: a canyon. the distance was already there when he left, so it shouldn't matter if it's grown more now that you’ve done the same.

and the small girl you left behind? the one who made the sun rise? you haven’t spoken to her once since your dad’s funeral in bloomshore. you didn't even tell her of his passing—you just stopped talking all together, and in between your fresh sorrow and her constant messages, she stopped trying to get a hold of you, as if coming to the slow realization that you're… done.

honestly, you don't blame her for stopping. you were a bitch, the remnants of a heartache mixed with your grief drove you to give her the cold shoulder.

you’ve pushed them all away and locked yourself in the prison that is your fear: the fear of getting too close and experiencing that pain once again.

because you don't think you can allow yourself to mourn for the dead ever again.

the seasons come and go, the days blur together, and somehow you’re a week away from graduating. you’re surprised the academy even let you get this far—after all, your score on that exam was just fine.

the heat of summer is unforgiving: it beats down on your back as you climb down the jet, the sweltering heat making you take quick strides across the practice field, unfastening your helmet with a flicker of your hand. you’re practically booking it towards the locker room.

“how are you feeling, miss valedictorian?” a classmate runs up to your side, matching your quick pace. “you got your speech ready?”

you don’t spare a glance and continue walking. “i have everything ready.”

they whistle. “wow,” they awe, “that’s our legendary miss valedictorian for you.”

the title makes you roll your eyes. “i thought i told all of you to quit it with that.”

they shrug, still following you as you enter the locker room. “everyone knows it’s true. even the academy praises you.”

the prodigy of the aerospace academy, y/n l/n.

just like your dad.

you tune out the voice of your classmate, getting rid of your flight suit and equipment, and storing it neatly inside of your locker. you adjust your clothes just as fast before you're out the door, already heading towards the gates. there’s a man that stands not too far from you, his back towards you. there’s also a girl talking to one of the guards nearest to you, though you can't see her as the guard covers her from your line of sight.

you aren't even a step outside when a hand latches around your wrist, and you freeze because you know who it is.

how could you not? his warmth is so familiar to you, even after all this time.

what surprises you the most is the fact that he's here. why is he here? he lives so far away from the academy. how is he here?

he says your name quietly. “we… should talk.”

your heart lurches, but still you don’t pull away. “i thought you were busy with med school...”

you can practically hear the way zayne raises a brow at your words.

“how would you know?” he asks, his tone void of any real malice—just pure curiosity. “we haven't talked since august.”

“i… go through your moments… sometimes…” you mumble in embarrassment, “you were studying not too long ago, right?”

his hold on your wrist loosens and tightens at the same time, his touch hesitant. he wants to hold on tighter, but is unable to. zayne holds your wrist gently, thinking as if you are to crumble if he were to hold on any tighter. he breathes slowly, “can we talk?” he quickly adds on, “privately?”

you nod and grab his hand, leading him to your apartment.

and as you walk away, you don't hear the call of a familiar name.

“pips!”

you awkwardly sit next to zayne in your living room, knees touching. your leg bounces, and you refuse to look at the older male.

zayne wordlessly places a hand down on your knee, stopping it from moving. “…there’s no need to be nervous.”

“there kind of is,” you grumble. “i didn’t think you’d ever visit me over…”

the distance, you want to say, but the words lodge themselves in your throat. you tap your finger against your leg now.

he hums. “well, i wouldn’t be here in the first place had you not started to pull away.” zayne breathes in slowly, carefully grabbing your hand in his. “i don’t blame you for anything. i just… want you to know that i’m always here. it doesn’t matter if you start pulling away because i’ll just follow you. i just want you to know that.”

you grip his hand at his words. “i’m a terrible friend,” you mumble. “how can you not blame me for this? how can you even say that?”

“because you’re still mourning,” he replies. “i know you—that means i also know how much your dad means to you.”

means—present.

not meant—past tense.

because you still miss your dad. you miss the summer days in verona where he’d carry you on his shoulders. you miss when he would talk to you about the new jets on his fleet. you mourn not only him, but the future you never got to live with him. he was supposed to watch you graduate, watch you work your way up in the ranks of the fleet—his fleet, he was supposed to be there when you ask him for love advice, he was supposed to help you move into your apartment after freshman year at the dorms and haul everything inside because he would never let his little star move a muscle.

“but i should be over his…” death. you still hate saying that stupid word. “but instead, i’ve let it consume me. you don’t blame me for that? for letting my fears influence me?”

you know that zayne knows: you pulled away because you’re afraid of losing him like you did with your dad. you’ve thought about it, about a world without him, when your mind can’t rest during the late hours of the night. each time you would end up silently weeping. there are no words to describe a world without him in it.

“of course not.” he knows. “i understand.” he always does. “i can’t make promises that i don't know if i’ll be able to keep because the future is unpredictable, but i can promise to take care of myself for you to ease your worries.”

and just like that, the knots in your chest untangle themselves. your shoulders no longer feel heavy, and you can breathe for the first time in a long time.

“you…” you tilt your head to look him. “you’re too good to me, zayne li.”

