#Speed Metal (early); Power Metal

[k-i-l-l-e-r-b-e-e-6-9]

𝔅𝔩𝔦𝔫𝔡 𝔊𝔲𝔞𝔯𝔡𝔦𝔞𝔫 - 𝔐𝔬𝔯𝔡𝔯𝔢𝔡'𝔰 𝔖𝔬𝔫𝔤

[gutsby]

I’m a Good Girl, Officer!

Pairing: Reader x Detective Dixon x Officer Grimes x Officer Walsh

Summary: Apparently flashing your tits to truckers on the freeway is frowned upon in small towns like yours. When three familiar King County cops take charge of the case, you learn they punish bad girls a little differently.

Warnings: NSFW. Foursome! :-) Unprotected p-in-v, spitroast, double penetration, overstimulation, praise and degradation, bimbofication, throatfucking, painal, breeding kink, using c*m as lube, and a (consensual) strugglefuck. Elements of dubcon à la power imbalance and coercion. Age gap. Public indecency, evading arrest, assault on two cops, and general drunken stupidity.

“Goooooood morning, babycakes!”

Your best friend rolled the hem of her shirt over her chest and shimmied her shoulders at the big white semi truck about to pass under the bridge. The stranger at the wheel took one look at the woman’s tits and almost swerved across two lanes of traffic. The sight sent you and your drunken group howling with laughter, falling onto the ground as Maggie yanked her top back down.

It was five a.m. and freezing. The club where you’d been boozing all night had long since shuttered closed, and you and your closest friends from high school—home for the holidays and happily plastered—had gone wandering home in a daze. When one of the girls had stopped suddenly at the midsection of a bridge, you hadn’t been able to keep from sharing her smile the second she’d grinned and said, ‘For old time’s sake?’

In no time at all, you’d been lined up along the metal railing and ogling the unsuspecting drivers down below. The freeway was mostly empty at this hour, save for a couple tractor trailers and early morning commuters, but that didn’t matter.

Rosita was up next. You watched her eye an RV as it bumbled down the road and saw her take hold of her shirt just like Maggie had. Then, right when the camper got close enough, the brunette bent slightly at the waist, flipped her top up, and screamed at the top of her lungs:

“HEY BIG RED!”

A big, buff dude with a bright red handlebar mustache looked up from the passenger seat, as did the white-haired, bearded gentleman wearing a bucket hat beside him. The pair then watched your friend’s roadside spectacle with shared looks of wonder and awe, before passing under the bridge as slow as they possibly could. Rosita staggered off the ledge and reached for the flask in your hand, heedless of her breasts still hanging out.

“Your turn,” she chirped before taking a swig.

Your feet were already wobbling onto the concrete slab. From your vantage point, the outline of the sun was just then breaking out across the tops of the trees, casting the morning’s first rays across your bare skin. You stretched your arms out wide, Titanic-style, and basked in the warmth—likely looking drunk as all hell as you did.

“Ooo, this one, this one!” Maggie cut in presently.

You followed your friend’s gaze and caught sight of a sleek, glistening firetruck speeding down the road.

Perfect, you thought as your eyes soaked in the sight. You pictured the truck packed to the gills with hot and sweaty firemen inside, and your fingers itched at the bottom of your shirt. Curled under the fabric and ready to lift as soon as the time came. Even from a distance, you could make out a tiny cluster of uniformed men at the helm, each of their faces contorted with curiosity.

The truck sped up and drew closer. Maggie squeezed your hip, Rosita chewed her lip, and together, you all stared the firetruck down with bated breath until it was just about to go under the bridge.

In a blink, you flipped your shirt up and shook your tits back and forth for the men going by. Much to your surprise, the firefighter in the driver’s seat honked his horn a couple times, and another one, at the rear, stuck his grinning head out the window and waved.

You, Maggie, and Rosita waved right back, practically falling over each other in fits of laughter as you yelled,

“Call me, daddy!”

The three of you collapsed on the sidewalk in a heap of shitfaced hysterics. Rosita flung your flask to the side and smacked you playfully across your boobs—still out and proud and likely able to cut diamonds with how hard your nipples had gotten in the chilly morning air.

“Daddy?!” she wheezed, ���You skank!”

You straightened up, partially splayed across Maggie’s lap, and wiggled your shoulders once more, feigning that high-pitched, ditzy voice you used whenever you were hammered,

“Daddy please fuck my titties, I’ve been such a bad girl!”

Then you gave the best porn star moan you could muster and started to pull your shirt the rest of the way off. Not thinking, you balled up the light pink fabric and threw it up in the air while Rosita cheered—‘Tits out for the girls!’—and Maggie almost pissed herself laughing. Really anything would’ve had your sides fit to split at this point, seeing how faded and adrenaline-drunk you were.

You reached up and waited for the top to fall back into your hand...until it didn’t. You cast a sweeping look across the three of you to see if your shirt had landed somewhere else, but the garment was nowhere in sight.

You turned and craned your neck to see over the railing.

“Shit!”

You scrambled to your feet and gripped the metal siding of the bridge, tits fully out and exposed to the world. You watched as an old Ford Ranger picked up speed and crushed the scrap of fabric under its tires, before the driver, in turn, gawked and honked his horn like a fool.

Just as you started to turn back to tell your friends the bad news—and beg them for a piece of spare clothing to cover you—a sound startled you all.

The short, sharp yelp of a siren straight ahead.

Your hands flew to cover your chest while Maggie and Rosita went floundering over each other trying to get up. A few yards away, a police cruiser had pulled up to the side of the bridge with its lights flashing bright red and blue.

Shit, again, seemed to be the resounding sentiment among you three as the car started inching closer.

“Stop right there!” a voice boomed over the PA system.

That only prompted your group to take off running.

You, cradling your tits in both hands, and Rosita and Maggie trying desperately not to trip over the curb, the wayside trash, or each other as they raced down the street.

Two car doors flew open. Then, the sound of that same voice, breaking out across the still morning air without the aid of the intercom and telling you to freeze right now, followed by the sound of footsteps. Boots thudded heavy on the ground below, moving fast and with purpose. Both pairs easily gained on your three retreating forms in a matter of seconds.

Maggie and Rosita were already leaps and bounds ahead of you. Too busy juggling your tits and struggling to breathe, you felt your heart sink.

Rosita shot a look over her shoulder and cried, ‘C’mon!’ as she eyed the cops coming closer.

I’m trying, you wanted to say, but couldn’t speak. Your chest was too tight, pupils blown wide with fear.

This was not the fucking time to be having a panic attack. But here you were.

Before you could stop yourself, you waved a frantic hand to your friends and somehow managed to scream, ‘Go!’

The girls slowed, tried to urge you forward, but, sensing that you weren’t keeping up and wanted them to go on without you, relented at last. They bounded off toward a side street and disappeared down an alley while you felt your legs start to falter beneath you.

“Freeze!” the voice bellowed again. Loud, gruff, and much closer to your ear than it had been before.

You did as he said, not because you wanted to, but because you had to, then, or your body would’ve given out. Still in the grips of terror and rampant intoxication, you stopped in your tracks, spun on your heels, and watched the two officers sprint toward you.

You started to raise your hands in surrender, but just when one of them approached—presumably to tackle you to the ground—your instincts took over. You scarcely knew what you were doing; you just felt your leg lift with the last bit of strength you had left, then, astonishingly, deliver a kick straight to the first man’s gut.

To the shock of you, the cop, and his partner, the man went tumbling backward. Fell straight on the pavement in almost comical fashion and grunted in pain.

“Rick!” the dark-haired one yelled reflexively.

His gaze darted back to you in an instant.

You knew you were capital F fucked. You didn’t bother trying to run and simply stared at the man left standing in a mixture of horror and dread as he charged straight at you.

Your flight response abandoned, you had only to fight. And, by the looks of your opponent, you sensed this motherfucker knew how to tussle.

Before you could even prime yourself for another kick, the cop had taken you down with one lunge. Pinned you flat on the asphalt and yelled right in your face,

“I said don’t move!”

You moved. You moved in his arms while he wrestled you to the sidewalk, snaked his hand around your front, pressed your back against his chest. You moved when he barked his orders once more, told you to get down now and stop resisting, and even wrapped his arm around your throat to force your compliance.

Chokehold’s illegal, asshole, you thought, fighting hard against his grasp. This cop played dirty, and appeared to give no fucks about who could see.

Just as his grip started to tighten around your neck, you heard the other officer back on his feet, talking sharply into his radio:

“Code 10-33. Requesting backup on Fayette Bridge.”

At the same time, the man above you was trying to shake his head, craning his neck to get his partner’s attention.

“Nah, nah, Rick, I got her!”

When ‘Rick’ didn’t seem to hear and kept shouting into the receiver, the burly cop turned his body to the side, squeezing your neck even tighter.

“Rick!” he called, “I got her right here, she’s— FUCK!”

Suddenly, the man’s voice broke off in a strangled yelp as you sank your teeth into the flesh of his arm. When he loosened his grip out of instinct, stinging with pain, you made a desperate attempt to slip from his grasp and get back on your hands and knees.

The freshly bitten cop just slammed you even harder on the ground, unleashing a string of expletives in your ear.

“Fuck you, pig!” you screamed back.

You weren’t sure what had come over you in the few short moments preceding this one—what had irked you so terribly to be inclined to kick one cop in the stomach and bite another on the arm like a feral cat—but there you went. Face down on the pavement with a set of handcuffs being clipped over your wrists.

You winced when you were jerked back onto your feet, the cop’s left hand on your shoulder and the other at your back. He shoved you to take your first steps forward, you instinctively told him to eat shit and die, and as a grim, unsavory unit, you walked toward the officer with his grip still fastened tight to his radio.

“You alright?” Rick asked, out of breath.

His gaze seared right through you to his partner—whose face, you could sense, was already beset with a scowl.

“Bitch bit me,” he spat.

You saw Rick’s expression change, watched his mouth move to speak again, when a sound crackled out of the receiver in his hand. A couple code words and street names you couldn’t make out.

“That’s— that’s alright, now, Officer Walsh has the subject restrained,” Rick returned hastily.

At present, Mr. Walsh had his thumb dug deep in your back, ostensibly holding tight to keep you subdued but more than likely just being an ass. He felt you flinch and gave you a fierce shake.

“Quit squirmin’, girl.”

“Quit pinchin’ me, pig!”

“You’d best watch that fuckin’ mouth’a yours.”

The voice above your ear had you easily outmatched in volume and tone, coarse as it was unkind.

You decided to try your luck anyway.

“Make me, pussy.”

The last thing you saw was the look of bewilderment leap to Rick’s face as Walsh thrust you forward, suddenly, and slammed you face-down on the hood of their car.

“What’d I say ‘bout that fuckin’ mouthin’ off?! Huh?”

“Shane—”

Rick grabbed this Shane’s shoulder in an effort to intervene. Tried prying him off before he could shove you down any harder, but his partner seemed adamant. Shane put his palm over the side of your head and knotted his fingers through your hair, quick to pull.

“Nah, man, I ain’t takin’ lip from some halfwit bimbo—”

“Hey!” you started, only to have your words muffled with your head forced back on the hood.

“Shane!” Rick snapped this time, taking a harder grip of his shirt and yanking him back. To your dismay, Shane kept a chunk of your hair clenched in his fist and probably dislodged a dozen or more strands when he was pulled away.

You let out a gentle groan as your head hit the car for a third time and the two officers broke off in a skirmish.

“You heard what Dixon said,” Rick hissed.

“Fuck what Dixon said!”

“You cain’t just— you got no right—”

“I got every right, man, lemme tell you sumn’—”

Before Shane could ‘tell you’ much of anything, though, the two were rendered silent by the sound of tires on pavement close by. A halt, a tense moment, a car door swinging open and closed, and a whisper passed quickly from Rick to Shane as the two exchanged a look,

“You fucked up.”

You tried tilting your head up toward the windshield to sneak a look in its reflection, maybe see who was coming. You couldn’t make out a thing.

Then, presently, the voice of a much more hushed, humbler Officer Walsh as he spoke,

“Detective Dixon, how’s it—”

“Six bucks.” Another man, presumably Dixon, cut in.

“Huh?”

“Six bucks fer this fuckin’ coffee. Tastes like dirt.”

Oh, uh, yeah, you could just sense Shane shifting uncomfortably on his feet as he searched for the right words to say, maybe scratched his head once or twice. Fortunately for him, Rick came to the rescue.

“Tried that new place on Main, huh?”

“Nic and Norman’s, yeah. Eggs were runny as shit an’ the waitress kept callin’ me ‘Dale’,” the man, now presumably Dixon but not Dale, said in a huff.

It was as if you weren’t lying flat on your tummy with your top off and your hands cuffed behind your back. You stupidly hoped the new man hadn’t noticed you.

“Well who’ve we got here?”

Shit.

You heard footsteps approach, but you didn’t turn your head. Your lungs expelled a small, shaky breath as this detective came by and stood inches from your bent form.

“She and her friends were flashing their tits to the cars passing under the bridge,” Shane declared, a touch too smug as he said it, “The others got away, but this one was sweet enough to grace us with her presence.”

“Kicked me in the stomach and knocked me on my ass,” Rick added.

“Bit me, too.”

You heard a low tsk-tsk as the detective clicked his tongue. Took another sip of his mud-flavored espresso and shook his head above you. Your skin burned with the imprint of his gaze.

“Spring break come a little late this year?” he teased.

“Fuck you,” you muttered.

The men let out a collective chuckle at your tart words. You could just picture the smirks and sly glances shared between them as they watched you writhe against the hood of the police cruiser and try not to give them the satisfaction of seeing your breasts splayed out underneath you.

You were ashamed, admittedly, unsure of how to proceed with three cops at your rear and few options at your disposal besides swearing up a storm. At last, you decided to shift your gaze in their direction and shoot them a glare—more of an empty threat than any real message, but you didn’t care.

You turned and immediately wished you hadn’t.

Your heart leapt into your throat.

“Daryl?!”

This time, Rick and Shane were the only ones to laugh out loud, before quickly stifling the sounds when they realized their superior hadn’t shown a hint of amusement.

Daryl Dixon, the detective, and your brother’s best friend from college, stared down at you with a look of horror.

“Y/N,” he stammered, in shock.

It was clear he was trying with every fiber of his being not to look down at your tits, but his resolve was only so strong. Finally, he settled on looking away, fast, and staring off in the distance while you readjusted yourself.

“Been a minute,” he said, trying for a curt, awkward nod.

And a minute it had been. The last time you’d laid eyes on the man had been at a Christmas party hosted by your brother and his husband four years ago. You’d exchanged all of ten words in polite, drunken pleasantries, and he’d stumbled off at the end of the night with a gorgeous redhead dressed as Mrs. Clause. You hadn’t heard hide nor hair of him since.

For a moment, Rick’s eyes danced indeterminately between you two. Shane’s remained fixed on your face.

“You know this little hellion, Detective?”

Daryl cleared his throat.

“Yeah, uh, that’s— that’s Aaron’s little sister.”

“No shit?”

The words came out faster than Shane could think to stop them. Your hometown was no great metropolis, and even he knew of your brother through a friend-of-a-friend and several cousins’ babysitter’s grandma’s Aunt Carol, or some similar relation. He and Rick had probably partied at your lake house a couple times in college.

“Uncuff her.” Daryl’s voice had already lowered some, pacing away to give you privacy.

Shane obliged and freed you from the handcuffs. When you turned around, only the back of Daryl’s body was visible to you as he ducked inside the backseat of his car.

He returned a few moments later with a blanket. Tried his damndest not to let his vision stray an inch from your face as he handed it to you. Then he beckoned Rick over, and the two exchanged a few quiet words by his sedan.

“You got rabies or anything?” Shane was eyeing the tiny crescent of teeth marks on his forearm.

You rolled your eyes.

“Worse. I’m one of those walkers.”

Shane gave you a look that conveyed he was just as annoyed but didn’t say anything more, even when you made a face at him. He just crossed his arms, leaned back against the squad car, and gritted his teeth. Before you knew it, Daryl and Rick were walking back.

“I’ll take her to the station,” Daryl said.

“Alri—”

“What?” you cried, “For what?!”

You knew for damn what. You just couldn’t believe your brother’s best friend wasn’t planning on giving you a family friend freebie of some kind.

Officer Walsh supplied an answer for you nonetheless, “Let’s see, now: public intoxication, public indecency, open container, and aggravated assault on two police officers. That clear things up, sweet cheeks?”

“You’ve gotta be shitting me.”

“Disorderly conduct, too,” Rick chimed in. Trying not to smile as he said it.

The only ones still not amused by anything this situation had to offer were you and Daryl. The detective looked positively pissed and ready to chuck his cup of coffee over the bridge, while you wanted nothing more than to disappear into the ether. The two of you exchanged a brief, uneasy look and quickly looked the other way.

Rick and Shane were already retreating to their cruiser. You just watched them, almost forlorn, and pretended not to see Daryl signaling for you to follow him.

“C’mon now,” he murmured.

“Can’t you just let me off with a warning?”

Daryl was treading closer to you now, hand outstretched in an almost gentle sort of gesture. Like he wasn’t about to cart you off to the slammer.

“Y’know I can’t do tha’,” he replied, “With all the fuss ya caused, Captain would have my head.”

When you wrenched your arm away from his grasp, you saw him frown.

“Hey,” Daryl said, a little more sternly now, “Don’t make this harder than it needs ta be.”

You watched him reach for you again.

Your first instinct was to shrug him off. Your second was to flee.

You weren’t sure why you even tried it—it just seemed like the right thing to do in the moment, like they did in the movies, to take off sprinting down the street. You gave it a shot.

Unfortunately for you, your feet didn’t carry you far, and Daryl had you snagged in his arms in about five seconds flat. You glanced to the first cop car and saw that Rick and Shane hadn’t even stirred from their seats. Just grinning and laughing at your attempted escape.

Detective Dixon had you by the bicep now, leading you toward his car with a little more force in his step. You were cursing, writhing, fighting every effort of his to corral you into the backseat, but, without much trouble, he pushed you in.

Rear doors locking automatically, you had little more to do than sit and pout and feel every bit the brat as Daryl buckled himself in and started the car.

“C’mon, Dar, this isn’t a joke. I could lose my job ‘cause of this,” you whined, threading your fingers through the wired metal barricade that separated you.

Daryl watched and waited for the other cruiser to fall behind him. Then he started off.

“Shoulda thought about tha’ before ya decided to show yer tits off ta the world, no?”

“Like four people saw us.”

In the rearview mirror, you could’ve sworn you saw a ghost of a smile cross Daryl’s lips.

“I got a pretty colorful phone call from a man named Eugene saying he saw three girls danglin’ half nekkid from a bridge tryin’ ta flag down a firetruck...Don’t sound all that discreet to me.” Daryl shrugged, pretending not to see you slump back in your seat.

“We were drunk!” you cried.

You threw your hands up and let them fall at your side, while Daryl made a wide left turn.

“So?”

“You’ve done plenty of dumb shit when you were drunk, Dixon. Don’t even start.” You raised your hand like you were talking to your mother as an angsty teen. The man in the driver’s seat hardly seemed fazed.

“Oh?”

You paused a beat, then jolted back up as an old memory stirred in your mind.

“Like— like the time you got so shitfaced on senior night that you stumbled into my room thinking it was the bathroom,” you said, hastily, “Pissed all over my floor.”

Daryl’s eyes darted up to meet yours in the mirror, sharing in that vague and ugly recollection from his college days.

“That was yer room?” he winced.

“I was twelve and terrified,” you said, hovering as close as the metal wall would allow you, “Didn’t even know what being piss-drunk meant until you decided to relieve yourself all over my Barbie rug.”

“Ah shit...I’m sorry, Y/N.”

“Let me out and we’ll call it even?” you ventured.

“Nuh-uh,” Daryl said, shaking his head, “Not how that works.”

You balled your hand in a fist and struck the wall between you, an exasperated sigh escaping your lips. Try as you might to fight it, you were still slightly buzzed and far more prone to anger than you normally would be. Daryl gave you a look.

“Pipe down, princess, ‘s’ain’t the end of the world.”

“And who the fuck are you to say?” you snapped, clenching your jaw.

Daryl pressed a bit harder on the brakes as he brought the car to a stop at a red light. Then he shot a look over his shoulder. His brow drew in just slightly.

“Yer a real brat, ya know that?”

“Really, pig?” you sneered.

“Yeah, slut.”

Your mouth fell open at the sound of Daryl’s first real insult. He’d been all placid smiles and gentle eyes, never lapsing in the civility of his rank or his respect for you, his close friend’s sister, until that point. You watched as his gaze visibly hardened and moved away from yours, foot hitting the gas when the light turned green.

“What did you just call me?”

“A fucking slut. ‘Cause tha’s what ya are,” Daryl answered, not missing a beat.

Had he lost his fucking mind? Who did he think he was? The man carried on, starting to increase the car’s speed,

“Nobody’s showin’ off a pair’a tits that damn pretty ‘less they’re a whore, ya know?”

You sat back in awe, hardly aware of the cruiser’s growing acceleration, or the fact that Daryl was just then starting to turn down a road you—and Rick and Shane—had never seen before. You were too offended. Flustered.

“Excuse m—”

“Yeah, I looked. You’ve got an incredible rack, really,” Daryl admitted as he cut you off, “Too bad it’s attached to such a worthless little slut.”

“Get fucked, Dixon,” you hissed, beating your fist against the divider once more.

“Oh, believe me, we will.”

Your blood likely would’ve run cold in your veins if you had the first clue what he was talking about. What did he mean by ‘we’? Why had he started smiling when he’d said that?

Presently, you looked out the window.

Where the everliving fuck had he taken you?

Instead of finding yourself parked outside the King County Sheriff’s Department, as expected, you cast a sidelong glance to the left and the right and saw nothing but trees. Wilderness. You were parked in a clearing, at what appeared to be a campground...in a quarry?

You turned back to Daryl, suddenly rigid with fear.

The driver’s side door was already slamming shut behind him. Instead of deigning so much as a glance at the back, he strode right past you and went over to the car that had just pulled up. Rick and Shane appeared just as confused as you were as they came to a stop.

