#Sliver Handling Systems

[peachesofteal]

Simple Math / Part Eighteen

Simple Math masterlist

Ghost/Soap/female reader - AO3 - 3.1K words Tags: 18+ mdni. nurse!reader. Sexual content. Pregnancy and things that come with it. Brief mention of options in relation to termination of pregnancy. PTSD. Heavy emotions. Graphic descriptions of domestic violence and miscarriage, suicidal ideation. This is mostly inner monologue. Feelings of anxiety, despair, fear. This part is a little shorter due to its emotional nature.

There’s no oxygen.

No room for your lungs to expand, nothing for you to suck into your chest and relieve the ache blooming in your bones.

You drift, unmoored, a sailboat with no rudder, no engine to save you in an ocean without a breeze. All you can do is follow the current, the one leading you back to the dozen HCG strips buried in the bottom of a trash can, faint pink lines buried in the membranes and the matter of your brain.

The midwife that squeezed you in confirmed it all with a blood draw.

“You have options.”

“I know.”

There are resources, and education for you…  though I know you’re probably aware.”

“Yup.”

“Depending on your decisions, we’d like to see you in about two weeks for an eight-week ultrasound.” You gulp. The air is tragically thin in this room, and the paper crinkles under your uneasy weight.  

“Okay.”

When Simon appears in the main lobby for the usual trek home, you barely hold back the urge to vomit all over his shoes. Your legs are weak, trembling with each step forward, and you hold his hand so tight, your bones ache.

Sensitive as always, he lingers alongside you in the quiet, biding his time before slicing through your silence. “What is it sweetheart?”

“Huh?” You’re already on the front doorstep, memory of the entire trip evaporated.

“Do you still not feel well?”

“Oh, yeah.” The lie is toxic, sludge stuck in your bloodstream, clogging your capillaries until they burst like fireworks. “It’s my stomach.”

“Pen’s still under the weather too.”

“Poor thing.” The words are numb. Your mind is numb. Your body is a livewire and exhausted, all at once, the push and pull almost knocking you onto the floor. In the kitchen, Johnny wraps an arm around your waist, leaning in for a kiss, but nothing registers.

“Maybe you should get some rest.”

“Yeah.” Autopilot. That’s the gear you’re in. Going through the motions, trying to hold yourself together, keep your head above water.

Is this real?

Is this happening?

What will they say?

What will they think?

“Bunny?” Johnny’s thumb is on your carotid, where your pulse beats. Where your heart pushes blood through your circulatory system, flowing to a presence now fluttering inside you.

One plus one equals two.

“Sorry, yeah. Think I’m gonna go up, take a nap.”

“Yell if ye need anything, aye?” All you can do is nod.

You gravitate towards the guest room before you can stop yourself. It’s as you left it, bed made, sheets crisp, remnants of your things separated into easily sorted piles. In the nest of blankets, it’s easy to pretend. Easy to imagine the bed as a cloud of cotton candy, so high in the sky, above the earth, above this… this thing that is happening.

An embryo. Something two millimeters long, siphoning its existence from yours.

That tiny sliver of hope is nowhere to be found, replaced now with logical, realistic questions.

Can you sustain a pregnancy, after the damage inflicted during the last one?

Can you carry one to viability?

Can you mentally, emotionally, physically handle a pregnancy?

An infant?

And what about them?

What about you?

You think about the times you wanted to die. The moments you sat in the shower, streams of red running to the drain, a clump of cells you never knew draining from your body with each second.

A loss you never knew you’d mourn. Something stolen. Something slipping through your fingers, handfuls of sand blown away by a sea breeze.

The overwhelming feeling of drowning every time you laid on the floor in a broken heap, synapses misfiring, making wrong connections, desperately trying to latch onto anything normal, anything sane. Staring at the ceiling, slow flow of blood dripping down your throat, left wondering if this will be it, this will be the moment it goes too far. Your spine will snap. You’ll take a blow to the head strong enough to render you unconscious, permanently. Your windpipe will be crushed, closing in on itself, starving your brain of oxygen. In those moments, you could only hope.

You’re grateful, at least, that you don’t feel like that now.

In a cocoon on a cusp of hazy sleep, you’re cradled to a chest, jostled lightly until blankets are tucked back up around your shoulders and snuggled between two warm bodies, a gentle hand cupping your cheek.

“Our sweet girl,” Simon murmurs in the dark, “we’re here. Whatever it is, we have you.”

A dream.

You sleepwalk through life. One week turns to two, and then three. Three weeks turn to four, and more, before you know it, you’re twelve weeks pregnant, still going through the motions, robotically making your way through each day. You’re shoving the waterfall of feelings and emotions so deep, so far away, they’re likely to never see the sun again.

You lock them in a box.

You bury it in a grave, six feet under.

At work, you’re grateful you know your job inside and out, because you’re mostly just going through the motions. The only time you show any sign of life is when your boss tries to float you to the NICU. When you dig in your heels, repeatedly denying the request, she finally gives up and moves onto a new unsuspecting victim.

Better them than you.

At home, its worse. You don’t know if you’re imagining the tension or if its truly there, eggshells crumbling beneath your feet, words turned to ash. You’re a marionette, fate pulling the strings, tearing the joints of your limbs in a million directions.

They can tell. They read you too well, but you’re not so easily swayed. Simon tries to coax it gently; Johnny tries to bluntly force it out. Both tactics fail, but they themselves stay steady, and true, holding you in the night, soothing you with touch and whispers, loving you through it all.

During the day, they coddle you. Johnny massages your shoulder, tips your chin back until your skull rests on collarbone, dots kisses all over your skin. He tugs you onto the patio, curls up on the outdoor loveseat with you under a big blanket, your head in his lap, telling you stories about his childhood, his parents. He makes you giggle by reminiscing of all the times he chased Simon around at work, how Kyle fell out of a helicopter, how they had to wear suits for an undercover op one time and Simon's ripped right down the ass.

Simon cooks, all your favorites, things you forgot he pays attention to, and spoons you on the couch, big arm like a safety net stretched across your chest to keep you close. He brings tea to bed, reading until your eyes close, calming your mind enough to lull you to sleep.

Even at night, they treasure you like glass. Johnny lays on his stomach, thumbs rubbing circles into your thighs, parting them, backs of his knuckles tracing over the seam of your pussy, coaxing your arousal, taking his time. He licks your clit so slowly its torture, all the while Simon tugs your knee as wide as he can, hand fisted in the mohawk, kissing you from shoulder to neck, over and over.

You beg them to fuck you hard, harder than you’ve ever asked for it before. Johnny jumps at the idea, but Simon kills it immediately.

“No,” he traces a line over the curve of your ass to the creases of your thighs, “that’s not going to happen, sweetheart. Not until you tell us what’s going on.” You opt to bury your face in his chest instead and ride Johnny’s hand as Simon coaches, telling you how good you are, how lucky they are, how much you mean to them.

If only they knew. Would they still feel the same?

It’s more than you deserve, you think. More than you know how to handle. The guilt piles onto your shoulders. You’re carrying a life, a life you created with them, a life they should know about.

The decisions waiting in the wings haunt you at every turn.

What should you do? What will you do?

You should tell them. They should know.

Why are you keeping this a secret?

The time is passing too fast, and with it, your panic increases, forcing your back to bow, hands clutching at your legs, head hanging heavy to the floor. At work in the closet, at home the moments you’re alone, the agony steals your breath, heart shredding to pieces. It overcomes you, floods your nervous system until the world spins.

In the shower, you fall apart, truly, knees slamming into tile, your shoulders slumped against the wall.

It’s hard to tell you’re crying with water streaming over your face.

You lose your shit the day Penny crawls across the couch to cuddle you.

She pulls herself up onto your belly, her head resting on your chest, chubby hands fisted in your shirt.

“Bunny wead?” She wants a story, a routine the two of you enjoy together, turning the pages of a children’s book and acting out all the voices. She’ll squeal with glee, her laughter full of excitement, and you’ll tickle her sides while pretending to eat her foot.

It makes you both happy, but today, it splits your soul in two.

You burst into tears. She jolts back, looking up into your face, little brow furrowed in confusion, mouth shocked into a circle.

“Bunny.” She pats your cheek, alarmed, and you skim your nose across the top of her head, breathing her deep, anchoring your arm around her back. She’s starting to get upset, too perceptive, too empathetic, already expressing the traits of both her parents. You try to soothe her distress.

“It’s alright.” Your voice cracks on the promise, her nose pressed to your throat. “It’s alright, Penny. I’m sorry. Everything’s okay.” Johnny’s unmistakable gait sounds on the stairs, still slightly off balance, and you hastily wipe your face, forcing your eyes to his as he approaches the couch.

“What’s wrong?” He sees it immediately, and you shake him off with another lie, so many little white ones rotting into blinding despair.

“I had a bad day at work yesterday, that’s all. Just still trying to process it.” His head cocks.

“Ye sure?”

“Yeah, promise. I’ll be fine.”

The tide changes at work.

A man lies in a medically induced coma, barbiturates keeping him in the dark, a suspended state of uncertainty. His wife waits, and waits, fixes her too keen eyes on you every time she sees you, waiting for an update, good news, anything. Anything that could bring her peace.

On the second day of your work week, your steps stutter at the sight of her sitting bedside, a baby in her arms, gentle words floating between them.

“We’ve moved onto ba now, for a bottle, which is just crazy,” she murmurs, a hand under her cheek, wiping away tracks of tears, “and I think he’s too big for me to carry around at this point.” There’s a wet chuckle, and the baby tips forward, smacking his hand on his dad’s. “Is that daddy?” She bounces him, quiet as he babbles and gurgles, his eyes wide at the sights and sounds in a hospital room.

You clear your throat. She startles.

“Oh god, sorry… I didn’t see you there.”

“It’s okay,” Intruding on private moments is not uncommon, though here it feels different. “I just need to check on some things and then I’ll be out of your hair.” She nods, and outside of the baby’s noises, the room is silent until she breaks it with a whisper.

“I know there’s probably no chance he can hear me,” her fingers stroke through his hair, a pained look on her face, “but I like to believe he can.”

“There’s no definitive research that he can’t,” you tell her softly, carefully going about your work to avoid disturbing them.

“I hope he can hear the baby. He’s… he’s missed so much already, you know?” She sniffles, tears freely falling, and your heart clenches. “We’re broken without him; I’m broken without him. He’s my family, my everything. I can’t… we’re not supposed to be apart. This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

You have thick skin. You’ve seen countless people die. Consoled hundreds of family members. Held hands with patients taking their last breath.

This shouldn’t bother you. It shouldn’t affect you in any way, but when you look at your patient, and his partner, and his child-

All you can see is your boys and their unconditional love. Simon sitting vigilant at Johnny’s bedside. Johnny’s tears when he finally woke up. The fear in Simon’s eyes when Johnny seized, the trust he placed in your promise to take care of him. Penny in his arms as soon as he was strong enough to hold her. Their resolve to hold their family together, their dedication to you through it all. The three of them, a family, now yours, spun together with string stronger than steel, connecting the four of you for the rest of your life.

You’ll make it through. You’ll all make it through. You have their love shining down on your face. The love strong enough to hold you tight, rock you through your nightmares, encourage you to grow, to be yourself, to let it all go.

And they have you. Your love. Something you never thought would exist again, fostered and enticed forward, magnified for them. For the first time, you’re able to give to someone, to comfort them, care for them the way they have for you, hold them tight through their pain, their fears. It’s never felt so…

right.

It’s not one plus one. It’s five. Five hearts, making a family.

You know, without a doubt, they’ll love this baby. They won’t leave your side. They’ll take care of you, they’ll nurture you both, they’ll be solid, and supportive, and patient through it all.

You don’t need them to say it, and you don’t need to be scared.

Their light soothing your despair, healing the deep embedded scars, their warmth of the sun-

The little sunbeam growing inside you.

“You’re a few weeks late.” The midwife shakes her head as you settle on the exam table. You showed up in a whirlwind again, convincing her to fit you in between appointments.

“I know, I… I was struggling with it, but I feel better now. I’m… ready.” Your lips quirk at the corners, and she smiles in return.

“Should we take a look then?” You nod with a deep breath.

The jelly is cold, and she purposefully keeps the screen turned away from you, clicking, measuring, assessing in silence. It's standard policy for any employee or medical professional. Though you're not an ultrasound tech, it's not outside the realm of possibility that you could read the image on the screen before she can tell you gently that something is wrong.

Your past haunts you, taunts you, convinces you this has all been for nothing. You’re too damaged for this. Your body is broken. He took too much.

Still, you hope. You cling to a future, a vision, Penny holding the baby with Johnny’s arms supporting her, Simon half asleep with a burp cloth on his shoulder, little one asleep on his chest.

“Alright,” she turns it back for you to see, her expression colored with kindness. “Everything looks great, honey.”

“Everything?”

“Yes. Placenta is in optimal position, and baby is right on track developmentally for twelve weeks.” She twists a knob, the volume, filling the room with sound of galloping hoofbeats.

The heartbeat.

“Oh my god.” Your hand clasps over your mouth and you desperately try to bring air in through your nose, filling your diaphragm, staving off a river of tears unsuccessfully. She hands you a tissue.

“I’ll get you some printouts, okay?” You can’t do anything but choke on a thank you.

You slip away after your appointment, crossing through the halls leading to the out-patient wing where you’ll find Johnny in physical therapy, Simon in a chair scrolling through his phone just outside. The smile stretches across your face naturally, joy bursting at the seams.  

It's a new day, a new moment to turn away from the darkness and step into the sun.

You’re nearly skipping, heart so full, overflowing with hope, with happiness, your hands trembling, pictures of the scan clutched in your fingers. You hold them so tight, close to your chest, afraid they may disappear, be lost.

In hindsight, the crippling agony and fear you’ve been holding in seems so foolish now. It’s easy to curse yourself for the doubt, for the despair, but the path you took to get here, to be present in this moment, moving forward, was worth it.

They love you, and they’ll love little sunbeam. Penny will be the best big sister. You’ll make new memories, together, build the beginning of this life into a forever. Everything will work out; you can feel it now. You’ve shed the dented armor, the walls, the fence topped with barbed wire. The girl in the mirror, gone. It’s all crumbled down. With Johnny. With Simon. Your family.

A family of five.

You round the corner with your hands knitted together, a flimsy effort to still them, elated and barely able to hold your secret in. You won’t be able to do a cute announcement, won’t be patient enough to do something special like get Penny a shirt that says, “best big sister” even though you’d like to.

You’ve kept it from them for long enough. You need them to know.

You look for Simon first, expecting him to be waiting outside the door, but when he's not there, you glance around, and then peek into the observation window to find the physical therapy room empty.

Where are they? Where-

They’re at the end of the hall, talking to someone out of sight. Simon has his arms crossed, his body angled partially in front of Johnny, who shifts his weight onto his good leg. They’re both wearing serious expressions, Simon’s the most severe, and then Johnny’s lips twist into a grim sort of smile.

Whoever they’re talking to steps forward, and your heart burns into ash, falling through the floor to bottomless depths of darkness.

Phillip.

