#It is impossible to move on my own without gouging the floor.

[manyblinkinglights]

I’m having a bad time, but I’ll be out of the corner of my aunt’s guest room beneath the window soon. Definitely within two months from now. Possibly within one month and three-quarters.

I’ll have my own room, though it will be smaller. I will fill it with my own things, and let in only the ones that REALLY spark joy when I see them. I will try really hard to enforce my boundary about having the bed that I want in there, and not either of the beds my mom wants me to have instead of the one I want.

[poppy-metal]

"The first time you hear Izuku moan your name, its with you hiding on the other side of his closet door, your hand clapped over your mouth in shock.”

A/N: im placing this before the sexual side of their relationship begins. A prelude of sorts, if you will.

Cw: voyeurism, smut, dekus secretly dirty mouth.

All things considered izuku’s room was...not as gross as you expected a staple college aged guys dorm room to be. It was cluttered but not disgusting, posters of comics and figurines and manga and some clothes strewn about, everything kind of frenzied and haphazard. It was so incredibly deku, a secret smile pulled at your lips, even though your reasons for being here were less than innocent

He’s wearing fucking pink. Because of course he is, of course izuku is humble and comfortable in his masculinity enough to pull off a bright pink t-shirt. It hugs his chest too, and you have to wonder if literally any of his clothes fit him and the tits he decided to grow in college. His image is so utterly imposing, his smile so bright, and laugh so airy, it sends butterflies flipping through your stomach at just the sight of him and that makes you want to vomit. Your lips curl in a sneer and you’re walking towards him and the group of friends he’s talking to as if on reflex. 

Stupid, lovely deku. You knock your shoulder into his as you pass, hard enough that his books clatter and fall to the floor, scattering. And then those green eyes are on you, giving you his attention and your body feels alive, your blood cells buzzing under your skin even as he frowns. The dimples on his freckled face fall as he takes you in. Yes, you think, look at me, see me, want me. 

Out loud you say. “Watch where you’re going, stupid deku” and you’re looking at him like he’s the dirt under your shoe. He’s not. He’s the center of your universe. Your world tilts around his axis. “Pink isn’t your fucking color by the way”. it is. 

Izuku huffs. He’s past the point where he used to turn as red as a tomato and duck his head whenever you stood in front of him, but he’s still deku at the end of the day. An easy target. “If looking at me bothers you so much you could just ignore me.” He crouches down to pick up his things. His words make you itch, if you could ignore him, you wouldn’t fucking be here. Its because he exists too much, that you want to push him down so much. 

You step your manicured foot onto his notebook right as he’s about to grab it. He tugs at it, you dont budge, and he looks up at you, exasperated. “Can i have my notebook, please?” 

Why is he so fucking pretty? God, you want to throw up. You dig your heel in further, covering the flutter you feel in your chest with a practiced sneer. “I like the way you say please, deku.” You lean down a little, “Say ‘your highness’ and i’ll move” 

It’s a thrill, seeing the way his jaw sets, his brow furrows, his eyes go annoyed. Sweet, sweet, friendly izuku. You’re the only one he looks at like this, like he wants to throttle you. But he won’t. You see his adams apple bob, his cheeks dust pink, even as he glares. “No” 

You pause. It’s not the first time he’s gotten snippy with you, but the conviction behind it is new. You feel something in your stomach give a jump, your blood thrumming in your ears. You jerk your foot towards you, sliding his notebook out from his hands and standing completely on top of it with both your feet now. Your sticky lips, glossy and plump, spread into a mocking grin, “No? Do i need to slam you into some lockers and take you lunch money?” You feel a thousand feet tall, towering above him still kneeling, you on the high ground, looking down at him below you, where he can’t reach you. Can’t ever see the truth. “C’mon pansy, you’re already on your knees anyway” 

But he isn’t anymore. He jerks to a stand, and now he’s taller than you, but you puff your chest out, not letting that affect you. It always affects you. Not that he knows or ever notices. Your eyes are widening when he steps forward so you’re practically nose to nose and chest to chest. “I don’t have time for you” he snaps, irritated. And then he’s stepping away as suddenly as he stepped up, the rest of his things gathered in his arms, he shakes his head at you, a tendril of that mossy mousey hair falling into his eyes. “I gotta get to class” 

And then he’s gone, brushing by you, disengaging. You stand there, your breath stuck in your chest, not moving. ‘I dont have time for you’ over and over again rings through your head like a mantra. You step off his notebook robotically and kick it across the floor. It bangs against a wall and you feel your fists clench, nail beds digging into your palms harshly. ‘I dont have time for you’ 

You turn on your heel, away from the direction of your class, fury blinding you. Anger in place of humiliation, vindication in place of being humbled. You don’t know what crawled up his ass and made him think he was above you all the sudden, but you weren’t having it, not the fuck at all. 

And that’s how you found yourself snooping through izukus dorm, with the intention of finding some kind of dirt, or something to hold over his stupid head. He didn’t have time for you? How dare he act like he was better than you, like he had things more important to do than to indulge you. You were still so mad you wanted to throw a tantrum, kick and scream and claw his eyes out. Straddle his stupid broad waist and shake him until all he saw was you, you, you. 

You really hated him. Hated that because of him you were basically a bully because any attention from him was attention you thrived and lived under. Maybe if you weren’t so prideful, so disgusted by the weakness of your own gooey emotions for him, you would have tried to be the center of his attention in a nicer way, but as it was you were in too deep. This was the sick game you played, and losing wasn’t an option. 

You hated how much that made you similar to bakugou in a way. You didn’t like that guy, and even weirdly so, you wanted to gouge his fucking eyes out for the way he treated and talked to izuku. Was it jealousy or possesivness that drove you to want to be the only one who could rile izuku? You wondered, sometimes, if bakugou felt the same way about you. 

It was the loss of control, for you. Better yet, it was the way you liked the loss of that control. You had always prided yourself on being strong willed and a perfectionist. But whenever your eyes so much as grazed izukus, all your emotions went rattling around your stomach in sick twisted ways, giving you goosebumps, making you...nervous. It was a crush that had turned into an obsession, wasn’t it? And you wanted to make izuku suffer not only for invoking those messy feelings, but for not seeming to return them as well. If he couldn’t love you or want you romantically or sexually, you’d force yourself onto his radar and into his head until thinking about anyone else was impossible. Until you squirmed under his skin as much as he squirmed under yours. 

Acting like you didnt exist was unacceptable. Obviously you’d slacked off on your taunts and actions, if he could just brush past you so easily, not taking your bait. You needed to even the playing field again, and by even you meant you needed to be towering above him again. 

Towering over him so you dont have the time to think about how much you want to be under him, your mind whispers at you as you pick through his room, trying to find anything incripting. Someone like izuku would probably have something utterly embarrassing like a diary or some weird porn magazines, shameless, helpless guy that he was. 

You huff as you open his drawer next to his bedside, nearly slamming it back shut in shock at what you see there. 

You’re not stupid. You’re a healthy, young woman with an active sexual imagination and access to the world wide web, to porn. 

Izuku has a fleshlight in his drawer. Izuku has a sexytoy. Izuku. And its green. 

Izuku has a sex toy that he probably uses. That he probably sticks his cock into and moves- 

An absurd laugh barks out of you, shocked and helpless. Because while in your head you knew izuku had to be some kind pervert, what other explanation was there for the way he blushed and darted his gaze around like a ping pong ball whenever you leaned forward and get caught a glimpse under your blouse, this is...unexpected. Imagining izuku in explicit scenarios, doing lewd things, it was something you didn’t allow your mind to wonder to often over. You didn’t like the way you got all squirmy and meek whenever you thought too long about izuku without clothes. 

You feel kind of squirmy now, hot and uncomfortable as you shift around and try to gather your wits back about you. Revenge, that’s what you’re here for. 

With a shaky exhale you turn away from his dresser, your thoughts flitting around your head like annoying gnats. What, who, does he think about when he…? What does he look like? What does his...c- You shake your head, slap your cheeks, trying to center yourself from the images floating around, flustering you and distracting you. 

You’re in the middle of lifting the covers on his bed to peek under it, see if there’s anything there, when you hear the handle on his door jiggle. You freeze, every muscle in your body locked frozen like a deer in headlights as the knob twists, and then catches. Right. You’d picked the lock with one of your hair clips and then made sure to lock it again behind you just in case something like this happened. And by the, “Ugh” on the other side of the door, yep that’s definitely izuku. You’re shoved out of your shocked state, and bolting for his closet door as you hear the jingle of his keys twist in the lock, trying your best to close the door as quietly as possible behind you, it swishing shut barely a second before the door to his dorm opens and you hear him step in. 

Class must have let out early or something, you think huffily, gently rearranging yourself into a comfortable position on a pile of his clothes as he shuffles around his room. You hear the thumb of him dropping his books, the shuffle of his feet, the clutter of him taking off his shoes and the squeak of his mattress as he plops down on it. 

You tuck your knees to your chest and roll your eyes, picking at your leggings as you wonder how long you’ll have to hide before he goes to the bathroom or something so you can leave. It’s fucking stuffy in his closet already, the air hot. Your hand touches the soft fabric beneath you, realizing you’re sitting on one of his hoodies. Its too dark to see which one it is, but you imagine it as your favorite red one. Maybe you’d steal it as compensation for him making you sit and wait in his dumb closet while he probably stared at the ceiling with no thoughts in his dumb brain.

You hear him sigh, loud and dramatic, and then a muffled scream/groan into his pillow. Your lips twitch, he’s such a fucking drama queen. 

Your little smile drops off your face when you hear the sound of his drawer opening.  

Oh god. Oh no. 

Your face feels like there are embers burning under it as you hear the unmistakable sound of clothes being shucked, a zipper and and then flop, and then….a slick wet sound and a sigh of relief. 

Your eyes feel like they are bugging out of your head. Izuku is really about to fuck his fleshlight with you hiding in his closet with him none the wiser. You feel suddenly embarrassed and hot all over, hiding your face in your knees as you hear him let out a moan. A loud one. 

You’re on fire, every part of you. You don’t think you can take this, don’t think you can sit through this and listen to this, think you should just burst out of his closet and use your bravado to somehow flip the situation and make him feel humiliated for getting off in the privacy of his own room, like he’s in the wrong even though you had violated so many boundaries for even being here right now. 

You could do it too, you know. You’re good at twisting things, at powering through the complicated mess of flustered feelings izuku makes you feel and making it his fault, making him back down and cower. You could do it...you’re uncurling your legs and pushing your hands under you in the middle of getting up to do so when- 

“Fuck. ___” Your name. You freeze, for an unholy, goldy second you think you’ve been caught, that he has acquired x-ray vision and has spotted you but no. His voice isn’t surprised or upset its...breathless, airy. He moaned it. 

The first time you hear Izuku moan your name, its with you hiding on the other side of his closet door, your hand clapped over your mouth in shock.

Heat immediately shoots between your legs, your core throbbing unbidden in reflex to the sound, helpless to stop it, to have any other reaction. Your ass plops right back down. You turn slightly towards the door, pressing your side against it, your ear smooshed against the cool wood as you listen, as if drawn under a spell. 

“You’re such…” You hear izuku pant, his voice deeper and more rough then you’ve ever heard it before. “A fucking brat” 

Wet between your legs, seeping through your panties at his words, seemingly ripped out of him. God, he sounds pissed, wrecked. He cursed. You’ve never heard izuku curse before, never, even when you’d pushed him too far. Something really was different about today. 

The slick sounds are more frequent now, steady and...and sounding like real sex you’d heard from porn before. Wet, sloppy, and slapping. Your knees knock together as you lean forward even more. There’s an invisible string pulling, tugging you forward, you want to see…

“Fucking slut” He grunts, and there’s a heavy slap, your breath catching in your fucking throat as you realize that...that must be the clap of his balls hitting the back of his fleshlight everytime he thrusts into it. “Always running your fucking mouth, looking down at me, so mean, you’re so fucking mean to me…uh..” 

The sounds of sex fill the room and you can’t take it anymore, you’re burning, burning, burning, fuck the consequnces. You hesitantly and slowly turn the handle of the closet door, letting it slide open just a crack, enough for you to peek through, to get a glimpse.

His lean muscular back is the first thing you see, he’s facing directly away from his closet, thank god but oh god, that means you see..so much. The flex of his shoulder blades under his tan skin, the smattering of freckles over his shoulder, the long slender slope of his spine as it curves down his broad back, the dimbles at the bottom of his spine, flexing as he fucks his toy. His ass, because of course izuku would have a perfect round bubble butt. There are freckles there too. 

Your eyes skate down, hungry to his large and heavy balls, low hanging and full, currently smacked right up against the base of the little pocket pussy he’s practically straddling on his bed. 

It hits you again than, that deku is imagining that toy is you, he’s imagining fucking you in this position on his bed right now, imagining its your cunt hes pounding into, and your face he’s spitting those filthy words at. 

Your hand is really moving without your permission when it slips under the band of your leggings into your panties, fingers immediately dipping between the slick folds of your pussy, silky and wet. 

“-Wet” Izuku grunts, as you dip a finger just barely inside. “Fuck, i knew you’d be so fucking soft and good inside. Such a bratty girl would have a sweet cunt attached to her, huh?” 

Fuck, where and when did izuku start speaking like this? His soft voice curling around such crude words is making you gush all over your fingers. You wish you could see the kind of face he was making when he said them. 

“Yeah, you like taking my cock don’t you, baby?” He croons and if you close your eyes you can almost imagine he’s speaking directly into your ear, behind you. His thrusts get heavier, rougher, he lifts his leg up on the bed and you see a flash of the little green toy being fucked on his cock, big and angry looking. He’s being so brutal, hammering the thing down on his dick as he hips rut to meet every downward tug. “Milk it. Milk my fucking cock you whore. Wanna- fuck, wanna hear you say my name when you cum, want you to know who’s pouding that little pussy. The loser you fucking hate, yeah? Gonna cum for me?”

Yes, you whimper in your head in answer to him, your fingers curling deep, deep, inside, fucking yourself on them in earnest. He’s so big and you only caught a glimpse, but it was enough. Enough to know he’d fucking cleave you apart if he tried to fit that monster between his legs inside your tight little pussy. But you want it, god you fucking want it. You wanna feel him splitting you open, making you cream around him, making you beg for it. Making you bleed. 

“One of these day” he says, his voice breathless but steady, even as it cracks. You know he’s close. “I’m gonna fucking snap. Im going to make you look me in the fucking eye and apologize for making me want you, and then im going to split that pussy open- fuck, im coming, fuck, fuck, fuck. Do you understand, b-bitch? Gonna fucking make you mine, yeah, take it, take your senpais cock you dirty fucking girl, ah!” 

He slumps forward, hips humping into the toy and balls spasming as he pumps it full of his cum, shuddering deeply with little aborted whimpers. “Good girl, good girl” he pants, trailing off, giving one last little jerk of his hips before stilling. 

You bite your lip so hard you draw blood to stop yourself from whimpering out loud. You pull your sticky fingers out of your cunt and shuffle back into the dark of the closet, curling in on yourself as izuku lays there, panting heavily for a few moments before moving. 

You stay stock still as you hear him get up and shuffle around, his footsteps padding into the bathroom where you hear the door click softly shut. You spring up to your feet and don’t care if you make noise as you dart out of his room and into the hallway, sprinting like a bat out of hell as you make you way to the girls dorms.

You’ll think about how to reevaluate and recoup later. Right now you just really need to get to your bed so you can rut pathetically onto your own fingers and imagine izukus fat dick breaking you open. Never in a million years did you think he had those kinds of feelings for you, and you know it changes the whole game, is a whole other level of playing field where you now know he wants you on a physical level. 

You feel powerless and lie you’re slipping again, don’t know how you’re going to point your finger at him and laugh when you know for every insult you throw his way, is another way hes fucking his toy at night, adding it as another thing to get you back for. If he ever snaps. 

If. you want it to be a when, so bad, not an if. 

You’ll make it a when. You’ll push him off the metaphorical cliff he’s teetering on to make it so. 

. 

[vampkillr]

Blood — Frank Castle

male! vampire! reader — 2.1k words — angst — mentions of wounds/blood — this was short and it's not very good. sorry. anyways uh hey im back lol srry i've been gone for so long. march is a very bad month for me so i'll be pumping out some fics to get my mind off of other things.

He carried the scent of blood with him, Frank. The faint aroma seemed to be stuck to his hands like a stain you couldn't wash out. I didn't necessarily mind it, but I couldn't help but wonder how much stronger that smell would be once he got to me. Wonder how much more of this torture I had to withstand before they both realized that I've ran out of the blood in my veins. Nothing was going to get me to speak, no matter how much pain I had to endure. This, at it's very core, was what I was made to experience. This agony that I had no choice but to live through, it was a fate curated for me by the very part of myself I was trying to destroy. It was something I've accepted by now, but that didn't soften the blows and it didn't make it hurt less.

It was hard to imagine the state my face was in. I could still see, and I knew nothing was swollen, but I've never sustained an injury without my blood before. Part of me feared what they would try to do if they figured out what I was, so I decided after the next punch delivered to my face to play dead. I didn't have a heartbeat, and I didn't need to breathe no matter how uncomfortable it felt to hold back the urge. "Check him." I could hear Rawlins speak in front of me, and the scent of Billy Russo's hand was enough to make me want to lunge forward to devour him— but my head stayed limp as his fingers checked for a pulse. There was nothing. I was cold and dead as far as he knew.

"You went too far." His fingers moved from my neck and onto the zipties that caged my wrists behind me, cutting them off. I continued my act, body limp so that I fell forward onto the floor and into the puddle of my own blood. The smell made the searing pain in my throat burn stronger, the blood that touched my lips made the thirst almost impossible to subdue. I couldn't move. Not until Frank got here, which, I hoped was still going to happen because it had been hours and he still wasn't back. "What do we do now?" Billy asked, and almost as if it was on cue, a voice ripped through the silence that surrounded us.

"Russo!" The angry scream that tore itself into the spines of those who heard Frank was raw. There was no emotion other than pure, unbridled rage coming from the man I've been in love with. I had to fight the urge to get up. I had to play dead. "What did you do?!" I could hear the sob he choked back, and stayed still as I listened to the altercation, and after realizing they were probably too focused on Frank to notice me, I craned my neck to get a view of what happened. He was on top of Rawlins, gouging his eyes out— and upon further inspection, Billy was nowhere to be found.

"Frank!" I called out to him, my voice straining to even make a sound. He had no idea the type of monster I was, but he was going to find out and there was nothing I could do about it. He shot the now blind Agent Orange in both knees, rushing over to me and turning me onto my back. "I need...." It hurt to speak, but I pushed through, I could feel my body beginning to decay. "I'm sorry." I couldn't wait any longer. I had no idea what would happen if I did. I tensed my arm, allowing my nails to sharpen and slicing a line across Frank's wrist. He brought the wound to my lips and the taste was better than anything I could have possibly explained. I haven't drank blood in months, and that fact along with my body being completely exsanguinated, it made the feeling so much more heavenly. The relief washed over me completely, and I was able to pull myself away from his arm despite how desperately I had been gripping it.

"What the hell are you?" My eyes trailed to Rawlins, who had been screaming in agony for a while now. He backed away and got up to drag eyeless William to me. "Need any more?" Shock set into my gut, a buzz of panic coursing through my spine as I watched Frank's wrist drip with the sweetest nectar that I had ever tasted in my life. My eyes trailed up to his. He seemed completely serious. Despite what I had done, and despite me drinking his blood, Frank still offered to help me drink from Rawlins.

“I'll be okay, I shouldn't get myself used to having so much in one go.” My words came out with ease compared to earlier when my esophagus felt crushed. My body made the necessary changes to heal what was vital. Everything else will have to wait until I can get more blood. Frank seemed confused. “If I drank any more, my body would start expecting that every single time I did drink blood. It's important that I maintain the control I have over myself.” He hummed and shot William in the head without a second thought, coming to me and lifting me up.

“We need to get you taken care of, okay?” His hand gripped my waist as he helped me limp out of the damp basement we were in. “When did this happen?”

“Let's get to my place and I'll explain everything to you.” Frank nodded and before I could process it we were already in the car on our way to my apartment. Every now and again, I could feel him glance at me— quick enough to not seem strange but obvious enough for me to have noticed— and to avoid it, I looked at myself in the visor's mirror. I looked like hell. “I'm going to need more blood eventually. These wounds won't heal otherwise.” My face wasn't very full of color. Full of life. I looked like an actual corpse; a battered corpse. I looked like I had been ran over and drained.

Silence consumed us, infecting the air we breathed and choking me from all of the words I wanted to say. There was nothing I could have told Frank to justify hiding this for so long. “I wouldn't have been angry.” He muttered. “Not at you. Not for this.” I peered at him through the corner of my eye, observing the stillness to him. He seemed so abnormally calm, as if he truly wasn't mad— and I felt as if I didn't deserve that type of reaction. Let alone that type of forgiveness. I felt guilty.

“I was dying when you met me.” I sighed, starting to explain things as Frank drove us into an empty parking lot to focus on the conversation. We unbuckled, settled in, and I started to talk again. “I had an aggressive disease that I had no fighting chance for. I was on my last month to live that night we met— While you were buying me drinks and flirting, I was acutely aware that my own blood was rotting away inside of me. It was hard to breathe. Every vein and artery in my body burned. I could feel the way my heart was tired of trying so hard.” My eyes met Frank's, his expression almost painful. “When I was on my way home I collapsed, and a man came up and told me that he was going to give me my life back.” I showed him my palm, the scars on the tips of my fingers on full display. “Instead he took it away.”

Frank took my hand, grazing his fingers on the scars over my own. “What is this?” He didn't let go even though I tried to pull away.

“To turn you. They puncture,” I mumbled, tensing and sharpening my now claw-like nails. “down to your bone.” Franks brows furrowed.

“Did it hurt?” He asked, and I wished I had an answer. I couldn't remember how that part felt. I shrugged.

“He hurt himself in the same place and then touched his fingers to mine. The next thing I can remember is that burning in my veins getting so much worse, and then it started to burn everywhere else. It felt like he replaced my blood with lava.” I sighed. That pain was still so close to my mind, as if the stain of that night was still there on my body. As if the sins committed against it still weren't washed clean. “If I think about it for long enough,” I whispered. “I can almost feel it again. All over again. Like it's still happening.”

He brought my hand to his lips, placing a gentle kiss against my knuckles. Frank felt so pleasant against my hand, so warm, I wanted nothing more than to hold him as close to me as I possibly could. “Does this mean that one of these days I'll die and leave you here?” My heart sank with disappointment as I nodded. “That's..... That's not fair to you.”

I hummed. “That's life.” It took everything in my power to seem detached, even though I was still clinging on so desperately to the time we had now. I couldn't curse him the way I was. Sighing, I spoke. “I'd like to go home now. I'm still in a lot of pain.” I pulled my seatbelt on and Frank began to drive again.

There wasn't much to say as I unlocked my door and invited him inside. He was quiet, and so was I— so I got to work on preparing my supplies. Two blood bags would do fine enough to make my body stop hurting. I could wait to drink the rest I needed. The injuries I've sustained would take a while to heal on the outside. I put the IV needle in and put both blood bags on the hook, sitting down on the couch and practically sinking into it. “What if,” Frank started, sitting on the table across from me. “What if you turned me too?”

“No.” I said sternly. I didn't want to have this conversation. Not now— well— not ever, really. No matter how badly I wanted to turn Frank, I knew it was selfish and wrong of me. “You have no idea what you're asking, Frank.” My voice stayed calm, I was trying my best not to get emotional at my own refusal.

“I do know.” I could see the way he was getting upset. “I don't want to leave you one day that's not fair.” His voice was quiet, but the anger was there. Lingering, waiting for me to say the wrong thing. That anger in his voice— I think he knew what I was going to bring up.

“You have a dead wife and dead kids—” He got up, shouting over me, but my voice held so much more power.

“You don't get to bring them up!” He yelled, but I silenced him with my own screaming.

“I do! I do and I will because I will not let you make an irreversible mistake just because you think you love me!” My voice broke, almost as if my own body couldn't believe the words I had just shouted at my own boyfriend. He shut up, though— looked just as shocked as I felt. “Look,” I was quiet now. Almost inaudible. “I wouldn't be able to live with myself if I robbed you of a chance to finally be at peace. Because it's not gonna feel any different after you finally kill Billy. You're gonna be the same tortured and in pain Frank Castle. And I cannot damn you to experience that any longer than you have to.”

He wiped the tears that fell from my face. “You never were very good at letting yourself have things.” He whispered, and my brows furrowed at his words. Before I could even begin to ask what he meant, he trapped me onto the couch where I sat, pushing me back. No matter how hard I tried to fight back, my strength was nothing compared to his. I thrashed under him, and tried as hard as I could to pull my wrist from his grasp, but it was too late.

“Frank, please!” I cried out and pleaded, but he dragged his switchblade against my skin, and opened up the wound I had made earlier on his own wrist, connecting the two. I could see through my tears the way he was trying to hide the pain he was staring to feel. It was too late.

can you tell im an angst guy i am severely mentally ill LMFAOOO anyways im gonna put a pause on my matt murdock series so i can write stupid shit, not very many people are staying for the other chapters and are instead just only reading the prologue so i don't see the point anymore. ALSO i am in love with the concept of vampires and it is an idea i will be toying with frequently.

[badass-at-fandoming]

Just Little Malkavian Things ~

Malkavians these days can do nothing but de-conceptualize, Dement, eat hot chip, and lie.

Since people seemed to enjoy the #JustLittleVentrueThings VTMB adventure, here's a matching Malkavian one. Though I'm gonna be real with ya here, I had less fun D:

I finally figured out why I have such trouble wrapping my head around depictions of Malkavians in VTM media. Books, Storytellers, and fans say it's like having a mental illness and being linked to a massive group chat. But, listen, I've lived around and with mental illness all my life. I've been in massive group chats. Being Malkavian ain't like that.

It IS like being an early-twenties English major in the midst of an existential crisis, over-worked and cross-faded outta your skull and watching horror movies to Cope(TM)

So it's like drugs. It's like you had too much weed and too much wine and are let loose on Los Angeles. Which. My friends and I have and we, coincidentally, also "fought" a stop sign. The Malkavian PC never really seemed like a character to me: she's like a collection of cliches and dude-bros doing blunts while watching slasher movies. I named her Liotta after the Psychic Shop owner, and I'm sad Liotta didn't really get to be a person.