You watched them, dumbstruck, pulse pounding in your ears as a hundred different thoughts danced in your mind and grew progressively darker the longer you stared. Were they going to torture you? Kill you? Cuff you to the car and kick the living shit out of you until you bled from the mouth and begged them for mercy?

There was no way the drunken fratboy of your youth, now a detective on the police force and your brother’s best friend, would do something so heinous, right?

You slinked back in your seat when you saw all three men turn and approach your car.

Now, more than ever, there was no place but the police car you wanted to be as Daryl flung the back door open and stuck his head inside.

“Hey,” he grinned, “Wanna talk?”

Before you knew it, your feet were planted on the rocky terrain directly in front of Daryl’s car, and your hands were clasped together. Not cuffed this time—just folded and trying to look as polite and unassuming as possible.

“We’ve got a proposition,” Daryl started, steady.

You watched him pace back and forth while the two other officers stood back in silence. Shane wore the faintest smirk.

“You don’t wanna go to jail, right?”

You shook your head no.

“Good, ‘cause we don’t really feel like bookin’ ya,” Daryl continued, “Too much paperwork an’ all tha’ bullshit.”

You nodded along, slowly. Relieved to hear you weren’t getting arrested but waiting to see what the ‘But…’ was.

“But, y’know— it wouldn’t be fair to let ya go that easy.”

You kept nodding. Now looking at Shane and Rick and finding both of them smiling.

“So I say we make ourselves a deal. That okay with you, sugar tits?” Daryl sneered.

You balked at the name but swallowed your pride and answered, ‘Uh huh’ in a small voice. Squeezed your hands even tighter together.

Daryl approached you for the first time. You stood there, trembling, still thinking there was a chance that the three of them might just beat the hell out of you right then and there—and you flinched when Daryl lifted his hand to your cheek.

He brushed a few loose hairs from your face.

“I think you need to start by saying sorry.” His voice was almost serene.

You blinked a couple times up at Daryl with wide, oblivious eyes, shaking your head when you didn’t understand what he meant.

“To Shane,” Daryl added.

Softly, he tilted your chin toward his friend, who was grinning even bigger now.

You struggled for a second, opening and closing your mouth a couple times before stammering:

“I-I’m sorry, Shane.”

Your voice barely reached them in a whisper. You were so confused.

And, just as you started to wonder if that was all they really wanted, or if there’d be some other catch, Daryl decided to supply you with a wordless answer before you could even ask. The “catch” caught you right on the backs of your legs as Daryl gave them a gentle kick, causing both to buckle underneath you. You fell to the ground on your hands and knees and straightened yourself up just in time to see Shane make his leisurely approach.

“I’m sorry, Shane,” you spluttered again, thinking he just wanted you to grovel there in front of him.

Daryl and Shane exchanged looks. Then they smirked at you.

“I think Shane would rather you show him how sorry you are,” Daryl said, suddenly leaning over to collect two handfuls of hair behind your head, “With your mouth.”

At any other time, such condescension dripping from a man’s tone would have turned you off—and pissed you off—immediately. With Daryl and Shane standing over you now, the former’s fingers slotting through your hair and the latter’s working to unzip his pants, you couldn’t imagine yourself being any more aroused.

It hit you like a ton of bricks, all at once.

They were there to fuck you, not fight you.

At least not in the way you’d imagined anyway. No doubt Shane was keen to get his fill, and might be a tad more aggressive than the others to get it, but Daryl would make sure he didn’t push too hard. He held your head in place while Shane pulled out his cock.

And, you hated to say it, but your mouth was salivating for a taste. You couldn’t be bothered to look up at either man now, just soaking in the sight of Shane’s thick, veiny member and feeling your face being moved closer to it. Not minding you were being manhandled as a gentle moan escaped your throat.

“Wanna show Shane how sorry ya are? Show him how good tha’ slutty little mouth’a yers can make him feel?” Daryl hummed.

“She’s droolin’, man,” Shane said, hardening at the sight.

You were. You couldn’t help it. You felt a thumb swipe at the spit that had just begun to trickle out of your mouth and sensed Rick at your side, enthralled as all the rest of them. Then that same finger drifted down to your tits, smearing the moisture all over one nipple before pinching the peak between two digits.

Your lips parted with another small whimper at the sensation, and Shane took that as his window to thrust his cock in your mouth. Caught off guard, you couldn’t help but gag when his tip hit the back of your throat, but Daryl steered your head back just in time so you weren’t choking on that first, single stroke.

“Easy, easy,” Daryl chided his friend as he watched your eyes water and your hand reach up to steady yourself against Shane’s thigh.

“You kiddin’? She fuckin’ loves it,” Shane grinned, “Don’t you, slut?”

You licked your lips and nodded. Didn’t bat an eye when Shane brought the head of his cock back down to your lips, and you quickly enveloped him in an open-mouthed kiss of sorts. Shane groaned at the sensation and couldn’t help but rut his hips.

“Such a fuckin’ whore,” he hissed through gritted teeth.

Daryl helped move your head up and down his length while you stared up at Shane with the prettiest, most fucked-out expression you could manage, and you felt his length twitch in your mouth. Daryl pulled you off.

“Now what do we say for kicking Officer Grimes, hm?”

Before you could answer, your face was tilted to the left, and you were met with the sight of Rick stroking his length at your side. A string of saliva still connecting your mouth to Shane’s cock, you looked up at the friendlier of the two officers and gave him a smile.

“I’m sorry, Officer Grimes.”

This time, Daryl let Rick take the reins, for a moment, and move your mouth over his shaft. You happily accepted him between your lips and started bobbing almost instantly. You relished the pleasure that flooded those soft blue eyes, the way they winced just a little when you took him to the back of your throat. Like he wanted to fuck your face but felt too overcome with some feeling or fear to give it a try.

You decided it was cruel to make a man so polite wait a second longer than he needed to. Presently, you pulled off Rick’s length with a gentle ‘pop’ and turned your head back over to Daryl.

“Can you please tell Officer Grimes to fuck my throat?”

All three of them froze for a second, taken back by the filth that had just come out of your mouth, still spoken so sweetly. You stroked Rick’s cock and pretended to be oblivious of what you saw. Deep down, you knew by the glint in their eyes they were yearning, lusting, fucking you in their minds with every innocent blink you made. You felt Daryl’s grip tighten in your hair.

“You heard the lady,” Shane said, words directed to Rick but gaze never leaving you.

Out of habit, his hand came to wrap around his own cock as he watched you take Rick’s. You glanced between the two of them, placed a quick kiss on the tip—first on Rick’s and then, to the men’s surprise, on Shane’s—and parted your lips when you moved back to Rick.

Officer Grimes didn’t hesitate this time. He leveled himself with your mouth and pushed all the way in. You started to moan, but the sound was audibly cut short by a spasm in your throat. Rick reached the back of your warm, wet orifice with ease and, going further than Shane ever went, actually slid down that space. Exactly how you wanted him. You bobbed your head and hummed to show your appreciation.

Encouraged by how eagerly you swallowed him and how quick your whimpers were to reverberate down his length, Rick moved his hips. Watched you gag once or twice and blink through a couple tears, before Daryl wiped the moisture away as Rick had done for your spit. You were every bit the pampered and primped fuckdoll in their hands, bobbing and licking and sucking him dry.

“Good girl,” Daryl murmured, massaging your scalp when you gagged again.

“Takin’ me so well,” Rick groaned as he fed you another inch.

Shane continued pumping his cock, grunting out expletives, and watching you all the while.

You pulled off of Rick for a moment. Whether it would piss them off or turn them on, you didn’t really care—but you reached up to Shane and replaced his hand with yours, before dropping a kiss over the head of his cock.

All three men seemed to love it. Especially Daryl.

Though he hadn’t made a move to get his own dick wet just yet, you got the sense the man loved to watch. Loved to see your mouth sliding up and down and swallowing more cock every time, thinking to himself what a nasty, filthy little whore you were and just waiting for the moment it would be his turn to claim your throat and the rest of your holes as his own. In the meantime, you wanted to give him a good show.

You jerked both Rick and Shane in either hand and chanced a look over at Daryl.

Locking eyes with him, you moved down over Rick and sucked half his length in your mouth. Then, just as quick, you took Shane between your lips and gave the tip a wet, spongy kiss before taking him to the back of your throat. The mound in Daryl’s pants grew even more pronounced.

“Hey,” Rick said, grazing your cheek with his knuckles, “Ain’t you gonna say sorry to Detective Dixon, too?”

You moaned against Shane’s throbbing length and made sure Daryl saw your tongue swirl over the tip. Teasing him now.

Presently, Shane pulled out of your mouth and grabbed hold of your hair.

“Gonna make him feel real good with that slutty little mouth’a yours, huh?” he growled.

You nodded and smiled. Wiped your mouth with the back of your hand and started crawling over to Daryl as soon as Shane let you go.

You couldn’t believe he’d waited this long—couldn’t believe you’d been sucking his friends dry all this time and hadn’t gotten so much as a glimpse at him. Daryl watched you with a comfortable, lopsided sort of smirk as you made your way over to him, clearly enjoying this view of you on all fours.

Not even a guillotine could take away the head you were about to give this man.

When you finally reached his knees and straightened up enough to reach for the zip of his brown slacks, you felt a hand catch you around the wrist. To your surprise, Daryl held you back and yanked you onto your feet.

“I wan’ my apology someplace else.”

That ‘place,’ you would come to learn, was simply on top of his car. Splayed out on the hood of his cruiser with your pants dragged all the way down to your ankles and kicked off at your feet. Daryl carried you there and stripped you down to your panties, leaving you all but naked and ogling him with keen, hungry eyes. Rick and Shane were quick to follow suit and seemed just as eager as you were to watch this scene unfold.

You reached for his clothed erection once more but found your hand swatted away.

“Nuh-uh,” Daryl shook his head.

You raised an eyebrow in question. You opened your mouth to speak but found yourself moaning instead when Daryl slipped a finger past your panties and between your folds. Somehow finding your clit quicker than you could even dream, he circled that tiny bundle of nerves with his thumb and teased the seal of your entrance with his middle and ring fingers.

You clawed at his wrist.

“But Dar— I-I wanna taste you so bad,” you pleaded.

Daryl grinned and plunged his two fingers deep inside you, holding your hip to the car to keep you from squirming. He nodded to Rick, who took that as his cue to press down on your other side. Together, they had you pinned to the hood and helpless under their touch.

Daryl curled his fingers up and caused you to moan.

“How bad?” he asked.

“So—” your voice broke off in a gasp when the pads of his fingers stroked your G spot, “So bad, Daryl, please.”

You could tell by the look in his eyes that he was savoring every second of this sight: you with your legs spread, begging and pathetic as he and Rick held you down. He probably would’ve liked to keep you there a little longer, maybe teased and fingerfucked you to the point of tears, but he got the sense that his friends weren’t possessed of quite the same patience. He’d just have to save the overstimulation for later.

Before you knew it, Daryl had given Rick another quick nod, released you from his hold, and pulled you off the car—before steadying you back on your feet, facing the vehicle.

Your hands flew out to catch yourself, but, before meeting metal, intercepted Daryl’s broad form instead. He took a seat on the front end of the car and caught you in both of his big, calloused palms.

“How ‘bout that taste, hm?” He was already starting to unbuckle his pants.

Finally. You promptly started to sink to your knees, when a light slap struck your cheek. You peeked up at its source and found Daryl shaking his head once more.

“Stay put,” he instructed as he started to pull his cock out of his boxers, “Rick’s gonna fuck tha’ slutty little cunt while ya suck me off, alright?”

It wasn’t so much a question as it was a signal—and an effective one at that—to get Rick off his ass and hurrying to get behind yours. In the next second, you felt a set of warm, calloused hands on your hips and a tender grip tugging you back to meet someone’s crotch.

Your pussy twitched with the realization of your current predicament: bent over between the two men, with Daryl’s cock mere inches from your face and Rick’s member throbbing above your heat. Never once had an image like this materialized in your mind’s wildest fantasies, but now that you were here, stuck between these two with Shane just then drawing closer, you found yourself turned on to no end.

You parted your lips to allow Daryl entry when Rick teased the head of his cock up your slit. You took just the tip of Daryl, trying to stifle a moan, and the man behind you rubbed the length of himself up and down the seam of your cunt to collect all your juices. Another inch of Daryl in your mouth and you were whimpering with the feeblest look up at him, needing Rick inside you too.

Daryl held your gaze and ran a hand over your head.

“Little slut needs her pussy fucked, does she?”

You nodded, bobbing gently over Daryl’s member. You were just preparing to ease him in another inch or two when all of a sudden, the head of his cock jumped to the back of your throat as Rick thrusted into you.

It was far less gentle than you’d expected, sending you deep down Daryl’s length and causing you to gag. You hardly had time to adjust, or pull off of the man in front of you to catch your breath, when Rick started pounding you from behind. Rutting his hips, grunting in time with his thrusts, and slapping your ass in quick, ruthless hits. Daryl groaned above you as you had no choice but to deepthroat him again and again.

Shane, ever impatient, approached your free hand and guided it toward his erection. He wrapped your fingers around his cock and helped you stroke him quick, all while your mouth and pussy were presently occupied by Daryl and Rick’s sloppy thrusts.

“Ya like gettin’ spitroasted, huh? Like gettin’ fucked in two holes at once?” Shane sneered.

“Fuckin’ loves it,” Rick answered for you with a smirk, “Never seen a pussy this wet in my life.”

You imagined all of them could see and hear the arousal oozing from your freshly-fucked cunt, but you sensed no one liked it better than Daryl. The man was entranced with the sight of your form getting fucked from behind, sucking him deeper, looking up through your wet, tear-stained lashes as you let him fuck your face. That pure euphoric look in his eyes was almost like a drug—you wanted nothing more than to keep it there as long as you could.

Mere minutes later, Rick’s hips were stuttering against your own and his cum was spraying all over your insides. You didn’t stop sucking Daryl.

Shane gladly switched places with Rick and took a greedy handful of your hips before pumping his cock once or twice. You flattened your tongue against Daryl’s member and took him even further down your throat.

The man behind you was panting, right about to breach your folds when a sight below him held him in place.

Rick’s load was just then starting to dribble out of your pussy, leaving a long white trail of milky residue down your slit.

Shane clenched his jaw.

“Still hungry for more, slut?” he said through gritted teeth. To your surprise, you felt his fingertips trace the outline of your cunt and start moving up toward your other hole.

He was coating your asshole with Rick’s cum, grinning when you flinched.

“Think she’s ever been fucked in the ass before?” Shane asked the others. He slipped a digit inside your hole and watched you moan on Daryl’s dick.

Daryl pulled you off his cock and held you by your hair, your mouth saturated with strings of fresh saliva.

“Have you?”

You swallowed and shook your head. Daryl didn’t let his gaze linger on you another second. He signaled to Rick.

“Right there,” he pointed with his chin.

You hardly knew what was going on or where Rick had hastened off to. All you could comprehend was the gruff tone of Daryl’s voice telling you to get up, now, and the feel of Shane’s hands still holding you, guiding you back to your feet. When you didn’t move fast enough for his liking, Shane simply swept you up in his arms bridal-style and started carrying you himself.

Over his shoulder, you spied Daryl and Rick exchanging words and the latter placing the blanket you’d worn earlier on the ground. You almost felt tempted to ask Shane what they were planning to do, just starting to speak, when the man brought you over to the spot and set you right down.

The three of them had you circled in an instant.

Before the question could even form on your lips, you watched Daryl join you on the blanket. His smirk was evident.

He patted his lap for you to come straddle him.

When he started to lie down, your hands followed suit, eager to rest on either side of his chest, but another touch held you back. Behind you, Shane had grabbed hold of your hair and turned your head to face him.

“Spit,” he ordered, holding his hand under your chin.

You did as you were told and watched him rub your spit all over his shaft, before bringing his hand up to your face again and repeating his command.

At the same time, Daryl had lifted his hips and was guiding you closer to his cock. Your gaze moved down, then up, then over at Rick with a look of confusion, only to dart back to Daryl when you felt him split you open with a single thrust.

You had just been impaled on Daryl’s cock, mind reeling at the stretch and sensation, when you felt two fingers slip between your legs from behind. Daryl gripped your face and brought it down to his—wouldn’t let you look over your shoulder as the other man’s hand started to traverse the contour of your ass.

You were pulled in for a kiss as Daryl bottomed out inside you. Tongue hardly able to keep up with his as moans and whimpers went bubbling up in your throat, you just sat there, straddled him, and let him use your pussy any way he pleased. He snapped his hips and groaned your name between your lips, while the hand that was prodding you from behind finally reached its intended destination.

You yelped into Daryl’s mouth the second you felt a full, hefty finger slip inside your ass. Officer Walsh, no doubt.

The two men at your rear all but moaned as your tight little hole contracted around Shane’s finger and Daryl continued to pound you from below. It was odd, that sharp, disparate feeling of Daryl’s cock drilling your pussy while Shane’s digit pumped a much slower pace in your ass. Your senses had kicked into overdrive, and you couldn’t keep from showing your pleasure with every sound that you made.

Shane withdrew just long enough to add another finger, smearing a mixture of cum, spit, and your own juices all over your walls for lubrication. You sensed him moving closer, when Rick grabbed hold of his shoulder.

“Give her a minute,” he muttered.

Shane scoffed, shaking him off.

“Little whore looks plenty ready to me,” he retorted as he eyed your slick, sensitive hole.

Suddenly, your throat was clasped in Shane’s big hand and your head pulled tight against his chest. He had taken his cock in his other hand and was angling his length just right to press the head between your cheeks. Daryl had slowed almost completely.

“C’mere.” Daryl beckoned you closer with a tender look. When you leaned down to lay flat on his chest, he smiled, stroked your hair, “Jus’ hold on ta me, alright?”

Your walls were already squeezing his cock like a vice and your fingernails making white-hot crescents in his shoulders—you couldn’t hold him tighter if you tried—but you nodded. You let him kiss you again, felt a little more fit to take his tongue this time, and eased down along his shaft until you were filled to the brim with nothing but him.

That last part changed as soon as Shane thrust into your ass.

You jolted forward and instinctively tried to pull off his cock, but Daryl held you tight. Brushed a few stray strands of hair from your face and started peppering your skin with kisses the louder you whimpered.

“Doin’ so good for us, baby— takin’ our cocks so well,” he cooed in your ear.

You whined at the fierce burn between your legs as both Daryl and Shane pushed inside you. Rough fucking was one thing, but being penetrated in both holes simultaneously while sandwiched between two men just brought the sensations to entirely new heights. You clawed at Daryl’s shoulders and damn near sunk your teeth straight through your bottom lip.

“Good girl,” the man below you mumbled as he watched your face contort in a medley of pleasure and pain, “Tha’s my good girl.”

“Fuckin’ whore,” Shane spat, shoving his cock even deeper. Clearly not one for tender anal training.

Now it was Daryl going slow and sweet, just barely stirring his cock inside you while Shane slapped your ass and yanked your hips over his own. You saw Rick’s previously-deflated cock grow hard in his hands, and you proceeded to watch him watch you as he stroked himself a few feet away.

You needed another distraction. You caught Rick’s eye and simply licked your lips in silent invitation. He was filling your mouth in a matter of seconds.

With three cocks pumping in and out of you, you felt every bit the fucked-out brat you knew they’d wanted to claim. Your brain had all but melted to mush in their hands, your body manhandled and fucked every which way while your thoughts yielded, in turn, to pure anoesis.

There was something unusually freeing about being a living, breathing fuckdoll for these three King County cops. You couldn’t get enough.

Rick pulled his dick out of your mouth just long enough to slap you with it.

“This what ya needed?” he teased, tapping the head of his cock on your spit-painted cheeks, “A good fucking in all your holes to make you behave?”

You stuck out your tongue and tried to nod, your body still shaking with every thrust from Daryl and Shane. Instead of pushing back in, Rick simply rubbed his cock all over your face and shot you a look that was soaked to the core with condescension. Somewhere below, Daryl began toying with your clit.

You sucked in a breath between broken moans and clenched harder around both men inside you.

“Think she wants a switch,” Rick grinned.

In a minute, you felt yourself hoisted back up—Shane pulling out and Daryl rising swiftly to his feet. Two sets of hands helped maneuver your body to a position you’d never tried, never even seen before as your legs hooked over either one of Daryl’s arms and your ass was thrust back. Then, to your relief, it was Rick at your rear this time, rubbing his tip along your red and stretched out hole while your head came to rest on his shoulder.

You were pressed between the men once more and cradled comfortably in their arms. Daryl took care not to rut into you too hard while Rick was still coating your arousal across the hole Shane had just fucked raw.

“Shh, shh,” Rick’s lips dropped close to your ear while he pressed a wet finger inside, trying to relubricate the area.

You wiggled and squirmed, a bit too sensitive to keep still at this point, so Shane reached in and took you by the throat.

“Hold still,” he snapped. Stroking himself with his free hand.

You watched his eyes drift down to the spot where he’d just been, where Rick was trying to squeeze into, and felt the first real twinge of bliss when you felt the head of his cock tease your entrance. This was softer, even sweet. Paired with Daryl’s extra slow thrusts and the sounds all three were making as you spread your legs even wider, you first became aware of a knot in your tummy.

When the warmth of your ass enveloped just the tip of him, you felt it constrict even tighter.

Rick let out a groan and struggled to keep from thrusting too hard. Shane tightened his grip on your neck.

“C’mon now, sugar tits, don’t act like you ain’t just—”

“Shane,” Daryl growled.

Rick didn’t stop. You squeezed both cocks and moaned.

“I’m just sayin’ if the slut could fit my cock in and—”

“Fuck,” Rick hissed.

You were bouncing in between them now, head lolled back on Rick’s shoulder and hand pressed flush against Daryl’s chest. Steeped in pleasure as they stood and fucked you stupid.

Shane continued to tug his cock and stare you down with hungry, possessive eyes.

Daryl’s moans turned to shallow grunts while Rick’s breath fanned soft across your cheeks in ragged breaths. You writhed and you grinded between their two bodies, too lost in your own ascent to pleasure to sense anything else. Your skin was wet with a sheen of sweat and both holes all but soaked between the two men. Their cocks plunging in and out at a vicious pace until the coil in your stomach was nearly starting to ache.