“i’m supposed to be good to you,” he lets out an amused chuckle. you take in how he looks now, how he looks older and more mature, how his hazel eyes have more brown in them than green hues right now, how his lips are curved upwards just the slightest bit. “i’m your best friend, you know?”

the book you had been reading for the month lays discarded on your chest, your back on your bed as you cover your mouth, shoulders shaking. zayne stares at you with a deadpan on his features. “you still haven’t made any friends?”

he gives you a pointed look from his sitting position against the bedframe. “have you made any friends?”

you stick your tongue out at him. “touché.”

zayne blinks once before leaning forwards to pinch your cheek, stretching the skin out. you furrow your brows and flick his wrist. “what are you doing?”

the corner of his lip lifts. “pinching your cheek.”

“no shit,” you scoff, huffing through your nose in amusement when his hazel eyes widen at your words. “what? don’t tell me you didn’t see this coming?”

he clears his throat and lets go of your cheek. “i certainly didn’t expect such a colorful word to be a part of your… everyday vocabulary.”

you shrug and roll off the bed. “the officers have a nasty influence on first years,” you scrunch your nose, “even worse when flight training starts. they just bitch about everything.” you sigh, “obviously, i don’t speak like this to the officers… or anyone.”

“then why say it around me?”

“because i don’t have anything to hide from you,” you reply, “i tell you everything. i’m always going to be the most relaxed around you—that won’t ever change.”

zayne smiles, amusement twinkling in his eyes. “you don’t tell me everything.”

you purse your lips. “yes, i do. i—”

“you never told me you liked caleb,” the smile still doesn’t leave his lips, and you tense at the statement. “but i knew that you did.”

you blink a couple of times.

the stupid kiss.

you never told him about what caleb did on the night of his fourteenth birthday. you didn’t tell him of the pain.

and you won’t tell anyone; no living soul will ever know.

looking away from him, your gaze falls on the snow globe on your nightstand. “and you never told me you liked her, but i knew you did.”

“i don't.”

your eyes go back to him, watching as he takes his glasses off. “i don’t like her… maybe i never did.” the last bit was quiet enough that you almost didn’t hear. before you can question him, he looks up and eyes your neck. a finger comes up to point at his own. “you don’t wear it anymore.” you know what he’s referring to.

you think to the box that sits underneath your bed in your mom’s house: the box that holds everything related to him—the pictures, the necklace, the notes and the doodles and the paper airplanes… everything. “i threw it away as soon as i left for skyhaven.”

the male hums. “is that so?”

you nod. “yeah,” you breathe out.

there was no point in bringing a piece of caleb with you when all you wanted was to forget him.

“it’s getting late,” zayne mumbles. “you have a spare room, right?”

“about that…”

zayne stares at the empty room you show him down the hallway from your room. he turns his head towards you. “why… is it empty?”

“i’m the one doing the visiting,” you say, “not the other way around. i found no need to set up the spare room…”

“i see…”

you smile at him, “we can sleep in the same bed.”

he furrows his eyebrows, mouth slightly agape. “what?”

“c’mon!” you nudge his shoulder. “it’ll be like old times!”

zayne sighs and pinches his nose. “you are a woman, and i am a man.”

“…and?” you raise an eyebrow at him. “are you saying you’re going to eat me up or something? should i be worried?”

“of course not,” he says quickly. there’s a slight frown on him that confuses you. “but… am i not a man to you?”

“of course you are,” you answer, leaning forwards. you reach out and grab onto his cheek, pinching it. “but i trust you enough to not do anything.”

“…i see.”

there were no classes for the rest of the week for the graduating class, meaning you no longer had to wake up in the crack ass of dawn to get ready. unfortunately, habits are hard to die, so despite having turned off your alarm, your mind wakes you up when the sky is a faded, dark blue. immediately, your mood sours as you stare up at the ceiling.

you lay in your bed for a fee seconds longer when you’re suddenly aware that your right side is empty and cold. with a yawn, your cold feet hit the ground as you stand up and quietly search for your missing friend.

zayne lifts his brows when you walk into the living room, his glasses sliding down the slope of his nose. “did i wake you?”

you shake your head, padding over to where he sits on the couch. the cushion sinks when you sit down, your head immediately falling on his shoulder. “i’m used to waking up at this hour…” you squint at his hands. “are you studying?”

he nods, ready to say something but the word die at the tip of his tongue. zayne watches curiously at your outstretched hand that open and close repeatedly.

“give me your notebook.”

he does so without any complaint. you scan the contents quickly, gaze flitting up to him afterwards. “i’ll help you study.”

zayne chuckles softly, and shakes his head. “i appreciate that, but you should sleep some more.”

“i’m already up,” you say through squinted eyes. “besides, it’ll be like old times.”

“ah yes,” he hums, nodding once, “back when you were in middle school and i helped you study.”

except you never actually studied. zayne would read the questions out loud once, you would answer perfectly, and then you would decide enough was enough before spending the rest of your time reading with him.

friday morning comes in the form of a quiet and empty room.

when you wake up, your left side is empty once again. in the span of the week, you’ve come to learn that zayne has the habit of waking up earlier than you do. sometimes he’s up an hour before you, other times it’s half an hour.

you breathe in and exhale slowly, blink once at the roof and then stand up. the drowsiness leaves your body as you begin to get ready: you brush your teeth and splash cold water on your face before wiping it away, you put your uniform on, you comb through the knots in your hair, and you place your cap on your head. your eyes move towards your desk, eyeing the black cap that sits on it.

you’ll be able to wear it soon.

you slip your socks on, and move into the living room. zayne sits at the table, his laptop open in front of him as he highlights something on his notebook. he looks up, his hazel gaze locking with yours. he gestures at the steaming cup of coffee in front of the chair next to him, and you head towards it.