I wasn't surprised by any of the dialog. It's a pattern. Alliteration, allusion, animal joke. Alliteration, allusion, animal joke. It lost its charm.

Often, I didn't know what the FUCK I was saying. Which is the Malkavian Experience(TM), according to Rosa.

Anyway

Nonsense time

Most characters have an extra paragraph of dialog to Acknowledge That You Are A Malkavian. Some get an extra conversation branch. For example, there's lots of new Bertie dialog and he was all impressed Liotta knows about Gehenna and Thin-bloods <3. The Anarchs characters, especially Skelter, get a lot more. Skelter, Ash, and Liotta totally vibe.

If you sneak around the Santa Monica drug house, they talk about Mercurio?? Hello?? Mercurio, you bent Masquerade by not getting beat up real good.

Zero pretense about Voerman. Yes, I have DID; yes, I am making it your problem.

When Liotta talked to Beckett, he said the DID was "something to look forward to." Goddamnit, Beckett. That's not how the Bane or mental illness works! >:-(

I've never sneaked before!!! Did you know that the Tong AND the American gang downtown have fakes in their suitcases??? Like, Full On, "it's just stuffed with newspapers, brah." They were going to kill each other over newspapers. For some reason the Tong brought the REAL suitcase along too, but I'm so past having VTM make any sort of sense. It's fine.

Accidentally pissed off Nines. I meant farmer (affectionate) and Nines thought I meant farmer (derogatory). :(

The Dementation powers are (a) pretty purple loop-de-loops, (b) not as effective as Dominate (reaaaallyyy missed a good AOE attack), and (c) oddly enough, gave more compassionate dialog choices. I mean. In the pen-and-paper version, Dementation isn't conflict-focused, so the devs had to jigger it to use as attacks. But I was touched when Liotta made Hannah believe she was Paul, so Hannah got to say goodbye. Making Samantha believe Liotta was a pet turtle was funny and spared her the pain of her friend vanishing a second time. Heather thinks her entire experience was a dream and returns to her life, more or less unscathed.

Boris?? Asked Liotta to kill Venus for him???? DUDE, WHAT. I didn't know he could counter-offer!! What happens if you take up his offer? Who controls Confession? Does it close down??

Pro Tip: don't trust the pale woman in a cowboy stripper outfit who comes out of your vent and tells you everything's fine.

I went through an ENTIRE Ventrue playthrough without puking and Liotta ate one (1) unhoused person and blew chunks. I didn't realize Diseased Blood was a threat. What happens if you skip the Plague-bearer quest? Should you just never chomp on the Downtown unhoused community?

Strauss called Liotta "young one" and I was like, sir. You're not Beckett, you can't trick me.

A rat dances in the Downtown sewers and tells Liotta that the grass is greener in someone else's asshole.

And also will take you places.

Do you know what it's like for a Capri Sun to suddenly start speaking and offer taxi services.

LaCroix: how did Bach find me??? also LaCroix: [names his company after himself] [lives in Ventrue Tower]

Liotta told Beckett that Kindred are a joke and I got extra EXP for being so sneaky.

DMP produced snuff films even before Andrei???!!!! I thought all the blood was from the lil geo-dudes.

Liotta agreed with Andrei that Caine is here and boot-scooting around in his lil Angst Mobile. :D

As bad as Liotta was in group fights, she repeatedly made bosses cower and stand quietly while she beat them to death. Andrei had a full on lay-on-the-floor temper tantrum in his war form and Liotta just. Smacked him until he exploded. She didn't even take damage!

Imalia's computer password is ALSO "cleopatra." Just like Tawni's! Dual reference to the Embrace type

IDK why I never asked this before, but, um, who does Mitnick share the bunk bed with? Barabus..?

I went back to the Empire Hotel Penthouse suite to fetch the educational book and the Russian mob dudes were still there?? Hello, sirs, your leader is dead. You can leave now.

Liotta heard the real thoughts of the Red Dragon hostess...and also some debate about the Dark Father's presence in LA, heehee.

I thought it was fun that one of the "take me away, Cabbie!" taxi replies mentioned riding in a car like father and child. :D

"Why is the Mandarin giggling at me" is a sentence that came out of my face.

With the different dialog options, sometimes it's impossible to be polite to NPCs. For example: Liotta could only call VV "dolly/doll/toy doll" instead of her preferred names; the Chinatown gun seller felt frightened, thinking we were Police or Immigration.

Some great fourth wall breaks in the dialog: "I don't want to get involved either, but tell that to whoever is playing me!" to Beckett after the Giovanni Mansion.

"You can't spell success without whatever the hell my name is."

"If I cannot win with effort, I will cheat my way to victory. I am gone." Funnily enough, this was my first run where I didn't hack in to boost stats.

"I just want it to end. I feel like I've been playing forever."

Some nice wider lore references: "I devour knowledge like the great worm devours the corpse of society" could refer to how Salout, in tapeworm form, is devouring Tremere's body and destabilizing the Clan and/or Kindred night society.

"They should have a channel devoted to you in my head" to Beckett. In his Diary, Beckett witnesses Malkavians devouring Malkav and may or may not join the Cobweb (PS check out this great fanfic where he does).

This made me stare into space for a minute and question my life choices. During the Sabbat massacre, Liotta didn't snack on any of the blood doll ghouls (ya know, the ones with the eyes gouged out). She had such high Inspection + Finance that she had $4k in her wallet and could buy blood. I wanted to test a rumor that if you don't feed on the blood dolls, you get extra EXP. You do. BUT anywAY, right before the Tremere miniboss, Liotta was sword-fighting some goons and the blood doll...attacked him for her? Like. He moved on his own. When the goon was dead, the blood doll asked if Liotta was all right. This might have been a glitch but...the horrific implications that those men are still conscious, still willful, still feeling. ACK. I hope they got out the next morning.

RIP Ming Xiao. Flamethrower right to the tiddies.

I stole @ryttu3k's idea and noclipped through the werewolf section. Liotta still killed the Garou, but I didn't want the stress.

Caine is very Caine. "Don't you get it? We've already been judged!"

Liotta went Anarch because what little backstory I came up for her was she considered Smiling Jack her sire. Nines complimented her ability to murder.

Sheriff got sooooo dizzy that he fell over right onto Liotta's sword 27 times.

Dancing werewolf ending! Seemed fitting. :D

[jeongi]

cabin fever | jjk (m)

↣ 𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 | jungkook x reader

↣ 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 | 8k

↣ 𝐠𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞 | fluff. smut. mild angst. exf2l au (?)

↣ 𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐱 | explicit language and sexual content. oral sex (f + m receiving), fingering, unprotected floor sex (dongs better be wrapped irl), light dirty talk,  very soft, fluffy smut. jungkook is sad, soft babie.

↣ 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲 | trapped in a cabin with your ex-best friend jungkook, you’re forced to overcome the fallout between you two. 

↣ 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | cabin fever

“We're lost!” Seokjin shouts dramatically from behind the wheel. “Hopelessly and forever lost!” The van’s radio crackles and pops as the soft ooze of music sits underneath your friends’ bantering.

“You're such a baby,” says Namjoon as he smacks Seokjin with the map he's holding. “Relax. I know my maps.”

“You've only been here all of one time—” Seokjin spits back, his fingers clenching the wheel harder. You chuckle under your breath at their bickering, your body immediately tensing as you feel Jungkook adjust himself next to you. A part of you wonders if he’s still alive; you have no idea how he’s managed to sleep through the endless bickering- yet, there he sat, still snoring away. If you remembered correctly, Jungkook was almost impossible to wake up.

You ask yourself why you still felt somewhat nervous in Jungkook’s presence, and for the upteenth time, your memory reminds you of that giant nothingness that now separated you two.

Hoseok giggles behind you and your mood dampens further. His excessive, unwarranted giddiness irritates you on any given day, but today it seems extra warranted. How could you not feel irritated when your ex boyfriend is sat behind you, practically playing grab-ass with his new girlfriend?

You ask yourself again why you ever agreed to come on this trip, let alone agree to be stuffed in a van with an ex-boyfriend and an ex-best friend. And once again, you come up empty. You're sure there must be a reason.

“Hey, focus on the road!” Jyo-en shrills from the seat directly behind Namjoon. “Some of us want to arrive alive and unharmed.” Jungkook once again shifts in his seat, his shoulder pressing against your own and his mouth wide open. You can faintly hear the purrs of soft snoring escaping him.

Alas, your motives come to light. Frankly, you knew you were doing this as a favour to Jyo-en more than anything else. Her undying, one-sided pining after Seokjin had her on her knees begging you to go on this trip with her. There wasn't much that could ever reduce Jyo-en to such a state, but her affection for Seokjin's masculine wiles had been too much for her to bear. The fucker was just too damn charming and you couldn’t blame her either. From the broad expanse of his muscular shoulders, to the plump of his pink, full lips, you figure the chaos that naturally comes from his presence is usually heavily subdued by the sheer epitome of beauty that is Kim Seokjin.

Nonetheless, you had agreed to come on this trip, much against your initial refusal.

“Pipe down back there,” Namjoon shoots. “It could be worse.”

“Yeah,” says Hoseok, “Namjoon could be driving.”

Involuntarily, you snort. It isn't so much the humour that prompts such a response, but the bitterness you can't help but feel. However, that response is lost amidst the sea of laughter that now fills the van, save yours, Namjoon’s and a sleeping Jungkook’s.

Namjoon turns in his seat and glares at Hoseok. “Just because I don't have a license doesn't mean I can't drive.”

Seokjin chortles. “You literally almost drove us straight off a cliff the one time I let you drive.”

“You’re being dramatic. It wasn't even that tall a cliff…”

Beside you, Jungkook smacks his lips in his sleep, and sinks his shoulder further into yours. You absentmindedly wonder what he’s dreaming about.

Do you even care? Probably not. But the mental exercise in speculation offers some respite from the storm of emotion slowly and undeniably building within you. You glance back at Hoseok and Nancy, their disgusting buffet of PDA having no regard for anyone but themselves. You know for a fact you and Hoseok would have never done this. Turning away, your eyes once again fall on Jungkook.

You hope it's a dream better than this.

2:04pm [You]: ugh.

2:05pm [Yoongi]: Lol. What’s wrong?

2:07pm [You]: remind me again why i couldn't come tomorrow with you guys?

2:10pm [Yoongi]: Dude we've been over this, you couldn't swap spots with Jimin because he works tonight. It's the entire reason we're leaving tomorrow

2:10pm [Yoongi]: Is it that bad?

2:14pm [You]: between hoseok munching on his new gf and jungkook literally speaking to everyone but me,,, i’d say this is the car ride from hell

2:15pm [Yoongi]: Yikes

2:15pm [Yoongi]: Sounds about right, but I don't know what I can do from here...

2:25pm [You]: it’s whatever, tell jimin and tae i miss them dearly

2:26pm [Yoongi]: I’ll probably forget

2:27pm [You]: you’re the fucking worst.

You sigh heavily and lock your phone, haphazardly flinging it back into your lap. The van door opens with a whoosh and your eyes immediately squint against the intense albedo that now renders you temporarily blind.

“Did you just fucking hiss?” Seokjin asks, no trace of humour in his voice. You shoot him a silencing glare and he plays along to it, his hand shooting up to his chest as he fakes a few stumbles back. The effort to make you smile is that of triumph, the edges of your lips quirking up to a faint smile. Nonplussed, Seokjin continues. “Well, this is it!” He says with far too much enthusiasm for have driven nearly six hours. He reaches down towards the duffle bag by your feet and you swallow the bubble of discomfort that fills you when Nancy squeals behind you.

“This cabin is huge!” Her voice reminds you of Polystyrene rubbing together. It pierces your skull, scorches the skin on the back of your neck and you internally scream. Hoseok chuckles beside her and you can’t help but want to gouge out your eyeballs with a screwdriver.

When Seokjin swings the navy blue bag over his shoulder, his eyes briefly glance towards the still sleeping figure next to you, his face static in the grips of slumber.  

“Hey!” Without warning, a red glove speeds past your face and smacks Jungkook in the nose with a surprisingly satisfying thwack. Immediately, Jungkook jolts awake, shooting you an accusing glare so icy, the snow around you may as well be a sunny beach. Before either of you can react, the glove’s partner in crime follows and smacks him in the face again. “Well, good morning, sleepy beauty,” jeers Seokjin. “Now that you're alive, how about you start helping us move our stuff?”

Blinking in the new light before his eyes, Jungkook sighs explosively, half yawn, half exclamation.

“It’s sleeping beauty, you imbecile.” You think you hear him grumble under his breath. A part of you wishes he’d acknowledge you again like old times. Another- and you convince yourself, a greater- part of you simply cannot be bothered to care anymore.

“I think that’s the last of it!” Namjoon yells from the trunk of the van. You hear him close it with a loud thud, one arm holding a cooler, the other locking the trunk. Seokjin stands by the porch of the cabin, nodding approvingly at the progress. He checks his watch.

“I’m hungry,” he says, “Should we go into town?”

You groan in protest. “Dude, we just got here. You want to hop back in a stuffy van and drive, again?”

“Yes,” he answers without a beat.

“Yup!” echoes Namjoon. You have no idea how he heard this.

“Ah, food would be so good,” Jyo-en says as she comes up from behind you, a hand patting her stomach and a frown adorning her face. You can't help but roll your eyes; she’s not hungry at all.

“Food it is,” Seokjin confirms. Despite the peckish feeling that jabbers at your stomach, you're not certain your appetite can handle another car ride with them so soon.

“You guys go ahead without me, I had a big breakfast this morning,” you lie.

“Suit yourself,” he says with a simple shrug of indifference. Turning away to head inside, you hear Seokjin yell for the others. You’re not sure where Hoseok and Nancy scurried off to, though the list of possibilities is disgustingly short. As if on cue, they near stumble out of the room they had chosen for the night, their lips swollen and clothing frayed. You think you’re going to be sick, and a subsequent twist of your innards does everything but confirm the sentiment.

You need to get out of here. You desperately need to get out of here.

As quietly as you can, you pull your boots on and stuff a spare water bottle in your jacket. The door before you opens, and with a breath, you crunch your way into the snow covered trees. You should have worn something warmer, you scold yourself as you cross your arms over your chest and blow out a huff of air.

The air is still- too still, you think. Even the melody of chickadees sound too far away. Your breath comes out in stiff clouds, hanging seconds in the air before fading away. You shove your nose deeper into your scarf as you aimlessly wander, allowing your thoughts to get as lost as you’re about to be.

If you didn’t know any better, you’d almost be convinced it was four years ago. The way the wind nips your face reminds you of waiting for the train at the worst possible hours of the morning, despite the fact you only had the one class that day.

The rest of the day was for the squad.

This could mean anything from half-attempted study sessions (in reality, a thinly veiled excuse to gossip about your classmates and munch on overpriced cafeteria food) to skipping down to the neighbourhood village just down the street from your university for the far better food that was just as expensive. It could mean sneaking off between classes to a quiet staircase and into Hoesoek’s arms for as many fleeting moments the two of you could steal in a day. It could mean a walk down to the university bar for curly fries and maybe one too many drinks. Sometimes it was the train ride home, hand in hand and falling asleep on each other’s shoulders.

The wind was just as cold as it has always been, but you haven’t been. Somewhere along the line, something had changed. A whole lot of somethings. At some point or another, it all just started to come crashing down until now you stand, here, in a snowy field standing ankle deep in fading memories.

You’d ask yourself how it managed to go to hell so much, so fast. But you don’t feel like opening that vault again— you’ve had it closed for good reason.

The piercing caw of a crow snaps you back to reality. Your eyes open, and the freezing train stations and too-warm classrooms fade away with the snowfall. You feel the first snowflake hit your cheek and when you look up, another hits your nose. Whichever way you go, whether it’s memory lane or the slow, cold walk back to the cabin, it’s going to be a bitch either way. It doesn’t take long for your boots to become soaked, and it takes even shorter for your toes to begin freezing. Your only regret is you find yourself wishing you’d have noticed it earlier; you were too preoccupied with watching the sun’s last stretch across the mountaintops.

Your laugh is what Jungkook remembers the most as you two walked towards the train station on those cold winter mornings. The light fragrance of your perfume that overpowered the icy winds had always made you feel like home to him. And your laugh, the thing he missed the most. When was the last time he’d seen you smile? When was the last time he’d even talked to you? It seems a lifetime ago now.

Jungkook’s fingers hesitantly hold the black pen against his sketchpad as he allows the natural skill of his hand overtake the paper. The desk he’s sat on faces towards the blanket of white snow against a crisp blue sky. He sighs, the view of the mountain sheathed in nothing but white bringing him back to old memories of you.

He can almost taste the pork bulgogi he’d always order at lunch with you. One look is all you had to give in order to silently invite him to eat after class. It was that cocked eyebrow, the slight tilt of the head and he was already transferring money into his bank account. And your scent- soft and subtle against the cold winter air. Even if his lungs were crystalized by the cool winter air, your perfumed scarf still lingered to his nose. You’d always felt somewhat like a distant lover than an old friend. What happened? He happened.

Just as Jungkook blasts his Spotify playlist through his earphones, you walk through the front door. Unbeknownst to you or him, the cause of your melancholy sits on the floor above you in his room. Your hands are freezing, a soft curse escaping your mouth as your teeth clatter and you stomp your way inside. You’re covered head to toe in snow, a sudden icy flurry hitting you on your way back. Perhaps a spontaneous walk down memory lane was one of your dumber ideas but if anything, it was nice to get away from this bullshit for even a little while. And by the looks of it, you’ll be able to escape a little while longer as you stand in the foyer of an empty cabin. You’re alone with your thoughts once again. How did you get here? You ask yourself a million times over.

Shrugging off the weight of your coat, you unravel your scarf and land with a loud sigh against the brown suede couch. It’s a cozy cabin, you’ll have to give Namjoon that much credit but his need to treat everyone as equal despite obvious differences landed you in this more than miserable situation. Your fingers hesitantly uncurl, the heat already uncoiling the ice in your veins. You reach for your phone, the only notification being a “Merry Christmas” email from your dentist. You almost laugh at yourself.

4:04pm [You]: yoongs, entertain me

No reply, instead a big fat, red “not delivered!” pops underneath the message. You frown, annoyed at the world and mostly Jyo-en for dragging you along this getaway from hell. On top of this, the three people you’ve been wanting to see and talk to the most in the world won’t be arriving for another excruciating twenty-four hours. Old Man Winter chuckles to himself as he prolongs your misery.

Jungkook is mindlessly working upstairs, watching the flurry of snow coat the mountains and area around the cabin further. If it weren’t for the gentle ooze of Keshi in his ears, he’d be concerned by the rapid snowfall. His hand works diligently, his sketch near finished as he watches the sun set outside. Somewhere between the last of his shading and perfecting does the lamp in his room suddenly give out.

Silence.

You freeze as the world surrounding you goes absolutely still. The sound of heat coming through the vents stops, the lights flicker off and you’re approaching darkness as the sun settles outside. Fuck, you think to yourself. This could not be happening.

Reaching for your phone, your fingers clamour as you hastily give Namjoon a call.

Straight to voicemail.

You try Seokjin; it doesn’t even ring.

Panic settles over you, your flight or fight kicking in as you think of what to possibly do. You scour the main floor for a landline, anything that could be of use in this situation. Surely there was a maintenance number somewhere? It’s when you’re in the kitchen that you hear the footsteps above you. You freeze again.

Now you’re almost positive it’s an intruder ready to murder you. Like in those horrible, terrible horror movies. Although you’ve played a lot of Outlast, you doubt you could handle whatever the fuck has spawned upstairs. As the footsteps shuffle some more, you grab a knife from the counter and decide if you should wait to be murdered or move towards the sound like every idiot in those movies. But just as you’re deciding, the steps move rapidly down the stairs until you’ve panicked and dropped your knife, shrieking out of pure terror with your eyes shut.  

Jungkook stares at you in complete bewilderment.

“_____?” He cocks his head to the side, his eyebrows strewn together in genuine concern. His eyes fall to the knife on the floor, further confusion littering his mind. “Are you okay?”

The voice sounds familiar, too familiar and it pangs you to know exactly who it is.

Your heart plummets to your stomach when you tentatively open one eye and see Jungkook’s big doe eyes staring right back at you.

“Jungkook? What the hell are you doing here?” You put your hand to your chest and sigh a heavy breath of relief. “I fucking...thought…” You look back up at him, the furrow in his eyebrows suddenly flooring you with emotion. You haven’t really looked at him in ages, it feels.

“You didn’t go with the others?” His lips form an innocent pout as he asks. You haven’t realized how much you missed his boyish charm. It’s then that you find yourself observing him head to toe for the first time in a long time. He’s wearing a white t-shirt and (unintentionally, you convince yourself), the plaid red pajama bottoms you got him for Christmas three years ago. Is that how long it’s been since you’ve last spoken? He looks different, more confident, more tone in his body. Although his hair remains the same shade of brunette, it’s slightly longer and rests in natural curls. His jawline is even sharper, you note. From the small mole just under his lip to the faint cleft in his chin, you find yourself completely absorbed in how good looking Jungkook has gotten.

“N-no,” you’re suddenly stuttering as you catch yourself out of flagrant staring. “I thought you did—”

“Nope.” The tension brews around you two, both of you stood across from one another as sudden realization dawns on you.

“The power’s out,” you say and Jungkook nods in agreement. You really didn’t think this day could get any worse yet here you were. “I-I tried calling Namjoon but it wouldn’t go through.” Jungkook taps his pointer finger to his lower lip in consideration.

“Phone lines must be out too,” he said half to himself. “Must be a hell of a blizzard out there.” You shudder involuntarily as you remember the way the wind tore through you on the return journey to the cabin, and with the memory comes the bittersweet nostalgia…

You mentally stomp the memories out. Not the time, not the place. Not anymore.

“Well, I don’t want to starve,” you say as you start to feel your stomach glare at you hungrily. Maybe you should have gone with them after all. An image of Hoseok and Nancy sucking face flashes before you. You shudder again. It might still be hell here, but at least it isn’t a hell so deep as watching them. Besides, this is the most Jungkook has spoken to you in years.

“Fortunately, they left us with the food,” Jungkook says to you. “If memory serves correct there should at least be a box or three of smokies floating around somewhere.” He pulls on a sweater and rubs his hands together in an attempt to warm them up.

“What about the fire?” You ask.

“What about it?”

“Well, I don’t know. Can you start one?” You know for a fact you might be able to, but this isn’t the time for you to test your skills.

“Probably. It isn’t exactly rocket science,” he replies with a smart grin. There’s a small door just under the staircase that Jungkook opens with little to no hesitation. You had always admired how unafraid of the world Jungkook had always been. Perhaps those values washed away when he too walked out of your life.

You snap yourself out of it and roll your eyes. “Jungkook, you’re the least handyman person I know.”

“At least I’m remembered for something,” he replies as he dips below the stairs to search for wood.

You damn near have to stop yourself from smiling.

You’re not certain if it’s just the natural dynamic you shared with him, or if it’s completely circumstantial, but one thing was for certain; like it or not, you found the pair of you swiftly falling back in step with one another in more ways than you’d care to admit… and more ways than you’d care to remember.

It’s almost as if he hadn’t just chosen to vanish from your life for nearly three years. It’s almost as if it were like old times. What had happened to you guys? Why did he stop calling you?

For the umpteenth time, you snap yourself away from this. It’s too late. There’s no use in thinking of the past. You sigh and return to the kitchen, scouring, searching every cabinet and square surface for candles and matches.

A heartbeat or three passes, and a clonking of feet on wood alerts you to Jungkook’s return.

“I've got good news and bad news,” He huffs as he steps back onto the main floor from the cellar.

“Oh, god,” you start. You feel a slight panic coming on again.

“Good news?” He hefts a frayed and worn burlap bag. “I found firewood.”

“And the bad news?” You ask tentatively.

He feigns sadness before he brings out two giant bottles of cabernet sauvignon from behind his back. “There's all this wine, and nobody around to drink it,” he finishes. “Except us, naturally.”

For however brief a moment it was, you knew for certain that the flash in his eyes, the quick smile he now wore, you hadn't seen for years. It seems as though, if only for a split second, the old Jungkook had returned. Somehow sensing your revelation, the moment passes as swiftly as it came, and then a stone faced Jungkook returns.

“I-if you want to, anyway.” The coolness returns without indication, a coolness you are now determined to thaw out.

“I’m insulted you even think you have to ask,” you return playfully. A hint of colour returns to his cheeks, and a fraction of a grin returns. Silently, he sets about starting the fire while you work on opening the wine.

It takes you a second to realize that the wine is in fact corked, and you had not a corkscrew between the two of you. You glance at Jungkook, his back still turned to you, rubbing two sticks together or something. You really don’t know, and he doesn’t share; in fact, he seems quite absorbed in his work.

You glance back at the wine bottle. Taking the lapse in effort, you ask yourself if this was really worth doing- if this was even a good idea.

“Aha!” You hear a whoosh followed by a golden radiance that now permeates the space. “And that,” Jungkook turns towards you, grin wide and proud, “is how you start a fire.”

You’re not only warm, but impressed- leave it to Jungkook to be perfect in literally every department. You suppose he hasn’t lost that talent yet.

Though the feeling of pride quickly fades as you see the can of body spray in one of his hands and a lighter in the other. You raise a questioning eyebrow at him, silently calling him out on his middle school arson methods.

“It was ah, taking too long,” he adds sheepishly, rolling the can of body spray towards the corner and playfully tossing the lighter at you.

“Seokjin is going to kill you.”

“What for? Theft of his lighter, or his outrageous body spray? If anything, I’m doing him a favour…how are you making out with the wine?”

“We… don’t have a corkscrew,”  you reply somewhat dejectedly. That half-serious face comes about his visage once more as you see him wracking his brain, trying to solve the problem.

His grin returns. “Don’t worry,” Jungkook says after a minute. “I have an idea.”

“What a waste of a fucking match, oh my God!” You’re sure to sound extra exasperated as you watch Jungkook wrap the loose piece of twine around the neck of wine bottle.

“Do you want to drink or not? Let me work my magic…” Jungkook wears determination on his face, a tongue poking out, eyebrows scrunched together as he ties it once, twice until you’re sure even a wine bottle could choke. You watch as he carefully takes a match and strikes it with the expertise of a pyrotechnic turned for the better. With little hesitation, he lights the twine on fire, a burning noose around the neck of the wine bottle. It doesn’t take ten seconds for the glass to crack open. He’s two for two; at this point, you find yourself enjoying his company more and more.