“Feelin’ good?” Rick hummed in your ear.

“Gettin’ close?” Daryl joined.

Shane’s hand closed around your throat until your lungs could scarcely breathe and your vision blurred with stars. Making one last strangled moan, you rolled your hips and felt something taut and tight and blisteringly hot break loose across your abdomen—and not just the ropes of cum shooting deep inside you.

Alongside that tiny eruption came a blitz of pleasure unlike anything you’d ever felt before. Your body went haywire, every square inch of your skin alight with ecstasy and your mind going numb in a surge of bliss. You moaned and felt the walls of both holes spasm desperately over Daryl and Rick alike, and suddenly, something far beyond your control seemed ready to tear your body in two.

A beat of silence. Your consciousness gradually returned.

When you opened your eyes, the first thing to grace your sight was Daryl’s shining face, grinning ear to ear with the happiest expression.

You blinked and watched him closer.

As your vision adjusted and the world came clearer into view, you caught a glimpse of what seemed to have stretched Daryl’s smile so wide—and what had made his features so unusually luminous in this light.

Your eyes widened.

Daryl glanced to Rick, then Shane.

“Who knew she’d be a squirter?”

Presently, your juices were coating Daryl’s face and chest, having spurted straight from your cunt in the throes of climax and spraying all over his front.

Your pussy still clenched and convulsed as the cum from either man went seeping out of both holes.

Even Shane was left speechless, having just milked the last of his own release and watched you come undone in near-pornographic fashion. His chest was still heaving, blinking in disbelief and exchanging sly looks with Daryl and Rick every now and then. Rick pressed a kiss to your shoulder and smiled.

And, just when it seemed any one of you were liable to break that spell of silence with a laugh, the rattle of radio feedback startled you all.

Somewhere amidst the articles of clothing strewn around you, a walkie talkie clipped to one officer’s belt rang loud with the sound of a voice from a neighboring county’s dispatcher.

“All available units, high-speed pursuit in progress— Linden County units request local assistance. Highway 18 eastbound, GTA, ADW, 2-17, 2-4-3. Advise extreme caution.”

All three men stood to attention. Daryl and Rick lowered you quickly to the ground while Shane went scrambling for his clothes.

“Suspects are two male Caucasians. Be advised they have fired upon police officers. One Linden County officer is wounded.”

“Shit!” Rick hissed.

“Unit 1, unit 3, to eastbound Route 18. Two miles west of Interstate 85. Will patch in Linden County sheriff radio.”

“Is tha’—” Daryl started.

“We need to go,” Shane interrupted.

Another voice broke out over the line,

“Roger that. We’re five minutes south of the Route 18 intersection.”

Daryl tossed you what garments of yours he could find and snatched your arm in a breakneck haste. Before you could so much as slip your shirt over your head, though, you found yourself carted back over to his squad car and pushed toward an open door.

“What’s—”

“I’ll explain on the way.”

For reasons you couldn’t yet understand, you knew this call didn’t bode well for any of you. You took one last look at Officer Grimes and felt a twist in your stomach.

[mr-cha-n]

Chapter One: How to Not Get Stabbed

Pairing: Lee Chan x reader

Genres: action, smut, angst, fluff, superhero AU

Warnings: violence (heavy), sexual content, penetration, mentions of death, profanities, drinking

Word Count: 22.2k

Summary: The peace of quiet of your garage is only broken by the hum of machines and clanking tools, and you like it that way - until a superhero crashes his car straight into your door.

The garage hums with the familiar sounds of clanking tools and low rock music playing from your dad’s old radio, its worn dials barely holding the station through the static. The air stinks of oil and metal, a mix of grease and gasoline lingering in the corners of the shop that reminds you of home. Rusted car parts and half-disassembled engines are scattered across workbenches in an organised chaos that only someone who spends hours here could understand.

Most of the time you spend in the shop is alone – you haven’t expanded enough to need to hire a second mechanic, although you’d been considering getting someone to do your telephone and books after you dropped the phone behind an engine block, trying to juggle too many things at once.

But, that’s how you like it. Being surrounded by machines and metal brings you far more contentment than interacting with your customers – a necessity, although often a frustrating one. The beautiful complexity of the mechanisms feels like creation in your hands, the ability to mend and perfect a power usually reserved for God alone.

Something about the surety of everything having its place, and knowing what that is, brings you a solace well needed in your grungy corner of life.

Your garage sits on the edge of the city, tucked in a dodgy part of town where most people would think twice about wandering after dark. It’s not unusual to see someone rush by with their hood up, or hear the occasional screech of tyres speeding away from something best left alone. Keeping to yourself is the chosen lifestyle here, and you are no stranger to the consequences of choosing to get involved.

Over the years, you’ve managed to build yourself a reputation – not just for your skill with a wrench, but for being a place where no one asks too many questions. You’ve seen all sorts roll past: street races, ex-cons, people looking for a little discretion. You don’t judge. As long as they respect the rules and pay their bill, you don’t pry into their business. It’s a system that keeps you afloat amongst an unforgiving landscape. Every time you flip the newspaper over to see another store shot up or looted, you feel even less obliged to know anything about your customers.

But, peace and quiet is never-lasting.

You’re stuck at the bottom of a lifted car, trying to wrestle a stubborn bolt loose from the undercarriage as the high-pitched squeal of your doorbell rings out through the shop. Your hands, slick with oil, slip on the wrench and you mutter a curse under your breath.

Heavy bootsteps lumber into the shop, stopping a few feet away next to your squat wooden desk.

Finally, with a grunt of effort, the bolt loosens. It comes free with a satisfying click, and you slide out from under the car, swiping your forehead with the back of your hand. You wipe your hands on a rag, and take a quick glance out toward the street, taking in the dark, rusty tone of the early evening sky.

“How’s she lookin’?” A familiar, gravelly tone calls out towards you.

A lopsided smile crackles over your lips as you tilt your head with a small shrug, your gaze finally locking with the customer. “She’s looked better – but I think you already knew that.” The car is an old classic, its parts worn and rusted like they haven’t seen a proper tune-up in years.

Mr Corallo lets out a huff of laughter. His arms cross together over his broad chest, revealing a snake tattoo on his lower left forearm – a reminder to everyone of who he is loyal to, and who protects him. “Yeah, alright. And you’ve got a cure, doc?”

“Give me a few days and she’ll be as good as new.” You tap the hood of the car lightly with your fingertips, wiping off a speck of oil that had dripped from your shirt.

Mr Corallo nods, pulling an envelope from his jeans’ back pocket. “Half now, half later, right?”

You give a small hum of agreement, walking around to wash your hands of the oil.

"Mr Scott thanks you for your business," Mr Corallo says, throwing the envelope down. The corners of his mouth curl up, revealing just a hint of teeth, and his eyes gleam with a dangerous glint, revelling in the uncomfortable shift in the air at the namedrop of Mr Scott.

“Always a pleasure.” You reply with a tight-lipped smile. The invocation of Mr Scott bothered you less than it would others, but he wasn’t a person you wanted to be associated too greatly with your garage. The ‘lawyer’ has a reputation for criminal activity more well-known than any of his actual court cases, and you’ve seen the evidence of his anger splattered across the Lower South Rim back alleys. But, like many of your seedier customers, his business kept your shop out of harm’s way, and so you could get over his more displeasing mannerisms.

“Oh, hey-” Just as you think he’s gone, Mr Corallo turns around one more time, his gait falling to a stop with one hand on the doorknob. “-you haven’t happened to see or hear anything about that incident at Brewer’s Quarter, have ya? Mr Scott’s been interested in finding out more about what went down.”

You pause, drying your hands on the towel, careful to keep your expression neutral. The incident at Brewer’s Quarter had been all over the news – a warehouse fire, but not of the accidental variety. Word on the street was that it had been a targeted hit, a gang skirmish that went too far. Brewer's Quarter is just a few blocks over, close enough to your shop that you’d heard the sirens blaring late into the night.

You hadn’t seen anything, not directly at least. Of course, there was that incident with the car, but you aren’t sure that had anything to do with the fire…

It was the early hours of the morning, police had scattered, the fire had been put out, and anyone involved was long clear of the area. You were walking back from the shop, having had a late night trying to sort out your accounts for the last month – a job that required at least two glasses of whiskey to get through it.

You didn’t tend to stay late at the garage often, and the prospect of walking around these streets late wasn’t one that sat well with anyone who knew them. But there was a shortcut to your apartment through the old dump on 64th that cut down your journey to a five-minute run, if needed.

The night air had been cool, the kind of eerie silence that clung to the aftermath of violence. You had been walking quickly, your hands shoved deep into your pockets, eyes darting around out of habit. The whiskey buzz had made the shadows seem a little more sinister than usual, but you were steady enough on your feet.

You’d first noticed something odd when you’d reached the outer chain-link fence cornering off the dump – a faint, metallic glint, barely visible in the low light. At first, you’d assumed it was just junk, another rusted-out shell of a car left to rot. But, as you got closer, you could see the car was too new for this area, and wrecked – badly wrecked.

Instinct told you to keep moving; this kind of thing usually spelt trouble. But something about the car had caught your eye, something familiar. The lines of it were sleek, too well-crafted to be an average street racer.

You had crouched down, running your hand over the dented hood, feeling the grooves where it had clearly taken some kind of brutal impact. The whole front end was smashed in, the windshield cracked and splintered like a spider web. There were scorch marks, too, as if the car had been through a fire.

Either this car’s owner was involved in some dodgy business, or he was a terrible driver.

And then you had seen it – the unmistakable emblem, barely visible through the soot and grime. The flaming star, the symbol of the Red Comet. For the past two years, you’d seen headline after headline regaling how the Red Comet had saved the city once again, always seemingly one step ahead of the people who threatened to tear it apart. You know hardly anything about the superhero, although apparently nobody does. Even his name is a phantasm of the media, given in the aftermath of his first appearance which happened to be on the day that a red comet streaked through the sky. And this was his car.

Your heart had skipped a beat. What the hell was it doing here, and in this state?

You knew you should have walked away. But something in you just couldn’t. Maybe it was curiosity, or maybe it was the whiskey making you bolder than you usually were, but you couldn’t just let the car sit there. Maybe, it was your way of giving something back to the hero who’d saved the city time and time again.

After making sure that no one was watching, you’d decided to tow it back to the garage. You’d covered it up, keeping it out of sight, hoping that no one would come looking for it. For the next few nights, you’d worked on it in secret. The damage was extensive, but you’d seen worse. Underneath the mangled metal and burned parts, the car was a marvel of engineering. You’d never worked on anything like it before – high-tech gadgets, reinforced steel, the king of stuff you only saw in movies. Every time you popped the hood, it felt like uncovering another layer of mystery.

Some of the damage seemed aeons old – definitely not the product of its latest encounter. The craftsmanship suggested that its owner knew his way around the car, but the lasting injuries let you know that he wasn’t a trained mechanic.

You only left one trace of your involvement – a small note, scribbled on a scrap of paper and tucked neatly in the wheel well. It simply read: ‘Fixed her up. No charge. -M.’

You figured if the Red Comet ever came back for the car, they’d know someone had taken care of it. You hoped that the note would calm their suspicions of foul play...

“Nope,” you reply to Mr Corallo, your tone light and steady. “I heard about it, like everyone else, but I was two drinks deep by the time I heard the sirens, and I wouldn’t have been able to get down the stairs even if I’d wanted to.”

Mr Corallo watches you closely for a moment, trying to gauge whether you’re telling the truth. You’re good at this game, though; slipping in half-truths to conceal the true extent of your knowledge.

“Smart,” he says after a beat, the tension in his stance easing just a bit as he releases the door handle. “Wouldn’t want you getting in the middle of anything … unpleasant.”

He flashes a grin, but there’s a hint of warning behind it. You match his smile, though it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. With that, he finally turns and makes his way toward the door, his boots scuffing the concrete floor. You let out a slow breath, the tension in your shoulders easing ever so slightly as he steps outside. But just before he leaves, he calls back over his shoulder one last time.

"And if you do hear anything… well, you know where to find us."

The door closes with a soft click, and the garage is silent again, save for the low hum of the radio.

Every bone in Lee Chan’s body aches, and he’s surprised his skin hasn’t turned green and blue all over. Any little move hurts – and that’s with days of much-needed recuperation. Groaning as he pulls himself up out of bed, he looks down to inspect the damage. A few cuts, scrapes, and bruises, and a particularly nasty swipe along his left thigh that has begun to scab over.

Chan winces as he gingerly presses his hand against the cut, the sting reminding him of just how close things had gotten. It had been a mess – a confrontation with Tempest as the Brewery Quarter. The whole thing had escalated far faster than he’d anticipated. What should have been a routine patrol had turned into a disaster as Tempest decided to unleash a barrage of electrical blasts, wrecking half the district in the process.

The fight is a blur now, fragments of shattered glass and the acrid scent of smoke lingering in his memory. He’d been so focused on taking Tempest down that he hadn’t fully realized how much damage he had taken in the process.

In the end, it was brute force and desperation that won out. He had managed to hold up the building just long enough to knock Tempest off balance, forcing the villain into retreat. But victory had been fleeting. Tempest had disappeared in the chaos, vanishing before Chan could deliver a final blow. By the time the authorities arrived, Tempest was gone, leaving behind only destruction and debris, and Chan had barely made it out himself, collapsing in a nearby alley as sirens blared in the distance. He’d limped home under cover of darkness, his mask barely shielding him from prying eyes.

A low groan escapes him as he stretches. He limps over to the bathroom, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He looks like hell—his skin is pale, dark circles linger under his eyes, and the bruises that cover his torso are turning an ugly shade of purple. He splashes some cold water on his face, trying to wash away the fatigue, but it doesn’t do much. His body is spent.

God, he needs a hobby.

A small laugh ripples through him at the thought, getting stuck painfully in his scratchy throat. Seungkwan had told him just as much last week when they finally had time to hang out. 

"You're not talking to enough people," He'd said, and he'd been right - Chan has hardly talked to anyone as himself in days. Making quippy remarks and telling people to get out of the way isn't quite the same as having a proper conversation with a friend.

Chan towels his face and stumbles into the kitchen, brewing a pot of coffee while his mind drifts. Maybe a hobby wouldn’t even help. Maybe what he really needs is to let go of the whole hero thing, at least a little. Being the Red Comet 24/7 is exhausting, and lately, it feels like it is swallowing him whole, leaving nothing for himself.

The coffee smells good, but Chan's stomach twists at the idea of caffeine. He sits at the kitchen table, cradling the warm mug in his hands but not drinking, staring blankly out the window. He can’t help but wonder if next time he’ll be able to handle it. Tempest is growing stronger, more reckless, and each encounter is becoming more dangerous. He doesn’t know how long he can keep doing this, how many more nights his body can take the punishment.

I have to get ahead of this, he thinks, rubbing the back of his neck. Figure out where Tempest is hiding before he strikes again.

The thought of rest is tempting, but he knows there is no time for that. Not with Tempest still out there, licking his wounds and plotting his next move. Chan glances at the clock. Morning is just creeping in, but his mind is already racing through the next steps - tracking Tempest, preparing his gear, and finding his car.

The nagging feeling of unfinished business crawls under his skin. Chan hadn't had time to think about it amidst the chaos of fighting Tempest. His ride had been totalled - again - and left behind in the fray.

He stumbles over to his laptop, ignoring the stabbing pain in his thigh, and pulls up the city's traffic cams. His fingers clumsily tap at the keys as he rewinds footage from last night, scanning for any sign of the car. He remembers the last place he'd seen it—by the Brewery Quarter, just before Tempest had thrown him through a storefront.

The footage shows chaos: explosions, debris flying, panicked civilians running. For a moment, it’s overwhelming—too much movement, too much destruction—but then he spots it. His car, smashed and smoking, left abandoned next to the dump.

His stomach twists as the camera catches something else: a tow truck pulling up beside it. But not a city truck. The logo is fuzzy, and there’s something strange about the way the driver moves—hurried, almost too careful for a standard recovery job. The truck hooks up his wrecked car and drives off, disappearing into the shadows of the industrial district.

"Who the hell…?" Chan mutters to himself.

His heart races as he shuts the laptop. If he’s lucky, whoever has the car just wants to strip it for parts. If he’s not, well… there are people out there who would pay a fortune for the tech inside that car. And some who’d use it for much worse.

He forces himself up, grabs his jacket, and heads out the door, ignoring the protest from his still-aching body. He knows the industrial district well enough to navigate it, even in his current state. If the car was taken there, it shouldn’t be too hard to track down.

The sun is starting to set by the time he reaches the dingy outskirts of the industrial district. This part of the city is a graveyard of old factories and warehouses, the kind of place where no one asks questions. Chan walks down the narrow streets, scanning every alley and garage for a sign of his car.

Turning the corner to the large, decrepit dump, the first thing that hits him is the overwhelming stench of rust and decay. The place is a sprawling mess of discarded metal, twisted scrap, and a mountain of broken-down machinery.

But, there it is. Chan immediately spots his car nestled between two towering heaps of rusted junk. The sleek frame, now only slightly dented, stands out against the twisted metal and debris.

As he gets closer, he notices that the car’s exterior, though damaged, has been worked on. The front end, which had been complete wreck, is now at least partially repaired. Fresh metal panels have been welded on and the wiring had had once been exposed in neatly tucked away. Someone’s been fixing it.

Chan’s mind races. Who would do this? And why?

As he begins inspecting the car, he notices a small white flap peaking out from the front-left wheel well. He's been in one too many fights to trust that pulling it out won't immediately blow him and the car up, but curiosity gets the better of him. Pulling a glove out of his backpack and creating a small blast shield from a nearby sheet of scrap metal, Chan takes a deep breath, positioning himself cautiously as he reaches out. 

Carefully, he pulls the note free. Nothing explodes, nothing clicks ominously. The paper is crumpled and worn, as if it’s been shoved in the wheel well in a hurry. Chan straightens, exhaling the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, and unfolds it with cautious fingers.

''Fixed her up. No charge. -M.'

Chan stares at the note, his mind racing. It still feels like a trap to him, but nothing about this situation makes sense. The repairs, the hidden note—it’s too deliberate to be a coincidence, yet not malicious enough to feel like a typical setup. Whoever M is, they didn’t just stumble upon his car. They knew exactly who it belonged to, and for some reason, they’d chosen to help. The fact that the repairs are real, tangible, and expertly done is a gesture of… what? Trust? A warning? He can’t decide.

He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. The car is functional—enough to get him back on the road, at least. 

Sliding into the driver’s seat, Chan checks the dashboard. The wiring looks as pristine as ever, the engine hums quietly when he turns the key, and though the car still bears the scars of its encounter with Tempest, it’s ready to move.

Pulling out of the dump, he glances into the rearview mirror, half-expecting someone to step out from the shadows and reveal themselves. But the place stays still, abandoned, as the setting sun casts long shadows over the heaps of twisted metal.

Between the note, the footage, and the repairs, he's got enough to work out who this mysterious mechanic is, and what they want.

It’s about 11 pm, two weeks after you finished fixing up Mr Scott’s car, that you hear the crash.

The sound is unmistakable – the sharp screech of something heavy colliding with metal, followed by the distinct echo of glass shattering. The garage rattles slightly from the impact, and you pause mid-wrench, heart immediately kicking into overdrive.

What the hell was that?

You set down the wrench gently, wiping your hands as you strain to listen for any other signs of disturbance. The city is loud, but the crash came from too close – maybe just outside the garage. You mind runs through a quick list of possibilities: a car accident? A break-in? Something more sinister?

Instinct kicks in, and you head toward the door cautiously, flipping off the lights in the main work area to stay hidden in the shadows.

As you edge closer to the garage door, you hear another sound—a low, metallic groan followed by the clank of something heavy being dragged. There’s movement outside, slow and deliberate. You risk a glance through the small window in the side door and immediately spot the source.

There, just outside the window, the sleek black car that you fixed up all those days ago sits awkwardly on the side of the road, the front end crumpled around a streetlamp. The driver’s side door is hanging off its hinges. Standing next to the wreckage is a figure – tall, broad-shouldered, and wearing a long coat, their silhouette barely visible in the dim streetlight. They seem to be inspecting the damage, unfazed by the mess.

But there’s something off about the way they move, something too calm for someone who’s just been in a crash.

As the figure leans around the edge of the unhinged door, peering inside of the car, you realise that that’s because they are not the one who was in the crash.

Grabbing a heavier tool from the nearby workbench, you edge towards your door, heart pounding.

The figure straightens and, as if sensing your presence, slowly turns toward the garage. Even in the dim light, you can see their eyes – cold, calculating. The figure doesn’t move for a moment, just staring, and you can’t tell if they’re sizing you up or deciding whether you’re a threat.

Finally, the figure steps forward, their footsteps slow and deliberate as they close the distance to the garage door. You brace yourself, unsure if you’re about to get a question or a fight.

Then, you see something rustle from the corner of your eye. A blur, barely visible in the darkness, moves faster than you can register. One second, the mysterious figure is advancing towards the garage door, and the next, they're violently thrown back into the wreckage of the car. The sound of impact echoes through the night - metal crunching, glass shattering anew.

You blink, your heart pounding in your chest as you try to make sense of what just happened. From the shadows, another figure emerges, slightly hunched, moving with a combination of grace and exhaustion. The way they move—the fluidity of it—immediately gives them away. It’s him. The Red Comet.

He stumbles slightly, but regains his balance, turning toward the crumpled figure near the car. You can see the strain in his posture, the way his breathing is laboured. He’s injured.

The man in the long coat struggles to his feet, groaning as he wipes a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth. “You think you’re so clever, don’t you?” the figure sneers, pulling something from the inside of his coat. A gleam of silver flashes in the dim light.

Before you can react, the man lunges, moving with startling speed, the blade aimed straight for the superhero. You want to shout, to warn him, but it all happens too fast. The Red Comet dodges, just barely, the blade slicing through the fabric of his suit as he twists to the side. But even though he avoids a fatal blow, the movement causes him to stagger, his injuries slowing him down.