[cr4yolaas]

blue spring — downward spiral

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note: there's more written content after the messages :)

he doesn’t see her for a while.

the seat to his right remains empty, devoid of the presence he had grown so accustomed to. it feels wrong. it is wrong. and yet, he isn’t sure if it’s right to do anything about it; he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to interfere.

he thinks of the exam and the oddity in her last messages to him. he shouldn’t pry, he thinks, because he fears making things worse. he thinks of the next time he’ll see her. he thinks of the girl holding the two-headed lamb.

it’s funny, how easily she had altered the balance of his life. maybe if he hadn’t made the impulsive decision to ask her for her help in the café, his head wouldn’t be spinning so rapidly at her absence. maybe if he hadn’t picked the seat beside her (without any real reason) at the start of the year, he wouldn’t be so disturbed. he wouldn’t be so lost.

two days remain until the exam. it's one that kageyama would usually dread, but he admits that with her assistance, whatever doubt he would usually have is dispelled. however, now that she’s gone, a sliver of that doubt creeps it way back into his system.

his mind crawls back to the night in the art studio, and he wonders if he'd find her there again should he go and look. it wouldn't be improbable, he reasons. so, before he can rationalize his decision, his feet follow the path to the studio as soon as class ends.

the door is closed, this time, and it only serves to increase his anxiety and concern. there's too much chatter around him to listen for remnants of her presence. his hand hovers over the handle, and for a moment, he considers the consequences. he ponders whether or not she would display disdain at his unprompted arrival, and whether or not she'd stop working under his watch, just as she did several nights ago. he tries to conjure up an idea of how she'd react. nothing comes to mind.

a can of soda — one he grabbed on his way — weighs heavy in his other hand, the condensation mixing with his sweat. something tells him he shouldn't go in. maybe it's the pounding in his chest, or the thumping in his head, or the salty droplets collecting all over his skin. something is amiss. his body recognizes it before his mind does, and when it all connects, he turns away from the door.

even still, something nags at him.

kageyama feels cramped, despite there only being two other people in the car. yachi sits in the passenger seat while yamaguchi sits at the wheel, leaving him alone in the back row. he still isn't sure why they asked him to come along, but his worry overpowers his confusion.

"kageyama," yachi calls from the front, her voice soft and gentle. her head turns around to face him. "what do you really think of yn?"

he's silent for a moment, her question catching him off-guard. it feels like a test. his words are picked out carefully in his head.

"i think she's really nice. i like being around her, but..." he pauses, his eyes drifting away to the campus, which inches closer and closer. "i wish she would take care of herself more."

there's a resounding hum from the pair, and they don't ask anything else. he’s slightly relieved.

the group arrives at the studio, and the perspiration and anxiety and doubt return to kageyama all at once, in a blistering, crashing wave. the coffee in his hands nearly collapses at his full-body reaction, but he does his best to maintain his outward stoicism. yamaguchi is the one to swing open the door.

she's standing in the center of the room, her easel fitted to her height and the canvas entirely different than the one kageyama had familiarized himself with. the same old lamp serves as the only source of light in the room, and it shines upon the painting of the girl and her two-headed lamb, which has been ungraciously cast aside against the wall. when he finally gets to see what she's painting, something in his heart hurts. he can't describe the scene, but something about it is saddening. his worry only increases tenfold.

the call of her name from her friends doesn't do much to pull her out of her trance. he's too scared to make an effort himself. slowly, the two approach their beloved roommate, and kageyama follows behind, although apprehensively.

"i told you not to come," she mutters under her breath. it's barely audible. "why did you bring him?"

he pretends the question doesn't make his chest ache ever so slightly. yachi is quick to counter with words of care and concern. she's desperate, almost, to end whatever frenzy is occurring before her. somewhere in between it all, there's a plea for her to come home, to give it a break. she's met with resilience.

"you don't understand, yachi, i need to get this done. you're not helping." her grip around the edge of the canvas tightens and loosens, back and forth. as if she's fighting with her own rationality. "please just leave."

from youth, she had yearned to be one of the greats. to have her name recognized in nearly every facet of art and science. she dreamed of awards, of press conferences, of her face plastered on screens. she was always so silent in her desire. and yet, now, it's on full display in the most brutal way she can handle.

there's another argument from yachi, and in response, her volume escalates. her passiveness morphs into anger, raw and scorching hot, and kageyama can only stand and watch. he can only listen to her yelling and the tears that sneak their way between every handful of syllables. the coffee in his hands is now watered down. he doesn't know what to do.

despite all her irritation, yachi maintains her gentle nature. her brows are furrowed as she listens to her friend spill out in front of her, but regardless, all she wants is for her to be at peace. the canvas is long forgotten, and the paints have dried up. it's a sorrowful sight.

eventually, the yelling dissolves into choked sobs and white-hot tears. yamaguchi is the first to envelop her in a hug, and yachi quickly follows after. kageyama plays the role of the bystander, once more. at some point, the door opens, and they're all back inside the car. the ride home is horribly silent.

kageyama thinks back to his answer to yachi's question earlier, about how he wanted her to take care of herself more. he looks to his left and sees her slumped against the window, clearly lost in slumber.

he doesn't know how he feels about her. all he knows is that his head feels light and airy and his chest feels heavy when he's around her. but after tonight, he can solidify one thing for certain — that he wants to see her genuinely happy.

𝜗𝜚 yachi and yams said they were coming to her, but in truth they had no idea where she was LMFAO

𝜗𝜚 yn's self-destructive tendencies are verrryyyy evident here. i am definitely projecting.

𝜗𝜚 kageyama sort of just stood there during yachi and yn's argument. yamaguchi kept trying to interrupt and tone it down but yachi just kept going. she's very much a mom friend

𝜗𝜚 i may or may not make a moodboard for the type of art i envision yn to make ^^

taglist: @mfcherry @eggyrocks @scxrcherr @yuminako @girlkissersco @diorzs @causenessus @kyo-kyo1 @k0z3me @shironagi @lovingvi @bunninio @hisfuture @lilchubbyyy @gsyche

[cozzzynook]

Having thoughts of secretly sparked Bumblebee.

He knew something was up when he kept opting out of his favorite energon even giving away his secret stash of his favorite minerals that tasted overly sweet, his favorite secret indulgence.

His tanks couldn’t handle the thought of the stuff and his smell sensor kept malfunctioning every time he smelled the stuff. He snuck from his room late one night, servos nervously fiddling as he tried to work up the nerve to get some fuel into his systems but he simply just couldn’t bring himself to.

His concerns grew as his tank churned almost all hours of the day purging without fail after each transformation. He was thankful his team was none the wiser since he didn’t like being worried over but he knew something was very wrong when he tried to transform into his alt mode and the world went black.

He was thankful it happened after his patrol when he’d already commed the team letting them know he was going on a long lone drive and he was, truthfully he was.

Until he felt so dizzy his processor was faulting on even remembering his name let alone transforming. He doesn’t remember hitting the ground but he woke to pains wracking his frame and joints all over. His hub indicated he’d been asleep for the past seven hours.

He was in so much shock he almost missed the reason his self diagnostic scans provided him as to why he was in such peculiar shape.

Sparked, his hub read.

Sparked.

Him, bumblebee, sparked.

If he wasn’t having a hard time with his air intakes venting before he did now.

Both time and his intakes stopped all together.

The lack of fuel intake, the intolerance to his favorite meal and snack, the tiredness he felt no matter how deep a recharge. The slight raise to his chassis where his spark laid hidden all made so much sense now even if he had half a mind to try and deny it.

He suddenly was overcome with the necessary energy to scramble into a half sitting position and open his spark chamber. Getting a first hand look at the bright glow of not only his own spark but two tiny sparks that were hugged against both sides of his own.

His servos fell and he couldn’t believe it.

He couldn’t believe nor stop staring at his vulnerable and open spark chamber that not only housed his life but two others.

He was sparked.

Bumblebee was sparked and he was going to become a creator in ayear by Earth’s standard time.

‘I’m going to be a creator..I’m..i’m going to be someones carrier,’ his processor drenched in distraught as his faceplates remained in shock. A stream was threatening to leak from his optics when a thought quite literally slammed his spark chamber shut.

Thudding footsteps, heavy peds, glaring red that were once lulling yellow always besides his long time conjuxed. Those four glowing red optics were a sight he was beyond gifted to behold and the little sliver of a smile and two warm fields accompanying it had him melting just the same as he did the day he saw and felt them.

He wasn’t sure why the two felt the need to see him, to touch him, to give caring and wanting touches to him when they were so perfect for each other and far too different from him.

Thoughts like these rang in his processor more often than he would ever care to admit.

He kept his insecurities and lack of assurance along with the rampant fluctuations of his em field close at spark. He never let the another feel the emotions warring inside him no matter how every bot who knew him claimed he wore his spark on his sleeve.

‘I can’t tell them..not..not about this..they’re conjux with each other. I’m..I’m no one. I’m just a momentary interest to spice things up in the berth.’

‘When the war ends, hopefully at a time we’re alive to see it, things will change and they won’t want me anymore…’

‘I’m just a pleasure bot they would use during our time away from our factions…sure they snuck me on board the Nemesis more often than not..but..they’re conjuxed..’

The flashes of the purple tank mech sitting in his large lab, working on a classified project Bee never bothered to ask about. The scientist sliding an optic over at the communications officer who watched the monitors of not only Earth but other territories commanded under Decepticon reign that again Bee pays no real mind to.

He’s not there to gain information just like the tank of a mech and the slim master spy don’t bother asking him for information nor do they try to gather intel from any data pads Bee brings with him.

He knew deep down both would find it illogical under any other circumstance to not take advantage of the opportunity given and yet neither crossed that boundary just as he never crossed theirs.

Only now Bee feels he’s crossed something much worse than a simple boundary.

He’s played with fire and now he’s burning along the frays as he struggles to intake through his vents no matter how much he presses along his chassis.

He slept with two conjuxed mechs.

Two very dangerous mechs known as the SIC and TIC of the decepticon army.

His dark thoughts reared their ugly heads at the front of his processor glimpsing at all the times he turned his optics from the conjuxs loving displays towards each other. The scientist was not a fan of touch or bots in his personal space neither was the communications officer but for each other they made exception.

So Bee avoided initiating any touch between the two along with allowing them to enter his space freely whenever they so pleased even going along with letting them initiate both interfacing and after face care.

The two knew exactly what the other wanted and Bee was happy to take whatever form of affection they would give him. Whether it be simple cleaning him up around his valve and laying comfortably in the berth to getting comfortable in their arms as they both held him on either side or each other.

Deep down he knew he wasn’t special to the two, he was a passing fling that somehow managed to go on for about an Earth years time. He was young and foolish falling for the quiet and mysterious sparks of a conjux couple but he couldn’t help himself. He figured he could keep the feelings close at spark not letting another soul know how he truly felt about the pair. Not even the science officer nor communications spymaster knew he was in love with them.

And seeing as how they were loyal to each other and the cause and not some young foolish bot who managed to get sparked on accident that was on the opposite side of their faction, he knew he needed to keep it that way.

His friends, comrades and family could never know about the sparks he was carrying. Bee would be put in the stockades or worst, they’d rip out his sparklings and send him to be tortured and have his processor torn to bits for information looking through his memory core and hard drives for any intel he may have given or received during his time with the two decepticons.

It wouldn’t matter if he was telling the truth in never giving up intel to the two nor would all his past acts of fighting for the autobot cause be remembered.

He was a traitor.

A sparked traitor who laid in the berths of two highly dangerous mechs who would offline him and their sparks the moment they discovered his condition and status.

He had to get out of there.

He needed to leave Jasper Nevada and with it his connections to both his friends and faction and the two mechs he grew to love.

He couldn’t transformer into his alt mode at the moment out of fear he would purge and momentarily offline again. So he scrapped his comms to his team, hiding his em field and spark signature before taking one last look in the direction of their base before turning and walking off.

If he were lucky he would make it to the cities edge and head out before his team sent any search parties for him.

He was confident the SIC and TIC wouldn’t be troubled once he didn’t show at their usual meeting spot. If he hadn’t passed out and discovered said reasoning for his strange behavior and symptoms he would’ve been on his way to meet with them.

He didn’t think they would be concerned maybe upset at wasting their time and any fuel energon on coming to meet with him but he’s sure after some time away from him they would move on, forgetting him in favor of time with each other.

Flashes of the two having things go back to normal swallowed his processor whole with every step he took away from the city. Images of the purple tank working in his lab as the spymaster cuddled with Ravage who would often curl in Bee’s lap rubbing along his chassis and tank. Bee didn’t think much of it when the feline cassette started doing it he just hoped it meant she was warming up to him.

Though, none of Soundwaves cassettes actually disliked him as far as he knew, they each cuddled up to him one way or another its just more recently they all started to make an engine rumbling noise that had him falling into recharge. He couldn’t for the life of himself fall into recharge in his own berth but every time Frenzy and Ravage laid on his lap and purred with their engines he was able to fall into recharge.

Neither Shockwave nor Soundwave ever disturbed him when this happened even as the habit grew more and more with frequency. Frenzy and Ravage had a habit now of sticking close to him and preferring being by his side whenever he set foot onto their base or met in their secret spot.

Bee should’ve guessed then that something was wrong but he hadn’t, he couldn’t have known it meant he was carrying since he’s never carried before. He was just glad he could recharge in peace after his steadily piling symptoms were leaving him drained.

‘I hope they don’t miss me too much,’ Bee mused to himself with worrying servos, his pedes hurt the farther he walked and he briefly wondered just how difficult his carrying would become since it was his first. Being a carrier meant having to know all there was to it in case of accidental sparking.

Going through his processor he really should have seen all the clear signs that showed he was with sparklings.

‘They won’t miss me..they were just following basic instincts,’ he reasoned with himself, spark and helm hurting at the thought. ‘It’s a good thing,’ he mused with a churning tank, ‘now I won’t have to worry about them telling the two.’

He felt a chill run down his spinal cord making his servos rub at his middle, the soft surface was still flat but the muscle he’d long sculpted there was gone. Another sign of his carrying clear as day that he hoped neither his team nor the two decepticons noticed. If Ravage and Frenzy could sense the sparklings within him from their more primal instincts it was only a matter of time before the two mechs began to notice.

Bee truly hoped neither cassettes told of his being sparked.

‘Just have to make it out of here,’ he thought to himself, rubbing the spot that housed not only his spark but two more he’d already decided to protect with his.

As he walked out of the city limits that nights and headed for a new destination away from the autobots and decepticons, he missed the warp gate opening to his last known spark location. Two large mechs scanning the area as Frenzy took to the skies with Soundwave following in pursuit and Ravage sniffing out the scent of the little autobot. Taking off with Shockwave following closely, both silent mechs held an air of promise with the intent to permanently offline the bot they believed took their future mate.

-

I love this pairing - all three togethe and the pairing shockwave and soundwave.

Gonna write about shockwave/blitzwing/bumblebee next or just shockbee angst next ��

[candyskiez]

Saw ur also a ???% fan… 👀

Care to share your thoughts around him? Or headcanons if you have them? :D

1. You just noticed? I have NOT been talking enough about him then. I will rectify this immediately. (This is a joke you're good)

2. SO.

These will be scattered. Because I am a very scattered person.

I will flip flop between if I like the disconnect between ???% and Mob better as a plural thing or an allegory .I like both! Both is good! He's so fascinating as an allegory but also he's the most accurate representation of being plural I've ever seen and it's not even canon. So like. Two cakes!

I will always be insane about the manga version of confession arc. Hold on I need to talk about this in detail or I'll actually die.