You’re honestly mesmerized. “How…?” You ask. He lets out a soft chuckle, barely audible.

“It’s magic,” you hear him say as he shrugs. “I don’t have to explain shit.” Another eye roll later, you’re returning to the kitchen and opening the cabinet above the sink in search of wine glasses. To no avail, you find stainless steel coffee mugs instead.

“Is this even safe to drink out of? I won’t choke on microscopic shards of glass?” You ask Jungkook after your third and fourth glasses. It’s a little too late to be asking such a question but you’re sure at this point, your words are a little slurred and nothing quite makes sense. Inwardly, you realize it’s a moot point anyway, and with that realization comes that for the first time in longer than you can remember, you’re just trying to strike up a conversation with him.

It’s hard not to when Jungkook has planted a pile of pillows and blankets in front of the fire, the pair of you sat and drinking potentially lethal wine. Before you lies half-finished board games you two attempted to play yet failed due to sheer anger at the game itself or each other. You’re sure if you were sober, this would be a lot more difficult.

“Magic, _____.” Jungkook slurs, his cheeks flushed and that half grin he does so well. Despite a certain flutter in your chest, you scoff into your mug of wine, small bubbles splashing back onto your upper lip.

“Magic?” You nearly spit. “This isn’t Harry Potter, Jungkook. How exactly do you personally quantify magic?”

A quiet moment passes as he swirls the final dregs of wine in his cup thoughtfully.

“I’d define it as the things you do to me, actually,” he replies before downing the rest of his cup.

Are you hearing things right? Did that actually come out of his mouth? Is this happening? You glance at your own cup. What the fuck is this wine, anyway? You’re drunk. Both of you are.

Jungkook stands and reaches for the bottle, filling up his cup before topping up your own. You still sit in a stunned silence, observing as he tosses another log into the fire, a shower of sparks floating up the chimney.

“Wh… Where did that come from?” You manage. He waves his hand dismissively, breaking eye contact a moment.

“Next question?” He asks as he sips.

Feeling bolder now, you pursue. He isn’t getting away that easily.

“Okay. I’ll put it another way.” You pause to sip, the confidence now flowing nominally through your system. “What exactly happened to us?” There, you’ve asked it.

A silence now spreads the two of you apart, despite the lack of inherent distance between you two presently. Now it seems to be Jungkook’s turn to be stunned into silence.

“I’ve been wondering the same thing this entire time,” he replies. The stone is slowly creeping up to his face.

“You can do better than that,” you egg him on.

“What, now you believe in me?” He shoots back. The venom in his words would take you off guard if it weren’t for how earnest his was before you. He drinks again, gulping this time. He must be on his sixth glass now. You can see the same sentiment in his eyes that you hold in your heart; a universal now-or-never. This is the chance to lay the cards on the table. You know it’s going to hurt, but you know it’s necessary. He rises slowly to his feet, swaying ever so slightly from the wine.

“How about you tell me what happened to us, _____?” Jungkook almost shouts. “We used to be close. We told each other everything. I used to stay up late just to make sure you got home from class or work, I made sure you ate your meals, that your homework was completed. I cared. We both did. Maybe a bit too much...” With this, he sighs explosively and flops down onto the dusty couch behind you, his chin resting on his hand. “We used to be something. I don't know what, but it was there. And now?” He waves an arm absentmindedly towards the window. “Nothing but cold.” The irony, you think. But it's an irony that's been a long time coming, and a certain sick irony that could only come from him.

But the question sticks with you, more than you'd care to admit. Something had slapped you deep inside, and even still it reverberated within you.

No, you're not going to stand here and take this.

“You tell me what happened, Jungkook.” You uncross your legs and rise to your feet, striding towards him. “You stopped texting, calling. You stopped wanting to hang out, and suddenly there was this wall between us. You never even told me what I did.”

For a moment, he looks hurt, as though a thousand predisposed assumptions has just come hurtling down. He regains his composure, though barely, and through shaken words, he continues.

“No, _____.” His face softens. “It isn't what you did. It isn't anything you did, not really.” He's nervous now; his knee bounces, his jaw clenches. You're fairly certain he's beginning to sweat.

What isn't he telling you?

“Tell me,” you whisper. No venom now, merely curiosity, and perhaps a hint of something more. Your hand finds its way onto his own, and your fingers slowly curl around his palm. Contrary to your assumptions, his hand remains there. Even more surprising, his hand reverses and his fingers interlace with your own. A heartbeat passes, and his eyes meet yours.

“You didn’t do anything wrong, _____. I don’t think either of us did anything wrong. Passing ships in the night? Too little, too late? Just bad timing, is that all? Hell if I know.” He takes a deep swig of the wine. “We vibed. Hard. Everything about us was natural and made sense.” You have to agree with this, even now, not talking after so long- you two felt real, felt right.

“No, Jungkook, that’s bullshit and we both know it!” You insist. “You stopped putting in the effort, you stopped wanting to be in my life, you….” It hurts you, a sinking feeling in your chest as you choke out your words. “You wouldn’t even look in my direction the past however long ago it was that you decided to walk away from my life without a single warning.” Perhaps it’s because you’re drunk that tears spring. It’s a deep-seated memory that you’ve brought back, a confrontation that you had always convinced yourself would never happen. “And I don’t even get an explanation why?” This whole situation had to have happened for a reason, you drunkenly tell yourself. If fate really was real, this moment would be its poster child.

Jungkook is staring at you with a look you can’t quite read. You can’t quite decide if he’s about to cry with you or angrily escape this situation. Instead, he places his cup on the wooden coffee table and stands up. His walk towards you in confident, as if he’s ready to expel whatever it is that riddled him in shades of torture for as long as it did. He takes your hands, a slight shake in the way he grasps them.

“I couldn’t stand seeing you with him,” he blurts.

A moment passes, your eyes unleaving as you try and process the weight of his words in your scrambled, drunken mess of a mind. You with who? Hoseok?

“Him?” You find yourself repeating. “Why would you…”

Jungkook sighs and lets your hands go, his fingers moving up to rake his brunette locks away from his face. He’s definitely sweating, you note.

“Wasn’t it obvious, _____?

“B-but what about after we broke up, you could’ve—”

“Could’ve what?” He laughs humorously. “Could have gone back to the way it was before?” He cranes his neck to the side, the palm of his hand rubbing against the skin. “It doesn’t work like that, _____. I’m selfish for you but not that selfish. Staying away was better anyway... neither of us would get hurt.”

But you were hurt, hurt more than the break up itself because at the end of the day, all you wanted was your best friend and even he had left. “You’re such an idiot.” You can’t help but say. “Stupid, stupid idiot. How could you do that?” You want to punch him, slap him as hard as you can for him to feel any amount of equivalence in physical pain that he gave you in emotional pain. All those nights you had laid wondering what you did wrong had all been for nothing?

Your frown deepens, more questions than ever before emerging. “You liked me?” Had you ever even thought of him as more than a friend? You’re not sure you should even be asking these questions with vigour liquor coursing through your veins yet, you remind yourself that the liquid courage has brought you two here thus far.

Jungkook laughs once more, no strain of humour in the vibrato. “That’s an understatement.” He then mumbles and you’re left racking your brain. For a brief second, it makes perfect sense before you completely lose your train of thought.  “Besides,” he continues. “There’s no point in thinking what could have happened, I just—” There’s a pause as his chocolates in his doe eyes search yours for something. “Will you just let me kiss you right now?”

This takes you wholeheartedly off guard, your eyes widen as you speak with hesitance. “Y-you want to kiss me?”

“I’ve always wanted to, _____.” How does this phrase create such a powerful flutter in your chest? You wonder if it’s the alcohol or maybe, just maybe, a deep-rooted longing you;d never known you had in you.

Without answering his question, you kiss him first.

As your fingers reach for his face, Jungkook grapples your waist. You feel tiny in the palm of his hands, he thinks as he feels your lips against his for the first time. Jungkook feels as if he’s dreaming- perhaps the alcohol has something to do with that.

Red wine is what you taste the most, mixed with a subtle sweetness of mint. You drown in him, melt against him as he carefully engulfs you into his arms. The fireplace warming the space around is nothing in comparison to the sudden inferno in your chest. It’s then that you realize, this is what you’ve wanted all along.

Your hand slides down Jungkook’s face to his chest. He feels broad underneath your fingertips, a certain firmness to the touch that you hadn’t expected. He only brings you closer, arms wrapping around your torso as his lips press against you harder. His tongue is soft with your own, a gentle roll with your own as a certain heat builds up in your core.

Suddenly, it’s messier. Jungkook’s tongue swipes your bottom lip before planting a soft bite. It releases a whimper from you, earning a quiet groan from him. You’ve never thought this day would come. Are you dreaming?

When you pull away, Jungkook’s full attention is on you only. He runs a thumb over your wine-stained pout, his eyes large and completely enveloped in the sight of you. “I never thought I would get to kiss these lips.” He says.

You moan and lean in for another.

No matter how much your lips fuse together, how much you press yourself against his stronger hold, you cannot get enough nor do you want this to end. It feels right, comfortable to be in his embrace like this, his mouth against yours and chests connected. It’s not long before you’re both succumbing to the fall on your knees against the self-made bed Jungkook made of old blankets and pillows. It’s cozy, neither of you wasting time to run upstairs to a proper bed. You think this is the most romantic setting you could have ever hoped for.

It’s when you’re suddenly on top of Jungkook that you feel a growth settle underneath your core. You feel the sheer girth of it as your kissing intensifies, two large hands coming to rest upon your thighs as they persuade your hips to skim over it. You gasp at the feeling, sure that you’re already soaked beyond measure. It’s not hard for you to already feel him like this, the thin veil of his pajama bottoms being the only barrier away from you having it in you. The thought arouses you far too much, leading to a harsher grind that has you both moan out. You haven’t been touched in a long while.

Jungkook’s hands travel up your sides until he’s cupped both of your cheeks in each palm. Your lips are guided once again to his own as he places a hard kiss against you. With each fleeting moment, your want for him intensifies. You can’t help but think this was meant to be, that you’ve wanted this somewhere deep within you. Perhaps the old you was looking out for the future you.

It’s with both hesitance and confidence that Jungkook inches your sweater up. His hands feel warm against your bare torso, a shiver running through you when they lazily travels up and down your sides. As you pull away, Jungkook gives you that lopsided grin you hadn’t realized you’ve missed dearly until this moment. It almost feels as if nothing has changed, as if there hadn’t been a giant nothingness between you two for so long.

“You look so beautiful.” Jungkook whispers, his right hand reaching to push a strand of hair away from your face. He helps you guide your shirt off before a thumb strokes your cheek, and then your lips. You softly bite it and receive a contempt groan in response.

“Yours too,” you gently urge as you play with the hem of his white shirt. Jungkook grins and lifts his torso before pulling the fabric over his head. He does not hesitate to kiss you again.

With each kiss, the intensity grows until you’re sure you’ve caused a puddle in your pants as you shamelessly grind your cunt against a very erect bulge in Jungkook’s pants. He feels so firm, more built than you could have ever imagined as he pulls you tighter against him. You’re slowly losing your mind before you decide to take the initiative.

“Jungkook,” you mumble against his mouth.

“Hm?”

“Let me taste you.” Jungkook nearly unravels just from those words alone.

“Yeah?” You nod, a coy smile spreading across your face as surely a heavy blush riddles your cheeks in a crimson red. Jungkook merely chuckles, planting a feverish kiss against your mouth. “You’re so adorable.”

You trail kisses down his torso, the definition of muscles in his abdomen driving you absolutely mad. You’re still unable to fully comprehend what exactly was happening yet you’re equally unable to stop yourself.  Jungkook helps you get rid of his pants, your mouth instantly watering when his erection lands against his torso with a soft thwack. It glistens against the golden aura surrounding you. He cocks his head to the side. “Think you can take it?”

If that’s a challenge you hear in his tone, it’s a challenge you’re willing to take. You might even think Jungkook remembers how competitive you are. You move down his body with ease before placing a tentative lick against the head of his cock. Jungkook’s hands immediately surrender to your hair, moving it out of your face until he’s made a makeshift ponytail out of his own hands.

“Fuuuck,” he drags out shakily when you take the whole of his head in your mouth. You suck just under his head, a certain ball of nerves that drives Jungkook absolutely mad. The hold he has on your hair acts as an invisible guide, in motion with his hips lifting does he simultaneously move your head down. “Just like that, baby.” You groan against his cock as you take more of him in your mouth. Jungkook is thick, girthy with a prominent vein that sits right where your tongue can trace it. He’s losing himself further and further into you as you begin a steady motion of sucking. Your hand holds the base of his cock as your mouth works wonders, earning you whimpers and curses from him. “So good, so good.” Jungkook gasps when you pick up the pace. It’s when he feels himself really about to lose control that he pulls you away from his cock, a satisfying pop following the disconnect.

“C’mere,” he murmurs before smashing his lips against yours. Though your lips are coated in saliva, his kisses have become sloppier, rougher as he cradles your torso with one arm before flipping you until you’re underneath him. “These have to go.” He pulls at your pants and you giggle with agreeance.

“That would be ideal.”

Jungkook undoes the buttons before tugging them down your legs. You’ve now got nothing on but your bra, a pale violet with a lacy trim on the top. Did you subconsciously know you were going to get fucked by none other than Jeon Jungkook today?

He pulls your legs apart, a satisfied hum escaping him as your glistening folds welcome him. “Fuck, _____.” He whispers as his thumb skims over your wetness. You suck in a sharp breath, the callous on his thumb sensitive against your cunt. You want him to touch you there.

It’s as if he can read your mind, the thumb now dragging over your clit. The sigh of relief you give only fuels Jungkook’s satisfaction more. He too would like to taste you.  

You cry out, hands grappling for his torso as he begins circling the thumb over your sensitive nub. “So wet,” he groans.

“J-just for you.” This makes Jungkook move faster with his thumb. He wants to feel you. Jungkook slowly slides the defts of his index and middle finger into you, your cry filling the space. He takes his time, feeling your walls clench around his digits as his thumb simultaneously circles over your clit. He’s amazed by how each thrust of his fingers causes you to coat them farther in your arousal. And you’re amazed by how soon you’re about to come. It only makes his own erection angrier and your cunt clench tighter.

“You coming, baby?” Never would Jungkook have thought he’d get to call you baby. You nod with vigour, each pump of his finger along with the relentless rub of his fingers causing your legs to shake.

“S-so fucking close...oh my god.” You’re coming, you’re coming, you’re— “Jungkook!”

He dips his head in between your thighs, his mouth instantly suctioned to your clit as his fingers continue their torture. With his tongue replacing his thumb, you come undone almost instantly, the wave of pure white, hot filth overtaking your entire body. You shudder, legs trembling as your fingers thread through the lush of Jungkook’s brown locks. Jungkook continues licking against your clit, flicking and sucking until you can no longer take it.

“F-fuck me, Jungkook- please,” you beg as your cunt craves for more. You want absolutely all of him.

Jungkook’s cock is ready, heavy against his palm as he takes ahold of the base and spreads your legs apart. His mouth is wet with your arousal, his chest littered with beads of sweat. “Your pussy looks so fucking good.” He remarks, letting the pink tip of his dick rub against your wet folds. You both moan at the sensation.

With one more rub of his head, he lines himself against your entrance and slowly pushes his hips forward. You think you could come instantly again. Jungkook’s cock feels amazing, full as your tightness grips with so deliciously, even he has to hold himself back from not undoing quickly.

“Fuck.” You let out as you place a hand on his chest, letting the feel of his cock overtake your entire body. He stops when he’s reached the hilt, careful to rock his hips out before slamming them back into you. You can’t help but cry his name out. “You feel so good.” You’re whimpering, the hand on his chest and moving to the back of his neck as you push his head forward to kiss you. He follows suit, beginning a rhythmic pace of his hips as you lose yourself further and further into him.

Jungkook kisses you feverishly, hot and wet against your mouth as he continues to rick in and out of you. His breaths are laboured, filthy words and curses escaping him as you clench around him with each thrust.

“Yeah, baby?” You’re losing your mind, already close to a second undoing. You know you’re going to come again soon. Jungkook takes your legs and places your ankles on his shoulder, plummeting into you with a force so delicious, you’re about to go delirious. You’re so tight, Jungkook can feel himself edging closer to his own end. “Fuck, turn around for me.” You do as requested, turning to your stomach. Jungkook pulls your ass up towards him and lines himself up once again. Without hesitation this time, he pushes into you, a new type of fullness that overtakes your innards. He feels so fucking good.

It’s a steady rock, your ass hitting against his pelvis as he continues a continuous motion with his hips. He’s relentless in his movements, the new position allowing him to reach deeper, feeling you clench tighter.

“Holy fuck,” Jungkook is moaning out. He grabs a handful of your ass, using it as support while he rams into you with no plans of slowing down. The room is filled with the sound of your skin slapping and your deep breath and moans. Jungkook knows he’s so close.

He reaches forward, first and second digit immediately gravitating towards your clit. As he rubs, the familiar rubber band stretches in the pit of your guts. You’re going to come again, you feel it.

It’s when Jungkook whispers into your ear how much he wants to come inside you, that you give out. It washes over you, makes you tighten your grip on the blanket underneath you as you clench so hard around Jungkook that he too comes with you. You feel the spurts of him fill you to the brim until you’re nothing but a puddle underneath him. You lay still, letting his fluid mixed with yours dribble out of you as Jungkook pulls out. It burns to have him away from you. You want him to hold you all night.

“Was that okay?” Jungkook asks, leaning forward to kiss your shoulder. You nod in reassurance, twisting your head around so he can kiss your lips.

It’s then that your phone blares, taking you both by surprise. You rush to your feet, arms reaching for your phone when you see Namjoon’s name flash across your screen.

“Hello?” You answer with no thought.

“_____! Oh my god! Are you okay? There was a huge storm, we’re trapped in town until Monday- did I ask if you were okay? I think Yoongi—” The line fizzles out.

There’s a pause as you look at a curious Jungkook.

“It looks like we’ll be here a while.”

a/n: hey babies! so sorry for the long wait for this one! i really hope you liked it! it’s been in the works for a little while haha. this is my first fic back in a WHILE! and more to come soon! let me know what you think as per usual. i love you so much!!!!!!! and happy holidays to you, your friends and families ✨💞

[wingsofhcpe]

whumptober day 1- barbed wire

fandom: shadow & bone

pairing: fivan [ivan x fedyor kaminsky]

rating: T+

additional warnings: blood & injury

you can also read here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/34208404/chapters/85114393

[tagging @camilleisback upon request <3]

It’s days before Ivan finally finds Fedyor.

The druskelle, clever bastards that they are, have elected to hide near the borders with Fjerda and wait for reinforcements rather than make a run for it. There’s an abandoned warehouse that must have once been a butcher’s store near a withering Ravkan village; it’s well-camouflaged between the trees, and the vegetation and snowdrifts muffle the sounds of screaming that echo from inside as the witch-hunters torment their prisoners night and day. The location would have been impossible to hide, had it not been for the honed senses of a Heartrender being able to detect the distressed heartbeats from miles away, as well as an experienced Squaller sensing the slightest vibrations in the air that are commonly caused by loud noises such as screams.

Seven Grisha had been taken captive during the druskelle raid at their camp; when Ivan barrels into the warehouse, druskelle dropping left and right with nothing but a flicker of his wrists, he finds two survivors and five rotting corpses. For a moment, he fears the worst- but as his senses clear and the adrenaline of battle fades, he realises one of the two remaining heartbeats echoing in the dark, murky space, belongs to Fedyor. Ivan’s head snaps like a hound catching the scent of blood, and it is mere seconds before his eyes adjust to the distorted light coming from the busted door, and he finally makes out a shape at the far end of the warehouse. Before he can even think about it, he’s running.

Fedyor’s body is suspended by the wrists from a meat hook attached to the ceiling; it’s bad enough to see his lover limp and unmoving like a corpse, but then Ivan takes a closer look and realises with gut-wrenching horror that Fedyor’s hands aren’t bound with rope but with thick coils of barbed wire. The jagged points have dug deep within the skin, leaving sickening gouges across Fedyor’s wrists and forearms. There’s blood everywhere, having dripped down to his elbows, shoulders and even his hair. It has created a small puddle on the rotting floorboards, and Ivan’s boots squelch as he steps on it, trying to get as close to Fedyor as possible. The latter is nearly unconscious, but he makes a low, keening sound when Ivan attempts, in vain, to undo his bindings. It’s no use; the barbs are embedded deep into the flesh, and trying to uncoil them now will only cause more damage, more bleeding, more pain. They have to be cut away, but Ivan isn’t sure whether any of his Grisha is carrying a blade sharp and slender enough for the job. Either way, his first concern should be getting Fedyor down from where he’s still hanging from; this way, he’ll be able to get a better look.

It’s slow work, painstaking for both parties. Fedyor stirs in and out of consciousness as Ivan works, whimpering and begging for mercy. Ivan realises with a pang of unrestrained fury what a devilishly clever idea it had been to bind a Grisha’s hands in such a manner- Fedyor’s hands are close enough, he could twist them if he tried, he could use his powers to do away with his captors. But the barbed edges would shred his skin further if he did, would cause him to suffer and bleed even more. The druskelle had evidently known that; they had risked their own lives for the sake of toying with their prisoners in such a sadistic, inhuman manner.

Fedyor’s weak, pained cry jolts Ivan out of his fury-addled thoughts, and he realises belatedly that he has pulled too roughly at the wires; fresh blood is trickling from somewhere, and Ivan swears colourfully under his breath.

“I’m sorry, moye serdtse, I’m sorry,” he whispers, hoping Fedyor can hear him, hoping he knows Ivan doesn’t want to hurt him, he just has to get him down for his own good “I’m almost done. Just stay strong for me, Fedya.”

Finally, he manages to pry the hook loose from the wire; Fedyor’s body drops lifelessly, but Ivan is there to catch him and gently lower him to the floor, until Fedyor is lying against his chest. Ivan holds him gently, cradling him against his own body and whispering apologies and reassurances. It’s only then that Fedyor’s eyes open just slightly, brown irises glazed with pain and pupils dilated. His cracked, bloodied lips move, and Ivan has to strain to hear him.

“You found me.” The injured man whispers, and Ivan nods seriously.

“Of course I did, my love. I’m here now. You’re safe.” He doesn’t mention how he’s been too late; how he’s allowed the druskelle to torture Fedyor for four long, endless days. How they have lost five of their own, because Ivan had been too incompetent to find them fast enough.

Yet Fedyor’s mouth twitches into a small, relieved smile. “I knew you would… you always… find me…”

“Shh…” Ivan lays a hand on Fedyor’s cheek, flushed with fever. “Don’t talk now.”

They stay still for a little while; Fedyor’s ragged breathing echoing in sync with Ivan’s relieved sighs as he holds his beloved close, peppering gentle, loving kisses across his bloodied cheeks and brow. Eventually, Ivan carefully places a hand over Fedyor’s still bound wrists.

“I need to take these off.” He says softly, and catches the glint of fear in Fedyor’s delirious gaze. “I cannot lie to you, Fedya, it will hurt. But it will only be for a little while. It’ll feel much better after.”

Fedyor whimpers softly. “…so much. They hurt so much, Vanya. My hands… it feels like they’re on fire…”

“I know, I know.” Ivan voice cracks with despair; seeing Fedyor suffer like this, it’s too much to bear. “I will make it better, I promise. Just… Just trust me, dearest.”

Fedyor’s eyes close, but he nods tiredly; even while in so much pain, he must know there’s no other solution. Ivan takes his kefta off, bundles it up into a makeshift pillow and lays Fedyor down on it as carefully as he can. Then he calls out to one of his Grisha, requesting the sharpest and thinnest blade that can be found in their equipment or the druskelle’s. While rummaging, he takes the opportunity to hastily check on the other survivor, a younger Inferni woman- she’s alive and in slightly better condition than Fedyor, although her hands have been bound in a similar manner. By using her powers to heat them up, however, she has made the wires pliant and thus easier to remove. Clever, Ivan thinks to himself. He would have asked her to do the same for Fedyor’s bonds, but she looks so pale, and she can’t even sit up without feeling faint. No, he can’t run her any more ragged. The dagger will have to do.

Finally, Ivan finds a fine, razor-sharp blade within one of the druskelle’s coats. It’s possibly used for gutting fish, and is less than clean, but it’s his only choice, and anyway, Fedyor’s probably already suffering from an infection judging by the rust that covers the wires. Dried fish gore won’t make a big difference at this point.

“Close your eyes and count to fifty, Fedya.” Ivan encourages as he kneels next to his partner. “Focus on the numbers. Don’t think of anything else.”

Fedyor nods feebly and does as he’s told; his eyes close and his lips begin to move in a voiceless mumble as he starts to count. Ivan slips his fingers carefully between the coils of wire, and as gently as he can, he begins to saw at it with the dagger. No matter how gentle he tries to be, however, Fedyor’s body immediately tenses and his breath comes out in short gasps. Ivan shushes him softly, although he knows it’s not much help. The best he can do for Fedyor now, is focus on his task. And so he does- he does his best to shut off the pained gasps that soon turn into whimpers, and saws methodically at the accursed barbed coil until, little by little, it starts to come off.

“…fifty.” Fedyor murmurs shakily at some point, and Ivan doesn’t have to look to know there are tears running down his blood-crusted cheeks.

“Ten more, moye serdtse. I’m almost done. You’re doing so well. You’re so, so brave, my Fedyenka. So brave.”

Fedyor’s chest heaves as he cries quietly, but he doesn’t complain, not even when Ivan finally cuts through the wires and is able to pull them away. There’s a sickening wet sound as the barbs are pulled free from Fedyor’s flesh, where they’d been wedged for days, and Fedyor’s back arches- for once, he can’t keep in the hoarse scream that rips out of his throat. But the next moment his muscles relax as Ivan unbinds him completely, his fingers twitching slightly in relief as blood circulates back to them. Ivan breathes out a sigh, and places his palm on Fedyor’s forehead.

“I’m done, Fedya. It’s alright now.” Fedyor only shakes his head a little, unable to speak. But his heartbeat has eased just slightly- he’s still in pain, but he’s better.

The group makes camp right there, inside the warehouse (after moving the corpses of the druskelle away and dumping them into a snowdrift to be prey for scavenging animals. Serves them right). They hold a funeral pyre for the deceased Grisha, but Ivan only speaks a few words as the squad’s leader and then retreats back into the building; one of the others has lit a fire in the middle, right under an opening in the rotting roof, using old scraps and thin branches. The interior is warm now, and the smell of burning cloth and wood is chasing away the odour of stale blood and dead bodies. Ivan directs two of the Grisha to stand watch as soon as the funeral pyre outside is done, and focuses on the task at hand.

