#I imagine that the electricity shapes to spell out the words he speaks and that idea got me feral

[gibbouschild]

My interpretation of AM!

Never seen him depicted as a plasma ball :))

[bitchlessdino]

TPC: Vernon and Chan's solution to love triangles

Series

Pairing: vernon x afab!reader x chan

Genre: smut

Word count: 4.3k

tags: friends to lovers, bi/pan poly, queer dynamics, mlm content, dirty talking, praise kink, spanking, clit slapping, pet names (doll, baby), ass play, double pen., spitting, fingering, oral (giving and recieveing), throat bulge kink, cum eating, face sitting, couch sex, desk sex, unprotective sex, cream pies, no respect for someone else's private space lol

Summary: Nobody fucking like love triangles, especially you. So what was the perfect solution to that problem? You guessed it.

author note: it's pride so this is pretty gay, enjoyyyyy

Tag list: @iwouldbangchan @1uvlywon @just-here-to-read-01 @candidupped @minnie-mouser22 @shiningstar-byulxx @90s-belladonna @misssugarlips @tommolex @hoeforhao @honglynights @homerunhansol @dkakapizzaboy @junhui-recs @svtup @buffhoshi @meowmeowminnie @caratochan @lovebot4han @lovelyhan

Sometimes being told that your best friend has these intense, overpowering feelings for you other than a friend would has teh potential to change teh trajectory of your dynamic. Being told that it was both your best friends that have these feelings was just internal chaos. Chan and Vernon usually weren’t like that. Since learning about those things, it’s been hard to breathe, suffocating even, especially at a party where the air was a limited quantity.

“Another drink?”

You hand Vernon your solo cup to fill and he refreshes it with ice cold beer, softly smiling back at you. He hands it back to you, your fingers grazing his, and natural electricity runs over his skin. “Thanks.”

“A-anytime.” He stutters.

Vernon hasn’t been himself since his confession. He’s been walking on eggshells waiting for an answer, and he doesn’t doubt that Chan is going through the same. They both agreed to let you take your time and would not resent you for the answer you give. Still, a selfish side of him hoped it’d be him.

Chan joins you both soon enough leaning close to your ear, whispering a gentle “Hi,” before back hugging you. You let out light chuckles before grasping his forearms, and greeting him back. Vernon stands a foot away, envious of Chan’s openness and courage that Vernon only imagines having. 

What Vernon doesn’t know is Chan can only get that far pretending he knows what to do, when in fact it’s the opposite. His guess is just as good as his best friend's. He has no idea who you’d choose in the end. He only knows that he has to act fast.

“Dance with me,” he requests, waiting for your nod of approval before he sweeps you away to the center of the room and leaves Vernon behind.

You feel the safety of Chan’s broad build taking up the space behind you, grazing the sensitivity of your arms as he sways you to the beat of the music. You allow him to guide you, tickling the nape of your neck with his breath scented with confectioners sugars. You hum in delight, throwing your head against his shoulder as you drink in the air. To which, Chan can't help but be dazzled by you, mesmerized by the energy you exude. 

“I know you wanted to take your time in making a decision and I respect that but I hope you don’t mind me doing some convincing,” His hands find home on your body, dragging them by your sides, and settling on your hips. You lightly gasp, fingers curling up in uncertainty, yet you felt no desire to part ways. You can only focus on the alluring deep rasp of his voice, “You look so fucking incredible tonight.”

“You too, Chan,” you say with a small smile, feeling him only wrap tighter around you. You involuntarily moan as he presses you deeper against his front side, feeling the shape of his bulge nudge you. You can practically feel your arousal pool between your legs, threatening to leave the sanctity of your walls. Your bodies melt into each until you’re one, succumbing to Chan’s body language that speaks in pure unbridled lust. You visibly swoon, falling deeper into the spell of the man whose smile glows brighter than the stars in the night sky.

 His lips seductively trail against your neck, “We’re like magic together. Don’t you think so?”

You can feel a confirmation come up your throat until someone places themself in front of you. To your shock, Vernon stands before you and takes your hands, letting them come against his neck. “Hope you don’t mind if I join in.”

Vernon can feel the heat of his romantic rival’s glare but ignores it as he claims his spot. “Of course,” you answer with a soft smile, earning a smile back from the man in front.

Vernon’s reluctant elegance is stark in contrast with Chan’s obvious carnal, giving the best of both worlds. Chan stays at his distance, and the same could be said of Vernon, eyes coated in love as his hand holds politely right at the waist. 

This is a bizarre situation to be in, to begin with, and you can’t believe for a second that you’re the person in the middle. Yet, your heart flutters as Vernon tucks your hair over your shoulder, breath fanning over your skin as he leans in just slightly doing so. You were in no position to complain.

You let out a soft gasp, feeling the pebbling of your skin before he pulls away. “I don’t know how much competition I am to Chan, bu—“

“Don’t say that,” you interrupt.

“But,” he continues, “I’m glad to at least be in your thoughts.”

“You’re more than in my thoughts. I care about Vern—I care about the both of you…And I think my answer is clear.”

One second. It’s all it takes—and maybe Vernon’s honey brown eyes staring back at you with so much admiration as if you’re seconds away from turning into a puddle—for you to pull him in a heated kiss. Releasing your inhibitions, you sink into him and flushed against his heat. Your teeth occasionally clashing, entangled with him desperately, your descending moans from your lips as he presses against you, lost in his dream turned reality. You could blame the alcohol, you can blame the R&B playing, you can even blame Vernon's words beaming with sincerity, but really you blame yourself. 

In a moment of self-wallow, Chan falters back as he witnesses the scene firsthand. He has every nerve to back off, accepting your decisions per your agreement, but before does, a grip takes Chan’s arm and collides his bodies back to his friends in heated lip lock. His eyes shoot back at your figures in surprise, hearing you make out the word “stay” amongst the noise. Uneven breaths leave him as you part from Vernon’s lips and connect with Chan’s instead. 

He tastes what Vernon tastes, visceral lust running through your veins as your lips defiling his until you’re tasting every corner of his mouth. You were like a drug, one that would have him committed and he knows since then he could never have enough of you. He can’t help but return the same energy, languidly moving his lips against yours until you move on to Vernon, their intense jointed lips making Chan more aroused rather than disappointed. 

You continue what you started at in a vacant room in the lesser occupied area of the house. Your brain would have recalled that this was the closed-off home office the party host forbade anyone from entering if not for the fact one man’s hand is down your pants and kissing your neck, while the other leads you with his lips and fingers threading through your hair.

You moan feverishly against his lips and pull off his jacket and white tee to abandon them on the ground. You caress his sculpted body, feeling the deep valleys of his abdomen, cupping his chest, while your fingers tingle and excitement churns your stomach. His body was heaven, a safe space, and you could not wait to scratch up his skin, marking it purple, and claiming him yours. “Mmh, Chan…”

The blond presses to your side, grinning from ear to ear against your lips. “Yes, baby.” His term of endearment made you gush, smiling back at him like a love sick puppy before you pull him back against your lips, a leg clenching to his side to keep him close. You moan louder as the man behind you works inside you with more vigor, whines leaving your lips as you buck your hips in frustration. “So…good…”

“What's that? Vernon fingers up your pussy feel good?”

You moan a confirmation to Chan, earning a tender kiss under your ear, the owner of the lips pressing his fingers between your slit as his thumb pads over your clit. “Say it louder for me, doll.”

“You make me feel so good, Vernon,” you respond, only hearing the squelch of his fingers as he pleasures you.

“Good job,” he whispers delicately before letting your bottoms hit the ground. You gasp as his big hands grow rough and sharp inside you as they curve in between your damp walls. Chan looks back at you grinning, moving hair away from your face, and a deep chuckle leaves his lips. “You look like a pretty little mess. Makes me want to ruin you.”

“I’m sure they’d like that, Chan. Their pretty pussy cumming all over our cocks until they black out,” Vernon eggs.

Moaning at the thought, Chan lifts your chin with two fingers to meet his gaze, the darkness taking over his eyes that had you weak at the knees. “That sounds like a delicious evening.”

Leisurely, Chan’s fingers undo your shirt, revealing the scandalously deliciously red garment underneath. He bites his bottom lip—pleased with what he sees— before he wraps his lips around you to taste lace. He feels you grow against his tongue, pretty and wet. You softly whimper and circles being drawn on your skin, while Vernon takes care of your sopping cunt the way a washer cycles clothing: thoroughly wet and loudly. “S-shit…”

“You feel so wet around my fingers.”

You arch into the man behind you, a guttural moan escaping you.

“You don’t know how much I’ve thought about doing this.” His words are so delicate, like a butterfly in the midst of a storm. Your climax is so close you could almost taste it, but Chan shakes his head, pulling you forward and away from the tension. “Not yet, we’re going to wait just like you’ve made us wait.”

Vernon quickly adjusts to the situation and lets his hand go limp, preventing the eruption of your climax and following his best friend’s lead. “Right. It’s only fair.” He withdraws his hand to bring his fingers up to your lips, tapping at them for entry, to which he is easily granted access. You wrap around his digits delectably, your arousal sweet and familiar past your lips. He groans back at you, his groin rubbing to your side in thirst. “Such a good doll.”

In an instant, Chan pushes you against the leather couch occupying the end of the room. His hands glide over your thighs and fondle your breast, while Vernon kisses your eager lips. Every inch of your body feels like pure fire. Adrenaline pumps in your veins and you have never been so intensely aroused.

“Are you gonna give an answer?” Chan prods. “Or are you test driving? Seeing who’s capable of making you cum faster and harder?” The tips of his fingers aim at your clit, feeling the reflex of your hips buck back against him, earning his smug grin. “Or is our pretty baby that selfish you want us both to yourself?”

You act as though you can’t hear him, but you truly can’t hear him. Your brain makes sense of what he says but your body prevents you from speaking, and all you can do is moan, shake, or cry in response. Vernon finally parts from you to look directly back into your eyes, “Answer him, doll.”

You gasp aching, turning to Chan's domineering gaze. “N-no, I can’t choose. I need both of you. I-I’m selfish.”

“Why?” He hits it again, now hearing the whimper once muffled from Vernon’s lips. “What’s it about us you need both so badly?”

You could write an essay about how both individually made you feel but you had no words that could describe how they felt together. It simply could not be compromised. You love both so deeply and you can’t imagine anything different. Chan is not without Vernon, Vernon is not without Chan, but you were not without both. Choosing one would be pure blasphemy in your eyes. 

Your thoughts get muddled by Chan’s impatience as he dives face-first between your legs. His tongue pulsates like it has a mind of its own, teasing you until bounding himself to your cunt. His arms come over your thighs and he tugs them to hug his cheeks, prickling you all over with goosebumps. “So…sweet…all mine…”

He could only describe your taste as ambrosia: nectar of the gods. If he believed in any of them, he imagines you would be what they sought out. If he wasn’t already mindlessly in love with you, right now he was sincerely obsessed with you. Your scent, your texture, your ache. You embody pure sex, that much he understands, but what else was there to learn?

You can feel himself groaning in the depths of your walls as his tongue darts faster in you, accompanied by his fingers soon after. Pushing one—“Mmh, Chan”—no, thrusting two —“fuck like that”—actually three plunging in so deep to find the center of your core—“shit…”

“Yes, eat their pussy so good, Chan. They love it so much.” 

Your moan echoes in the unnecessarily big room, throwing your head back on the couch while Vernon unclasps your bra and helps it come off. His lips latch on your tit, round eyed and beautiful, and take the other in his hand, pinching and rolling your stiff peak. His teeth come gently around you between sucks as your hand runs through his soft silver-blue hair. Moans leaving between your pressed lips, you ingrain the sensation in your brain, holding for keepsake.

“Doll sounds so pretty being devoured…Chan is good at it, isn’t he? His dirty mouth making your wet pussy feel good?”

You barely make out a nod to Vernon before you notice Chan's wet chin gliding up your slit to suck harshly against your clit, dark orbs staring back at you with a black heat. You choke back your answer, clenching around Chan’s face as you cut off his airways and nearly suffocate him. 

Your other hand keeps his head down, feeling him lapping up your arousal and slathering his cheeks in your mess as you ride him in your stead. The blonde moans only grow louder, burying his imminent grave inside you as he swears he loses consciousness. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…”

“Chan, You’re doing it so good, keep it up. They’re so close.”

His fingers drive through you at a merciless rhythm, your peak of arousal comes in waves and your body thrashes from the intense sensation as you buck into his mouth in release. His name is on your tongue like prayer fearing him, thanking him, worshiping him. He pulls himself up, eyes blown out like a mindless zombie, lips glossed with a sex sheen of your cum. “That was so good...”

“Chan.”

The blonde hears his name, soft and malleable, but only realizes it’s a voice slightly gruffer than the person he expects. Vernon leans forward to his friend, eyes shaken from the glossy sheen coating their mouth, and before he realizes, he’s claiming Chan’s lips, tasting your climax.

Your heart pounds sporadically watching them in lip lock. Vernon’s tongue aiming in and out of the blonde mouth to lick up your mess and you feel the heat of your core erupt again. Chan’s hands run through Vernon’s silver locks, expelling an impish moan as he palms his boner through his pants. “Vern…”

The moment the nickname leaves his lips, the younger pulls away, face still a mess, and he sees a matching expression on Vernon. “I…I didn’t mean for that—“

“That was insane.” You interrupt and the back of Chan’s head to reunite your lips. Meanwhile, Vernon is still processing what’s just happened. Hands against his mouth, he’s replaying how he initiated, about how Chan kissed him back just as vigorously, and how he can still feel the ghost of his lips on his. Perhaps there was more to his—and Chan’s—feelings than anyone in this room anticipated.

The silver fox is pulled out of his trace when he tastes your lips, and his thought process melts into oblivion the moment your hands land on his pants. You hurriedly drop them to his ankles and reach for his cock, upright and needy for the mouth inches away from him. “You’re so big, Vernon…” You drag him over your tongue, feeling his twitch, while he’s watching you take his cock and how your plush ass lifts up in the air.

Chan’s familiar fingers run along your slit, feeling you pulsate around despite having already came. “You’re so wet for us, baby,” Chan says, knowing the other man is watching as he drags his fingers in you–mewls vibrating around Vernon’s cock–and his lips kiss the rim of your entrance.

You moan something incomprehensive, only pushing your rear back to Chan as he devours you clean, licking circles and sucking you in loud slurps. There’s something about the power of his mouth, reducing you to a feeble mess that was just so hot, Vernon couldn’t help but blush. Moments before, Vernon would’ve just assumed he was turned on by the blatant euphoria in your eyes–which were indeed intoxicating–but after that kiss, he realizes that it’s possibly more than that.

“You have such pretty holes, baby. I want to fill them up so badly with cum.” The blonde is obviously saying the words to you, given the context, but the way his eyes look Vernon feels like it was meant for him. It renders him practically speechless.

“You want us in your holes, baby? You want us to fuck you open?”

Your whines got only more immense, seizing pleasure from Vernon’s cock, and finally, he moves, rocking back into you. Fueled by tension, his cock hits the end of your throat, the shape of his head bulging at the column of your throat and he whines, erupting the goosebumps to appear on Chan’s arms that go unnoticed by anyone but. Vernon’s hand combs through your hair as the other rubs that column of your neck. His gaze drops at you, watching the tears swell up in your eyes and you’re evidently breathing through your nose. “My cock looks so good stuck in your perfect, pretty throat—fuck…feels so good…”

Chan lifts his knees to the couch, stroking his cock he exposed without anyone noticing, lathering your cum at your slit with the tip and then up your puckered rim. He sucks on his digits, getting them wet, before easing them inside your ass. You clench around him in response, causing him to strike at your cheek with a free hand. You jolt forward, pushing a groaning Vernon’s cock deep down your throat.

“Spread your ass for me if you want to be stretched nice and wide.”

The tears shed burned your cheeks, but you obliged. Arching your back, knees further apart, your hands spread your divide to submit to Chan. Your eyes repeatedly roll back to your head, slightly relieved when Vernon pulls your head off his cock to breathe, and let the obscene and barely coherent speech from your lips. “Please please please, I need you. Fuck me. Fuck me please…”

“Can you take it, hmm,” Chan spanks your ass, “Are your pretty holes gonna take our cocks?”

“Yes, yes, give it to me please.”

Chan scoffs. “Beg louder.”

“Please, Chan. I want you and Non inside of me. I want to feel your cum spill inside of me—ah!” His spit slathers over you, spanks repeating back on your ass, your pussy, everything. Filthy and demeaning. “Such a dirty thing. Lucky for you, you’ve been a good listener. We’ll make sure to give you what you want. Won’t we, Vernon?”

Vernon takes second to answer, shifting his throat at his swallows. “I-I’ll make sure she doesn’t waste a drop.”

Chan grins proudly. “Good boy.”

You move over to the desk, not caring about the papers that flew off from it, and Vernon casually plants his naked body on the edge waiting for you to hop on him. He strokes up his shaft, using his other arm to pull you up on the desk but without slight stumbling, to which he finds the grip to steady you. “Got you, doll.”

“Thank you, Vernon.” You giggle, arms looping around his neck.

His hands smooth over your ass possessively, gripping it in his wide palms before striking your cheeks. “What a perfect ass,” he lowly growls.

“It is,” Chan agrees, licking his lips and approaching after with his hard, red cock in his hand, “I sure can’t wait to see it bounce on my cock. You first, Vernon.”

The silver-haired man attempts his best to hold you by your legs and lines your entrance. You come to his aid and lower him in your slit to feel your plush walls. You take the moment to adjust to his size, his warmth running shivers down his spine and you begin to feel the tension up your abdomen. “Vernon…”

“So wet and tight…” his hand lowers to your ass, kneading balls of your flesh. “God, you’re perfect.”

Chan gets closer—hand over Vernon’s, which runs that familiar sensation of electricity he’s used to from you—and he helps himself get an advantage. He pulls you slightly to align with your ass and eases in, letting out a dry breath and cussing as if his life depended on it. Your jaw drops at the fullness, the stretch so excruciating that your whines ebb in a long period, comparable to a dial tone. You press your chest to Vernon’s, your breast rubbing against him so lewdly, it took every turn in him to not pump the brakes on his pace. “Gorgeous doll, my perfect doll.”

Your screams become pounding and lingering, moaning their names in ache. “Oh god…”

“You like that?” Chan's hand stings on your skin, firmly grasping you while you take every deep thrust. “I love fucking you. You take my cock so damn well.”

Your head nods in musical rhythm. “More. Please. More…”

Vernon brushing sweaty strands of hair off your face. “You look so beautiful being fucked dumb…” You softly thank him, a swelling sensation in your heart as he embraces your side. He kisses up your face, tasting the salt on your skin. You beg you whine, you take, feeling their uneven pace eventually syncing up in wonderful harmony.

You can’t imagine them going any deeper, that is until they do, bottoming out in you until paralyzing your limbs in shock, only contracting from your stomach. “Oh god,  I’m close…cum in me please…please…”

Chan feels you writhe beneath him, processing the truth in your words, and takes a look over to his friends to meet his eyes. “Are you close too, Vernon?”

Struggling, the man barely comes up with a “yes.”

A corner of his lips picks up before leaning against your back, kissing your soft skin, and fucking you practically balls deep. “Are you gonna cum? Hmm, think about it.” Chan’s sweaty blond strands hitting at his dark brown eyes that entice him like a siren. His teeth dig at his bottom lip, offering a sultry expression with a hint of jester. “Don’t you think they’ll look gorgeous with their pussy full of cum?”

“Chan…” the older boy whines. 

“Come on, they’re begging for it.” Chan’s teeth graze your skin, tongue following their path. “Cum for them. Cum for me, Vernon…”

Vernon's thrusts gets more desperate, needier, and the sound of the blonde's voice holds him like a chokehold. “S-s-shit..” White covers your cunt inside out, pure heat and animalistic release and you tremble uncontrollably on top of him. You kiss him, gratefully, your warm smile touching the blossom of his cheeks. He feels like he’s on cloud nine. 

Chan doesn’t take long to follow up, his cum practically dripping out of you like a geyser. Eyes rolling back, he pumps what feels like endlessly in you, leaking out until he does finally pull out and it inevitably spills on the fur carpet. Not a face of remorse in sight. His breathing takes over him, trying to catch his breath, but prideful more than anything.

Vernon leans into your ear. “Doll, sit on my face, please.”

You’re pleasantly surprised by his request but fulfill his wishes, feeling his tongue lap up the cum dripping out of you like it’s his last meal. You were still sensitive to everything they’ve done, panting like a dog in the summer heat, but this has all been worth it. You barely muster the energy to peer down. Seeing him so enticingly lewd, his eyes look black with lust, while the tip of his nose presses lightly against your clit. He swallows every drop, keeping his promise and it's like heaven all over again.

Chan comes to your side, lips depositing kisses on your skin. “He’s such a good boy.”

At some point, you’re licked clean–another orgasm in its wake–and you're all back against the couch, your sweat-drenched bodies ruining the leather. You let the silence fester, too tired to speak, and let your bodies air dry from the intense physical activity. “So,” Chan laces his fingers through yours. “There’s no monogamous answer for what just happened, is there?” 

Vernon chuckles and shakes his head, taking your other hand. “I don’t think so.”

“Well, in that case,” Chan sits up to look back at Vernon, red in the face and ears. Clearly, he’s hesitant about his confession but there was no turning back now. “Better time than ever to say I had a crush on you in middle school but never admitted it.”

The other man's eyes shoot open, face tickled pink just as bright as the blond, if not brighter. “…me too.”

You let out an amused cough, redirecting their attention to you. “Well, then we never really had that big of a problem, to begin with then.”

They both smile at you before simultaneously kissing your cheeks, then each other, and then all together before the tension starts heating up all over again—

“I hear you horny fuckers in there! Get out of there before I kick your sorry asses!”

[maybeasunflower]

Humans use speech (in the sense of structured sounds) for the Speech (in the sense of universe's operating system) because that's how we (mostly) communicate. That became writing fairly recently. It's not hard to imagine using something other than sounds/writing to communicate and enact the Speech.

On Earth we have octopuses changing the colour of their bodies (although how much this is for communicating with other octopuses is not known), and this in Games Wizards Play:

[Kit] found himself watching a couple of wizards... But suddenly he realized they were signing. They were leaving long bright trails of power in the air as they traced out words and phrases in a Speech-recension he's never seen before. ... Of course there's a way to use the Speech without speaking, Kit thought. Why would the Power leave anybody out of wizardry just because they can't hear?

I can certainly imagine non-human species using colours and patterns, or physical shapes (like sign language), or changes to the local electrical or magnetic field, for spells in the Speech. Creating vibrations in the air or making patterns on a surface is just the locally-common convention.

I’ve got another question for you (sorry for asking so many questions about the young wizards series). The concepts of the Wizards Manual and the Speech. Let’s say, for instance, a wizard isn’t mathematically minded and has a natural bent towards poetry and literature, could the Speech take the form of poetry and could the Wizard’s manual be a mixture of modalities (pen and paper, laptop, and headphones)?