The mysterious figure presses the attack, slashing again and again with precision and fury. The Red Comet blocks and counters, but it’s clear he’s at a disadvantage. You grip the wrench tighter, your knuckles white, debating whether to rush in or stay hidden.

Before you can make your decision, the Red Comet manages to disarm the man with a swift kick, sending the blade clattering to the ground. The figure growls in frustration, throwing a wild punch, but the Red Comet catches his arm and twists, throwing him hard into the side of the car. There’s a sickening crunch as the man’s body slams into the metal, and he falls to the ground, unconscious.

For a moment there’s silence. The only sound is the superhero’s ragged breathing as he stands over the fallen figure. His shoulders heave, and you can tell that every movement is causing him pain.

Then, without warning, his knees buckle, and he collapses to the ground.

“Shit,” you mutter, your body moving before your mind has fully caught up. You drop the wrench and rush toward him, your pulse racing. He’s still conscious, but barely. Up close, you can see the gash across his side, blood seeping through the torn fabric of his suit.

“Hey, hey—stay with me,” you say, kneeling beside him, your voice low but urgent.

The Red Comet’s masked face tilts towards you, his breathing shallow as he tries to sit up. “I’m … fine,” he manages to rasp, though the wince that follows tells you otherwise.

“Yeah, sure. You look like you’re just peachy,” you mutter, glancing at the wreckage around you. “Come on, let’s get you inside before someone else shows up.”

He nods, clearly too exhausted to argue. With some effort, you manage to help him to his feet, guiding him toward the garage. He leans heavily on you, his weight almost too much to bear, but you grit your teeth and push forward. You’re not sure how much time you have before the figure wakes up—or if they’ll wake up at all—but right now, your focus is getting the superhero somewhere safe and outside of foreign eyes.

You heave him onto your makeshift cot, the one you use when you decide to stay in the garage overnight. He groans as he lies back, and you can see the toll the fight has taken on him now under the garage lights – bruises, cuts, and that deep slash across his side that’s still bleeding.

"I'm going to grab a first aid kit," you say, your tone more commanding now that the adrenaline is kicking in. "Don't move."

He doesn't seem to be in any state to do so anyway.

You grab the kit and hurry back, your hands surprisingly steady as you kneel beside him. "Alright, I'm going to have to cut the side of your shirt away." You say, looking up at the masked face for confirmation. But, nothing comes. Moving forward, you realise that he's completely out cold, his breathing shallower than it should be. You know you need to patch up the wound before he loses too much blood.

Taking care to avoid causing more harm, you gently cut away the fabric of his suit. The fabric peels back to reveal the deep gash along his side—angry and red, still oozing blood. Your heart pounds, but your hands remain steady. You’ve dealt with injuries before - though, usually your own.

Working quickly, you clean the wound, wincing as you realise how deep it really is. This isn’t good. The gash will need stitches, but there’s no time for that now. You press a gauze pad against the wound to stem the bleeding, your mind racing.

"Stay with me," you mutter under your breath, wrapping a bandage tightly around his torso to hold the gauze in place. "I’m not letting you die on my cot."

Once the wound is secure, you check his pulse—faint, but there. The man’s been through hell, and whatever fight he was in tonight clearly pushed him to the brink. You can’t help but wonder how often this happens. How many times has he barely made it out alive?

You glance up at his masked face, wondering who exactly is lying before you. There’s the urge to check, the man completely vulnerable to you, but you think better of it. What would be the point of knowing anyway? It would just bring you more trouble.

You sit back on your heels, a shaky sigh of disbelief exiting your body. For now, he seems stable, but you know he’ll need more help than you can provide tonight. In the morning, you’ll redress the wounds and take him over to a hospital, if he wants.

You grab two blankets from underneath your desk, draping one over the suited man. Dropping a spare pillow down on the floor beside him, you make sure that you’re close enough that you’ll wake up if his condition gets dramatically worse. The floor is cold and hard, but the exhaustion hits you as the adrenaline drains from your body, and you fall into a dreamless sleep, your mind still half-occupied with thoughts of the masked hero bleeding out in your garage.

It takes Chan a whole minute after waking up to work out where he is. All of his instincts tell him to run, to get out quickly and quietly before anyone finds him, but the pain in his torso when he squeaks even an inch is enough to keep him bedbound.

Touching his hand to the wound, he feels the soaked-through gauze. That’s going to need replacing.

His hands trail up, confused at the suffocating stuffiness that labours his face. He quickly notes the cause – his mask is still on. You didn’t take it off last night, and he’s suddenly very grateful for the stuffiness.

Twisting his head to the side, careful not to strain himself any more than necessary, he spots you.

You’re slumbering next to him, your back crooked at an awkward angle from sleeping on the floor. Oil and grease still stain your skin and shirt, the liquids mixing with a darker substance – his blood – on your hands and wrists.

Chan can barely recollect what happened last night. He remembers being chased down, and not knowing where to go. He remembers typing something in the navigation pad and your shop being the first thing to come up. He remembers getting stabbed, you helping him in here, and nothing more.

Letting out a small sigh, he can’t believe that he actually came here. It was a reckless move that not only relied on an unknown person’s charity, but also put you in danger. It had been stupid and, more than that, selfish.

Yet, he’d made the right call. Anyone else could have left him to bleed out on the sidewalk, shut up their doors and windows and ignored him entirely. But you’d helped him, patched him up, and given up your bed to allow him to rest.

Chan isn’t sure the last time someone else had done so much for him.

A low groan escapes his lips as he tries to adjust himself slightly, wincing from the sharp pain that shoots through his torso. He catches his breath, forcing himself to stay still, even though every fibre of his being wants to push through the pain and figure out what to do next.

"Alright, Chan, just move carefully," he mutters under his breath, trying to psych himself up. Gritting his teeth, he gently pulls himself into a sitting position, groaning as the movement aggravates his injury. Every breath feels like fire in his ribs.

Before he can do much else, you stir slightly, blinking groggily as you wake. You stretch your arms and rub your eyes, clearly disoriented. It takes you a second to remember where you are, and then your gaze locks onto Chan.

"You're awake," you mumble, pushing yourself off the floor with a grunt. "And sitting up? That’s ambitious."

Chan gives a half-hearted chuckle, though it turns into more of a pained exhale. "Yeah, well, I thought I’d try not to bleed all over your place anymore."

You shake your head, already reaching for the first aid kit on the nearby table. "You should’ve woken me up. That wound needs fresh bandages."

“I didn’t want to disturb you,” he replies, feeling overwhelmed by your instinct to help. “You’ve done enough already.”

You pause, glancing at him as you grab the supplies. The look in your eyes makes him feel like a child again, shivering at the intensity of your gaze. “You must be my worst patient – the cars never try to leave in the middle of being fixed.”

Chan watches you work as you kneel beside him, carefully unwrapping the soaked gauze. Your movements are precise, steady, but there’s a certain gentleness there too. It strikes him how unphased you are by all of this. He shivers as your hands ghost over his obliques, careful not to irritate the damaged tissues. 

As the gauze comes off, you let out a little hum of confusion, tilting your head. Chan looks down, and understands your surprise. The cut, which had been deep and angry last night, is now scarred and blistering, not fully healed but significantly better than it should be.

You pull back slightly, your brows furrowing in confusion. “I’m no doctor, but that’s not normal,” you murmur, eyes flicking between him and the nearly healed wound.

Chan shifts uncomfortably under your gaze, trying to come up with a reasonable explanation. He’s always kept his abilities under wraps, never letting anyone else get close enough to notice the odd things that happen to his body – especially when he’s injured. But here you are, kneeling beside him, piecing things together faster than he’s ready for.

“Yeah … it’s … complicated,” he stutters. “I heal quickly. Doesn’t help much with the pain, though.”

You blink at him, clearly processing what you’re seeing. “So this is … normal for you?”

Chan shrugs, wincing as the motion pulls at his side. “Sort of. Part of the whole... superhero thing.”

Your eyes narrow a bit, but you don’t press him. Instead, you shake your head and return to reapplying fresh gauze. “Well, whatever’s going on, it’s saving me a lot of work,” you joke, though your voice is tinged with curiosity.

He lets out a low chuckle, though there’s still tension in his voice. “I guess so.”

When you’re done, you sit back on your heels and meet his gaze. “You really should rest more,” you say softly, the concern in your voice genuine. “Even if you heal fast, pushing yourself like this is ... well, it's a bad idea.”

Chan nods, knowing you’re right but unwilling to admit just how much he’s been pushing himself. “I’ll try,” he says, offering a half-smile.

“Good,” you reply, standing up and brushing the dust off your knees. “And when you’re ready, maybe you can tell me more about what’s going on."

He looks at you, the weight of the situation bearing down on him. The last thing he needs is to bring someone else into his mess, but after crashing (literally) on your doorstep and bleeding all over your floor, he supposes that he probably owes you some explanation.

"Yeah," he murmurs, "I can do that."

You seem satisfied, and start to walk back over to your desk, pulling out a rusty, old kettle and a bottle of long-life milk. After a moment, you notice him looking at you, and quirk an eyebrow. "Still awake?"

A small laugh reverberates through his chest as he feels himself being pulled back into the darkness of slumber. 

By the time that the superhero reawakens, you’ve achieved a number of things. After making yourself a cup of very strong coffee, tidying up your sleeping nest, and checking that he’s still alive, you descended into a deep panic, and then you solved it.

The events of last night had been freaky, although it isn’t unusual for crashes or violence to populate your area. But something about the way that man had moved, the look in his eye, had put you on edge. And now, you have a banged-up superhero sleeping in your garage, who can apparently heal himself at an extraordinary rate. The whole situation feels like being dragged into something you don’t understand or have the ability to deal with.

The one thing you are certain of, however, is that you feel better for helping him.

The weariness in his voice, the untrusting flinch of his body – it all spoke to a man who knew loneliness as well as you did. And even if he could have survived without your help, there is a level of satisfaction in knowing that you’ve done something for someone else; someone who isn’t a crime boss or gang leader.

After deciding that you’d actually dragged yourself into this mess, and that you had to stick with your decision, you felt a level of calm.

You’d spent the morning repairing the Red Comet’s car for the second time, wincing every time you saw your previous alterations damaged by the impact of last night. The collision with the lamppost had been particularly harmful to the car, and you realise that you’re going to need access to the superhero’s technology to be able to have a chance at fixing the complex mechanisms fitted under the hood.

By midday, the Red Comet stirs again. For a moment, as he reorientates himself, you sit in comfortable silence, the noise of the city outside barely filtering in. It feels a little odd to have someone else here. Usually, the garage is your sanctuary – your place to escape everything and everyone. Yet, having him here, even in his battered state, doesn’t feel like an intrusion.

Eventually, he breaks the silence. “I, uh … I guess I owe you an explanation.” His voice is rough, although less than it had been this morning, and it has a softer quality to it that you aren’t expecting.

You nod but keep quiet, letting him decide when to speak.

“I don’t normally ask for help,” he admits. “But I didn’t really have a choice last night.”

You watch him carefully. There’s something raw about him, something that feels more human than the stories you’ve heard. Right now, he’s not really a superhero – he’s a man, wounded, worn out, and trying to hold it all together.

“Well, you found the right place,” you reply, keeping your tone light. “I guess you found my note?”

His head snaps up, and although you can’t see his expression well through the mask, you think that he looks a little shocked. His gaze darts over to the car, now suspended in the garage, and back over to you.

“I did,” he nods, holding back from telling you too much.

When he doesn’t say any more, you sigh, wringing out your frustrations on a damp cloth. “Look, I know you probably just want to leave. I also know that I’m basically a stranger to you. So, I’m not going to force you to tell me more than you want to. But, some guarantee that this isn’t going to come down on my head would be appreciated.”

His head falls slightly at your words, a tired sigh echoing through the room. “I – I can’t guarantee that. I shouldn’t have gotten you involved at all, but now you are, and I can’t promise that nothing will happen.”

You feel your heart drop a little as your concerns are confirmed. You know that what he’s saying is correct, and that you’d expected it, but it still strikes fear through you to hear it put so plainly.

Before you can say anything further, the Red Comet pushes himself up from the bed, wobbling onto his feet. This pushes you a little too far.

“Nope. Stop. You’re not going anywhere. You don’t have to tell me what’s going on, but I’m not going to let you limp out of here and collapse two blocks down.” You grimace, your voice forceful and commanding.

He looks surprised that you’re stopping him. A moment passes between you, tension thick in the air, as you wonder if he’s going to push past you anyway. You know that he’s far stronger than you, even in his weakened state, and that he could leave any time he wants to. But he sits back down, a breath of relief releasing as he takes the weight off of his feet.

Another moment passes and he looks back over to the car. “It’s pretty bad, right?”

You nod. “About the same as you, I’d say.”

The superhero huffs a laugh, but the sound is strained and weak.

“Look, there’s a sink over there with some towels, and I can leave some water and food out for you to eat. I’m just going to go over to the shop to grab some extra supplies for my first aid kit, but no one will see if you want to take off the mask and get some air.” You explain, pulling a bottle of water out of the mini fridge next to your sink.

He seems apprehensive, until you pull up a chair. “You can sit on this – don’t strain that cut any more than you need.”

With that, you march out of the garage, grateful for the fresh air yourself. You’re not sure if he’ll take up your offer, or if, by the time you get back, he’ll be gone again. Either way, it’ll be his choice.

 Two days later, your garage is still shut.

You’ve had to make far too many phone calls to concerned customers asking why the doors weren’t open when they’d driven by, and when you’d next be open. News of the crash had spread quickly around this part of town, and that has given you an easy cover for your current closure. The repairs needed after your shop front was damaged mixed with the emotional toll of the crash happening so close to you becomes the perfect excuse.

In reality, you and the Red Comet had been working on his car. After doing the basic repairs, the superhero had returned to his place and brought back the technology he used to supe up the vehicle, and you’d spiralled into mechanical heaven. The gadgets were like nothing you’d ever seen before, and your mind was spinning with ideas of other ways you could use them in your shop.

Every now and then, the Red Comet would slip some more details into the conversation, slowly letting you in on the knowledge of what is happening in the city, and the threats he’s currently trying to tide. But it is a slow process, and you are still more in the dark than in the light.

Nevertheless, you have to admit that you’ve enjoyed the company. Contrary to his first impression, the superhero is chatty, having opinions on everything from the condition of the city’s transportation infrastructure to the performance of the Southville Stormriders in the upcoming championship. As his body heals, his spirit follows in suit, becoming more lively with every conversation. He has the aura of a kid forced to grow up too quickly, but you can tell that whatever passion and zest for life got him into the superhero gig still exists within him.

And he’s funny, which shocked you at first. He makes you laugh in a way that you haven’t experienced since your father passed, and the joviality is much appreciated in contrast to the looming fear that someone’s out for you.

You still haven’t seen under the mask, although he came back in normal clothes – a white tank under a black jacket, dark jeans, and heavy boots. Today, his face has been hidden behind a balaclava and chunky vizor glasses.

You’re working on the undercarriage of his car, lying side by side beneath it. You hand him a wrench, the sound of metal scraping against metal filling the small space between you. The work is a little tedious, but satisfying, especially with the challenge of integrating his advanced tech back into the framework. It’s the kind of hands-on talk you’ve always loved.

“Pass me the torque wrench?” His voice is muffled by the balaclava, but you can hear the concentration in his tone.

You hand it over, your fingers brushing lightly against his gloved hand. It’s the closest you’ve been to him since this whole thing started, and there’s an odd comfort in the proximity. You’ve spent more time together in the last few days than you have with anyone in the past year, and the easy companionship is something you didn’t realise you were missing.

"It’s getting warm under here," he mutters after a while, loosening the final bolt on the undercarriage.

You glance at him and nod. The garage has become a furnace with the afternoon sun bearing down on the metal roof. Sweat is starting to bead on your forehead, and you can only imagine how hot it must be for him with the extra layers.

He shifts beneath the car and pulls off his jacket, tossing it aside. Beneath, the white tank top clings to his toned arms and chest, the fabric stained with grease. His arms are littered with scars – some fresh, some old. You try to focus on the work, but it’s hard to ignore the way his muscles flex as he reaches for the next tool.

"So, how exactly does this tech work?" you ask, trying to distract yourself and also genuinely curious. "It’s like nothing I’ve seen before."

He chuckles, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. "It’s… complicated. But I can walk you through it if you want. It’s mostly about energy efficiency—getting more out of less, that kind of thing."

You raise an eyebrow. "Sounds useful. Ever thought about putting this stuff on the market? You could make a fortune."

His smile falters for a second, and he glances away. "Not really. There’s too much risk. The wrong people get their hands on this tech, and it could be dangerous."

You nod, understanding the weight of what he’s saying. "Fair enough," you say, going back to the bolts. "I guess we’ll just have to make sure it stays in the right hands, then."

His gaze lingers on you for a moment longer before he nods. "Yeah. We will."

For a while, the two of you work in comfortable silence, the steady rhythm of the tools and the soft hum of the city outside the garage filling the space. Every now and then, you share a joke or a story, the conversation easy and unhurried. You realize that, despite everything, this feels … normal.

The sun begins to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows across the garage. The temperature drops slightly, but the warmth of the day's work lingers in the air. You sit up, stretching your arms above your head, feeling the satisfying ache of a job well done.

"That should do it," you say, wiping your hands on a rag. "She’s ready to go."

You can see the balaclava shift as a grin appears on the superhero’s face. “Thanks. I couldn’t have done it without you.” There’s a sincerity to his voice that makes you feel like his words are about more than just the car.

“You probably could have,” you admit, with a teasing smile. You offer him a hand. “But I’m glad you didn’t.”

He takes your hand, his grip firm but not overpowering, and pulls himself to his feet. For a moment, as your hands connect through the gloves, you wonder what his life is like outside of this – what he does when he’s not saving the world or fighting villains. You wonder who it is behind that mask, and if he’s ever wanted a normal life, away from all of this.

But you don’t ask. You’re not sure you’re ready for those answers, if he would even be willing to give them. There’s something nice about the mystery – something comforting in not knowing everything.

"Drinks on me?" you offer, grabbing a couple of beers from the mini-fridge in the corner of the garage.

He hesitates for a second before nodding. "Yeah. That sounds good."

The two of you sit down, you on your makeshift bed and him on the hood of the car, facing opposite directions to allow him to drink comfortably. You take a sip of your beer, the cool liquid a welcome relief after the heat of the day. For a moment, everything feels still—quiet. Almost peaceful.

"Thanks for letting me lay low here," he says after a while, his voice sincere.

You have to stop yourself from glancing around at him, surprised at the weight in his tone. “Anytime. If you ever want to give up the superhero gig, I’d pay to have another set of hands around here.”

He chuckles softly, the low sound reverberating through you. “You wouldn’t want the business I’d bring.”

You shrug, a smile breaking across your face. “Eh, I’m not interested in what baggage you have. I’m really only about the money.”

A full, hearty laugh escapes him, and you feel warmed by the noise.  

“You know,” you say, leaning back onto your hands, “I’ve always wondered what it’s like. Being out there, doing what you do.”

He doesn’t answer right away, and for a moment, you think you’ve overstepped. But then he sighs, the sound heavy with the weight of a thousand unspoken thoughts.

“It’s complicated,” he finally says. “People think it’s all glory and heroics. A sort of celebrity lifestyle – free things, all the attention you could want, as friends or more. But most of the time it’s just … messy. You make decisions in the heat of the moment, and you hope you’re doing the right thing, but there’s always a cost, and sometimes, you don’t know if it was worth it until it’s too late.”

You feel your heartstrings tug at his answer. The idea of being a superhero always seems so black and white – good versus evil, right versus wrong. But you can see how every choice would have a consequence, and one that everyone else would have an opinion on. Given that, you admire that he’s stuck with it for so long.

“And I guess with your identity hidden you don’t get to reap those benefits very much.”

“Well…” He starts, and you can hear the grin in his voice. You let out a bark of laughter at the implication. “But actually, no, not really. Friends are a bit of a luxury when everyone you know is put in danger just by knowing you. The free doughnuts from Jupiter’s are pretty sweet though.”

“Ahh, a man with good taste,” you hum, nodding your head in agreement.

“I almost considered doing a sponsorship with them,” he chuckles.

“Do you ever wish you could just ... walk away from it all?” You ask, the question slipping out before you can stop it.

“Sometimes,” he answers, not seeming bothered. “But it’s not that simple. Once you’re in, you’re in. There’s always something more, someone else who needs saving. And if I’m not there to stop it … who will be?”

You nod to yourself, understanding the weight of that responsibility even if you’ve never carried it yourself. “That’s a hell of a burden for one person to bear.”

A beat passes before he responds. “It’s the life I chose. Or maybe it chose me. Either way, it’s mine.”

You’re about to respond when a sharp pinging sound cuts through the quiet. You spin round, confused at the origin of the noise, and see the Red Comet pull out a burner phone from his pocket, glancing down at the screen. The balaclava scrunches up as something in his face ticks.

“I’ve gotta go,” he says, standing up and moving towards the car door with one quick motion.

You feel the weight of your aloneness before he’s even left, but you just say: “Okay, be safe.”

The superhero stalls for a second, and you can feel his gaze lingering on you through the mask. Then, he nods a quick goodbye, dashing into the car and slipping into the night.

Your words have been echoing in Chan’s head all week.

Well, that whole conversation has. You’d asked him if he’d walk away from it all, and he had almost said yes. You’d asked him what it was like to be him, and he’d almost asked you if you wanted to find out. And you’d offered him something – a job, an escape, companionship.

Those are the words he’s thought the most about: ‘I’m not interested in what baggage you have’.

You’d said it so casually, like it was just part of the joke, but he’d felt it in his soul. The uninhibited acceptance of everything he is and has, the knowledge that a life around him could never be one of safety – it didn’t seem to matter to you.

It is that simplicity that tugs at him the most. You didn’t want anything from him, didn’t expect him to be more than what he is. And for someone who has lived his life under the pressure of constant expectations, that is a gift he hadn’t realised he’s been longing for.