He digs around the ruins until he finds something that resembles an old, cracked wooden bowl- possibly used by the previous owner of the establishment to collect the majority of the blood that poured from freshly slaughtered cattle. It looks cleaner than one would expect, and it smells only vaguely of blood; nothing a good rinse with snow can’t fix. After that’s done, Ivan refills the bowl with snow and holds it over the fire until it’s turned into warm water. He rummages through the squad’s supplies too, and finds clean cloths and bandages.

Fedyor’s eyes flutter behind pale, close lids when Ivan returns to his side, although he seems to weak to open them. Still, Ivan knows he’s still conscious and in pain.

“I’m going to clean your wounds.” He says softly, sitting next to the other man. Fedyor can only hum in agreement- it’s not like he could move away even if he wanted to. Even if he didn’t know his wounds had to be cleaned before infection set in for real. There was no Healer with them, as conflict hadn’t been expected. It had only been a reconnaissance mission. It would be three days of fast riding at the very best, until they made it back to the Little Palace, and Fedyor wouldn’t last for half of it if Ivan didn’t do something to keep the infection at bay.

So with as much care as he can possibly muster, Ivan takes hold of Fedyor’s hand into his own and lifts it up slowly to take a closer look. Even with the dried blood obscuring the worst of it, Ivan can already tell it’s worse than he’s initially assessed; the cuts are deep, the skin around them swollen and hot to the touch, and there’s white liquid concentrated on the edges of the deeper, wider gashes. Fedyor’s hand is trembling in his own, and Ivan can only imagine how much it truly hurts. Fedyor has a high pain tolerance, yet even for him this must be almost unbearable.

In a desperate attempt to comfort his partner, Ivan starts to hum a slow lullaby as he soaks a strip of cloth in the warm water, then wrings it out and starts to slowly, gently clean the blood and grime away from the cuts. Fedyor lets out a quiet sigh of relief, the clean, warm water immediately doing wonders for his mangled hand. Ivan allows himself a small smile; he doesn’t cease his humming while he continues to carefully clean and bandage Fedyor’s left hand, then his right. All the while he keeps a metaphorical eye on Fedyor’s heartbeat, glad to feel it gradually grow slower and more relaxed. The last thing Ivan does after he’s checked Fedyor for other open wounds (he’s satisfied to find nothing, although the dark bruises on his face, chest and ribs are certainly worrisome), is clean the rest of the blood from his husband’s hair, face, and neck. By the end of it, the water in the bowl has turned from clear to a dark, muddy brown colour. Ivan does away with it as soon as he can- he can no longer stand to look at Fedyor’s blood.

Most of the other Grisha have gone to sleep by now, including the other survivor- a good sign all in all, and Ivan can see from where he stands that her own wounds have also been taken care of. The two Grisha he’d ordered to stand watch are doing so in a perfectly straight posture, even after four gruelling days of riding and searching, and Ivan makes a mental note to mention their names and devotion to the General when they go back to the capital. When he’s certain everything is in order, Ivan finally allows himself to lie down next to Fedyor. The wooden floor is uncomfortable at best, but he doesn’t care. Gently, he slings one arm over his husband’s sleeping form and draws him close. He’s never letting Fedyor go, ever again.

Fedyor hums a little in his sleep, cracking one eye open to look at Ivan. Immediately, he smiles tiredly and Ivan smiles back, unable to begrudge him such a simple pleasure.

“How are you feeling, moye serdtse?” He asks.

“Much… much better.” Fedyor whispers in a relaxed manner. Yet Ivan doesn’t harbour any illusions- he knows the pain and fever will come back with a vengeance soon, and he wants Fedyor to get as much rest as possible until then. He’ll need it. So he places a chaste kiss on Fedyor’s lips and starts filing his hand through the latter’s hair. Predictably, Fedyor submits to the affections; Ivan knows how to best make him relax, even under such conditions.

“Sleep.” Ivan whispers tenderly, and Fedyor nods. Before he closes his eyes again, Fedyor offers him another small smile.

“I knew you’d find me.” He mouthed, and Ivan nodded, pride and love and devotion swelling in his chest.

“Of course, my love. I will never leave you. I promise.”

Even if the whole Ravka, the whole world, was against them, they believed in each other. And in the end, that was that really mattered.

[niqhtlord01]

Humans are weird: Fight or Flight

As the door to the training hall opened slowly the gathered soldiers ceased their casual conversations and formed into ranks. Roughly seven squads of Altan’s were present, standing at attention as their instructor slowly walked into the room.  The instructor was named Kal and he held the rank of Task Master. Like many of the Altan people he was humanoid in shape with the exception of a protruding jaw with several extra layers of teeth and two tusk like fangs rising from his lower jaw upwards. His limbs were the thickness of steel girders, coiled with muscles so strong that with a single finger he could snap a human’s neck like a twig. His face was covered in scars with the most eye catching being a long gash along his throat. No one knew how the Task Master had received the wound but it was impossible to miss as Kal would scratch at it ever so often.  Unlike the gathered Altan soldiers who were dressed in their training uniforms Kal wore a soft grey military uniform along with a matching cap to cover his head. Covering his right eye was a crimson red eye patch with the emblem of the Altan nation in black stenciled upon it.  As Kal reached the front ranks he stopped and observed the gathered soldiers. To them, he was the very model of what Altan soldiers should strive for; but all Kal saw when those glimmering eyes looked upon him was the naivety and hubris that would see them all dead upon their first real combat.  He was here to ensure they lived long enough to at least see their second.  “Today,” Kal spoke with a soft voice that seemed to fill the room regardless of its size, “we will be going over potential enemies you will face upon the battlefield and methods in which to ensure they are killed swiftly.”  He started pacing through the ranks, turning his head side to side as if observe the soldiers before him. “There isn’t a foe out there that I have not fought and beaten on nearly every terrain imaginable. I have fought with the most advanced laser weaponry to shards of broken metal and I am here today not because I believed in my own invincibility, but because I took the time to learn from my foe and find their weaknesses and exploit them.” He stopped and leveled his face at a soldier next to him.  “What’s your name?”  “Jhillit, sir!”  “Well Jhillit, have you ever fought a Ragnarok Roller before?”  The soldier looked confused for a moment, unsure how to answer the question.  “HAVE YOU OR HAVEN’T YOU?!”  “NO SIR! I HAVE NOT!” The reply was swift with a hint of wavering anxiety.  Kal stared at Jhillit for a few moments longer, locking eyes with him before standing back to his full height.  “Then I imagine you must have questions on how to defeat one now don’t you?”  “Sir yes sir!”  Kal patted Jhillit on the shoulder and moved past him. “That is good. You do not learn unless you ask questions, questions that give answers that you will then memorize so you WILL no how to survive without having to ask questions.”  Kal returned to the front of the gathered group and looked at them.  “Today you may ask as many questions as you want, thereby ensuring you will be smart enough to live as long as me and enjoy a cushy job of shouting at a bunch of greenhorns. Is that understood?”  “SIR YES SIR!” came the chorus of replies.        Kal pulled out a small remote and pressed a button. The windows to the room blacked out. A screen began descending from the ceiling as the lights began going out one by one.  “We will first learn about the greatest threat to our military currently active in the galaxy.”  He pressed another button and a picture displayed on the screen. The picture a group of humanoid pink skinned aliens on screen donning strange clothing on a beach somewhere while one of the taller pink skins was hoisting a smaller one atop their shoulders.  “This, is humanity.” Kal began, “More commonly known as “Humans”.”  A soft chuckle came from the somewhere in the back ranks and Kal’s head snapped around.  “Who laughed?”  Kal stormed through the ranks, head snapping back and forth.  “WHO JUST LAUGHED!!!”  He glared at a soldier to the right of where he believed he heard the chuckle come from. The soldier kept their eyes facing forward as Kal lowered his head and let out a low growl until finally the now shaking soldier motioned their eyes to the left.  Kal turned to the soldier that was on their left.  “Sir I-”  Kal’s fist impacted the soldiers stomach with enough force to nearly drive the life from him, knocking them back into the soldiers behind them who went to catch him as he fell.  “DO NOT MOVE!” Kal shouted at the helped soldiers who instantly dropped their comrade to the floor as they continued gasping for breath. “I GAVE YOU PERMISSION TO ASK QUESTIONS, NOT TO LAUGH!” Kal berated the soldier as they continued gasping and coughing. “GET UP!” Kal shouted down at the soldier who struggled to their feet.  The Task Master took several deep breaths to calm themselves down before continuing in his original tone.  “The next person to laugh, I will break their arm.” He spoke softly and returned to the front without waiting for a response.  “Every enemy I will talk to you today has been at one point or another an enemy of the Altan nation, and any enemy of the Altan nation is an enemy that is not meant to be taken lightly.”  Kal pressed the device in his hand again and it began scrolling through various pictures of humans interacting with each other.  “Humans are a carbon based life form that breathes O2. They can survive in nearly any environment on their own and when conditions are too much they adapt to their surroundings to ensure their survival.”  Kal stopped the photo slide on a picture depicting a particular human.  “This is your average human soldier. Their armor can range from a suit of heavy armor equipped with micro shielding units, to combat webbing holding various items and weapons, to nothing at all in some situations.”  “Sir!”  Kal looked at the back and saw a hand raised. “Yes, you have a question?” The soldier nodded. “Why would a human wear nothing into battle? Is that not extremely unwise and borderline insane?”  Kal stroked his chin and looked up at the human before them wearing only a pair of lower outer wear. “For a front line soldier it would be insane; however some humans remove their clothing to reduce the amount of noise they generate when moving. Scanners also become near useless as they can only detect a heat signature which is near useless on most worlds as it becomes overridden by local animal life. There are numerous reports of human bypassing defenses and assassinate high ranking officials.”  Kal was pleased to see some of the soldiers looking at the humans with more interest now, but more still looked questioning so he continued.  “The greatest aspect of a human is not their weaponry or gear however. Their greatest aspect is a genetic trait embedded into each human what they call “Fight or Flight”.”  He pressed the device once more replacing the image with a set of two different humans. One holding a knife and looking mad, and another fleeing in the opposite direction.  “This trait is a genetic quality so far exclusive to humanity. In times of extreme stress or life threatening situations the human brain will reorganize itself to have only two possibilities.”  The image of the mad looking human enlarged. “The fight scenario forces the human into a berserk state. Their bodies become strong enough to lift several times their own weight, become hyper focused, and tune out all pain for a duration of time.”  “Sir.”  “Yes, another question.”  “Can you explain that last portion? No one can just tune out pain.”  The Task Master tilted his head up to show his scar on his throat. “See this scar? This was given to me by a female human soldier during the first contact wars. I had barely enough time to throw her off me before she cut too deep. I blew off the hand holding the knife they used leaving a stump of melting flesh and exposed bone. Can you guess what she did next?”  The soldier shook his head.  “She let out a scream that haunts me to this day and jammed the stump into my eye. Popping it like a chark seed before I rolled and threw her off me once again. By the time I came to all I could see were two other human soldiers grabbing her and holding her back as she continued screaming at me, thrusting that bloody stump in my direction over and over.” He casually raised his hand and flipped up his eye patch revealing a hollow socket. “Just picture that and let it set in for you greenies. That human was so focused on killing me she hadn’t even noticed she wasn’t holding the knife anymore let alone that her hand was missing and she still came at me.”  He turned his head so they all could see before flipping the patch down. “This was not an isolated case either. There are reports of humans losing entire limbs to laser fire, stomachs sliced open and organs falling out, both eyes gouged out and missing their lower half of their bodies; and so consumed are they by this desire to fight and kill that they can still keep coming until their enemies are dead.”  To reinforce his point he pressed the device rapidly showing various human veterans missing portions of their body still alive and well as if nothing had happened.  “The opposite side of this is the “Flight” scenario. In this case the human experiencing this will likewise have a duration of tuning out pain, but rather than standing and fighting they put their own self preservation above all other considerations and will do anything to secure their survival.”  “Sir.”  “Good, another question.”  “Why should we be afraid if the human becomes so terrified they will do anything to flee?”  “A good point. Nothing warms my heart than seeing my enemies fleeing in terror before me and my soldiers.” A rousing cheer came from the gathered soldiers before Kal waved them down.  “But as delightful as that sight may be one must not forget that this is also when a human is most dangerous.” Several soldiers scratched their heads at this notion and Kal continued. “Humans have a wide variety of emotions and bonds that they use daily that allow their society to function. A “Flight” situation throws all that out the door to the point the human in question becomes self centered and put themselves above all others.” The soldiers still looked confused. Kal scratched his eyes and tried again.  “Picture this. A human who is so scared to fight you that they are willing to nuke an entire planet with you on it even with their own fellow soldiers present.”  “Surely they would not be capable of such acts.”  “Oh no?”  He pressed the device again and it showed a world in volcanic ruin. “The planet before you was once known as “Warsaw Prime” and it was once a lush garden world with clear blue oceans and vast forests. Roughly two decades ago an unknown insect species invaded the human world and began slaughtering the humans. The planet’s governor, or leader, was driven stranded in the planets capital and fearing for his own life launched a devastating series of nuclear strikes against the horde of insects across the globe in an attempt to wipe them out. These strikes then set off a chain reaction that destabilized the planet and set off numerous volcanic eruptions that covered the planet in lava.”  He paused to let that sit in to the soldiers.  “So consumed was the human leader with preserving themselves that they set off a chain of events that destroyed an entire planet without a second thought. Fear, drove them to madness.”  “Sir?” “Yes?” “What was the point of showing us this?”  “The “point” was to show you that even though these pink skins look harmless and frail, they are merely the bottle holding unimaginable rage and fury the likes of which can shatter the stars themselves.”  Kal stepped to the soldier slowly and looked at him.  “You must never underestimate your foe; and you must never, ever, underestimate a human that has been backed into a corner.”

[theblueempath]

This is a short story (1.2k words) about a character that appeared in this thread I did with @quantum-magician-michiko for a few replies but I got inspiration to do more with them.

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The Hainu In The Forest Of Magic

Deep in the Forest of Magic, where the trees grow so thick that night is never ending and the plants are as hungry for human flesh as the beasts that roam within, a Hainu rests in a small clearing. The legend of this winged dog describes them as loyal, loving pets but this one had been turned ferocious by desperation.

For the forest was as much a trap as it was a home. It’s magic would lead the unskilled astray, bringing them deep within and hiding any route of escape. Even climbing through the trees felt like the tops could never be reached. With no escape, the Hainu had to survive on whatever prey the forest deemed fit for her to find.

But her most recent prey had been more than she had expected. A frail stick of a magician and a meek sheep. It should have been an easy meal but the sheep’s horn was for more than just show, having gouged out the Hainu’s side and left her too wounded to even take on the tired magician.

The blow wasn’t fatal, Youkai are stronger than the average beast after all, and so she had retreated to find some easier prey. But she was slower. For two days since that encounter she had tried time and again to catch easier prey but each time they escaped.

Eventually hunger turned to starvation, the wound sapping her of energy as her body tried to heal and she was forced to stop and rest. Keeping away from the plants in case they tried to make a meal of her, she trusted the darkness of the forest to conceal her. With barely enough energy left to move, she had to hope that the forest would send prey to her.

But nothing came. She kept alert for any sounds of coming prey but all she heard was her own pained breathing.

Was this how she was going to die? Too weak to move, slowly sapped of energy until she wasted away? Or would the forest lead another beast here to make her the prey?

Her contemplation was eventually interrupted by leaves rustling in the distance, her ears perking up to try to tell what was moving.

Footsteps moving towards her. A human? Or another beast Youkai like her? It could be dangerous but she couldn’t just let prey pass her by, so she carefully got to her feet and peeked around a tree.

There was light. A fairy? No, someone holding a lantern. They looked around but they didn’t seem lost. Like they knew where they were but for looking for something specific.

Then, the Hainu recognised the person. Blue, puffy hair. A distinctly official looking uniform. And a golden horn! The same damned golden horn that had skewered her just two days ago.

She couldn’t help but growl in anger but immediately regretted it. The sheep looked in her direction and she ducked back down, hoping the forest would keep her hidden.

But she wasn’t granted such luck today, as the sheep peeked around the tree with her lantern, revealing the Hainu crouched low to the ground.

“There you- eek!” The Hainu pounced, slashing at the sheep but only managing to cut a few strands of hair. She was slow and despite being surprised, the sheep was able to duck under her attack.

The attack had been so desperate though that it agitated her wound, sending pain through her body that caused her to crumple on the floor after leaping past the sheep. It felt so pathetic but she just didn’t have the energy in her body to resist the pain and stay on her feet.

“Hey! Are you okay?” The sheep said with concern in her voice. Some how, out of everything, that made the Hainu angry.

“What do you care!” She snapped at the sheep. “You’re the one who did this to me!”

“You were going to kill my friend! You didn’t give me much choice!” The sheep snapped back, the kindly concern so quickly done away with.

“So what?! Now you’re here to finish me off?!”

“That’s not-!” The Sheep pauses to to take a breath, calming herself. “I came here looking for you because I knew you had no way out of here.”

“Tch… what’s looking for me going to help? You’re just trapped in here with me now.”

“No I’m not.”

The Hainu gives the sheep a befuddled look. How could she be so confident when the Hainu had been in here for… far too long to remember. The lack of light made it impossible to tell.

“I’m a Kaichi.” The sheep continued. “I can see through lies. And this forest… it’s one big lie. It misdirects you with illusions, changes your path so you can never escape. But I can tell when it’s lying and keep going the right way.”

“So let’s just bandage that wound and-” The Kaichi reaches out but the Hainu panics and lashes out with her claws.

“Leave me alone! I don’t need your help!”

The Kaichi frowns, “Yes you do! Look at yourself! If I leave now you’ll just waste away, you couldn’t even touch me!”

“I said I don’t need you! I was doing just fine by myself! I’ll find my own way out without your help!”

Once the Hainu finished shouting, there was no retort, just a moment of silence as the Kaichi’s frown visibly tightened.

“I really have gotten too tolerant lately...” She finally responds, talking to herself more than the Hainu, and gets to her feet. Shooting the Hainu a glare, she turns and walks away without another word, seemingly having had enough of dealing with her.

The Hainu knew what she said was a lie but there was just too much pride in her. Or was it… fear? Spending who knows how long on her own, killing for food, her life has been dog eat dog for so long that she could only think to respond to kindness with aggression. Even though by those own rules, the Kaichi was well in her rights to injure her like she did… and she didn’t have to come back.

Regret washed over the Hainu as she thought it over. What had her aggression gotten her? A last laugh before she died? That’s not what she wanted. She… didn’t want to die.

With a great strain, she pushed herself to her feet. By now the Kaichi was probably out of sight but she needed to try and catch up. If she lost the Kaichi her last hope of surviving would be hidden from her by the forest.

To her surprise, she saw the shine of the Kaichi’s lantern. The truth seeing beast was just standing there… waiting for her?

Without so much as an acknowledgement, the Kaichi started walking again and the Hainu followed a distance behind. She went slowly, out of energy and in considerable pain, but the Kaichi never went so far ahead that she’d lose sight of them.

But eventually, the Hainu would lose out against her wounds and collapse to the floor. The last thing she would see before she fell unconscious was a blinding light peeking through the darkness above her.

[anthropwashere]

our indestructible days ch 2

ch 1

Heads up for bodily trauma, but like... why else do you read anything I put out, deadfic or otherwise

=

Sig's been in over his head since the beginning. He's just a butcher when it comes down to it; a man content with his lot before all this madness came and threatened all of it. Izumi now, she's the one meant for greatness, for fighting monsters, for saving the world. It's a wonder every day that someone as incredible as her loves him.

Izumi. God, he hopes she makes it through this. It's starting to look like he won't.

It's just four of them left now. The General, the Ishvalan, the chimera, and him. Scar and Jerso are too injured to stand, let alone fight, and Armstrong's only on her feet out of sheer stubbornness. He's the least hurt of all of them, but what can he do against this monster? Even if he could get close he doesn't think he could bring himself to lay a hand on it, considering....

This thing, this homunculus, has taken control of Ed somehow. It's wearing him like an ill-fitting coat. Ed's automail seems to be giving it some trouble; the arm dangles like an afterthought, the leg drags when he tries to walk. Maybe that's why Ed—Ed's body—hasn't moved far from the hole in the floor. Not that it needs to, with the range these shadow-mouths have. It could have killed them all in seconds, but it's been toying with them so far. It's picked off the armed soldiers like they were ants to be crushed idly underfoot, laughing with Ed's laugh. Now it's finished with them and turned Ed's eyes on the last of them. 

Even if there weren't long teeth and slitted eyes wrapped up in the shadows at its feet, Sig would know at once Ed's not the one in control anymore. That cold smirk, his narrowed eyes, the way he licks his lips whenever those shadows score a hit. Is Ed even in there still? Hopefully not. Hopefully Ed is gone, dead or buried too deep to see what' s happened. He's a good kid. He doesn't need to see this.

Sig doesn't understand how this—whatever this is—happened. He's in over his head. Izumi would know what to do, but she's not here. They're on their own.

Armstrong curses. Sig risks a glance at her. She's got her uninjured hand to a new stain at her side. He has no idea when that happened. "Guns are useless," she snarls. "We've got nothing! Unarmed, wounded, and he's just standing there with that smug look on that brat's face!"

"He's toying with us," Scar rasps, wiping blood from his face with a shaking hand.

"Of course he's toying with," she retorts. "That arrogant creature was named well."

Behind them Jerso manages a breath of wheezy laughter. "Never—hh—thought it'd be—hggkh—be like this, when I went."

Sig grimaces. He's never liked that fatalistic talk, heard too much of it from Izumi in those first couple of years after she'd tried to bring their baby back. He opens his mouth to try and offer some small kindness before the end—he hates that kind of talk, but he knows what the end of the line looks like—but he's interrupted by an inhaled shriek. He looks sharply at the homunculus in time to see the shadows writhe like the legs of an overturned beetle, its many eyes lolling and many mouths contorting. Ed's body claps both hands over its mouth as it—he?—staggers. "Nngh—n-no. No! What the hell did you do?!"

Armstrong leans forward, eyes wide. "Is that—? Fullmetal!"

Ed, it has to be Ed—twitches badly at the sharp ring of her voice off the concrete. His eyes bulge over his hands as he looks at them, hunched as if he's in pain. The shadows at his feet ripple like disturbed water. "I-I—no, don't—hhgkh—"

"Don't let him grab hold of you!" Armstrong barks, but makes that awful strangled shriek again and the shadows flare and writhe in a new pattern, gouging concrete and metal alike. Ed's face contorts into something like cold fury, hands falling to his sides. "How dare you?!" He—the homunculus—demands. "Your body is mine! Your soul is forfeit! Return to my Stone before I—ah!"

Eyes and teeth lash, shrinking back from Sig and the others. "Get—out," Ed gasps. "Get—out—of me. I don't—nngh!"

"Be silent, human!"

"I—won't let you—hurt anyone el—aghh!"

"What can you do to stop me?!"

Back and forth, shadows spasming, eyes and teeth winking in and out of existence. Ed's hanging on by a fraying thread, and there's nothing Sig can do to help him. He can't get any closer, not with the way those shadows so erratic. He's a bystander. He can only watch and hope Ed comes out on top. "Come on, Ed!" He calls out, feeling foolish, but it seems to help even if only a little. Ed's hands crawl up and squeeze his skull, clinging even when it's clearly Pride doing the shouting.

"Keep you—here—won't let you hurt them—"

"Please, you can hardly stomach your own body now—"

"—s-shut up—"

"Do—ah! Do my abilities disagree with you, Edwa—"

"I said shut up!"

Ed claps and presses both hands to his chest. Red alchemical light splashes across his body, scattering the shadows to scraps and dust. Pride steals his body back in time to be the one to scream.

"Aaugh! What do you think you're doing?!"

Ed sways, laughing weakly. "I. I'll burn you out, Pride. From the in-inside out. If I have to."

"No!" Pride's flat eyes fall on Sig and the others. "I'll kill them!"

"Hahaha! You were already gonna do that! Find a new threat!" Ed claps his hands again, but Pride wrestles back in control before he can do whatever alchemical attack he did before. The red light arcs like a lightning strike from his outflung hands. Deep cracks fracture the ceiling where it strikes. Pipes burst, spitting steam and an oily fluid. One of them screams again; it's impossible to tell who.

Armstrong curses again. "They're going to bring this whole floor down on us if we don't do something! Scar, you're the only alchemist here—do something!"

Scar clears his throat, eyes never leaving Ed. "I don't have the strength to fight either of them."

"A door then," Sig suggests. "Can you make us an exit?"

Scar's eyes flicker to him in surprise, then back to Ed. "You'd leave the boy behind?"

Sig exhales, suddenly exhausted. If they survive this Izumi's going to kill him. "We're in no position to fight something like that. Ed's strong. He'll beat that thing, or he'll drag the fight out long enough for the others to help him finish it off."

Jerso coughs wetly, struggling to sit up. "You can't—Elric, he needs help—"

But Scar shifts in Sig's grip. "You're certain."

"It's the only option," he replies. "We'll just get in the way. If Ed were to hurt any of us by accident he'd never forgive himself."

"Then—"

"You're just a human!" Pride shrieks, a dozen mouths distorting Ed's hoarse voice. "You're weak! What's grounding you here?!"

Teeth scythe dangerously close, carving out a deep half-moon shape in the wall not a foot from Armstrong's head. She doesn't so much as flinch, baring her own teeth at one baleful red eye glaring down at them.

"I don't retreat from the battlefield," she bites out. "And I'm not the sort who would leave a child to fight in my stead!"

Red light lances across the ground, leaps up the wall behind them, and transmutes a roughshod door in the blink of an eye. "Get out of here," Ed snaps out. Around him shadows blister and burst, teeth nearly as long as he's tall fencing him in. "This isn't your fight, General! Go!"

"Ed," Jerso calls out, but Ed reels back, choking. His automail arm falls limp as his face twists. Pride staggers forward, shadows clawing toward them. 

"The General is more than welcome to try and cut me down," he sneers. "If she's as skilled as they say, she'll only succeed in killing you faster—"

"Shut up," Ed cuts in, automail hand springing to life to cover his eyes. "Shut up, get out, get out of here, get fucking out—"

"Come on," Sig mutters, lugging Scar towards the door. "General, can you help—"

"DAMN this dead weight!" Pride rages. "You've lost. Now give me control!" 