His fucking. His fucking talk with Mob. "And you were never...never...looking at me." WHAT IF I SCREAM. Literally everything he says to Mob is so interesting and also relatable as shit whether you view it as plural or as an allegory. Both is good. Like you can view him telling Mob he forgot to protect himself and all that shit as like "You only do these good things to ease your own guilt. You don't actually want to be around people. You're selfish. This is who I am. I want to be able to exist without trying to be normal. I want to be able to be seen and not be harmed for it. I am tired of everyone ignoring this part of me because they prefer you. Would they actually do what I've done for them, or are they using me?" Like. Holy shit. It's so so fucking OW especially as an autistic person. But also as a system it's so easy to read him going "You pushed all the memories you didn't want onto me. You let me handle the things you didn't want. You shoved everything onto me, and I took it with stride because I loved you. You let me take all the hard things so you didn't have to face them, because you're a coward. This is my body too. This is my life too. Why don't I get to have that? Why do I have to give it up because you don't want me? They're my family too. You don't get to decide I don't deserve to exist because you hate yourself too much to admit I'm here." Like. Its so easy to read it as him being a protector who is SO fucking resentful of all the shit he's had to deal with, all the memories he has to hold alone, all of the shit he's experienced, and not a sliver of gratitude. Like goddamn does it remind me of my experience being a system. Either way the distance from him and the relationship between him and Mob has been my favorite part of the show since I started watching. And the manga is even more interesting and it's so!!!!!!!!!!!

More confession manga thoughts!! Him saying "Ritsu is my little brother. He was calling me Nii-san." Is so. He said that when Mob asked who he was. He viewed that as a solid part of his identity. RITSU is a massive part of his identity. Does he view Mob as not Ritsu's brother then? Does he feel like he was cheated out of his own family? I wouldn't be surprised nor would I blame him for feeling like that.

And even more confession arc shit. Hi. Thinks about how ???% in the anime at least had to steel himself before raising his hand at Reigen. He hates him but he still cares about him. He hates him but that guy raised him as much as his parents did. Clawing at the walls.

Actually y'know what I haven't talked about my thoughts on Reigen and ???% with anyone but the friend that I watched the show with and that is a tragedy that will not stand. ???% hates Reigen so so much but also cares SO much about him. Thinks about he passed out the second Reigen told him his parents were fine, and contrast that to him saying that he can't listen to Reigen in confession. He knows that if he listens to Reigen he'll believe him and that fucking terrifies him. He'll follow after Reigen because he means the world to him, because that man raised him, because he just wants him to be proud of him so fucking badly. He'll go back to being miserable and trapped, and everyone will go back to pretending he doesn't exist. He's terrified of Reigen, I think, because he knows Reigen is a good liar. Reigen can make him believe things. And he doesn't like that. He doesn't like how gullible he actually is. That's why he doesn't trust anyone- he's gullible enough to believe anything, so he has to distrust ANYTHING, no matter how much sense it makes, because he knows he can't trust his own judgement. He's been tricked before. He'll be tricked again. Don't trust anyone. Don't trust anything you see. This is another thing that works with either autism or plurality. The autism trauma of being lied to and deceived as "jokes" constantly turning you into a trust issue riddled mess that doesn't trust your own judgement or view of people, or a traumatized protector who FORMED to help you deal with people taking advantage of you and now distrusts everyone you love because "it happened before, it'll happen again, i wont let it happen." Or both!

God. I just LOVE ???% y'all don't understand. He's everything to me. Please god read the manga. I don't know if the translation I read was completely accurate, but I love the manga and anime both so so much. ???% is my favorite character as anyone who knows me can tell you and I will never shut up about him. My GUY

[thebluestbluewords]

a pirate by any name +

"Samson Smee?" Ben asks, tapping the name on the list. “Is he related to Captain Hook’s sidekick?” 

Evie leans closer on instinct. She doesn’t need to see the paperwork to know who Sammy is, but it’s a habit now to press close to Ben and tilt her head just-so to see the paper lists and forms when they’re working on VK matters together. It a comfort, to know that she’s not in this fight alone, and Ben certainly hasn’t complained about the increased contact with his girlfriend’s girlfriend. “Yes. He goes by Sammy. He's probably not going to want to come over without his brothers, but we can still make the offer." 

"Can we bring the brothers?" 

The last time Evie saw the littlest Smee children, they were sobbing over a pirate’s body before the adult crew members tipped them over the harbor for the sharks to take their share. They couldn’t have been more than seven or eight years old, and what Evie remembers the most is the way their tears had carved clean tracks out of the dirt on their faces. 

She hums her consideration. “They're young. Elementary age, maybe ten or so now. I think they'd be okay to come, but they're shy, and I'm not sure how they'd do at school. As families go, I think all the Smee boys would do well in terms of goodness integration, but they may be difficult to integrate on a social level unless they can come over with someone they already know." 

"Alright. Who do you think they'd do well with?" 

Their father. 

“Their father,” Evie says, bitingly, before she reigns her tongue back in again. Not that it matters around Ben, who is handsome and kind and just listens when Evie needs to shout at somebody about the horrible unfairness of it all, but it’s good practice. She’s a politician now, just like her mother wanted. She’s got to be the best, because she’s an isle brat, and she cannot afford to make mistakes. Anything she says, anything she does wrong will reflect on the isle as a whole, so she’s got to be flawless. She will prove herself not just for her mother’s sake, but because she’s got a thousand hungry kids waiting for her to mess up and snip their only thread of hope at getting off the isle. “But that’s exactly the problem. Sammy has a crew, but the twins just tag along with him or their father all the time, and I don't think Auradon Prep, or any other high school for that matter, wants to have a pair of kids following their new high school student everywhere,” Evie sighs. She’s so fucking tired.  “We have schools on the isle, obviously, but Sammy doesn’t attend very often. The pirates usually stick with their ships and learn what they need from the older members of their crews. It’s not a traditional Auradon education, but the pirates are actually some of the better educated kids on the isle. It works for them, but it won’t work if we bring them here.” 

Ben puts a warm hand on her arm. It’s all Evie can do not to sink into the touch. She’s so, so tired of this. Of begging for any scrap they can get. Any concession to the norm comes at the price of another sliver of her own sanity, it feels like, and there’s so many children who won’t be able to handle the pressure of Auradon Prep, who will need more exceptions than the system is set up to give them, who won’t be able to thrive without the attention that nobody is able to give them. 

“We can ask the charter school,” Ben says softly. “There's integrated schools, all ages sort of places. My mother’s village has one. We can reach out. She provides a grant each year, they might decide they own me a favor.” 

Evie presses into his touch. Gods below, but it’s nice to have somebody who knows better than her the networks of favors and family histories that keep the kingdom governments running. “Or if we could find a family who would be willing to keep them together and send them to separate day schools, they might get used to being on their own like that,” Evie suggests. “Sort of slow and steady. A gradual break.” 

Ben makes a note, a shorthand scribble on the side of his list. Evie’s eyes are swirling too much to read it exactly, but she knows their code. Foster family, special education, sibling unit. That’s what they need to know in order to place the Smee boys. A whole life, reduced down to three shorthand scribbles. “That could work. What are the brothers called?" 

Evie laughs, exhausted. “Squeaky and Squirmy, but I believe their birth names are Sawyer and Simon. They're not bad kids, they're just shy. They would do better here, I think. Where there’s less adults around to bully them into staying quiet.” 

 Ben slips his hand up her arm, around her shoulders, pulls until she can rest her head on the side of his own. He’s warm and sturdy and if they weren’t in the middle of important work, Evie could fall asleep just like this. And then cause a scandal when the service staff come in to wake them both up, and find the young king sleeping on a girl who is not his girlfriend, no matter how many interests and people they share between them. 

"We can ask. If Sammy's willing to come over without them, who do you think we could bring with him?" 

"Anthony. Dizzy's cousin. They run with the same crew, and they'd do well together. I would say that we should bring over Harriet, but knowing her, she's not going to come over unless we can get the rest of her crew out first, and she's got one of the biggest crews on the isle." 

 Ben skims the list of kids, running his pen down the side as he goes. “Harriet?" 

She’s not on the list. 

“Hook,” Evie explains. “She’s one of the eldest pirate kids. We didn’t add her to the list because she won’t come until we can bring her crew with her, and we can’t promise that yet.” 

“Hook.” Ben echoes, voice flat. “As in—?” 

He’s encountered Harry, and came away with almost as much vitriol for him as Mal. 

Evie presses herself closer to him, so that he can feel her heat, and maybe remember that they’re in her office, not the wet deck of a ship. That he’s not tied to a mast, waiting to die anymore. “Yes. There are three Hook kids, and they all hate each other. We only hate Harry, the middle one, so Harriet and CJ are our allies. Sort of an enemy-of-our-enemy kind of thing."

"Harry's the one who's involved with Uma.” Ben says, so softly that Evie can barely hear the words. “The one who tried to kill me.” 

"Yes. He's....” Evie hesitates. She’s safe to hesitate here, in her own little office that smells like citrus wood polish and old papers. She doesn’t have to preform just for Ben, because she can trust him. Her sweet, kind king.

Trust doesn’t mean she wants to tell him everything. Understatement is a tool that Evie is well practiced at wielding, so she lets herself close her eyes, and forges ahead. “He’s a lot. We don't like him." 

Ben smiles, small and sweet and almost sad. "I take it there's a history there?" 

"Just a bit." Evie agrees. "There's been a few incidents."

"Would it be useful for me to know?"

Evie breathes in, and out, and relaxes her shoulders in an attempt to let go of the anger that she's still holding in her body. "I suppose so. Yes." 

"Do you want to tell me?" 

Honesty is the foundation of good relationships. "No." 

Ben nods. He's too good to them. "You could tell me later. If you'd like." 

The memory of blood spills over Evie's hands. The slippery, awful feeling of insides that were never supposed to become outsides against her leather gloves. The gritty feeling of dirt in her eyes that she can't rub out, blown up from the shattered crates they'd been aiming to take back from the pirates. The blood though, that's the part that she can't forget. She's been a medic since she first started sneaking out of her mother's house, but she's usually restricted herself to broken arms and legs and noses, some shallow stitches, fever medication, abortifacients and concussion care for the kids who can't take the dubious mercy of the barrier's spell. She's done medications for the kids who cared to try them, all sorts of poultices and remedies for the ailments that are within her power to fix. 

She's never been able to fix someone once they start bleeding out. 

She knows the theory of it. Blood transfusions, tourniquets, ways of stopping arteries without killing the patient. The problem is that she's never had to do it firsthand, because they've always known that the spell on the barrier was there to catch them before they died for real. The spell heals the killing blows, so it's easier to lean into the death than it is to staunch critical bleeding. Evie's killed kids herself, those who wouldn't die quick enough on their own, so that they could have the mercy of the barrier and the spell healing them back into a body marginally less broken than the one they'd left from. 

"He killed us." Evie manages, around the memory of blood spilling up from her throat. "They made it a game. Him and Uma and their crew. We killed each other." 

They've told Ben enough. He can figure out the rest, and he's smart and good and kind, so he does, and she can see him go white when he figures it out. 

[dralione]

5 times Draco used Legilimency on Hermione +1 time she used it on him

Summary: Hermione has ADHD/AuDHD and Draco finds the way her mind works compared to others so fascinating he can't stay out.

Rating: T (non-graphic torture, a couple suggestive lines) ♡ WC: ~5k ♡ Ao3

A/N: my first published Dramione! (Looks at longfics languishing in drafts) Hope you enjoy! No beta; if you see any plot holes wither in the story or from Canon compliancy no you don't. Also I realise the summary sounds a little weird but I'm simply projecting as I write this Hermione and would like to find my own Draco who will find the way my brain is wired interesting/pos and not interesting/neg.

1. Wednesday, 10 January, 1996 (5th Year)

Draco shifted in his chair, glaring up from his parchment as the loud sound of a page turning interrupted his previously quiet study session. He was mildly surprised to find that the perpetrator was none other than the studious swot herself, Hermione Granger. He’d thought she had more respect for the sanctity of a library and its quietude.

A hint of colour crawled up her cheeks as she caught his stare, but she didn’t look away. 

A thought popped into Draco’s head as he held her gaze. Over the winter hols, his mother had begun teaching him Legilimency. He was still getting the hang of it, but practice made perfect, did it not? His target was already making eye contact with him, and he was suddenly overwhelmingly curious about the witch’s thoughts. Was she as boring as she came across on the outside?

Ooo, maybe he could get a sneak peek into Potter’s plans, if she let him that far into her mind. Well, it was worth a try. Despite being a ridiculously well-read witch, surely she hadn’t learned about Legilimency or Occlumency?

Moving his wand under the table, so she couldn’t see, he whispered “Legilimens,” instantly transporting to his rival’s innermost being. Stubborn swot had practically invited him in, with those gleaming amber eyes holding his and absolutely no mental resistance to his entry at all. 

He smirked to himself and looked around. 

Draco turned slowly in place in Granger’s mind, jaw dropped as he took in the thoughts absolutely sprinting around, too fast for him to possibly pin down and read. 

Merlin’s beard, had the witch actually become an Occlumens?!

This was not what he expected, compared to his mother’s neatly organised thoughts and carefully constructed walls and paths that held her memories. How was he supposed to delve into her mind and find what he wanted if there was no way to find what he was looking for? 

Granger’s mind was a veritable rabbit warren of thoughts and memories, all haphazardly rolling around in her head like stray Bertie Bott’s Beans on the Hogwarts Express. 

He had to give it to her, she had excellent defences that even a more skilled Legilimens than himself would have trouble wading through. 

And the volume, Salazar’s staff…he was getting a headache just from the decibels of those thoughts running amuck. He exited her mind and broke eye contact, silently letting her win the unspoken staring contest, too overwhelmed to look at her any longer. How did the witch manage to get anything done with that organisational system, nevermind be top of their classes? Sure, it was a great defence against Legilimens, but they were few and far between, surely she didn’t need them at Hogwarts (his prying experiment aside). That mental energy would be better spent retaining and organising their class information. 

Draco felt a sliver of grudging respect at Granger’s beyond-magical handling of Occlumency and schoolwork. He shivered in his seat. He wouldn’t be going in her brain again if he could help it.

2. Monday, 15 January, 1996 (5th Year)

Draco glared at the bronze curls ahead of him, willing Granger to quiet her thoughts. Since he’d first jumped into her brain last week, he couldn’t stop listening in, even when he wasn’t trying. 

Sweet Salazar, the witch was loud. Practically screaming her thoughts at anyone listening in. 

He really couldn’t make heads or tails of her behaviour. There was absolutely no reason for her to be broadcasting her thoughts like that – only a few students would even have heard of Legilimency. Surely she wasn’t playing bait, trying to lure him and/or his godfather into admitting something?

Somehow, Granger had become more interesting to him than Potter over the last week. It was only partly due to her annoyingly distracting thoughts that kept following him around. He found himself searching out her curls like a beacon for him to watch her, instead of to locate one of the two limpets usually by her side. He was, admittedly, curious about her organisational standards after his jaunt through her head. 

The more he heard her thoughts, the more he found himself able to make sense of the rapid-fire trails they’d blaze, often diverting from one topic to another quicker than he would have done. 

Looking back once he was out of her mental broadcasting range, he was able to follow her logic steps, but by Merlin, the convoluted ways she arrived at her destination! Draco wasn’t sure if he was impressed by her ability to arrive at the same conclusion by very different throughways or not. 

Ahead of him, Granger shifted, perhaps finally sensing his displeasure and quieting her thoughts. They slowed down, gathering in one easy-to-follow stream of consciousness as she mentally narrated the notes she was writing.

Finally.

Thankful for the reprieve, Draco bent over his own parchment, able to block out one uninterrupted thought flow better than a scattered bombardment of singular thoughts. Still, the applications she pulled out of whatever mental filing system she had –however confusing it was–

were always apt and several times provided a new angle for Draco to mull over.

He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. He relegated it to the back of his mind, where most of his thoughts about Granger went these days, never to be seen or felt again.