When he’d woken up after that fight at the chemical factory, the night that he left you, the first thing he’d done was reach for his phone. For once, it wasn’t to check on the city’s news feed or get updates from the fiend. He hadn’t texted his informants or checked in with any of the underground sources he kept tabs on. Instead, he’d messaged Seungkwan.

He’d texted him out of the blue—no preamble, no explanation—just a simple: Hey, you free to hang out this week? It had been too long since he’d allowed himself to do something normal, something that didn’t involve running across rooftops or dodging bullets.

Seungkwan had responded almost immediately, and they’d planned to meet up at a quiet café on the edge of town.

Now, here, with his friend, Chan finally lets himself relax. As Seungkwan launches into another exaggerated story about his latest antics, Chan doesn’t once think about putting on the mask.

Seungkwan is mid-sentence, hands flying animatedly through the air as he recounts yet another ridiculous moment from his week.

"...and then I swear, the cat somehow managed to lock me out of my own apartment. I'm standing there, in the hallway, keys in hand, and all I can think is, 'Is this really my life now?'"

Chan can’t help but laugh – the kind of laughter that feels good, deep, and unburdened. He hadn’t realised how much he’d missed this, the simple joy of sitting across from a friend, talking about nothing and everything all at once.

Seungkwan grins, leaning back in his chair. “See, this is why you need me in your life, Chan. To remind you that no matter how crazy things get, at least you’re not getting outsmarted by a house cat."

Chan shakes his head, still chuckling. “Maybe if you let it outside once in a while, it wouldn’t hate you so much.”

His friend gasps, an overexaggerated, sprawling exclamation. “If you want him to get hit by a car and die, just say so.” Seungkwan crosses his arms in front of his chest, pouting out his lips.

“At least then you’ll be able to get inside your house,” Chan replies, unable to keep the smile off of his face at the horrified look that crosses his friend’s features.

“You’re incorrigible,” Seungkwan sulks.

There is a moment of comfortable silence between them, the kind that only comes from years of friendship. Seungkwan’s face softens into something more serious, a tender look in his eye.

“You’ve been busy,” he says. “I haven’t seen you in, what? A month? Two?”

“Something like that,” Chan admits, leaning back in his chair. “Things have been hectic.”

Seungkwan raises an eyebrow. “Hectic? I’m guessing that’s code for ‘I’ve been running myself into the ground again’?”

Chan grimaces. Seungkwan has always been able to read him like a book, even when he himself wasn’t sure how to explain things.

“You could say that,” He finally replies, his voice quieter now.

Seungkwan leans forward, his expression softening. "You know, you don’t always have to be ‘on,’ right? It’s okay to take a break every now and then. Hell, you deserve it more than anyone I know."

Chan sighs, running a hand through his hair. "It’s not that simple. There’s always something. And if I’m not there…"

"If you’re not there, the world won’t end," Seungkwan cuts in, his tone firm but kind. "You’re not a machine, Chan. You can’t keep going like this forever. At some point, you have to take care of yourself too."

Chan looks down at his hands, the weight of his friend’s words settling over him. It isn’t that he doesn’t know Seungkwan’s right—it’s that he doesn’t know how to stop. Being the Red Comet has become so much a part of who he is that the thought of walking away, even for a little while, feels impossible.

But then he thinks about you—about the quiet moments in your garage, the way you’d offered him something without asking for anything in return. And for the first time in a long time, he wonders if maybe, just maybe, there’s a way to find some balance.

“I met someone,” Chan blurts before he can stop himself.

Seungkwan’s eyebrows shoot up. "Oh? Now this is interesting."

“It’s not like that,” Chan says quickly, though he isn’t entirely sure what it is like. “It’s just … they’ve been helping me out. And they said something that’s been sticking with me.”

Seungkwan tilts his head, waiting for him to continue.

“They said they weren’t interested in my baggage,” Chan murmurs, almost bashful to say it too loudly. “Like it didn’t matter. Like I could just … be there without all the weight of everything else.”

Seungkwan leans back, crossing his arms. “Sounds like someone who just likes you for you.”

“Yeah,” Chan whispers, surprised by how much that realisation has hit him.

“And that scares the hell out of you, doesn’t it?” Seungkwan adds with a knowing smirk.

Chan can’t help but laugh softly, shaking his head. “I can’t drag anyone else into this – I feel bad enough that you know.”

Seungkwan’s smile softens. “Look, Chan, whoever this person is, they sound good for you. Don’t let that slip away because you’re too scared to let them in.”

He wants to push back, argue that you deserve better, it wouldn’t be safe, but the truth is that you’re already involved. That the shadow of the Red Comet had already eclipsed you and you’d embraced it. And that scares him more than anything else.

The garage is dim, the overhead lights casting long shadows across the tools and scattered car parts. The air smells of oil and metal, and Chan can hear the soft hum of the city outside – far enough away to feel distant but close enough that the noise never truly stops. He understands why you like this place so much.

Tonight, he’d come without the excuse of his car. He feels a little bit embarrassed that the thought of visiting you without a clear reason is making him so nervous, but if you suspected his real reason for being here, you didn’t let on.

Instead, he’s helping you with a different car, and you’re teaching him more basic repairs that he can do to his own vehicle when it inevitably gets scuffed up again. The implication is that then he’ll need to use your services less, but Chan’s far less interested in that.

You’re standing behind him, your hands resting over his, guiding him as he grips the wrench, showing him how to loosen a particularly stubborn bolt. “Here, let me show you. It’s all in the wrist.”

“Am I bad at this?” He asks, puzzled as the bolt doesn’t move despite the extra force he puts through it.

You chuckle, taking the wrench from him. “Bad? No. Just hopeless, I think.”

He laughs, watching you remove the rusted bolt, his gaze shifting between the tools in your hands and the subtle way your brow furrows when you’re focused.

“You’re awfully quiet tonight,” you say, pulling him out of his thoughts. “Usually I can’t get you to shut up about how I’m using the wrong size socket.”

Chan huffs a soft laugh at the absurd suggestion that he knows more about mechanics than you. You seem to have a way with the tools, the cars, the entire garage, that makes it all look effortless. There’s a confidence in the way you move, a fluidity to how you handle even the most rusted, stubborn parts, and Chan finds himself mesmerized by it. “I’m not always lecturing you.”

“Oh, please. I’ve had more mechanical critiques from you than my old boss did.”

He grins, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Well, I’m just trying to make sure you don’t blow anything up.”

You tilt your head, narrowing your eyes playfully. “That sounds like a challenge.”

The low hum of the radio fills the quiet of the garage as you work. Suddenly, a voice crackles through the local news, catching your attention:

‘Another power outage struck the East Side last week, with authorities pointing to the recent attacks on the city’s power grid. Though no group has claimed responsibility, speculation points to the villain known as Tempest.’

Chan feels himself tightening a bolt with a little more force than necessary as the report continues:

‘Sources close to the investigation say the damage could take weeks to repair, and citizens are growing increasingly concerned about the city’s ability to handle these incidents. Vigilante Red Comet was spotted at the scene of the attack, but the damage seems to have eclipsed even his abilities.’

There’s a beat of silence as he grabs a wrench off of the bench, before setting it down with a sigh. “We should talk about it.”

You sit up, brushing your hands on your coveralls. “Tempest?” you reply, more softly now. He sits up too, his back against the car’s wheel, gaze distant.

“Yeah,” Chan replies, his voice dropping. “It’s getting worse. He’s not just causing chaos anymore. He’s targeting the city’s infrastructure. Power plans, grids, anything that’ll knock out a large portion of the city. The hit on the east side—it was a disaster. People are starting to panic.”

“Jesus. Why? What does he want?”

Chan runs a hand through his hair, frustration etched into every line of his face. “He’s … unstable. I think he just thrives on destruction. There’s no rhyme of reason with him. He’s got power, and he wants to show it. Or, at least, that’s how it’s always been with him. Recently, he’s felt more calculated, like there’s something new at play.”

You nod, your face thoughtful. “You think he’s working with someone else?”

“Maybe,” He shrugs. “I can think of a few people who would profit from issues with the city grid.”

Your eyebrows shoot up, and you look like you’ve just had a realisation. Chan’s fingers tap the metal beside him, his adrenaline shooting up at the suggestion of new information. “So can I.” You say, slowly getting up from your seat on the floor.

“I have a few regulars that come by the store, less than clean people, if I’m being honest. They don’t tend to bother me much, but recently Mr Scott’s people have been coming around more than usual, and they were asking about you.”

Chan's eyes narrow at the mention of Mr Scott. The tension in his jaw is unmistakable, and his fingers curl into a fist by his side. "Scott’s people have been around here? Asking about me?" His voice is low, dangerous. He doesn’t like that you’re in the middle of this, that you’re even saying the name of a man he’s been trying to avoid for as long as he can remember.

You nod, your expression cautious. “Yeah, it was subtle at first. Just questions about who comes in, what work I’ve been doing lately, but the last time they came, they dropped your name. They didn’t ask directly, but it was clear they were fishing for information.”

Chan’s breath hitches. He pushes himself up from the ground, pacing slightly, his mind racing. “That’s not good. Scott’s been trying to get a foothold in the city’s underbelly for years, but if he’s working with Tempest…” He trails off, the weight of the implication hanging in the air.

“And you? Where do you fit into all this? Why are they after you?”

His head hangs back, staring at the ceiling for a long moment. “I’m the only one standing between them and control. Tempest sees me as the only real threat to his chaos, and Scott... well, Scott doesn’t like people he can’t control. He’s offered deals, threatened me, tried to recruit me. But I’m too unpredictable for him.”

There’s a heaviness to his words that makes you pause. “So that’s it? They want you gone because you’re the last line of defence.”

He nods, eyes closed. “If I slip up, if I lose... the city falls apart.”

You let out a low whistle, trying to break the tension. “No pressure, then.”

Chan smiles faintly, but the weight of it is crushing him. “Yeah, no pressure.”

“You know,” you say, nudging his knee with your foot, “for a guy who spends his nights punching villains and saving the city, you’re pretty bad at explaining the whole ‘hero’ thing. No flashy speeches, no dramatic pauses. I’m almost disappointed.”

He snorts, feeling the pressure draining from his body, just slightly. “Yeah, well, I didn’t get the ‘how to be a superhero’ handbook.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Clearly. Maybe I should write it for you. Chapter one: How to Not Get Stabbed.”

Chan chuckles, the sound rough but genuine, and the tension eases. Your teasing banter cuts through the weight of everything, pulling him back to the present, away from the looming threats of Tempest and Scott. He looks at you, really looks at you, and there’s something about the way you’re sitting there, so calm and grounded despite everything he’s just told you, that makes his heart skip a beat.

He’s always admired your strength, the way you handle yourself in situations that would break most people. But now, sitting here with you, there’s something more—something deeper that he’s been trying to ignore for too long. The way your eyes light up when you tease him, the subtle curve of your smile as you try to lighten the mood, even though you know how dangerous things have become.

His chest tightens, a sense of longing creeping in before he can stop it. God, how did I let it get this far? He’s been trying so hard to keep you at arm’s length, to convince himself that this was just a friendship, that you were just a part of his life he could protect from a distance. But sitting here with you now, he can’t deny it anymore. He feels something—something strong, something that terrifies him.

“You know,” you continue, leaning back and giving him a grin that makes his heart race, “I’m thinking of starting a new side hustle – PR for superheroes. I can make you look all mysterious and broody, like the city’s very own shadowy protector.”

He shakes his head, trying to ignore the flutter in his chest. This is dangerous. Not the banter, not the situation with Scott or Tempest, but this—this closeness, this pull he feels toward you. He wants to reach out, to close the gap between you, to tell you what’s been gnawing at him for weeks. But the thought of dragging you deeper into his world stops him cold.

You have no idea how much danger you’re already in just by being near him. If Scott or Tempest found out how much you meant to him … the thought sends a wave of fear crashing over him. He can’t let that happen.

He feels you watching him, your smile fading slightly as you sense his inner turmoil. “Hey,” you say, your voice softer now, more serious. “You okay?”

Chan nods, forcing a smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

But you don’t buy it. “You know, you can talk to me, right? You don’t always have to be the tough guy. I mean, I know you’ve got the whole hero complex thing going on, but I’m not going anywhere.”

He swallows hard, your words hitting him like a punch to the gut. I’m not going anywhere. That’s what scares him. Because the more you stay, the more you get involved, the harder it’ll be to keep you safe.

You are halfway through reorganising your toolbox when you hear it – a heavy, deliberate knock on the garage door. There’s something about it, the measured calm, that instantly raises your hackles. You look around, and realise that the noise of your work and the bright lights above your head are dead giveaways that you’re still in the garage.

It’s not long before the knock comes again, and you get the sense that the third time won’t be so polite.

Swearing under your breath, you straighten up, trying to look as menacing as possible. You walk towards your door, not bothering to temper the sound of your footsteps. Your boots make a deliberate, echoing thud with each step as the tension in the room increases.

You yank the door open, not wanting to give whoever’s on the other side the satisfaction of forcing their way in. Two hulking figures fill the frame, their shadows stretching ominously into the garage. Their suits strain at the shoulders, muscles rippling beneath as they size you up. The one in front leans in slightly, his eyes cold and calculating.

“(Y/n),” he drawls, his voice a low rumble. “We need to have a word.”

The sound of your name rolling off his tongue makes your stomach twist, but you keep your expression hard, unflinching. Crossing your arms, keeping your stance wide and shoulders square, you look up and down at the man. “Funny. I’m not in the business of chit-chat. What do you want?”

The response doesn’t seem to satisfy them, and the next thing you know, you’re being hoisted up, your arms and legs swinging around furiously as the two men move you inside the garage, placing you down your desk chair.

The edge of your chair digs into your back as they force you into the center of the room. For a moment, panic surges, your heart hammering in your chest. Your breaths come quick and shallow, but then you see him.

The man from the crash steps into the light, his coat swaying slightly with each step as his eyes bore into yours, and the sight of him makes your blood run cold. His smile is familiar, twisted with cruelty, and it sends a wave of nausea through you. The two goons stand like statues beside you, blocking any potential escape route. You force yourself to stay calm, but the icy grip of fear claws at your chest.

“It’s nice to see you again, (Y/n).” He says smoothly, his voice laced with mockery. “Didn’t think I’d be back so soon, but it seems you’ve gotten yourself mixed up in something … unfortunate, and Mr Scott doesn’t like his pets to disobey his orders.” He stops just in front of you, towering over where you sit, pinned by his presence.

You grit your teeth, struggling to keep your emotions in check. Rage simmers beneath the surface, but your heart is still racing. “If you’ve come for more trouble, you’re going to regret it,” you spit out, your voice sharp despite the tremor you feel inside. You flick your gaze toward the two muscle-bound men, wondering how quickly you can move if this gets ugly.

The man in the coat laughs, a sound that chills you to the bone. “Oh, I think it’s you who’s going to regret it, sweetheart.” He leans in closer, his breath brushing against your cheek. “You’ve made some... interesting friends lately. Friends like the Red Comet. And that’s got Mr. Scott very curious. He doesn’t like being curious.”

Your stomach drops.

“I fix cars,” you say flatly, keeping your eyes trained in front of you. “Whoever walks through that door looking for a tune-up isn’t my business. Now unless you’ve got something that needs fixing, get out of my shop.”

The man straightens up, his smile fading as he gestures to the two goons. “Search the place.” They don’t hesitate, immediately scattering toward your workbench and tool racks, tearing through the space without any regard for your belongings.

You try to keep your breathing steady, but your mind races. If they find anything – any trace of the tech that linked you to the Red Comet – it could be the end for you.

“Stop!” you shout, jerking forward, but the goon behind you grabs your arm, yanking you back into the chair. Pain lances through your shoulder, and you twist against his grip, muscles straining, but he’s too strong.

“You’ve made this harder than it had to be,” the man in the coat says, stepping forward, his voice a mockery of sympathy. “But all we need are answers. Tell us what we want, and we’ll leave you in one piece.”

Your pulse races as you glance around, weighing your options. The tools are scattered across the floor, too far to reach easily. You know how to fight, but outnumbered three to one, it’s going to be a challenge. The man in the coat watches you closely, as if waiting for you to make a move.

The sound of metal clattering to the floor grabs everyone’s attention. One of the goons has knocked over a pile of parts, and in the chaos, you see your opening. With every ounce of strength left in you, you twist, wrenching yourself free. The adrenaline surges, your muscles burning as you lunge toward the nearest workbench, your fingers closing around the heavy wrench.

The sickening crack of metal meeting bone echoes through the garage as you swing the wrench at the goon’s head. He stumbles back, cursing in pain, but there’s no time to hesitate. Your breath is ragged, each gasp like fire in your lungs, and you scramble to your feet, racing toward the door.

But before you can make it, the second goon blocks your path. His fist swings toward you, and you barely duck in time, the force of the hit grazing your shoulder. The pain is sharp, but you ignore it, bringing the wrench up again and slamming it into his midsection. He doubles over with a grunt.

Before you can make it to the door, though, the man in the coat grabs you by the wrist, twisting your arm painfully behind your back.

“You should’ve stayed out of this,” he snarls, his voice dripping with venom. His grip tightens, and you bite back a cry as the pressure mounts, your muscles screaming in protest.

Just as you think he’s about to slam you into the ground, the door bursts open with a crash. In a blur of motion, the Red Comet sprints into the room, his fists a flurry of movement as he takes down the first goon in seconds.

His eyes lock onto yours, fury blazing behind his mask, and in a split second, he’s on the man in the coat. With a swift, brutal motion, he grabs him by the collar, slamming him against the wall. The impact reverberates through the garage, shaking the shelves as tools rattle.

“If you ever touch them again,” the Red Comet growls, his voice low and dangerous, “you won’t be walking out of here.”

The man’s smug expression falters, but before he can respond, the Red Comet knocks him out with a single blow, the thud of his body hitting the ground echoing in the now silent room.

You collapse against the nearest wall, your breath ragged, your muscles trembling from the exertion. The garage is still, the only sound the pounding of your heartbeat in your ears. The Red Comet turns to you, concern replacing the fury that had been there just moments before.

“Are you okay?” His voice is filled with worry as he steps closer, his hands hovering over your shoulders like he’s afraid to touch you, afraid you might break.

You nod, still catching your breath, the weight of everything crashing down on you. “I’m fine,” you manage, though your voice is shaky.

He shakes his head. “This is my fault. I should have never come here.”

You reach out, resting your hand on his arm. The fabric is terse and warm, and you can feel that his muscles are still tense beneath it. “I’m not some damsel in distress. I can handle myself.”

His jaw tightens for a moment, but he nods. “Still,” he says softly, “I’m sorry.”

You stare at him, your chest tightening as the weight of the situation settles between you.

The strained cough of one of the men is a quick reminder that the situation is yet to be over. You glance around, feeling panic building as you try to figure out what to do before they wake back up. “Do you have, like, protocol for this kind of thing?”

The Red Comet nods, his posture straightening as he seems to shift back into superhero mode. “Leave them with me.”

You hesitate, your eyes scanning the room again. The unconscious bodies of Mr. Scott’s men lay sprawled across the floor, and despite the superhero’s calm demeanour, the tension in the air still feels thick and suffocating. You want to argue, to insist that you stay and help clean up the mess. After all, this is your garage—they came here because of you.

But then you look over at him. His shoulders are tense, his jaw clenched, but he seems more confident and sure of himself.

“I’ll be back,” you say, your voice softer than you intended. “Fifteen minutes.”

He nods, his gaze never leaving yours. You can see the gratitude there, mixed with something deeper—something unspoken. And as you turn to leave, your heart feels heavy with the weight of everything unsaid between you.

You step outside, closing the garage door behind you and leaning against it, trying to steady your breathing. Your mind is spinning, replaying the events of the last few minutes over and over.

Fifteen minutes pass like a blur, and when you finally open the door again, the men are gone. The garage looks almost untouched, only the scatter of a few tools out of place letting you know that the confrontation ever happened. And the Red Comet is standing there, his back to you, head bowed slightly as if weighed down by something.

“All okay?” You call softly, stepping inside. Your voice feels too loud against the stillness.

He doesn’t respond at first. The silence that follows feels thick, uncomfortable, as though it's hiding words he’s not ready to speak. Your heart pounds harder in the quiet. You move forward, feeling unsure, and reach out to him, grabbing his arm and guiding him to sit with you at the workbench. His surprise flickers for a moment, but he doesn’t resist your touch.

"I can’t keep doing this,” he finally breaks the silence, his voice sounding so broken that it hurts to hear. “I can’t keep pretending this doesn’t affect you. That being around me doesn’t put you in danger.”

Your breath catches. For a split second, doubt clouds your mind – am I making a mistake being involved in this?

But before the uncertainty can take hold, you push it away. You take his covered hand in yours. “I know what I’m getting into. I knew the risks when I fixed your car, and I know them now. And I’m still here, aren’t I?”

He exhales, shaking his head. “It’s different now. They know about you, and they almost hurt you.”

The words hang in the air between you, an admittance of the truth that feels too heavy. A cold chill runs through you, the fear creeping in despite your resolve. But hearing the despair in his voice—the way it trembles with guilt—makes you push past your own fear. Is it dangerous? Yes. But leaving him, letting him deal with this burden alone, feels worse.

Reaching out, you gently lift his chin so that he’s forced to look at you. A small, determined smile forms on your lips. “Hey, you may have saved the day, but I had it covered. Don’t underestimate my skill with a wrench.”

A choked, sob-like laugh leaves him, and his shoulders crumple slightly, releasing the bundle of stress he’d been holding.

“Look,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady. “You’re just going to have to accept that I’m involved now; there’s nothing stopping that. And I don’t want it to. You’re not getting rid of me even if you try.”

A beat passes, and you wonder if you’ve pushed too far. His posture is so still that you feel like you cannot move an inch either.

His hands are the first to move, slowly and a little shakily. When they reach the bottom of his mask, you realise what he’s trying to do.

In a flash, you pull your own hands back to cover your eyes, the instinct to respect his privacy taking over. “I’m sorry,” you blurt out, feeling awkward in the silence. “I didn’t mean for-”

“Don’t apologise,” His voice is softer now, more vulnerable. There’s a rawness you haven’t heard before, unfettered by material. You keep your hands over your eyes, and jolt slightly as you feel his own covering yours. His fingers wrap around delicately, and gently pull the cover away from you. “I want you to see me.”