Well, this question has to be handled in two parts.

Can a wizard use something besides the Speech to do wizardry? No. There's only one language in which the Universe was built (though numerous recensions of that).

But that said: want to do spells in which the Speech is structured like poetry? Well, sure, why not? Poetry (when it's not free verse) is some of the most structured stuff there is: it'd work perfectly. (As long as you were really careful with the scansion...) And other forms of artistic structure could also work.

As regards the math end of things: you could make a case that both Nita's and Kit's Manuals (maybe more Nita's...) are mathematically- or scientifically-aligned because both their mindsets lean (or leaned) that way. But are there wizards constructing spells that look more like artwork than equations? Almost certainly. (There's at least one reference in Games Wizards Play to wizards dancing spells in the Speech rather than speaking it. Not to mention one of the wizards working with the event organizers for the Invitational, a graphic designer who was embedding the Speech into fonts...)

Secondary to all this: can the Manual be used in more than one modality? I don't see why not. The master project of "porting over" the Manual into more modern and easier-to-manage instrumentalities is first mentioned in The Book of Night with Moon—where Ehef, one of the feline wizards living and working at NYPL is a supervisor on the project. And this would almost certainly be a continuing effort, resulting in items like the WizPhone that Nita trialed at Kit's urging some while back. (And of course Spot, who started out with Dairine as a desktop and upgraded to a laptop along the way.) The attitude of the Powers that Be would certainly be that they want to make doing wizardry easier for qualified people, not harder. So, mix and match among modalities? Sure. (And at least you'd never have to worry about them staying in synch...) :)

...As for pen and paper: it's likely enough that the Speech was for many centuries in writing-centric cultures most routinely written longhand (after it broke out of cuneiform and hieroglyphics...). Probably there are even now wizards who prefer to do their spell structuring longhand—who knows, maybe even with fountain pens. (In fact, now I've managed to make myself suspicious about the work habits of a couple of people I know...) :)

Anyway: HTH!

[octania]

Obi Akitaru x Reader

This is a commission I did for the lovely @super-spooder​. I again thank you for your support in this way and permission to do it as a Obi x Reader fic.

Words: 7.1 k

Warnings: Smut, public sex, dirty talk

Short description: Obi and you are hiding your relationship for some time now, and although he is not happy with that, he respected your decision till the moment Captain Burns had the nerve to try not only to steal you as a doctor but as a potential partner.

________________________________________________________

Life is sometimes like a puzzle, such a simple structure, but if you don’t put the pieces right, it can get agonizing, hard, sucking the joy from this thing that should bring entertainment and happiness. If you are missing only one piece, it can shatter all of your previous work that was done thoroughly and made you proud and satisfied. One important piece can shadow all the puzzles that fit into their places before it. That is how (Y/N) felt when Obi was not in her reach, when she had everything else lined up and in perfect order, but she was missing the most important thing, the piece she knew would make the whole picture of her life perfect. Him.

She exhaled slowly with her eyes closed, lifting her arms up and pushing her heel back. Relaxed. That is how she felt in this moment. But not because she was doing yoga in the private gym of company 8, surrounded by nothing but the soothing sound of the birds chirping, accompanied with a rustling of leaves  coming through the half opened window, no, it was because her feelings for Obi were finally out, heard, acknowledged and most importantly, reciprocated.Well, in some way heard. They were still keeping it on the low, putting a veil of disguise for the other members. Sometimes, that tiresome acting was overwhelming, biting the pounding life muscle in her chest with the sharp teeth of need for him, but the sight of his eyes clouded with mopes was even heavier. He tried, despite their agreement, to get closer to her and risk giving her attention in front of the others. He did respect her wishes but his eager hands slipped under her arms, along her back, on her hip, on her waist, just for a moment, a simple touch when he was standing near her. Maybe she was too harsh, stepping back and giving him a warning gaze over the shoulder that spelled Too much, Obi. They will notice.

She could swear that his glare carried this answer- Let them. I don’t care.

But she did, at least she convinced herself in that. So when they were finally protected by the four walls of privacy in her or his apartment, she dodged the subject, tiptoed around it like it would burn her like raging fire if she comes too close to it. Guess that were the remaining bits of her past habit, running away from him, now, she was only running away from the fact that she lost that race. He caught her, and will not let her go. Like she wanted to be set free from those huge arms… She despised the morning light when they had to go in their separate ways.  Well, she was again the one that insisted on it. She would never admit it out loud, because then she will have to face Obi’s overly opened nature and shameless desire to celebrate their love. She could never win in that argument, she was doomed to fail, he did not share her anxious concern, he simply aspired to freedom so he could kiss her when he wanted, not when he was able. She shook her head, trying to get rid of the heavy thoughts.

In some moments she felt like she was playing the same game but with different rules this time. First it was to escape the king haunting you on that board of emotional chess, and now when you conquered the king, the whole kingdom awaits your confession, and you will tremble under their harsh judgment when you speak your sins. She hid the fact that that spear of guilt for breaking the ethical rules still pierced her soul, no matter that she received the most precious reward for her confession. She was not scared for herself, she would gladly be dragged in the dirt of shame for her choices if she had to, but only if Obi was left out of it. Her need to protect him was growing like wisteria on the garden wall, her flowers of love blooming over it to hide him from every wrong. Same goes for the other members of their fiery company. She sheltered them from the disappointment, like an umbrella, stopping the icy drops of rain to touch the ones underneath it.

She inhaled, letting the oxygen settle in her lungs, doing her exercise and counting to ten, now desperately wanting to wipe out all of the worries that kept popping in her head. Her hard concentration made her unaware that she was not alone in the gym anymore, there was another soul lingering around, watching her closely, dealing with its own temptation in silence.

Obi could barely resist (Y/N) on the regular days when she was wearing her baggy tunic and her white doctor’s coat, but seeing her stretching her body so gracefully in those tight yoga pants, making her ass look like a perfectly shaped peach that would fit right in his hands like it was made for him, and her thin waist bending down, making a pose that was almost inviting, luring him in. He could feel a stiff bulge forming inside his sweatpants.  Dear Sol I just got here, and I am already on the edge..

No matter how much he tried, he could not stop staring, silently stalking his lover, leaned against the door. He tilted his head, scanning the vacant hallway.  

Like it matters if it is empty or not, she set the rules…nothing happens in the company. 

His eyebrows narrowed and a frowning expression took over his usually soft features when he remembered her ultimatums. Obi adored every word that came out of her mouth, but once she began with her unnecessary dramatic concern, that was the only time he felt a need to just pick her up all over again, hammer her to the wall and cover her with his huge body, forcing her to finally realize that nothing matters except how the two of them feel. 

And he feels very hungry for her right now…

The sight of her on that wall was luckily more than just a fruit of imagination, it was a memory. A heated and lewd one, stored in the intimate corners of his mind, only for his personal usage. Even his opened nature would not dare to speak how the film stripes of that sweet event were already worn out from how many times he thought it over. His tender cheeks bloomed with color red, just reminding him how that was maybe two weeks ago, and from that moment on, nothing similar happened. They just went out in secrecy, having dinner and movie nights, so to speak. He was respectful, patient, not even a bit pushy. After all, he wanted to get to know her on a personal level, not only ravage her body. The thing that happened was a result of accumulation of emotions, a moment where their hearts and souls were bare, pulling towards each other like magnets, begging to be united. The recollection of that night made a wave of desire to wash over him, making his body tense and him to unconsciously clear his throat. Mistake.

The growling noise coming from his chest made him to be discovered by two eyes turning in a hurry. His eyes widened like he was just caught doing something bad, looking nervously around the room to dodge her penetrating gaze.

 “Captain Akitaru? What are you doing here?”- the sound of that formal word coming about of her mouth sting him right in the heart. More and more he was irritated by the fact they can’t talk freely, act like the lovers that they are. He did not even realize he was biting his lip from frustration.

 “Captain?”- there it is again, it sounded even worse without his actual name next to it.

 “There is no one here (Y/N), you can speak normally.” – his deep voice traveled through her ear canal right to her core, giving her goosebumps. No matter that they dated, the tension when they were alone still remained, and seeing him in his grey sweatpants and his black shirt with no sleeves, exposing those rounded deltoids, big biceps and long thick forearms made her heart race. The shirt was so tight on his huge torso, it showed his hard abs, making (Y/N) blink a few times, getting flustered in a second. Her insides craved him, still remembering his shape from the last time. She felt a moist feeling inside her panties, realizing how quickly her body reacted, squeezing her tights harder like she wants to cover her state.

“Still…we have to be careful. I don’t want to talk about it right now and here but I think they are starting to look at us funny, and I really don’t want to risk their disappointment.”- she voiced her concerns again like a broken  record, picking up her towel and a bottle of water, passing by the workout machines in a rush, straight to her office. She felt lucky she had a private bathroom in there, and was blessed even with a shower inside. Perks of working overtime, you get to be exhausted but clean. She giggled on her thought, getting a bit hopeful she will escape this situation with no damage. When she needed to bypass Obi, she arched her back, quickly sliding next to his big frame, using the benefit of being a small thing. But he was too big, so her breasts got caught by his forearm, as she brushed over it with them. It was just for a moment, but she could feel her already erected nipples from her arousal earlier, sending electric signals through her tummy, down her lower parts. She moaned, louder than she expected, continuing her escape with shaky hands. Now the fact written on the label that she once read before buying this sport bra, “So soft and airy it feels like you are not even wearing it.” made this a living hell. She didn’t turn to see if  Obi noticed something, she already disappeared into her office, rushing to the bathroom and slamming the door behind her, turning the shower on so the sound of rustling water clear her thoughts.  His bulge was now aching, painfully pulsating under the material of his sweatpants. He felt them, being reminded once more how those nipples tasted when he sucked them. Now, after two weeks of being without that sweet candy, and how she tried to escape, made him swear he will not let her drown in her own denial again. He thought this through in a hear beat. He could deal with her rules and wishes but he will be damned if he lets her to run away from him again.

The arousal mixed with painful yearning in his chest made him step forward, and before he knew it, his wide palm was wrapping itself on the doorknob of her bathroom, pushing it almost violently open, slipping into the mist of steam rising from the shower cabin. He saw her standing there, jumping from surprise, squeezing her naked breasts with her hands to cover them, still in her yoga pants. But before she could speak, he slammed the door behind them, locking them, and turning around to face her. His veiny forearms tensed as he grabbed her waist, picking her up with ease, crashing his plush lips on hers, swallowing her muffled questions. After losing the floor beneath her feet, she automatically tired to grab onto something from pure instinct. Her waving hand managed to hit the shower head, making it to fall down, splashing the water around, raining down on them from the water pumping in the air. Obi did not even flinch when the warm water hit his skin, he was too busy sucking on (Y/N)’s lower lip, nibbling the rosy flesh like his favorite chocolate bar, then pushing his tongue inside her mouth to met hers, tasting the whole package. Her tongue returned the sugary motions almost voraciously, giving into her primal needs once again. Not so primal, but awoken by him, something about Obi unleashed desire in a form she did not experience before. He could feel her body giving in, melting under his grip and screaming to be dominated by his powerful being. His husky voice filled her ears, as he explained in one sentence why he is breaking her rules. 

“We said, no more running.” – but the explanation was not enough, a punishment was in order. He will not risk her getting away again, his heart could not bear it, so if she tries, he wants her to remember just what might happened. His eyes colored like dark mead flickered, stepping inside the half flooded floor of the cabin, shutting the glass door to prevent any more water spilling out. Now the shower released its waves only on them, soaking them to the core. But Obi did not mind it, not wasting any time, shucking down her yoga pants from her legs in one harsh motion. When the barrier of her closed was removed, his prominent biceps tensed as he lifted her up along the tiles, until she was high enough so her cunt was right in front of his face. He pushed her legs on his shoulders, preventing her from closing them, and dragged her closer to his mouth. He stared at her bare pussy that was glistering from her own juices. Obi subconsciously licked his lips from the tasty sight ahead, sliding her closer until her soft folds were finally pressed on his lips. He opened his mouth, taking a long, experimental lick along her slit, almost grunting from the familiar taste in his mouth. His tongue repeated the act, showing the satisfaction like he is licking his favorite ice cream.

 “Also..we need to teach you how to use my name, without that formal bullshit.”- he slid his calloused hand under and to her heated hole, large fingers parted the folds, pulling the hood of your clit taut to reveal the nerve bud underneath. 

“O-obi!”- Hana stuttered from the exposing feeling of her sensitive parts, sensing the steamy air flowing around it, combined with Obi’s hot breaths. 

“That’s it…say it again.”- with the tip of his tongue he mercilessly flipped the nerve bundle, making (Y/N) to scream his name from the depths of her lungs. But he will not be satisfied after only hearing it once, so he continued to flick her clit while he shoved three fingers inside her, pumping them in until the last knuckle was sucked by her inner walls. She grabbed his wet hair, pulling his head closer.

“Obi!”- she screamed, her voice echoing the glass shower cabin, barely keeping the sound in. But she could not care less, she felt dizzy, tingling feeling spreading across her face as she barely kept her eyes half open. Pleasure consumed her, making her eyelids heavy. So distracted, she did not even notice that Obi lowered her down, placing her on her knees. She opened her eyes from the unsatisfying feeling of emptiness between her legs, gazing upon something big…and hard. Obi slowly pumped his shaft in front of her. Blushing, he stared down at (Y/N)’s glassy eyes, leaning with one hand on the tiles. His broad torso hovering above her, mighty and powerful. He gently wrenched (Y/N)’s head, meeting her plush lips with his purplish head. She could already taste a thick drip of precum sliding down her lower lip to her mouth. It was bitter, but the sight of his shy face and him slowly jerking it in front of her, pushing it gently inside her small mouth made her crave it all. The size, the taste, the cum…

 She parted her lips, in that way showing her permission. Obi’s girth filled (Y/N)’s mouth, stuffing her throat with his size in seconds. She relaxed her muscles, trying to fit it in but she could barely breathe around his heavy meat. Obi slowly pulled out a bit, giving her a chance to inhale, then started rocking his hips gently, lost in the sight of fucking her mouth. (Y/N) grabbed his legs, trying to keep her balance while he was stuffing his dick down her throat, gripping her hair gently. His brown eyes locked on hers, when he whispered something in a low, shy voice.

“Touch yourself from me.” – her already red cheeks fired up, she swallowed, well tried, just putting more pressure around his length, making him growl in euphoria. She never done this before, but the enchanting hunger in his eyes was tempting her, provoking her, igniting the flame of her erotic being and forcing her to indulge in this dirty play. She sensually started to glide with her hand around her curves, teasing her own breasts while swallowing a few more inches of Obi’s throbbing cock. His half closed eyes watching her like tiger watches its prey. Calmly, trying to suppress the clawing need to ravage her, just collecting all that building ecstasy inside, waiting for the right moment to set it loose.  And when her small hand slipped between her legs, her thin fingers sinking into her pussy, the vibration of her moans stimulated his length, forcing him to slam his hips a bit harder, faster. She gazed upon his tightened abs, his every muscle visible from his movements even under his wet t-shit, his pleasure vocalized by his quickened gasping.

He was drunk with enjoyment. (Y/N) was spreading her legs more, almost sitting in the water that was pooling on the floor, giving him a chance to watch her fingering herself clearly. His gaze glued on her delicate fingers tenderly pushing inside and her palm stimulating her erect clit. (Y/N) could sense his dick starting to pulsate and twitch in her throat, she could taste the accumulating precum dripping from his swollen tip. She gripped his dick on the edge of his base, starting to jerk it in the same time as she sucked it.

“Oh fuck.(Y/N)…”- he tilted his head, but lowered it back down quickly enough, refusing to miss any moment of her pleasuring them both. Her grip became harder, her tongue danced around his veiny girth until a warm feeling started overcoming the insides of her mouth. Obi’s sperm dribbled down (Y/N)’s esophagus in hot spurts. His grumps echoed the narrow space and his jaw tightened while he unleashed his load, pulling out slightly. His cock pulsated against her lips, squirting the last sticky stirrings on the surface of her salivary muscle. She gulped for air heavily, but still letting the thick liquid drip down her throat. It took her a few swallows to get it all down, shyly gazing up to the man of her dreams. He reached down, spooning her up under her legs and arms like a princess, lifting her and pressing her on his chest. His warm lips rest on her forehead, staying there for a few moments. Just when he was about to speak up, his attention was broken by an unpleasant sound of a siren whistling. They looked at each other with a panicky look, rushing out of the shower, knowing exactly what the sound means. There is an Infernal on the loose.             

                             *                 *                   *

Sooty columns of charcoal grey blot out the sky. The smell of burned wood and ash filled the air, making it almost impossible to breath. The people were running in panic, trying to escape the sinister figure slowly dragging its heavy feet along the concrete, leaving the grimy trails behind it. Flames were licking its already burned body, leaving a terrifying inhuman grin on its face.

 (Y/N) could not shake the lurid feeling after seeing it, almost refusing to let Obi to face the creature while she was on the other side the neighborhood mending the wounded. She could barely concentrate, never before feeling this distracted from her work, even though it did not show on the outside, she was petrified by the thought of something happening to him.

Still, her gifted hands moved fast, patching up the nasty burns or wounds of the suffering victims, even curing their souls along with their flesh with the words of encouragement. Her stand was radiating self-confidence, fearlessness, and above all, leadership. The medic team from other companies followed her every instruction, she issued orders that only resulted in success, and her astonishing results did not go unnoticed.

From the corner of the tent, a electric blue eye spied on the company’s 8 doctor, silently absorbing her progress and accomplishments. This was not their first encounter, he have witnessed her skilled hands before, doing the magic no one else could. That funny part was that she had no magic, no special power, just her sharp mind, dedication and predominant talent. Burn’s own well respected doctors from company 1 had behaved submissively around her, and that intrigued him the most. Those highly educated and experienced people bowed to no one except him, and now, he is witnessing first hand that they decided to bow down once more, and it was not to a mighty and intimidating captain this time, it was a fragile, thin woman, with soft features and melodic voice.

He wanted this asset for a long time, before he actually laid his eyes upon her, when he only read the reports of her successful treatments, and shamelessly sent her a couple  of offers for a position in his prestige company, but she turned him down every time, politely stating that her position is company 8 was far more valuable. He also received a letter from Captain Akitaru, where it was unmistakably visible even from the dry ink on the paper how upset he was because of Burns’s constant offers, asking him to stop his proposals at once. Even though it was written in a professional manner, Burns grinned when he saw how the pen was pressed on the paper with force, giving away Obi’s anger. How the words did not match captain Akitaru’s usual relaxed and welcoming nature, these sentences were strong, fierce, but still composed nicely. This did nothing more for Leonard Burns but to make him laugh or entertained for a brief moment, certainly will not make him stop.

Even if he lost interest then, based only by the results, waiting for someone to overshadow her, that possibility fell down the drain when he gazed upon her the first time. It was not only the looks that tempted the mountainous captain, he was after all, an experienced man, having more than a fair share of women’s beauty. This was something different. Her  body radiated with more dominance and fearlessness than any other woman he encountered before. Her stand was strong but still graceful. She was not only brave, she was compassionate. She was risky for sure, he saw that with his own eyes, when she risked her own safety and ran to save a cat that belonged to one of the victims.

 Watching in admiration as a non-fiery woman ran into the raging fire within the house, pushing away the fire fighters that gave up on the almost collapsed structure, rushing in just to mend not only the poor boys broken bones but his mind and soul when she brought back his pet. That was not even the end. The way she confronted her own captain, when he almost lost his wits seeing her being so careless. She did not argue, apologize, she stated the facts about the house. How the main parts of the structure were still durable and having , and he remember her exact words, 3 more minutes of strength in them before collapsing because of the material from which they were made and how they were placed inside the house, and he remembers it clearly as day because in exactly 3 minutes the house collapsed.

 He was so impressed by her, in the second he notice she was alone he approached her, now not only tempted by her as a potential valuable asset of his company, but as a potential partner. He was more than displeased when she turned him down, in both ways, focusing on her work and almost pretending that he was ghost. Although this kind of result was not what he has expected and was not happy about it, it kind of made him even more interested, taking this as a challenge. And Leonard Burns is not the type of man who backs down. He waited long enough, patiently forging his plans and moves, and now was the time to strike. His interest grew in desire, and he was not a type of man who deprives himself from something he craves. His steps slowly led him to his target, approaching the busy woman from her back. (Y/N) was just finishing up the last of the stitches on the old lady who kept blessing her soul and admiring (Y/N)’s kindness. Cunningly like a fox, he sneaked in silence, but his stand still exuded with power, coming so close to her that when she turned, she bumped her head right into his stony chest. (Y/N) was astound, caught by surprise so much she froze.

Looking up, she followed the trail of his prominent torso to his revealed collarbones, to his strong thick neck and finally his face. The sky-crystal iris returned her gaze, while the other one was covered with his eye-patch, a dark lather thing that only made his sharp features look more intimidating. Only one corner of his lip was slightly curled into half a smile. He looked like a hunter who just saw his prey stepping into a trap, and trapped the little (Y/N) was, stuck between the wall of his flesh and the operating table behind her. She got flustered, but not in a positive and dreamy way, this was something strange, intense, caused by his impious stare.

  “Captain Burns. Would you mind stepping back? You are invading my personal space.”- her voice clear and loud, even she was surprised by the energy it carried. Maybe she was a kind and shy person but she was no push over. Only one man managed to shake her composure but it was certainly not this one. Burns opened his mouth slightly with a smile, showing that pearl white teeth under his lips. He moved, but not far enough. He was still nearly touching her with his body, and his sudden leaning in did not help.

“I apologize, (Y/N).”- he was so close to her face she could feel his hot breath on her cheeks, the smell of the minty gum he probably had earlier. She ducked, pretending to be reaching for a gauze from her medical kit just next to her left leg, to dodge the unpleasant closeness. She took it out, wiggling out of his flesh barricade and putting the gauze around the old woman’s arm, completely ignoring the captain, wishing he would leave as he did the last time she pulled this act.

“There you go. All finished. You will be ok, just try not to move the arm too much.” – she gently held the woman’s shoulder, helping her to get up.

“You are an angel doctor, may the dear Sol watch over you.”- old woman responded in a low hoarse voice slowly walking away.

“She is right. Blessed with such gift of healing and also…beauty, just like an angel.”- Burn’s deep voice was once more in (Y/N)’s ear, and she could feel it again too close. She turned, seeing him sitting on the table, arms crossed on his chest as he shamelessly wondered with his icy stare around her body. Her blood was slowly started to boil. The feeling that he gave her was unsettling. 

“That is not very appropriate Captain, I would appreciate if you would be a bit more professional.”- she snapped at him, clearly offended by him stepping out of line, but this reaction only made this game more fun for the silver fox Burns. He did not see this as an objection or refusal, he saw it as a dangerous game that radiated with erotic feeling. Her feisty stand made him almost aroused, since it was so long when a woman tried to act untouchable to him. But that is all it was, an act. Must be. In one moment he even decided to let go of the idea of her being his company’s doctor and maybe have her as a lover, but what would be more intense than a relationship inside the work space? That is something he really did not have in a while.