3. Sunday, 15 September, 1996 (6th Year)

The form of one Hermione Granger slumped over her books in the library made Draco pause on his way past her table to the shelf he wanted. 

He’d missed her mental chatter over the summer as he learned Occlumency from his aunt and improved his Legilimency. However, with his new and improved mental shields firmly up since his return to Hogwarts, he hadn’t cared to attempt to breach hers again. He had better things to do with his brain than listen to her mental ramblings. 

Honestly, he felt a bit bad for her after he’d eavesdropped on her when she was with the limpets one study session. She certainly possessed a surplus of patience dealing with those two, considering the filter her thoughts passed through before they made their way to the limpets’ ears.

Cautiously, he attempted to listen in on her thoughts as he made his way behind her, out of sight and out of mind (well, in one sense). Nothing. 

Draco frowned. His Legilimency had only improved over the summer, and he couldn’t feel any Occlumency walls or shields. Her mind was simply…not producing thoughts. It was such a deviation from the norm that he began to grow worried that something had happened to Granger. 

He sent a small stinging jinx at her leg. She jerked, slapping at her leg as thoughts began to form, to his relief (he simply tossed that feeling in the pile of galleons holding his true emotions that were stored in his very well guarded mental horde, never to be considered further).

Ouch, what was that? She glanced around, but he was safely hidden behind the shelves. Oh well. You’ve got Charms homework to crack on, Hermione. She pulled a piece of parchment forward and dipped her quill in the ink bottle, tapping the excess ink off on the side absentmindedly as she began figuring out the wording of her essay. 

Two students walked by, whispering about the Quidditch tryouts the day before. Granger snickered as an image of Cormac McLaggen flying off in the wrong direction flitted through her mind like the Snitch taunting the Seekers. 

Confundusing McLaggen was too easy. I’m glad Ron got the spot. She flipped through the Charms textbook. Focus, ‘Mione, Charms!

Draco left her mind, humming thoughtfully. So the little swot had sabotaged the tryouts for her incompetent boyfriend’s favour, huh. How positively Slytherin of her.

4. Monday, 30 March, 1998 (7th Year)

The shaking form of Hermione Granger on his drawing room floor kept Draco frozen in his spot, unable to look away. Her expression was screwed up in pain as she bit her lip, trying not to let a scream escape. Suddenly her eyes flew open, meeting his and pinning him in place. 

His wandless Legilimency was weak at best, but with eye contact…

Legilimens.

Draco slipped into her brain easily, almost staggering as the pain of the Cruciatus curse spread to him. Granger, it will be okay. Hold on. You have to hold on, Granger. Please.

Mal-Malfoy?

Some of the pain in her eyes was replaced with confusion. He barely moved a muscle to nod reassuringly at her.

Yes, it’s me, Granger. Keep fighting. You have to, for all the others. You will survive this, I swear it. Just hold on a little longer, please, Granger.

Why are you doing this? A drop of blood trickled down her lip as she bit down harder.

I can’t stop my aunt, but I can take some of your torture. It’s nothing new. Just hold on, Granger, you’re not alone here. They’re coming for you. They’ll get you out of this.

But you hate me. You’re on his side.

Not anymore; I have to. For my mother and my sake. Just like you have to for Potter and Weasley and your sakes. 

Bellatrix cast another Cruciatus, determined to make Potter’s Mudblood scream. Draco took more of the pain from Granger, determined to give her that one minuscule victory of staying quiet. 

Granger squeezed her eyes shut again at the renewed assault, temporarily cutting off their connection. Draco took a large, un-Slytherin risk and lowered a little of his Occlumency defences, reaching out to Granger’s loud mental screams. 

Hush, Granger, I’m still here. Can you feel me through the mental link?

I thought Legilimency needed eye contact? She gasped. 

I’ve improved my Legilimency over the summer. I don’t need eye contact if your mental defences are down and you’re practically screaming in my head. 

Granger’s reply was cut off as she noticed something above her, her eyes opening in another convulsion. Dobby was unscrewing the chandelier in the drawing room above the gathered crowd. 

Come with us, she said, a flicker of surprise flashing after the words. Leave the Manor and him behind.

I can’t, Granger. My mother–

A vague sense of sympathetic understanding echoed through her mind underneath the spasms of pain. 

Just say a nice word at my funeral, will you? 

Dr–

He left her mind as Potter & Co appeared in front of the group, throwing them into chaos. At least his insane aunt was forced to stop cursing Granger and cast other spells instead. 

He half-heartedly wrestled with Potter over a couple wands, hoping the Death Eaters would be too distracted to notice the way he so easily let Potter wrestle them free. 

A flash of crystal as the chandelier dropped–

A flash of silver as Bellatrix threw her knife–

A flash and crack as the Order members apparated away–

And she was free. Draco closed his eyes. The Order would win the war, he was sure of it. What that meant for him, he no longer cared. 

5. Monday, 5 October, 1998 (1st Day of 8th Year)

Draco, from his vantage point at the top of the stairs to the dorms, looked around the common room at the combined houses mingling peaceably. He had an excellent view. 

The bronze curls and slow smile of one Hermione Granger, War Heroine, were warmly shaded by the light of the fireplace she sat beside, conversing with classmates. 

She had regained some colour to her skin over the summer, he noticed, and a handful of freckles besides. Her hair was more curl and less frizz, her eyes were livelier and less shadowed, though they showed her forced maturity no matter how much they sparkled (Draco didn’t think that those would ever disappear from any who had them), her body was curvier and less malnourished than when he’d last seen her months ago at his trial. 

He felt the edges of his lips curling up in a genuine smile as he sat and observed all the positive changes in her life and body. 

He’d thought he was well-hidden in the shadows (certainly everyone was treating him as though he were truly wrapped in Potter’s invisibility cloak), but suddenly her eyes snapped to his and she held his gaze, leaving no doubt that she had caught him staring. 

She quirked her eyebrow in silent question and invitation. He didn’t need Legilimency anymore to know how to read her, most of the time. 

He’d spent all his summer house arrest fixating on any scrap of news the papers published about her, of which there were plenty. Thousands of photos of the most famous and Brightest Witch of Her Age had been clipped and carefully transferred to his scrapbook. It was a little ridiculous at this point, just how thick it was. It was hidden the Muggle way, under the floorboard under his bed, along with a thick stack of letters they had exchanged in between her busy schedule of testifying, repairing battlegrounds and casualties, and healing herself, and his busy schedule of daydreaming as he scoured the papers

He shook his head slightly, making her brow drop and turn into a hint of a frown. He frowned back at her, motioning with a jerk of his head to continue her conversation, and got to his feet.

Draco, can you hear me?

He froze on the step.

I saw that and I’m taking it as a yes. Are you alright?

Peachy, Granger. I’m going to bed. Goodnight. 

…Goodnight, Draco. Sweet dreams.

He snorted. You take the sweetness for your own dreams. Ta.

He sat up with a gasp, uncomfortably sticky with sweat, his breathing fast and ragged. The nightmares had fallen off somewhat, but he supposed the first day back at Hogwarts had triggered their reemergence with full vigour. 

He settled back on his bed, turning his pillow over and resting his hands beneath it, the weight of his head grounding him. Once he’d slowed his breathing, he lay staring up at the shadowed ceiling. He reached out to Granger unconsciously, needing reassurance that she wasn’t still trapped in his drawing room with his aunt, unable to even have his mental support as he was held back with magical restraints. The dreams always ended up in his drawing room. 

Granger was asleep, seemingly undisturbed by night terrors. 

He flinched when he saw where Granger’s dreams had ended up. Surprisingly, it wasn’t like his nightmares at all. Bellatrix wasn’t there, or his mother. Only he and Granger were there, kneeling a hairsbreadth apart, his hand on her cheek, her hand on his knee. 

Feeling like he was intruding, Draco left her dream, returning fully to staring at the ceiling. Granger was safe and peaceful and that’s all that mattered. Whatever was happening in her dreams was none of his business. 

+1. Tuesday, 2 May, 2000 (2nd Anniversary of the Second Wizarding War’s End)

“Draco.”

He placed his glass of firewhisky down, turning to face his visitor. “Hermione. How are you doing?”

“Never better,” he smirked, some grain of truth to his words. “You?”

Her pink lips turned up at that. “Good. I’m content with my present. It is a bit difficult with all the,” she waved at the fancy surroundings, “circumstances, but it’s nothing I can’t handle.” The room was filled with decorations and the setup for hundreds of people to celebrate the second year of Voldemort’s defeat.

“I’m pleased to hear that. You look good. The Ministry treating their Golden Girl well at her new job?”

She rolled her eyes, playfully nudging his arm. “Not you too. And yes, I’ve finally managed to get the preferential treatment left off. It only took, what, eleven months?”

“You should keep some preferential treatment, Granger,” he said solemnly. “Remind them that none of them would be here if it weren’t for you. Don’t let them take you for granted.”

She considered him, nibbling on her lower lip for a second as she bit back something. He was about to urge her to say it anyway when they were joined by Potter and Weaslette. 

“Potter. Weaslette.”

“Malfoy. Hermione,” greeted the couple. 

“Hello, Harry, Ginny.”

“I must admit I’m a little surprised to see you here,” said Harry, pushing his glasses up as he took a swig of his drink. Draco assumed he was talking to Hermione, given the circumstances.

Hermione made an agreeing noise. “I felt I should, even if I didn’t want to. I’ll find you later, Malfoy was just about to take me to get a drink, alright?”

The couple nodded and waved them off as Hermione’s hand slipped into his, pulling him away.

He blinked at their joined hands, then the back of her head as she steered them towards the bar.

“You didn’t want to stay and talk with your friends? I could’ve left.”

“No, you were there first. Besides, I wanted to talk to you in private, and we see each other much less frequently than I see Harry and Ginny.”

“Oh? Consider my interest piqued, Granger. What on earth could you want to talk to me about? You can always owl me and arrange a meeting some other time. I’m sure you still know my address, even if we haven’t written each other in awhile.”

She ordered a cocktail and leaned against the bar, turning to face him. “Do you know any place around here where we might have an uninterrupted chat?”

He hummed, tapping his chin in thought. “I may have an idea or two.”

Hermione’s drink retrieved and his topped up, he extended his arm to her and led them across the room, through dark hallways dimly lit by candle sconces, until he opened a door, gesturing her through. 

“Welcome to the private sitting room of Lady Malfoy, where none are sure to disturb.”

“Won’t your mother–”

“My mother is busy overseeing the anniversary ball, doing her best to continue polishing our name to return it to its former shine. Besides, she is quite fond of you and will be most obliging and understanding. Unless, by ‘private chat’ you meant a quick shag, in which case I am more than happy to escort you to my private rooms,” he winked, settling in the corner of the settee mere handbreadths away from her.

She blushed and rolled her eyes. “That is not what I meant. This will be fine, thank you.”

“Alright. What is so secretive that you lured me to this dark, isolated room, Granger? Should I be in fear of my innocence being tainted?”

“It’s just us now, Malfoy, you can stop with the cavalier facade. I wanted to ask you if you would be willing to help me learn and practise Legilimency.”

Draco blinked. “You’re learning Legilimency?”

“I’ve been informed that my natural Occlumency is quite advanced already,” she smirked at him, “and I believe it would be useful to learn Legilimency. You know I can’t tell you everything about my work as an Unspeakable, but I work with Memories and Obliviators. I think Legilimency would be quite useful to know in my line of work, and…well, I can’t think of anyone I’d trust more with my mind to teach me.”

Draco swallowed. “I won’t insult you by asking if you’ve thought this through, but just for my peace of mind, Granger, you really want me in your mind again? Even after…”

She nodded firmly twice. “I asked you to help me improve my Occlumency and mental resistance, especially against you, because I thought we both needed space apart from each other. It wasn’t because I didn’t trust you or want you in my mind. You know I didn’t mind that, especially after the Incident. Now that I’m content with my Occlumency, I wish to learn Legilimency. I still trust you with my mind, Draco, we just needed some boundaries.”

He nodded, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees and run his fingers through his hair. “My mind healer told me our bond was becoming codependent and unhealthy. I’ve finally seen your points,” he sighed. “ I- you’re ready to do this again?”

“My mind healer cleared me a while ago, but I waited to be sure both of us were. But if you’re still not…maybe today wasn’t the best day to bring this up, after all. I’m sorry, I’ll leav-”

His fingers were wrapped gently around her wrist before he even knew what he was doing. “No, stay, Granger. I’m ready. I just wanted to clear some of my past reservations up first.”

Her answering smile was brilliant. “Good! When would you be free to start, then?”

“Now?”

Hermione smiled at the sight of Draco’s blonde head sticking above the back of her sofa. One arm was resting along the back, his long fingers tracing aimless designs in the blue floral pattern.

She paused, struck by an impulsive thought. Pulling out her wand, she whispered, “Legilimens,” under her breath, transporting to his mind. She fell in instantly, surprising her considering the challenge he had set her to get into his mind when he wasn’t expecting her. Surely it wasn’t this easy…but it didn’t feel like he was Occluding…

She wandered through his mind, as always astounded by his neat organising, so unlike her own mental filing system. Hers worked perfectly well for her, but she had long felt Other for her strange ways of remembering obscure topics and collecting scraps of random information. She had finally come to accept her strangeness and embrace it, even, but she still had a little pang of jealousy at seeing his easy organisation.

 She strolled through the cave that was his mental fortress, surprised to not be greeted by his defending dragon. What was he planning?

She continued on her way, pausing to observe his vaults of memory-gems and emotion-coins, locked up behind steel and iron. The locks on some had become simpler, less guarded, from when they’d parted ways at the end of Eighth Year, and she wondered if she was seeing proof of his mind healer’s influence.

The vault she’d always been most curious about, at the back, was cracked open.. Taking it as an invitation, she peered in. It looked like a Gringotts vault, full of artworks and artefacts and piles of wealth heaped in the corners. Looking closer, each object held something related to her. Memories, feelings, dreams… 

Feeling like an intruder, although she assumed he’d let her in for a reason, she stepped in cautiously. A memory met her full-force.

October, Sixth Year

Draco glanced across the table to hers, where she twirled a curl around her finger, deep in thought over a thick tome. 

“Legilimens.”

He’d been getting the hang of wandless legilimency when he returned to Hogwarts, fresh from his aunt’s teaching. He’d practised on enough minds over the summer to know that hers was different, moreso than anyone else’s, and it intrigued him. 

At first, yes, it had annoyed him, all her loud, fast thoughts, but now he found it comforting to listen in. He enjoyed trying to figure out which Express her thoughts were going to take before she did, to try and follow her leaps of intellect and even beat her to her conclusions. 

And then there were her memories…the happy bustle of the Burrow (even if he was a little blinded by the sheer amount of gingers in one place), the summers out exploring with her Muggle parents, the interesting lives the Muggles lived and their strange inventions, the happy times she had with the limpets, she had so many happy memories. 

They all seemed tinged with a warm sepia glow, preserved by some force Draco wasn’t sure he wanted to know. It was a far cry from his own, cold grey and black shrouded in smokey vignette. Her memories simultaneously made him wish to turn them to ash and keep them in a Fiendfyre-proof vault. He left her head with a scoff and got up, leaving the library.

Hermione blinked, overcome with his emotions and the memory. He’d confessed in their letters before Eighth Year that he’d often slipped into her head, but she hadn’t fully understood it until now. Another memory flitted forward as the previous one slid back into Draco’s neat storage. 

March, Seventh Year

Draco was horrified to see her dragged into his drawing room by the Snatchers. His gaze flicked from her, to his aunt, to the Snatchers. He’d long since learned to temper his flight or fight response with freeze.