Slowly, hesitantly, you open your eyes, your heart thudding in your chest.

When you look up, he’s there—entirely unmasked, fully exposed. Your lips part, and you instinctively reach out, your fingertips ghosting over his jawline. He lets you, his skin warm beneath your touch.

He’s beautiful, each feature perfectly balanced in its own way. But there’s something deeper in his eyes, a mix of concern, fear, and vulnerability that pulls at you. You can’t look away, and yet, you feel your attention drawn towards his soft, full lips.

For a moment, you just stare, processing the weight of what he’s just done. He’s standing in front of you, fully exposed, fully himself, no longer hidden behind the persona of the Red Comet.

And then you smile, a euphoric beam that lights up your face. The corners of his mouth perks up in response, slowly exposing his teeth and gums, and you realise that you’ve uncovered his most beautiful feature.

“I don’t deserve you,” he says quietly, as if he’s afraid of what you might think now that you’ve seen him. “You’re too good for this, for all the danger that comes with me.”

You shake your head, your grip on his hand tightening as you refuse to look away from him. “That’s not for you to decide. I choose to be here, with you. And we’re going to figure it out. Together.”

His eyes search yours, and for the first time, your see something break in him – something deep and guarded that’s been locked away from far too long.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he admits softly, his voice trembling. “I don’t think I could handle it.”

Your heart aches at the vulnerability in his words, and without thinking, you pull him into a hug. At first, he stiffens, like he’s not sure how to respond, but then, slowly, he wraps his arms around you, holding on tightly as if you’re the lifeline he didn’t know he needed.

“You won’t lose me,” you whisper into his shoulder, your voice steady despite the storm of emotions swirling inside you. “I’m right here.”

For a long moment, neither of you says anything. The garage is quiet, the world outside seeming to fade away as the two of you sit there, holding onto each other in the dim light.

When he finally pulls back, there’s a softness in his eyes. “My name’s Chan. Lee Chan. I’d like you to know that, too.”

Your heart swells, and your head tilts forward. “Thank you for trusting me.” You say, hoping your sincerity is clear to him. “Chan.”

Hearing his name from your lips seems to soften his worry, bringing him a sense of calm. You both stay still, sitting close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from his body. The air between you feels charged with something unspoken. Your hand is still resting lightly on his cheek, your thumb brushing softly against his skin, and it feels like the most natural thing in the world.

His eyes flicker down to your lips, then back up to meet your gaze. His breathing hitches slightly. There’s a question in his eyes, a silent invitation.

Slowly, hesitantly, you close the distance between you. His breath mingles with yours, and just as your lips are about to meet, he pauses, as if giving you one last chance to pull away. But you don’t. You’re here, with him, and you want this.

When his lips finally press against yours, it’s soft at first, almost tentative, like he’s afraid of moving too fast. But then the kiss deepens, and all the tension, the fear, the vulnerability between you melts away. It’s as if everything you’ve both been holding back—the uncertainty, the emotions you couldn’t quite voice—comes rushing out in this one moment.

His hand moves to cup your face, pulling you closer as the kiss grows more urgent, more certain. You feel the warmth of his skin, the way his body moves against yours, and it’s like nothing else matters.

As you start to peel the suit from his body, careful to avoid touching the side he’d been stabbed, you reveal more and more of him. Your head swirls with thoughts of him – not just of the muscled body that now presses against yours, but of the vulnerability of the moment; the superhero allowing you to see all of him after so much hiding.

It makes you feel euphoric, being allowed a peak under the mask, knowing that he trusts you enough to let you.

As your own clothes are removed, you don’t feel any shyness. The tenderness of his reveal is enough to put you at ease, to want to give yourself to him.

He’s beautiful under your eyes, chest heaving as you wrap your legs over his, gently positioning yourself on top of him. The way your name falls from his lips, in the voice you know best of all, only makes you feel more eager to please him.

The movement of your bodies against each other is slow, subtle. It’s quiet, other than the breathy moans that escape you and him. It’s not the type of intimacy you’re used to – quick flings with rough strangers to satiate a need are completely different to the unhurried, deliberate push and pull between you.

It hits you part way through, as Chan’s hands flutter over your hips, that he must be holding back to not hurt you. A man with super strength, his grip the gentleness you’ve ever known. You wonder what it would be like to have him at full strength, pounding into you, another time. But, now, you’re addicted to the slow movements, the hesitant touches, and almost teasing way he’s dragging you both towards completion.

You fall flat onto him, your body twitching slightly with exhaustion as you finally reach the peak, unable to tear your eyes away from his face, scared that if you look away you’ll never see it again.

He’s panting beneath you, head thrown back in bliss, but he’s cradling your body, holding you up as you’re unable to do it yourself.

Here, curled up into his grasp, you feel the safest you’ve ever felt. You want to tell him as much, let him know how much you appreciate him, but you can’t say anymore, too fulfilled to do anything but let your eyes flicker shut.

The hum of the city has changed.

What once was the usual rhythm of car horns, distant chatter, and the thrum of daily life has been replaced by something more unsettling – a tension hanging in the air that you can feel in your bones. The streets seem quieter, but not in a peaceful way. It is the kind of quiet that came just before a storm. A charged silence.

You stand in the doorway of your garage, leaning against the frame, arms crossed as you take in the atmosphere of the Lower South Rim. Even in your rough corner of the city, people are moving differently. Heads down, quick steps, and nervous glances thrown over their shoulders. There are more empty storefronts than usual, their "closed" signs flipped down in the middle of the day.

The power cuts have been getting more frequent. A few seconds here and there at first, and then they started lasting longer—whole city blocks going dark for hours. You think back on what Chan said about Tempest, about his attacks on the power plants and grid, and wonder what the next step is.

You can hear the buzz of a TV playing from the diner across the street, the static of an emergency news broadcast cutting through the afternoon haze. The voice of the newscaster drifts through the open window, tired and strained.

‘...no official statement from the Mayor’s office yet, but sources say that tonight’s blackout could affect up to 40 percent of the city’s power grid...’

You can’t help but let out a slow breath, your eyes narrowing as you scan the horizon, the towering skyscrapers of downtown standing like sentinels in the distance. Even from here, you can feel the anxiety that’s creeping its way into the heart of the city. People are scared. And for good reason.

A flicker of movement catches your attention, and you glance down the street. Two men in heavy coats are standing outside the old hardware store, their eyes shifting nervously as they talk in low voices. Normally, you wouldn’t think twice about it, but something about their hurried conversation and the way they keep looking around sets off alarm bells in your head.

You strain to catch snippets of their conversation as they move closer to your side of the street.

"...another one tonight... Tempest, they say..."

"...power plant’s next... you hear about Brewer’s Quarter? That’s not just a coincidence..."

Your heart clenches at the mention of Tempest, and the knot in your stomach tightens.

The men glance your way, cutting their conversation short as they catch sight of you standing there. You raise your chin slightly, meeting their gaze, and they turn and disappear down an alley without another word.

For a second, you consider following them, but then you catch the low growl of an engine coming up the street. It’s a familiar sound—Chan’s car. The sleek, black frame pulls up in front of the garage, its polished exterior gleaming in the dull afternoon light.

His eyes meet yours as he gets out of he car, and you can see the tension in his shoulders, the faint lines of worry etched into his face.

“Another blackout,” you say, nodding toward the TV screen in the diner. “And it sounds like Tempest is involved.”

Chan’s gaze flickers toward the diner as he listens to the broadcast for a moment. Then he looks back at you, his voice low. “It’s worse than that. I think I’ve figured out what Tempest and Scott are planning.”

You frown, stepping aside so that he can follow you into the garage. The heavy steel door shuts behind him with a dull clang, sealing the two of you away from the restless streets outside. The familiar smell of oil wraps around you like a protective barrier, but even in here the tension of the city’s looming crisis feels suffocating.

“What’d you find out?” You ask, your voice low with concern as you monitor the stormy look on his face. Your hand stretches out, instinctively wanting to make him feel better, and you settle it on his shoulder, drawing small circles on the tense skin.

He rolls his neck, letting out a long sigh. “Tempest is targeting the main power plant. If he pulls this off, it’s not just going to be a few blackouts. The whole city will go dark. Emergency services, hospitals, everything will be offline.”

Your stomach drops. “He wants to take out the whole grid?”

Chan nods, his eyes hard. “And Scott’s working with him. He’s planning to seize control of the city once Tempest throws everything into disorder. They’ve been building towards this for weeks. Those smaller blackouts were just tests. Tonight’s the real deal.”

A chill runs down your spine as the weight of the situation sinks in. The whole city could be plunged into darkness – people trapped in hospitals, traffic systems down, everything coming to a halt. And in the chaos, Scott would swoop in, consolidating power and taking control while everyone else is scrambling to survive.

“How do we stop them?” You ask, your voice steadier than you feel.

Chan straightens up, his gaze snapping round to you. “Nuh-uh, there’s no ‘we’. I’m not letting you put yourself in danger.”

You feel a slight prickle of irritation that he doesn’t trust you enough to let you help, but its tempered as you realise that he just cares about you. But, he’s wrong, and you think he knows it. There’s no way that he’s going to be able to stop Tempest and Scott at the same time, and your engineering expertise is too useful in this situation for him to stick you at home.

“Chan,” you say, softly, watching him shiver as you say his name. “There’s no way that you can do this alone. Please, let me help.”

The air between you feels charged, as if the storm Tempest is brewing outside has somehow seeped into the garage, thickening the tension. Chan’s eyes flash with conflict, his body tensing further at your words. For a long moment, he doesn’t respond, his jaw tightening as he looks away, his gaze fixating on the far wall as if searching for the right words there.

“No,” he says, but his voice is softer than before, lacking the firm conviction you were expecting. “I can’t risk it.”

Your hand remains on his shoulder, your fingers still tracing soothing circles, but you can feel the tension rippling beneath his skin. He’s at war with himself, caught between wanting to protect you and knowing deep down that you’re right.

“Chan,” you say again, more firmly this time. His name feels like a thread that connects the two of you, tugging at something vulnerable and raw beneath his guarded exterior. And when his eyes finally meet yours, there’s a flicker of fear, not for the situation, but fear for you.

“You’re not a liability,” you continue, your voice gentle but steady. “You know I’m not. I can help with this. You need me.”

He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair in frustration, his fingers tangling briefly in the strands. “It’s not that I don’t think you can help. I know you can. That’s what scares me.” His voice is strained, the words heavy with the weight of something unspoken. “If anything happens to you…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence, but the implication hangs in the air, thick and suffocating. You can see the battle playing out in his mind—the need to keep you safe warring with the reality of what’s at stake. He’s terrified of losing you, of dragging you into a world of danger that he’s never wanted for you.

And you have to decide for yourself too. The city’s fate hangs in the balance, and you can viscerally feel the weight of it pressing down on your shoulders. This isn’t something you’ve done before, you’re not superhuman like he is, and even if you have a good swing, you’re not a trained fighter.

But, as the fear about what will happen to you ripples between you, you feel your own fear for him fighting back, equally as strong. “If you go out there alone, you might not come back. And then what? What do you think that’ll do to me?” You step closer, your hand sliding down from his shoulder to his chest. His heart is pounding beneath your touch.

He freezes at your words, his breath catching. You watch as his defences start to crack, realising that everything he’s feeling about you, you’re mirroring straight back to him.

“I’m not asking you to put me in harm’s way,” you continue, your voice soft but insistent. “But we’re a team. We’ve been through enough together that you know I can handle myself. And you know I won’t sit by while the city falls apart.”

His eyes close briefly, as if he’s trying to block out the truth in your words.

When he opens his eyes again, they’re filled with a mix of longing and fear, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that sends a shiver down your spine.

“You mean too much to me,” he says quietly, his voice barely above a whisper, as if admitting it aloud makes it too real. “I can’t lose you. Not like this.”

Your breath hitches at the vulnerability in his voice, at the raw emotion that’s finally breaking through. The tension between you tightens, like a taut wire about to snap. The air feels electric, charged not just with the danger outside, but with the undeniable pull between the two of you.

You step even closer, your body now inches from his. “Then don’t push me away,” you murmur, your hand still resting over his heart. “Let me stand by your side, Chan. We’re stronger together.”

For a split second, you think he’s going to close the distance, to give in to the longing that’s been simmering beneath the surface. His gaze flickers down to your lips, his breath coming quicker as he leans in just a fraction.

But then, just as quickly, he pulls back, taking a step away from you. The sudden distance feels like a physical blow, and you can see the pain in his eyes as he forces himself to pull away.

“Alright,” he says quietly, his voice filled with resignation. “But we do this my way.”

Relief washes over you, but it’s tempered by the new distance between you.

Chan straightens up, his face set with grim determination. You watch him morph into superhero-mode, no longer the man you know. “We go to the plant. Tempest won’t go down easy, but he’s not the brains behind this. Scott’s pulling the strings. Tempest just wants to destroy—Scott wants control. If we can cut off their communication and disable whatever tech Scott’s got rigged at the plant, we might have a shot at stopping them both.”

You let out a slow breath. “And what do you want me to do?”

“I’ll need you to guide me through the plant while I handle Tempest.” Chan continues, his voice frighteningly calm.

You watch as he begins emptying out his backpack – things you don’t recognise but know are meant for the kind of fight that’s coming. His suit comes out next, and you realise that you shouldn’t go in there unprotected either.

As if having the same thought, he pulls out a set of spare clothes. They’re his, and they sit slightly too large on you, but they give you some protection and hide your identity.

He moves to the garage door, pushing it open to reveal the darkening city streets beyond. The sun is already starting to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows across the buildings.

"We’ve got maybe an hour before they hit the plant," Chan says, his voice low and urgent. "We need to get there before Scott’s men lock it down."

You follow him to the car, your heart pounding in your chest as you climb into the passenger seat. The engine roars to life, and within seconds, you’re speeding through the streets of the Lower South Rim. The city rushes by in a blur of neon lights and dark alleys, but all you can think about is what’s waiting for you at the power plant.

The power plant looms ahead, a dark silhouette against the evening sky. The hum of machinery grows louder as Chan and you approach, its rhythmic thrum pulsing through the ground beneath your feet. The towering smoke and tangled networks of high-voltage lines have Chan biting his lip in anticipation of what sort of damage Tempest could do in this place.

He stops the car just outside the perimeter fence, far enough away to avoid being spotted by the guards patrolling the gates. He cuts the engine, and for a moment, the only sound is the distant buzz of electricity and the faint whistle of the wind through the nearby trees.

“We go in quiet.” Chan says, turning towards you. He feels almost unable to meet your eyes, and is suddenly grateful that the mask means that you cannot see his. His voice sounds urgent, pleading, and all he wants to do is tell you to stay here. But, instead, he has to be content with urging you to stay safe. “Tempest will be inside by now, and Scott’s men will be guarding every entrance.”

You follow his lead, slipping out of the car and crouching low as you both move toward the fence. The power plant’s lights flicker sporadically, casting eerie shadows across the yard.

“Here,” he whispers, pointing to a section of the fence he’d scouted out earlier that day. “There’s a gap in the security feed by the northeast corner. We can slip through there without setting off the alarms.”

You nod, your eyes scanning the perimeter for any sign of movement.

Chan pulls out a small cutting tool from his belt and makes quick work of the chain-link, creating a narrow opening just wide enough for the two of you to slip through.

"Stay close," Chan whispers, pulling you to your feet as the two of you creep through the shadows toward one of the smaller side entrances.

The place is heavily guarded – more than he expected. Groups of armed men patrol the exterior, their faces hidden behind black masks, each carrying enough firepower to take out half the neighbourhood. He can count at least three groups circling the building, their movement precise and practiced.

"They’re serious," you murmur under your breath, ducking behind a stack of shipping crates as one of the patrols passes dangerously close.

"Scott doesn’t leave anything to chance," Chan replies, his eyes narrowed as he watches the guards move. "But we’ve got an advantage. They don’t know we’re coming."

He feels like he’s trying to convince himself more than he’s trying to convince you.

“Can we take them?” You ask, glancing over. He has to stifle a small laugh, taken off guard by your instinct to run right into the fray of it.

Pulling a small device from his pocket, he shows it to you. “We don’t have to. This will scramble their comms for a few minutes – just long enough for us to get inside without raising the alarm.”

He activates the device and tosses it towards the guard post. Within seconds, the guards’ radios crackle with static, and they begin frantically tapping at their earpieces, trying to regain contact with their base.

"Now," Chan whispers, grabbing your hand and pulling you toward the door.

You move quickly together, your footsteps silent against the concrete as you weave through the shadows. The guards are distracted, their attention focused on their malfunctioning radios, and you slip past them without a sound. It feels almost too easy, like he’s holding his breath, waiting for something to go wrong.

As you reach the door, Chan presses his hand against the electronic keypad, and the door clicks open with a soft hiss. You slip inside, the dimly lit hallway stretching out before you. The air inside the power plant is thick with the smell of metal and oil, the low hum of the generators reverberating through the walls. He wonders if it smells is at least a little comforting to you.

"This way," Chan says, nodding toward the far end of the corridor. "We need to reach the control room. If Scott’s got his tech set up, that’s where it’ll be." His eyes dart around the darkened hallway. The place feels like a maze—industrial pipes and steel beams crisscrossing overhead, the walls lined with electrical panels and junction boxes. Every corner feels like a potential ambush, every shadow a threat.

"How far to the control room?" you ask, your voice barely more than a whisper.

"Two floors up," Chan replies, glancing over his shoulder at you. "There’s a service elevator near the back. We can use it to bypass the main floors."

Just as you reach the service elevator, a crackling voice echoes through the plant’s PA system, sending a chill down Chan’s spine.

‘All units, be advised: intruders detected. Sweep the lower floors. Shoot on sight.’

Chan curses under his breath, his fingers hovering over the elevator button. "We don’t have time for subtle anymore," he mutters, pressing the button as the sound of footsteps and barking orders echo through the corridors behind you.

The elevator doors slide open with a soft ding, and you and Chan slip inside, the doors closing just as the first group of guards rounds the corner. He catches a glimpse of their rifles as they move past, their boots thudding against the concrete. He takes the moment to glance over at you, and although he knows you’ve seen the guards as well, you appear steady and calm.

The doors slide open with a soft hiss, and you step out into a narrow hallway, the control room just ahead. But before you can move, Chan grabs your arm, his eyes wide with urgency.

"Listen to me," he says, his voice low and serious. "Once we’re inside, things are going to get messy. I need you to stay close, and if things go south, you get out. No arguments. Just run."

You blink, caught off guard by the intensity in his voice. "What are you talking about? I’m not leaving you in there alone."

Chan’s grip tightens slightly, his gaze locking with yours. "If something happens to me, you need to get out. Promise me."

You open your mouth to argue, but the look in his eyes stops you cold. He’s not asking. He’s telling you.

Swallowing hard, you nod. "Okay. I promise."

Chan lets out a breath, his shoulders relaxing just slightly. "Good."

He releases your arm, and the two of you move toward the control room. The door is just ahead, the hum of machinery louder than ever as you approach.

With one final glance at Chan, you push the door open.

The massive door creaks open, revealing the control room – sprawling, cold, and sterile. Row upon row of screens flicker with data, tracking every part of the city’s power grid. You can see the central control panel at the far end, its flashing lights indicating the system's full capacity. If Tempest gets his way, the entire city will be plunged into chaos.

But there’s no time to appreciate the magnitude of it all.

Standing next to the control panel, you see Tempest for the first time. His eyes glow with a crackling blue energy that dances along his fingertips. His face is twisted in a cold, sinister smile as he watches the screens.

At the far end of the room, perched in front of one of the larger monitors, is Mr Scott. He’s leaning back in his chair, completely at ease, his sharp suit unwrinkled, as if this whole operation is just another day at the office. His eyes flicker toward you and Chan as you enter, a slow, calculated smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Well, well," Scott drawls, his voice oozing with smug confidence. "The city’s little hero, right on schedule. And you brought company. How quaint."

Tempest’s gaze snaps toward you, the crackling energy in his hands intensifying. His grin widens, and you can feel the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end as the air around him grows charged with electricity.

"Red Comet," Tempest growls, his voice a low rumble of thunder. "I’ve been waiting for this."

Chan tenses beside you, his muscles coiling like a spring ready to explode. You can see the weight of the situation bearing down on him, the knowledge that every second counts. One wrong move, and Tempest will fry the entire plant.

But it’s Scott’s next words that make your blood run cold.

"I’m impressed, Red Comet," Scott continues, his voice smooth as silk. "Not many people would be brave—or foolish—enough to bring someone they care about into a situation like this."

His eyes flick toward you, and suddenly, you realize what’s happening. Scott knows. He’s figured out who you are, and worse, he’s figured out how much you mean to Chan.

For a moment, everything seems to freeze. You can feel the weight of Chan’s gaze on you, the unspoken fear that he’s been trying to keep hidden now laid bare.

"Don’t listen to him," Chan whispers, his voice tight with barely contained fury. "He’s just trying to get in your head."

But Scott’s smile only widens, his eyes gleaming with malicious glee. "Oh, I don’t need to get in your head. I’ve already won. Tempest, if you’d be so kind…"

Tempest raises his hand, and in an instant, the air around you crackles with electricity. You can feel the charge building, the hair on your arms standing on end as the temperature in the room seems to spike. The power plant’s machinery groans in protest, the lights flickering as Tempest channels his energy into the room.

Chan reacts in a flash, grabbing your arm and pulling you behind one of the large control consoles just as a bolt of lightning crashes into the floor where you were standing. The air is filled with the smell of burning metal, and the ground shakes beneath you as Tempest unleashes another wave of energy, sending sparks flying.

"You okay?" Chan asks, his voice tight with worry as he crouches beside you, his back pressed against the console.

You nod, your heart pounding in your chest, the adrenaline coursing through your veins. "Yeah. I’m fine."