 “I am having problems breathing, and I was hoping an expert like you could take a look. “- without even waiting for her response, he started to unbutton his shirt, exposing her muscular chest. (Y/N) swallowed, hard, fretting feeling blooming in her body. She wanted to move but her obligations prevented her. She can’t refuse to help a man in need, no matter how uneasy he makes her. After all, his flattering words will get him nowhere, but her refusal might just cost her nothing less than her reputation. Her eyebrows narrowed, as she picked up her stethoscope, pushing his shirt to the side and started to listen to his breathing.

“Inhale.”- she ordered, carefully listening to the sound of his lungs filling with air. He obeyed.

 “Keep breathing slowly.”- she said, moving the stethoscope under his ribs, following a wheezing sound. She leaned, lowering her head. His breathing became shallow, somehow…strange. The weird sound was gone, and was replaced with something different…something, perverse. Burns was quietly growling, making a sound that resembled the one you hear from a man when he is 8 inches deep inside of you and pumping you with his heat. The sound followed with a feeling, when she felt the waves of air flowing down her neck, warming her skin and teasing the sensitive sports. His husky voice barely overcoming her racing heart savagely  pounding in her ears.

“Maybe if you become my company’s main doctor, you can check me regularly and I will not have to ambush you like this…(Y/N).”- his white hair falling on her neck, along her cheek, when he leaned closer. She froze, mouth dry, as her heart was now slamming in her ribcage so hard it was painful. He was too close, she could feel where his mouth was, if she turns he will…

“Burns! How low can one company’s captain sink to take a place as a patient for his personal routine check-ups, when actual victims are around him?”- A voice that usually sounded like a beautiful song, now was rough, sharp, cold, and above all, furious. So much so, that even the silver fox got surprised, lifting his head and body and giving (Y/N) the opportunity to get back up. She used it, stepping back and turning, only to see Obi standing just a few meters behind them, clenching his fists so tightly that his fingers turned white. His jaw was pulsating, strong chest rising and falling like he just ran a marathon.

“Or even worse, trying to steal my doctor again while my team and I are out there covering for your absence? We almost lost the east side of the town, a side that was supposed to be operated by you.”- he got closer, fire in his eyes more wild than on that Infernal she saw.  Not even a bullet can shot thorough you as Obi’s stare was piercing through Burns, whose face was now dark, shadows flowing across it, making it somehow devious.

 “I have my company members to handle that.”- he answered with a roar, landing on his feet and facing Obi. Even though he was taller and wider than captain Akitaru, Obi did not even flinch, actually, he looked like a young and powerful wolf ready to beat down the worn out alfa, taking what is rightfully his.

“And so do I, and (Y/N) is one of them, and will remain so.”- one more step was made by Obi, now staring Burns down, breaking the ice in his eyes by his raging mead colored ones. His body radiated with raw force, ready to demolish anything and anyone that stand in his way. And this time, even someone like Leonard Burns noticed it and decided not to cross the boundaries any more at this time. He lowered his eyebrows, closing his eyes and fixing the buttons on his shirt.

 “ We shall see Akitaru, you are not her husband, you are just her captain.” – he said uncouthly, leaving slowly. After a few steps, his clear blue eye appeared over his shoulder, as he winked at (Y/N). She pressed her lips in a straight line, turning away, unable to believe how vulgar can he be. But her tornado of thoughts was interrupted by Obi’s harsh voice.

 “Meet me in the emergency vehicle, I need to speak to you. Now.”- he disappeared behind the tent.      

       *                                    *                                      * 

Obi set in the empty ambulance in the back space where they kept the patients. No matter how hard he tried, he could not calm down or stop hearing the God forsaken words that Burns used.  

Just her captain…

“Tsk..”- He gripped his orange firefighting uniform on his forearms, barely overcoming the need to hit something hard. It was no wonder he said that, no one knew about what kind of relationship (Y/N) and he really had. And if they knew and still did not care and something like this happened, at least he could stand up to Burns like her boyfriend, not only captain. The thought of another man trying to seduce (Y/N) tormented him, smashing on his heart like stones. It did not help when the main reason of his worries stepped inside the van, slamming the door behind her and furiously turning to face him.

“Why did you do that? I was handling it fine Obi! You can’t go head on like that!”- her  irises darker, tears pooling in the corners of her eyes from frustration. She did not want to yell at him, but she needed him to know that she can handle herself just fine. Only problem with that was, that she managed to forget that Obi was not only feeling the need to have her under his wing like a hawk, protecting his members like a real captain, no, he was protecting her like a king protects his queen, and when that queen forgets about the crown on her head and the fact he would die for her sake if needed, the king loses it. Obi jumped on his feet, trying his best to lower his voice but it still came out more than loud. 

“He is trying to get you to transfer from day one!  He ignored my warnings, ignored your refusals, and I will be damned if I see him trying his tricks in person!”- he was barely suppressing the painful avalanche of shattered pieces of his heart, not wanting to bring that subject now, but (Y/N)’s response made it impossible.

 “And? Did I stay? I did! I can take care of other captains trying to get to be their doctor, I know I have obligations to our company and…”

“He was hitting on you (Y/N)! He did not care about your abilities, he was trying to get involved with you! Obligations?? How about your obligation to me as a girlfriend? Honesty, for example? Being honest of who you are dating, not making me act like only your damn superior! Making me tolerate the filthy moves of other men on you, right in front of my eyes, and even then I respected your wishes and now you are trying to get me to stay quiet and watch from a far how he is breathing down your neck?! “- Obi was yelling so hard he can feel the burn blooming in his throat. His fist slammed the metal of the van. (Y/N) stood in silence with her mouth opened, realizing what she had done. She hurt him, not intentionally but still did. Her rules made him suffer, and he still obliged because he loved her, but seeing someone else trying to harm her in any way, even by stepping over the limits of her personal space is something he can’t allow.

 “I can’t  (Y/N), I won’t just stand by. I am not a crazy jealous man, I know you are an honest woman and would never betray me, but I will protect your honor, I’ll be damned otherwise. You deserve the respect, you are a great doctor, and this…this was wrong. And yes, I will bite my tongue for your sake, but I can’t lo…”- Obi’s shaky voice was silenced by (Y/N)’s lips catching his when she jumped on him, grabbing onto him like he was the only thing she ever wanted. Tears strolled down her cheeks while she kissed him with raw passion, touched so deeply by the words that he spoke. She knew he was a good man, but she never imagined how deep that goodness went. He didn’t even lack wings, he really was one of Sol’s angels, and she was sure of it, and he was hers. And that was the only thing he wanted, to be hers.

 He wrapped his long strong arms around her, hugging her so tightly that he almost broke her, but then he released the grip a bit, trying to contain his euphoric longing. Their mouths crashed on one another like raindrops crash on the dry ground, feeding it, nurturing it, just how they did their hearts in that moment. Her closeness once more awoke his erotic desire. Something about her drive him mad in every way, emotionally, sexually and physically, forcing him to hammer her down on the medical bed placed in the corner of the van. He pushed her down, towering over her, kissing her neck and sinking into her cleavage while he violently started unzipping his pants. (Y/N)’s flustered face was half covered with her palm, as she tried to suppress her lewd moans on his hungry kisses and gliding of his hands all over her slim body. He cupped her ass with his palm, turning her over on her tummy, climbing on top of her. His hand slid across her spine, along the back of her neck and into her hair, gripping her gently and pulling her head back so his lips can once again find hers. Her muffled moans were eaten by him sucking on her tongue gently while pulling her black jeans down along with her purple lace panties.

 “I want you (Y/N)..I want to make you mine over and over again.”- he gasped in her mouth as the sound of his voice was combined with the sound of his pants being pulled down. A familiar feeling of his throbbing heat spread across her soaked pussy lips as he parted her ass cheeks, trying to gain access to the main thing. He teased himself a bit by rubbing his erected cock along her slit, trying to collect as much of her juices as possible before he lifted his hips and then slammed into her, kicking the air from (Y/N)’s chest. His adrenaline from earlier still rushing violently in his veins, making him to drill inside her without suppressing his strength or speed, feeling the van with the wet sound of his base smashing onto her cunt, and his groin on her ass cheeks.

 “Fuck….you pussy is so tight…and…it is mine..just mine.”- he smashed harder, lifting himself upwards and swinging back down in a rush, making the bed squeal under them. (Y/N) could not hold in her loud screams, as she grabbed the pillow with the rough green fabric, placing it under her chin and burying her face in, screaming her lungs out while he fucked her like a beast. He started biting her shoulders, licking his way to the back of her neck to leave more reddish marks there, making sure that with every bite another almost unbearable hit of his hips accompanies it, making his sweet (Y/N) voice her pleasure loud enough even with that pillow stuffed half way in her mouth. His slams became faster, as he slid his hand under her shirt, starting to knead her breasts, pinching the soft flesh, searching for her hardened nipples to lightly twist them while he picks up the pace, feeling his sperm pumping down his dick.

 “I want to mark you even from inside (Y/N)….I will cum in you baby.”- this was not a question, this was a statement. As he shifted her nipples along his rough fingers, slamming in her more violently than before, getting all of his frustration out with that last few hits and the thick hot sperm that squirted out of his swollen tip in her womb.  He slowly turned her, picking her up with one hand and changed their places, placing her on his chest while he was lying on the bed.  He gasped heavily, gently removing the strands of her hair from her face. (Y/N) also tried to catch her breath, but she certainly could not catch a break when Obi spoke.

 “I want us to come clean. I want people to know that you are mine. “- he lifted her chin up to make her look at him in the eye. His gaze again loving, caring, soft, the same one she adores. She could not help but to smile, slightly nodding. When he saw her approval he smiled ear to ear, kissing the tip of her nose and getting her closer on his chest.

 “Promise? Because if you don’t do it, I will propose to you in front of everyone and you will not have a choice.”- (Y/N)’s heart skipped a beat on that words, making her lift herself up on his chest, mouth shaped in a wide circle, stuttering.

 “W-wha…I-I-..I promise! No! Please! We can tell everyone! Today!”- her face red as a paprika, looking nervously around, playing with the material of his uniform. He took her hands in his, lifting himself and placing his forehead on hers.

 “Hay..I was joking..relax.”- he kissed her cheek, but something inside him made him think that this was actually not a joke. Being surprised by his own brain, his cheeks fired up, smiling shyly to (Y/N)who just swallowed a whole lot accumulated saliva in her mouth. Still not being able to say nothing, but to place a promising kiss on his loving eyes, trying to silence the embarrassing thought in her mind.

 I wish that is was not a joke.

[spookyceph]

ShigaDabi Week Day 8 | Free Day!

Rating: SFW

Warnings: Swearing; use of Ouija board

Summary: Way to Confess Your Crush #13: Get a Ouija board to tell them on Halloween.

I Sense a Presence in the Room

“You’re moving it, Twice.”

“No, you’re moving it, Spinner. Demons are moving it, and we’ll all be cursed for messing with this stuff—haven’t you watched any horror movies?”

“Both of you, shut up. You’ll scare the ghosts away before I get to ask them anything.”

“Himiko, honey, I don’t think the ghosts are the ones likely to get spooked in this situation.”

“Why are we using a board with English letters? I mean, I do remember the basics from school, but that was some time ago. Wouldn’t it be easier to play Mr. Kokkuri or something?”

“I can read it.”

“See? Dabi knows English.”

“Yeah, but what if the ghosts don’t?”

Like he was watching a tennis match, Tomura turned his head to and fro, following the bickering as it volleyed around. Just a few short months ago, he couldn’t have imagined such a scene: his friends gathered on both sides of the hideout’s bar, playing a game better suited to middle school kids. Then again, a few short months ago, he couldn’t have imagined using the words his friends in any sentence.

The game had been Toga’s idea. A fun way to celebrate Halloween, she'd said. Tomura didn’t care about some imported holiday, just as he hadn’t paid any attention to Bon when it came and went a couple months back. But he did enjoy seeing the others participate, learning all the different ways they interacted. So, silent, he watched from the edge of their circle as they finally settled down, cramming their fingertips on the planchette in the middle of the Ouija board Toga had picked up from who-knew-where.

A lack of holiday spirit hadn't been the only reason he'd sat out. The sight of so many hands squeezed into such a small area sent a chill rolling down Tomura’s spine. He wasn’t about to risk Decaying someone over a silly party game.

“Okay…” A quivering note had crept into Spinner’s voice despite his earlier accusations of Twice moving things. “What do we ask first?”

Toga bounced on her heels. “I know, I know! Who am I going to marry?”

A collective groan filled the room. Nevertheless, the heart-shaped plastic pointer gave a jerk, like an eager dog tugging on its leash, and began to slide across the board. Everyone held their breath. Tomura squinted in concentration, sounding out each letter chosen in his head.

D…E…K…U.

“What’d it say? Tell me, tell me, tell me!” Toga demanded the second the planchette stopped.

“Deku,” Tomura answered, wrinkling his nose. Maybe demons were rigging the game.

Toga held a differing opinion. With a squeal, she hugged herself and collapsed into a fit of maniacal giggles.

“Oh? Shigaraki speaks English too?” Even through his ever-present ski mask, Mister looked impressed. “A man of many talents.”

Tomura shrugged. “It can be useful sometimes.” Mostly for online games, but still.

“Hey, it’s spelling something else,” Dabi said.

Instantly righting herself, Toga watched with huge, shiny eyes as a second name emerged.

“Ochako,” announced Dabi, triggering a second giggle explosion. “Congratulations, vampire girl. You’re a bigamist.”

Spinner snorted. “What a load of crap…”

“Let’s ask it what unlucky slob gets stuck with you then, lizard lips.”

Toga was on it like a shark on a baby seal. “Yeah! Spinner next!”

Heedless of stammered protests and long-suffering sighs, the planchette launched into action. Tomura smiled wryly as the next name took shape.

“I knew it.” Dabi clicked his tongue. “Mandalay.”

“Total bullshit.” Spinner’s entire face had flushed deep forest-green, the edges of each scale almost black.

“Don’t get all bent out of shape. Not like you’re the first nerd to be into catgirls.”

“Get fucked, staple-face.”

“Let’s ask the board whether he does. I’ll do it if no one else gets the honor!”

“You’re making me blush, Twice.”

“Dabi’s true love next!” declared Toga, mercifully taking the reins again.

The planchette went to work. Tomura craned forward, curious despite himself.

T…O…

That could be the start of hundreds of names, Japanese or otherwise.

…M…U…

Wait—maybe he was separating the syllables incorrectly?

…R…A.

“Well? Who’s the one destined to tame the Blue Flame?” Mister asked with a laugh.

Not Tomura. It couldn’t be. That was simply impossible. The stupid board had to mean someone else—without kanji there wasn’t any way to tell one name from another if the sounds matched.

Except when he looked up, he caught Dabi staring straight at him.

Dabi, whose blue eyes burned hot and electric as they met his.

Dabi, the only other person in the room who knew English.

Dabi, his true love, according to the board.

In one smooth motion, Tomura pushed away from the bar and spun on his heels. He didn’t look back despite the bewildered and shocked questions the others pelted him with as he marched out of the bar. It was a miracle he didn’t accidentally Decay the door in his haste.

He’d gotten as far as the top step in the upstairs hallway before he heard pursuing bootsteps.

“Hey, wait up.”

Tomura refused to give in to weakness and look over his shoulder. If he hurried, he could make it to his room in time.

“Fucking hell, mophead, come on. Don’t make me run. I’ve got shitty lungs.”

A switch flipped in his brain, killing power to all rational thought. Tomura halted and did a sharp one-eighty. Dabi skidded to a stop just out of reach. A good thing too—there was no telling what might’ve happened if one of Tomura’s hands, fingers hooked into talons, had been able to grab him. Dabi read the other warning signs with a neutral face: tensed shoulders, narrowed red eyes, breath hissing in and out.

Only two words managed to bob to the surface of the stew of rage and humiliation Tomura’s mind was boiling in, but they were enough. “Not. Funny.”

“Who’s laughing, mophead?”

Slowly, the question and its serious tone sank in. Tomura blinked, his roiling emotions thickening into a sludge of confusion. “You…you rigged the game.”

“Guilty. The girls were in on it too. Toga was going to ask fluffy stuff about her crushes anyway, so I only had to bribe her to keep quiet and not gush to anyone else. Magne used her quirk to tug everyone’s hands in the right direction. Her English is even better than mine, as it turns out.”

“You had her spell my name.”

“And the others, yeah.”

“B-but…”

Dabi arched his eyebrows. “But if I wasn’t making fun of you, why would I do such a thing?”

“ Yes.”

“Because I think you’re interesting and smart and hot in a gangly, goth sort of way. I like you is what I mean.”

Tomura opened his mouth, but no sound came forth. So, he closed it with a click of teeth. Then he tried again. Same results.

With a sardonic smile skewing his lips, Dabi shook his head. “I’ve been dropping hints for months, but they flew over your head every time. So, when Toga suggested the stupid Ouija board game, I figured I might as well literally spell it out for you. Speaking of dropping hints, Spinner wasn’t embarrassed about the catgirl thing. He was pissed because your name didn’t pop up. Just thought I should mention it, in the spirit of fair competition.”

Though Tomura glanced all around the hallway, there was neither a convenient couch to faint on nor a hole to crawl into. So, he settled for the next best option: directness.

“I…don’t know what to say.”

Dabi’s smile softened as he shrugged. “You don’t have to say anything right now. When you’re ready, you can tell me to fuck off or whatever. I just wanted to tell you how I feel.”

He turned to go, but some unknown impulse spurred Tomura into grabbing his wrist, two fingers safely tucked away. Both red and blue eyes widened in identical degrees of astonishment.

“Uh…” Tomura scrambled for a reasonable follow-up. “Do you want to, um, talk about it?”

The way Dabi’s staples followed the curves of his smile did warm, strange, fluttery things to Tomura’s insides. “About which part? Telling me to fuck off or being my one true love?”

“I-I-I—”

“Relax, mophead. I’m just trying to lighten the mood.”

“Oh.” Tomura looked at Dabi’s hand, which had moved to link fingers with two of his and certainly felt serious. “Does that mean—”

“Yeah, let’s talk. Up on the roof fine? Kurogiri hates it when I smoke inside.”

“Sure. Okay.” He definitely wasn’t the former, but something in the back of his mind assured him the latter would stick eventually.

Warm fingers on a scarred hand gave his a squeeze. “After you.”

[kintsugi-sheep]

A Quick Duel in Everdust

The Sun crawled along the firmament, shooing the obscuring clouds from his view. With his great, amber eyes he peered toward the desert town, the intensity of his focus raising the temperature further.

Everdust stood isolated from greater civilization at all sides, build by a party of pioneers who gave up pursuit of the promised land. And now, the citizens had given up their homes. Man and woman, child and old, human, dwarf, and faery alike, sat perched upon the great boulders encircling the town. Many squinted toward Everdust, while others used ramshackle binoculars to look into the town. No one dared set foot into the sacred circle—a ritual symbol of confrontation—surrounding their home until the quarrel was settled.

The Sun turned his attention to the firmament again. His hundred steeds pulled his great wagon. Their hooves thundered against the air, dragging the great flaming orb in tow, only their divine might made this slog along the sky possible every day. And soon, they would reach the twelfth sea of the firmament, the vast domain of Lady Noon.

The Sun looked to the center of Everdust. Two mages, each having finished their preparations of the magic circle, stood a bolt’s length from each other. Each wore a great hat to fend off the heat and a large poncho to obscure their wands, tomes, vials, and familiars.

The first was a wizard. His cerulean hat shifted with the patterns of the seven hundred and twenty-two constellations. His azure cloak was dotted with symbols both erudite and blasphemous. He shifted in his boots, visibly uncomfortable with their fit, but his eyes were weighty with malice and confidence.

The other was a thaumaturgist. His clothing was pitch black, a symbol of humility. Magic was a divine gift, not a right inherent to those of arcane study, and to flaunt your ability through dress was considered an act of contempt. Sweat slipped across the bridge of his freckled nose. He was nervous, but resolute.

The Sun looked before him. Lady Noon sat perched at the boundary to her realm, long legs outstretched, her infinite mane flowing behind her, a glass of the finest of the primordial waters at her plump limps.

She gave the Sun a smile and a wink before tilting her head back and imbibing.

Each mage took their stance, dragging their feet shoulder-width apart, mirroring each other.

The townsfolk looked on with excitement.

The ponchos flew open, revealing their contents beneath.

The horses stampeded toward noon.

A staff of ivory was reached for; carved from the tooth of a great leviathan with a sapphire bleached by the rain, runic numbers of a dead tongue carved delicately along its length.

Lady Noon poured herself a new glass.

A staff of wood was extended; shaped from a branch of Yggdrasil and sprouting acorns along its surface, emerald light shimmered from the leaves that floated about its head.

The Sun passed the boundary of noon, taking a glass from the Lady as his chariot sped across.

A pulse of green aura collided with a pulse of blue. Then another. And another.

Each mage fired successive shots, their spells popping against each other like fireworks before they could hit their mark.

With a flip of the wrist, a spin, and a flourish, the wizard shot an arc of lightning at his adversary.

Using the blood of his forefinger, the thaumaturgist traced a sacred symbol in the air.

Lighting crackled against the scarlet shield before dissipating, another flurry of green orbs shooting from the blue mist.

Undeterred, the wizard dashed forward, parrying the projectiles into nearby property with the shifting tip of his wand.

He pointed down and shot a gust of air beneath himself to fly directly over his opponent’s head. And what should have been an opportunity for an easy shot became a need for evasive action.

The thaumaturgist dodged just as the blackened tendrils shot out from beneath the wizard’s robes, their black flesh slick with sweaty shadow, their lengths lined with chattering teeth. The wizard’s familiar kept him aloft as he advanced on his opponent.

Ducking into a nearby alley, the thaumaturgist made use of his preparations. This fight was months in the making and that time was well spent. Slapping the side of a house, one he remembered drawing a magic circle on the interior of, the wood of the home twisted with a snarl.

It grew and warped, reverting to the tree from which it came before warping further, taking on the shape of a great hound.

It lunged at the wizard, severing his tentacles from his shadow. The wizard rolled across the creatures leafy back as it feasted on his familiar, preparing to push his way through the brush.

Unfortunately for him, his opponent was already breaking through. Each looked at the other in shock before raising their wands at each other again.

The thaumaturgist staggered on the shifting beast beneath him, falling to one knee in time for a bolt of lighting to zip over his head. With one hand palmed at the base and the other twisting the shaft, he marched forward, a stream of fire releasing from the head of his wand at the retreating wizard.

The wizard leapt to the ground, pulling his familiar’s core from shredded, purple pulp, and reached into his poncho for a vial. He smashed them together, a blue mist forming and shifting into an enormous owl.

The wooden hound poised itself for a jump, but a bellowing hoot from the owl stopped it.

The thaumaturgist looked on in confusion as his creature turned its head back to him, a wicked snarl spread along its root teeth.