Sig looks over his shoulder to see Pride lunging after them, but his left leg—Ed's automail leg—remains stubbornly fixed. His many eyes swivel back to glare at Ed's body. "Let GO, Fullmetal!"

"Not on your life!"

"We need to leave," Scar rasps. "Now."

"That's—my leg," Ed grinds out, and for the first time he sounds like himself again. None of the shadow mouths echo him, twisting his words. It's just a teenager's voice, worn out and ragged, but human. "That's mine. It was made for me, and you can't have it!"

"Ed," Sig calls out, hoping—

—but it's Pride who meets his eyes.

"Is that so?" The homunculus asks, all his outrage suddenly, terribly absent. And without warning a mouth jumps from the floor to bite cleanly through Ed's left thigh.

Sig bellows, barely hearing Armstrong and Jerso shouting too over the sound of Ed's punctured scream. The automail clatters to the floor, a ring of severed muscle glimpsed before shadows swallow it. Ed unbalances. There's a horrible sound, flat and wet, as Ed's new stump strikes the concrete. He stiffens like he's grabbed a livewire, another horrible gasp feathered between his teeth, before his eyes roll back in his head. He collapses, and as if a switch has been flipped the shadows vanish completely.

Silence perches, all of them too stunned to move. Unconscious, Sig thinks desperately. Ed's unconscious. Not dead yet. He's not bleeding that fast. If he's quick he might have time to stop the bleeding before the shadows come back. He makes to move but Scar digs in his heels with a growl.

"We need to leave," he repeats.

"He's going to die."

"I wouldn't be so sure of that," Armstrong says bitterly. She's barely spoken before red light sears across the wound. Sig, for all that he's already seen this trick before, finds himself struck mute with astonishment as he watches bone and muscle and skin knit themselves together out of nothing. A thigh, a knee, shin and calf, ankle and foot, five splayed toes. A leg, whole and hale, spun from nothing but light in a matter of seconds.

The shadow beneath Ed's prone body turns ink-dark, sprouting narrowed eyes and a thin grimace. Ed's body sits up a moment later, shaking his fraying braid out of the way. "Well," Pride says, sounding bored. "That seems to have quieted him for now." He leans back on Ed's hands and lifts the new leg to inspect it. The eyes of his shadows remain fixed on the four of them.

"Fuck," Jerso spits out weakly, hissing as Armstrong hauls him to his feet. "Y-you're a monster. You coulda killed him."

Pride laughs with Ed's voice, none of his other mouths joining in. It's somehow worse, to hear Ed's voice pitched wrong on its own. Too high, too malicious. "Edward Elric's immortal now," he says as he stands up, brushing himself off. "So long as I'm in his body, anyway. Now, where were we—"

Rumbling from above cuts him off, sudden and severe enough to make all of them nearly lose their footing. The sunlight above turns a stark crimson, brighter, and brighter, and blinding—

Sig falls back to the door, Scar scrabbling for the push handle. He hears the others shouting, and Pride screaming with Ed's voice as if the light alone hurts him—

They make a break for it, limping down some new unlit hall as the rumbling slowly fades. The homunculus doesn't follow them. In over his head, he thinks again, ignoring the wet heat running down his arm, Scar's wet gasps in his ear. Armstrong and Jerso aren't far behind, their footsteps heavy. In over his head. They just have to get out of here. Izumi will know what to do. She went up there. She was up there when that light went off. Let her live. Let her make it out of this alive.

She'll know what to do about Ed.

[waitineedaname]

frame the halves and call them a whole

also on ao3

--

“Alright, I’ve got a bad one.”

“Oh, lord.”

“Brace yourself.”

“I’m bracing!” Sasha made a show of gripping the short carpet on her living room floor and Tim grinned, leaning back against her coffee table.

“Would you rather… date a spider with the head of a human, or a human with the head of a spider?”

“Jesus. I see someone has been reading the discredited statements.”

“Guilty.” Tim shrugged cheekily. 

The two of them were sitting on the floor in Sasha’s flat, and she’d long since lost track of what time it was. Ever since they’d been moved to the Archives, they’d made an agreement to go out and do something together once a week. Sometimes that meant getting sloshed and losing at pub trivia, sometimes that meant dragging each other to whatever new film had made it to theaters that week, and sometimes that meant playing sleepover games in the middle of the night, as if they were twelve year olds and not thirty-somethings with 9-to-5’s. Neither of them had the energy to go out drinking and there wasn’t anything good in the theaters that week, so the third option had won out. They’d ended up on the floor when Sasha made an ill-advised comment about not being ticklish and Tim called her bluff. She’d dissolved into hysterical giggles and he’d said something about how being an oldest sibling meant having a sixth sense for someone’s ticklish spots, and then he’d gone very still and quiet. She’d taken his hand and squeezed and initiated the game of would-you-rather they found themselves in now.

“Okay. Let me think about this.” She drummed her fingers on her lips contemplatively. Tim smiled in that fond way he did when he didn’t want to outright laugh at her. “Are the human and spider bits proportional?”

“Ooh, very good question, Sash. Let’s say they’re the normal sizes for your average spiders and humans.”

“So my options are a human head scuttling around on spider legs or a human with an absolutely microscopic spider head?”

“Yep!” Tim said, popping the ‘p.’

“I’m going to go with option A. I mean, if it’s a human head, I could still hold a conversation with it, right? And I don’t think spiders would make good kissers.”

“I think some of our statement givers would disagree with that judgment.”

“Please don’t tell me we have a statement about a human body with a spider head. I don’t think I could take it.”

“Sure do! Statement number 9170108, or something like that. Some freaked out old coot convinced his neighbor’s head was fake and he was keeping a tiny little spider underneath the fake head.”

“Christ. I’m glad Jon didn’t ask me to look into that one. I might have quit on the spot.” Sasha laughed.

“Aw, and then leave me and Martin to deal with Jon? You know how he gets with the spider ones.” 

“Hm, fair. The Archives need someone sensible around.”

“Hey, you’re not the sole voice of reason down there!”

“You’re right. Martin can be fairly practical when he wants.” She failed to bite back her smirk when Tim clutched his chest, feigning pain.

“Oh, how you wound me, Ms. James! Here I was, thinking it was Tim and Sasha versus the world, but you’ve betrayed me for Martin!”

“Is that your proposal for a Scott Pilgrim reboot? Am I Ramona in this scenario?”

“No, we’re both Scott Pilgrim because combined, we can equal the pure sexual energy of one Michael Cera.”

“Eugh! Gross!” She retched and kicked at him, making him laugh. 

“I’m kidding!”

“You better be! Any and all horniness for Michael Cera is banned in this flat!”

“That’s fair.” He caught her foot and shoved it back at her. “Knives and Ramona were both way too good for him, anyway. They should’ve ended up together at the end.”

“That’s the first intelligent thing you’ve said all night.”

“You’re really not pulling any punches tonight, huh?”

“Nope. My turn. Would you rather...” She crossed her arms and stared him down long enough to make him squirm, “get stoned with Jon or Elias?”

Tim groaned so loud she worried her neighbors would complain. “No. Absolutely not. You cannot make me choose that.”

“Hey, you asked about spider people!”

“Yeah, and I’d argue that dealing with my bosses while stoned is worse than a human head skittering around on the walls!”

“Oh, come on. Jon isn’t that bad.”

“Sasha. You were friends with him in Research. I was friends with him in Research. Last time we got drinks, he talked about South American moths for forty minutes. I’m getting a headache just thinking about listening to him while he’s stoned.”

“Maybe it’ll calm him down.”

“Maybe.” Tim pouted, and Sasha did her best not to giggle. “Alright fine. I choose Jon, but only because I cannot imagine Elias getting within eyesight of anything as fun as weed without shriveling up and acting like an affronted Victorian gentleman.”

“Okay, first of all, the Victorians loved drugs, they were high on opiates all the time-"

"Like hell am I doing opiates with Elias."

"Second of all, I may have looked into what Elias was like before he got promoted…” She trailed off and bit back a laugh when Tim's jaw dropped.

“No.” 

“And he was a major stoner.”

“You can’t just say these things. I refuse to accept it.”

“I’m serious!”

“Are we talking about the same Elias? The Elias Bouchard that uses words like grandiloquent and apropos? The Elias Bouchard that gets pissy if you round up on your time card?”

“You know what’s even worse?”

“Please don’t make it worse.”

“I’ve seen him wear those socks with weed patterns on them.”

“I told you not to make it worse.” Tim wailed and covered his face. “I swear, if I saw that, I would gouge my eyes out without hesitation.” Sasha patted his leg sympathetically. 

“Well, good thing you chose Jon, then.”

“I guess so! Fuck’s sake.” He sighed and flopped over onto his side to lie on the floor. Sasha laughed at him goodnaturedly, and then joined him on the floor. She expected him to be thinking of his next would-you-rather prompt, but after a long minute of him silently running his fingers through the carpet, he surprised her by asking, “Do you ever miss Jon?”

“Sorry?” She said, confused. “We see him every day, Tim.”

“No, I…” He huffed, “You know what I mean. Do you miss the Jon we knew in Research?”

“Oh…” Sasha caught onto his drift and fell silent, unsure what to say. Tim was clearly brimming with emotions that he was struggling to get out, so she let him take a minute.

“Not saying he’s a completely different person now, but… I don’t know. We used to get drinks with him. He used to laugh at our jokes. He used to make jokes. Weird, dark jokes, but still jokes, you know? But these days, it’s all business, all the time. I don’t think I’ve seen him smile in months. All… All snappish comments and ‘research this, call this statement giver, stop goofing off during work hours.’ Never mind that just a year ago, he was the one using work hours to show us cat videos because he got distracted during his lunch break.” The side of Tim’s face was smushed into the floor and his one free eye was focused on the whorls he was creating with his fingers in the carpet. Up close as they were, Sasha could see the light scar on his chin that he’d once told her was the result of an ill-advised dare as a child, when his brother had challenged him to see if they could jump off the back deck of their house. She touched it, and he leaned into her hand, eyes distant and sad. “I just…” He spoke softly, “I miss my friend.”

“I miss him too.” Sasha said honestly, though she knew Tim was taking it harder than she was. “You know it’s not your fault, right?”

“I know that.” Tim said, and she believed him. “It’s this stupid job. The stupid Archives. I miss being in Research, where I could make fun of the weirdos in the Archives, but now we’re the weirdos in the Archives.”

“We work at an institute that studies the supernatural. I think we’re the weirdos no matter which department we’re in.” She said, aiming for some levity and feeling relieved when Tim let out a soft huff of laughter.

“Fair. Still. The vibes in there are…”

“Bad.” She finished for him.

“You can say that again.” He finally shifted to look at her again. “If you were the Head Archivist-”

“Tim-” She warned, not wanting to dig up an old sore point. 

“I’m serious. If you were the Archivist, do you think you’d act like this?”

“Would I push you away, you mean.” She said. He shrugged and nodded. “I don’t know. I really don’t, Tim. I’d like to say I wouldn’t, but who knows what kind of pressure it involves. I can be just as intense as Jon when I feel pressured.”

“Yeah, but you’d be way nicer than him.”

“You don’t know that.” Sasha said, firm but gentle. 

“...Guess I don’t.” Tim sighed and shut his eyes. She reached down and squeezed his hand. He squeezed back.

“Next time you’re missing Jon, call me instead, okay? Or Martin, he’d love that.” She ran her thumb over his and gave him a small smile. “You can always count on me.”

His gaze is impossibly soft as he looks up at her, and he seems to almost forget to respond at first. “Yeah.” He finally says. “I can always count on you, Sash.” A cheeky grin spread across his face, breaking the tender moment. “The Pilgrim to my Scott.”

She laughed and let go of his hand to push his shoulder into the leg of the coffee table playfully. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“It makes perfect sense!” He protested despite his own laughter. “Okay, maybe it doesn’t make sense, but it’s the thought that counts. I’m poetic.”

“No, you’re sleep-deprived.” She sat up enough to eye the microwave from her vantage point in the kitchen. “Oh lord, it’s 2am, no wonder. You always get sappy at 2am.”

“I do not!”

“You do. Big sap.” She patted his cheek playfully and stood. “Want me to get you some extra blankets for the couch?”

“That’d be great.” He hauled himself to his feet, groaning all the way. She snickered.

“You sound like an old man.”

“I’ll have you know, I’m young and spry.” He complained, stretching.

“Mhm.” She rolled her eyes and went to the closet.

“At the prime of my life.”

“And yet you make dad noises getting out of a chair.”

“Hey, lying on the floor isn’t good for your back! Aren’t you older than me anyway?”

“Maybe, but I’m not the one complaining about my back.” She cut off whatever complaint he had prepared by throwing a quilt at him. He caught it and stuck his tongue out at her. She returned the gesture and grabbed another blanket. “Are two blankets good?”

“That’s perfect.” He took the blanket gratefully and settled on the couch. “Should I make breakfast as thanks?”

“You don’t have to,” Sasha immediately said out of politeness, but then added, “But if you want to make pancakes…”

“Understood. I’ll see you bright and early with some pancakes, then.” Tim smiled up at her and made himself comfortable on the couch.

“See you in the morning, Tim.” She turned to walk to her room, but stopped at the doorway when Tim piped up again.

“Sasha?”

“Hm?” She looked back at him and saw his best flirty grin on his face. He winked and blew a kiss at her. More than used to his nonsense, she gasped and pretended to catch the invisible kiss, then promptly put her hand to mouth and pretended to eat the kiss. Tim clutched his heart and fell back onto the couch, trying to act like he wasn’t holding back laughter. “No, you’re so cruel!”

“Good night, Tim.” She said, closing the door behind herself before her poker face could break.

“Good night, Sasha.” She heard through the door, full of fondness and amusement in equal parts. 

Sasha rolled out of bed the next morning to find Tim making pancakes, as promised. They sat at her kitchen table and bickered playfully about movies; Tim listened patiently as she infodumped about the history of science fiction as a genre, and she let him rant for the fiftieth time about Indiana Jones. Tim insisted on washing the dishes like a gentleman, and Sasha insisted on squirting bubbles out of the dish detergent bottle at him. They didn’t speak a word about work or their conversation from the night before, but she hugged him very tightly before he left, as if conveying all the emotion she could through touch alone. From the way he squished his face into her shoulder, it seemed the message came across. 

“I’ll make sure to get you the spider guy’s number.” He said when they finally pulled apart, and she snorted.

“You’re insufferable, you know that?” She said, shoving him out the door.

“So I’ve heard.” He winked and walked backwards down the hall outside her flat. She sighed and waved, a smile on her face as she shut the door.

If he bugged her and Martin more than usual after talking to Jon the following week, she didn’t mention it.

[gone-to-fight-the-fairies]

Alone in the Glass House

Summary: Sherlock spirals after a massive breaking up between him and the reader, as they realize they can't live without the other.Inspired by the song Glass House by MGK.

Pairing: Sherlock x reader

Warning: mentions of drug use, depression, angst

Word Count: 1111

I'm smoking cigarettes alone until it burn a hole

In my lungs, in my soul, in my denim coat

Same place I'ma keep that knife if I'ma slit my throat

Sherlock's inhale was thick and prolonged until it encaptured the entirety of his body and soothed his soul, crisping at the edges like a persisting flame on a polaroid. Leaving the faint image of what he was before everything turned to ash. The consulting detective exhaled against the window, watching the trail of smoke fail to escape and flail back, kissing his skin as it evaporated into the room. He didn't care that the smoke would linger in the air or in the furniture. Or that it would alert anyone who came in. At least the smoke was there. That had to count for something. 

The detective was neither present nor in his mind palace, but a void in between. A purgatory that stripped him clean of everything around him. Except for the comfort of the nicotine. He was just close enough to reality to allow a shrill voice to reel him back. "You were doing so good!" Sherlock turned, surveying her sour expression. "What a shame."

His landlord turned on the light; Sherlock hadn't realized how late it'd become. The sky had dimmed, highlighting the trail from which the sun had set. "Nothing can ever last long, now can it?" He tells her, taking another puff.

Mrs. Hudson scoffs. "Why must you be evasive? And so, daft? Go after her, Sherlock. You surely haven't ruined things yet."

"There's nothing to neither fix nor ruin." Mrs. Hudson huffs, giving up, and leaving through the flat door. 'Aside from the broken glass,' Sherlock thought, pressing his fingertips against the surface. 

Lie awake 'til the sun's out

Caffeine for the heartache

Everything turned to a nightmare from a dream.

You sip your coffee, gazing out through the shop window, as the orange sunbeams breached past the darkening buildings, as a final cry before they were vanquished until another day. "I'm dreaming of him." 

"Hence why you're staying awake at night." Did John always have to be so explicit? 

"No shit, Sherlock." You sneer, glaring back at him. A force of habit, you realize. You apologize and return to your mindless gaze. The sunbeams withered away, leaving a dark coo over the street. "Why is it that the best things fade?"

Though he wasn't the expert in deduction, John acquired his own skills of semiotics. "You miss him."

"Impossible with him haunting my dreams."

"They're nightmares?"

You fixate on John's face. You want to illustrate the word 'night' and toss it back in his face. Tell him how it was always you and Sherlock in that glass house, just you and him forever. That you were so happy in your dreams, and how the illusion shattered once you woke up without Sherlock. Anything that reminds you of Sherlock is depressing... including John. But you know that your friend has good intentions. 

You take a large gulp of coffee and empty the cup, thankful you have more waiting for you at home. "Staying awake is the only way to suppress Sherlock." 

"He's miserable." You raise a brow, studying the doctor's face. 

"Get him a case."

John folds his hands together on the table. "He won't take one."

The statement piqued your interest. Sherlock, without a case, was Van gouge without paint. Maybe that was how he lost the ear.

"He's smoking." John forces out. "I'm worried he'll use it again."

"And you're blaming me?" There's an accusation in your tone, slicing John's confidence.

"No!"

"Then, why are you here?"

"To warn you." John breaks his hand apart, flailing them to illustrate his point. "You can't possibly stay awake eleven days to kill yourself, but Sherlock can," his voice waves, and he presses his fist against his mouth. "If he goes back to... cocaine or morphine, there's no natural end. He uses to escape the dull routine of existence. What do you think he'll do out of misery? If you truly want to move on, then do so. But if you love him, if you want to salvage your relationship, don't wait too long because I don't think it'll take long this time."

John stands, takes his coat, and leaves through the entrance to hide his emotions. 

Throw me in the damn flame

I'm waitin' on the rain to come and wash it all away

"Sher..." you whisper, peering into the pitch dark flat. You didn't need sight to smell the smoke or hear the exorbitant exhale from the center of the room. Lightning struck outside the window, illuminating the room enough to see the window's shards and the pale face of Sherlock sitting on the floor, aside from the coffee table.

You step towards him, flattening an empty cartridge. "How far did you have to go for those?"

"It's ironic." Sherlock's voice is thick, throat inflamed. With one hand, he flicks his cigarette over an ashtray before dropping it in. "The very reason I want to inject is the reason I hesitate."

With the other, he holds up a thin syringe, allowing it to reflect on the moonlight. The translucid fluid sloshes as he teeter-totters the vial, debating a course of action to take. 

You place your jacket on the coffee table, rain dripping on the floor beside Sherlock. His eyes slowly work up from the coat, up to your body, until his eyes creep up to your face, and you can see the red tint around his eyes as they study everything movement every feeling from the moment you walked out that door days ago.

"Well, it seems you have enough." You roll up your sleeve, plopping down beside him.

"You aren't serious." Through assertion, there's a hint of worry. "Even if I were high, I would still be able to read your bluff."

"I don't want to, but I will. Because whether you believe it or not," you take the cigarette from the ashtray. Putting it to your mouth. The smooth motion is interrupted by your violent cough. "I'm sick of living this way, and nobody knows how I'm feeling."

Sherlock's breath shakes. "I know." He raises his hand as it trembles to take the cigarette out of your mouth and discards it in the ashtray. 

His other hand sneaks up your neck, pulling your face towards his and rests his forehead against yours. You don't see where the needle goes, but Sherlock's presence is all too intense for you to think. His eyes close. Sherlock didn't know if your return would last moments or forever, but he was going to cherish you, like never before.

[libermachinae]

Drops in a Bucket, Splashes on the Ground

Also available on AO3! Tags: Mature, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Gen, Whirl (Transformers), Implied/Referenced Abuse, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Whirl is Primus AU, Angst, would you believe me if i said i didnt set out to write another angst fic, whirl's just like that Wordcount: 4202 Notes: I would highly recommend you read "Bullets" or at least be familiar with Whirl's abuse of Rotorstorm before reading this fic. The scene containing graphic violence begins with "Tacticians always struggle..." and the scene referencing abuse begins "He shoves his way..." Please feel free to reach out if you need any further information.

~*~

“And I guess old Primus makes five.”

“Hah! No, no, no. That’s not Primus… you’re Primus.”

~*~

 Whirl has never been intimidated before. Not so intentionally, not by bots whose forged bodies have been piled on with armor and weaponry, no expenses spared by the ganglords. The Heavies rolled up on treads that left gouges in the streets, painful marks that tomorrow’s taxes will go to fixing, and their transformations took a full five seconds as excess plating moved out of the way while their protoforms tried to bend per their original configurations. They wear identical red visors and dark gray masks: faces, certainly, but only in the barest sense of the word, enough to separate them from lowlifes without affording them identity. It is impossible to tell one from the other and Whirl knows, intrinsically, that it will not matter.

 ~*~

 Rung is the only one who doesn’t flinch. Whirl stands over Adaptus’ body, freshly relieved of what they can all agree was a spectacularly ugly head, and puts away his gun.

“Right,” he says, with a meaningful glance out the window. “Want to agree none of us heard that?”

“Whirl!” Rodimus shouts. “You can’t just kill a god!”

The body explodes into a pile of dust.

“Sure I can,” Whirl says, shaking it off his foot even as he leans down to inspect the scrapple. “Hey Ratch, can you rig me to explode next time I get shot?”

“Is it true?” Nautica asks, doing her intellect a massive disservice by stepping in front of the unhinged bot with a blaster.

“Obviously not,” Ratchet says. “He was lying.”

Whirl nods.

“Yeah. You think I would keep it a secret from any of you if I was a god? You think Cyclonus would ever hear the end of it? Nah.” He stands, kicking pile and sending a spray of metallic dust into the air. “Awesome way to go, though, can’t say I’m not jealous.”

“That doesn’t mean you had to kill him for it.”

“So, you’re not Primus?” Nautica asks. She hasn’t moved, her arms crossed in front of her. If Whirl had been her creator (and he isn’t, he already has his claws full with a nest of scraplets), he would have been pretty proud of her right now.

“Nope!” he says. “I’ve never vouched for the universe before, but that kind of joke would take on an extra level of cruel, don’t you think?”

“Got to agree with Whirl, here,” Rodimus says, a hand on Nautica’s shoulder drawing her back. “I could buy pretty much anyone else. Maybe not Rung, but, say, Velocity? She could be Primus. Or Roller. I guess not Megatron, since we saw him come online, but—”

“The point, Rodimus,” Ratchet deadpans.

“The point is, not Whirl,” Rodimus said, sweeping his hands up to gesture at him. “I get Primus is disappointed in us. We are a textbook example of why a race of sentient war machines should never be left to their own devices, combined with a case study on how to avoid learning from every mistake you’ve ever made. But I really don’t think that disappointment would translate to actively hunting us for sport. Isn’t Primus supposed to be all about forgiveness and loving your cellmate?”

“Right,” Whirl says, clacking his pincers together in his approximation of a snap. “An angry god is so cliché.”

“I don’t think anyone knows what Primus believed,” Rung says. Oh no. He’s taken off his glasses. “I don’t see any reason he couldn’t be Whirl.”

“How about we start where the part where gods don’t exist, and Whirl does?” Ratchet suggests.

“I… I am Solomus, though.”

The whole group turns to the offending voice. Whirl goes for his gun and Rodimus knocks it out of his hand, a stern finger silently telling him not to kill any more gods. As if being an ex-Matrix bearer gives him some sort of say.

Tyrest has not stopped touching his gaudy mantelpiece, poking at the holes. It wouldn’t be so disturbing, except he’s staring at Whirl while he does it.

“Primus, don’t you remember?” he asks.

“Hey, let’s watch the fragging language.”

“Adaptus wanted to send our creations to pointless war,” Tyrest goes on. “Violence for the sake of violence, conquests built on the backs of others. We fought him.” He steps forward and reaches for Whirl. “Together, we—”

Whirl jerks back with his claws extended out.

“I will cut your hand off, I swear to—I swear.”

He is saved from any more interrogation by the ground violently rumbling underneath them.

“Okay, so regardless of whatever’s Whirl’s deal is, we do still have at least one Primus to worry about,” Rodimus says, looking out the window at the approximation of what Whirl, personally, had always assumed god would look like. “Solomus, you still got your teleporting rigged up?”

 ~*~

 No one ever considered giving The Institute a waiting room, so Whirl stands to one side of the hallway while the butchers discuss his case. He knows his proposal intrigues them: they have never had an opportunity to shadowplay a willing subject before. What is there to learn from a brain that does not fight them every step of the way? What backdoors exist that every other victim kept hidden? Whirl does not care about the potential scientific advancements his offer provides. He just wants to stop dreaming of gears, lose the phantom aches of his fingers. He wants to look in a mirror and see nothing: not himself, not a monster. Just an object, fulfilling its purpose.

The scientists who walk by him in the halls stare. Everyone stares, but the look they give him is different. They do not find him exceptional, nor do they feel for him pity or contempt. He is no marvel. He is a creation, perfectly engineered to suit its purpose, every detail minded with care to ensure it all works together as an ideal mechanism. He wishes he could see himself through their eyes.

The door beside him slides open and a bot he has never seen before steps out. His helm comes up no higher than Whirl’s waist and his large yellow optics do not look up from his datapad.

“Whirl of Polyhex, the panel has elected to reject your petition,” he says. “I am to remind—”

“What?” Whirl startles; his new head shoots upward, forcing him into an angle that is both unnatural and instinctual. “Why? Ice Pick said he could—”

“I am to remind you that you have signed a nondisclosure agreement; failure to comply will result in penalty of death.” The little bot flares his plating, the click of a motor lock setting it in place. “You will now submit to full stasis and be escorted back to your home.”

The jack comes from behind.

 ~*~

 “This is my hab suite.”