“i thought your graduation was at nine,” he says, eyes going back to his laptop. “why are you already ready?”

“force of habit,” you shrug, grabbing the cub. the warmth seeps into your fingertips, and you raise it to your lips, pausing, “and my class has to practice once before the ceremony. we’re supposed to be there an hour from now... head for breakfast afterwards,” you snort and shake your head, eyes narrowing in mirth, “someone called it brunch in the group chat. another person called them a dumbass.”

zayne’s lips quirk upwards as you finally take a sip from your cup. he watches you with a quiet intensity, one that somehow warms up the tips of your ears, yet you tell yourself to not dwell on it because he’s just zayne, the boy you grew up with.

“you sound happy.”

you bring the cup down to rest on the table. “i am,” you breathe out.

the rest of your time before heading to the academy is spent by quizzing zayne. he answers everything perfectly, and you promptly congratulate him every time, to which he huffs a laugh through his nose. when it’s time for you to leave, he offers to give you a ride and you accept.

his car is, as always, clean. it looks like it just had the day he bought—you were with him as he walked around the dealership, scrutinizing every car and analyzing every thing he learned about them until he found one he liked. it took almost two hours, and you were tired as hell, but it was worth it. he drove you to a small cafe afterwards, his treat. and though you were still mourning for your dad, despite it having been a year later, that day you felt the first semblance of normality.

the car comes to a stop, pulling you out of your thoughts.

“i’ll see you later,” says zayne.

you give him a smile. “yeah, see you later.” when you open the door, he grabs onto your wrist. you look back.

“you’ll be free afterwards, right?”

“well, i know that there’ll be a party to celebrate… but that’s in the evening, like at nine.”

he nods. “good.”

zayne doesn't say anything afterwards and only bids you goodbye, promising to see you in a few hours. with a small wave, you watch as he drives off, leaving you alone at the gates. you breathe in slowly and exhale.

you take a step back, twist around and begin to walk to the gates when you suddenly stumble forwards, your cap falling off your head and landing on the ground with a thud.

“shoot! i’m so sorry about that!” a voice rings out from behind you.

with a sigh, you lean down to pick up your cap, dusting it off. you glance behind you: there's two, tall guys. one has short hair, and he has his friend in a headlock. the one in a headlock has brown hair, bangs covering his face from your judging eyes. you turn to face them.

“my friend here sure is clumsy,” the guy laughs, tightening his hold on the hunched over friend. the friend grunts in response, trying to pry off the arm around his shoulder. “oh shit,” the guy gasps, seemingly having realized something. “you’re a graduating senior?”

“that’s right,” you say.

the guy beams, his free arm stretching out towards you. “congrats, senior!”

his enthusiasm brings a small smile to your lips, and you give him a firm handshake. “thank you.”

“caleb,” the boy snaps his head towards his friend in the chokehold. “i can’t believe your clumsy ass bumped into our senior!”

the name makes your smile curl downwards.

“ah, senior! don’t tell me we upset you!” the other boy panics.

you shake your head, eyes closed. “no,” you grimace, “but i do have to get going.” you put the cap back on your head, and with a small wave, you walk away.

“caleb, why the hell are you staring? show some respect!”

caleb.

what a way to sour your mood.

the practice was chaotic, to say the least. after you dropped a bomb on them with the salutatorian, everyone began to shout questions directed at the two of you. you got so fed up you yelled at them to shut up or else you wouldn’t go to breakfast with them afterwards.

which leads you to now.

you sit at a table with your classmates, all of them staring at you.

“…so, i didn’t want to give the speech,” you shrug and poke at the food in your plate. “big deal.”

“but why?” someone asks, followed by a quick no offense to the salutatorian.

“they have more memories with the whole class,” you answer. “it didn’t feel right for me to be up on stage and give a big speech on memories and stuff. made more sense for someone who actually spent time with the class to do it.”

when you look up from your plate, you see that everyone’s mouth are wide open.

“…what?” you grimace. “did i say something wrong?”

“you’re surprisingly cool.” someone says.

their comment makes you snort. “very cool of me to do that, huh.”

someone ends up pointing at you. “you just laughed.”

chaos erupts once again.

“holy shit, she just laughed for once!”

“knock it off before i regret being here,” you give everyone a pointed look.

they all still, mumbling apologies. in the next second, everyone starts talking and taking turns to ask you questions.

surprisingly, you don’t mind the attention. you don't mind talking to your classmates like this; in fact, now there’s a tinge of sadness that settles into your chest.

you should have talked to them more.

you swear you see the person siting next to you start crying during the salutatorian's speech.

as you stand at your assigned spot, hands holding your diploma behind your back, you see the same person start to cry harder once they’re tapped out by their family, their rigid posture crumbling.

your eyes rake over what you can see: there’s people waiting to be tapped out, some are crying, some are laughing and happy. and then you see him.

zayne naturally stands out: tall and lean, a head above the shorter crowd. the sight is comical, making you puff out your cheeks in an attempt to not laugh. he stops a few steps away, takes his phone and snaps a picture of you, all the while having an arm behind his back.