With a howl branches shot forth from beneath his feet, tearing his black hat from his head and taking a bit of flesh with it.

He retreated further down an alley, the wizard and his two familiars in pursuit.

Through the pulses of energy, the bolts of electricity, and the gnashing of teeth, the thaumaturgist realized he’d nowhere left to run.

In that moment, closer to death than he’d ever imagined he’d be, he remembered his training.

A thaumaturgist believed their power to be of divine origin. They were to say their thanks for their power. They were to use it to the fullest of their ability. And, when backed into a corner, they were to repeat step one.

He ran into the center of town. Out in the open. The bird advanced overhead. The dog advanced from the alley.

He raised his wand.

The dog leapt.

He thrust it into the ground.

The beast arced.

He prayed, years of training granting him the speed to speak his divine appellation in one word.

The dog closed its mouth around him.

The Sun rolled his shoulders and gave a mighty wink to the thaumaturgist. The young man had prayed, after all.

Veins of flame raked along the tree-like surface of the hound like a lava flow, rupturing into searing puss as they went. The dying screech it gave out was heartbreaking.

The wizard looked toward his opponent.

His freckles glowed with golden light. His blood—now ichor—retreated into his skull and sealed his wound shut. His spirit, now evaporating from his body like boiling water, crackled like the sun. His irises distorted, warping into magic circles that spread across the surface of his sclera.

The thaumaturgist looked to the owl, its wings flapping, and spoke a divine word.

The bird stopped flapping.

It descended. Slowly.

Landing to the ground, it dissipated.

The wizard stood still, worn, his breathing labored from the smoldering hole in his chest. His left lung, heart, and ribs were gone, regeneration impossible due to the blackened cauterization lining the inside of the injury.

He removed his poncho and his hat, his vials and his wands, and prostrated himself before his opponent.

..........

In the Deep Frontier, the last virgin land within the realm of the universe, sits a poor town called Everdust. Off the grid, at the mercy of desert storms, abandoned to die in the uncaring sands, these people call for the aid of mages to help get them through. However, when the mayor becomes so bold as to request the assistance of two mages, the townsfolk learn two important things. Not all magic is created equal. And not all mages get along.

I felt like trying my hand at writing fight scenes by employing two things I learned recently. First is to avoid being too technical. The second is to have it read fast, to better capture the pace of an actual fight. I feel like I did okay on the first one, but stumbled on the second. Mainly because of how cumbersome the word "thaumaturgist" is.

"[WP] Describe a duel between two cowboy wizards in the Wild West"

[pernatius]

Lost in Space Part 12: Ch 5

Previous

Summary: The fate of the universe will be decided in the final five chapters.

Lost in Space on Tumblr

Lost in Space on ao3

Coming from my chest, a wave of yellow light enveloped every inch of my skin. It causes my hair to look as if it is combusted, consumed by fire. Bright orange, almost honeyed, with hints of white flames, floated around my line of sight, acting like my hair. I radiate brighter than ever before. I am heated, and a burning sensation flared across my arms and face. A character from the universe’s first language scorches my skin repeatedly, elevating from bone, and for the first time, I’m able to understand what it says. The expression is roughly translated as “strength.” I have become quite literally what the universe needs. 

Seven’s bond is now whipping towards me, cracking and causing a sonic boom as it cuts through the air. The hurricane of energy pummels me, blowing my aura in the opposite direction. The metallic whip is an inch from making contact with my face for the second time, but I bring the bits and pieces of what was once the flat, broad, and sharp part of my trusted sword, the late Licata’s broken gift, and block it. 

Wapeesh. 

It strikes it. A flicker of its electricity springs away from the contact point and grazes my shield as it returns back to the uglier of the two Lords left. In the middle of my success is Four thrusting their sword. It pressed against Saamuki’s blood-red sword, which funny enough looks much more heavenly than Four’s pretentious light sword, grinding, and half a heartbeat off from making a hole into the squishing muscle between my creasing eyebrows. I throw their sword off of mine. It stabs the floor and gets stuck. Four tries prying it free, giving me time to turn on the offensive. I can hear Seven’s chains rattling as it’s being waved towards me. After tearing the air, I send the fragments of my blade towards the way too enthusiastic Lord’s closing wound as they’re smiling while watching my scattered, flying weapon coming towards them. My weapon pushes the Lord’s weapon back to them and then is about to dig through their all-white, too bright cloak into whatever their flesh has become. They deviate away from its direction at the last minute. Seven is annoyingly theatrical, after all, but at least I finally landed a hit on Four. Saamuki’s sword slices through the monstrous figure before me. A cut has been made through their stomach, but seeing the Lord’s blood on her sword is an eyesore. There’s a drastic contrast between the dark shade of red and the bright yellow along the tip, dripping towards the crossguard. 

Four’s sword pops out of the ground while I flick their blood off. The Lord grips the wound and looks at me with shock as their teeth point away from the hole in their face, then interest. “Congratulations. You’re not wasting my time,” Four sarcastically affirmed after their teeth clink together. Speaking of clinking, again, Seven’s whip comes at me. Its suddenness pushes me, but I’m able to block it. “You’ve gotten respectfully stronger in such a short amount of time. One would be jealous, but it’s not enough.”

Summoned a second sword, the two clashed with the single sword in my hand. It sends out a ringing sound with each swift and brutal hit, causes a deepening crack in the unfortunate blade in my hands, and pushes me towards Bichak. Seven is the least of my worries as they continue to hit at my side, rougher than before, but my shield won’t hold on much longer as well. As for Bichak, who’s at my back in pain, his words enter my head without opening his mouth. “Please hold on.” 

Both weapons in my possession snap. Saamuki’s sword breaks into two, and my shield explodes, sent to dust. I sandwich the two of us, the only ones left, in a cube. The four Lords, whose bodies are decaying, have their essence passing through. Finally, we’re safe from danger. Although, it’s only a matter of time before this breaks because I’m on one knee with my arms at eye level. The two Lords continue to attack. Four clashes their swords, and Seven lashes against the illusion. The two break into it. Pieces of wall and the roof rain down on us and fade once they land on the floor. I quickly patch it up, but that took too much out of me, so I only have one arm in the air. 

Something hits the floor behind me. Turning around, I see Bichak’s tears are red. He’s bleeding out of his eyes. His light is fading as he’s trying to use the book to stand back up, but the crystals are still spinning around him. They’ve either been spinning faster, or I imagine them to. Either way, despair is clearly plastered on our faces. Because of it, the words on my arm now mock me. My face looks bitter, but I’m crying. It all finally hits me. Saamuki is dead. Syco is dying. Kaishi and the others are going too soon if they aren’t already. Mikrovos stabbed all of us in the back. So much pain. Too many sacrifices. We had to endure it for so long, and for what? 

I’m sorry, everyone. 

I can’t do this.

I can’t be anything but a failure. 

A familiar voice sighs, “Not this again.” One of Four’s swords went right through the roof and would’ve killed me if it weren’t for the owner behind that voice jerking me away. Shiitakee is sitting between me and Bichak, who seems to not notice the spirit and thankfully not me talking to my deceased mushroom friend because it would’ve looked like I’m talking to nothing from his point of view. 

Gleefully through hiccups, I admit my relief, “Shiitakee, you’re back.” My smile is turned back into a frown. “We’re all going to die. Your sacrifice will go in vain.”

“Well, yeah, it will if you keep sulking in the middle of a fight. I’m surprised you’re not dead yet, but I praise whatever higher being is out there that you’re not. The universe needs people like you, and I’d rather not have this no-smoking life I now have been for nothing.” He touches my shoulder, and once again, he recharges me. I’m glowing again. 

“But I’m never going to be enough. I wasn’t enough to save Saamuki.”

“You sure about that?” 

A ball of blue light zooms past us and smashes Four. Four falls back. Their swords stab the ground before they stumble back further, and Seven is blasted away. They spin in the air before falling face first. Watchers are trying to help the latter Lord back up. Saamuki is fully healed, blue, and is floating above us. The blue fire swirling around her doubles in size, and with it, the temperature skyrockets, heating the room as she shrieks out, “They’re dead now because of you!” 

She charges towards Four again. Four lunges at her with both swords, but they just go right through her afterimage. She reappears at their right and punches them right across the face. The Lord nearly trips on their footing when forced to the left.

Left and right, Saamuki is punching. Four barely has time to counter. All they’re able to do is try to shield themselves, but her punches are causing their swords to crack. It’s only a matter of—

Both shatter, and the sudden release of energy pushes Four back. Before Four can create two new ones, Saamuki is charging up for a blast, but Seven is creeping up on her. Their whip ruptures the air around it. It flings towards her, and as I cause this already disintegrating six-shaped barrier to vanish so I can deflect the incoming weapon by blasting it away, someone jumps on the seemingly slowly disappearing illusion and shoots at the incoming blast’s owner. At the same time, Saamuki fires with a shout. It would’ve easily destroyed a planet.

Half of Four is smoldering. Their blood is spurting and oozing, but their body is slowly fixing itself. Not only are they a lighter shade of yellow, but also transparent, tiny tentacles are wiggling from the destruction and wrapping across the wound. They harden when they flatten across what’s left of the Lord’s body. Saamuki can’t do anything in fear of the consequences of killing a Lord. The explosion, release of energy, may have the power to detonate a solar system, but most importantly, it will kill all of us instantly. 

Kaishi, whose faintly glowing blue lands in front of me, is watching Seven’s reaction. Seven is holding the side of their face where a couple of their eyes were blasted away. Her glow fades away as she then turns towards me, and as she helps me back up, she asks, “My love, are you okay?”

I’m aching everywhere, but I’m not dead, so I nod. I wish Bichak could do the same, but as soon as the four Lords are absorbed, his frontside is planted on the ground. The only other ally conscious isn’t done yet. They force themselves up and try to reconnect the connection of Four and Seven. The latter tries to take advantage of our distracted states, but I block the incoming thrust of their whip when I manifest a shield. It breaks soon after it hits. Whereas the former just swats away Bichak’s attempt. Four with their body whole again explains with laughter, “Do you plan to waste what’s left of you with another meaningless attempt? Have you forgotten I wrote that book? I know how to counter the spell.” A symbol appears on their forehead. It translates to “locked.” It fades away before they continue their explanation with, “I will keep countering your pitiful attempts until you wither away like my siblings. Seven and I will rule the universe alone for countless millennia to come. You’ve lost, mortals.”

“No, we haven’t. Not yet.”

Hands behind their back, Four leans down to me. “Should I assume you think you can stop me? Human, you’ve survived this long because I’ve let you. I could squish you right now if I wanted to. Like so...” Saamuki tries flying away, but Four already has her. Her blue hue fades. She screams with the slow crushing of her bones. The two of us down below try stopping this queasy over-the-top showmanship of power. Kaishi’s arms stretch towards her, and I shove a wall toward their face, but Seven stops us in the middle of our preparations. Seven aims low, causing us to separate and jump about. 

Bichak is trying to force himself up. He gags but swallows it down. Kaishi and I are working up a sweat as we’re hopping about and trying to counter. Each attempt is forced to be canceled with the fear of getting zapped. We’re at a standstill until limping Mikrovos, whose hand on his forehead, came back into the picture.

Four pauses their crushing and greets him, “Welcome back.”

He walked past us. For a moment, he said nothing. Then, standing before Four, he wiped his smeared blood off his face and grabbed hold of the symbol on his forehead. It began to flash, and he began to cry out. Four asks what’s the meaning of this then asks if he hit his head too hard. Mikrovos tells them, “You promised me no one would get hurt. I’m done being your puppet, and I’m especially done watching you hurt my Saamuki!”

Once Mikrovos rips off the symbol, he jumps and impales the Lord in the chest with his horns. The Lord lets go of Saamuki, and he catches the nearly unconscious reptilian. She mutters, “Mikrovos?”

Mikrovos crashes to the ground with Saamuki safely in his arms, but the two aren’t safe for long because Four manifests a new sword and swings it at them. Mikrovos cannot dodge in time, but the blade doesn’t go through the two. They’re not hurt, but Sakhra is. Sakhra’s body is glitching around the sword, which is deeply embedded into his chest. Saamuki, being too tired to speak, can only reach her hand out towards the deleting Sakhra. Sakhra’s body is vanishing pixel by pixel. 

He slides off the weapon, turns around, and walks towards Mikrovos and Saamuki, swaying almost drunkenly. She reaches out to him. He smirks. “I guess you owe me again.” She sniffled then began to weep. He reaches out towards her, and while his body is nearly gone, he manages to wipe away her tears. “I’m proud of the woman you’ve become, my daughter.”

Sakhra is gone. Mikrovos is comforting Saamuki, and I can’t hold in my anger. 

“No more,” I cried out. I grabbed Seven’s whip. It burned just as much as before, but this time I’m able to ignore the pain. I force it out of Seven’s grasp and empower it with my powers. The pain ceases. It’s brighter than before, and I use it against Four. Four’s sword connects with my stolen weapon, but instead of wrapping around it, it shatters it and Four’s forehead. 

The once cocky Lord now feels their forehead in a panic. “Impossible!”

Then, a stream of their essence begins to travel between us towards Bichak and his crystals, but the Lord isn’t going down so quickly. They make a run towards Bichak, but Kaishi is one step ahead. She shoots both knees, one after another. The Lord falls and begins to wilt, unable to heal their wounds. 

Reaching out towards Seven, they plea, “Please, Seven. Help me.”

All of their lips let out a wide toothy grin that stretched uncomfortably, nearly tearing the skin around their lips. Kaishi’s ready to shoot, Mikrovos steps back, and I’m prepared to use Seven’s whip again.

Seven responds with a bow, “As you wish.”

Opening all of their mouths, they begin to suck up the feeble Lord. Four lets out an outcry, and the three of us move, but with the snap of Seven’s fingers, Watchers step between us. They attack, but they’ve merely become obstacles. We breeze through them quickly, but not fast enough because, by the time we get close enough, the Lord’s cannibalism is finished. Four’s teeth encircle the sides of Seven’s head. I can feel the massive boost in strength even though the fused Lord hasn’t done anything but dodge. 

The Lord merely stares at us, but with just that, they push us back. Seven points a single finger up in the air and charges it. Without yet touching us, it blows us back even further. Us out of the way, Seven takes back their chain. 

They point their finger at us. We don’t have anything strong enough to deflect it with. If we dodge it, Seven will just charge it again. We can’t escape. We’re going to die. Realizing this, too, Mikrovos shields Saamuki for what’s to come even though it’s pointless. Kaishi looks at me. “No, this can’t be the end. After everything we can’t die like this. I won’t let anyone else die today!”

I’m brighter than before. I summon both Saamuki’s broken sword and mine. Both hands, which both have orbs of light floating above them, grab the two weapons and collide them together. It takes everything that I have. The fused sword, which has a golden aura spilling out of it, is as big as Mikrovos. It has two fat blades of equal length with the same symbols that were on me prior. The weapon is massive, too heavy in my normal state. Because of my nanites, my arms don’t shred over trying to lift it up. Still, even this is too much for them. I need help. I can’t do this on my own.

All around me are those that have fallen. Each comes one by one. The Director. Skeema. Shiitakee, of course. Khavas. Licata. Sakhra too. Lastly, a group of people who my heart tells me are my crewmates. Maybe I said my plea out loud, or perhaps I’m just easy to read because Kaishi joins in too. She presses her right shoulder against my left and wraps her hands around the handle. They smile at me, but it’s when Kaishi states, “Together,” that we go. 

Seven tries bring us down with their chain. It whips the air before coming right at us. Without words, the two of us slashed right through the chain. Piece by piece, they snapped, scattering everywhere. One weapon down another to go, Seven aims. 

“This is for everyone,” I exclaimed.

“We forgive you,” several voices whispered into my ear.

We jump and Seven blasts. Together we swing, and not only do we cut right through the blast, but we also cut across the Lord’s forehead. 

When the two of us land back down, Kaishi orders Bichak, “Bichak, now!”

The Lord is being sucked into the crystal, but just like with Four, they’re not going down without a fight. They, though swaying, try to wail. Their teeth vibrate, preparing to make a sound, but they are abruptly stopped when a Tauvox elbows them in the stomach then uses the back of his hand to smack Seven’s face. Both fall. Seven is unconscious while Syco is in pain, clutching his soaked chest. It’s covered in his blood.

Sword vanishing into thin air and its light returning to me, I ran to him. “Syco, the nanites. Why aren’t they working?”

Kaishi, placing a hand on my shoulder, has me look up at her. “Before coming, here he had us remove his nanites.”

I’m on the verge of tears when I tell him, “You bastard. Why?”

Syco, with a bloody hand, reaches out towards me but retracts it before touching me. I grab it anyway. “Because I’ve done what I told you I’d do all those years ago when I was behind bars, little human. Besides, I miss Shiitakee, but may I ask you a favor before I go?”

“Of course, Syco.”

“Do you remember that promise I made to you when Commander Saamuki was unconscious after we defeated Commander Cala?” I don’t answer. I let go, and I looked away. I feel around my shirt, and I pull out my dagger. It’s bent the wrong way but still deadly. My tears fall onto the blade. He’s now holding my hand, grunts, and clutches his chest even tighter. “Please, my dear friend.”

I tell him what Apulsion said to me before he died. Syco smiles. 

It was fast. It was quiet. It left me hollow. Kaishi held me, but I didn’t cry. I didn’t know how to feel. 

She helped lead me to where everyone is, and that’s around the leafy giant. Bichak is getting treated by the somber Saamuki. I hand him back his dagger. He looks at me with his reddish eyes and raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything. 

Checking the green alien’s pulse, Mikrovos states. “Alive.”

Nobody says anything to this. We’re all still digesting everything that happened.

What looks like an older version of Saamuki appears next to her. Saamuki’s free hand then glows when raised towards this mysterious figure. She looks up at her for a moment. Her mouth opens. Saamuki is about to speak. Hesitating, she looks at us, Mikrovos mostly. When she whispers something to the older of the two while touching her ring, something I didn’t get to hear, the figure smiles and places her hand on Saamuki’s shoulder. Then, she fades away. By the looks of everyone, it’s only the two of us that noticed Saamuki’s sister. 

Watchers are looking all around us inquisitively. There are still a couple hundred or so Watchers left. Upon Bichak healing, Saamuki gets up and looks at each of us. “I have a promise to keep.”

So many gravestones. So many lives have been lost, and yet the war still goes on. There are still Watchers out there, low-ranked species who went past their quadrant limit. The consequence is known to high-ranked species, but not to people like me. To the Lords, we’re animals, but it’s not like those above us are that much better. To the Lords, they’re children. It’s exactly like how Four said. They played all of us. They used all of us. In this universe, there aren’t anymore Lords, but there’s still plenty of problems. At least things have died down. They’re not as bad as the Lords predicted. For once in their lives, people are truly living. They’re genuinely free now, but everything is still shit nonetheless. 

I’m on a cold, inhabitable planet. Sitting on a rock, I look at the resting places of those I know and those that I didn’t get to. Looking up, it seems like the stars are within reach. They’re not so frightening anymore. After all this time, I feel fond of them, but I have yet to call them home. I laugh at that because I still don’t have a homeworld. Whenever I look at her, I’m reminded of what I did. I still feel guilty.

She’s told me multiple times, “There was no other way.” 

I know, and I also know that if I didn’t do it, then they’d live like that for eternity, but while I can try to justify my actions, it still pains me. 

“To be human is to feel pain,” she assured me. 

I’m a partial Lord, essentially a god with what I could do, but the Lords have proven that even a god can’t just wave their hand and make the universe a better place. To be human is to accept our limits. To be me is to accept myself. To live is to accept the things we can’t control. 

Using the compass, the late Shiitakee stole, Kaishi, Mikrovos, and Saamuki appear in the corner of my eye. Upon seeing that I noticed their arrival, Kaishi is smiling as she waves me over, whereas Mikrovos, who has his arms crossed, is smirking at Saamuki as she points at her screen, which depicts the Lord’s crystals. “Although it’s been one hell of a journey, it’s what’s brought me to find my home,” is what I told Mikrovos that night on Earth. 

[wr173r-8l0ck]

What if My Hero Academia Characters were in Fairy Tail pt. 1: The Students

So yeah, there will be more parts to this one, hope y’all enjoy this series!

The premise of this What If [insert show] Characters were in [insert other show] is to basically explore what each character might be in a different show with different worldbuilding/whatever. Case and point, what if MHA students were Mages in the world of Fairy Tail. In this one, I’m covering the students of 1A and 1B, and also Shinso, primarily what their primary magic would be, and basic comedic traits and quirks of their characters. Enjoy!

Yuga Aoyama: Light Magic: He can fire out high-power bolts of light from any part of his body. For some reason, he likes to use his naval though. Whatever suits him, we have enough stuff to complain about. Mainly his French stereotypes.

Mina Ashido: Acid Magic: she can utilize spells to produce a highly corrosive fluid, which she can manipulate freely. She has such fine control she can select what she can corrode away. Yeah, clothes never last long with her around.

Tsuyu Asui: Animal Takeover: Amphibian: she can turn into a frog-person. Or a toad-person. Or a toadpool-person. Look, it gets confusing, okay, all we know is she can make her tongue super-long, her legs super-strong, and she’s fucking adorable.

Tenya Iida: Thrust Magic: he can propel himself waaay faster that anyone should, in any direction, even up. In straight lines and proper angles only too, for some reason, seriously, his turning radius is so sharp you can literally cut yourself on the afterwind.

Ochako Uraraka: Anti-Gravity Magic: she can reduce the gravitational pull on anyone and anything she touches. And apply it to anyone or anything else. She likes making orbits around people.

Mashirao Ojiro: Animal Takeover: Kangaroo: All he gets is a tail. And kicks powerful enough to break down a reinforced door in a single kick. And abs strong enough to resist a kick powerful enough to break down a reinforced door in a single kick. He’s a pretty chill dude though.

Denki Kaminari: Electricity Magic: Haha, finger-tazer go zip-zip. And channeling/producing lightning and various electromagnetic wavelengths. Including gamma radiation. And also heat. We suspect he might also be a Lightning something-something slayer, but we can’t be sure since his intellect seems to vary between absolute dumbass and strategic genius, seriously, what the fuck is he?!

Eijiro Kirishima: Armor Dragon Slayer: He can make himself unbreakable. Literally, he once survived a point-blank explosion with the power of a Tsar Bomba, only directed in a cylinder half the diameter of a golf ball. To the face. And he lived through that. And somehow he’s still friends with the guy that set off a point-blank explosion in a cylinder half the diameter of a golf ball into his face. Weird fella indeed.

Koji Koda: Voice Command Magic: Yeah, he can communicate with and boss around animals and even motherfucking DRAGONS. And some Dragon Slayers. Don’t try his tricks at home, kids, tigers are fucking ripped, hippos are more aggressive than crocodiles, and Katsuki is a walking grenade with anger issues.

Rikido Sato: Sugar Magic: Like… He eats sugar… To burn as calories… To gain increased strength and speed… That’s it, literally, dump a bag of sugar into his mouth and you have a less angry version of the Hulk with diabetes.