Whirl knows the tonal difference between a bullet hitting living metal and a wall. He scowls and gives up, waving Cyclonus inside.

“My room’s a mess,” he says. “Think I’m gonna crash here for a while.”

Cyclonus comes in and sits beside Whirl on the berth. When the door slides shut, they are visible only by their biolights: Whirl closed the shutters when he came in, the stars too much like blinking numbers. Cyclonus is a surprisingly quiet machine. His presence comes with none of the usual hisses and clicks one would normally get with their kind, like each component was designed specifically to work with those around it. Compared to Whirl, whose body is a wreck of pieces that almost fit together, clinking and scraping through their standard functions, he practically doesn’t exist.

“This is slagged, huh?” Whirl asks.

Cyclonus thinks on it a moment, then there is a shift of plating as he nods. Is it an admission, a confession? Pri—frag, Whirl doesn’t want to have to start thinking about that.

“Sorry,” he says.

“You don’t need to—”

“Scrap, you’re right. What am I doing?” Whirl laughs. “I’m infallible now, right? It’s all been part of my grand plan for Cybertron. I should be saying you’re welcome; you should be thanking me.”

Cyclonus sighs, a rush of air out his vents.

“Is there anything I can do for you?” he asks.

Whirl pokes and pinches at his own plating, trying to make sense of it.

“Yeah,” he says. “Start praying, and keep Megatron far away from me.”

 ~*~

 He’s spent two days in the holding cell before he realizes no one else is coming for him.

That Orion Pax… he’s good, and Whirl’s not sure whether it’s the kind that gets people hired or gets people killed. Not that it matters, not that he cares. The Senate’s going to crush all of them one by one, like little cans of oil under a rolling tank. He thought being a tread would come with some measure of relief; instead, it just landed him in a hole.

He digs a claw tip into the wall, another score among a small collection. He has been trying to reconstruct the miner’s face, what it looked like in the split second between recognizing he had been struck and realizing there was more to come. He can’t relish a memory if he can’t keep it, and he’s already struggling well enough to accomplish the former. This assignment was supposed to be a release. Look down at the big thinker and imagine in his place Senator Proteus, Sentinel Prime, the faceless Functionist Council. Tell himself that this is what it would feel like to rip their plating open until their priceless energon spilled onto a dirty floor.

The face, though, it’s escaping him. How can he fell anything about a person with no face? What relief is there to be found in beating the slag out of a nobody? He is trying so hard to adapt, but it’s like his processor is working against him, reminding him how far he got before he was reeled back in. The silhouette of his sketch is familiar.

His claws hurt where he has worn the tip blunt, and the portrait is still incomplete.

 ~*~

 “I don’t make Matrixes,” he insists. The group was polite enough to knock once they found him, but they’re failing to pick up the hint that he wants all of them to go away, right now, and leave him alone forever.

“Well, Epistemus says you can,” Rodimus says, dentae blocked together. “Why do all the other gods have their memories back, but not you?”

“I dunno, maybe Needles can stick me and figure it out.”

It’s almost cute, the way Rewind steps protectively in front of Chromedome.

“Rodimus,” Rung says, trying to get between them, “this isn’t helping.”

“Thank you,” Whirl says. “Now can we get to the part where we storm the planet, guns a-blazin’?”

“That won’t help either.” Rung turns to look at him. “Your memories haven’t been deleted, Whirl. Somehow, there should still be some part of you that remembers creating the Matrix.”

“The Functionists probably took it out,” Whirl says.

“That’s not how mnemosurgery works.”

“Says the dropout.”

“You told me once about your earliest memory,” Rung says. Whirl should be furious that he’s doing this here, in front of people who have no business knowing what’s in his head, but he’s more interested in the way Rung has taken off his glasses and is squinting up at him. “What happened just before it?”

They did not bring Ratchet, a testament to the fact that they will not leave before he gives them answers. He could start lying again, or find another way to forgo the question, but something about Cyclonus’ presence at his back helps him settle down the compulsion. Everybody lies about their forging. Everybody wants to say it was overseen by the Prime, or that they settled into their form like resin poured into a mold, instant and perfect. Whirl has a set of seven stories he deploys on rotation, ranging from heroic to beautifully tragic, and he spends a moment picking through them, trying to remember which was the real one.

“I showed up at the Functionsts’ place to get my docs in order,” he says. “I was… I was trying to get Polyhexian citizenship.” Awful city, but he had always sworn the energon tasted better there than anywhere else.

“But you said you were forged in Polyhex,” Rung says.

“Yeah. It was easier that way.” Whirl puts a claw to his head. “I… augh, nope. No, this is stupid.”

“Whirl—”

“No, I’m done,” he says, pushing Rung away. “Fully done, Rung. That’s right. You were god’s therapist, and he fired you. I’m gonna go take out a planet.”

 ~*~

 Tacticians always struggle with where to put Whirl on a battlefield. On the one hand, he’s an attack helicopter, equipped with long-range cannons and advanced aiming modules. Keeping him in the sky is the perfect way to set up a terrible surprise for Cons on the ground. On the other, he’s Whirl, and facing him head-on can be just as chilling and or fatal.

In the end it rarely matters which call they make because, as stated before, he’s Whirl. He will do whatever he damn well feels like. Right now, that means skimming over the top of the battlefield, sights trained on the odd dot who tries to disgorge themselves from the fighting mass. He is supposed to be providing support to the ground troops, peppering the Decepticon line so they can break through, but no one is going to complain about a few more dead soldiers.

A truck breaks free and he pitches down, giving chase, machine guns firing before he’s got a lock on. The ground explodes in shrapnel as they try to serpentine out of the way, but he keeps firing and soon enough their paths cross.

He riddles them. Their roof is already a puckered, punctured mass of warped metal before their back tires blow and they go skidding and flip onto their side. Their plating shuffles, uncoordinated, as they try to transform, and Whirl goes for the underbelly, shattering the exposed protoform in a burst of pink energon. They slump with their legs disengaged. There is a buzzing, crunching noise as the dying t-cog tries to settle into either mode, then a jet of smoke erupts from the body. The engine has seized, locking it in a permanent limbo.

Whirl spins around to track down his next prey. He loves his job. The Autobots have a need, and he fills it with a gusto that only occasionally gets him in trouble. He’s no hitmech: he lacks the finesse, the style. But he can rain irreverent murder down from the sky, send Cons fleeing just long enough to make them think they had a chance, and he can do it without questioning an order. The war needs people like him.

Two soldiers are trying to escape together, one with their arm over the other’s shoulder, a sparkling stump of a leg between them. Whirl gets low, following them until the roar of his rotors is unmistakable, until they cannot help but turn and he sees their optics. Then he fires.

The wounded one falls first, knocked onto their front and grasping uselessly until their hand is blown off and they go still. The other gets their legs knocked off and goes spinning, landing on their head with a crunch. Whirl keeps advancing, keeps firing, tearing open their plating and reducing their inner working to molten slag, spattering the ground with used energon. They flop, over and over, until Whirl gets bored of the show and hauls off, leaving them almost indistinguishable from the carnage of the land itself.

Whirl hovers over the fighting and looks down while he scans for a target. This high up, visuals are useless for determining Bots from Cons. Little Cybertronians run around, whacking and shooting at each other, falling down, down, down. The metal under their pedes is slippery pink with energon. It splashes against their plating, over their insignias, until they are all just little wandering targets.

Whirl has his job, and he loves it, and he does it well.

 ~*~

 He should feel something, but his spark is a void as he tosses the rest of the guns into the shuttle, all the stuff he held off using because he wasn’t ready to get kicked off the ship. He is not coming back from this. He knows it, so better to take it all.

He’s just fastened the locker when he hears the footsteps on the hatch and looks up. It’s Tailgate, of course. Tailgate, who has a pack hanging from one shoulder and a gun holstered at his side. It’s a shrimpy thing, something Cyclonus taught him to shoot in case they ever got separated, more useful for making noise than taking down an aggressor. It has room for one round of ammo and Whirl doubts he brought a bullet more.

He comes aboard without saying anything and stops beside world, continuing to say nothing. The hand on his pack is clenching: he’s being brave. He’s also waiting for some grand speech, some sacred insight to the nature of their quest and their places in the universe. Well, tough. He should know Whirl better than Primus.

He lifts a claw to shove Tailgate backward and down the hatch, but it stops an inch before Tailgate’s plating. What does it matter? Cyclonus can’t kill him where he’s going and Tailgate himself is just a drop in the bucket. Standing there with his chest puffed out, optic band steely and focused, he looks like any other Cybertronian, never mind a few years left behind.

Whirl retracts his claw. Tailgate nods at him.

Another drop in the bucket.

 ~*~

 He shoves his way to the front row, slamming himself into his chosen seat just ahead of a little spy plane who had been angling for the same spot.

“Buzz off,” he says. Never mind the spy plane outranks him. This is his big day! He got here early so he could get this seat, right in front, though he can barely hold it as the audience fills in around him, so many Bots he does not know and who do not matter. The only one he cares about it up on the stage, smiling with an air of detached cooperation, off in his own head again like he always was. Whirl thought they had made progress on that, but some habits were just too hard to break.

The opening speech is long and predictably boring, lots of talk about this base he has never been on before. Whirl’s engine clicks in agitation. When bots give him dirty looks, he sneers.

“Chronic fanbelt lockup, ever heard of it?” he hisses at them, adding in a few extra ticks for good measure. They go back to minding their own business, but Whirl still catches the optics glancing at him, and his engine goes from annoyed click to angry hum. He knows what they see.

Luckily, the speaker eventually gets over himself and moves on.

“Rotorstorm, will you please step forward?”

Whirl is on his feet before the other copter has a chance to rise, his cheering rising well above the swell of the crowd. He shouts, he stomps his feet, and he bangs his claws together until the bots on either side of him wince, and he gets even louder when he knows Rotorstorm has noticed him.

“Go on, get up there!” he shouts. “You earned this, didn’t you?” The rest of the crowd has calmed down, but he stays standing, arms dropped to his sides. He stares at Rotorstorm as he crosses the stage, shoulders pressed back, each step placed so precisely in front of the last that it must be calculated. He waits until Rotorstorm has reached the edge to sit back down, and then still his optic is pointed, refusing to let Rotorstorm look anywhere else. Rotorstorm’s own optics are wide, though the rest of his expression is slack. His biolights are steady, his ventilations manual and even. He’s perfect.

“Rotorstorm,” the presenter says, “I hope you will forgive us; this is an honor that is long overdue. During the Simanzi Massacre, you singlehandedly scouted a pass through Mount Helix that allowed for the rapid evacuation of the 9th Battalion. Your commanding officers estimate that your decisive actions saved upwards of one thousand Autobot lives.” Whirl’s engine is silent. He’s drinking in every word. “Today, we present you with the Novic Medal for Outstanding Honor. ‘Til all are one.” Rotorstorm ducks his helm as the award is magnetized to the right of his cockpit, finally breaking his optic contact with Whirl.

“’Til all are one,” he repeats, though most of the crowd does not hear him over Whirl’s cheers.

Rotorstorm turns without looking up and returns to his seat. The next recipient is called forward and Whirl walks out.

 ~*~

 He can’t do it. He’ll blame it on the way Tailgate’s plating quietly rattles or Cyclonus’ entire personality as he starts to board, but he shuts off the shuttle’s engine and disembarks with them trailing behind. He retreats to his hab suite, and though he does not invite them he’s glad when they make it inside before the door closes.

“Nobody in the mutiny is allowed to have any of my stuff. I don’t care if Thunderclash is dying again and my innermost energon is the only compatible fuel in the galactic sector, he can’t have it.”

Tailgate nods along, his fingers in a death grip around Whirl’s pincer.

“And when you guys are talking about me later, no one call me anything but Whirl. I’m serious. I don’t know about anything I did before that, so what could it matter?” He looks up at the ceiling. “In fact, don’t tell anyone about the Primus thing. No point.”

Cyclonus is a solid, immobile presence on his other side.

“Am I forgetting anything? Oh, tell Roadbuster I’ll be waiting for him in the pit.”

“Do gods go to the Afterspark?” It’s not clear who Tailgate is asking.

“I definitely don’t plan to stick around and watch over you or whatever. Think I’ve had enough of this universe.” He chuckles, a strained sound. “Yeah. So, that’s it. Better get this show on the road, huh?”

“We’ll be with you the entire time,” Tailgate promises.

“For as long as you want us,” Cyclonus amends.

“Yeah, I know.” He shrugs, laughs again. “I’m not even really scared of the whole dying thing. I’d made peace with that. Whenever there was something I needed to do, I took care of it, so I wouldn’t have to worry about it if the right bullet finally found its mark.” He glances between them. “Now, though… you two better behave, I swear. I’m making it your Primus-sworn duty to take care of and listen to each other, okay?”

Cyclonus nods, and the way he takes it so seriously makes Whirl almost glad he’s on his way out. He couldn’t handle being looked at like that all the time, and especially it’s the way they reach across his lap and entwine their hands that really does him in. He hates them dearly.

“Okay,” he says, winding up his t-cog for the big spin. “Okay, twelve Matrixes. No problem.”

 ~*~

 Whirl times the blinking numbers to the rotations of his spark. 1,600 exactly. He’s done it.

He leans back in his chair but cannot stop staring at the little device in his hands. It is perfect. After years of researching, studying, trying, and failing, the pieces have come together to allow him to create this one perfect thing. He loves it, and a dangerous feeling of pride fills his spark, the kind that has so long been missing from his work in the Aerial Corps. If there is a Primus (and he’s still not sure, whatever the Functionists insist), this is what he built Whirl to do.

He gets up from his desk and walks across his small living space to a shelf. Nearing capacity, it has just enough room for him to push a few previous attempts aside to make room for the latest version. Surrounded by its brethren, it becomes lost almost immediately amid the sea of blinking lights, indistinguishable even from those he considers lesser. Some defects are more obvious than others: one has sat at the same time since the moment he brought it online, while another counts one klik backward for every two forward. But most are just slightly imperfect, necessary steps to get to this point, and he loves them all dearly.

He stands back. It feels like the work of a lifetime, these clocks, though he knows he took up the pursuit relatively recently. It’s just hard to remember how he filled his time before he had this project to work on, and he is again grateful he discovered it at all.

It is a gift to be able to create, he thinks, to cast a broad eye over his creations. The numbers blink at him, all out of tune, and he lets himself imagine being content doing just this for the rest of his life.

[itsomgitsgreenblogging]

Labor of Love Chapter 2: A Critical Role Shadowgast Fanfic

Well, I was utterly floored by the amount of love I got on the first chapter of the fic, and so I felt that I had enough ideas and time to continue it. Seriously, thank you to everyone who supported chapter one, and here’s hoping you continue to enjoy this fic! Considering I’m still in a quarantine, I have plenty of time on my hands lol. 

I took inspiration from the food section of the Explorer’s Guide to Wildemount, so let me just say, thank you so very much Essek server for helping me! You guys are, as always, the best. 

Read on AO3

Read Ch 1 on Tumblr

Preview: 

Each cupcake looked like a treasure chest, decorated and drizzled and shiny. Each cupcake was almost too much of a display to consider blemishing. From the candied lemons on the Radler to the swirl of the tamarind-vanilla frosting to even the glisten of the drizzle. It all screamed a level of care and attention that Essek didn't exactly feel deserving of. All of this came from Caleb’s mind, he knew it. But what a wonderful, beautiful place that mind must have been. It made him yearn, impossibly, faithfully for something that he didn’t even have the words for. He hadn’t thought he was empty before, but now he felt downright cavernous.  

"Well, what's got you in a mood? Your resting bitch face is worse than usual,” Lythir noted, taking a sip from his mimosa. Essek set down his own drink and gave him a look. “That’s not making it any better.” 

“I don’t have a resting bitch face,” Essek noted very pleasantly as he flipped through the menu. The place was in the trendy upscale shopping district of Rosohna, promising gourmet modern-Xhorhassian cuisine served on shiny white plates and all deconstructed to the highest fashion. It was a bit pretentious, even for Essek. For example, why did all the drinks have to be in mason jars? But he hadn’t picked the place that had been Lythir. Though, Essek was sure he was going to have to be the one to foot the bill. 

Lythir was looking back at him expectantly. He was an old acquaintance of Essek’s, who worked at one of the premier newspapers in Rosohna. There were plenty of reasons that Essek prefered other people’s company over Lythir. He tended to be dour, self-important, and pretty annoying in general. Essek didn’t like most people, and he especially disliked people who felt they had something to prove. One’s business should remain their own. But Lythir had always done good work for the cultural office, and always gave Essek the head’s up when something big was happening. So, at the very least, Essek owed him to hear him out no matter how absolutely obnoxious he was being. 

“Well, you are a resting bitch so…” 

“I didn’t invite me out to brunch, that was you. This is your fault, so you don’t get to complain about me. If you want someone to complain about me to, you should have invited your husband,” Essek said shortly. Essek would have preferred Lythir’s husband to be there anyways. He was a stylish, soft-spoken individual who was the head of a non-profit that helped place refugees in housing and set them up with job assistance. Essek actually enjoyed his conversation, as opposed to Lythir. But it was what it was. 

“Oh get that stick out of your ass, Theylss. I invited you here for a reason...well, that and getting drunk.” 

“I suppose my company is not enough,” Essek sighed dramatically. 

“Oh, please. As if you don’t purposefully make yourself the least friendly person to interact with on a daily basis on purpose.” 

“We both know that’s not true. You hold that distinct honor.” 

“Oh shut up,” Lythir said, his expression pinching. “You always have to be so clever.”

“Are we ready to order?” the waitress asked, walking over to them slowly, as if the ground itself was triggered with traps like some ancient dungeon. 

“I’ll have the Eggs Uthodurn,” Essek ordered, closing the menu and sliding it to her. He smiled his best smile at her, the one he often put on to comfort interns trembling at the sound of his boss’s heels...before they realized it was him they needed to watch for. She looked relieved. 

“On a bagel or Uthodurnian muffin?” 

“The muffin please.” 

“Salad or home fries?” 

“Salad.” 

“And for you sir?” the waitress asked Lythir. 

“Full Xhorhassian Breakfast,” Lythir said lazily, not even bothering to look at her. “Bagel and eggs scrambled.” 

“Thank you,” Essek said to the waitress who smiled and hurried away. Essek turned his gaze back to Lythir, keeping his expression decorated as naturally as he could. "So what was it that you wanted to speak to me about?" 

"Though in theory we have moved away from the 12 Den Form of Government, we all know that it still exists," Lythir said, taking out his little notebook. "Your little brother is about to find himself in some hot water if he doesn't cool his current investigation. I know he thinks he’s some hot shot ye old Taskhand, but we all know that it’s the case." 

"Of course he is," Essek snorted as he rested his chin on his palm as he continued to look towards Lythir. "What did he do this time?" 

"Investigated a high ranking member of Den Beltune for corruption," Lythir said, opening his notebook. "Bribery and intimidation, the usual. Oh but a dash of insider trading is the scary thing, isn’t it?"

"Verin can never leave well enough alone," Essek sighed deeply, taking a long drink from his cocktail. It was so unwieldy to drink a bellini from a mason jar, but he was making due regardless. "It's part of his nature." 

"So are you going to stop him or what?"

"I'll do what needs to be done for all of our sakes." 

"That's cold," Lythir noted with a chuckle and a shake of his head. 

"Perhaps," Essek said tiredly. "Was that the only reason you dragged me out here in your quest to protect the realm, Lythir?  

"That, and I love the pissed off look you give every time you have to say Verin's name." 

"Truly, your company is a Luxon's blessing." 

The rest of brunch was a lackluster affair…mostly due to Lythir's subpar company. Essek couldn’t even eat three bites without feeling queasy. No, it wasn’t that he was suddenly concerned about his brother. He couldn’t care less about that. It was more the feeling that all of this was going to become a migraine if he didn’t get out in front of it.  Essek sighed as he climbed into his car, shooting a text to his mother. She was home, apparently going to the Temple to worship later. Lovely, but better to do this sooner rather than later. He gritted his teeth, pulled out from the curb, and drove towards the Theylss family home. 

The townhouse was in the Firmaments, the most upscale district in Rosohna. When Essek pulled next to the curb, and was immediately met with a housekeeper before he could ring the doorbell. Essek gave him his jacket and was led into the living room where his denmother was waiting. The whole house itself was styled classically. Heavy curtains, arches,  marble statues, Vermelock purple woods and wallpapers, luxurious tapestries and paintings of Theylss members since...well...since his mother had first put a name to her fame. She was laying back on the chaise lounge, with a mug of something in her hands. 

“Am I interrupting something?” Essek asked dryly, noting his mother’s general state of undress. She was wearing a silk robe, and lingerie that was lacy and very revealing. He resisted the urge to turn around and stare at the wall. He was an adult, but still, even the slightest inclination of his mother’s sex life was enough to make him want to gouge his own eyes out with a spoon. 

“Oh please, don’t be dramatic. It’s the morning,” Dierta Theylss said with a sigh as she sat up, looking oh so pleased with herself. 

“It’s half-past twelve.” 

“It’s morning somewhere, and I had a very good night, and I’m in my own house,” she said, taking the reserve of almond liqueur and pouring at least a double shot into her coffee. “I’m allowed to be dressed however I wish. 

“I beg of you, don’t tell me how your night was. I really, really don’t want to know.” 

“Essek, please, I thought when you became an adult we would be able to talk candidly about things. You hurt your mother’s feelings.” 

It was just then that Dierta’s current husband walked down the stairs. It was hard to keep track...but Essek was sure this was the fourth one in his lifetime. A handsome half-orc man...who of course was younger than Essek technically though he was somewhere in his forties. Essek couldn’t remember his name. Garrall? Gurak? Something like that maybe? He gave Essek a slow, awkward wave before grabbing coffee and then booking it back upstairs to avoid the oncoming storm. Good, Essek thought. He might actually like this new stepfather of his...though he was pretty sure that they had been married for at least two years. Did that count? Oh, whatever. He at least wasn’t as dense as the last one who had always smelled of mothballs and couldn’t keep from blathering about his stocks in Whitestone residuum. 

“I didn’t come here for a social visit, Mother,” Essek noted, taking the glass that was offered to him by the servant before sitting in the empty loveseat. He settled it down, not touching it. No use in getting too comfortable, after all, these conversations tended to be short and fraught with danger. He needed all his faculties working for this.  

“Of that I’m perfectly aware, you don’t do social visits. I can only assume that you did something and you need your mother’s help to clean up your mess,” she said, taking a drink. She motioned and the servant raced to refresh her cup. She took another lazy sip, gazing at him from over the rim as she did. There was something lurking there that always put him on edge, but it was more prominent now. 

“Not my mess,” Essek corrected, intertwining his fingers and resting them on his knee. “Verin’s mess. Verin’s mess that always ends up being my mess somehow.” 

“You mean Verin’s little pet project? His corruption investigation?” Dierta asked, tracing the rim of her mug with a manicured finger. “Oh yes, I’ve heard about it.” 

“And you haven’t done anything about it?” Essek asked, leaning back and crossing his legs. “What’s your plan then?” 

“Whatever could I do to dissuade him? You, on the other hand, may have more luck than I did.” 

“No,” Essek said angrily, the realization striking him quickly with the force of a hard slap. “No, this is not something you are going to pass off to me. I am only here out of respect to you, I’m not here to play your errand boy.” 

“Essek, you and I both know that things go better when you just listen to me,” Dierta said, her face hardening and Essek could nearly see her assume the ancient, feared, and coveted role of denmother right there. You are my son, and you will abide by me is what she didn’t say. It was the threat that was inherent in her tone. She was his denmother, even though in theory they had long since abandoned the practice. In fact, she was still one of the most powerful people in Rosohna. As soon as she had dawned the role like a heavy mantle it was gone and replaced with something cloyingly sweet. “You are my favored son for a reason. Now, listen to your mother. I have a plan.” 

“I don’t want to hear it,” Essek said, standing up out of his seat. “You can just speak to Verin directly. I’m not playing this game of yours anymore, this is exactly the reason why I moved out of this godsforsaken house.”

“You know he doesn’t listen to me once he’s got an idea in his head.”

“He doesn’t listen to me either. In fact, he hates me so whatever plan you have concocted in that brain of yours isn’t going to work. This was obviously just a waste of my time,” Essek told her shortly, yanking his jacket from the coat hanger. The servant looked pissed, and Essek leveled a glare that had him scurrying backwards. 

“Essek, tell me, what happened between you and Verin anyways?” she asked idly, as if it had nothing to do with her. Essek bristled even further if that was even possible under the circumstances, and felt his mouth twist further into a deep grimace.

“Can’t you tell?” Essek asked her with a sour grin. “It’s because I’m too much like you.”  

“Oh, don’t be dramatic,” Dierta huffed impatiently, but Essek was already out the door and to his car. He slammed his door shut, punched in his brother’s number and sped off from the curb towards his house. Essek almost immediately hit both traffic and Verin’s voicemail. Almost at his wit’s end, he tapped the wheel impatiently. 

“Verin,” Essek said shortly, glaring heatedly at his phone. “Don’t be an idiot. Be smarter than whatever you are up to, because it’s not just your ass on the line here and I will not help you.” 

Essek cut the line and stared at the traffic ahead of him. He continued to sit there, stewing on his distaste for everything for a bit before he just got tired of that and his attention wandered. He cast a look towards his messenger bag...the one he had gotten into the habit of keeping in his car just in case. It was looking up at him judgmentally…. as if saying he was weak and sentimental. He didn't need to go to the bakery, to soak in its atmosphere like it was a warm bath at the end of a particularly stressful day. He could read his books and answer Messages at home. But nothing about driving back to his empty cold apartment seemed appealing at that moment. 

He was a weak selfish creature, after all. And so he turned left...to the Xhorhaus Bakery. 

The bakery itself was buzzing with the usual amount of activity, on account of it being the afternoon. There were two lines, one for the regular register and the displays of sweets. At the other, Fjord and Caduceus (as he had learned from his previous trips) were making crepes and waffle cones for children to place their ice-cream. In front of them, trays of toppings like fruits, square jellies, jewel-colored syrups and jams and whipped creams, different flavored tapioca balls, a rainbow of sprinkles, and homemade candies and crushed cookies. Essek got up to the register and noticed immediately that Caleb wasn't there (not to his disappointment, he was not disappointed, it was foolish to be so and the last thing that Essek was, was foolish). Veth was also nowhere to be seen. He was met with Jester who smiled happily at him, as if there were no one in the world she would rather see. It helped lessen the sting of definitely not disappointment greatly. 