“you blinked,” he hums once he stands in front of you.

you narrow your eyes slightly at him.

with a chuckle, zayne taps your shoulder, his touch warm despite the layers of your uniform that separates your skin from his. your posture relaxes, the rigidness melting away as your lips curl upwards. he brings a small bouquet of flowers, not flashy like the ones some of your classmates are receiving. a few hyacinths and irises, their blues like the color of the sky you love, held together by a white bow tied around the stems.

“congratulations, y/n.”

you take the bouquet from him, and look at him, the small smile you had now a grin. zayne’s eyes look like a light green underneath the harsh glow of the sun, much like the green hues of the gemstone aventurine, with small specks of amber in them.

he takes a step forwards, arms slowly wrapping themselves around your form. your cap almost falls off as your throw your arm around his shoulder, the bouquet clutched tightly as your free hand flies to keep your cap against your head. laughter bubbles from your chest and falls from your lips, loud and cheerful for the first time in a while.

“thank you.”

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[boyneptunee]

wip, 4k , tomarry (accidental baby acquisition on AO3)

(or) Harry just wants to be taken care of, for someone to take the weight of the world off his shoulders and raise his child in peace.

There was a child running through the store.

Actually, there was a toddler running on their pink onesie through the Herbology store, touching plants and big petals with a care and gentleness people in double digits could not even begin to fathom.

Most peculiar of all, their hair was mostly green, matching perfectly with some of the plants they so softly touched with a chubby hand, except for two strands up front that stood jet black against their honey colored skin.

Finally, they seemed to run out of fuel as they bumped into Tom.

Two big green eyes looked up at him with slow blinks, mouth opening and closing like they were about to speak. Then, two chubby arms reached up, demanding to be lifted.

Tom stared incredulous at the small child. Where were their parents? Why were they free roaming the store full of plants that could be potentially harmful to such a small kid? And why in the world did they have green hair of all things?

Said kid patted his legs where he could reach, before extending their arms up again.

Tom looked one way, then the other, hoping the parent would appear out of the woods, but no luck.

Finally, he reached down to take the toddler into his arms.

Two big green eyes stared at him intently now that they were face to face. A small button nose stood between two soft full cheeks, small lips pursed as they scrutinized Tom with intent.

Then the imposible happened.

Magic rippled across the toddler's skin like waves on a calm lake. It left Tom's arms feeling electrified.

Their eyes changed, from deep forest green to dark ocean blue, an exact match to his. His skin paled, and his hair grew a tiny bit and turned to a dark chocolate full of tight curls. His button nose stayed, as did the small round face full of chubby cheeks.

A metamorphmagus.

A baby Metamorphmagus.

The baby seemed satisfied with the turn of events, and proceeded to lay their head on his shoulder with a content sigh, small thumb on their mouth.

Tom stood deadly still for fear any wrong movement would startle the child.

The baby sighed again, and nuzzled into his chest and promptly seemed to fall asleep.

Tom blinked.

Then, from around the far corner of the store a harried looking man with the biggest, most familiar green eyes appeared. His eyes were searching the room, somewhere low to the floor like he expected a baby to run from between the legs of the exhibition tables. It wouldn't be far from the truth.

Finally, and without Tom needing to put any input, the man locked eyes on him.

He startled half a step, eyes horrified and cautious all in one. His posture changed from concerned parent to an aggressive stance, defensive almost.

His wand didn't appear on his hand, but Tom feared he wouldn't need it.

He looked half a step away from punching Tom in the face, and the only thing stopping him was the baby asleep in his hold.

"Give me my baby back," he said, voice strangled somewhere between anger and concern "please" he added, almost as an afterthought.

Tom didn't have any reason to hold onto the child.

And yet.

The man before him was beautiful. Tan skin scattered with freakles and moles like galaxies. His hair was long, pushed away from his face on a bun held together with a long wand. His eyes were two green emeralds.

He had the biggest eye bags Tom had ever seen on his life. Deep, purple and dark, pulling down at the skin around his eyes like living weights, sucking his deep green eyes like a vortex. Despite the tan of his skin there was a green parlor to it that spoke of sickness.

His stance remained guarded, but his shoulders were tense and slumped forward, like they couldn't hold the weight of his body properly.

"My baby" he repeated, and his voice trembled somewhere between anger and tiredness.

Tom rolled his shoulders back and squared his spine.

"Why did you let your child run around the store? Are you aware of how many dangerous plants are within reach of their small hands?"

The man bristled at the jab, even as his bottom lip trembled.

"I didn't—" he sputtered, "I set him down for one second to pay and—it's non of your business!" He approached them cautiously and reached his hands out to the child. Tom turned, contrite.

"And how do I know this child is yours?"

"What do you care? Give him back." He reached again, this time slapping away one of Tom's hands with his own.

The moment their skin touched a tingle went down his back, powerful and insistent. The world came to focus for one second, colors brightening in a way they hadn't since he—.

The child was out of his arms before he could regain his wits.

"Teddy, you shouldn't go running like this. What if a bad man grabbed you?" He glared at Tom from above the child's head, green eyes narrowed. Teddy sighed deeply as he snuggled into the man's coat.

He turned, leaving Tom standing alone in the middle of the Herbology store between plants that watched on like gossiping ladies amongs themselves with the shake of their leaves.

Working Borgin and Burke's was both a blessing and a curse.

The owners left Tom mostly alone at the store, a fact for which he was greatful, as he could stand neither man for more than a glance.