Mezo Shoji: Beast Takeover: He likes multiplying his arms. And making them into tentacles or spider legs. Also other things, but mostly tentacles or spider legs. Sometimes even other things on tentacles or spider legs. Or just tentacles or spider legs on other tentacles or spider legs. He’s a walking man-tree with branches that are various sensory organs growing from a nightmarish living moving mass with tentacles/spider legs as branches, basically. *shudders*

Kyoka Jiro: Sound Magic: Deafeningly deadly tunes! Literally, deafeningly deadly sounds, she can blast sounds so loud they’re basically constant or repetitive explosions. Either she’s immune to it or she likes it, who knows, all we know is that she’s into hardcore death metal and yet still somehow cute. Don’t say it to her face if you value your kneecaps.

Hanta Sero: Tape Magic: exactly what it sounds like. What tape does his magic cover? Yes. Is he ever high? Yes, all the time. Oh, you meant physically.

Fumikage Tokoyami: Shadow Demon Slayer and Demon Takeover: Darkness: he has a semi-sentient demon made of pure shadows and darkness growing out of his stomach! It’s pretty tame and chill normally, yes, but he has a semi-sentient demon made of pure shadows and darkness growing out of his stomach! Let him go on nighttime solo quests alone if you wanna live. Or not shit your pants bc of a prank the semi-sentient shadow demon thing pulled. Mostly the second one.

Shoto Todoroki: Fire/Ice God Slayer and Fire/Ice Make Magic: He can eat ice or fire to gain the ability to control fire and ice to such an extent it can kill demons. Well, verbally too, he once roasted an opponent so hard they just gave up without even fighting and just walked off. Also, are we sure we can’t put Daddy Issues as a form of magic?

Toru Hagakure: Refraction Magic: she can refract light around herself to make herself invisible, or focus and redirect it. She’s the guild’s gem! Literally, she’s like a polished crystal prism but with an active (and often dirty) imagination.

Katsuki Bakugou: Explosion Magic, Explosion Dragon/Demon/God Slayer, also currently studying all types of Fire Magic. He likes it when things he doesn’t like get destroyed by his hands. And when people he doesn’t like get destroyed by his hands. Or words, he can be really mean in a fight. Well, about as mean as a nuclear hedgehog with rabies and enough explosive firepower to take out a building in one shot can get.

Izuku Midoriya: He was given the All-Slayer Lacrima, and can use Strength Dragon/Demon/God, Speed Dragon/Demon/God and Wind Dragon/Demon/God Slayer magic, learning more as he goes. If he uses too much, he risks destroying his own body. Speaking of which, I gotta go get Recovery Girl for his bullshit. Again.

Minoru Mineta: Dead. Not from a quest, his harassment got him killed. How? Well, the last girl he was hitting on was named Lucy Heartfilia. Legally he’s still a missing person, since there’s no body, but the witnesses say there was a massive bonfire where he was last seen.

Momo Yaoyorozu: Memory-Make Magic: she can do various spells as long as she remembers it and has enough Ether in her body, and even combine spells. There’s a damn good reason she’s S-class, and no, it’s not her social awareness.

Yosetsu Awase: Fuse Magic: He can fuse various objects, people and spells to each other. Doesn’t matter what each is. He once fused Katsuki and Midoriya together. Almost destroyed a whole island...

Sen Kaibara: Gyration Magic: He can make himself, parts of himself or anything he touches rotate around a set axis, and he can control the direction and speed of the spin. He’s often invited to schools to demonstrate the dangers of alcohol. Or used as a replacement for the engine to a carousel.

Togaru Kamakiri: Blade Dragon Slayer: He can form various blades sharp and tough enough to cut through dragons. Except Kirishima and Tetsutetsu, since they require so much effort to even crack, anyone more powerful and battle-effective than himself (Katsuki, Shoto etc.) or anyone too cute for him to cut down (Tsuyu and Midoriya primarily)

Shihai Kuroiro: Shadow Dragon Slayer: he can manipulate shadows and melt into them, popping out in any place he wants. Him and Fumikage are good friends for obvious reasons. He’s also very good at pranks, and one of the few people to be able to say he fought Katsuki and lived.

Itsuka Kendo: Enlargement Magic: She can increase the size of herself or her body parts, she uses it mostly on her hands for devastating attacks. Well, attacks or, ahem, bedtime exercises. 

Yui Kodai: Command T: She can manipulate the size of any object she touches. Bigger and smaller. That and shape, somehow, don’t ask how she can do that, no one knows.

Kinoko Komori: Mushroom Magic: She can create, spread and accelerate the growth of various mushrooms and other fungi. She’s also really cute somehow, but also fucking terrifying in a fight.

Ibara Shiozaki: Plant Magic: She has thorny vines growing out of her hair, and can manipulate all plantlife, including her hair vines. Don’t ask how she got vines for hair, magic is weird...

Jurota Shishida: Beast Takeover: he uses his magic to turn into various beasts and monsters, primarily a bipedal bear-boar-dog creature. He’s actually very orderly and the most collected and ‘normal’ of the crowd. Which isn’t a high bar to clear, all things considered.

Nirengeki Shoda: Repeat Magic: he can copy an attack, magic or physical, and trigger it to go off a second time from where it previously hit. Many people don’t like him for that reason.

Pony Tsunotori: Animal Takeover: she likes to use Animal Takeover, specifically Antelope and Kangaroo, both of them often together. She kicks like a fucking kangaroo though.

Kosei Tsuburaba: Air-Make Magic: He can form constructs out of air, and manipulate their density and movement freely. He’s the only one that can tolerate Monoma, and even that’s a bit of a stretch to that word’s definition.

Tetsutetsu Tetsutetsu: Iron Dragon Slayer: Pretty self-explanatory: he can turn his body into an iron-like substance that is actually waaay tougher than regular iron, and can redirect purely-magic attacks into the ground through his body, and he can form various weapons and attacks. Very manly, a vegetarian, kind to animals, and will eat any spare iron you have.

Setsuna Tokage: Split-Up Magic: She can separate parts of herself and telekinetically and telepathically control them. She can even fly like that, or form her split body parts into mini  versions of herself. Truly annoying to fight, especially with her Requip Magic.

Manga Fukidashi: Various forms of Letter Magic: He can write down anything in any alphabet or language, and it appears like magic! B-because it is magic, like, all of this is magic, nothing is real!

Juzo Honenuki: Liquification Magic: He can disrupt the solidity of any object he touches, and thus makes it intangible or almost a highly-viscous liquid. The only other known person to be able to reliably stop Katsuki whenever he goes berserk. Which happens a lot.

Kojiro Bondo: Glue Magic: He can produce and manipulate adhesives. Any and all types of adhesives. Not tape, apparently it counts as an adhesive-covered object (Laaame!). But still cool, I guess.

Neito Monoma: Ether Copy and Ether Replicate Magic: He can copy virtually any type of ether-based magic, however he can’t replicate magic sourced from a lacrima or a build-up of Ether. He often gets KO’ed by Itsuka for being a prick.

Reiko Yanagi: Telekinesis Magic: She can control any non-living object in her vicinity, however not if it’s too heavy. Her and Ochako are a literally lethal combo, and the most surprisingly terrifying duo.

Hiryu Rin: Reptile Takeover: He can obtain the characteristics of reptiles: tail, scales, armor, jaws, claws, fangs/teeth, even tear projectiles of blood from his eyes! Yeah, he doesn’t use that last one a lot, but he can shoot out his scales like projectiles.

Hitoshi Shinso: Brainwash Magic: he can hypnotize and verbally command anyone that answers his questions, and he can even manipulate his voice to sound like anyone else. The one downside to this is insomnia, but his insomnia can be cured by caffeine, or so he claims. We’ve had to get him from strange sleeping locations on multiple occasions, including rooftops, rafters, clothing lines (yes, he can somehow balance on a tightrope in his sleep), another fucking city one time...

[nervous-ninja]

Part 3 - Conclusion

Finally part 3. After this I will post this only on AO3 if you want to follow me on there. This is the end of this fic but I plan on doing an AU one soon. I hope it’s not too disappointing! AO3 account here: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AshaBlue/works

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3 - Conclusion 

“Nong!” Mew called, reaching for him as Gulf fled the room. The sudden break in contact and the force of Gulf’s push left Mew off balance. "Don't run away."  Mew said under his breath, not entirely sure if he was addressing Gulf or himself.  He would have to do the soul searching later, now he had to deal with his mess. Mew hurried after other man, closing the distance between them quickly. He grabbed Gulf by the elbow before he could disappear into the bathroom.  “Wait a second!” Mew was still a little breathless.

Gulf let Mew tug at his arm a moment before turning around. He faced Mew with a mostly calmed expression, but would not meet his eyes, choosing to stare at his own feet instead. It was hard to reconcile the Gulf who could now barely look at him, his face a storm of shame and residual desire, with the hungry, eager man who moments early had Mew pressed against the fridge, moaning against his mouth, bold hands exploring.

“Please, Phi.” Gulf layed his hand over where Mew held on to his arm. “Can you just give me a minute?” He looked up for a moment before shying away again. Mew’s heart gave a defiant lurch at the sound of defeat in his voice. He wanted to fold him up in his arms and murmur reassurances into his ear, but getting that close did not seem like a good idea right at this moment. Instead, Mew ran his thumb over the soft inside of Gulf’s elbow and let go. Gulf instantly disappeared inside the bathroom, locking the door behind him.  to think of anything better to do, Mew made his way back to the kitchen to make another attempt at some kind of dinner, his mind on the first time, and what he promised himself would be the last time they crossed that line from brothers to more.

It was months ago. The tension had been building for months, their chemistry electric from the day they met and instantly palpable to anyone around them. It became real affection, and real love not long after. It was harder and harder for Mew to maintain his guard against the onslaught of trust, care, and acceptance that Gulf directed at him while asking only for things Mew was already more than willing to give. His time with Gulf became something he increasingly looked forward to, missed when it was over or when their separations were too long. Gulf felt like home. They could be anywhere and so long as he could reach out and find his familiar warmth, Mew felt safe. From the way Gulf sought him out, clung to him, let him into his space, and always made an effort to end their fights told Mew that the affection was far from one sided. Yet even as the entire world around them declared them lovers, between themselves they never broached the subject in any way that might give their feelings clear lines and edges. They stepped around the subject like it was some fragile beautiful relic that would oxidize and crumble under the harsh light of the day.

Then came the night of the Chinese New Year event.

Even on stage in front of so many people Gulf’s was more unreserved than Mew had ever seen him. The younger man delighted Mew with his suggestive responses and flirtatious jokes. They were both at ease, happy having learned that season 2 would be happening. Gone was the dread of parting, replaced by giddy optimism. And it happened right there on stage, the right atoms collided and something passed between them through the wide channel of shared understanding formed when they met each other’s gaze. They stood close noses touching, Gulf’s hands on his neck, playing pretend lovers in front of hundreds of people. Though the pose was in the script, Gulf whispering “I love you, Phi” as he planted a soft kiss on Mew’s forehead, was not.  Neither was the way Mew stopped breathing when he heard those words, meant only for him. The pretense evaporated.  Gulf smiled widely as if in acknowledgement of what they both knew and Mew felt something like a small dam in him dislodge. For a moment they were both suspended inside a shared understanding. Mew felt only the beating of his own pulse, the heat of Gulf’s body in his arms and the delicate fingertips pressed against his neck. Their eyes caught in each others, spilling everything. The rest of the world disappeared. The fans, MCs, stage, lights, all faded into a barely audible hum somewhere on the periphery of their perceptions.

There was no one else in their dressing room when they stumbled in, shutting the door to any possible intrusions. Mew pretended not to notice Gulf locking the door, something he had never done before.  The room was a technicolor kaleidoscope of flowers, stuffed animals, Bhat bouquets and bags of gifts. More had been delivered while they were on stage, leaving little room to stand. They were laughing at nothing of note as they moved through the room, Mew’s arms protectively around Gulf’s waist to steady him, guiding him through the narrow free space on the floor. His attention was drawn to the light catching on the heart-shaped stickers still clinging to Gulf’s neck when he lost his balance. Mew collapsed unto the love seat, landing on a large bouquet of white lilies, taking Gulf down with him.

Gulf landed in Mew’s lap, the flowers crushed beneath Mew’s bulk. Gulf was laughing as he turned around to check if he had injured Mew in anyway. The questioned died on his lips when their eyes met. Their laughter abruptly faded. Though Mew had held him like this a million times, a new feeling ran through the length of him like he had just injected some thing. For what felt like forever they both just watched each other, eyes hungry but neither quite bold enough to speak or move. Somewhere in the back of his mind protest blared but Mew could barely hear them. Then Gulf - shy, reserved, quiet Gulf - his voice soft, words polite, as straightforward as ever, just up and asked if he could kiss him, complete with khun phi and na krap.  It touched the weakest spot in Mew's reluctance, sending the whole thing crumbling. Gulf’s mouth parted in a smile, eyes dancing with self satisfaction at the expression on Mew’s face before suddenly feeling shy with his own request and Mew's lack of an answer. While Mew gazed up at him the other man started to speak again. Some kind of assurances like You don’t have to. It’s ok. I’m just kidding na when Mew closed the space between them.

He moved first partly to stop that pretty mouth from talking, but mostly because he had been wanting to kiss that mouth all night.

He kissed Gulf through a smile first, almost playfully, with little depth or heat. Like he was kissing a precocious kitten. He meant to end it there, foolish faith in his own will power, but Gulf’s hands were suddenly on his face, pulling him towards him, deepening the kiss. He didn’t expect it to feel so different from what it was at work. Didn't expect the surge of what to be so strong, so all consuming, did not remember Gulfs lips being so soft.

Things escalated quickly after that.

They scrambled to fit their tall frames on the overburdened love-seat, crushing more flowers beneath them, their movements spilling petals, tearing tissue paper. After Gulf winded him with a misplaced knew or elbow for the fifth time, Mew wrapped an arm around the other man's waist and in one fluid motion, with grace belaying his size, lifted Gulf and flipped them both.  Gulf landed softly beneath him, snuffing out the remaining life of a bouquet of carnations. The short “hah” that erupted from Gulf's mouth at the motion as he grinned up, his face a mix of awe and arousal, turned Mew’s thoughts into white noise. Mew wanted to watch him longer but Gulf already had his hands on the back of Mew’s neck, pulling him back down. Mew didn’t so much give in as melt into Gulf’s urging.

He did not remember when or how he managed to remove his red silk shirt or how it ended up on the other side of the room unceremoniously strewn over the face of an obscenely large teddy bear.  He remembers coming up for air one more time, pulling away to take in the focused look on Gulf’s face as he worked at unbuckling Mew’s belt. He was mildly aware of his own smile and the blush growing more fierce on Gulf’s face under Mew’s intense examination. Then Gulf looked up at him, those soft brown eyes defiant, pleading, trusting. Tenderness and worry shot into Mew’s heart and then visions rose to his mind unbidden; he was suddenly back in 2018, afraid to leave his house, facing rejection and scorn when he did, the terrible, suffocating weeks of shame and heartache. He also saw the headlines, the hashtags, the comments. He recalled with sharp clarity the ordeal with Poom and the toll it took on Gulf, the way he closed in on himself. His late night LINE messages the only way he could express his pain and only to Mew. He saw Gulf on the receiving end of attacks he knew too well. Past memories swept up with horrible imaginings of what might be and a protective instinct raced down his spine. The spell was broken. He suddenly felt the stab of thorns against his leg where their movements distributed some roses, there were knocks on the door, phones vibrated and dinged with alerts. The thoughts as sobering as a punch. Whatever delirium had taken him that far dissipated and panic crashed in with savage force.

Gulf must have seen the change come over his expression, understood instantly what was running through Mew’s mind as he shot up and scrambled to stand, nearly falling again. Gulf was there at his side steadying him, saying something as he shot looks towards the door. Mew’s head buzzed and all he saw was the indefensible state of the room and their clothes. The sound of knocking and phones seemingly growing louder with each second. He was pulling on his shirt frantically, repeatedly missing a button when Gulf was there again, a comforting hand on his arm.

‘It’s ok’ He remembered Gulf saying as he moved Mew’s hands away from the shirt and buttoned it for him. Before he could find his voice again Gulf was gone. Then there were people in the room and hands pulling him along and voices talking about dates and times and then he was in the van and in his house and collapsing unto to his bed.

It was nearly 1am when his phone buzzed with a LINE message from Gulf.

-I’m outside

Mew met him at the front door.

“Did I wake you, Phi?” Gulf had asked. His face cast in shadow as the lights of his still running car silhouetted him.

“No. I couldn’t sleep.” Mew made to move aside to let Gulf come in but the other man shook his head.

“I’m not staying.  I just needed to tell you this in case…” There had been hesitation in his voices but Mew was not able to read his expression in the dark.

“P’Mew…I’m not like him.”

Mew knew Gulf saw him flinch at that.

“I don’t want you to think you did anything wrong tonight. I don’t regret kissing you. I think I know what you will say yet I can’t bring myself to regret it. But the way we started. How we stopped.” He said haltingly. “I didn’t want you to think that it was impulsive. That I didn’t want it. That I haven’t wanted it for a long time.”

I wanted it too. I’m glad it happened. I don’t regret it either. I love you.  I’m so happy to see you. Don’t leave. Please don’t leave.

Mew's mind screamed but he forced these thoughts behind the expanse of common sense. “Thank you." He said, hearing how awkward that sounded, glad he couldn't see Gulf's face. "But you didn’t need to come out all this way so late.”

“I wanted to see you. I was worried.” Gulf shifted from one foot to the other. He turned to leave. “I better get back before anyone realizes I left," he added and Mew had not missed the disappointment in his voice.

“Wait, Nong,” Mew took two steps towards him “Are we ok?” What a ridiculous question that was. For weeks after he would remember this moment and cringe at his own cowardice.

“We’re fine, Phi.” Gulf had replied with an exaggerated shrug of indifference as he kept walking away, “Nothing we haven’t done before.”

“Tua eng…” he took another tentative step towards him, bare feet on gravel.

Gulf halted at the word.

Please stay.  

“Message me when you get home." Mew said.

“Oh…" There was that disappointment again. The tone clawed at Mew's heart. He hated it doing this. "That’s in almost an hour, Phi. I’ll be fine.”  Gulf whined as he climbed into the car.

“Message me or I will worry” Mew insisted, his hand on the car window.

“Kraaap.” Gulf groaned in agreement.

Mew stood looking after Gulf’s car long after it disappeared down the street. He had gone through all the things he should have said and all the reasons he kept them to himself. Though he returned to his bedroom he did not sleep until the message came.

“Khun Phi?”

Mew was pulled out of his reminiscing by a familiar voice. Gulf stood just outside the kitchen. He stood by the shelf, examining a framed photo of them from the day they were cast.  He turned to see Mew entered and turned back to the photo. “I think I should go home,” he said flatly, “I’ll call a car.”

“You don’t need to leave. It’s late. I’ll give you space” Mew said thrown by the request, not sure which way to push.

“I don’t want space, P’Mew,” Gulf sounded tired, “And I can’t see how I can stay after what happened in there,” he nodded towards the kitchen.

“It wasn’t anything we haven’t done before.” The words left Mew's mouth the instant he knew they were they wrong things to say.

“You know as well as I do that’s bullshit. It was bullshit when I said it and it still is.” Gulf turned to face him. His face impassive, expression unreadable. He stood there, watching Mew intently. His hands still wrapped around the framed photo. Not angry, not judging, just waiting. Mew searched for the words that would somehow make this better and came up empty.

“Alright. I’ll get my keys.” He said taking the photo from Gulf’s hands and replacing it on the shelf behind him.  He lingered on it a moment, pretending not to see Gulf’s expression falter.

“You won’t even try to convince me I’m wrong?” Gulf asked, a hint of anger in his tone.

“About what?” Mew fixed his gaze on Gulf in the photo, not daring to look at the real man beside him.

“About there being something more here. Tell me I’m imagining things. Convince me I’m just getting carried away. That maybe I’m tired. That maybe it’s just the emotions of the last few days. Anything?” With each sentence Mew heard Gulf’s composure crack.

“I’m not a very good liar, Nong” Mew said gently. He turned to look at him. Gulf's expression warring between fear, anger and hurt.

“Try!” The desperation and pleading in Gulf’s voice rolled through Mew like thunder. It seemed to surprise even Gulf, the plea completely erasing the front he tried to put up. He grabbed Mew by the shirt, “Convince me, Phi. Tell me you don’t feel the same way. That it doesn’t mean anything,” He pleaded giving Mew several firm shakes.

Oh Tua eng.

“Would that make it easier? Would you even believe me?” Mew placed his hands over Gulf’s fists balled up around his shirt.

“No,” Gulf said finally and dropped his gaze. His grip loosened and he fell against Mew, headbutting him in the chest. “Why is it so easy for you?” He asked, his fists lightly beating against Mew’s chest.

Easy?

Mew pulled him in closer, wrapping his arms around him. He pressed his own face into Gulf’s shoulder as he spoke.  “It isn’t easy, Tua eng. Nothing makes it easy. But this.” He held Gulf tighter. “This makes it worth it. If it means keeping you safe and keeping you close…”

“This.” Gulf echoed. “And it’s enough?”

Mew pulled back to look at Gulf. He cupped the younger man’s face with one hand. “Watching you go after what you want and succeed? Being the person you go to when things are hard? Seeing the rest of the world fall in love with you? The pride on your face when you take care of your family? The way your eyes light up with every job you do well? Being here for all of these moments and more? Yes. It is” Mew smiled, knowing with his whole heart that he meant it.  

"None of that has to change.” His voice urgent.

"Maybe not right away. But if people found out…”

"They'd throw us a parade" Gulf interrupted "The world already thinks we're married." He added, looking down in a moment of shyness.

Mew took hold of Gulf’s hands in his. “Some people would, yes. We’d make a lot of Waanjai’s happy,” he flashed a quick smile. “Then the media would drag us through hell,” He squeezed Gulf’s hands reassuringly, smile dropping. “It could ruin your career. You have so much success for someone so young, so many opportunities right now and it could all disappear. And for what?"

"For us." Gulf answered quickly, without so much as a second thought. Mew frustrated as he was, could not help but warm at the untarnished optimism in that answer. He beamed at the other man, "And you dare say you aren't romantic,” Mew teased.

Gulf groaned in exaggerated annoyance, not trying to hide his own smile “I’m not being romantic. I’m being serious.” The work stuff isn’t forever. I don’t even know if I want to keep doing this for the rest of my life or even next year.” Gulf pulled his hands out of Mew’s and held Mew’s face instead as he stepped closer. “I don’t know about any of that, but I do know about you. I know I want you to stay with me for a long time.” Mew felt his heart skip at the sincerity in those word, at the closeness of Gulf’s face, at the heat of his hands.

Mew covered Gulf’s hands with his own. "I won't let you throw away everything you've worked for. Your dream to help your parents. I can’t be the reason for destroying that. You understand that, right?”

"It's not your decision." Gulf said simply.