He’d stayed frozen until Bellatrix had cast the first Crucio and she’d met his eyes. 

It was strange seeing her memories through Draco’s eyes, especially once he’d jumped into her head and was seeing her thoughts. 

Granger, it will be okay.

She often recalled the first words he’d said to her when he entered her mind. And then she felt the phantom echoes of pain, and realised that Draco had absorbed some of the Cruciatus for her. 

Jerking out of the memory with a gasp, she panted for breath, hand on her heart, reminding herself that it was only a memory.

“Draco!”

He strolled out of the shadows of the vault, hands in his pockets, eyebrow raised in silent question. 

“Hermione.”

“You absorbed the Cruciatus for me?” Blast it, she could feel the sting of tears fast approaching. Now was not the time to cry. She blinked hard.

He shrugged.

“Why didn’t you tell anyone? I’m sure that would have gone even farther to prove your case for acquittal at your trial!”

“Does it matter, Granger?” He sounded annoyed. “That’s not usually how this goes.”

She paused, confused. “How does it usually go, then?”

He rolled his eyes. “I have a nightmare about the Incident, you remind me it’s not real, we kiss, et cetera,” he waved his hand summarily. “Don’t know why I expected Dream-Hermione to be any less argumentative than Real-Hermione,” he muttered under his breath.

Hermione tilted her head, contemplating. So Draco dreamed about her. She’d thought nightmares about the Incident had decreased. But apparently he also dreamed about current-her comforting him. Interesting. She hadn’t been sure if he’d still be as fond of her as he’d been in Eighth Year, after they’d had some healing and time apart from their traumatic bonding experiences. Well, it was good to know her slightly-more-than-a-crush was reciprocated. 

“I’m going to ignore that, just this once. Draco, are you dreaming?”

He looked at her in puzzlement. “Obviously. I really don’t know why you had to change the dream from snogging me senseless to rehashing the Incident, though,” he frowned.

She raised her eyebrow. “Snogging you senseless, huh? That explains your absolute lack of Occlumency,” she snickered. “You were practically inviting me in. Guess your subconscious was tired of your lack of making a move and made it for you. Would you care to wake up so I can actually snog you senseless, then?”

Draco blinked, then his jaw dropped and a blush rose on his cheeks and eartips. 

She turned to leave, then remembered why she’d come in the first place. “Oh, by the way, since I was able to get into your head successfully, I’ll be claiming my prize of one wish from the loser. I’m sure you’ll quite like it, don’t worry!” With a wink, she left, leaving him gaping after her.

Hermione settled on the sofa beside him, smirking softly at his adorably flustered expression as he woke up and saw her.

“Er, Hermione–”

“Sh, Draco. You like me and I like you, that’s all that matters, isn’t it?”

“Well, I suppose–”

“Good, then. Based on the sheer volume of that vault about me, I assume we have many many snogs to make up for.”

He exhaled in defeat, a smile taking over his face. “You’re right, as always.” He winked at her, leaning in quite willingly to meet her in the first of many kisses.

[starythewriter]

THOR X reader - first time I saw you



I opened the door to razer & gold data, entering

The bright white building grabbing onto a sliver handle and opening the door I walked through seeing captain America… I quickly got pulled side by Natasha, “here I need you to look thru this file… there seeks to be a comprise in our data records…. The DA seems to have tempered with them”

“Alright I’ll get on it” I said smiling and sitting next to her, she got up to take care of some errands, I quickly opened the flies reviewing everything.

I noticed how much days got reacted. Seems like it was all in preparation for some sort of lawsuit or court case.

I quickly got out my laptop and decided to wire a detailed report, “here I need you to talk to Jessica jones… we had our teamwork but as time went on she…. Started to work under the DA.”

I quickly walked over to a telephone, bumping into captain america, “I’m sorry sorry sir-“

“It’s alright. Dont worry here for your trouble” he said handing me a 20 dollar bill. I took it and smiled saying “thank you so much”

I walked forward. Seeing Thor… the infamous Thor I’ve always dreamed of seeing him he had a short sleeve shirt his biceps were bulging out.

I focused on Jessica, dialing her number…. I waited and waited untill she didn’t respond. I walked back to my desk quickly finding contacts but out of nowhere the telephone rang, I walked back over, feeling annoyed that our current telephones were down… only a couple worked now.

“Hey is this Jessica”

“Yes this is. And I already know who’s calling we have a lot of business to discuss but for now. I’m sending you a transcript along with files for a lawsuit”

“Wait wha”

She hung up before I could say anything I decided to walk back over seeing Thor… I turned around but Natasha was gone.

“Hey… i need to speak with you”

Said Thor. He looked at me very sternly I gulped and sat down near his desk. “What do you wish to speak about”

“Jessica. Why are you trying to contact her”

“I wasn’t” I said keeping eye contact. But Thor was persistent I didn’t know how but he very much knew what was going on.

I was too focused on the situation at hand however I had intrusive thoughts here and there about how hot he was.

“I know you were”

“How” I said shocked. Out of nowhere Natasha appeared “we need to talk” she said to me. I quickly got up and left walking with her to her office seeing a deal… “what’s this?”

I said asking confused reading through the prospal. “It’s a bribe the former company, who for awhile was co founded and owned with owners wants to buy us out-and their saying they’ll reinvent our server system to hold and keep data safe. However it’s a bribe and definitely not something that can be trusted look at paragraph 12C discussing the limit of funds and money meaning we would be tied to there restrictions especially money wise”

“Well then don’t accept it”

“I won’t but we need to tread carefully. DONT tell Thor untill further notice I need to find out the consequences.”

“Alright. Also I have intel I’ve had that they are very close with the governer and considering the company got framed for fraud, they can freeze back all of our bank accounts along with data. You know that they can also request data”

“That may be true. But I’ve got this under control. As for the data,I will be changing models into something that makes the data temporary and I’m doing with the DA along with CISA. To formulate a strong data rework along with protections against any crimes Or misdemeanors they can throw at us”

“Alright. I’ll gather more intent. I’ll make sure to see what I can find for orders as if they are going to request all days then it must be thru the DA, FBI and authorities.”

“Hey. Was that about Jessica and the old company”

“It’s none of your business Mr.hemsworth.”

I walked away shutting the door to my office. But Thor came in, “I need to know” “why” I asked rolling my eyes. I felt a little warm… but I didn’t mind it. “Stop acting like a baby. I need to know because I have some files on how to avoid any backlash including the freeze of our bank accounts and primary drafts into our manufactured convictions.”

“Fine. Here I have this file I’ve been keeping the most important information.”

“Thank you” he smiled “and no need to pout” he said teasing me. I walked up to him accidentally pressing against his crotch… “sorry-“ I said he stared into my soul. “It’s not a big deal” he laughed it off. We laughed together, he was so handsome… “come with me” he said. Leading me to one of the backrooms. “WOW so many dresses” I said happily “oh these would look good on you” I said being flirty. I knew I had feeling for him. “So tel me a bit about yourself Thor” “well I’m a businessman… looking for adventure. & despite what others say I’m great in court. I have a lot of law firms along with great hires and teams to maintain the private data that the US citizens deserve”

I smirked loving his deep and smart mind “wow… that’s umm… hot” I said gulping. “Wait here” he said I waited meanwhile imaging how he’d look in that outfit and out of nowhere he was wearing a very sexy summer shirt with shorts… I stared seeing all of his beautiful muscles and features. I tried to hide my blushing “we should get back to work”

“Are you sure” he said grasping my hand before I could leave as he stared into my eyes kissing me as his eyes closed I got onto the black sofa behind me and slowly enjoyed his kisses along with with moans. I slowly kissed his biceps as I unbuttoned his shirt.

I was already so beyond in love with this man nothing else mattered. I was ready to devour him. God knows I would. I kissed him again making him moan my name.

He slowly kissed me not forcing me into anything I felt so safe with him I slowly decided to take off my suit and undress. He kissed my tits making me moan loudly. “Don’t be so rough” I teased slowly taking his shirts off and immediately grinding against his cock “you can’t enter yet” i moaned out feeling too overwhelmed by his giant muscles to care about what happened at this point”

“He moaned “please… just do it already” I moaned allowing him in I rose up slowly riding his cock. “No more unless you swear something to me”

“Anything” he said smirking “are you sure” I said riding his cock slowly “yes- yes for sure anything”

“Give me 50% of the company” I said staring into his soul seducing every blood cell he had and already making him produce cum “now you know I can’t” he couldn’t speak as I went faster “fine then leave me alone” I said getting up but he grabbed “ fine here I’ll get you the papers”

“Good” I said smiling kissing him as I rode his cock while he handed me the papers I went faster as I rode his giant cock and thick muscles signing onto my fair share and with that I seduced my powerful boss and slowly become a owner of his company “Iove you so much” I said riding him faster kissing him as he kissed me and submitted to my will “your so fucking good-“

“Do you fuck every new person at the office?” I asked stopping myself depriving him of any and all sexual contact. “No- I promise you you’re the only one-“ “that better be dam right” “so bold of you to do this to not only your boss but a god.”

He smirked fucking me as I ride him “one that easily falls for any pretty girl”

“Not true. You’re the first…”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“The first one entirely love and cannot get enough of” he muffled. I moaned slowly

Climaxing onto his cock as he coated me with all the cum he had.

“Fuck-“

“Thank you.” I moaned grabbing the papers and walking out while leaving my cum on his bicep, I cleaned up and left. Knowing that he was unsatisfied but I wasn’t ready for him truly. However next time I’d stick with him a lot

Longer.

The end

[flowerpotmage]

Tight Grip, Broken Dam (5)

<< Previous Chapter | Masterlist | Next Chapter >>

You don’t question it anymore, when Miguel appears in your bed at night. He’s not there for sex, no, you’ve never even kissed—though you would be lying if you said you weren’t open to the idea of kissing him. He’s there for comfort. For rest. If only it could stay so simple.

Pair: Miguel O'Hara & GN!Reader

Notes: for series: slow burn, ambiguous relationship, found family dynamics, reader is in their late 20s. for chapter: injuries from last chapter, miguel being... well. angst?

Word Count: roughly 3.8k

Read this chapter on Ao3 here. If you like my work, please consider leaving kudos there as well! You do not need an account to do so.

Apprehension seeps up your spine like water into paper as you move through the holding area for captured anomalies to get to Miguel’s lab. Their eyes on you as you pass do little to help, and there’s no relief when you finally leave them behind and enter the familiar dark space.

Miguel is standing near the platform, head bowed and hands on his hips. You know he hears you, as quiet as you are; He might not have that internal alarm system the others call spidey-sense, but you know he has impressive enough enhanced senses.

He doesn’t greet you. Not unusual, but it still twists your stomach an inch to the left.

After a beat of silence that feels way, way too long, you break the silence yourself.

“Mig-” you cut off the beginning of his name, your voice uncomfortably quiet, and take a breath before you straighten your spine and speak louder, flatter: “I’m here for debrief.”

“Lyla,” he doesn’t quite bark out the virtual assistant’s name, but a lesser Spider probably would have flinched.

You almost do.

“Hey boss,” she flickers into existence in the usual space near his shoulder, sitting on nothing and sipping from a smoothly rendered latte cup. “What’s up?”

“Debrief,” he says. His back is still turned to you, only a sliver of the side of his face and his cheekbone visible from where you stand.

You cross your arms, a gesture that’s as self soothing as it is irritated.

“Right.” You turn your head to stare off into a dark corner, rather than look at his back any longer. “I was having a sandwich.”

“How is that–”

“I was having a sandwich in the park,” you cut him off. You don’t have to see his face to know he’s clenching his jaw. “Roughly around noon Earth-7723 time, when a portal opened probably twenty feet in front of me, and Venture ste–”

Only now does Miguel turn to face you, eyebrows furrowed. “What did you say?”

You blink at him, once. “Venture stepped out of the–”

“That’s a new one,” Lyla says at the same time that Miguel swears under his breath in Spanish.

“Esto no puede estar sucediendo…”

“...Did you want me to continue?”

Miguel takes a breath and gestures for you to continue, before turning away again and crossing his arms. He doesn’t turn away fully, but somehow this is worse, like he doesn’t even want to look at you.

So you continue, doing your best to relay an accurate version of events.

“...And then I stopped you from biting him, and you punched him out cold instead,” you finish.

Miguel nods, turning away completely again. “End debrief.”

Realizing that he hadn’t looked at you once outside of your naming Venture, it’s not just your road rash that stings. You wonder if you should go, flexing your aching and stinging palms–

“You should have called for backup immediately.”

“...What?”

“The second that Venture stepped out, you should have called,” he turns and points at you, a hand still on his hip, finally, finally looking at you.

You pull your head back in disbelief, unfold your arms, and gesture your open hands through the air as you say; “I called as soon as I was able!”

His nostrils flare, and then his eyes catch on your moving hands and the bandages wrapped around them. They snap back to meet yours.

Your movements still.

He takes a step closer.

“You were injured .”

“I can handle it,” you snap, refusing to back down as you glare at one another. “And I did.”

The tension is heavy, new. You almost feel a tremor at the top of your spine, the adrenaline of the day returning with the rise of your anger and priming you to fight or to run.

He doesn’t back down either, and even with the distance between you, the room starts to blur as if retreating into the dim lighting.

He gestures at you, your injuries. “Can you? You don’t exactly have the same high healing factor as the rest. How are you going to do your job with–”

“I saved you today! You would have been– you–” your chest is tightening again, the air getting thinner. “He almost got you before you even stepped through the fucking portal.”

“I would have handled it.”

“You would have–” you cut yourself off with a scoff, although the fight is rapidly draining from your body. “Right. Yeah.” You swallow, crossing your arms as you look away. “Permission to leave, boss?” You almost wince at the way you spit the word.

Miguel takes a breath, letting out a sigh as he turns his back to you again. “Yeah. Dismissed.”

It’s definitely a lot more than your road rash that continues to sting.

Gwen knows something is up with you the second you get home.

She looks at you with raised eyebrows over the back of your couch when you return through a portal instead of the front door. Her eyes sweep up and down, catching on your bandaged palms and the slight slump in your posture.

“What happened?” she asks, sitting up straighter and putting her math worksheet aside.

You wave her off, your hand barely lifting above your hips with the weight of your exhaustion. “Anomaly,” is all you offer, dropping your bag inside the door of your bedroom and swerving off to the bathroom for a much needed wash.

In the shower you dwell over the fight with Miguel. You were no stranger to his bad moods, his tension and stress over managing the stability of the multiverse. You’ve seen him get annoyed, frustrated even, with the other Spider-People. You’ve even been on the receiving end of his irritation a few times, unable to resist joining the others when it was just so easy to tease him.

But you’ve never been on the receiving end of his criticism like that.

Even as you ruminate under the warm water, letting it wash away the sweat and slight blood from when you reopened the scrapes again, you find your mind turning towards the last time Miguel had visited before Gwen came to stay. More than steam gathers on your eyelashes as you cross your arm over your chest, a hand gripping the opposite shoulder. You quickly shove a flash of the woman you’d failed to save out of your mind, letting your mind naturally fast forward to what had come after: Miguel taking care of you.

The shirt. The glass of water. The frustration at your tangled blankets. The soothing hands on your spine as you cried–

Fuck.

You press the side of your hand to your eyes.

“Do you want tooo… talk about it?” Gwen asks when you finally emerge from your room, clean and dressed. You hope your eyes don’t look as puffy as they feel, but based on her tone you’d wager against it.

“About what?” You ask flatly, moving through the living room to the kitchen. You open a cabinet, stare, close it. Open a second one, repeat, and the same to the fridge. Nothing sounds great, but you know you need to eat, so you return to the second cabinet and take a protein bar.