The heavy feeling of the dark artifacts nestled into every nook and cranny of the store soothed something in him like a balm, something that had broken and become jaded when he tore his soul open.

He arrived early and went home late, looking to hold onto the heavy darkness of the magic settling in the store for as long as he could.

The man and his little child walked in a random Friday, two weeks after he had first encountered them at the Herbology store.

The child was strapped to the man's chest with a long navy cloth filled with small stars embroidered in silver. There was a green onesie on him this time.

Tom watched the man walk between the shelves in the section where they kept most of their books, a skinny hand running across the spines of several of them without the fear of a curse sticking to his skin. Most of his regulars knew better than to touch.

The child's green eyes were fixated on Tom, a curious look about him.

Tom smiled a bit, and let the magic around his own eyes fall like a veil, dark blue eyes durning a burgundy red like wine.

The child squeaked in delight, arms and legs moving up and down excitedly. His own eyes switched from green to red in a single blink, small mouth stretching into a toothless smile.

The man glanced down at his child with a frown. He found two red eyes gazing up at him.

His mouth opened in surprise, before accusing eyes rose to throw daggers in Tom's direction.

"Don't encourage him! Do you know how hard it is to keep them one singular color?"

"And why would you force him to stay a certain way?"

"People ask questions."

"Oh?" He walked around the counter, steps slow and measured. The man's shoulders slouched, arms coming around the baby. Tom took in the sight of them together, huddled in his store. The man looked as tired as he had the last time they had crossed paths.

Surely a metamorphmagus would not be a cause for concern from the general public.

Then it clicked.

There was only one family, at least in Britain, to be associated with this type of magic.

The House of Black.

If the man was trying to keep his child away from them it meant he had possibly already pulled their interest.

To say Tom abhorred the House would be an understatement.

He had been classmates with both Orion and Lucretia Black for seven years, sorted into the same House, frequented the same circles. And yet.

Yet, after they graduated they had left him behind in the dust.

They strode around Knockturn Alley sometimes, and they looked down at Tom from beneath their noses like he owed them something.

And this man had unwillingly attracted their attention.

He could work around this, if only to get close enough to him to feel alive again.

"You shouldn't have to hide beneath a smoke screen to feel safe," he said, smile gentle and eyes concerned.

The man narrowed his eyes at him, suspicious. What good instincts, Tom though, to not be deceived by a kind face in between the darkness, and rather looked at him like the snake that had been provoked and ready to bite.

Tom was willing to lend a hand, however.

"What are you looking for? Maybe I can be of assistance."

The man hesitated, looking down at his child. He pulled at his bottom lip, before sighing and meeting Tom's eyes.

"A book on baby werewolves" he muttered, arms protectively wrapped around his child and eyes averted. Like he waited for a storm to blow over.

Tom's eyes widened, looking down at the toddler with new eyes. There was nothing about him that could call to attention, other than the obvious magic that settled on his skin like a well worn coat.

A baby werewolf.

"You won't find any here" the man's eyes snapped up to him, face pinched. "Britain is notorious for their dislike of dark creatures, and the Ministry has been on a war path to burn any and all books they get their hands on since Grindelwald fell." Tom watched as despair settled around the man, mouth pulling down and eyes closing in resignation.

Then he looked down at their clothes, pristine and well pressed, of a good quality and well fitted. The man was clearly well-off, if alone, going by the tiredness around his whole being.

"There are countries," he started, tentatively "that don't hold the same teachings. Romania. Bulgaria. Hungary, to name a few."

"I don't even—how do you go about—and I only speak English—" the man stammered, thoughts going a mile a minute.

Tom watched the thought sink in.

Going to a new contry where he wouldn't be questioned about his child. The possibility of finding a community of dark creatures where he could blend in and help his kid.

Anonymity. Security. Community.

"I can be of help," Tom insisted. The man's head snapped up to him, suspicion settled into every fine line of his skin. "I speak several languages. It wouldn't be a problem."

"Of course you do" the man muttered. He took a deep breath and let it go, eyes settling once more on his child, where he snuggled into his chest with a stubborn hand on his mouth. The good seemed to outweigh the bad, the suspicion on his shoulders giving away to hope. Finally, his green eyes settled on red. "And what do you get out of it?" Good man.

"I get out of here."

The man's mouth opened in surprise, eyes disbelieving. Then his expression gentled somewhat, an understanding settling deep within his bones.

Like calls to like, after all.

"Okay."

"I'm Tom. Tom Riddle."

"Harry" he said. And left it at that.

There was a tiredness to Harry that spoke of something greater than a simple case of lack of sleep.

His eyes turned vacant sometimes, far away and lifeless as he stared into a void somewhere off to the side. The green tint to his skin didn't leave, and the hollowness to his face stayed no matter how much food Tom tried to pile onto his plate.

His appetite was little and scattered, pulling food in small bits and often taken from Teddy's own plate when he couldn't seem to stomach more solids, still preferring a bottle of sweet milk.

Little by little, as days turned to weeks of filing papers and paying people to forge documents, Harry seemed more and more willing to leave Teddy in his vicinity.

Teddy was fascinated with Tom.

Finally, after three weeks of sharing space and looking for all the possible ways and contries they could land in and would be welcomed with open arms with a werewolf cub between them, Harry fell asleep in his presence.