“Can you really promise me that you won’t grow to resent me later when you realize what you gave up or lost? For not protecting you better?"

Gulf swallowed and pulled back, dropping his hands. He said nothing for a moment, considering his answer. “I can’t make any promises about the future. You taught me that.” He said finally, his voice decisive, assured. “But I can make and own my own choices. I would not blame you for my mistakes,” he pressed his forehead to Mew’s.

“Then what about the media, the tabloids. They will tear you apart. They will be so cruel, Nong…”

“I don’t care what they say about me.” Gulf insisted. “You are smart, Suppasit but you can be really dense sometimes. These last few months I have been trying so hard to make you see, to prove to you that I am ready for it, that I am not afraid to be with you openly and publicly if that is what happens.” He met Mew’s eyes. “If that is what you want.”

What I want?

Mew watched the man before him, considering every possible horrible scenario that would face them if he actually went after what he wanted, but they came far less easily now, diverging instead into happier possibilities the longer Gulf held his hands and the longer he looked into his eyes. He felt the wall of reasons against his own happiness crumble.

"You're willing to risk everything...to be with me?"

"Yes!" I love you Mew Suppasit Jongcheveevat.” He said with such intensity and force so as to leave no doubt in Mew's mind that he meant every last syllable.

Mew felt the last bit of resistance turn to dust.

“If you tell me now, once and for all, that you want us to remain as we have been, brothers or something like that. I will not push again. But if you want what I think you want, what I think we both want then I am willing to accept the risks, the hardships, the challenges.”

Mew laughed and put a hand over Gulf’s mouth. “You sound like you’re saying vows. Mr. I'm not Romantic. Enough speeches,” He said moving his hand away. He stepped away from Gulf, marveling at the him, at himself, at the foolish, wonderful thing he was about to do.

“Lets go to bed. It’s late.” Mew said, grabbing Gulf's hand, pulling him along towards the stairs.

“Wait a second. You can’t just leave it like this? What’s your answer?” Gulf protested, weakly resisting being dragged along.

“Ask me what you asked earlier, about the interview.” Mew stopped and turned. He faced Gulf, still holding his hand. Gulf, looking confused, searching Mew's face before finally speaking.

“Is…is your heart available?” he stammered out. Mew cocked his head as if considering the question. Abruptly, he tugged at Gulf's hand, pulling him towards another embrace. His hands gentle at the small of Gulf's back as he moved his face close to nearly touching. "Yes, Tua eng. It is.” He smiled

"But.." Gulf’s eyes grew wide with confusion.

“I think you should do something about that, don’t you?” Mew interrupted, eyebrow cocked. The expression on Gulfs face remained guarded and suspicious. He shoved against Mew’s hold.

“Mew, stop fooling around. What are you saying? What do you want?” Gulf demanded, even as a blush began to creep up his neck. Mew pulled him closer, nearly lifting him off the floor and pressed his nose to Gulf’s throat as he did so.

“Stop squirming.” Mew laughed. “I’m saying yes you brat. Yes to all of it. Now come on up to bed and I’ll show you what I want.” He put him down and let him go, turning towards the stairs. He paused when he realized Gulf wasn’t following and sighed, exasperated. He turned to see Gulf looking at him with suspicion. “If you’re teasing me” Gulf threatened narrowing his eyes. “I swear…Phi.”

Mew sighed with a smile. He went back, folded his arms behind his back and leaned in just next to Gulf’s ear. “Come up to bed. And I’ll show you what real teasing looks like.” He whispered, his lips intentionally brushing against the other’s ear. He paused before moving back to see the goosebumps rise on Gulfs’ neck. With a self-satisfied smile he headed for the stairs. He heard Gulf rushing to catch up behind him.

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

Gulf yawned as he slid into the makeup chair.

“Did you stay up playing video games again?” The girl asked as she smiled teasingly at Gulf. “No Phi.” Gulf mumbled reaching for the tea someone handed him. “Just doing homework late with P’Mew.”

The girl stopped her brush for a split second then continued, smiling to herself.

Gulf Pulled out his phone as she worked.

-- Can I stay at your place again tonight?

-- No. I need my rest.

-- Please na. Na kraaaaap. Na na na.

-- Brat!

-- Naaaaa

-- Yes!

“Hey” the Girl exclaimed as Gulf grinned, forcing her to smudge lipstick over his teeth. "Would you sit still."

“Oh sorry, Phi.”

She sighed.

“In a good mood are we?”

“Mmm.” Gulf looked up at the mirror as Mew entered the dressing room. They saw each other and Mew smiled when their eyes met.

“The best.” Gulf answered. The girl gave him another playful shove at the grin interrupting her careful lipstick application.

[dawnrider]

So this song is so hauntingly harmonic and I love it.  It makes me think of our current situation and holding onto the friendships/relationships we have despite everything feeling like it’s falling apart.  “As long as we’re going down, baby you should stick around.”  

But that’s not what y’all came here for.  😂=

So the story that I automatically connect this to is a WIP I have lurking in the Drive called Gone.  I’ve teased it before, I think...  But I could be totally wrong...

Gone: Modern/Disaster AU

Entering a neighborhood that didn't look as destroyed, she looked for more people.  Still no one alive.  It looked like more explosions had occurred further out from the city center as well, but more randomly and further apart.  It was hard to tell one place from the next with all the smoke and with everything in ruins.  A noise.  Whipping herself around, she looked for the source.  An apartment building, most of it collapsed, appeared to be where it was coming from, a pounding and a weak voice.  It was her imagination, right?  Afraid to call out, afraid to go in and afraid to look if it was someone else alive, she moved closer to the door, blown off its hinges, and stepped inside.

The bottom floor was relatively intact but the gaping holes in the ceiling didn't offer her much comfort as to the building's stability.  There were no bodies here, a blessing, but something that made her wary.  Had these people known to get out before it happened?  Could they be alive somewhere else?  Could her own family be alright?  She hadn't been able to find a working phone anywhere and it wasn't too hard to imagine that all the phones were out.  The power certainly was.

Again the sound of something moving, of someone moving.  This time she was certain it was a person.  She heard pounding, maybe kicking, and what sounded like a voice speaking in angry hushed tones.  Following the sound to its source, a simple door blocked her way.  It was locked from the outside.  Was someone trapped?  How was this one door in perfect shape when everything else was in shambles?  Listening more closely, there was no longer any doubt in her mind that there was someone behind the door.  She hesitated to call out, unable to form the words she felt would break the small spell of hope she had found.  There was someone else alive.

The doorknob wouldn't budge at first.  Unsure why it would be stuck, she jiggled the top lock to make sure it was undone, then tried the knob again.  This time it shocked her finger, a zap of static electricity.  She shook out her hand, staring balefully at the offending object.  Her own distorted face stared back and she sighed.  A third try proved more fruitful, the strangely cool metal spinning under her touch to pop open the door.  A set of wooden stairs greeted her, dipping down into a dark basement.  

This was the last thing she had hoped for.  It might explain why someone was alive, but the thought of going down into the dark alone didn't thrill her.  The sounds from below were no longer audible and now she worried that she'd made them up.  How could she have heard something from down here out on the street?  Dipping into her purse, she found the key chain flashlight her little brother had given her when she moved out, a joke gift she was becoming increasingly more fond of by the moment.  Its tiny beam did little to illuminate the darkness, but it was certainly better than nothing at all.  It made her feel better if nothing else.

There was little else in the basement room aside from a few boxes and another door.  This too was locked from the outside and had several locks this time as well as a shelf in front of it.    How could there be someone in there if the shelves were there?  But the sound of a body moving within the room, the sound of someone trying to find a way out...  The shelves were light enough but she was weak.  Once finished, she had to take a moment to make sure it wasn't her making the noise.  Sure enough, a soft thump made her startle.  “Hello?” she murmured.  The smoke and coughing from before had made her voice hoarse and raw, barely loud enough to wake a sleeping person.  

“Is someone out there?”  The confirmation was like a kick in the gut and she struggled not to cry in relief.  “Get me outta this hellhole!”  The voice was distinctly male and distinctly angry.

“Why are you locked in there?” she wondered aloud, rushing over to the door to set about the locks.  Each one gave her a shock more powerful than the last.  “What is with these doors?” she gasped, sucking her fingers after the last one.  The knob gave her no trouble this time and she sighed in relief.  The door swung open and smoke piled out around her, forcing her to close her eyes, coughing and covering her face with her handkerchief.

“Damn,” he too coughed, “I thought I was going to roast in there.”  She suddenly felt the heat coming from the room and she backed up the stairs to get away from it.  He followed, a vague shape in the black smoke.  Through the other door, relief was a small breath of air less smoky than that in the basement.  Finally she was able to see the man she had apparently rescued.

Her hand rose to her mouth to cover a gasp.  His eyes.  She had never seen eyes like that before.  The silver ash that seemed to soak into his hair and the small white ears atop his head didn't phase her like the burning sunlight of his eyes. Staring didn't begin to cover what she was doing.  She was cataloging each striation of color in his irises, each different fleck of light.   Those eyes narrowed, clearly not appreciating her gaze.  “I...  I'm sorry,” she whispered, backing away quickly, turning her back on the doorway.  A deep growl reverberated through her and she remained as still as she could manage.  Heat from another body nearly singed her, hot breath sliding down the back of her neck.  “I haven't seen anyone else for hours,” she whispered, hoping to quell his apparent anger.

“No one else is alive around here.”  His voice was smoother than she had expected, and she was surprised to hear the concession in his tone.  “You're a miko.”  

Caught off guard by his comment, she barely registered the feeling of his nose running along her shoulder.  “No.  My family runs a shrine though.”  He snorted, the puff of air startling her out of his grasp.  “My name is Kagome,” she offered.

He stared at her for some time, much like she had been staring at him before but with less awe.  She was afraid to imagine what she looked like right now.  “Take off the scarf,” he demanded in a soft tone.  She did so slowly, surprised when he looked shocked for a moment.  After a deep breath he shook it off and frowned.  “Inuyasha.  Let's get out of here.  This building's going down.”  Unable to refuse his sure manner, Kagome hustled outside and looked either way, unsure where to go.  “This way.”

@lemonlushff , @fantastiqueparfait , @heavenin--hell, @clearwillow , @mamabearcat , @thunderpot , @keichanz , @meggz0rz , @disgruntledbeast , @sarah-writes-stories , @zelink-inukag , @rikareena , @cammysansstuff , @mcornilliac , @redflamesofpassion , @superpixie42 , @underwater0phelia , @cstorm86 , @noviceotakus-blog , @lavendertwilight89 , @hinezumi , @wenchster , @lost-castles , @lady-dark-69 , @itzatakahashi , @juliatheanimelover7 , @kazeinori, @theinuyashareader, @inupotter, @eternalnight8806-3 , @smmahamazing , @willowandfog

[darkmindsotome]

Risque Rouge pt1

... Finally. Welp, I know I’m also in the middle of my IkeSen thing right now and this would be the first long fic I have done for IkeVamp here and it sort of took over. I hope you all enjoy it.

Tagging: @umbralaperture​ @otome-smut-queen @silver-fox-of-azuchi @tsundere-mitsuhide @jennacat84

General warnings for the whole fic: Angst, some fluff, Mental health issues, emotional things, trauma, blood, death and possible triggers. Please read responsibly. 

Darkmindsotome Masterlist

---

Chapter 1

For those of you searching for a little entertainment and a performance with a little je ne sais quoi. You could do worse than set your sights to a little building in the more bohemian quarter on the outskirts of Paris. Here you could rub shoulders with a Prince as easily as you could a street merchant as all were equal under the ruby lights. 

As long as you paid your coin you were all set to be whisked away into a land of fantasy. Everything here was the stuff of dreams the only nightmares were beyond the gates on your journey home. It was a strong selling point and drew a lot of custom from the streets of modern Paris to explore the artistic world and indulge in pleasures without fear of judgement.  

His feet once found the establishment by accident. Wandering around to stave off the boredom of yet another endless night. The books didn’t hold his attention, music was lost in the air and the mansion felt somehow empty even with the souls residing in it. This happened every few centuries, he had an itch that couldn’t be scratched and his feet took him wandering in search of a distraction. The distraction tonight was the same as the one he had discovered by chance a month ago.

The stage was lit up with a combination of harsh electric and gas. The tables and chairs around the room were tightly packed and none of them matched. Elegant dining chairs mixed with milking stools and benches. Tables of nothing more than upturned barrels or balanced planks on brick were the standard here. It was so haphazard and yet felt so warm and inviting with the melted candles pooling on them without containers. He couldn’t help but smile at the creativity of mortals and their desire to live life to the fullest no matter how few resources they had to achieve it.

Brushing his long coat neatly under him he took up a seat and a girl sauntered over to him. Black stockings clearly visible through the splits in her flowing skirt, with a tight white blouse that was straining under the pressure of her bosom.

“Something to drink Monsieur?” She asked with a smile, her eyes roaming from his head to the tips of his dress shoes.

“Oui merci.” He returned her smile and nodded. As she turned to go and retrieve a drink for him, he called out again. “Ah pardon Madame, would you be so kind as to tell me if the nightingale has done her turn?”

“You mean Evie? No Monsieur her performance is still to come.” She seemed to pause thinking of something for a moment before doubling back to his side to lean just a little too close, making sure to press herself against his shoulder as he leant in to whisper into his ear. “If you get tired of waiting for it, you could give me a call. I’d be happy to entertain you while you wait.”

“You honour me, Madame. I shall continue to wait though thank you.” He took her hand and brushed a kiss to the back of it his golden eyes glowed and the woman walked away as if she was in a dream. She returned with a selection of bottles for him to choose from. One was the colour of deep emerald, another was brown. There was also a yellow and one with a rosy blush.

He had not really cared to learn much of the drink until he started coming here, even with a rather famous patron of the beverage being under his roof. Darker green seemed to mean a purer distillation. Yellow was aged, the rose was coloured with fruit and the brown was not made with the leaves and blooms but the roots of the wormwood. Among these discoveries, he also learned it had no real effect on him. Indicating the dark emerald bottle, he was presented with a small tray. On it was an absinthe spoon that looked like an ornate item from a palace, balanced on a glass with a small stem. There was also a bowl of roughly formed sugar cubes and a long spill.

Left alone, he noticed a few of the other men in the establishment glancing in his direction. A faint smile and inclination of his head seemed to send their eyes elsewhere as he balanced a sugar cube on the spoon and poured a dose of the liquid over it. Taking up the spill he lit the end from the candle on the table and then set light to the sugar. The flame flickered as the alcohol burned and the melting cube dripped slowly through the spoon dropping into the glass. He watched the flame dance in the reflection of the drink and the clear emerald liquid begin to change.

It was a popular drink and more commonly known as la fee Verte or the green fairy. It also had another name and one which he found himself almost preferring, the devil’s drink. There were other methods in enjoying this drink but the drama of fire and alcohol seemed to be prefered here. As the flame died with the last of the sugar falling, he took up the spoon and stirred the mixture just as the music and the lighting changed. He attended this place every day for a week while he worked out the schedules and knew this one act only performed on a few nights for about an hour at a time. He brought his glass to his lips the medicinal scent filling his nose as he took a sip. His eyes never leaving the stage for a second as the performer took their turn.

---

It was always like this. Her whole body turned to a boneless mess backstage as she waiting in the wings for her turn in the lights. Worrying if she was going to mess up and forget a line. That was to say nothing of the fear she would be so badly out of step with the other girls on stage, making a complete spectacle of herself before the next act performed. She checked and rechecked her stage make up in the long mirror propped against the wall. Ghost-like white skin with dark make up on her eyes and shockingly red lips. Under the lights it balanced out and from a distance it didn’t look bad, but up close? She actually hated how it looked like a painted death mask.

“Almost time Evie!” A cheerful voice called down from the rafters. She turned her head to look up and found a smiling youth a little younger than her, his hands busy operating different ropes that changed the lighting for the stage. She couldn’t speak and gave a weak smile back as she nodded and stepped to the edge. The light cut a hard line through the shadow and part of her really wished to stay hidden, but that wouldn’t do. She owed so many for her life and this was the only way she had to repay her debt.

The ice-white feathers and pale sky-blue fabric wrapped over her figure, revealing her curves but also denying complete exposure. It was a tantalising taste of erotism that kept a lot to the imagination. Small strips of glass beads gave an eye-catching gleam to the outfit in all the right places, just enough to be suggestive but still tastefully teasing. Other establishments had reputations for being far more provocative than this.

Actually, even here there were performers and people on staff that went much further. She was constantly referred to as the Little Princess backstage because she was never pressured to go further and the owner always met that kind of demand with firm disapproval. The name was not something intended as a slight, she was in fact well-loved among the performers. Each had time to shine and all were given equal billing, so the need for petty arguing and fighting was never something to plague this performing house. No performer here was ever asked to do something they hadn't already consented to, a policy that saw the rejected stars from elsewhere flocking to them for continued employment. She took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. This was her show, her performance and the Nightingale had to shine.

The two giant ostrich feather fans snapped open as she held one behind and in front and stepped out into the light. The music turned more up-tempo with a clearer beat. It was easier to follow even as the lights blinded her. Dust in the air mixed with smoke as it danced in the agitated air through the beams of light making the stage feel magical. The nerves she had in her stomach relaxed and she twitched her hands swaying in time with the music. Right now, in this moment, it was only her and the music.

A flick here, a flutter there, just enough to give a glimpse and tease of what the feathers hid from view. One remained in place as she gave a wide arc with her arm holding the other. Her eyes that had been mostly cast down now looked out into where the audience was. The tables close to the stage were lost to her it wasn’t until about halfway back into the room that she could make out some shapes. Focusing her eyes as best she could on one point, hoping it was enough before dropping them again.

Her fan dance continued even after the song finished, a paper wall appeared behind her. Slipping behind it as the other dancers hit the boards to join her. She dropped the fans and the second part of her act begun. Her voice found its volume in partial hiding and the wall became a shadow theatre of sorts allowing only a silhouette to be shown to the gathered crowd as she began her striptease.

---

Mesmerising. It was the only word he had that could describe the performance and also the only adjective he had left in his vocabulary to say how he had been affected by it. She was skilled in her art and the charming innocence of her captivated the audience easily. Each patron fell under her spell one by one and when she looked up her eyes seemed to lock with his. His drink sat half drunk as he moved to the side of the room and slipped into the wings.

Furniture, fabric, ornate household items that were intended for props and décor choices were piled high on either side of the narrow space. He was careful not to disturb them in his path through them all to locate the owner. He was a proud supporter of the arts and more than once supported it in various forms when financially the artist struggled. Will had been a beneficiary of such interest in the past and continued to this day, placing pen to paper and showcasing performances that shocked and amazed. When he expressed an interest before, he was informed the Nightingale was not for sale. Clearly there had been a misunderstanding and that was what he wished to sort out tonight.

Showgirls, performers and all manner of people milled about the crowded backstage area in various stages of undress. They were rushing to change clothes, getting ready for their next turn or in a couple of cases already combined in trysts. Yes, mortals really were a colourful and lively bunch. He still couldn't shift the notion that something didn’t sit exactly right with him and the idea that such an innocent should remain here without assistance. A flash of his friend came to mind and he could practically hear the other man calling him an interfering busybody. With a wry smile on his face, he knocked on some upturned crates and waited for a response from the man sitting in lamplight surrounded by stacks of papers that could only be described as a fire hazard.

“Yes?” A middle-aged man with slicked-back oiled hair snapped his head up at the noise. He had on a shirt with an open collar and a printed scrap of fabric tied around his neck in a poor attempt to imitate a cravat. The pattern was so faded with wear it was hard to make out even its colour. It had probably once been high-quality silk but it was little more than a rag now.

“Ah Pardon. I was hoping now might be a good time—” His smile was ignored and his words were cut short as the man briskly stood and grabbed his jacket from somewhere behind himself. The fraying hems telling the same tale of the worn-out quality as his tie. 

“A good time Monsieur? A good time?” He was animated more than agitated as he pulled the jacket shut and buttoned the front. “I believe I have already told you that the little princess is not for sale.”

“I understand however I do believe we are at odds as to the meaning behind my offer.” Le Comte nodded in understanding. He had been right his offer before had clearly been misinterpreted.

“Well? What is it to be then? A fine gentleman such as yourself taking an interest in the entertainment of this place is nothing new. Neither is the interest in our Nightingale. But Monsieur,” The short man brushed blithely past Le Comte glancing over his shoulder. Le Comte followed behind gracefully avoiding the obstacles in his way while the owner almost collided with them all in turn. “Not one such person has managed to obtain that which they looked for and none have received my blessing to so much as talk to the girl.”

“You are very protective.” Le Comte’s voice was soft like that of an old friend showing approval.

“Naturally the child came to us as little more than a babe in rags, found her myself and raised her here. You might say she is something akin to a daughter too me. Whatever else happens here Sir is the business of the individual but I shall not see the child bothered with such things.” The man huffed as he grabbed a couple of the sandbag weights, moving them to the side revealing a crate of bottles. He reached out dragging them closer and began counting silently with moving lips.

“Admirable to be sure. We are in agreement on several things I see which would mean we should be able to reach an agreement if only you would give me the time of day to speak Monsieur.” Le Comte’s words were polite but held an edge to them that demanded attention.

“Very well, speak. I have duties that need tending too.” The owner sighed and straightened his back to look him directly in the eyes.

“I should like to offer my assistance financially in support of the young lady. I have no ill intentions and only a desire to see she be able to live comfortably in a lifestyle of her choosing without fear of the poor house or ill health taking her security.” Le Comte’s hushed tone rang clear as a bell the owner’s eyes widened as he gave an audible gasp.

“Y-you truly want nothing more than that?” The man stammered as his arrogance of earlier seemed to melt under the strength of those amber eyes looking at him. He prided himself of being able to spot a charlatan and there was nothing in the man reflected before him that told him his words were anything but true.

“That is correct.” Le Comte nodded and found himself wondering how he managed to maintain a stoic appearance when the man he had finally managed to reach an understanding with suddenly doubled over in a dramatic display of grovelling that would not look out of place in any number of reputable theatres.  

“Monsieur I should offer you my deepest heartfelt apology I fear I not only did you a great wrong but also caused you great insult in the process of protecting the child.”

“Think nothing of it. Instead, I should consider the matter settled if you would accept my offer?” Le Comte allowed a small chuckle to escape him in order to break the tension. The owner recovered himself and the stern expression he wore earlier was replaced by a much more relaxed one.

“Such generosity. However, I might act as the child’s guardian but I also have no legal right to do so. If you would come with me, I believe the girl should have her say on this matter.” He began moving again checking every few steps he took that he was still to be followed as if expecting the generous man to evaporate.

“A splendid idea.”

---

The performance was over and she was now free to retire to her room. Unlike most of the performers who had other accommodations elsewhere, she was given the luxury of a private space. A gown had been handed to her as she stepped back into the shadows of the stage and she had gratefully accepted it pulling it tight over her exposed skin. The smile on her face didn't fall until she was safely inside her own room. Her door was nothing more than a heavy curtain but once it was dropped the noise from the other side faded a little and she let out a sigh. 