But there’s no time to catch your breath. The room is a war zone now—Tempest’s lightning bolts crackle through the air, shattering monitors and sending showers of sparks raining down around you. Scott’s men scramble for cover, their rifles raised, but they’re clearly outmatched by Tempest’s raw power.

Chan’s eyes scan the room, searching for an opening. " “We need to split them up,” he mutters, his eyes scanning the room. “I’ll keep Tempest busy. You get to the control panel and shut down the grid. That’ll cut his power supply.”

His body softens for a second, as if he’s realised something. “Please, be safe. I lo-”

A spike of panic riles your body, and you put your finger on his lips, shaking your head. “Not now. Afterwards.” You know what he’s doing, giving you one last goodbye in case something goes wrong, but you’re not going to let that happen.

With one last look, Chan stands, his body moving with a grace and fluidity that belies the tension in the air. "Tempest!" he shouts, drawing the villain’s attention away from the rest of the room.

Tempest’s head snaps toward him, his eyes narrowing as a cruel smile spreads across his face. "Running away already, hero?"

Chan doesn’t respond. Instead, he leaps into action, moving with lightning speed as he closes the distance between himself and Tempest. The two of them clash in a violent burst of energy, Chan’s fists moving in a blur as he dodges and weaves around Tempest’s attacks.

You watch in awe for a moment, until the pair crash out of the control room, leaving you alone with your task. And Mr Scott.

Ducking low, you sprint across the room, weaving between the shattered remains of monitors and control panels until you reach the central console. Your heart pounds as you reach the panel, your fingers trembling as you start scanning for the emergency shutoff switch.

The control panel is a mess—wires sparking, glass shattered—but you spot the emergency switch buried beneath a layer of debris. Just as your hand reaches for it, a shadow falls over you.

“Now, now,” a smooth, chilling voice says. “Where do you think you’re going?”

You freeze, your breath catching in your throat as you turn to see Mr. Scott standing just a few feet away. His expression is cool and collected, but there’s a dangerous gleam in his eyes.

“Did you really think I’d let you shut down my operation so easily?” Scott steps closer, his presence suffocating as he corners you against the control panel. “You’ve been very helpful, of course, playing your little part. But I’m afraid your time’s up.”

“You’re wrong,” you say, your voice trembling slightly but defiant. “You can’t win this.”

Scott chuckles, a low, mocking sound. “Oh, I already have. Tempest is keeping your little hero occupied. You really think Chan can save the city and you?” He steps even closer, his eyes narrowing. “He’s going to have to choose. And I know what heroes always choose—they save the city, and they let the people they care about burn.”

Fear claws at your chest. Scott’s words are like poison, seeping into your mind. You know Chan, you trust him, but in this moment, Scott’s chilling logic feels too real. You glance at the control panel, your fingers brushing against the switch. If you could just reach it…

But Scott is faster. He lunges, grabbing your wrist in a crushing grip, and slams your hand down on the panel, pinning you in place. “You’re not going anywhere,” he sneers.

Panic surges through you. You try to struggle, but Scott’s hold is like iron, unyielding. Your mind races, heart pounding as you glance desperately toward the outside, but Chan is nowhere to be seen.

Scott’s grip tightens on your wrist, and he leans in close, his voice a cold whisper in your ear. “See? He can’t save you. He’s too busy fighting for his precious city. And you… well, you’re just collateral damage.”

You grit your teeth, anger rising in you as Scott’s taunts cut deep. But then, out of the corner of your eye, you spot something – a heavy metal pipe, half-buried under a pile of debris.

Without hesitation, you spit in Mr Scott’s face.

He staggers back slightly, a furious yell retching out of his mouth. It’s all you need. You lunge forward, loosening his grip on your wrist, and close your free hand around the cold metal. With all the strength you can muster, you swing the pipe up and slam it into Scott’s arm.

He curses, and you yank your hand free. You fall backwards, breathless and shaking, but you don’t hesitate. You dive for the emergency shutoff switch, slamming your hand down on it. The room plunges into darkness as the power grid shuts off, the hum of electricity fading into silence.

Chan barely has time to move before Tempest is on him, unleashing a bolt of lightning that crackles through the air with a deafening roar. The strike slams into Chan’s side, sending him flying across the room. He crashes into a metal column, the impact knowing the wind out of him.

Tempest strides forward, his eyes glowing an eerie blue as arcs of electricity pulse around him. His grin is wide, feral, and filled with malice.

Chan groans, pushing himself up on shaky arms, his muscles screaming in protest. The force of the lightning has left a sharp, burning pain radiating through his body, his skin tingling and raw from the electric blast. He staggers to his feet, trying to catch his breath, but there’s no time. Tempest’s next attack is already coming—a barrage of lightning bolts raining down from above.

Chan dives to the side, rolling behind the column as the floor where he stood moments ago explodes in a shower of sparks and shattered concrete. The heat from the lightning is intense, the air thick with the smell of ozone and scorched metal.

He grits his teeth, struggling to keep his focus. Tempest is stronger than ever, feeding off the power grid, the electricity in the room swirling around him like a living thing. Every movement is effortless, every attack precise and brutal. Chan’s every muscle aches, and he can feel the burn of his injuries starting to slow him down.

He knows he’s outmatched while Tempest is drawing power from the grid, but there’s no backing down now. The city’s fate—and yours—rests on him holding Tempest off long enough for you to shut down the power.

He darts out from cover, launching himself toward Tempest in a blur of movement. His fists connect with Tempest’s chest in a rapid series of strikes, each punch landing with a dull thud against the villain’s armour. But Tempest barely flinches, his body crackling with electricity, his smirk widening as he grabs Chan by the arm, sending a surge of lightning coursing through him.

Chan screams, his body convulsing in pain as the electricity sears through his nerves. His vision blurs, his muscles locking up as he struggles to break free. Tempest's grip tightens, his laughter booming like thunder as he watches Chan writhe in agony.

"Pathetic," Tempest sneers, throwing Chan across the room like a ragdoll. Chan crashes into a bank of machinery, the sharp edges biting into his back as he collapses to the ground. His chest heaves, his body shaking uncontrollably from the aftershocks of the lightning. Every nerve feels raw, every movement like fire.

For a moment, he can barely move. He hears Tempest’s footsteps approaching, the crackling energy growing louder with each step. Chan’s vision swims as he tries to push himself up, his limbs sluggish, the weight of the fight pressing down on him. Tempest looms over him, the villain’s eyes glowing brighter as he raises his hand, ready to deliver the final blow.

“You’re done, Comet,” Tempest growls. “Your city is done.”

Chan’s breath comes in ragged gasps, his mind racing. He’s out of options, out of strength. But then, through the haze of pain, he thinks of you. You’re trying to shut down the grid—buying him time, risking your life to stop Tempest. He can’t let you down. He can’t let you face this alone.

With a pained groan, Chan forces himself to his feet, swaying slightly as he stands. His body protests every movement, but he grits his teeth, pushing through the pain. He raises his fists, squaring his shoulders as he locks eyes with Tempest. “I’m not done yet,” he growls, his voice filled with defiance.

Tempest’s smile falters for a moment, irritation flashing across his face. “You should’ve stayed down,” he spits, raising both hands, lightning coiling around his arms in a deadly swirl.

The air hums with electric tension, and for a heartbeat, time seems to freeze. Chan braces himself for the incoming strike, every instinct screaming at him to dodge, to move, but his body is slow to respond, his muscles stiff from the earlier shocks. He knows he’s not fast enough. Not this time.

But just as Tempest unleashes the full force of his power, the room suddenly plunges into darkness. The lights flicker once, then die. The hum of electricity disappears, leaving only silence in its wake.

Tempest freezes, his hands still crackling with fading energy, but his powers falter—flickering like a dying flame. His eyes widen in shock as the realization hits him.

The power grid is down.

Chan feels the shift immediately. The oppressive weight of Tempest’s electric aura vanishes, the air stilling as the last crackle of lightning fizzles out. Tempest stumbles, his control over the electric currents slipping through his fingers.

Chan takes the opportunity. With Tempest momentarily weakened, he surges forward, his body moving on pure adrenaline. His fist connects with Tempest’s jaw in a brutal uppercut, sending the villain staggering back. Before Tempest can recover, Chan grabs him by the collar, pulling him close.

“This ends now,” Chan growls through gritted teeth.

Tempest’s eyes widen in fury, but without the power grid to fuel him, his strength is faltering. Chan slams him into the ground, pinning him with a knee to the chest. Tempest struggles, his hands sparking weakly with residual electricity, but it’s no use. The fight has been drained out of him.

From across the room, he hears your voice crackle through the earpiece. “I did it—the power’s down, but—Scott’s here! I need—”

Your voice cuts off suddenly, and Chan’s heart drops.

“Hold on,” he mutters, his grip tightening on Tempest’s collar. He delivers one final punch to the villain, knocking him out cold, before rising to his feet, every part of him screaming in pain. But there’s no time to rest. You’re in danger, and Scott is still out there.

Without hesitation, Chan takes off, sprinting through the now-darkened room, desperate to reach you before it’s too late.

Chan races through the maze of darkened corridors, his heart pounding in his chest, every step driving him closer to you. His breath is ragged, and every muscle in his body aches, but the thought of you alone, facing Scott, fuels him. He can’t let anything happen to you. Not after everything.

He rounds a corner and skids to a halt as he hears voices ahead—yours and Scott’s. The sound sends a chill down his spine, the urgency in your voice mixing with the low, taunting rumble of Scott’s.

“I told you,” Scott says, his tone dripping with mockery. “Your little boyfriend can’t save you. He’s too busy with Tempest to even know you’re in danger.”

Chan’s heart clenches at Scott’s words, and he presses himself against the wall, moving silently toward the source of the sound. He peers around the corner and his blood runs cold.

There you are, backed into a corner near the control panel, Scott towering over you with a cruel smile on his face. His fingers trace a small, menacing blade in his hand, the tip glinting in the dim emergency lights. You’re holding your own, standing tall despite the fear that’s clear in your eyes, but Chan can see the tension in your shoulders.

Chan's breath catches in his throat as he watches the scene unfold. His first instinct is to charge in, but something makes him hesitate, his heart pounding even harder. It's you—there’s something in the way you’re standing, the way your movements subtly inch you towards the metal pipe lying next to the control centre. You’re not just holding your own—you’re planning something.

“I’ve been in worse situations,” you say, your voice tight but steady, the words slipping through gritted teeth. “And you’re not nearly as intimidating as you think.”

Scott laughs, a low, cruel sound. He steps closer, the tip of the blade catching the dim light, and Chan tenses.

“I’m not looking to intimidate,” Scott sneers, “I’m just making a point. Once Tempest brings the city to its knees, people like you won’t have a place anymore. There won’t be anyone to run to. No heroes. No Red Comet to save you.”

You shift slightly, your gaze flickering to the corner of the room. Chan follows, and his heart skips a beat as he spots it – a small metal canister tucked away near the base of one of the computer systems.

“Shut up,” you snap, your voice filled with a fiery determination Chan has always admired in you. “You talk too much.”

Scott’s smirk falters for a second, and in that moment, you move. In one swift motion your hand snatches up the heavy pipe from the floor and, with all the strength you can muster, hurl it towards the canister of compressed air.

The wrench strikes the canister with a sharp clang, and for a heartbeat, nothing happens. Scott’s eyes widen, his smirk faltering as he processes what you’ve just done. Then, with a deafening whoosh, the canister bursts open, releasing a blast of compressed air with explosive force. The sudden eruption knocks over machinery, sending a wave of sparks into the air, and ignites a small fire as it hits an exposed electrical panel.

Chan darts in, fear spiking as the room plunges into chaos.

Scott stumbles back, his arrogant composure shattering as the explosion disorients him. He throws his arms up to shield his face from the heat and debris, his confident swagger replaced with pure instinctual panic.

"WHAT—" Scott shouts, but his words are drowned out by the roar of the flames licking at the side of the control panel, smoke curling into the air. The ground trembles beneath your feet as the machinery in the room jolts, sparking uncontrollably from the burst.

You dive forward, using the confusion to close the distance between you and Scott. He’s still reeling, eyes darting around the room in shock, trying to regain his bearings, but you’re faster. You slam your shoulder into him, knocking him off balance. His knife clatters to the floor as he stumbles, barely catching himself on the edge of a console.

“No more talking,” you grit out, grabbing a broken-off piece of equipment from the floor. You swing it with precision, striking Scott’s leg just below the knee. He cries out, collapsing to the floor in a heap, pain and fury etched across his face.

You step back, panting heavily, and spot Chan. He’s standing in the doorway, his chest heaving with exertion, eyes wide with a mixture of shock and relief. For a moment, the noise and confusion around you both seem to fade, leaving only the two of you. His gaze flickers from you to Scott lying on the floor, and then back to you. He can’t help but be overwhelmed with pride for you.

He rushes forward, dodging a sparking cable that snaps to the ground beside him. “Are you hurt?” he asks, his voice filled with barely contained urgency. His hands hover near your shoulders, wanting to touch, to check for injuries.

“I’m fine,” you breathe out, though your hands tremble. “I had it under control.”

Chan shakes his head, disbelief mingling with a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, I saw that.”

Before he can finish, a groan from the floor snaps both of your attention back to Scott, who is struggling to push himself up, his face contorted in pain. His eyes, wild with anger, lock onto you and Chan, but there’s a flicker of something else there—fear.

“You think this is over?” Scott spits, his voice hoarse and filled with venom. “Tempest is already—”

“-is already beaten.” Chan cuts in, his voice low and dangerous. He steps forward, his body tensed like a spring coiled up, waiting for a release. Scott’s arrogant demeanour falters. His eyes flicker between you and Chan, weighing his options, and for the first time, it’s clear—he knows he’s lost control.

Scott's face twists in frustration as he struggles to comprehend his downfall. His once smooth and confident façade now appears cracked, broken by the realization that his carefully orchestrated plan has failed.

"You’re finished," Chan growls, stepping closer, his presence looming over Scott like a shadow. "Tempest is down, and your men are scattered. It’s over."

Scott’s jaw clenches, his hands balling into fists as he scrambles to pull himself together, grasping for the last shred of control. "You don’t understand," he spits. "You might’ve stopped me here, but this city... it’s already rotting. You can’t save everyone, and when it crumbles, you’ll fall with it."

Chan’s eyes narrow, but he doesn’t flinch. "Maybe. But not today."

With a final blow, Chan knocks him unconscious. The room falls silent except for the distant crackle of the damaged electronics and the faint hum of the emergency lights flickering on.

As Chan turns to face you, his features softened in the dim light, a sense of relief washes over both of you.

He steps closer, searching your eyes for any lingering fear or doubt. But instead, he only finds exhaustion and a shared understanding of what you’ve both just survived. His hand reaches out, cupping your cheek gently as his thumb brushes against your skin, wiping away the smudge of ash from the battle.

His breath hitches, the emotion of it all threatening to overwhelm him as you stare at each other. He takes a deep breath, pulling you into his arms, holding you tightly, afraid to let go. You cling to him, feeling the steady beat of his heart against yours, a grounding rhythm to remind you that you’re both still here.

“I’m not letting you go,” Chan says softly, his voice thick with emotion. “Not now, not ever.”

You smile, your heart swelling as you look into his eyes. “Good,” you whisper back. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

And in that moment, with the city still buzzing in the background, the chaos subsiding, and the weight of the battle falling away, Chan closes the gap between you, pulling his mask out of the way, and kisses you. It’s slow and deliberate, filled with the kind of tenderness that only comes from knowing that you’ve both found each other on the other side of something dark and dangerous.

And as you pull back, resting your forehead against his, he knows that whatever the future holds, you’ll face it together.

You look up at him, your eyes sparkling under the glowing light of the plant. A small, soft smile curves your lips, your face contorting as if you’ve remembered something important. “I love you.”

Chan’s entire body stutters at your words. His breath catches, and for a moment, he’s complete still, feeling like the world has stopped spinning around him.

“I love you,” you repeat, your voice quieter now, more certain. The words hang in the air between you, vulnerable and raw, yet filled with a warmth that settles into every corner of the moment.

Chan exhales slowly, his grip on you tightening just a little, as if anchoring himself to the reality of what you’ve just said. His hand slides up to cup your face, his thumb brushing tenderly across your cheek. He opens his mouth, his voice hoarse with emotion. “I love you too. And I don’t know how to do that without pulling you into this fight, but I know that I can’t keep pretending that I don’t feel this.”

The world outside might be chaotic, and the battles ahead uncertain, but right here, in this moment, everything feels clear.

Chan pulls back slightly, looking down at you with a smile that’s equal parts relief and joy. “Whatever happens next, we’ve got this,” he says softly, his voice steady with conviction.

And you know, without a doubt, that he’s right.

[transformers-synergize]

Can Smokescreen fly with those wings?

(if that's what they are. Love your art btw)

No, he can't. He doesn't have flyers or seeker modification. He could have gotten them if he wanted back on Cybertron, but he can't now since the earth-stranded bots don't have the proper resources to perform that type of modification.

No cybertronian can naturally fly and require modifications to do so, there are two main types of flying modifications. Flyers who can only fly in their alt mode, while seeker/root mode flyers that can fly in root/robot mode and their alt mode. Flight is also not a natural instinct for cybertronians, and even if a bot is given additional code to help with flying, they still need to learn how. It's not second nature like driving or walking alts 

Already had the stuff below written down, but feel like this ask a decent enough excuse to share my flyer and seeker lore

The process is very unintrusive for gaining a flying alt mode, only requiring a few modifications depending on frame type. Most require an engine change modification to the t-cog housing and additional metal that can be used for wings or blades. Not all bots are compatible with flying modification, but most can be it just requires different levels of modifications.

Seekers, otherwise known as root mode flyers, are able to fly not just in their alt-mode but in their robot/root mode. It requires several extreme modifications, and only certain specific frame types are even viable to be converted into seekers. A Failed seeker modification is usually deadly, but all Seekers are prone to malfunction, often related in some way to overheating, Even with successful upgrades. Seeker frame upgrades require several intrusive modifications. Their engine is replaced with an extremely powerful one; these engines burn an extreme amount of fuel and are known for constantly overheating, which leads to seekers having to have most of their proto-metal removed along with adding a lot of extra vents and upgrading their cooling systems legs are restructured and given thrusters nonvital parts to functioning get removed even if they do serve a purpose if a bot can function without it gets removed to both bring down weight and fuel consumption another reason why most the proto-metal is removed, Bots with flyers modifications can still take on a ground base alternate mode while tripled changers with flying mods are able to take on both a ground and flying alt at the same time, bots with seeker modifications can only take on flying alts  . Seekers can't take on ground alt modes, and triple changers with seeker upgrades can only use two flying alt modes.  The decepticons sizable seeker units are often credited with their success in the later half of the war, and complete domination of aerial combat to the point most autobots avoid any form of air confrontation. seeker are able to dominate the skies in way a that regular flyers simply cant along with Decepticon habit of combining powerful experimental weapon modification with seekers it no wonder why these bots haven been referred to as flying death. It's no quintessence that most of the remaining Autobot strongholds are underground titans or in locations that make flying difficult. "I'm not a fan of heavy modification unless absolutely necessary, especially when it comes to modification for war, but the seeker modification has to be one of the worse out there other than flying in root mode, and a little extra flight speed it's got no real benefit to the bot themself while carrying all kinds of side effects, with how much energy their frame burns it cut their lifespan in half, that's if the various complications don't kill them first, whenever I get one these bots on my table I always question who would allow something like this, especially something like this to just be an accepted part of life thank to the war  At least the ones who were modified early in the war or by autobot look somewhat functional on the inside  I have had ex decepticons come to me with interiors that look more like mutilation than any kind of upgrade" Ratchet's thoughts on seekers.

[needle-noggins]

The Biology and Riding of Thoma

Thoma, also known as Thomases (singular: Thomas), are the primary animal used on No Man's Land for transportation, meat, eggs, feathers and oil. The meat can be eaten fresh or dried into jerky, and thoma meat, fried in thoma oil and sprinkled with worm dust, is a popular street food. These massive birds were genetically engineered early on in No Man's Land history and are well-suited for the desert, making them easy to raise and care for. Plus, they're easy to ride.

Biology

Thoma are a combination of several bird species, genetically similar to Emu and Ostriches, but with the stature of much larger birds such as the extinct Terror birds (Phorusrhacids), standing near 5-6 feet tall at the withers. Their bright blue plumage and loosely-packed feathers helps dissipate heat. They have long eyelashes to keep out dust, and they have a second eyelid that protect the cornea from grit and bright UV light. This does, however, decrease visibility, making them more prone to tripping over rocks.

Thoma have a long, feathery neck that helps balance them at faster speeds along with the heavy, muscled keel. The keel is engineered to be similar to that of a broiler chicken, as their vestigial wings are useless except for thoma mating displays. Under the throat is a vocal sac, which can be used to transmit low rumbles over long distances. Most thoma, however, prefer to chirp at a frequency easily heard by their human caretakers and riders. They have long, powerful legs, capable of galloping up to 40 iles an hour, and a kick that can disembowel an attacker or rip into a worm's exoskeleton. The three talons on their feet need to be trimmed by an experienced farrier every 4-8 weeks, depending on a bird's mileage.

Thoma eat a diet of seeds, grains, worms, and (when available) fruits and vegetables. Like many birds before them, they will sometimes ingest small rocks and pebbles to help grind their food in the gizzard. The thin, short beak is perfect for pecking at the ground, and when provoked, they will also peck at an enemy. Thoma are, however, generally good-natured creatures, as they have been bred to be.

Riding

Thoma are easy-going and very trainable with a nice floating gait, making them great mounts for humans on No Man's Land. Like many birds, they can move their legs independently from the movement of the spine, which allows the use of saddles. Most saddles are similar to old Western saddles, and are optimized for comfort and long journeys. However, in the bigger cities, some people may ride Thoma in competitions, typically using more English-style tack for greater control of the bird. typically two straps are used to secure the saddle - a breastplate to keep it from sliding back, and a girth/breeching to prevent it from sliding forward. The strong legs are left free to move as needed, giving the bird great flexibility.