They were sat together on the same loveseat, and Teddy sat by their feet on the floor, playing with a unicorn plushie Harry had unearthed from the mokeskin pouch he held around his neck.

Tom was bent forward, reading through paper clippings and letters from people he had contacted on several countries, looking for properties away from the main cities and where the largest communities of dark creatures lived.

Before, he'd had no motivation to leave Britain. Nothing to bring back the feeling of being alive and not regretting each step he took, nothing to hold dear to him and make him look at the world with anything less than contempt, grey and dark and dull.

Now, Harry sat by his side, head dropping from time to time as he fought to stay awake, sleep and exhaustion threatening to pull him under.

Finally, his head landed softly on Tom's shoulder, cushioned by layers of soft clothing that had once long ago been gifted by Tom's knights.

Tom stayed as still as he could, flipping pages and letters and letting the cold magic that clung to Harry seep deep beneath his own skin.

Teddy, at some point, grew bored of playing and stood on unsteady legs to reach for Tom.

It was the work of a simple wave of his hand to wrap a warm spell around the toddler and bring him up into his lap, letting the little cub snuggle into his chest and fall asleep as he kept sorting through the mountains of papers.

Harry woke some time later, groggy and heavy but with the quickness of his breath that said he had walked away from a nightmare. His eyes looked through the floor, searching for Teddy, before settling on Tom's form beside him, where his child stood snuggled into his sweater.

He let out a shaky breath, the urgency banishing slowly from his eyes as he took in the sight. Finally, green eyes settled on red.

"Sleep some more, darling" he couldn't help the slip of tongue even if he tried. When he went to protest, he added, "those maternity books of yours say you should sleep when your baby does."

An offended look crossed Harry's features, a pout pulling at his lips, before his eyes settled on the baby so soundly asleep on Tom. A resignated huff left his mouth, as he brought his legs up on the loveseat, and snuggled into the cushions.

His green eyes were heavy as they locked gazes, pupils blown and eyelashes long as they brushed his tan cheeks. Finally they closed, and his body relaxed beside him.

If anyone where to ask, they were a family traveling home.

Harry spoke little to any Official that would ask, seeking the refuge of Tom's shadow and charms to nestle himself and Teddy in. After all, their forged papers could only do so much if the story they had made up fell apart on their faces.

The story went something like this:

Tom was a romanian man who had married Harry, a man of british origins. They had been dislodged by war and famine, but were finally coming home and looking to settle down with their son, Teddy.

They had lived in England for a time, believing they would be safe from Grindewald's war in the home country of the only wizard who had been able to match him. But now.

Now, they wanted a home.

The Officials ate the story up with kind, concerned eyes. After all, they had heard similar stories countless of times.

There was no reason to look any deeper. Not when the two of them looked like a lovesick couple, huddling close in the line of people seeking to enter the country. Not when they stood protectively around a son that could only be theirs, a perfect mix of his parents with a pale face and green, green eyes.

They were let in the Contry and out of the Romanian Ministry faster than they could blink, with a pamphlet that held information on where to exchange local money and get necessities for the first days in the Country. Another piece of paper, smaller, had been slipped into their hands too.

A man with yellow eyes standing guard at the entrence of the Department that held all newcomers had taken one long sniff at their son and had given Tom a piece of paper with the name of a street and a number. He told them to come once they were settled, the yellow around his eyes glowing like a halo.

Their stay at the house they were directed to by the werewolf was brief, but informative.

They were given toys charmed to last through the teething process, clothes that would not rip once the claws came in, charms to hide any unwanted signs that the child was anything but human to the public eye. They were given books upon books that held knowledge both trivial and necessary. From a balanced baby diet to how the phases of the moon would affect his moods.

The witch upfront had been firm but kind as she told them everything they needed to know, things to expect now that they were moving and how the change would affect the baby.

When they told her they where not planning to stay in the city, and were interested in finding a home somewhere close to a forest and away from the main magical communities, she had been delighted.

She had taken the time to explain all the little communities of dark creatures (and not all exclusively werewolves) that lingered in various villages. Where magic was strongest and what forest lest dangerous for a small cub.

Harry had looked on with a gleam on his eye that said nothing short of his death would stop him from acquiring a cottege at the edge of a forest for his small child to live a happy, healthy life away from anything that would want him dead.

Tom smiled and stood closer to them, his front against Harry's back, a familiar touch between them that had began as a necessity to keep unwanted attention on them. Tom could feel the magic between them like a creature alive, so full and warm and protective, making the world around him sharper, more colourful.

He didn't need the darkness of dark artifacts to sate the hunger that had been left behind by the Horcrux. He didn't need to soak himself in the depths of black magic to feel alive again.

He needed only to stand by Harry and let the world come into focus.

He slept.

He slept, and as such, he remembered.

The nightmare pulled him under with sinking claws, unforgiving and hurtful as they clung to his skin.

The War had come to an end.

By the time all was set and done, Harry was about dead on his feet.

People kept trying to talk to him, to reach him, touch him, faces exhilarated and happy with a joy he couldn't feel.

He grabbed the wand that wasn't his and apparated away.

Andromeda's little house on the hill waited for him, mostly nestled between tall trees and round bushes. Wild flowers had been steadily growing out in the front garden, left unattended and now that it was something closer to summer they were full of little insects flying about.

Andromeda herself sat on a rocking chair out front.