She didn’t know when it had started to happen but she was getting increasingly more tired after every performance. The doctor had been called back several times after she collapsed in the past but nothing was done, except a suggestion of increasing her medicine and suggesting eating more food. She sat down at her dressing table and slumped over onto it. The cool surface on her forehead gave a little comfort as she felt her body shudder in a cold sweat. With a shaky hand, she pulled open the drawer and removed one of the vials. She turned it in her fingers against the lamplight, a milky white substance that looked like liquid moonlight.

After pulling the sealed cork from the glass she downed the mixture knowing it would remove the tremors from her body. When she regained a modicum of her former composure her vision stabilised and fell on the tray of food left for her on her chaise longue. She moved to stand, her legs feeling heavy as she dragged herself over to the tray and began to devour the offerings.

The first bite was all it took for her to abandon the cutlery and start taring through the cooked chicken and vegetables using nothing but her hands, finding that even then the food did not seem to go to her stomach fast enough to fill it.

A movement out the corner of her eye caught her attention and she saw herself reflected in her mirror. The appearance she had taken on with food covering her hands and face was like some sort of wild animal and suddenly the insatiable need to fill the void inside her was overridden by shock.

“What on earth am I doing?” Her voice came out in a pitiful confused cry.

She bolted over to her washbasin and poured fresh water from the jug into the bowl. Plunging her hands deep into the water she closed her eyes and visualised the fear and uncertainty melting away from her. Her fingers rubbed against her skin removing the remnants of food and brought water up to her face. The cold water running in cascades back into the bowl felt refreshing as the air she didn’t even realise she was missing returned to her lungs.

There was a knock outside and she could hear someone call her name.

“Evie? Are you in there Princess?”

“Y-yes!” She replied grabbing a hand towel to quickly wipe her hands and face.

“Is it safe to come in dear?” The voice was familiar and friendly but there was something about it that made her think it seemed more formal than usual.

“Sure.” Her answer was almost automatic and came before remembering the tray of food abandoned on the chaise. She scurried over and covered the tray with the towel in her hands moving it to a table next to her before the curtain to the room was drawn back.

---

[wickednerdery]

Title: Hoarfrost Hel: Channeled Author: @wickednerdery Fandom: Marvel Pairing/character: Thor & Professor X (& Mutant!OCs) Rating: Teen Summary: “That is extraordinary.” Notes: This is the second part of what’s shaping up to be a legit trilogy (the first is FrostBitten) - the master list is here. The story on whole is gonna be very dark, this piece itself - which picks up after the last - is actually tame aside from Thor angst moments and a bit of cursing. Still, for consistency and length, it gets a “Read More”.

“This Professor Xavier is a sorcerer?” Thor bellows from the back of the motorcycle.

Lynk’s chuckle echoes in his helmet. “Mutant telepath, among other things. And you don’t have to yell, there’re microphones in the helmets.”

“That is extraordin-!” Thor stops as they roll through a large gate. “Forgive me. That is extraordinary.” He looks to a placard - Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters - and then reasserts grip around Lynk’s waist as she speeds past blurs of young people, fresh lawns, and on up to a large building Thor could only quantify as a castle. “This is where you live?”

“I have my own place, but a few hundred other mutants do.” Lynk pulls helmet off, gaze dropping to Thor’s hands, then up and back to his face. “You can get off the bike now.”

Thor hops off, removing helmet to reveal grin. “Sorry, fair Lynk.”

Mouth opens to correct him, but Lynk decides it’s the nicest way she’s been addressed so lets it go. “Come on, I’ll introduce you to the professor.”

The god follows closely, but keeps eyes moving through halls and open rooms from sheer curiosity. There were many who looked as the typical Midgardian did, but others had skin like that of a Jotun or wings similar to the horses of the Valkyrie. He couldn’t help but pause a few times, requiring Lynk to go back and grab him.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Thor,” Charles smiles as the god looks from his explorations of the study to him. “I understand you’re having some troubles with your memory.”

“I am on a quest to find...something...something of great importance...but I...forget what.”

Lynk frowns slightly, they’d only just discussed the topic before entering. “Tony and I think it’s Loki. You know, his brother?”

“Yes, I’m aware.” He’d placed the whole team on standby in case things went sideways for The Avengers; thankfully they were not needed. “Thor, would you mind coming over, taking a seat, so we can better get acquainted.” So that he might have the god’s focus enough to determine what’s going on in his mind.

Thor plops into a high-backed chair as Charles maneuvers to set himself face-to-face with the other man, creating a sense of intimacy as a therapist might.

“Now I’d like you to relax and try to think of the last things you remember before you came to see Mr Stark.”

“Very well.” Thor isn’t quite ready to close his eyes to anything, but lounges back and lets his thoughts go to the start of the day...

The scenes come in fractals, with pieces missing: ...Thor hovering over smashed rock, bowl in hand...him running into the palace, calling for his mother...his equally frantic return to the rubble.... In each scene parts blur or blacken and, only too soon after, Thor’s memory moves onto something else. Too often Thor’s mind wants to change the topic and, when Professor X goes farther back, he witnesses the same thing happening...even memories of Thor’s childhood are changing, fracturing. No doubt the specific targets are those memories involving Loki...

“Thor?” Professor X fades the connection to prevent jarring the god and damaging his fragile recall any more. “I’d like to invite a colleague of mine to assist, would that be all right?”

“You found nothing?” Concern paints Thor’s face.

“On the contrary, I found quite a lot...” he smiles encouragingly. “I can tell you it’s a targeted form of magic that’s effecting your memory, which is why Mr Stark and Lynk found nothing physically wrong with you. I can also tell you that it’s quite powerful, a near living thing.”

Thor’s face falls completely...there are only two people he can recall who are capable of such a thing and his mother would never.

“However, I believe we can find ways around and through it long enough to discover what your task is and how best to begin it.”

“You do?” The god is not terribly hopeful; the urge in him to find the thing, to...protect it?...is ever growing just as his memory of what it might be ever-fading.

Professor X smiles more. “Yes, I merely need a new lens through which to better focus my findings.”

As if on cue a man steps into the room; friendly smile, dark curly hair, and remarkably kind eyes. “You called for me Professor?” His smile greets everyone, is returned by everyone, then widens at the god before him. “Thor Odinson, what an honor.”

Thor gives a cursory smile, his heart not in it. They’re wasting time and the more that passes the more he forgets. No, that’s not quite right. He’d not forgetting more things, he’s forgetting something very specific all the more...and it’s something he doesn’t wish to forget. It’s something he wants desperately to remember.

Ash closes the door behind him, heads over through a dreary fog of stress and sadness from their guest. “Please don’t be discouraged, Mr Odinson, just keep that spark of hope alive and we’ll do everything we can to help you.”

Professor X smiles at Thor’s surprise. “Some of Ash’s abilities are somewhat related to my own, only his focus is on emotions.”

A string of Thor’s own electrical energy comes from Ash’s hand as he extends it to Thor; it connects the mutant and the god briefly before and after they shake hands. “How did you do that?” Thor’s so fascinated he’s now forgotten why he’s come at all. “Do you seize my powers from me?”

“Just replicating,” Ash clarifies as he sits in the last high-back chair available.

Lynk speaks up from the couch, head buried in work on her helmet. “Ash can use anyone’s natural born powers. He doesn’t even try, just links into your emotions and, poof, he’s using your powers.”

“But I am not a mutant, I am a god.” Surely that must make a difference. “My powers come from my hammer.”

“Doesn’t seem like it,” Lynk notes.

“Can you also lift my hammer...Ash?” It was the only name the man had been given.

Ash smiles. “No, probably not. As I understand it your hammer is imbued with magical powers...I’m not a magician and highly doubt I’d be considered worthy to lift it.”

“This is great and all,” Lynk cuts in once more, “But we need to help your brother, Loki, remember?”

“Yes, forgive me,” Thor smiles. “What is needed now, Professor?”

“Same as before, Thor, only this time concentrate on your feelings. About the day, about what you’ve forgotten.”

This time Thor does close his eyes. This time he lets his heart guide him through his memories...and Ash piggybacks on the resulting emotions while using Professor X’s telepathy to try and make sense of it all. It is still jumbled, still missing hunks, but with the knowledge those sections relate to Loki he can find a thread to follow: deep love and concern. Chasing the emotions he scrambles to put Thor’s mind together, slip around and through the magic trying to erase the man’s brother.

While Thor remains seemingly blissful, Ash begins to strain. Clouds roll in, thunder rumbles its threat. He closes eyes and clenches teeth in effort to handle surges of fear and rage...memories that can only be qualified as traumatic. Cracks of lightning ride along skin as a sudden, caustic, burn hits the back of his neck. He hisses, the electricity jumps from him to Thor, making a circuit between them.

“Fuck...” Lynk jumps up, back. She knows both Thor and Ash are fine, but if a stray bolt’s let out she doesn’t want to be anywhere near it.

Charles rolls back as a precaution; slips into Ash’s mind in attempts to stabilize and better direct him. He manages to get Ash to focus in on a recent argument between Thor and his father, the desperation and anguish that comes from it. Together they pick up on the name Loptr, which their own minds are able to understand as a reference to Loki.

The electricity seems to fade in time with the thunder and clouds, settles back into both Thor and Ash with no affect to either.

Ash’s eyes tear in mirror to Thor’s, hands fist as the god’s do. “...Your father sold your brother into slavery?” Their faces share the horror.

And now we’ve all met Ash, yay! Kinda dig that Odin’s own words are what trip his spell up; Thor can remember “Loptr” so, if nothing else, he knows that’s who he’s supposed to find..sorta anyway, lol! Also, low-blow using Frigga to lure Thor from Loki...you’re the worst, Odin. (Didn’t really expect Lynk and Ash to reveal to Thor his power comes from within and not, you know, from his hammer, but oh well.) ...Next piece I should be back to Loki!

(Gifs found on Google, then combined by me)

Tagged: @chibiyanai @wadeyouwitch @creedslove @lady-crowned-with-stars @moonfaery @annievvv7  @ladyfluff @holykryptonitekitten @lokilvrr @janebrownnie @lokis-little-kitten @alexakeyloveloki @theangelsfightwithdevils @the-blue-tiefling @lokis-lady-death @dangertoozmanykids101 @prometheasmother @vethrvolnir @wintertink @amethyst-dreams-and-candy-canes  @drakonwild @starscreamloki @judas-nipples @hiddles-rose  @the-lady-witchitery @galaxies-inside-my-head @jackheart180 @lukeevansandjdmobession @endlessstairway @lanabanana-86 @tom-fucking-hiddleston-1981 @lovekrystina @madoka73 @lokikingofasgardslover713 @partiallyinthecloset @ultrarebelheart  @gravitational-anomaly @manip-loki @my-world-of-imagines @lowcarbgem …Think that’s everyone from FrostBitten, if you want on or off, just lemme know! (Strike-throughs are those Tumblr refuses to tag properly)

[perissologist]

another installation of perissologist posts random shit from her googledocs:

Four shots of Grey Goose, a glass of Lagavulin, and a cold Corona later, Danny finds himself on the dance floor, the music pulsing thickly in his blood, a gorgeous girl with dark red hair in a glittery sequined dress moving against him with her arms around his neck. He tilts his head back and lets himself melt into the heat pressing in around him, the lights and the noise that bind the club in a dizzying spell. He’s trying to enjoy himself, but his migraine from earlier is back with a vengeance, made all the worse by the alcohol that makes his head feel like it’s about to fall off his shoulders. The girl smiles at him, green eyes glittering, and leans in to mouth at his neck. She smells like expensive perfume and lime juice, and when she kisses him, her lips taste like Patrón.

Danny swallows past the cotton in his mouth and rests his hands on the girl’s hips. He gently pushes her back. “Sorry, I gotta go,” he says in her ear, hoping he’s loud enough to be heard over the music. She merely smiles at him, uncomprehending, and Danny sighs, deciding it’s not worth it. He turns and pushes his way through the crowd, stumbling off the dance floor and down the narrow flight of stairs to the men’s room in the basement floor.

He’s relieved to find it empty—somewhat grimy, but blessedly quiet. Danny stumbles to the sink, head swimming, and looks at himself in the mirror. His hair’s a mess from where the girl ran her fingers through it, and his eyes are bloodshot, bruised underneath. He looks awful, and feels it, too.

One of the fluorescent lights above the mirrors flickers, humming with the sound of broken circuits. A pipe in the exposed ceiling is dripping a pool of water onto the blue-tiled floor. The music from the club above echoes down into the room, the words muffled but the beats heavy enough to shake the walls. Danny closes his eyes and feels the world sway around him. The DJ’s playing some shitty EDM remix of Dancing Queen, but a floor removed, all of the tricks and frills fall away, and it sounds like what his mother would put on their old record player on rainy Saturday nights, making dinner together in the kitchen and singing along to the crackly vinyls.

Slowly, quietly, Danny becomes aware of something in the air. It feels heavy at his back, significant—like the change in air pressure before a summer storm, or the strain of a held breath. A tension, that sings to Danny and beckons him to turn around. When he does, his eyes are drawn, inexplicably, to the puddle on the floor. The pipe has stopped dripping; the puddle it formed is round and smooth, perfectly still. It reflects the walls and ceiling of the bathroom as well as the mirrors above the sink. The water is dark, but the way it catches the one faulty fluorescent light from the sink—it almost looks as if there is something moving inside it.

An inescapable feeling of dread curdles in Danny’s stomach. He becomes certain that there is something inside of the puddle.

Danny stumbles back and fumbles for his phone. He freezes with it in his hand, staring at the dark shape writhing below the surface of the puddle. What is he thinking, he can’t call the police—what would I say? I’m in the men’s room at a nightclub and there’s a puddle and I think there’s a monster’s in it?

The phone suddenly clatters from Danny’s nerveless fingers. He stares, breathless, as a clawed hand breaks free from the surface of the puddle and latches onto the tiled floor.

Fuck! he shouts in his head. The claw scrapes against the floor and pulls out a shapeless mass. The mass writhes for a moment, then abruptly consolidates into a deformed head and a set of shoulders. Eight milky-white eyes open in the expressionless face and lock onto him. Black skin stretches over the emaciated frame, so dark it’s more the absence of light than a color. Danny chokes on the horror rising in his throat. The…thing—it seems as if it’s forming as it emerges, and the shape it takes on is roughly bipedal, but—Danny cannot understand how it’s alive. It looks…burned. Like a child’s nightmare of a corpse.

Demon, the thought breaks into Danny’s mind. It’s a demon.

The creature pulls the rest of its body out of the puddle and unfurls to its full height. It towers over Danny, pupiless eyes blinking, utterly silent. Danny thinks that if it were snarling, or screaming, he might be less afraid, might be able to move his feet and run—but it makes no noise, just looms there, sucking all the air from the room.

Danny feels like the walls are warping around him, like the next nearest human soul is a million miles away, like reality is a flimsy piece of paper mâché that’s crumpling in on itself. The demon moves forward and opens its mouth, and for a second Danny is convinced that it will speak to him, only he can’t fathom what a demon’s voice would sound like so he can only imagine his own—

The door to the bathroom bangs open, and someone strides in. It takes Danny’s terror-strung brain a second to process, but when it does, he recognizes her: Green eyes, red hair, and a sheath dress that glitters like a newly minted coin. The girl, he thinks, as she comes to a stop in front of him, facing the demon. The girl I was dancing with.

The girl seems utterly unfazed by the monstrous creature, and for a moment Danny thinks she must not see it—but then she sneers at it, like it’s shit on the bottom of her shoe. She’s going to die, Danny thinks, frantically, and pushes himself off from where he’s pressed against the sink, intending to move in front of her—

The girl reaches into the jewel-encrusted clutch hanging from her skinny shoulder. Her hand closes around something. Then, as Danny watches, she pulls an enormous silver sword from the confines of her tiny purse, like a magician pulling an endless rainbow scarf from his hat.

The sword flashes through the air as the girl swings it at her side. She grins, wide and delighted; the look in her eyes as she sizes the demon up is hungry, predatory. The demon opens its mouth again and this time it shrieks; then it launches itself at the girl, its scream echoing through the empty stalls. The girl raises the sword and slashes it downwards just as the demon reaches her. It bisects the creature mid-leap, slicing it clean across the chest from shoulder to hip. The two halves of the demon fall apart and thud to the floor.

The girl straightens and smirks as the remains of the creature crumble into ash. She turns, then, and fixes her eyes on Danny. Any breath that remained in his lungs during his valiant fight not to pass out leaves him now. The demon was blatantly horrifying, but—the look on the girl’s face, the smile she wears; they speak of infinite intelligence, and a malevolent glee. Above all, she looks at him the same way she looked at the demon before she cut it down: With the absolute lack of fear and an all-consuming hunger.

“Hello,” she purrs. Her voice is the same sweet, breathy one he heard when she first pulled him onto the dance floor, but now it rumbles with the power of thunder, shaking the room. The sink trembles under Danny’s white-knuckled grip. “I know you.”

Danny swallows. “Who—who are you?”

The girl tilts her head. “Curious,” she says. “You could see it, couldn’t you?”

Danny’s gaze flickers to the pile of ash behind her, and that’s all the answer she needs. She lets out a delighted laugh. The stall doors rattle in their frames. “You could. I knew it.” She steps closer, stiletto heels clicking against the floor. The tip of her sword, held lazily in her hand, drags across the tile with a thin, metallic screech. “But you’re not one of us.” She leans in, close enough that he can smell her perfume again, and inhales. After a moment, she draws back, eyes even brighter than before. “But you're not a stitcher, either. So how could you see it?”

I’m both, Danny wants to say, but the words lodge in his throat. He blinks rapidly, trying to clear his vision, but—no, he’s not seeing things. The air behind the girl is warping, folding in on itself like an invisible fist has grabbed hold of reality and is twisting. When Danny doesn’t answer, the girl heaves a sigh and shrugs. “Oh well,” she murmurs. She reaches out a manicured hand and runs it gently through Danny’s hair. “I’m still hungry. I think you’d make an excellent desert, don’t you?”

Fuck, Danny thinks, again, just before a bright flash of white forces him to look away. When it fades, Seraphine and Elias are standing between him and the girl, holding tall white staffs that gleam with the shine of polished wood.

The girl falls back. “You again,” she spits in disgust. Her eyes are on Seraphine. “I told you I’d kill you if you came back here.”

“Yes, Natalia, we know how you like to be dramatic,” Seraphine snaps. Then she grips her staff sideways in both hands and uses it to shove the girl back and into the warped-looking spot in the air behind her.

The girl vanishes, like she was sucked up by some unseen force. Seraphine whirls on Danny. “Close it!”

“I—what?” Danny stutters.

Seraphine jabs a finger at the anomaly. Danny jumps as the sound of furious screeching seems to penetrate from another room. “The tear—close it!”

“What does that mean?” Danny demands.

Seraphine growls, the sound shaking the floor underneath Danny’s already unsteady feet. The disembodied screeching is getting louder. “Stitch it closed!”

Oh. Oh. “For fuck’s sake!” he half-shouts. He pushes forward, past Elias and Seraphine, and shoves his hand up against the warp hole. A hot electric shock flashes through his body, but he forces himself to concentrate, to pull loose a memory important enough to heal this particular wound—

He’s sitting at the kitchen table, his mother across from him. The windows are open and radiant with sunshine. A sweet summer breeze blows through the house, carrying the scents of freshly cut grass and rain-wet reeds into all the dusty corners. A perfect Sunday afternoon.

“Focus, Danny,” Alia laughs. He gives her a guilty smile and brings his attention back to her hands. She’s showing him how to thread the yarn through the other strands on the loom so that the strings don’t tangle. “Over, under, all the way to the end; then pull it straight and push it down.” Her fingers move nimbly over the wooden frame as she talks.

In the window, the afternoon sun grows brighter and brighter. It expands into the kitchen, eating away at the walls and ceiling, threatening to obliterate everything in Danny’s vision. In the past, he nods, pretending to look interested, but Alia can see straight through him. She clucks her tongue at him disapprovingly. “I know it’s boring to learn, but weaving is a family tradition, Danny,” she says. The light grows until it encompasses everything inside the room. The last thing he sees before the memory is swallowed is his mother’s persuasive smile. “One day, you can teach your kids, too…”

Danny opens his eyes. The bathroom is quiet and still, but not the unnatural, prickling stillness from before; a softer quiet, broken by the sounds of squeaky plumbing and distant footsteps, the club music still thumping from the floor above. The warp hole is gone. Danny looks down. The puddle is still there, but the pile of ashes has disappeared. The scratch on the floor from the girl’s giant sword is gone, too.

Danny starts when Seraphine grabs his arms. He looks up to find her beaming at him. “It worked!” she exclaims. She sounds absolutely exhilarated. “You stitched the tear! It actually worked!”

Danny swallows past his dry throat. “If you’d like,” he begins, as steadily as he can manage, “could you tell me what the fuck just happened here?”

“You entered a liminal space,” Elias says. He’s holding Seraphine’s staff for her and looks more uncertain than Danny thinks he has the right to be, given that he actually knows what’s going on here. “The tears in the planes that we told you about, they form narrow slices of parallel realities that exist between realms. Because liminal spaces don’t belong to any one plane, they inspire activity from all three.” He waves to the puddle on the floor. “You know that demons spawn from still water.”

Danny shudders out an exhale. “I guess I do now,” he says, and he does—upon searching, he finds that the knowledge is already familiar. He just doesn’t remember where he learned it.

“The unbalanced energy of liminal spaces—how should I put this—encourages…events.” Elias looks upward, and Danny follows his gaze to the leaky pipe in the exposed ceiling, the one that dripped the puddle onto the floor. “I guarantee you that even if a plumber came in every day to fix that pipe, it still would have somehow managed to drip the water needed to form a body big enough for that demon to spawn.”

“Let me get this straight,” Danny says. “You’re saying there’s a liminal space in this bathroom? In the basement of a Vegas nightclub?” He pauses. “In the men’s bathroom?”

[red-5]

Destiny

Summary: You want him. He wants you. But, it’s never that simple.

Pairings: Poe x Reader

A/N: Rewrite the Stars popped up on my playlist, so you can blame Zac Efron and Zendaya and their smooth, velvety pipes for this one.

“You know that I- “

The sound of his voice echoing throughout the empty hangar stopped you dead in your tracks. His usual confidence was stifled, strangled by something you couldn’t identify. Or maybe you could, you just didn’t want to.

Because that would mean that he felt it, too.

He froze, as if surprised that he was no longer speaking. You supposed it wasn’t something that happened to him often. He always knew what to say. And what not to say. It was his choice of the two that was often controversial. A long, uncomfortable silence stretched between you as he fought to compose himself. You could feel his eyes burning into your back, keeping you locked in place. You could barely draw enough air to breath, let alone even dream of speaking.

You heard the rustle of his flight suit, the impatient tapping of his boots, imagining the way his fingers raked angrily through his hair, the way his neck tensed as he swallowed thickly, forcefully clearing his throat. You still started at the sound of his voice, even though you were expecting it this time, each word a jolt of live electricity to your already clenched muscles.