“About your clearly very long day,” she says, now standing on the other side of the kitchen counter that separates it from the living room. She gives you a pointed once-over with her eyes.

You sigh, putting your post shower sloppily re-bandaged hands against the counter edge to lean your weight against—and immediately regret it, pulling them back with a wince.

Gwen frowns slightly.

“Alright, alright,” you say, you wave her towards the living room and join her on the couch. “I just– fuck.” You put your feet up. “Work was fine. Spider… was messy. Just… a couple things back to back, and then I was having a sandwich, and there was an anomaly, and Miguel–”

Gwen shifts towards you slightly, sitting up imperceptibly straighter.

“He was just… Ugh! As if it’s my fault that I–” you wave your hands through the air before pulling them back to your body and closing them. Your face is getting hot, your eyes warm. “Like I can’t keep up-” you cut yourself off— the ‘P’ at the end of ‘up’ barely makes it past your lips—and huff a frustrated breath through your nose, lips pressed shut.

Gwen still sits next to you, eyebrows raised. One leg is pulled up with a knee tucked to her chest as the other dangles, and it’s the hem of her leggings on the leg on the couch that she fiddles with as she thinks, eyes moving to the coffee table.

“I’m not gonna pretend like I understand whatever it is the two of you got into it about, based on that… extremely detailed story,” she starts, a teasing note of sarcasm in her chosen words. “But… he’s like that, sometimes. He just… I don’t think he knows how to show he cares, anymore.”

You sigh. “This was… It was like he was blaming me for getting hurt.”

Gwen stays silent.

You sigh again, deeper this time, tiredness replacing the last bit of anger in your body in one large swoop. You sink further into the couch. “I don’t know.”

You open your protein bar, forcing yourself to take a bite. The hurt in your stomach and the leftover anxieties of the day twists your stomach in protest of the food, but you chew and swallow a bite or two anyway.

“Well… if Miguel is going to apologize to anyone, I think it’d be you,” Gwen says, the corner of her mouth quirking up.

You chuckle, roll your eyes. “Right, yeah.”

Gwen raises an eyebrow at you, skeptical, and then shakes her head as if she’s decided against whatever she was going to say. The two of you sit in silence while you go through the motions of eating.

“Oh!” You say. “I forgot. I got you something.”

Gwen’s eyes follow you as you rise from the couch and go to your bedroom, digging in your bag before tossing her a small black rectangle. She catches it easily, examining it.

“It’s a prepaid flip phone,” you say. “My number’s already in it. Figure this is less conspicuous than Miguel’s watches whenever you’re here and one of us is out casually.”

She grins at you, snapping it shut. “Thanks. That’s really smart."

You smile. “I’ve been known to be smart on occasion. Now,” you flop back onto the couch. “Can we please watch something stupid?”

“Sure,” she laughs easily, lightly, and some of the heaviness leaves your chest.

You've never been away from HQ this long. Not without seeing… well. You don't go with Gwen when she finishes her homework early to trade it in for more. You don't pop by for social calls.

And you definitely don't get any calls routed your way through Lyla for backup.

Even with the somewhat accelerated healing given to you by your spider bite induced powers it takes four and a half full days for the scrapes on your palms to close, less for your arm and leg. Even then, the skin is still tender for another two.

You prioritize your own dimension. Work is good. Being the Spider has its challenges, as it always does. But you manage, even when your hands are still mangled. Even though pushing through it means they take longer to heal.

And you absolutely, definitely, don’t ruminate on the argument with Miguel.

Nope. Definitely not.

Gwen is still staying with you, the end of her second week of sleeping on your couch is near. Occasionally she leaves to help other Spider-People who call for backup, but she always comes back to your apartment.

She’s gone tonight, when you drag your feet across the threshold of your front door, and she hasn’t gotten back by the time you finish cooking yourself a simple meal and settle into the couch, bones weary from a long day.

Your watch beeps from inside your bag that you had unceremoniously dropped on the end of the counter closest to the door. It’s the first sound it’s made since before the fight with Miguel almost a week ago. You get it out, slap it on, and answer the call.

It’s Gwen.

“Hey,” she says. “I’m going on a mission, so I won’t be back for a little bit.”

“Oh,” you raise your eyebrows, sitting up straighter. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” she affirms, twice. “Did you know there’s a Shakespeare dimension? Like with a Shakespearian Spider-Man and everything?”

You laugh. You hope it doesn’t sound as tired to her as it does to you. “That’s wild.” A pause. “Are you coming back here after, or taking a turn at Hobie’s again?”

“Probably gonna go back to Hobie’s for a while. His whole villain situation is settled for now, so there’s no interfering with canon, and we haven’t gotten to play music together in a while, so…” She shrugs.

You nod. “Yeah, totally. Well, lemme know if you need to come by and get any of your things. I’ll have them in my closet for you again.”

“I will,” she smiles.

“And Gwen?’

“Yeah?”

“Stay safe, okay?”

Her smile changes, something softer, a little more serious. “You too.”

Sleeping with an empty apartment feels strange the first night she’s gone, and you realize having her there on the other side of your door had begun to feel like a natural part of being home.

The next afternoon you dare to return to HQ, prompted by a voice call from Peter.

“You know,” Peter says when you step out of the portal, “I don’t think anyone here has gone this long without seeing you around HQ.”

You give an awkward laugh. “It’s barely even been a week.”

May leans towards you, chubby little fingers reaching out at the end of her chubby little arms. Peter lifts her out of the baby carrier, handing her to you. You avoid his pointed look.

“Hi May!” You say instead, bouncing the baby in one arm, the other hand firmly in her tiny grasp. “Did you miss me?”

She blabbers.

“Sure did,” Peter says. “I don’t think she was the only one, either.”

“Aw,” you say in a teasing tone. “You miss me too, huh? You’re soft, old man.”

“”Course I missed you, kid.” He watches you with May, hands on his hips in an all too familiar stance. “But you know I don’t mean just me.”

You fall silent, your smile faltering into a slight frown. Peter doesn’t push the subject.

His watch beeps.

“Peter.”

You pause in your bouncing and mumbling baby talk to May when that voice pops out of Peter’s watch. Peter glances at you, lifting his watch to speak as he angles away from you, just slightly.

“Hey boss, what’s up?”

“You’re late.”

Peter slaps his forehead. “Right, right, got caught up. Be right there.”

Miguel doesn’t wait for a reply, and you hear the small sound of the connection ending.

“Shoot,” Peter says. “I uh, totally forgot there’s that monthly meeting—You’re coming, yeah?”

You pause again, and there it is. The warm eyes, the twist in your gut.

“I… um, I didn’t know it was today.”

Peter actually freezes this time, mouth open in the tiniest ‘o.’ “You didn’t…” he starts under his breath, like he’s speaking his surprise out loud without meaning to. “Oh, uh…” the awkwardness is still obvious in the way he forces a casual voice, the way he fumbles to put his hands back on his hips. “I’m sure that was a mistake. You should come along anyway.”

Before you can protest that ‘ No, I’m almost entirely sure this was an intentional exclusion,’ he’s turned and started marching away at a speed you almost find impressive, leaving you there with an open mouth and unvoiced arguments.

And you’re still holding May.

Damn it, Peter.

You close your mouth, and hurry after him before May can get the idea to leap from your arms and hurt herself by chasing her father unsupervised.

Peter stays about twenty feet ahead of you the whole chase to Miguel’s lab—and yes, you call it a chase because damn it, he keeps glancing back to make sure you’re still following him, and the two of you are drawing looks from the other Spider-People (and cat) as you speed-walk past them.

If the daggers from your glare at his fluffy pink bathrobe could physically manifest, Peter would be a dead man.

Peter disappears through an entryway, his bathrobe whipping around the corner like a cape.

“Peter.”

“Where’s Mayday?”

You’re so caught up in the chase you don’t have time to stop, only realizing that Peter had successfully lured you there when you’re spilling through the entrance.

Every head turns to look at you, and you stumble to a stop, your fixed glare on Peter replaced by a sheepish smile. “Uh, hey.”

Nobody seems surprised to see you, so you deduce they didn’t know you weren’t invited.

“She’s right here!” Peter says in answer to Jess’s question about May’s location, scooping her from your arms. “She wanted some time with our pal here.” He kisses the top of May’s head, and the baby giggles, unaware she’d been used as a pawn in his sick game of–

You feel a burning gaze on the side of your face, briefly wondering if your own glare had malfunctioned and started doing damage to you in place of its intended target of your new enemy Peter B. Parker. But when you look up, it’s familiar red-brown eyes that are locked on yours.

You’ve seen Miguel look stiff, but not like this. Not like someone had poured ice into the back of his suit, like he’d been caught by Medusa herself and remade into stone.

You feel just as frozen.

It’s Ben Reilly who breaks the spell. You don’t quite catch what he says, something about thinking you’d met a tragic demise he’d have to avenge and never recover from, another harrowing memory to add to his collection. But his voice directed at you breaks you from the cryo-freeze of Miguel’s own ambushed gaze, and you turn to greet him and Jess and the other members of the inner circle gathered in the lab.

You join them, the group gathering into a loose circle, realizing only when the attention shifts off of you and onto Miguel that you had grown tense under so many eyes. Still, part of you warms at how happy the group seemed to be at your arrival.

The meeting begins—a rundown of every new Spider-Person of note, all the major anomalous events over the past month: frequency, scale, the patterns, the damage.

Miguel avoids looking at you the entire time. His eyes don’t even flick over you, instead when he looks from one side of the group to the other, his gaze darts down, or up to the projected images, before landing on someone else.

And then, during the listing of major anomalies, Venture pops up. A headshot of the electrified cyborg hovers in the center of the group, his name, dimension, and other statistics listed beside him like an ID card. You’re familiar with these by now, things such as height, powers, who had brought them in. This card bears your name and dimensional ID number in that spot, despite the fact that Miguel had been the one to finally take him down and quite literally brought him through the portal, a fact that surprises you.

But not as much as the last stat, the one that lists this Venture’s dimensional ID alongside the name of his original Spider-Man.

Dimension: #209.

Original Spider-Man: Miguel O’Hara.

“Woah, wait,” Peter says, lifting a fuzzy pink arm to hold out his hand like a stop sign. “There’s another ‘ Spider-Man ’ Miguel?”

“...Yes.”

“Woah, I thought most of you were civilians.”

“Are we going to bring him in?”

“Of course, it’s policy right?”

“I don’t think I could handle two Miguels…”

You glance from the holo of Venture to look at Miguel right when he looks at you, the first time he’s done so since you first entered the room. He freezes, his lips slightly parted, and you see his breath catch in his chest.

Instead of ice this time, it’s… You don’t know what it is, and based on the look on his face he doesn’t either. But the glint of light in his eyes almost begins to look like regret.

Someone says his name, and when he looks away you can breathe again.

Peter, standing next to Miguel, is looking at you. You avoid looking back.

“Did you have a Venture?” Peter asks, letting May play with his fingers.

“I did. He was the first adversary I encountered after my… after I gained my powers.”

Every other Peter present bursts into a million questions, flying from every direction all at once and stopping only when Miguel lifts a hand.

“The Venture of this dimension is of no concern right now. Right now, we need to decide who is going to invite the Spider-Man of Earth-209 to join us.”

Discussion quickly turns practical. When it’s agreed that two people should go for double the convincing power and someone suggests your name as one of the two, he quickly shuts that down with a quick shake of his head, and an enigmatic “I have my reasons.”

You bristle, clenching your fists at your sides.

Eventually it’s decided that Jess will go with Peter, on the condition that he can take Mayday home first, and with the meeting concluded everyone begins to trickle out. Peter passes by you, patting a gentle hand on your shoulder as he does.

“I’m still so gonna kill you,” you whisper at him, no real bite in your voice.

He grins. “Oh, I bet.” He nods his head back towards Miguel. “But stick around a minute, before you do.”

You glance over at Miguel, who’s turned his back to most of the room and is doing something on a screen currently hidden from your view by his broad shoulders.

Peter pats your shoulder again, two pats in quick succession, and then he’s gone. The last of the Spider-People present are quickly filtering out behind him.

You hesitate, feet itching to carry you out with the group, but you stay. You try to tell yourself it��s because Peter asked you to, and not because you can see the tension in Miguel’s back and definitely not because you are quietly debating whether or not to try to help or to make it worse by snapping at him.

You opt for neither, waiting to see if he’ll acknowledge you. You know he knows you’re present, Lyla having said something quiet to him containing your name as the last remaining Spider-Man of the meeting had left.

He doesn’t.

So you leave, silently slipping out the door to portal home from a different part of HQ.

As a result you don’t hear him sigh, or see him finally turn to face you just after you’ve left, or the way his face falters when all he sees of you is the tail end of your feet stepping out the door.

<< Previous Chapter | Masterlist | Next Chapter >>

[peachy-panic]

‘ lay back down. ’ for Jaime

WARNINGS: heavily implied noncon, BBU “training,” punishment, maybe considered mouth whump?

Handler Smith drags him down the hallway by his hair. Frantic apologies spill from Jaime, along with tears that blur the other handlers and trainees—prisoners—passing by. None of them spare a look his way. Here, everyone is contained in their own special hell with no room for anyone’s suffering but their own.

They come to a stop outside one of the specialty rooms at the end of the block. Panic floods his system. “No,” Jaime cries, pulling against the hold despite the sharp sting in his scalp. “Please, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Handler Smith yanks him forward and Jaime crumbles to his knees, the fear and adrenaline and hunger turning his limbs to jelly. The moment the door scans open, he is tossed inside, barely saving his face from a collision with the concrete floor.

“On the table.” The hand is in his hair again before he can recover his balance, forcing him along. Jaime begs the entire way, desperate to apparel to some sliver of humanity he knows doesn’t exist.

“Please. I’ll do it. I’ll do it, I’m sorry.”

“Get on the fucking table.” His back slams against cold steel. Jaime can’t help but kick out when he hears the jingle of metal. He’s been on this table, at the mercy of these restraints, enough times to know that nothing good ever happens in this room.

His resistance is beyond futile. In the end, Jaime knows it will only anger him further, and his muscles are the weakest they have ever been, but terror is at the helm now and fighting like a drowning man. When Handler Smith gathers his wrists in one hand and pushes them to the head of the table, Jaime lurches upward, throwing all of weight into escape. He manages to pull one arm free, but before he can maneuver away, a hand around his throat flattens him back down.

“Lay back down,” Smith growls, inches from his face. Stars dance in Jaime’s vision as the fingers close in, tighter and tighter. His vision goes spotty, then black, for just a second. But it’s just enough to get the drop on him. When he can draw a full breath again, his hands are already cuffed above his head.

Jaime submits to crying quietly as his ankles are secured at both corners. He follows the heavy thud of the Handler’s boots across the room to a large double-door cabinet, his stomach pooling with cold, liquid dread. He can’t make out what he’s holding from this angle.

“Please,” he tries one more time in earnest, his voice barely a whisper.

Handler Smith grabs him by the jaw, forcing Jaime’s eyes to his. “Too late for that, kiddo.”

He brings it into view then: a bottle of liquid dish soap. Jaime screams behind sealed lips, jerking his head from side to side. Fingers bite into the hollows of his cheeks until his lips crack apart, and it’s all the opening Handler Smith needs to shove the tip of the bottle between his teeth and squeeze.

The bitterness is sharper than he could have prepared for, overwhelming his senses on impact. He chokes and sputters, trying to keep the soap from trickling down his throat, but Smith keeps one hand on his jaw, holding him down.