She took one look at him, silver eyes sad and piercing. She stood from the chair with a small bundle in her arms.

There was a tiredness to her face that spoke of the hours without sleep, pulling down bags around her eyes and on her mouth.

She knew.

Her husband was dead. Her daughter was dead.

Now all she had was a child she couldn't care for, and the remains of another child at her doorstep.

She ushered him inside, steps slow and magic sluggish.

Harry could feel her fading even from where he stood on the porch.

He took big steps inside, strides long and determined.

"Give him to me, 'Dromeda." He said, gently, hands reaching for the child in her arms. "It'll be okay."

"You need to shower. And sleep. You cannot hold him like this." The specter of a smile reached her face. She had said those words countless of times in the last month.

"Andromeda. Give me the child." His hands reached insistently for the bundle of blankets.

"I don't have him." Her smile was painful now, sad and revolting all in one. She was turning more and more transparent by the minute.

Harry, alamarmed, pushed past her.

He couldn't be dead.

It hadn't been more thank a fair few hours since anyone not his grandmother saw to him and—there she lay.

She was forever asleep on her day bed, on her side and hand reaching towards the bassinet by her. Inside he could hear babbling sounds and sighs of who could only be Teddy.

"You need to shower. And sleep. You cannot hold him like this." She repeated, like she couldn't help herself.

A new ghost to haunt another house. Perhaps she would pass on properly once Harry got the wits about him to take Teddy.

Perhaps.

He nodded once, assured she would get him with whatever little she could say if Teddy was in trouble.

He took the fastest shower he could manage while trying to scrub all the dirt and blood from his body.

He had died.

He had died on the forest floor before the most powerful wizard alive.

Then he had killed him.

And now Andromeda too was dead.

And he had a child not a month old to care for.

He feed and changed Teddy, burped him and rocket him to sleep in between the spaces of the living room, and when the baby finally succumbed to the world of darkness, Harry set him down gently on his bassinet.

Then he sat by his side and sobbed.

Burying Andromeda, with the amount of cooling bodies in the afterneath would be near impossible. Instead, Harry dug a shallow grave by hand by the altar she had placed for her husband in her garden.

She did not have his body, and therefore could not bury him in the proper way, but she had built a small thing out of wood and magic.

It was where the wildflowers grew the most.

Digging her grave by magic felt improper, too impersonal. So, he transfigured a chair into a shovel and started to dig.

Teddy had been placed in the shadow of a tree nearby, close enough to hear if he cried and far out of the house and the body that was starting to smell, no matter the amount of cooling and preservation charms he wrapped around.

He laid Andromeda Tonks on a bed of flowers, right by her husband's altar, and took it upon himself to build her one too.

He was sweating and crying by the time he finished, the afternoon sun unforgiving on his back.

Teddy had not cried once, content to watch the leaves flutter in the wind. Butterflies had come and gone around him, and each time one touched his skin his hair changed color to match the wings.

He took Teddy with him when he finally rose from his kneeling position by the grave, ready for another shower and sleep.

Flowers bloomed at his back, wild and in all the possible colors of the rainbow to match the grave by it's side.

Showering with a baby was challenging.

He had to leave Teddy close enough to hear if he cried but far enough so he wouldn't get swallowed up by the steam of the water, so he compromised.

It wouldn't be the first time he showered with cold water, anyways.

Teddy was a peaceful child, all in all.

He only cried if his nappy had been dirty for too long, or if his tummy hurt.

If he had any say about it, Teddy would never go hungry, or cold. He would never grow unloved or shoved in the spaces between the walls where he didn't belong.

Letters upon letters started banging on the windows, owls upon owls lining up to drop them at his feet.

Harry took an entire day to raise wards upon wards around the house to keep them out. To keep anyone out.

Most of the time he spent walking through the woods with Teddy in arms, pointing out plants and animals and watching the small baby take in the world like it was magical and full of life.

His eyes changed from yellow to green to silver often enough for Harry to expect it now.

Often enough when Harry rocked him to sleep, slow and steady while they locked eyes they would remain as green as the forests outside. Just his exact shade too.

Two months of solitude with only Kretcher's help around the kitchen to get the necessary supplies and Teddy's constant cuteness was enough for Harry to reach a decision.

He had sat one day with all the letters to read them one by one.

His friends, for one, were worried about him. After all he had disappeared right after the battle and so far no one had been able to reach him.

The Ministry, of course, demanded his presence in any and all of his capabilities. The first letters had been congratulating him, the tone praising like he was a god amongst men. Informing him he had been accepted in the Auror Academy should he wanted, there was an Order of Merlin Medal with his name on it and a date for a ceremony that would take place just for him alone. The Hero.

And when no news or confirmation or thanks had left his lips, then. Then they turned angry. They demanded his presence, and to know where exactly had Harry sequestered himself, what he was thinking disappearing from the eye of the public when they most needed him—then they accused him of trying to amass power, the next coming of a Dark Lord and. And Harry was so done.

(No one seemed to remember Teddy).

Harry sat and cried most nights.

The night he read the letters he sat in cold stone silence, Teddy's breathing his only company.

He wanted to get away.

Away from any people he knew, away from anyone who viewed him as a weapon first and a teen second, away from the public and their demands, away from the Ministry and their hypocrisy.

He stayed long enough to save Draco Malfoy's head from rolling on the ground, the witches and wizards proceeding his case dead silent when he strode up the Chamber, green eyes blazing.