“You know… You know I want you.”

Your eyelids fluttered closed wistfully, and you allowed yourself that one, split second of bliss before you had to push yourself into a nosedive back to reality. Finn had always said it wasn’t something he ever tried to hide, that you simply didn’t want to see it. But you did. In the disgusted glares of his fellow pilots. You would never be one of them. You would always be the sell-sword. The traitor. The freak that couldn’t be trusted, no matter what you did or what sacrifices you made. To them, you were cannon fodder. A pig raised for the slaughter, kept alive only until the moment that your death became more useful to the cause than your life.

But, not to him.

“And… I know you want me, too.”

He was moving closer. You could hear him, his footsteps thumping closer. So close you could smell him, now. Warmth and spice. Soap and grease. The same scent that crept into your dreams at night and sent butterflies fluttering uncomfortably in your stomach. You could feel his warmth at your back and you knew if you turned around he would be right there, ready to pull you in with the snare of his gaze and the traps of his arms. You knew if you turned around, you would be lost. Your resolve to protect him from the dangers that came with loving someone like you would crumble and he would sweep you away, to hell with the consequences.

“Please look at me.”

You sucked in a sharp breath, unprepared for the heat of his breath washing across your neck as he whispered his plea.

“I- “ you managed to choke through the lump that had risen in your throat.

“Please,” he begged, fingers winding around your wrist to gently tug you around to face him.

He easily overpowered your feeble attempts to pull from his grasp, and soon you found yourself chest to chest and looking everywhere but his face.

“Say it,” he urged gently, fingertips cradling your chin to lift your face away from the floor.

“Please don’t,” you breathed as his hands took your face, tilting your chin up and forcing you to look at him.

“Say. It.”

The words were there, wrestling at the back of your throat. All you had to do was drop your chin, part your lips and allow them to spring free.

“I want you,” you choked, savoring the sweet taste of the words you had denied yourself the privilege of speaking as they slipped from your tongue.

You hated how small your voice sounded, how meek. His eyes softened as they stared back into yours, the hard lines etched in his face smoothing over as he ran his thumbs across the wetness on your cheekbones.

“What else matters?”

You blinked back him in disbelief. Did he really not see it? Did he really not understand? They would never accept you, or your little suicide squad of fellow defectors, rogues, and other misfit toys looking for their island and all sharing the common belief that dying and ending your miserable existences for a good cause was better than living for a bad one.

Not that the First Order had expected you to survive long after breaking out of the lab they had kept you locked away in.

You wanted to speak. To answer him. To tell him there was a great deal else that mattered. That love couldn’t do all the things he wanted it to. But, in his usual style, he beat you to the punch.

“This,” he said urgently, hands tightening their hold on the sides of your face, “this is destiny.”

You sighed, fighting the urge to roll your eyes at the statement that was a bit much even for him and taking hold of his wrists to pull his hands from your face. The sensors in the tips of the metal fingers of your right hand tingled with the warmth from his bare flesh as they slipped over the cuff of his suit.

“Poe,” you mumbled, squeezing your eyes against the tears that blurred your vision.

“No,” he cut in, the intensity in his voice forcing your eyes back open to lock with his. “It is.”

He huffed out a breath that was halfway to becoming a laugh.

“We fought on different sides on opposite ends of the galaxy and that still wasn’t enough to keep us apart, don’t you see that?”

What could you possibly say to that? What could you possibly say to the desperate look in his eyes or the plea in his voice?

“All this time I spent searching, it never occurred to me that it was a you.”

He leaned forward, the side of his nose brushing against yours. You could feel his heat, smell his breath, almost taste his lips where they hovered inches from yours.

“You’re my destiny.”

It was with every ounce of your resolve that you stepped back, that you turned your face away from his before he could close the tauntingly small gap that separated you.

“It’s not that simple,” you managed through the tremble in your voice and the wobble in your lower lip, finally mustering the strength to pull his hands from your face.  “It will never be that simple.”

“Why not?” He demanded, dropping his hands but not stepping down.

You shook your head, eyes dropped to the floor in a desperate attempt to avoid the magnetic pull of his gaze.

“I will never… They will never- “

“I don’t care about them,” he snapped. “I care about you.”

Your chest flared with anger, your eyes flashing as they snapped back to his. He didn’t understand. How could he? He lived so high up on that pedestal they placed him on. How could he possibly understand what it was like to live amongst the slime and muck with all the other lower lifeforms.

“It doesn’t work like that,” you hissed through the tears that now flowed freely down your face. “You can’t just- “

Apparently, he had other ideas about what he could and couldn’t do. He was done with words, lunging across the space you had carefully cultivated between you to once again take hold of your face and press his lips urgently to yours.

It wasn’t the sweet, romantic first kiss they wrote about in stories. It didn’t slow time or stop the dizzying swirl of the universe. It was desperate, messy, clumsy. It was all teeth and tongues, grasping hands and heated gasps. He pushed forward until you were trapped between the cold bite of the side of his ship at your back and the pulsating heat of his torso. Your fingers twisted into his thick mess of dark curls, the deep, rumbling moan that built in his chest buzzing against your lips. Your head spun. Each time you opened your eyes your vision swam, so you kept them squeezed tightly shut as your grip on your lifeline failed and you were swept away in the raging current of the man that had you trapped in his arms.

All too soon, his lips slowed against yours, the bruising grip he had on your waist and the back of your neck loosened. Sweet, vital oxygen once again filled your lungs, slowing the nauseating spiral that had become of your vision and allowing the face that had stolen sleep away from you and now began to steal away your sanity to slip back into focus. His forehead pressed against yours, his hot breath fanning across your face, fingers drawing nonsense shapes across any patch of bare skin he could find.

“This…” He whispered after a long moment. “This is meant to be.”

Your eyes slipped shut as he continued to mutter sweet nothings. How desperately you wanted to believe each one. How close you were to believing each one.

“I was made to love you, and you were made to love me.”

You didn’t think it was possible to be any closer to him than you already were before he pulled you deeper into his embrace, pressed you tighter against his front.

“They’ll see, someday. This… this is our destiny. Nothing can keep us apart.”

One hand fluttered up the side of your torso, the other slipping from your neck to cup either side of your jaw. You didn’t want to open your eyes. Every time you did, you fell back into him, fell back under his spell. But, you hadn’t wanted to fall for him, either. You found his warm gaze waiting for you, studying your face as if memorizing every detail.

“Do you trust me?”

As if it were even a question. You didn’t have much experience with concept. You were certain you didn’t even know what trust was until the day you met him.

“Yes,” you answered without question, surprised by the confidence in your own voice.

He smiled that sweet, soft, genuine smile it seemed he reserved only for you.

“Then trust me,” he breathed, moments before returning his lips to their rightful place over yours.

You didn’t fight it this time. You simply didn’t have the strength to deny him anymore. Your reserves had been depleted and the battle against your own feelings and urges was a hopeless one. You weren’t hopeful. Hope was dangerous, a luxury your kind wasn’t afforded. But as his hands and mouth once again began to move against you, something stirred deep inside. Something you long thought to be dead and gone. It was impossible to rewrite the stars, but you allowed yourself the dangerous thought that maybe he was right. That maybe you didn’t have to.

That maybe, this was written all along.

@angelaiswriting @i-said-goddameron @hanginwithmanerds @moegirl1015

[gus-dont-be-canada]

A Scout's Honor

I’ve been thinking of writing a Dragon Age fic from the perspective of Jim the Scout (Cullavellan shippers, you know who I’m talking about–the one who interrupted their first kiss). I’ve been toying with the idea of him doing it on purpose for the past week or so, and I’m pretty excited. Here’s a sneak preview*:

*Warning: hits you right in the feels, helps you up, then spits in your face and laughs. You’ve been warned…

He should have tried harder.

Why? Why had he waited until the commander and Inquisitor Lavellan were about to share their first kiss to intervene? Jim had seen their bond growing steadily over the months they’d been at Skyhold—no, before that. The moment Commander Cullen had returned to their makeshift camp after the attack at Haven, Lavellan’s limp form clutched in his arms, it was as if a match had suddenly lit, its flame flickering and weak amid the darkness and the snow churning in the air. It was uncertain whether that spark, fueled by the shaky promise of hope and hours of unsuccessful searching, ignited by one single, panicked thought—

Oh, Maker, what if she hadn’t made it?

—would sputter and die, suffocated under the mountain of loss which weighed on the shoulders of every soldier and civilian to have gazed upon the Herald’s Maker-given mark. Or would the spark grow stronger, take shape, and eclipse the shadows which had plagued them since the death of Divine Justinia? A passionate and loyal military commander, desiring nothing but the knowledge that—for once—he had chosen the correct side, together with the brave-but-still-hesitant Lavellan, a Dalish nobody who had walked with her head held high toward an inevitable death, the trembling of her left hand the only hint of her terror. She had faced Corypheus willingly, buried herself in an avalanche to save the very people who had held her captive and called her murderer. Without hesitation.

Jim had watched them in camp, and later near the soldiers’ barracks at Skyhold. Lying dormant under their discussions of military stratagem and debates with the other advisors was a mutual curiosity, the intrigue and allure of something new, something so much better than the bleakness which had marked their recent days. When the Herald had turned away to speak privately with Leliana, the commander’s eyes traced the line of her profile, his gaze as light as the caress of a warm breeze. When her lips parted in a smile, his echoed hers in an almost instinctive movement. When he realized what he was doing, he had turned away and covered his face with a gloved hand, imagining but fighting the urge to feel her lips on his.

At least, that was what Jim had imagined it had been like in the beginning. He had only just been named an official scout before they arrived at Skyhold, and consequently spent many weeks away from the fortress after their arrival. Although he was not as good at reading people as he’d have admitted, Jim would’ve had to be blind not to see precisely what thought crossed the commander’s mind when Lavellan walked into his office and leaned casually on the door frame. His cheeks flushed almost imperceptibly and once he even lost track of what he had been saying, right in the middle of a sentence. After that incident, he always refused to look in her direction until after the present soldiers had been dismissed.

Jim knew what Cullen was working up the nerve to do, but after a month passed and nothing changed, he had almost abandoned the thought that his commander was planning to act on his feelings—until the newly-named Inquisitor had taken it upon herself to invite Commander Cullen on a walk of the battlements. Jim knew then that he needed to act.

For the good of the Inquisition.

This had been the only thought on his mind when he had lingered in the doorway of the nearby tower, watching as the Inquisitor and Cullen strolled side-by-side atop the battlements. Lavellan stopped to admire the view—a sight which had always brought solace to Jim—and Cullen stepped closer, finally finding the courage to do the one thing which terrified him the most. He leaned toward her, and Jim stepped out of the shadows, report in hand.

Looking back now, Jim had been foolish to think he could have any effect on the outcome. His commander had done nothing but glower at him until Jim tucked tail and ran, and the inevitable had happened. They had kissed, and in doing so, set themselves on a path which would either prove to strengthen or shatter them.

In the days when happiness were so few and the body count constantly climbing, Jim wished no ill will on his commander, nor the Inquisitor. He admired her a great deal, almost to the point of reverence after everything she had accomplished. He liked his commander and studied him, not in the way the Tevinter mage watched some of the powerful soldiers in the training ring, but in that Jim had seen in Cullen traits he had wished for himself: humility, courage, strength, caring—even to the young men he commanded. But, if their relationship grew too all-consuming, would either truly have the capability to give everything they had to the Inquisition? The Inquisitor was a powerful mage, more willful than any other spell-caster Jim had met, but she was still more at Corypheus’s mercy than anyone else. If she truly fell under his thrall, would Cullen have the strength to deliver the final blow? Would he drive a dagger through his love’s heart to save his world, even if it meant nothing to him without her? And how would the Inquisitor handle the loss of a glorious soldier, kind and loyal, a friend and advisor since the beginning, if he died while fighting on the front line—as he always claimed that’s where a leader should be?

But now.

Jim shudders and looks to his right, where Cullen crouches, shoulders slumped. The sun beats down hot on the back of his neck, his brow beads with perspiration, but Jim doesn’t leave his former commander’s side. Cullen’s hand floats in the air, grasping nothing. Long grass sways around them, their whisper as they dance in the breeze a light buzz in the background. Neither of the two men hear it as Cullen rests his hand on the rich, dark soil of the freshly filled grave. The Inquisitor has no grave marker, but the nearby pier jutting into the serene blue water of the lake is memory enough. It’s where Cullen had told her of his childhood.

Jim’s chest constricts painfully. This broken man beside him, his head downturned and face hidden, shakes with silent sobs. Tremors rock his body. He no longer wears the shining steel armor with the red eyeball, and his magnificent, glorious lion’s mane cloak has been gone for some time, given to an orphan at its owner’s request. The money from selling this will allow them to eat for a week, Cullen had said as he dropped the cloak in the little boy’s arms, not even having the strength to look at it as he did so. What use have I for it now?

The memory of the Inquisitor’s last night comes in flashes at first. Rain pouring so hard the soldiers could hardly see five feet in front of them. Thunder rumbling. The smells and sounds of death echoing in his ears, warm, coppery blood spraying into Jim’s mouth with every swing of his sword. An inhuman roar filled the ravine where the ambush had caught them, and those still alive after Corypheus’s uprising swelled through the narrow gaps in the stones, appearing to materialize straight out of the cliff face. They were outnumbered three to one, with no hope of victory or escape.

 Shortly into the fight, a burst of lightning illuminated the sharp edge of a sword held high overhead. A dark creature sprinted toward Cullen, who was engaged with two others and oblivious to the approaching threat.

“Cullen!”

The Inquisitor—or, plain old Lavellan after Corypheus’s defeat—had seen it at the same time as Jim, and had had the exact same thought. At the same time, from opposite ends of the small battlefield, Jim and Lavellan sprinted to Cullen. Jim reached him first and, the ground shaking with the creature’s heavy footfalls as it sprinted ever closer, tackled him to the ground. Lavellan lunged forward and blocked the arc of the creature’s sword with her staff, a howl of pure rage escaping her small, graceful form. Cullen struggled out from under Jim, a word of thanks on his lips, but the flash of blinding light as the enchanted ironwood was cleaved in half froze everyone in the field.

Lavellan stood with both halves of the staff raised high above her head, crossed in an X. At the point where the two met, a trunk of lightning focused, then splintered into a thousand electrical arcs, each branching off one another. The ravine was bathed in light, as bright as midday under a cloudless sky. Every creature, three of them for every one accompanying Lavellan and Cullen, vaporized the moment the lightning touched their skin. They disintegrated into a gray dust, the particles illuminated by the light.

Lavellan stood in the center of the column of lightning, the eye of the storm. The most hideous, unnatural scream spilled from her lips, at such a high volume and so soul-crushing in its agony Jim was certain it was involuntary, an outlet for the pain from the thousands of volts of electricity coursing through her veins every second. A moment later, she stopped.

Just like that. Lavellan’s cry silenced. The light disappeared so quickly it left spots floating in Jim’s vision, and residual electrical tingles dances up and down his arms. He was certain his hair stood on end. Cullen had jumped to his feet, shock plain on his face. He trembled, already dreading what he knew was correct.

Lavellan was gone.

In the end, there had been nothing to bury but a few rags of singed cloth, their original color indeterminable, but Cullen had insisted on burying them here. His sobs slowly cease, and he wipes at his eyes before reaching into his pocket. He pulls out the lucky coin he had given to Lavellan, the coin which had followed him since he was a boy, through torture and war, and thinks that nothing he has ever done or ever will do will be this hard. He presses the coin to his lips. He kisses it once, and places it gently on top of the grave.

Jim’s stomach knots. He should’ve tried harder. He should’ve tried harder.

Because in the end, he had saved his commander’s life, but he had not saved his heart.

[spamzineglasgow]

(REVIEW) Innately Dark Objects: Black Rooms by Elisabeth Molin

In this review, Denise Bonetti examines the intertextual dialogue and delectable economies of stuff, technology, poetics and perception in Elisabeth Molin’s twin pamphlets, Black Rooms and Lies and Diet Coke (2ncbooks, 2017).

> I have now been sitting in this cafe with Elisabeth Molin's pamphlet Black Rooms for about an hour. My stuff is spread out on the small table - my laptop, notepads, pens, phone and headphone cable cutting up its surface into small little allotments, curved romboids, and dead-end corners. Circular wet marks surround my cup of coffee as if to suggest alternative ways for me to incorporate it into the arrangement on the table. The more I flick through Black Rooms, the more I can see my own greasy fingerprints on its matt black cover, and in a way, I can't help but feel this might have been Molin's plan all along.

> Black Rooms is a thin booklet made up of 15 narrative fragments, each of them a self-contained journey, a fully justified box of text existing within its own margins across the two white pages of each spread. Most of the fragments describe enclosed spaces that feel both detailed and surreal, like a simulation both hallucinatory and perfectly lucid projected onto a very real set. These are like 'room[s] which [belong] in a dream', as Molin explains one of them ('Stones and Splinters'), explored with flair and narrative poise, and with an eye that is both taxonomic and incredibly imaginative, somewhere between the spatial dissections of Alain Robbe-Grillet's Snapshots, and the syntactical momentum of Anne Boyer's Garments Against Women:

It was a room which was coloured black from charred wood, almost as if someone had burned the wooden walls manually, centimetre by centimetre, with a lighter or a flaming wine cork. The room had a black chair standing against the longer side of the rectangular room, with a glass of black milk next to it. It was unclear if there was a person sitting on the chair or not, as at some moments it appeared that way, at others not, almost as if this person was a memory; someone you could recall sitting there, back hunched over with his hand on his forehead, in a grey dusty sweatshirt and sweatpants, bare feet, probably.

The room was occasionally interrupted by an abstract sound, the wheels of a car or the wings of an airplane, mechanical somehow, empty, or like a void, but a comfortable one, compressed, like white noise, like something you fell into - disappeared into somehow just to find yourself moments later, totally entrenched in smoky wood and a memory of a bonfire night from when you were a kind and they used to burn witches on the fire, not real ones but simulations.

                                                                  ('Charcoal Surfaces', Black Rooms)

Molin often lingers not only on the materials, colours, and sculpture-like everyday objects that populate the rooms; she is irresistibly fascinated by the sounds these often seem to contain (breathing, echoes, often unidentified 'click clacks' quickly disappearing), and the unique consistency of the air inside each of them (thick, dusty, unstable, dry, electric, smoky but without odour). All these self-sufficient fragments work as identical small brush strokes gesturing towards a model of space that's alive with sensory presence, vital with specificity, always flickering foreground and never background container. Leakage, disobedient fluids, objects hiding or burnt, furniture marking floors, shadows and outlines: this pamphlet draws boundaries within the space it builds, then makes them run into each other, bleed and mark the world again. Segment by segment, Black Rooms also dissects the invisible workings of the book medium itself as a physical space of mental architecture. Molin allows her language the power to now build up, now break down, blueprints of imagined spaces that look nothing like the ones we are used to:

all of these words, fragments and memories kept pouring into the room like images in different sizes and shapes. the prints landed on the ground like raindrops that filled up the room, like speech bubbles going everywhere, colliding with and laying on top of one another.

                                                                  ('Stones and Splinters', Black Rooms)

> Molin's interest in deception, blindness, and distorted representation is carried through in Black Rooms' twin pamphlet, Lies and Diet Coke - sporting the exact same size (a slightly tallerandskinnier A5) but with a bright yellow cover, a red title, and a sans-serif title, instead of its sister’s elegant black and serious, whiteserifness. Both pamphlets unfold without page numbers, the same way the poems themselves seem more interested in marking space (with text) than inmarking (reading) time. (The last page of Black Rooms has no text, just a picture: the face of a wristwatch reflecting light off its surface, unmarked by lines.) Lies and Diet Coke is an arrangement of untitled notes or prose poems, more personal than Black Rooms, revolving around the different faces of failed representation, and how technology affects notions of perceived distance and proximity. As a wink to Black Rooms, it is full of darkness, night time, but also dark objects and their texture. Lots of them:

She gathered everything black in her flat and laid it all out in the middle of the living room floor. There were the black Ikea cushions, a flat screen tv, Adidas sneakers, Coke zero, coffee from Guatemala, raisins and a rotten banana.

As we sat down she talked about innately dark objects, like the obsidian rock on the table, the pieces of tar collected on a beach and the chunk of coal in the corner. She talked about the surface and texture of these objects, how some of them were shiny, reflective and attractive but also how they keep you at a distance, whereas the more matt and textured objects pull you in, allow your eyes to rest.

                                                                  (Lies and Diet Coke)

The photographic concerns of Lies and Diet Coke talk to Black Rooms through the split meaning of ‘camera’, an etymological vaulted chamber; but Black Rooms itself offers a reciprocal gesture. 'Stones and Splinters' begins:

it was a room which belonged in a dream, with the black sand that filled up the room - filled up the camera - filled up the screen […].

Black Rooms also speaks to Lies and Diet Coke's bright primary-coloured cover with its literal sparks of brightness within the text: the pamphlet is peppered with a few words printed in colour, similar to Mark Danielewski's House of Leaves; but Molin's words are more synaesthetic, spelling one colour and performing another (did I already say 'distorted representation'?). If Lies and Diet Coke is a bright box full of dark material, Black Rooms feels like the opposite: a black cover hiding a rainbow; a bouquet of language to make colours leak:

He walked around, opening and closing his eyes to see his vision transform - from black to violet - black to blood orange - black to jasmine green. The colours weren't dense, but transparent like the lights from a disco, leaking, puncturing the darkness

                                                                  ('Back Pepper and Red Eyelid')

You try to open your eyes in the space but it doesn't make a difference or the difference is that of the wetness of your eyelids and the dryness of the room - an almost smoky air, piercing your retina, you try to ignore it - this taste of sulphur, as if the eyes could taste

                                                                  ('Leaks')

I am very aware that the way I perceive the threads that Molin has woven between one pamphlet and another is dictated by the fact that I happened to pick up the black book first (blame my teenage goth phase); I read the failures of representation in terms of the texture of space and not the other way around (I wish I could compare notes with someone who's read them in the reverse order). In fact, don't think I've ever found myself in this situation: looking at two books by the same author that talk to each other, but aren't related by any sort of hierarchical of hypotactical relationship, however subjective or questionable (is a newer book necessarily a product of or a response to the older book?). Sure, I am reminded of other books that run on two parallel narratives, like Ali Smith’s How to Be Both and Sam Riviere’s Safe Mode, holding two stories in dialogue within themselves, the precedence of one over the other entirely contingent on the reader’s (blind) choice. But there’s something about two separate objects, materially independent of one another while inextricably enmeshed in the virtual space of content. It seems that Molin did the unimaginable, the sort of dream that only self-publishing or small presses would allow (unless you're Ali Smith, that is): she published two objects in parataxis, in orbit with each other, both equally outstanding. (But it's ok to read only one, too; you really should).

Black Rooms and Lies and Diet Coke can be purchased through Motto here (Europe) or 2ncbooks here (US).

~

Text: Denise Bonetti

Image: zomatao