"Hi Essek!" Jester greeted, meeting his gaze before a grin curled over his lips. "Caleb's in the back right now."

"I didn't need to know that," Essek said with a sigh. 

"Sure you didn't. But in the meantime we do have Widogast's Wall of Infamy," Jester said, pointing to the aforementioned sign. On it were recommendations of the different pastries and food available that day. Essek swept them with his gaze, memorizing the neat scrawl that had to be Caleb's handwriting. It was beautiful, well practiced, the show of an educated hand. Just another thing to obsess about that he didn’t need to, Essek thought annoyed at his own obviousness. 

"I'll do one tall black coffee and...uh...whatever the daily triple threat is." 

"Oh my gosh, cupcakes!" Jester said excitedly, tail moving back and forth with her eagerness as Jester accepted Essek's payment. "They definitely won't let you down, Essek. You are gonna love them. I'll have Beau bring everything over in a sec!"

Essek sat himself in his usual corner seat and began setting himself up for work. His tome-pad angled up, and his books for after settled in a neat pile. Leylas Kryn got about twenty or more serious business requests every day, and Essek knew from experience which ones were worth going over with her and which ones weren't. He still attempted to be kind and courteous however, besides, who knew if certain products would take off? Always good to leave the door open for later. Having more ammo to arm himself with was never a bad thing. 

"Here you go, black coffee and daily triple threat," Beau said, settling down the tray with a thump that made Essek jump. She began to speak with all the enthusiasm of a secretary at the Department of Magical Artifacts. "Our specials today are our Wildemount Drinks cupcake collection. First cupcake on the left is a Queen's Water cupcake, a honey cake with a guava filling and a tamarind-vanilla buttercream. Second cupcake is a Radler cupcake, a vanilla-beer cake filled with a lemon curd and topped with a tangy lemon cream cheese frosting. Final cupcake is a Yunfaalyu--yes I know I totally butchered the pronunciation--decadent chocolate cake with a current jam filling, vanilla frosting and a plum liqueur drizzle. Each cupcake is enchanted to give you a different sensation." 

Each cupcake looked like a treasure chest, decorated and drizzled and shiny. Each cupcake was almost too much of a display to consider blemishing. From the candied lemons on the Radler to the swirl of the tamarind-vanilla frosting to even the glisten of the drizzle. It all screamed a level of care and attention that Essek didn't exactly feel deserving of. All of this came from Caleb’s mind, he knew it. But what a wonderful, beautiful place that mind must have been. It made him yearn, impossibly, faithfully for something that he didn’t even have the words for. He hadn’t thought he was empty before, but now he felt downright cavernous. 

"I probably can't eat all of these by myself," Essek said guiltily. "I didn't realize they were so big." 

"You look like you could use it," Beauregard noted, leaning against the table. Her muscles flexed with the effort."You're like a fucking stick." 

"Why, thank you," Essek said sarcastically before giving her another look. "You don't strike me as the bakery type." 

"I'm not, I'm a member of the Cobalt Soul," Beauregard said with a shrug, naming the international organization of monks. In the time of war they had been covert operatives and general badasses. Now they served as a peace-keeping and rebuilding operation for people in almost every country in Wildemount...though supposedly they were still general badasses. "Caleb's my friend, and this is my side gig. Self-defense instructor and part time librarian doesn't pay a whole lot." 

"I see," Essek said, blinking. He didn’t really understand why she would be under-selling her job, but, it wasn’t his business and he didn’t care enough to dig into the specifics. Information was important, but too much was a burden to saddle yourself with.  

"Plus, you need at least two strong people to carry wedding cakes. Me and Yasha tend to do that," she explained, flexing her arm to show off her bicep. 

"I'm sorry, wedding cakes?" Essek asked curiously. 

"Oh, right, I keep forgetting it's a Dwendalian thing. During the reception of a wedding in the Empire, you have a cake. Not just any cake, it can be...like...up to six tiers or more," Beau aided her visual by miming stacking. "And they are decorated, with sugar flowers and other things. I mean, it's all gross and sentimental but they are beautiful. You cut the cake together at the wedding, feed each other and the party starts. Asshole couples might smush it in each other's faces but, like, that's real old fashioned and also a horrible tradition." 

"That's...surprisingly tender," Essek said, unable to visualize what something like that would feel like. The idea of feeding another person, it had to be intimate. It was a way that food became another vehicle for affection. It was surprising to hear about such a tradition from the Empire, the salt-of-the-Earth and cold-barbed-wire fence country that it was. Then again, people were people no matter where they came from. Being in love was a universal thing...not that Essek had any experience with it. "It's lovely." 

"Yeah, well, don't get your panties in a knot about it. We don't do many wedding cakes here, but Empire immigrants like us, and those people marrying immigrants, are starting to come in asking for them. Caleb and Veth are in a consultation  about a wedding cake now for a couple. Why? Are you in the market for one?" Beauregard asked, her expression searching. 

"Oh no, no," Essek said with a desperate shake of his head. He didn't know how much of this conversation would get back to Caleb, and that idea was mortifying enough. He didn’t need Caleb also thinking he wasn’t available...not that it mattered at all. "Definitely not." 

"Well then," Beauregard said shortly. "Good luck with the cupcakes." 

She trudged off, leaving Essek to it. It was in that moment, sitting there in the busy bakery bereft of an audience to perform for, that he finally felt himself decompress. He almost had to check his ears to make sure steam wasn't coming out. Life didn't look so bad, with a cup of coffee and cupcakes sitting in front of you. There was something about the visceral comfort of it all that made the knot in his chest that was forever tight just loosen just a little. Essek took a sip of his coffee before reaching to pick which cupcake he was willing to try first. It was all so tempting, even though Essek still swore to himself that he didn’t like sweets. 

Essek cut the first cupcake, the Queen’s Water cupcake so he could get a bite of frosting, filling, and cake all at once. The cake itself was tender and almost melted in the mouth was delicately sweet with the honey and warmed with spices, countered by the intensely flavorful guava, and the sour-sweet punch of the tamarind-vanilla frosting. Immediately as he tasted it… he was enveloped by the flavor dancing on his tongue, with his next breath in he was filled with the sensation of warm sand against his fingertips, a cool breeze and the glittering sapphire waves of the Menagerie Coast around his knees. As soon as it was there, it dissolved like seafoam the moment he finished the bite. 

Essek did not hesitate before his next bite, the Yunfaalyu cupcake. Yunfaalyu was a popular traditional Xhorhassian drink, something Essek had grown up drinking on special occasions and on the holidays. It was traditionally a plum liquor served frigid-cold over ice and topped with currants. Every family had their own method of serving it and most families were a little obsessed with it. Plums were considered the Queen of Fruit in Xhorhas for a reason, and the drink was considered a delicacy by all rights. Essek had enjoyed plums soaked in it, eaten Yunfaalyu poured over shaved ice on hot summer nights. He had never had it in a baked good before, and was now wondering how he had spent his whole life without it. Chocolate was a relatively new import from Tal’dorei, fashionable as drinks served as powder stirred in hot milk with spices. In a cupcake it was a revelation in the way it melted sweet and bitter all at the same time. The currant jam was tart, smoothed over by the creaminess of the frosting. It was the plum liquor that transported him this time. The tingling on his tongue when he breathed, he was surprised to see his breath not swirl white. A cold Xhorhassian winter night, a scarf wrapped around his neck, snowflakes brushing his cheeks and his eyelashes, and the warmth of a crackling hearth. Again it was gone within the space of a breath.  

The final cupcake, the Radler, awaited for him. He took his next bite, now expecting it to be bone-shatteringly good. The cake was so flavorful, light and yet had a deep earthy quality. It was counteracted by the sharp-sour-sweet lemon curd, and the tang of the cream-cheese frosting. It’s sharpness eased into something sweet and citrus and almost addictive as he couldn’t stop himself from taking another bite. Immediately, he realized that this was the taste of summer, like long grasses and dandelions brushing his fingertips and the hum of insects in his ears. He could feel the heat of the sun, something so unfamiliar and yet unmistakable, like golden comfort being settled upon his shoulders. It was like stepping into a warm bath...and yet more ethereal and it somehow soaked in deeper. It reached right down to the core of his heart, where almost nothing penetrated. This was a gift to someone who could never feel the sun as anything but pain. 

He sniffed and bit back something that felt suspiciously like tears but definitely were not. But whatever scratchy feeling he had at the back of his throat had nothing to do with stupid, soft, gentle wizards who used their magic to let some poor drow fool feel sunlight. Essek was broken out of his revelry by the feeling of the cat, Frumpkin jumping up into his lap. 

“Oh!” Essek greeted, looking at the wide yellow eyes that looked up at him curiously. For a moment he could have sworn they flashed blue, but then they settled back into a warm gentle yellow. Essek tentatively placed his fingers under Frumpkin’s chin, and watched as Frumpkin actively leaned into Essek’s scratching. His fur was soft to the touch, unlike most animals he had pet before. His purring caught him off guard, because he had certainly read of cats purring he hadn’t realized you could feel it. It was a delightful little sensation as Frumpkin settled on his lap for a nap. Essek probably should have been more concerned about the state of his pants...cat fur would probably show up on them. But he didn’t find that he cared. 

Essek sat for a bit, finished the Radler cupcake and his coffee. He thought about ordering another coffee, but as soon as he did he noticed that Caleb had appeared from the back and didn’t think he was strong enough to speak to him. Just tasting what he had created was enough for his poor heart for one day. Caleb looked at the person ordering warmly, welcoming, and it made his heart fluttered in his chest. That was enough to make clear to Essek that he had definitely made the correct decision. 

You will just have to continue to be my private daydream. My sweet and soft when everything is terrible. The shot straight to my heart, my never-ever-might-have-been. And I'll just have to be content with my lot, that I've known just the tiniest sliver of your heart that you've served to me on a silver platter. Essek thought idly as he tapped the next image on his tome-pad. No use in being greedy. This is just enough to make me not so miserable as I was two hours ago. 

"Here, something you might like," Caleb's voice startled Essek out of his daydreams immediately. Essek looked to see Caleb settling a cup of coffee of some sort in front of him, having appeared out of the haze of Essek’s thoughts and back into Essek’s reality. 

"I didn't order anything," Essek said, voice devoid of any normal emotion and instead sounding like he was slowly being tortured for information somewhere in an Empire bunker like in one of the old movies. 

"It's on the house," Caleb said as Essek reached for his wallet. The cat in his lap perked up, delicately maneuvered across the table ladened with the fruits of Caleb’s labor, before settling on Caleb's lap. It left Essek feeling strangely bereft and cold. Caleb was holding his own cup, and looked a bit concerned. "Were they not to your liking?"

Caleb motioned to the two partially eaten cupcakes remaining. Only the Radler, the sunshine cupcake, had been completely devoured. 

"Oh, no! No," Essek denied quickly. "They were all delicious. It's just...one was quite enough to fill me up." 

In actuality he probably should have eaten more. He hadn't eaten breakfast, and taken maybe three bites of his brunch. It was strange though, where most food settled in his stomach like lead...it was different here. Everything he ate here had an intensity of flavor that Essek wasn't used to. It had to be the magic, but...he didn't really care. More than anything, he wanted to let the taste of that last bite of that Radler cupcake linger as long as possible. 

"If I must confide...the Radler is my personal favorite from that batch of recipes," Caleb said, sounding relieved while sipping out of his own cup. Essek looked at the mug Caleb had placed in front of him. Noticing his look, Caleb motioned towards it more firmly. “I hope you enjoy that.” 

Essek took it and took a sip. It was a flat white, the strong taste of the espresso and the smooth mouthfeel of the milk. There wasn’t any sugar in the cup...after all the sweets Essek doubted he would be able to take that. He sighed deeply, fingers curled around the mug itself as the warm radiated into his fingertips. Almost immediately Essek realized what he was doing and forced himself back into his own mind. Caleb was looking at him expectantly. 

“Tell me something,” Essek said, feeling rather brave in spite of himself. It wasn’t a smooth segway but at least he was talking in an even and normal tone. “When you bake the magic in...how do you compensate for the components? I mean...I hope you aren’t putting fleece into your cupcakes.” 

“Ah, you so caught the major image,” Caleb said, sounding delighted. 

“I’m sorry, is that a trade secret?”

“Oh no, no. I’m just not used to people so interested in the how, they are more interested in the results,” Caleb said, waving his hand as if to dismiss his worries. “We draw the essence of the spell out and soak it into the water we use to mix each batter.”

“Truly...it’s fascinating how you are utilizing magic for different purposes,” Essek noted, settling his hand on his notebook. “How did you come to this conclusion, this bakery, if you don’t mind me asking? You are a very talented wizard, and this is a rather...well unorthodox profession for a wizard.” 

Caleb paused for a moment, considering the question as he scratched under Frumpkin’s chin. The cat meowed lazily, caught in the middle of a pur. Caleb smiled at it, before picking up his cup once again. 

“When we all first came here...things were difficult,” Caleb explained, looking into his cup. Today his hair was back in a loose low ponytail, that drew Essek’s eyes to the nap of his neck. Was there no part of him that wasn’t ridiculously attractive? “We were all just scraping by. If you can believe it, we all met in an inn on the way to the border and we just decided to stick it out together. Some of us...weren’t lucky enough to make it. When we got here, things were hard but better. Back then, though I loved magic it reminded me of a lot of terrible things in my life, not to get too personal about it. Veth asked me to think of something I loved that I could do. And I could only think about magic, finding a way to do magic in a way that would make me and everyone I had come to care about happy. My mother had always loved cooking and baking, and doing so reminded me of her. So, I just thought one day, to the Nine Hells with it. Combine them both and see what I get. I’ve been so lucky in a lot of ways, but the fact it all worked out is at the top of the list.” 

“We are lucky to have you,” Essek said, hoping that sentiment didn’t sound too contrived. 

“I’m not sure what the neighbors thought of us at first,” Caleb chuckled, deep from his belly, and the sound nearly sent a flush to the tips of his ears. Of course Essek had watched Empire programming once in a while. His mother thought television was gauche at the best of times, but Essek had found ways to sneak entertainment out from under her. Say what you would about the Empire, their television at least was far more entertaining then the how-many-different-channels-do-you-need-to-praise-the-Luxon slop you got in the Dynasty. He had read some interesting articles about how it was all a bread-and-circuses strategy by the Empire to lull their citizens into complacency, which was all fine and good and evil, but with hunky human men daring to brave the unknown in scripted series about adventurers? It went down easy and made very good entertainment. The voices of those old fashioned stars had always been deep timber that Essek guessed was natural to humans. He hadn’t realized how attractive it could be...until this particular human male was sitting in front of him. 

“I think you’ll find that a lot of people’s lives have improved with you here,” Essek said, settling his mug down primly and with his best aristocratic sniff. “I think you’ll just have to take my word for it.”

“Ja, I just might,” Caleb said, raising the mug to his mouth. His blue eyes sparkled mirthfully, like the dream of that summer day baked into a single cupcake.  

---------

“Stop being evil for like, ten minutes and seriously consider the proposal,” Professor Waccoh demanded of him. Essek looked up from his phone to look at her and met her glare. 

“I did consider it. It was stupid and so I stopped considering it,” Essek said, completely deadpanned. “If that’s being evil, then consider me the evilest man alive.” 

“Kryn wanted something to show the majesty of our nation! Our technological advances are something we should be proud of. If you showed approval she'd consider it.” 

“Nothing about giant machines that move through the streets makes any sense.” 

“They would have purpose and make sense, you are just thinking too small.”

“I am not helping you bring that in front of Leylas Kryn. You go ahead, but it does not have my stamp of approval,” Essek told her. 

"Cheapskate," Professor Waccoh accused. 

"Bite me,” Essek said as pleasant as could be. 

“I wouldn’t want to poison myself.” 

“They are ready in there,” the secretary said, poking her head out of the meeting room. Essek put on his professional face and then walked through the door. 

The discussion at hand was the 10th Anniversary of Peace, the date that marked the beginning of what people were calling the golden age of Xhorhas. It was rather pretentious if Essek thought about it, but it wasn’t his job to judge. Really, it was his job to be there and take down notes and to know what his boss liked or didn’t like based on her subtle facial expressions. Essek had always been good at that, having been trained from the days in Den Theylss with his mother breathing down his neck to always know what it took to be on someone’s good side. By the end of the meeting, Essek had whittled the list of suggestions down to three before Leylas Kryn adjourned the meeting for a break.  

Essek stood by the juice machine, deciding what healthy-concoction-monstrosity he wanted to put into the temple of his body as Quana Kryn saddled up next to him, taking a sip from her own cup. Golden eyes searched his face before a smile pulled at her mouth. Quana Kryn had always been the more approachable of the two, but it didn’t make her any less intimidating as she nearly towered over Essek. Today she wore suspenders with her suit, and certainly enough of the office staff had swooned over it to make someone force her to put on a jacket. Leylas could be considerate like that.  

"Tell me, what did you think of Waccoh's little idea there?" Quana asked congenially. It startled Essek, only because they didn’t really talk too often. Obviously he worked closely with Leylas and he was often the butt of passing jokes, but Quana just drifted in and out of his purview the way most people did. There was obviously something she wanted, and he would just have to figure out what it was on the fly. 

"The good professor has amazing ideas, but unfortunately the follow through is a bit lacking," Essek said simply. 

"Cheeky," Quana scoffed, before pinching the bridge of her nose. She took in a deep steadying breath. "I'm not getting enough sleep. This Vow Renewal is driving me crazy."

"Ah, well, that's the price of love I suppose," Essek said, sipping his green juice and trying not to cringe. It tasted like barley and cucumbers, but not in a pleasant way. There was something sharp and metallic in the back of his throat making it difficult to swallow. 

"I, of course, love my wife more than anything. And of course, Vow Renewals are how we show that in the Temple. But if I have to talk to another person about the flowers or what dress Leylas will be wearing, I will dust off my sword," Quana sighed, leaning against the wall in a way that was so practiced and easy that Essek was jealous. "It makes it all the worse that it’s going to be televised. I don’t know what we are going to do for the reception. Tell me, Essek...I’m just realizing this, that I haven’t the slightest clue about you. Do you have a girlfriend?” 

“I don’t,” Essek said.

“A boyfriend? Partner?” 

“No, I have no significant other,” Essek said before casting a suspicious eye towards her. “Why?”

“I was just wondering if you had any ideas. I know that’s not what you do, but I know that’s what you do.” 

Essek thought for a moment, before throwing his cup away. The contents splattered on the trash bag as he did so with little regard. 

“Have you heard about wedding cakes?” Essek asked curiously. 

“No, what is that?” 

“An Empire tradition that’s becoming popular amongst the people,” Essek explained, pulling out his tome-pad as he searched up a familiar name. “I figure if the strength of our nation is how we actively welcome people into our country, this might be a good opportunity to demonstrate that.” 

“And I suppose you have a recommendation for me to pass to the Misses?” 

“Always,” Essek said with a smile.

[tonysrhodeys]

all i wanna do is to fall in deep

basically fluff and bad humour! steve uses tony’s special mug and tries to seduce him through shirtlessness and tony is obviously thirsty for some of that. i apologise in advance! :)

Pepper was the person who gave him the “I Am Iron Man”. It was custom made and appeared on his workstation the day after the press conference.

She slammed it on the table which woke Tony up. She smirked at him before leaving. The tapping of her heels helped wake him up. He grinned as he saw it.

It quickly became his special mug and he treasured it. Even DUM-E knew that that was the mug to bring to him whenever he wanted coffee. Rhodey and Pepper said that they regretted ever giving it to him since it stroked his ego even more and it was only a matter of time before his head no longer fit in his helmet.

When the Avengers moved into the tower, Tony made it clear that his mug was off-limits. It was respected at first since they were tentative around each other. The team was new and had won one major battle after splits within the team. They respected each other’s boundaries and it was peaceful, albeit dull and safe.

Then they were called in more (which meant they complained more about Nick’s complete disregard for their rest). They began to bond more (by order of their Captain) and the team seemed to click. That’s when movie and game nights started. They started to lean on each other more. For a group of people with ingrained trust issues, they forgot about that really quickly. It turned out being with people who shared similar life experiences really did solidify relationships. In fact, it made them into some sort of family.

That did not change how territorial Tony was with his mug.

After the Pepper break-up, he seemed to retreat into his shell once more. He hid in his workshop all day to try and distract himself from the pain. The team thought they would be doing him a favour by getting rid of the mug, but his explosive reaction induced a sliver of fear in them that they had never felt before.

He was a sobbing, remorseful mess afterward. There was nothing to be forgiven. He explained that even though their relationship ended, his history with her would always remain. It didn’t change the fact that she was one of the first people to support him on his heroic journey (even though her feelings toward that did change), and he was still Iron Man.

He had owned that mug for years (it was beginning to fade, but he would just have JARVIS mend it) and nobody else had used it (except for Clint, but that was a mistake he would never make again. Note: do not play pranks on Mr. Tony Stark involving that mug).

Then one day he and Clint were playing Mario Kart in the living room. Tony was decimating Clint, but it was no surprise. During a break, Tony went to have a glass of water (it shocked Steve, but yes Tony actually drink normal, still water) when Steve walked in. He and Natasha had just gotten back from a mission and his exhaustion was evident in his features. He rubbed his eyes and murmured morning pleasantries and grabbed a mug from the cupboard.

Tony’s mug.

Tony stood there frozen in his spot as Steve poured the already brewed coffee into the mug and walked away, his loud yawn echoing in the hallway.

“Holy shit! You let him use your mug!” Clint exclaimed, jumping off from the floor. IN a quick movement he was perched on the counter staring gleefully at Tony.

“Shut up Barton.” Tony grunted, finally snapping out of his trance.

“Shut up? You blocked the WIFI on everything that I owned for a week. I couldn’t even use the internet on the TV. The only thing I had were my aids, but cutting those off would be fucking criminal. Now, you let Steve use it without even a warning. Oh, honey, you are soft for him!” Clint spun around on the counter (knocking a few fruits, the bastard).

“I can still cut those aids off,” Tony says and he leaves the room quickly before Clint can see the blush on his face.

Because yes, Tony liked Steve. How could he not? Steve was drop-dead gorgeous. Blond, blue eyes and a huge expanse of muscles that Tony wanted to run his fingers across. He was strong in a knight in shining armour kind of way, and honestly Tony would reduce himself to a damsel in distress if it meant being held in his comfortable looking arms of his. But he was more than just brawn.

Steve was one of the smartest people Tony had ever met, and he didn’t say that lightly. He was seventy years behind but was committed to learning as much as he could. Tony had spotted Steve staying up late, his head hung over a book, his eyes getting heavier. Steve was also caring. He was shredded, but he had a soft, deep heart that he seemed to wear on his sleeve when it came to the team. He forced them to bond and to go on retreats together which they inevitably enjoyed. He kept them healthy physically and mentally and pushed them to their limits, but was the first person to call it quits when he could see that their struggle was becoming too much to bear.

On top of all of that, he especially looked after Tony. Maybe it was to make up for their fight on the helicarrier, maybe he truly pitied Tony or maybe (and Tony always hated to go here, it was dangerous) he genuinely liked and cared for him. It scared the hell out of Tony. Steve would come down and regularly bring him meals and water, but when it began to look like a bender, Steve dragged him upstairs to sleep and to socialise. It was torturous and Tony loved it. Steve also spent a few hours of his day (sometimes most of it) in the workshop with Tony. He would sit on a couch, close enough to feel his presence but far away enough to not be an obstruction and sketch. It was what made Tony fall in love with him.

The worst part was that Tony knew he could never have him. Steve was too good for him. He wanted to maintain a friendship. So if that meant letting his crush use his mug once, so be it.

Steve had no idea what he was doing.

Put him in a fight and he would become the embodiment of courage and confidence. He could assign duties in a battle with ease even with his constant self-doubt. It was exhausting to lead a team because he was endlessly worrying about them and making the wrong decisions which could end up with them being hurt in the end. But at the same time, he still gave his orders with conviction. It was a skill that seemed to only benefit him in the field.

Put him in the same tower as Tony Stark and he becomes a fumbling, bumbling mess. He didn’t what it was about Tony, but he seemed to bring out the best and worst in him and it was fascinating, thrilling even. Tony was an enigma but Steve was willing to spend the rest of his life trying to figure him out.

Tony spent his entire life trying to prove that nothing could hurt him, but that left him vulnerable. It was a crack in his armour that he had persistently tried to glue back together. Steve hated that side of him (okay, hate is a strong word that he would never associate with Tony, but he’s trying to make a point). It was all false bravado and smiles. It always scared Steve how well he played that act.

It was the façade that made it so difficult for Steve to get a read on Tony. It seemed no matter how much he thought he knew about Tony, there was also something new to learn. He did love that about him (and he would be lying if he said he was not willing to spend the rest of his life unlocking parts of him) but it also made it impossible for Steve to make the right move. If he came on too strong, then Tony would surely be scared away. If he didn’t come on strongly enough, then his advances would fly right over Tony’s head.

Of course, there was also the whole figuring out if Tony even liked him back thing. But he tried not to think about that too much.

Steve didn’t know why he went to Natasha. Although, Steve supposes she came to him. Apparently she was considering gouging her eyes out because seeing him so hopelessly pining physically tortured her. But Natasha’s plan took him out of his comfort zone, but she insisted that it would entice him (more than entice him if he was lucky).

Which is why Steve had been hiding for the last two hours in only a pair of briefs.

He was pressed against a wall in a corner that gave him a good view of the elevator, but also hid him from Tony’s view. He was in briefs because it accentuated his package. Natasha took pictures of him (more when he blushed), so her plan better work or else the eternal humiliation and blackmail would be for nothing.

The elevator finally dinged and Steve pressed further into the corner. Tony slowly made his way to the kitchen, his exhaustion evident in the slow drag of his steps. Steve took a deep breath and mussed up his hair a bit. He prayed this would work.

Tony tipped back a glass of water when he noticed Steve strolling into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes with a soft yawn. Tony blanched and his mouth instantly when dry. Standing before him was a man who looked like he had been carved out of marble. Tony could see almost every inch of his tantalising body. The little that was covered was done so in a pair of tight, Iron Man briefs.

Yes, Tony’s armoured face was on Steve Roger’s ass…and dick.

This was not fair. Steve was torturing him. Tony was practically drooling as he continued to drink in the muscular expanse of his chest. He glanced briefly at the Iron Man faces, but he knew if he stared any longer he would jump Steve’s bones right there. At this point, Tony didn’t know if he wanted to wrap his thighs around Steve, or rather feel Steve’s thigh’s wrapped around him. It was a dilemma.