The pour goes on forever, although it’s only just enough to coat the top of his tongue. The second he’s released, Jaime turns his head, trying to expel the already foaming liquid from his mouth, but Handler Smith is faster. Jaime doesn’t even see the gag coming, only feels it when it’s forced between his teeth.

He wants to fight this, too, but all his efforts are focused now on not choking.

“Don’t worry; it’s non-toxic,” Handler Smith says, taking a step back to admire his handiwork. “Maybe you’ll have an easier time swallowing this.”

Jaime barely feels the tears tracking down his temples as he watches his Handler retreat from the room, the door sealing shut behind him.

The hour spent on this table will feel like an eternity. The official mark in his file will be recorded as a punishment for offensive language toward a Handler, but he will know better.

[prismsoup]

OH also i saw in a sketch two other iterators that are in the same local group as TLSPTS, i think it was Structuration of structures and Fractures amongst others?

What do they do in the story (if they have an impact)? I assume they don't like Spears that much x] grumpy robot

Ooh yes ! I haven't drawn these two in a while

Structuration of Structures is also a First Mass Construction Wave ( gen 1) iterator, their construction was finalized a bit before spears' own (probably the equivalent of months or a year or two before his own construction was finalized). It shouldn't be that important since their age difference is negligible but it's often a point of conflict they bring up because Structuration "technically" is his senior (in the sense of being older) (they refer to their actual group senior as Administrator) and they do love to remind spears of that whenever they're in the middle of a debate.

Speaking of debates, these two do that quite often. Their respective Houses don't exactly get along but it's reflected quite more through them, especially since spears' aggressive behavior was something that was heavily encouraged by his Creators. Beyond yelling about how their theories and works and ideas are better, as the two oldest members of their group (after Fracture Amongst Others), they're also constantly bickering about who should be the actual Administrator of the group. If they could, they'd get each other dismantled.

Fracture Amongst Others is the group Administrator, she's the oldest of the bunch since she's a model from the Prototype era (gen 0). She still struggles with handling the more recent communication systems so Structuration helps her with that (and does try to use that as a point for them to be made the new Administrator, or at least take the role "unofficially"). She doesn't really like conflict so she tends to simply avoid it until it's way too urgent or problematic. If you need a general vibe, just think "facebook grandma" I guess. She would send these over-edited sparkling gifs with "BLESSED MONDAY" or "GOOD MORNING" written in fancy fonts in chats if she wasnt too busy with- whatever it is she's doing, no one really knows, she's generally not very active in the comm lines of her group. She's kind, but simply not very helpful as she seems clueless about anything that's happening most of the time. She doesn't dislike Structuration or spears, but they do give her the equivalent of headaches quite often.

There are other group members but I just- never really got the time to ever create them I guess ? Besides one other guy, Calls from the Past, who tried to run simulations within simulations to find out what happened to Sliver of Straw and got trapped in them, only to emerge thinking they were SOS but stuck in someone else's body.

here's a doodle of FAO btw

she has that permanent TBH stare it's not visible here but her puppet has a bulkier build because it's basically a metallic shell full of organic components a proper fully organic puppet (or one that has a better harmony between both organic and mechanical components, and isnt just basically meat stuffed in a can) probably wasnt exactly easy or viable yet at the time of her construction

[forgetmenautical]

Iterator ideas for a rain world x stray crossover!

Text under cut!

1. Instead of using their superstructures processing power to ponder solutions to the great question, Iterators now border the edges and fill the underbelly of the dome. Each one of them is individually in charge of regulating things like electricity and water in their designated area.

2. In order to check the waters chemical levels, it’s drawn directly to the iterators inner chambers for closer assessment before being re-filtered (if necessary) and moved back into piping towards their designated area.

3. Iterators can only filter water up to a certain point. if they don’t draw out enough water, their systems will slowly begin to shut down until they are completely inoperable and need reactivation. With humans now out of the picture, and there being no existing robots who can access their respective gates to fix them, being completely shut down now means death.

4. In a very rare and extremely lethal glitch, an iterators structures can have a higher water intake than intended—eventually resulting in rupture and flooding the general area. This most usually happens to older iterators, and a common aftereffect is the water in the area becoming toxic.

5. While the structure as a whole was being divided into each iterators sector, construction errors were still made, and thus there ended up being a handful of sectors that were too large for a single iterator to handle.

6. This resulted in areas where two iterators had been built in far closer proximity than regulations would normally allow, along with both of their structures being used to regulate the same water source.

7. Both iterators in their area must work together to distribute the water, and often end in arguments and shortages of power throughout their sector.

8. Almost all robots living in the cities don’t know the iterators are there, as their existence only benefitted humans, which mostly kept it to themselves as it was irrelevant information for them.

9. The few who do know they exist cannot open the iterator gates, which allow access into the iterators inner structure.

10. There was a brief effort by an iterator (sliver of straw) who wanted to be permanently disconnected from their structure to be free alongside the robots in the city. They managed to compel a human, and diverted a some of their resources into giving the human all that they needed to create an organism small enough to go into the iterators chambers undetected and disconnect them from the grid.

11. While this succeeded, the organism that was created, now called Zurks, quickly became rampant and its population had an unstable explosion in growth. They fed off of flesh, and resulted in the humans extinction in the dome. No other iterators know where the zurks came from, or how sliver of straw escaped.

and here’s all the stamps I used for the drawing as a treat!

[soartfullydone]

As much as I love the first ACOTAR book, Feyre being made into a fae was a mistake.

Hear me out. SJM is not the first author to make this mistake, but like... Part of why ACOMAF is what it is, is due to this mistake. 

Authors who do these paranormal romances between a human/mortal character and a non-human/immortal often think they need to rush getting the human/mortal character onto an immortal playing field ASAP, but... the waiting is the point. The mortal vs. immortal viewpoint builds angst and tension while two very different beings navigate a world and plot in different ways, all while trying to answer the questions, “When will this thing that’s building between them become a love worth sacrificing one character’s mortality or immortality for? Is it even possible? Can they ever understand love the same way, or are they just too different? Will one of them shedding their humanity or immortality ultimately change their feelings for better or worse?”

We got to see some of this with Feylin, but we don’t get to experience it at all in depth with Feysand, which is an honest shame because having an immortal with a huge superiority complex catching feelings for an inferior smelly mortal? These stories practically write themselves, and it’s why they persist, but SJM once again took the easy route to create Feysand.

At this point, I don’t see any magical, world-building, or narrative reasons why all seven High Lords’ magic would’ve brought Feyre back to life and make her a fae. It was incredible enough that these different beings were able to pull a mortal soul back from certain death. The fae transformation is almost too much, especially since the Cauldron is able to do so for the Archeron sisters. Y’know, the thing that supposedly originated all life and holds unimaginable power. Even seven High Lords should not equal the Cauldron’s sheer transformative power of creation, especially not by bringing a sliver of their magic together. It’s about creating scale with your magic system, babes.

So let’s say a loose, overall plot of ACOMAF still happens, kinda, but it happens while Feyre is still human. Already, a lot more things make more sense and are more interesting.

For one, Feyre still kept that sliver of each High Lord’s magic. This is a much bigger deal as a human than it is as a fae. Humans are not supposed to have or wield magic, especially not in Prythian where they were enslaved. Humans do not have a magical tie to the land that guides their magic and fuels it. There is no one who could teach a human to control magic because a fae being able to do it is a very different process from a human doing it. This is dangerous, uncharted territory.

Second, it would be increasingly valid reasons for 1) Feyre to be in extreme danger if any fae found this out, let alone the High Lords she “stole” it from, and 2) for Tamlin to suddenly be extremely overprotective because he’s already seen Feyre die as a human, and now it could happen all over again and that High Lord trick won’t come about a second time. And 3) the bargain with Rhysand becomes even more treacherous because what will he do if he finds out Feyre has magic as a human? How will he blackmail her to use it in advantage of his court? What danger would he put her in that Tamlin wouldn’t be able to stop because fae bargains are absolute? How can Tamlin and Feyre possibly get a handle on this when humans and magic historically do not mix?

Third, if magic is also tied to emotions, it makes so much more sense for a human to suddenly make an entire room explode because she literally cracked under pressure. Why would it be Tamlin, who’s had centuries to master his emotions with his magic, just because Feyre told him she doesn’t like painting anymore? Be serious. Human!Feyre with magic she doesn’t understand—that no one understands—would be overwhelmed by Tamlin’s worry, by her horrible experiences UtM, by her murders of fae who could now all see her as an enemy despite saving the rest. Tack on trying to hide the truth from a dangerous, mind-fucking fae like Rhysand? Any one would lose it.

This would add actual conflict to post-ACOTAR Feylin because it’s not just “well, they don’t actually love each other anymore because Feyre won’t talk to Tamlin, Tamlin won’t talk to her, and he’s a completely different character now.” 

I guess Ianthe could still be here, too, except we’d have actual political stakes with her presence this time. Tamlin and Lucien both trying to hide Feyre’s magic while trying to find some sort of solution for it while also trying to prove Everything Is Fine Now to a much LARGER court, many of whom don’t at all approve of Tamlin’s mortal lover, Cursebreaker or not. Mortal!Feyre literally cannot train at the Spring Court because what if her magic got out of control, becoming a danger to herself and others? What if she’s perceived as a threat? It could cause a civil war in a court that is already trying to get its feet under it, and Tamlin will fight for Feyre. That’s a non-question.

Enter Rhysand. He can use the bargain to periodically take Feyre away from the scrutiny of the Spring Court because the Night Court is expansive and, being so secretive, probably contains information about magic that other courts don’t have. Think also what Rhysand could have learned from Amarantha about Hybern’s capabilities and advancements. You think Hybern didn’t experiment with humans? Babes, that’s an Olympic sport! 

So now Rhysand and Feyre can experiment with her magic, and if anyone in his court becomes privy to it, Rhysand can either intimidate them into silence, murder them, or worse if they try some slick shit. If the IC are here, it’s not as Rhysand’s IC. They’d be their own characters whose alliances shift for or against Rhys depending on their own goals. (Oh, yeah, this is not a Woobified Rhys who’s secretly been in love with Feyre the whole time. This is a Rhysand who hates the possible mating bond between them who is fully prepared to use this human’s access to all seven High Lords’ magic for his own agenda and political gain. He helped her UtM, so she owes him after all.) 

But this is also STILL scrappy, human Feyre who won’t just blindly trust Rhysand or any fae who isn’t Tamlin or Lucien at their word. This is a Feyre who also wants to find her own way, her own answers, and will absolutely snoop around the Night Court without an escort whenever she can. If Rhysand’s going to use her, she’s going to use him back for herself and for Spring’s sake. Despite the odds, Feyre beat a powerful fae at her own game as a so-called inferior mortal, and now that she can reach for her own power to protect herself and her loved ones? BET she’s gonna do it again, against Rhysand, against anyone. She has a statement to make. Humans aren’t your playthings anymore, and they deserve their place in this world. (Oh, yeah, that fake feminist “bUt He’S aN aBuSeR” empty girl power bullshit? Gone. Get rid of it. It sucked and has been proven to be a lie. This is back to being the humans vs. fae fantasy narrative it’s supposed to be.) And sure, yeah, maybe there is a budding Feysand romance that starts to happen in spite of them both. Maybe it’s all to explore what a mating bond actually is and why one should or should not accept it as Fate. Maybe Feysand still happens, but it’s slow on both sides and begrudging because Feyre, magic or no, is still human, and UtM still happened between them, and Rhys didn’t do what he did “because he had to;” he did it because he enjoyed it, because he wanted a scrap of power and control over someone else, and he wanted his personal freedom back. That’s a LOT they’d have to fucking navigate to get anywhere. But Rhys still cares about his court, his people, yes, even those terrible ones because he’s a terrible man but a damn good political ruler who will gladly dirty his hands because who else will care for the monstrous Night Court? Fuck Valeris, the Court of Nightmares is the sole seat of power from which all culture and decisions stem from. It’s also different from how SJM wrote it because she’s boring. The NC should have so many lesser fae and be stuck in perpetual night, I will die on this hill. And this time, Feyre gets to see how Rhysand manages the push and pull and conflicting designs of his court like a fabled savvy yet unhinged Goblin King. And because she’s dangerous and unusual and a threat to other fae courts, too, Feyre starts to be considered one of his people that he’ll protect and make sacrifices for. It could be—gasp—development on both ends???? Or maybe instead Feylin still happens, and it’s to show that Feyre and Tamlin can navigate new storms and keep growing together, and that mating bonds don’t mean shit if you have true love with someone. That’s the beauty of storytelling! It’s about choosing not only what’s best for the characters but also what themes work best for the story you want to tell!

So then yeah, let’s jump to the Cauldron scene because other than the cool Summer Court, nothing else interesting happens in canon lol. Now, this would be where Feyre would be forcibly turned into a fae along with Elain and Nesta. This would be done for several reasons. 

First, it would be turning what was a book of triumph into a book of tragedy. A human Feyre who has learned about her magic and herself through that experience (along with whatever romance would fit her character arc, could still be both if we’re doing a prolonged love triangle situation) is now being forced into a form she does not want, at least not right now. This is no longer a choice she gets to make in her own time, much like the mating bond isn’t a choice one gets to make. It’s something that just happens to you. Ending the book like this in a trilogy would be following a three-act structure much more closely. Everyone knows the second act should end in utter shit, and all hope should seemingly be lost until act three works incredibly hard to save the day and make the heroine’s victory that much sweeter.

Second, it gives the three sisters a reason to bond and understand each other. This entire fucking series has pitted Feyre against Nesta and Elain from the first, and SJM seems determined to never get Feyre to a point where she truly understands her sisters and they her. Oh, she’ll claim Feyre understands, but textually, we all know that’s horseshit. Feyre’s traumatic experience hinges on her mortal death, but her fae existance? That whole transformation was rather pleasant and without hardly any setbacks (ignoring the pregnancy because fuuuuuck that), unlike the traumatic transformation from mortal to immortal that Nesta and Elain went through in the Cauldron. 

A situation where all three become fae in the same manner establishes common ground between them. At the same time, their experience in the Cauldron would still be different, especially since mortal!Feyre would be bringing into the equation stolen magic she fostered into being her own. She would have her battle, Nesta would fight like hell and take back whatever she could, and Elain? I’ll be honest. I forgot wtf Elain did, but damn what a great opportunity to give her some characterization! What does Elain want? What would she fight for? That’s what the Cauldron could help answer because it’s a symbol! 

So yes, while the experience of being forcibly turned into fae would be shared between them, they would each still have their own demons to fight about the aftermath. Would still need to navigate a foreign immortal existence with minds and hearts that are still human in nature. (I’m a big fan of comparing born-immortals like gods to turned-immortals like vampires because how does a turned being who was once human keep from going corrupt or insane? Our minds and bodies weren’t built for the weight and boredom of centuries upon centuries, so what do you do with that now?) Nesta, Elain, and Feyre would each struggle with answering who’s at fault for this, and how do they find peace? And they would help each other adjust because none of them are doing this alone anymore. That’s the third book on top of a Hybern war on top of getting to that “And they lived happily ever after/Into the West/whatever makes narrative sense” conclusion.