They stood silent as Harry laid down the facts. Draco Malfoy had helped him and his friends escape the clutches of the Death Eaters, of Voldemort.

And when the sentencing turned on his favour, he walked right back out.

He dissapeared beneath the cloth of his father's cloak, of Death's cloak, never to be seen again.

He got on the train with Teddy in his arms, the cloak at his back, wand on his pocket and stone around his neck.

He felt hollow.

Like a piece of himself had been ripped apart with bloody hands and all that was left was the shadow of who Harry could have been, once.

His magic begged to be reunited with that which had been his for sixteen years.

So he boarded the train.

[revelboo]

I am unbelievably tempted to request a sandwich with the Ark and the Nemesis or either with Metroplex cause I think it’d be hilarious.

There’s so much potential for chaotic sandwiches: Sunstorm and Rung, Prowl and Skywarp, Shockwave and Ironhide- There’s so many that would go to shit so quickly and I LOVE that. If I wrote about your AU, the place would rapidly burn to the ground lmao

I’ll spare you an actual writing request; could you just let me know your most outlandish requests??

Including this one? Copter harem- Whirl, Vortex, and Spinister with one human. And someone’s asked for Prowl, Shockwave. 🔞 Mass displaced mechs ���️

Interludes Pt 10

The Ark x Reader, The Nemesis x Reader

• Clawed servos flexing as he can’t stop touching the rig hooked into him allowing him to mass shift far past his normal limits, Nemesis vents. Not trusting the tech that had been the collaborative efforts of Brainstorm, Shockwave, Wheeljack, and Perceptor. Not trusting anyone except himself. This thing meant to give Titans a ‘chance at normalcy.’ Which he couldn’t care less about as he growls and snags one of the dancing humans around the middle and turns towards his companion. What he is interested in? Fragging. “What about this one?” He growls at the Ark. Doesn’t particularly care about this dirtball planet or its strange little organics. But he’s bored. And after spending millions of years ferrying thankless Cybertronians around, he’s more than a little frustrated.

• Dangling from the big, purple Cybertronian’s arm, you just stare as his companion bends to stare at you. And you’re just buzzed enough to start laughing. “This one’s down to fuck if that’s what you’re after.” And the yellow one slowly smiles as he straightens. Both of them turning and striding for the bar with you dangling against the purple mech’s hip like a bag of cement. Apparently they’re not interested in pleasantries, just getting down to business. Not that you have an issue with that, spotting one of your friends and giving them double thumbs up as they double over cackling at you. Yeah. This probably isn’t your most dignified moment, but you’re over here living the dream.

• Grabbing a room token and letting himself in, Ark frowns at the way Nenesis is carrying you. Almost certain he’s doing it wrong, but you’re not complaining. After millennia stuck in his alt mode? He’s ready to live. And he’s so horny, he might overload before he’s even inside you. “I found the human, I’m going first,” Nemesis growls as you laugh. Jaw gritting against the urge to point out that the other mech didn’t find you, he just snatched the first human he saw, but as the other Titan glares at him, he gestures toward the berth. He can be patient. It’s only been a millennia already.

• Swinging you down onto your feet, Nemesis growls and catches your arm when you back up. “Don’t,” he growls and you smile. ‘I’m not running, just stripping, okay?’ You ask, hooking a finger in your top covering. And he’s tempted to tear the thin cloth, unwrap you like a present. Reluctantly letting go instead and watching with predatory interest as you strip for him. ‘So how do you want to do this?’ And he reaches out to push you, sending you stumbling to sit on the bed, before he snarls and flips you onto your belly. Leaning to vent against your neck and freeing his spike as he rocks his hips, impatiently sliding the length of his spike against you. ‘You have zero chill, huh?’ You groan, fingers fisting in the sheets as you rock back against him. ‘I can respect that.’

• Gasping when he shifts and the head of his spike stretches you, there’s a moment to worry that he’s a bit more than you can handle. But then you make yourself relax, sucking in a sharp breath when he drives deep, hips meeting you as he snarls, clawed servos digging into the mattress when he begins thrusting. And it is too much, his hips pumping urgently as he snarls what sounds like profanity, those wicked claws tearing into the mattress. Body coiling tight as you squirm under him, kicking out a leg, aware of the noises you’re making as he ruts against you until you’re gasping as you come apart. Hear him snarl, hips snapping against you before he’s overloading to fill you. And you don’t even try to move when he pulls out. Not sure that you can move, thighs trembling so hard.

• Hears your muffled ‘holy fuck,’ as you press your face into the bedding and Nemesis chuckles as he backs off. Venting and freeing his own spike, Ark smoothes a hand up your back. So soft. “What’s your name?” He asks as he sheaths himself inside your wet heat and you moan instead of answering. There’ll be time to talk later, though. Hips pumping, his optics shutter at the feel of you wrapped around his spike. “I think I like this planet,” he growls and Nemesis clears his vents loudly. ‘This one particular human is tolerable,’ he mutters, watching you squirm with a needy sound. Has so much catching up to do after being stuck in his alt mode so long. And he’s going to start by spending the night buried inside you. They can take turns. Maybe work towards reestablishing the Titans since there’s so few of them left. You seem willing enough.

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[hitwiththefandomz]

And finally double trouble, Crash & Bash

Here’s Ruben Alis Vortex