“Hey Tony,” Steve says with a soft, dazed smile. He reached up (showing off his arms which looked fantastic obviously) and grabbed the mug. The Iron Man mug.

Once again, Tony did not feel an ounce of anger. He felt possessive, but his jealousy was directed towards the mug for being able to held in Steve’s hand like that. He filled the mug up with water and drank, leaning his head back leaving his Adam’s apple ripe for viewing. And now Tony was thinking about licking that.

Yes, Tony was falling down a rabbit hole. It did not help that he had not slept in thirty-two hours.

As much as he wanted Steve, and boy did he want him, Tony pushed all of that away. He rushed past Steve and only managed to squeak a Goodnight on his way.

He had a cold shower in his future. Multiple cold showers.

A week passed and nothing happened. Steve kept using the mug and there was the occasional ogling of a shirtless chest, but Tony had managed to keep his reactions in check. Other than Clint, nobody mentioned it. Natasha would raise her eyebrows in a way that told you that she knew exactly what was going on and she was just waiting for you to tell her..

Rhodey was not that kind. He was an inquisitive little shit, always had been. As soon as he arrived he noticed Steve drinking from the infamous mug on the couch next to Tony. They were a friendly distance apart, but Rhodey knew his best friend well enough to notice the slight shuffling of his feet and furtive glances to the other man. Rhodey could barely contain his laughter. It was like seeing him as a giddy teenager all over again.

Tony’s crush (which Tony continued to deny) thrust them back into their MIT days. Rhodey didn’t even use his bedroom which was opposite Tony’s, he made himself comfortable in Tony’s. He also made sure that they stayed up all night talking about Steve and what it was about him that made him so in love (Tony was not in love, he was just thoroughly infatuated). Tony was tired enough at that time that he let the fact that Steve’s smile was the very image that helped him sleep at night (Tony is pretty sure that everybody heard the way Rhodey giggled).

Their sleepovers made Tony realise how much he missed his best friend and how much he missed having somebody like that to talk to. There was something about the way that Rhodey just knew how to react to everything that made Tony so comfortable around him. Rhodey never stopped laughing as he recounted the early-morning-kitchen fiasco, but Tony couldn’t sense any judgement. If there was anything, it was pure joy. Rhodey left too soon for Tony’s liking, but not without an affectionate kiss on the cheek and a not so discrete inappropriate whisper to snatch that hot piece of ass while he still could.

Tony was pretty sure that Steve heard, if the pink tinting his cheeks and neck were anything to go by. Tony wondered how far down that blush traveled, but he really didn’t want to dwell on that thought.

Tony was caught completely off guard during their next encounter. Steve and Tony were supposed to go and see Frozen 2 together and Tony wanted to see if he would be willing to grab lunch before, but Natasha said that Steve had gone out. Tony decided to go down to the workshop and work on the new suit he was working on for Steve (the one he had now really was an atrocity. Somebody with his body needed something worthy of it). He made himself a cup of coffee in the mug he hardly ever got to use these days and started thinking of safety features for the suit.

He was rummaging through his drawer for a pen and paper when he hears some metal creaking and then dropping. He is about to call JARVIS when he sees the source of the noise.

Steve fucking Rogers.

He stands up and grins at Tony innocently. He is a white tank top, but he may as well be shirtless with the sweat on his shirt and glistening on his arms which only made the shirt appear tighter which Tony didn’t think he was possible. He wiped his slightly grimy face with a cloth and tucked it into his back pocket. There was still grease on his hands and arms, but he didn’t seem to care. Tony couldn’t stop caring. Seeing Steve like this was a completely new territory that he didn’t think he could handle. Steve may be the hottest mechanic he has ever seen. Tony just wanted to feel him. He wanted to know how it felt to have that hard body pressed tightly against his, taking complete control.

“Just fixing my bike, hope you don’t mind me in your space,” Steve says walking closer to Tony. Tony barely manages to croak out his answer, which was probably best because if he could speak coherently, he would probably start begging Steve to take him on the workshop table.

Steve gently takes the mug from Tony’s hands and takes a long sip. He stares right into Tony’s eyes as he sinfully licks his lips. His smirk is barely concealed as he returns the mug and tilts his head slightly.

“Delicious.”

Steve was asking for it. He was bloody asking for it. That’s what Tony decided anyway.

He slammed the mug on the table (which spilt coffee all over that DUM-E would inevitably have to clean) and grabbed at Steve. He latched onto Steve’s sweaty shirt and placed a hot, searing kiss on Steve’s lips. Steve groaned and settled his hands on Tony’s hips gently but firmly. The kiss was passionate, hot and heavy. A culmination of all the pent-up tension which had been bubbling for months. Tony could barely contain his moans as Steve licked into his mouth. His hands were travelling everywhere, he wanted to burn the outline of every inch of his body in his mind.

Steve broke apart first and Tony may or may not have whined. Steve didn’t move far, their noses were still brushing and their breaths were mingling in the air between them as they panted. Steve stroked Tony’s face with feather-light touches and pressed a soft kiss to his lips.

“I have been waiting for so long for this,” He whispers.

“It was all a plan?” Tony shouts incredulously, the pieces finally fitting into place. Steve blushed, but nodded.

“Nat helped. I was at a loss. I just really really wanted you. All of you, by the way. I know you think you’re going to mess this up or something, but you won’t. I won’t let you. I just want you.” Steve’s voice was soft but full of promise. Honestly, now that Tony had finally gotten to taste him, he didn’t think he physically capable of stopping. He wanted to taste, feel and have everything. Steve was utterly irresistible and addictive (which was so unfair to Tony. He didn’t stand a chance!).

“If you want me so much, then what the hell are you waiting for?”

It was a promise on its own, slightly shielded by humour but Steve understood it.

It was all he needed to reclaim Tony’s lips and drink in the wonderful sound that he made. It was easily his new favourite sound, and he was determined to hear it the whole night. Maybe even the rest of his life.

[achtung-attitude]

CHAPTER 37: Weezer - Part 2

Kilo struggles to his feet at the bottom of a hole that did not exist ten seconds ago. Toto watches him from the rim of the hole, smiling easily without any hint of malice. 

The enemy rubs his eyebrow with a spidery finger and explains, “Five years ago, yeah? There was an accident,” he says, as if sitting across from Kilo in a bar booth, “They was setting up some sort of overhead sound system or whatever, and they ended up droppin’ a couple tons of equipment from the ceiling. Made a hole in the floor. Right here, dig? The convention centre administrators were too cheap to fix it right, so they just covered the hole with plaster. Came back to bite ‘em in the ass though, cause eventually that hole opened up into a sinkhole that swallowed up six people!”  

Kilo glares up at him as he chuckles, continuing his lackadaisical monologue. “Moral of the story? It all comes back to you. No matter how deep you bury ‘em, every misfortune stacks up, until it blows up in yo’ face. My WEEZER… is just what ignites it. I told ya, you’d only get one chance to walk.”

By the time he’s finished, Kilo is back on his feet, not appearing the least bit intimidated. “I don’t give a shit,” he declares, then SATURN BARZ drives its taloned fingers into the wall of the pit. The Stand gouges a cleft of dry rock from the wall, and the wall begins to bubble and froth, turning into a thick, gravelly sludge. This effect extends upwards, reaching the rim of the pit. 

“Whuh--?” Toto says, as the ground he’s standing dissolves into a sheer mudslide, and his feet are caught up in the muck. He bolts upright, flailing his arms to keep his balance.

But while he focuses on this, Kilo ascends from the hole, having been raised up by SATURN BARZ. He grabs a fistful of Toto’s hoodie and pulls himself forward. Toto is pulled in the opposite direction, losing his balance and tumbling forward into his own pit trap. Kilo lands on the edge of the hole in a crouch at the same moment Toto hits the bottom, standing submerged up to his waist in liquid concrete. With a swift whirl of its hands, SATURN BARZ reverts the mudslide back into solid concrete, trapping his opponent in solid stone.

“Uhh--” Toto utters, not entirely sure what has just happened to him.

“Some nightmare!” Kilo taunts at him, “Damn. And here I was expecting a challenge outta you. What a joke!”

Before the Congregation assassin can say anything back, Kilo gets up and walks away, amidst a Convention floor in various stages of agony. Upwards of 300 people roll around groaning in pain, while others, unaffected, either run about or stand struck dumb, helpless among the sudden horror. 

“Jesus…” he mutters, rushing to attend to Moya. The cold sweat that formed on her flesh as a result of WEEZER’s touch has now developed into a corpse-like pallor that’s turned her bronze skin to a sickly gray. “What the hell’s happening to you?” he asks, kneeling to help her up.

“I-it’s Toto’s ability…” she answers after a brief coughing fit and spitting an absurd volume of green mucus. Her voice is scratchy, and her breath is short and shallow, but she takes his hand nonetheless, and drapes her over his shoulders.

Kilo places the back of his hand on her forehead, then pulls it back quickly. “You’re burning up! What ability could do this?!”

“It’s pneumonia…!” she asserts, “Ough, when I was 10, I caught pneumonia after staying out in the rain…! Abuela said not to stay out so long, but I didn’t listen… Agh, doesn’t matter!! Whatever it is, Toto was the one that caused this! I’ve never worked with him before, but… the ability must revive illnesses from your past to harm you in the present…!”

Kilo glances around the convention hall once more, then nods in agreement. “Sure. But what about the sinkhole?”

“Buildings can be damaged, too. And Hotel California demonstrated how a structure can have its own history and will.”

“Right. Alright…” he is quiet for a moment, then he carries her to a nearby column and sits her down against it. “Hang tight,” he says, starting back towards the pit, “I’m gonna finish that muthafucka off.”

“Wait!” Moya cries out, straining her voice. “You need to be cautious! I-if he touches you, then you’ll be caught in his ability too!” 

A grin spreads across Kilo’s lips. “Worst I ever got was a cold when I was 6! His ability might be hot shit if you had something bad like you did, but it’ll take more’n a couple sniffles to stop me! Not to mention, he’s enough of a scrub to get himself caught in his own trap! Asshole’s dead-meat already!” He says this as he reaches the rim of the pit, but finds thats Toto is no longer trapped in the concrete.

Right as he begins to search for him, Toto reveals himself, speaking from behind Kilo. “It’s rude to talk ‘bout people behind their backs,” he declares, brushing loose gravel off him, “But, I guess, I got nobody to blame but myself, yeah?”

Kilo and SATURN BARZ whirls around towards their enemy, the Stand forming a spear of solidified oxygen in its hand. It jabs the impromptu icicle at Toto’s throat, but he dodges to the side with a lazy grin on his face. WEEZER manifests in front of him, and reaches for SATURN BARZ with the same blinding speed it showed to WITCH MOUNTAIN. But Kilo is ready, as just before the mangled enemy Stand grabs a hold of his throat, the ice spear suddenly explodes into frigged shrapnel right in Toto’s face. 

The Congregation assassin winces as the icy shards pelt him over his body. “AHH!! Damn, that hurts!!” he yelps, and in that moment of distraction, SATURN BARZ lunges for him, claws aimed at his face. Toto gathers himself and sways back with footwork that would make Muhammad Ali proud, and WEEZER jerks a knuckle to the ground.

Kilo’s foot falls in the exact spot where WEEZER touched, and the ground beneath it gives way, opening into another hole, smaller than the first and shallower, only going halfway up his calf. He drops and lands flat-footed. He groans as pangs of pain run up his leg. 

“Guess two sinkholes was too good to be true,” Toto says before WEEZER lurches into a new attack. 

“Don’t let him touch you!” Moya shouts, watching all of this from her pillar. 

With a swift backhand swipe, SATURN BARZ bats WEEZER’s hands out of the way. Toto grunts as heavy ice begins to form on his Stand’s hand and the biting cold effect transfers over to himself. In the meantime, Kilo steps out of the pit trap and puts distance between him and his opponent. 

Toto raises an eyebrow at him. “What was it you said? ‘Take more’n a couple sniffles to stop me’. If you ain’t scared of what my WEEZER can do, how come you standing so far away?” 

“I’m not scared. But I’m not stupid either and I know you Congregation pricks are full of dirty tricks.”

The Congregation assassin laughs. “Heheheh… That’s pretty smart… Or it would be, if touching you was the only way WEEZER could hurt you.”

WEEZER’s hand flex suddenly, its fingers spreading and shattering the frost forming on its hand. It then launches its entire body in Kilo’s direction with a piercing screech. “BIIISHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH…”

“Shi--!!” Kilo says, raising SATURN BARZ to guard, but to his surprise, WEEZER sails right over his head and slams its palm into the wide window behind him. Then the glass begins to shudder and vibrate violently, before WEEZER peels away from it, and the window explodes inwards, showering Kilo with a hail of glass. 

“AAGH!” he yells, and SATURN BARZ tries to shield its user from the oncoming barrage of glass, but is unable to get them all, as thick shards pierce Kilo in his arm, ribs and thigh.

“That one was an accident too,” Toto calls, “Tropical storm hit Anaheim about ten years ago, tore up a tree that broke a window. Nobody got hurt that time, though!” 

Kilo winces as SATURN BARZ dissolves the glass into liquid and his wounds close up into red marks. “Shit!” he thinks, “It’s like his Stand can do anything he wants it to! Even if I don’t let him touch me, if I keep letting him make all the moves, I’m a dead man! There’s gotta be something I can use!!”

He searches with his eyes frantically around the convention hall, hunting for something to gain an advantage over this seemingly impossible enemy. Toto seems perfectly content to simply watch him, hands in his pockets, without a care in the world. Kilo grinds his teeth and scowls at him.

“Hey, come ooon, what’s that look for? I already gave you a chance, and you didn’t take it. Don’t blame me for your mistakes~…”

Kilo answers with a flick of the wrist from SATURN BARZ, firing shards of solidified water vapor at his opponent. The assassin dodges, then dodges the next batch, and keeps up with Kilo when he starts running down the hall, leaping over afflicted guests and tearing through convention booths.

SATURN BARZ keeps up the attack the whole time, flinging at Toto with frozen projectiles. WEEZER blocks them all with its unmitigated speed, its jaw hanging loose from its skull swinging to and fro with every staccato motion. 

Kilo vaults onto a table and SATURN BARZ takes its Olympian stance, forming a great ice javelin in its palm and hurling it at its enemy. It is the same kind as before, set with opposing impulses within its structure so it may explode into a smokescreen, even if WEEZER deflects it. But WEEZER does not deflect it.

Instead, it jerks its right foot underneath a convention guest with angry red spots growing on his face. The unfortunate guest’s body lifts off the ground and WEEZER catches him by the back of his neck, holding him in front of its master. The guest’s eyes clear up for long enough to see the ice spear fly at him before it impales him through his shoulder. He loses consciousness when the spear explodes, turning his wound into a bloody cavity you could see through. Toto is left completely unscathed.

“What… What the fuck did you do?!” Kilo shouts, staring in shock and disgust.

“What did I do? I… protected myself from your attack. What’s it look like?” WEEZER grips its human shield by the neck then tosses it at Kilo, who dives from the table to catch him. When he does, the diseased Stand appears and lunges for him.

“First he uses this guy as a shield, now as a distraction!? This bastard…!!” Kilo thinks. Before WEEZER can lay its mottled hands on him, SATURN BARZ strikes out with a kick to its gut that knocks the wind out of Toto. Kilo then rolls out of its range, clutching the guest’s body.

“You son of a bitch…!” he snarls while SATURN BARZ closes the unconscious guest’s wound, “What’s the matter with you!?! How can you involve innocent people like this?!!”

Toto, as ever, treats his words like a joke, laughing softly. “Haha… It’s just bad luck. It ain’t my fault, and it ain’t yours. He just happened to be here at the wrong time, and happened to get involved in our little playdate. If you take the time to worry about every little ant you step on, you’d never take another step.”

“You sick fuck…”

“What’re you getting so upset for? Human lives ain’t that big a deal,” the Congregation assassin fixes his posture, recovering from SATURN BARZ strike, “All humans are just vessels for Fate to enact its will. Even Stand users like us. Stands are reflections of the soul, but that doesn’t mean that having one is anything special. They got nothing to do with good or evil, or justice. All it means is that Fate chose us to have a little bit more impact in its design. Fate chose you, just like it chose me. You and I were always going to fight here today, and that guy, and these people, were always going to get caught in the middle. No matter how much you fight it, we both ultimately serve the same power.”

“Again…” Kilo murmurs, rising. The guest’s wound has closed over completely, forming a pale, circular scar in his shoulder. “I’m so sick of hearing you people talk out of your ass at me. All this shit about God and fate and higher beings…” SATURN BARZ takes a bow-legged stance and raises its hands over its head as its master continues “All that I could take, but worse! You all keep tryin’ to tell me that I’m the same as you. I don’t want to be mentioned in the breath as you fucking losers!!!”

SATURN BARZ claps its hand together and steam explodes out from between them. This builds into a thick fog that covers everything in a damp smokescreen.

“Really?” Toto says, unimpressed. He saunters through the smokescreen, his head bobbing up and down as he steps on bodies without a care.

[enderprtl]

chasing down the devil finale

@betweenlands​‘s and i finally finished the apex fic! this is the largest fic i have worked on and it was wild working with solar!

1,2,3,4 <-- read all of the parts here. ( @mine-sara-sp​‘s shadow au)

v.

Out of the myriad of awful things Apex expected on coming to his senses again, suddenly having sight again was not one of them.

He blinked. Saw haphazard piles of pillows and blankets thrown about the room - he nearly closed his eyes to try and see if what he was sitting on was the same thing, and then realized that he could just turn his head and look to confirm. He wasn’t really sure where he was, but the myriad of random assorted shiny objects also cluttering the area definitely confirmed he was still somewhere in the shadow-vex’s lair.

He put one hand up to his face, expecting to feel his visor, and instead nearly poked himself in the eye. Something in his gut lurched - if he hadn’t gotten his visor back, then how was he seeing?

A low, soft humming noise began buzzing from the back of his head, a quiet sound that set him on edge immediately. Something was wrong. Something was very, very wrong. Apex scrambled to his feet, grabbing for a weapon - and he doubled his efforts when, out of the corner of his vision, he saw blue eyes.

Except… he stopped. Froze short when his eyes flicked back to the area where the blue eyes had been. Where they still were.

Apex was looking into a mirror.

A gentle rustling noise shook him out of his shock - he whipped around and barely caught a glimpse of a six-armed shadow stepping into view. It looked at him expectantly and then down to a tray - one with two small diamonds and a glass vial that seemed to be filled with an instant-health potion. Keloid looked back up at him again, eyes wide with curiosity, looking more like a sad puppy rather than a killer beast.

Apex took a step back, wishing he had any sort of weapon. “What - what did you do to me?” His voice came out calm, quiet, not hoarse at all. Somehow, that was worse than having to rasp out every word. The shadow-vex had done something to him. He didn’t know what, but he could literally see the proof.

Keloid walked further into view - now he could see scratches and cuts, massive gashes where he’d hit the shadow-vex. It looked fine, but it walked slowly, approaching him like he was a rabid dog. It got next to the tray before stopping, sitting down and staring at Apex. It pointed to the vial. “Drink it.” 

He took another step back. “No. What did you do to me?”

Keloid let out something that sounded like a whine. It pouted and looked at Apex, growing just a little impatient. It picked up the vial with a free claw (two were busy supporting its body up), and tossed it gently onto the carpeted floor in front of Apex. “Please drink,” it mumbled, looking down at the ground - almost like it was embarrassed.

This absolutely did not reassure Apex in the slightest. He stopped backing up, but he did stare suspiciously down at the healing potion as though it was going to grow claws and attack him. “Why? What do you want from me?”

It tilted its head and pointed at Apex, every single bright blue eye locked onto him. It looked sad for a moment and mumbled again. “Shiny.”  

“You already took all of my stuff.” 

Keloid let out a loud whine (though its mouth wasn’t moving), and stood up. It lumbered over to Apex and picked up the vial, and held it out, looking at him, its eyes wide. “Make you… shiny again.” It waited for him to take the vial, no malice, no anger, nothing but curiosity in its eyes. 

Apex took a deep breath, and very reluctantly took the potion from Keloid. Held it up to the light, swirled it around experimentally, and then took another deep breath and swallowed it.

He expected to double over in pain, or have the room suddenly start spinning again, or suddenly go blind once more, or any other selection out of a number of extremely nasty things - this was a trap, right? It had to be a trap.

But… nothing happened. A couple of the larger wounds - the ones on his chest and back, mostly - healed over. It was just a healing potion.

Keloid looked proud of itself, clapping with two free hands. It got up and went over to a pile of cushions. It sat down and looked at Apex, patting the free pile next to it. It felt… surreal. Just a bit ago (assuming that only a few hours had passed) this thing was trying to kill him - and now it wanted to, what, have a tea party or something? 

It kept staring at Apex as if waiting for him to come and sit down. It looked like it was in a daze - the light in the room kept glinting off the scars that hadn’t healed over entirely, and it almost seemed like it was calming the shadow-vex down.

Apex stayed standing, still feeling very unsafe. “My eyes… what did you do to my eyes?”

Keloid looked down and then over at a mirror, its own blue eyes reflecting back as it muttered almost inaudibly. “They. Helped you.” It pointed out a tall window that overlooked the aviary, at the gashes on the massive tree, the glowing blue light that’d sealed up every single gouge and crack. It looked a little like a glowstick that’d leaked, or like what happened when someone put down lava in the wrong place and it flowed everywhere, running into every indentation.

The buzzing noise inside Apex’s head got louder, almost started sounding less like buzzing and more like whispers. He didn’t stumble back - wouldn’t do much use, not really - but he did put one hand to his face. There was something in his head.

He felt himself coming apart at the seams again, tried to pull himself back together while also ignoring that incessant drone at the back of his mind. His legs felt shaky under him again - he locked his knees, forced himself to stay upright, stay breathing, stay lucid. The sentence he managed to form was the same one, again - he was falling back on old patterns, speaking simply, conserving words.

“What… did you do… to me.”

Keloid looked dead on at Apex, eyes wide, and spoke again, that same drone creeping back into its voice.

“They fixed you. They helped you.”

Apex gritted his teeth, tried not to sound frantic as he internally fought to keep his breathing steady, to lock the deep-seated panic rising into his throat somewhere far away. “They’re in my head. Get them out of my head.”

The shadow-vex looked at him, tilted its head almost all the way to one side, then stood up and walked closer, its glinting eyes still locked with Apex’s. Its eyes were blue. His eyes were - no, had been turned blue. This wasn’t part of him. He wasn’t going to let this be a part of him.

Keloid’s face dropped. It walked all the way over to him, never breaking eye contact as it tapped his forehead with a free claw.

“I can’t make them leave. They are helping.”

It kept muttering that line over and over - “They are helping” - but all they were doing was making him uneasy. No, scratch that, scared - he was going to let himself be scared for once, some weird magic he didn’t understand had infected his eyes. He slapped Keloid’s hand away, raised his hands to his face again. Screamed again. Not anger, but panic and deep-seated fear of the unknown; everything was falling apart, the room rattled around him. His vision was spinning, the same as it had done when Keloid had done its awful vex-laughter trick. Fine. He was scared. He was terrified.

Keloid stumbled back as he began yelling - it frantically looked around the room, then back at Apex. Its expression dropped, going from a strange mix of worry and curiosity to total confusion (and also worry). It tried to cover his mouth, still looking around, seemingly terrified that someone might hear and come in. 

“Please. Stop,” it whispered nervously, looking down at Apex - eyes wide, any semblance of a creak scaring the shadow. He grimaced, shut his mouth around the scream - and then clapped his hands over his mouth as the sound kept echoing.

Keloid ran back to the pile of pillows and pulled out a thick woolen blanket. It frantically ran back to him, and threw the whole entire blanket on top of him. For once in its life, it had zero clue on what to do or how to stop Apex. It just stood and watched, anticipating any next move. 

His frantic scream slowly died down, petered out as calm began to seep into his bones - calm that, he hoped, was a result of him finally acclimating to the strange situation and not the Vex tightening their grip on his mind. He poked out nervously from under the blanket, moving slowly - the last thing he needed was for the shadow-vex to change its mind and freak out on him again.

“How… do you deal with this?”

Keloid stared at him, the worry and concern flooding back into its face. It sighed and sat down like a pouty toddler, staring up at him. 

“They are always here. I live with them. I never can be without them.” 

Apex felt like he was falling. Falling faster and faster down from an increasingly larger height, waiting for the fall damage to kill him. This couldn’t be happening to him. This was impossible, it just wasn’t the kind of thing that did happen, ever. He drew the blanket closer around him without thinking, staring up at Keloid with gritted teeth. “Get them out of my head,” he repeated, softer this time. “Please.”

Keloid sighed, placed two of its hands on either side of his head, and looked at him, stared him right in the eyes. It inhaled - he felt light, floaty - his vision blurred as all the energy drained from his body, as everything ached, his back, his chest, his arms. 

And then the pain reached his eyes. It felt like they were burning up - he put his hands over his eyes once more, fighting the urge to scratch at them as tears begin to well up. His eyes felt numb, then his body, everywhere felt numb. Keloid kept holding onto his face; Apex wanted to collapse, fall over and cry. Everything was spinning, everything was collapsing like a star coming in on itself, like a bird whose wings were hit and now he was falling, falling, falling....

...He was yelling again. He could hear himself reflected off the walls of the room, could faintly feel himself shaking like a leaf in a hurricane, clinging to whatever solidity he had left. It felt like his wounds were reopening, it felt like he was coming unraveled -

And then it was over.

Keloid let go and stumbled to the floor, it whined and curled up, wailing in a ball. It was in pain, everything was hurting; everywhere he’d felt the numbing sensation, it seemed to now feel that as well. It stood up, wobbling on its 6 claws to keep it upright, then looked down at Apex and attempted to help him up, using two claws to weakly pull him up from the ground, setting him on the pile of pillows before falling to the ground beside him. It closed its eyes and rested. 

Apex rubbed his temples - the whispering was far fainter, but he could still hear it, and a quick glance in the mirror confirmed that his eyes were still bright blue. But whatever Keloid had done… it had helped. And he was far too tired to make it out of the shadow-vex lair, anyway - he hadn’t let his guard down at all for about two, two and a half days now. Had been running on adrenaline and rage and, yes, panic and fear the whole time.

He sat down, told himself he’d just take five minutes to calm down before he left.

Instead, he watched the sun rise in total quiet.