We talk about power imbalances a lot in this series, but finally, we would have three sisters in the same situation helping each other as equals. As much as I love Tamlin, Lucien, and my version of potential!Rhysand, none of them would be able to understand this situation as true-born immortals. I’m imagining a now fae!Feyre able to adapt to a more instinctual, unique magic and being able to guide her sisters through their own magical gifts in a more caring, compassionate way than she first got. It would not be perfect, no sibling relationship is, but at least that bond could be repaired and nurtured. Nesta and Elain would also have their own gifts and experiences to share with Feyre. We could travel to other Courts to learn things each sister would need, babes! Nesta and Elain could also determine their own futures rather than have a heavy-handed author determine which dick looks better with their gaunt waists (but big boobs!) Nothing would be one-sided or entirely broken anymore. We wouldn’t have “crying into scrambled eggs” scenes or forced jail in a sentient house with a man who just wants to fuck you or mates lying to their wives about their life-ending pregnancies or anymore “Elain is Elain,” whatever the fuck that means.

God, a three-act fucking structure with a cohesive narrative and character arcs and romance arcs that make sense. The bar should not be this low~~~~

[spotsupstuff]

what happened to boreas during the events of saint's campaign? I'd have figured because of his self sustaining properties, he'd be one of the last iterators actually functional before saint inevitably bababooeys him

-snaps fingers n fingerguns atcha- you got That right, buckaroo! Boreas indeed is still kicking just fine when Saint enters the Aeolus Root ring, especially if you ignore his mental state consisting of crushing loneliness and nasty ass giant case of guilt. i told Shkiki this- i geniunely think he'd only die if a lot of ice would block his water filtration systems. he's like a damn cucaracha

(see, Beebee is stationed very high up north n i think he's close enough to the sea that he uses That as his water supply. he runs Very cold, much more so than a normal Iterator- this is mostly the case cuz i wanna give the greek god Boreas shout out with it, but in-universe can be blamed on his sheer massive size. he needs to keep himself as cold as possible. can't exactly cool his systems with solid ice tho and so this person who doesn't like/can't handle other people Needs these other people that warm up the atmosphere n keep the polar caps at bay. so honestly even tho he's fine n dandy when Saint finds him, he was already living on borrowed time)

Saint has a bossfight with Boreas just like with Sliver except Boreas is.. kinda more sturdy n also more aggressive n has a bigger chamber- he's like Sliver+, that girl was a weasel. hard mode Sliver.

it takes a bit, but eventually Boreas' puppet falls and the antigravity stutters to a stop. i imagine that working iterators that put up a fight need multiple blasts before they completely die because each blast is killing only a portion of the Hivemind, then the rest of it rushes to fill in the holes, that gets blasted and the process is repeated until there's no more of the collective left. so you can imagine what kind of state B is prolly in after like 9 direct blasts

torn apart, exhausted and so much more smaller n lonelier than before, Boreas finally stops fighting and instead huddles in a corner. for once absolutely terrified out of his mind n insterestingly enough- regretful. he tries to send out a warning signal to the rest of the group, but he can't manage it with how diminished he's become. Saint approaches. Boreas doesn't plead for mercy. he stares the rat down even when its eyes wildly flash

Saint finishes him off. Leaves. Notos watched the whole thing

to say that Notos is fuckin Traumatized from that is an understatement. its special overseer stays with Boreas' puppet beeping at it for an hour, waiting for him to wake up. but of course, nothing

now, i'll add- Beebee n Notty didn't ever really Fully Click together. either they didn't interact much because of their "i gotta work, man" mentalities, they were shit at interaction or they barked at each other (even in mythology it says that fights between Boreas and Notos were catastrophic and absolutely terrifying- fun fact! Notos actually seems more dangerous than Boreas from what i've read n this Is meant to be reflected with the Anemoi Iterators too). like i've had the idea that when Notos calls for an elder brother n Boreas n Euros look up, it'd specify "the elder brother that I actually appreciate" when needin Euros

either way, these two were still siblings and Boreas *did* Mentor Notos when it needed it (along with Euros; the Winds r kinda like a lil self-sustaining group within the bigger group- they are "Elite"/Leading Iterators of The Children of Eo after all) n they still like... Loved each other. even when Notos cut the communications with him after everything started going down the drain, it still loved him. n it regrets some things it said to him (thoughtless.. cruel things...) but cuz of the way it is as a person it never decided to step up n be the one to reestablish contact and apologize

and now Boreas is dead. one of the first iterators of the group gone, maybe the third. it can never say now, how it is so sorry and never meant it

[missingcarrion]

carrion // ch11 teeth against flesh

masterlist

note : a short chapter bc im getting impatient about getting to the good shit

taglist @tapioca-milktea1978 @neapolitantoebeans

-

Aasimar’s apartment smells like him, sweet with hints of lavender and rose with some salt. It briefly crosses his mind that Aasi might be accustomed to saltwater than fresh, but his mind is brought to something else entirely. His home was messy, but in the lived in sense. He had an odd stuffed animal on his couch, a cross between a bear and an owl.

            “’m very hot,” Aasimar mumbles, and begins undressing as he walks deeper into his apartment. Shepherd follows, haphazardly ducking beneath the doorways leading to Aasi’s bathroom.

            The apartment isn’t anywhere near as friendly towards having a fish resident – there’s no space for much else other than the bare minimum, and Shepherd barely fits into the bathroom as is, but Aasimar slides into the tub, prefilled with water. Shepherd sinks beside him, outside the tub, eyeing him with a small smile. Aasimar lets out a weird snort noise before his breathing visibly changes and Shepherd sees his gills open and close.

            “What… what was that?” He asks, eyes focused on Aasi’s gills, his brows furrow.

            “Mm? Oh, I uh, to breathe from my gills. It’s, ah, hard to explain. I can switch where I breathe from, basically? It’s all boring and very complicated, sweetling,” Aasimar stares at him lazily, head cocked to the side. His voice sounds more… natural, like speaking with oxygen intake through his nose had hindered his speech greatly. He sounds like a siren, his tone almost like a song, even without singing.

            Shepherd leans against the tub, swiping his hand through the water, “it feels better, doesn’t it?”

            “Mhm,” he nods, golden eyes softening, “you barely fit in here. You didn’t have to follow me in here.”

            “I didn’t want you to be alone, you could get hurt. You’re what they would call a lightweight, it seems,” Shepherd muses, and he snorts, “it was just vodka, wasn’t it?”

            “I’ve never handled vodka well, or any other alcohol for that matter, but I like the taste. C’mere,” Aasimar leans forward and presses a kiss to Shepherd’s cheek, and then another against his jaw. “I want to run away from the Institute, y’know? I wanna start a club, call it Delirium, make it a safe space for everyone who walks in.”

            “That sounds nice,” Shepherd whispers, “do I get to come, too?”

            “We’re in this together,” Aasimar nods, inhaling slowly, “you don’t deserve to spend the rest of your existence in servitude. Every little bird deserves to exist outside their cage.”

            “Why do you stay, then? You’ve been here a while, haven’t you? Why not just leave and make that club?” Shepherd cocks his head to the side.”

            Aasimar snorts, “no one leaves the Institute alive. Oleander was a testament to that, a promise to the rest of us that if we did what he did, we’d die like he did. Only, we didn’t know exactly what had happened to him. The only way out is to dismantle the compound and ruin them. But with the Institute on your back, you’ll never truly be free. Once you’re in, you’re in for life. And when you’re a creature like me, your life stretches on for a long time.”

“We could figure something out, we could get Hannah here and figure out a way to escape, then we can get that club.” Shepherd says, defiantly, and assuredly. The Institute would crumble beneath his feet, he was just sure of it.

Aasimar stares at him oddly, “you know we’d have to essentially destroy the compound, right? We won’t be able to escape long enough if too much of the compound’s systems are still usable. They’d track you down in a heartbeat.”

“I could separate myself from the mainframe of the system. They still have a sliver of agency over me, I can use that as leverage into their systems and sneak past their firewalls and damage them from the inside.”

“I don’t particularly want to know how you figured out what any of that means or how to do it, but that only solves one issue. Taking out their tech solves one half of the problem,” Aasimar shakes his head and slowly begins to stand. He gasps for air for a second before he snorts and shakes his head vigorously. “Fuck, never gets better. But, uh, point being Shep, treason to this degree needs to be planned. We won’t have room for failure.”

Shepherd pulls away, giving Aasimar room to dry himself off. “We should still try, Aasi. Like you said, every bird deserves to exist outside their cage. You included.”

He hesitates and he sighs, towel wrapped around his body. “We don’t even know if Hannah wants to join us on this endeavor.”

“Only one way to find out,” Shepherd grins, “you have her number right? What better time to plan than now?”

There’s a pause and then a sigh as Aasimar trudges to his bedroom with Shepherd in tow. He rummages through his drawers, grabbing whatever he deems comfortable enough to put on.

“You want me to call Hannah and bring her over here to talk about committing treason?” He asks, both incredulous and amused. “You’ve gotten quite bold, Shep.”

“I want… I want that dream with you. I want the club, the freedom. I want it.” Shepherd casts his glance elsewhere and he finds a peculiar photo sitting on Aasimar’s night table. “That…. That was me, wasn’t it?”

“Hm? Oh, yeah, sorry. I haven’t been here since you, ah, woke up.” Aasimar doesn’t look over, opting to get dressed with his back towards Shepherd. “For what it’s worth, I’ll message Hannah. I don’t know if she’ll come over, I can’t guarantee anything, but… I think we should still try.”

Shepherd stares at the photo, sitting stiffly at the edge of Aasimar’s bed. He looks so entirely different now, it’s almost like they were always two separate people. He sighs.

“Can I stay the night? I want to sleep here, with you,” Shepherd turns to look at him, expression almost pouty.

“You’ll come to learn that dating me means my space is your space too, lover mine.” Aasimar snickers playfully.

“I love all the nicknames you have for me,” Shepherd admits quietly, smiling. He leans back, making himself as comfortable as he can. “I feel spoiled every time you do it. I feel bad I don’t have one for you.”

“You can always come up with one yourself,” Aasimar shrugs and crawls into bed beside him, pressing up against his side. “You can call me whatever you’d like.”

“Lamb,” Shepherd murmurs, grinning, “because I’m Shepherd.”

Aasimar sighs and snorts, “mm, sounds nice when you say it. Just for me.”

—

Hannah shows up the next morning, brows knitted in worry almost as soon as she enters the apartment.

“You’re gonna get him erased, Aasimar,” she accused, zeroing Aasi out with annoyance. “This…. This whole meeting, him being here, they’ll know something’s up. You’re gonna get him killed.”

The instantaneous nature of her ire takes Shepherd by surprise, but it comforts him to at least know that Hannah cares for him, even if she’s angry as she is. He doesn’t like that she’s mad at Aasimar, like he hasn’t been the one to start this, like Aasimar hadn’t been hesitant to the idea.

“Hannah, wait,” Shepherd reaches out, as if to shield Aasimar from her wrath, “this was my idea. Not his. He doesn’t even want to do it!”

“W – What?” Hannah furrows her brows and her wrath dissipates almost immediately, “you want to rebel? I don’t… I don’t understand. Where is this coming from?”

“It’s always been there, I think,” he looks away, lips pursed, “will you join us, Hannah? I – I know how to keep us safe, but I don’t want to do it without you.”

She fidgets, leaning to the side, “they’ll fucking kill us, Shepherd. You may get a chance, but we won’t. Once we’re out, we’re out. Do you even know the magnitude of what you’re doing? What it means? It’s better to be in servitude than dead, you of all people should know that, Aasimar. Shepherd, you’re new, you’re… you don’t know the Institute like we do, but you cannot escape. No one can.”

Shepherd purses his lips and his gaze shifts towards her, he’s unsure, uncertain of her words, but he feels almost insulted that she regards him the way she does. “I know their wrath, Hannah, I have felt their doting hands as they dole out their affection. For hours they made me and unmade me, for hours they made sure I knew their only answer was death. I know and I want something more. Will you join me, or will you stand aside?”

Aasimar glances between them, his jaw clenched but he says nothing. His gaze leans to Shepherd, watching him. After a moment, he sighs and leans his head back.

Aasimar tilts his head, legs crossed. “We didn’t think the Institute was forever, did we? We’ll have to free ourselves eventually, why not now? Either we die slaves, or we die with freedom in our eyes. Which would you prefer?”

Her silence is loud – Shepherd isn’t sure what she’d choose, not with the way her expression seems angry, like she’d waste nothing to turn them in for treason. But then she sighs and cocks her head to the side.

“What plan do you even have for this? The Institute practically owns everything around us. Pretty sure the Institute is on our birth certificates,” she sits, arms crossing over her chest. It feels him with little hope, but some is better than none.

“You need to get a piece of my memory core into the control room of the compound,” Shepherd clears his throat and he looks away, “I will be able to shield them from you and Aasi. I’ll erase you both completely from the Institute’s knowledge. I can blind them long enough for us to all get out.”

“Hm, not bad, but they’ll never let you into the control room. They won’t even let Aasimar in. It’s high security clearance, humans only. I don’t even have half the clearance necessary for that room. You’ll need a diversion of some sort.” Hannah hums thoughtfully and purses her lips in thought. “We could blow up the lab? It’s far enough away from the control room that it’ll keep people away long enough for you to do what you need to do.”

“I’m sorry what? You want to do what with my lab, you know, the one I’ve spent the last several years of my life proving I deserved?” Aasimar eyes her cautiously, frowning. “You must be fucking mad to think I’d let you do that.”

“Do you have any better ideas?” She snorts, “it’s just a lab, if you value your freedom, you’d throw it all away.”

“That’s not fair,” he hisses.

“No? Neither was you asking me to throw everything away for you two. I want freedom, who doesn��t? But why would I give all this up for a crack shot chance that maybe I’ll be free? They gave me a home, a job, money. Out there? If we do this, what will we have? And don’t fucking say each other, Shep. That friendship is magic bullshit isn’t real.”

Shepherd stares at her in disbelief, but decides to stay quiet. Aasimar can handle himself, he’s far more capable than anyone had ever given him credit for, and yet it’s Hannah’s words that strike a chord in him.

“Do you know what they did to him? To my Oleander,” Aasimar asks, and there’s a level of fondness in his tone that Shepherd’s only heard him use in privacy, where no one can hurt him. “They killed him, they killed him. Do you know what they did after, Hannah?”

Hannah furrows her brow and looks at him oddly, “what do you mean? What… what happened to him?”

“I –” Aasimar looks back, like there’s more he wants to say, more he wants to reveal, and so Shepherd waits patiently, “he’s Shepherd. Oleander is Shepherd. Now, at least.”

She pauses and her face turns ghostly white, “w…what?”

“I’m Oleander,” Shepherd shrugs slowly, “I have his memories, his… his everything, I guess. They took whatever he was and made him into me. They took the key parts of Oleander, locked away the rest, and left the rest in me.”

“Wait, so this whole time…” Hannah furrows her brows and starts to pace, muttering to herself, “do none of us see an issue with you two fucking each other? You were supposed to move on from him, Aasimar, not… date him again!”

Aasimar shrugs, “okay, so I’m willing to admit my taste is not always that great when it comes to romantic partners, but Shepherd isn’t… he’s not Oleander anymore and you know that. He’s his own person now. The circumstances to allow such a thing is entirely less than ethical or ideal, but something good did come out of it.”

Shepherd can’t help the way something flutters within his chest. He feels as if there is something he must do to earn the way Aasimar speaks of him. “I would’ve told you sooner, when I was first beginning to remember, but… I wasn’t sure how you’d react. He didn’t seem to be your favorite person ever.”

There’s a moment of silence before Hannah just sits down and drags a hand across her face, “oh my gooood. This cannot be happening. You cannot be serious. Of course, Oleander died wanting to run from the Institute. It’s – I guess it makes sense that you’d want to go too.”

“So? Will you do this?” Shepherd asks, brows furrowed. “Will you run away with us?”

“I… I don’t know how far we can get, but… maybe we could give it a shot,” she nods slowly, “let’s do it.”