The tack on the head often consists of a bridle, a canvas covering on the neck, and a headpiece with blinders. Headpieces and bridles may vary, as the design has been through several different iterations, but the general idea is to generate gentle pressure on the beak when the reins are pulled and to protect the eyes. The headpiece often has blinders and a screen over the eyes, allowing the bird to travel without using the second eyelid. This allows the thomas to move with greater agility, picking its way around desert rocks even at high speeds. The canvas across the neck protects the feathers from the reins and keeps the bird cool. Some headpieces also include a protective metal beak piece that can be used as a weapon.

Thoma make excellent mounts as they are docile, easy to train, have very few natural predators, little fear of humans, and can live on worms alone in a pinch. They do require some water, not having ability to store much themselves, but their ability to dissipate heat and the ways in which the tack can help keep them cool minimizes the need. There are a few wild herds, but most thoma live on ranches or in stables, marked with a leg band or brand.

[wheelsgoroundincircles]

1968 Wood, Hot Metal, and Gasoline: The Improbable Marcos 1600 GT

1968 Wood, Hot Metal, and Gasoline: The Improbable Marcos 1600 GT

1968 Wood, Hot Metal, and Gasoline: The Improbable Marcos 1600 GT

1968 Wood, Hot Metal, and Gasoline: The Improbable Marcos 1600 GT

1968 Wood, Hot Metal, and Gasoline: The Improbable Marcos 1600 GT

1968 Wood, Hot Metal, and Gasoline: The Improbable Marcos 1600 GT

1968 Wood, Hot Metal, and Gasoline: The Improbable Marcos 1600 GT

1968 Wood, Hot Metal, and Gasoline: The Improbable Marcos 1600 GT

1968 Wood, Hot Metal, and Gasoline: The Improbable Marcos 1600 GT

1968 Wood, Hot Metal, and Gasoline: The Improbable Marcos 1600 GT

1968 Wood, Hot Metal, and Gasoline: The Improbable Marcos 1600 GT

It’s easy to deride the Marcos, but its “plywood” is more akin to a state-of-the-art composite technology. Wood in cars? The mind goes to the faux wood paneling on

the left tasteful Chrisler production of the early 1990s, or the anachronistic Morgan Roadsters. But the Marcos 1600 GT is much different than either of those applications. And it owes a lot to one of the greatest warplanes of all time: The de Haviland Mosquito, which relied heavily on plywood construction.

Yes, plywood. We think of it as a cheap material, maybe even an inferior one, and certainly not something that has any place in a sports car. But use it correctly, and plywood's limited weight and incredible strength do wonders. Think of it as a composite material: You can alter the aspects that make up its structure to change its characteristics—the wood type, the number of plies, the orientation—just like you can with fiberglass or carbon fiber, which can be made of different weaves or molded using different techniques. And like those materials, it's impressively strong for its weight (especially at the time of the Mosquito and Marcos).

You won't be surprised at all to learn that the aerodynamicist and co-founder of Marcos, Frank Costin, worked as an engineer on the Mosquito as a during the war.

The brand is the first king, the Xilon (Greek for "wood") used plywood chassis construction (the car was remarkably ugly, too), and the GT was a further development of these techniques. The body is constructed of fiberglass and supported by the wooden chassis, which gives the car a rigid structure that's lightweight—it's about 1,800 lbs—and strong. Consider the issues that Colin Chapman had with the very advanced Lotus Elite, an all-fiberglass monocoque road

car that suffered from some notable failures. The hybrid construction of the Marcos, on the other hand, proved remarkably durable.

And to be very clear about the comparison to the Morgan roadster, the Marcos GT's chassis is plywood, whereas the Morgan has a steel chassis and an ash-framed body. Later Marcos GTs, however, used a steel chassis that had some issues. Notably rust. As such, steel-chassis Marcos are far less desirable among fans of these little sports cars.

This particular car, powered by a Ford Kent crossflow inline-four that's been bored to 1.7 liters. Power is sent to the rear wheels via a four-speed manual transmission and a 3.73:1 differential.

Sources: motortrend.com ; classic.com ; wikipedia.org ; autoevolution.com

[penny00dreadful]

This is so fucking stupid and I'm not sorry. Inspired by this video of the two guitarists from DragonForce taking the piss out of Sabaton(affectionately).

Jeffington: Just ended your whole career on live 😘

Eddie scrunched his eyes closed then wrenched them open again, trying to make sense of what he was seeing on his screen. It was too early in the fucking morning for this shit. 

Whatever.

He buried his face back in between Steve’s shoulders and allowed himself to fall asleep once more.

Corroded Coffin had only started making it big in the early 90’s when they split right down the middle. As time went on they started to drift towards different subgenres. Jeff and Grant had wanted to explore a more international sound, while Gareth and Eddie were happy to stay in the power metal scene with just a touch of neoclassical. 

They had tried to make it work, but the sounds were just too different and while Eddie and Grant wanted to continue on with lyrics full of fantasy and gothic romance, Jeff and Grant had wanted to focus more on ‘the human condition’.

So they separated. Eddie and Gareth had kept the Corroded Coffin name while Jeff and Grant travelled, exploring their sound.

There was no animosity. They were all still the best of friends. Even as Jeff and Grant had settled in Stockholm, where they had quickly shot to stardom with their new band members, Eddie and Gareth made their home in California enjoying their own success. They met up as often as they could, whenever tour dates aligned or they were booked into the same festivals.

Eddie and Steve were godfathers to Grant’s youngest daughter.

He and Gareth had been groomsmen in Jeff’s wedding.

They were solid.

Which was why the text from Jeff was more exasperating than worrying. 

Plus it was like… nine in the morning which, granted, wasn't early, early but Eddie was a damn rockstar.

And he might have lost track of time reading last night and stayed up until four but that's besides the point. 

But then Steve was handing him his morning coffee with a kiss, saying Robin had sent him a link to something and fine. He’d go watch whatever stupid shit Jeff pulled.

Eddie settled back into bed because he could and it was a Sunday.

Sue him.

But he couldn’t decide if he should be fake-mad or wildly entertained because the link Robin had sent opened the VOD about an hour into the stream, just in time for Grant to say “Should we do Corroded Coffin?”

Both Jeff and Grant were sitting in Jeff’s studio space in front of Jeff’s computer with a range of instruments behind them, grinning at each other.

“Oh shit, definitely!” Jeff stood and seemed to think about it for a second before picking up one of his guitars, a bright acid green with black tendrils running throughout. “The most dramatic of the bunch,” he leaned into the mic, gesturing at the guitar before taking his seat again, “just like their frontman.”

Eddie rolled his eyes but smiled nonetheless. 

“You think you can shred like Munson?” Grant asked, leaning forward and starting to tap out drum beats on the laptop.

Jeff scoffed. “Yeah right. Let me just play at five-fucking-thousand bpm and sing at the same time. It’s gonna be an approximation at best.”

Surprisingly enough the music they came up with did sound very close to Corroded Coffin’s sound. Grant relied heavily on the kick-drum and high hat to a ridiculous degree for Gareth's part and yeah, fair.

Gareth did love his high hat.

Jeff played the fastest guitar riff he could muster which honestly wasn’t that bad. He couldn’t go quite as hard as Eddie could but guitar was always Eddie’s first love and he was a master at his craft. Jeff gave the camera a cheeky wink as he used the computer to speed the guitar solo up, making it sound far more complex.

“I swear to god,” Eddie muttered to himself, “if they insinuate that I do that, I’ll fucking-”

“Eddie would never.” Jeff said, responding to someone in the chat who’d asked that very question.

Grant looked up with a sly smile. “Oh, god no. He’d never. He’s too proud for that.”

Cheeky bastards.

“You know what this needs?”

“Female backing vocals?”

“Yes!" Jeff snapped his fingers. "Exactly. Like something pulled from Jackson’s Lord of the Rings!”

“Oh come on!” Eddie pouted, but even still he could tell they weren’t actually making fun.

A notification popped up on Eddie’s phone.

Gare-Bear: Have you watched the stream?

Eddie: Watching right now. They’re starting on the lyrics.

Gare-Bear: Did Robin send you the link?

Eddie: Yeah.

Gare-Bear: Okay, keep watching.

Eddie: 👍

By the time the guys had hashed the lyrics out, punctuating them with high falsetto points that freaked Jeff’s cats out, Eddie was giggling into his coffee. The lyrics were so comically bad but they were so Corroded Coffin at the same time.

I wear armour and I am sad. I'm all alone and I am sad.  Such a lone wolf am I.  Except I'm not because here comes this hot man who's totally not my husband. Bats and demons and darkness and death. Bow down to me.  Kneel before me.  I am your master.  This is about sex. Oh, look, a dragon! I'll suck your blood then I'll fuck you through the wall. Except I won't because you're an allegory for my husband again. I'll fuck him instead. Every song involves him in some way. Because I'm a big fucking sap.

And then it happened. That crafty wench.

A message popped up in the chat.

BuckyBirdie: Needs more dick sucking lyrics.

“Holy shit.” Grant whipped out his phone. “R- Birdie? Is that you? Stay right there, hold on.”

While Jeff continued to play through the guitar, Grant disappeared, raising the phone to his ear before coming back a few minutes later and whispering something to Jeff.

Jeff’s whole face split into the most mischievous of smiles and Eddie only had time to think oh no before Robin’s face appeared, joining the stream with a tired if not slightly manic expression, all topped off by her yummy sushi pyjamas.

The first thing Grant said to her was “What fucking time is it over there, Birdie?” 

“I dunno.” She shrugged, looking down at her watch. “Like half six in the morning?”

“Oh. Could be worse then.”

“I haven’t slept yet.” She said with a bright smile.

“Dude! Why not?”

“I got into cryptography again last night and I haven’t stopped. Don’t tell Steve.”

Oh, I am so telling Steve. Eddie thought to himself.

“God. What a fuckin’ nerd.” Jeff punctuated his statement with a loud strum of his guitar.

Robin stuck her tongue out. “Takes one to know one.”

“Ouch. Right in my middle schooler heart.”

“Anyway, a little birdie told me you boys need some backing vocals?”

Eddie didn’t know how he was going to get her back for this, but he was sure he’d be able to figure something out eventually.

Like banging pots and pans in her hallway while she slept off her cryptography binge.

Though it was almost worth the hilarity because noted lesbian Robin Buckley happily sat there, singing about dick and tongues and assholes in a high ethereal voice that was then layered behind Jeff's.

By the end, the chat was going wild asking when it was going to be available to stream because even though it was a parody song, it was annoyingly catchy. Just before they signed off, Jeff and Grant let their audience know they’d ask Eddie and Gareth for permission before they’d do anything.

Eddie minimised the video and opened up his chat with Gareth.

Eddie: You wanna let them release it?

Gare-Bear: Fuck yeah!

Eddie: Awesome.

[honeysylvan]

🌹 Belial Rose 🌹

the girl with the demon blood

When the prestigious Hawthorne family heir’s dalliance with a demon led to an unwanted pregnancy, her family gave her an ultimatum: disown the child, or be disowned herself. When the demon-hybrid was born, her mother left her with only one thing: the name Belial, meaning “worthless.” Belial grew up in an orphanage in Moonwood Mill with no connection to her family in Glimmerbrook. Little is known about demons, and Belial was shunned by spellcasters and avoided by other occults. Despite her rough upbringing, Belial was nothing if not resourceful; she focused on her studies and managed to graduate high school early and secure her independence at only sixteen. When she left the orphanage, she didn’t look back. Belial spent the next three years traveling, searching for answers about her demonic heritage. She poured over vampire tomes in Forgotten Hollow, learned the traditions of the mermaids in Sulani, and even went back to Moonwood Mill to study ancient werewolf writings. But fear kept her from returning to Glimmerbrook—until she heard of the Embers Academy Spellcasting Tournament. If anyone would know more about her bloodline, it would be the very Sage of Untamed Magic themselves. Swallowing her fear, Belial set off to enter the tournament with the hopes that winning would put her in Morgyn’s good graces.

For @adelarsims Embers Academy Spellcasting Tournament! Other information below the cut 🌹

BIOGRAPHICAL

Name: Belial Rose Age: 19 (Young Adult) Pronouns: she/her Gender: Woman Sexuality: Bisexual Ethnicity: White Species: Spellcaster-Demon Hybrid Traits: Loyal, Overachiever, Music Lover, Perfectionist*, Creative* + Gregarious Additional Traits: Ancient Bloodline, Unhappy Infant, Idea Person, Low Self-Esteem, Compassionate, Responsible, Spice Hound, Observant, Speed Reader, Night Owl, Brave Aspiration: Big Happy Family Education: graduated high school early | no university degree  Career: N/A — takes on odd jobs to survive Lifestyle(s): Frequent Traveler Likes & Dislikes:  Activity - Cooking, Gardening, Gemology, Mixology, Research & Debate, Singing, Violin, Wellness, Writing | Mischief, Programming, Snowboarding, Video Gaming Color - Pink | Black Conversation Topics - Deep Thoughts, Discussing Hobbies, Discussing Interests, Physical Intimacy, Stories | Deception, Gossip, Malicious Interactions, Pranks Sim Characteristics - Cerebral, Family-Motivated, Idealist, Nature Enthusiasts, Pet Enthusiasts | Ambitionless, Argumentative, Egotistical, Rascals Music Genre - Classical, Cottagecore, Singer Songwriter | METAL, Ranch, Strange Tunes Turn-Ons & Turn-Offs: Way of Life - Academic, Culinary, Health & Sports, Interpersonal, Nature | Slacker, Media & Technology, Taken Characteristics - Cerebral, Family-Motivated, Idealist, Nature Enthusiasts, Pet Enthusiasts, Spirited | Ambitionless, Argumentative, Egotistical, Messy Romance Styles - Affection, Physical Intimacy, WooHoo | N/A Hair Color - Auburn, Black, Blonde, Brown, Orange | Platinum, White Outfit Color - Black, Red, White | Pink Fashion - N/A | Costumes Skills: Cooking - 6 | Gardening - 7 | Gemology - 8 | Herbalism - 6 | Logic - 9 | Medium - 5 | Mixology - 5 | Research & Debate - 8 | Singing - 9 | Vampire Lore - 12 | Wellness - 7 | Writing - 6

*I have the more traits in CAS mod, but if you don’t have that, then feel free to stick with just Loyal, Overachiever, and Music Lover!

SPELLCASTER

Rank: Acolyte Familiar: none Wand: none Broom: gnarled wood broom Perks: Knowledge Is Magic, Discharge, Power Shunt, Insightful Eye, Spellcaster Socialite Known Spells: Floralorial, Scruberoo, Repario, Deliriate, Inferniate, ZipZap, Chilio, Necrocall Known Potions: Nimble Mind, Good Fortune, Emotional Stability

FUN FACTS

Her favorite flowers are roses, and when she left the orphanage she took “Rose” as her last name.

What Belial wants most are family and friends to call her own. She’s fiercely loyal and protective, but her lack of experience with interpersonal connections growing up means she has a hard time making friends.

Because she never returned to Glimmerbrook to study formally at an academy or with a mentor, all of Belial’s magical abilities are self-taught. She’s only managed to get as far as she has due to her work ethic, talent, and stubbornness.

She’s incredibly honest, and hates when people lie.

In addition to being very academic, she loves to sing and is quite creative. She loves to learn and experience new things.

She is touch-starved and very much craves affection and physical intimacy.

She doesn’t have a familiar yet, but wants a cat.

She casts with her hands near-exclusively, finding it far more comfortable and natural to do so.

Due to her demonic heritage, spicy foods don’t bother her at all—but she is unaware why.

She has a proclivity for untamed magic.

LOOKBOOKS**

**The only CC in her non-everyday looks are 2 hairstyles, some makeup, and items that are already in her everyday looks. If any CC in any of her outfits needs to be removed/changed, please let me know!

If you read all this you're a saint 🩷 Thank you!

Private DL 🌹

[heartbeatsnice]

Visibly Beating

Soft beeps accompanied by wet thuds fill a room. A room where a single occupant resides upon a surgical table.

A handsome man in his early thirties, with a broad chest and shoulders as well as a firm stomach bare naked for the world to see rests there strapped down for what is to come. Clearly, this man works out regularly and the results show.

A perfect specimen for their experimental drug.

Hooked up to IVs feeding him with painkillers and electrodes pasted all over his chest and two more on the source of the thudding. There, cut open and pulled out for the world to see, is his heart. Beating away exposed, each beat slapping against his pec.

The subject lays there, awake and panting as oxygen fills his lungs from the mask strapped over his mouth and nose.

“Starting with starter drug No. 1.” A feminine voice speaks up over the beeping and thumping of his heart. Feeling gloved fingers wrapping around his heart and gently being picked up, he feels a prick as a needle is slowly stabbed into the myocardium and the contents injected.

Dark veins started to protrude all over his chest, his heart starting to pump harder and faster. He groans, the apex of his heart punching the air as it slams away. “Inserting main drug No. 328.”

Another pinprick into his powerful heart and he starts to gasp as the muscular organ only speeds up.

“Heart rate up at 195 BPM and increasing.”

Will his heart give out then? Or will it continue beating on, fighting for its life?

But before his heart could reach an conclusion, the mysterious doctor gives one. Clenching her hand around the thumping heart, she squeezes hard enough to make it balloon between her slender fingers.

Alarms rang out as the pressure on his sensitive heart is too much. With one last exhale, his heart sinks into an fibrillating mess, his vision going grey and his senses dull.

A whining fills the air, and the doctor leans in smiling as she holds two internal paddles up for him to witness. “Don’t quit on me now.” Giving a few squeezes on his heart with the metal spoons, she presses the paddles tightly and with the press of a button, his vision goes white as he feels his heart lurch forward.

Will this do it? Will this get his heart going again?

Or does it need an extra push?

[aphidclan-clangen]

Gym Leaders

Oleander

Grass type

Alder+Pigeon+Titania

Psychic type

Lilacpaw

Fire type

Spiderglade

Bug type

Paradiseskies

Flying type

Goldshine

Dark type

Gravel

Ground type

Firebeetle

Fairy type

Elite 4

Stormwhisper

Steel type

Shadebreak

Poison type

Icesheep

Ice type

Sparkspeckle

Electric type

Champion

Pearlstar

Teams

Oleander(Grass)

Fomantis (lvl 15)

Razor leaf

Fury cutter

Protect

Sunny day

Ability : Leaf guard

Morelull (lvl 15)

Mega drain

Confuse ray

Astonish

Poison powder

Ability : Effect spore

Deerling (lvl 16)

Leech seed

Double kick

Sand attack

Trailblaze

Ability : Sap sipper

Alder+Pigeon+Titania(Psychic)

Solosis (lvl 21)

Psybeam

Confusion

Charm

Encore

Ability : Regenerator

Ralts (lvl 21)

Draining kiss

Confusion

Psybeam

Double team

Ability : Synchronize

Espurr (lvl 21)

Disarming voice

Covet

Psyshock

Scratch

Ability : Keen eye

Lilacpaw(Fire)

Fletchinder (lvl 27

Ember

Acrobatics

Agility

Fire spin

Ability : Flame body

Houndoom (lvl 27)

Incinerate

Thunder fang

Snarl

Bite

Ability : Early bird

Torkoal (lvl 28)

Lava plume

Clear smoke

Smokescreen

Rapid spin

Ability : White smoke

Ninetales (lvl 28)

Flamethrower

Charm

Fake tears

Rest

Ability : Drought

Spiderglade(Bug)

Anorith (lvl 33)

Bug bite

Brine

Ancient power

Slash

Ability : Battle armor

Centiskorch (lvl 33)

Inferno

Bite

Skitter smack

Slam

Abilty : Flame body

Leavanny (lvl 34)

Fell stinger

Razor leaf

String shot

Seed bomb

Ability : Chlorophyll

Heracross (lvl 35)

Horn attack

Brick break

Struggle bug

Seismic toss

Ability : Guts

Paradiseskies(Flying)

Altaria (lvl 40)

Dragon breath

Feather dance

Disarming voice

Hurricane

Ability : Natural cure

Staraptor (lvl 40)

Aerial ace

Theif

Close combat

Air slash

Ability : Intimidate

Togekiss (lvl 40)

Sky attack

Fairy wind

Water pulse

Extreme speed

Ability : Super luck

Archeops (lvl 41)

Dragon claw

Rock throw

Wing attack

Crunch

Ability : Defeatist

Goldshine(Dark)

Pangoro (lvl 46)

Bullet punch

Crunch

Low sweep

Night slash

Ability : Iron fist

Sableye (lvl 46)

Night shade

Zen headbutt

Knock off

Confuse ray

Ability : Prankster

Zoroark (lvl 47)

Night daze

U-turn

Extrasensory

Shadow ball

Ability : Illusion

Zoroark (lvl 47)

Night daze

Brick break

Sludge bomb

Hex

Ability : Illusion

Umbreon (lvl 48)

Dark pulse

Moonlight

Bodyslam

Confuse ray

Ability : Inner focus

Gravel(Ground)

Garchomp (lvl 53)

Dragon claw

Bulldoze

Crunch

Slash

Ability : Rough skin

Mamoswine (lvl 53)

Ancient power

Earthquake

Ice fang

Snowscape

Ability : Snow cloak

Sandslash (lvl 54)

Bulldoze

Stone edge

Gyro ball

Poison jab

Ability : Sand rush

Nidoqueen (lvl 54)

Sludge wave

Crunch

Earth power

Sandstorm

Ability : Poison point

Mudsdale (lvl 55)

High horsepower

Heavy slam

Superpower

Double edge

Ability : Stamina

Firebeetle(Fairy)

Clefable (lvl 60)

Moonblast

Moonlight

Meteor mash

Ice beam

Ability : Magic guard

Florges (lvl 60)

Moonblast

Solar beam

Magical leaf

Sunny day

Ability : Flower veil

Gardevoir (lvl 60)

Dream eater

Dazzling gleam

Shadow sneak

Destiny bond

Ability : Trace

Grimmsnarl (lvl 61)

Foul play

Play rough

Nasty plot

Draining kiss

Ability : Prankster

Alolan Ninetales (lvl 62)

Blizzard

Aurora beam

Extrasensory

Dazzling gleam

Ability : Snow warning

Stormwhisper(Steel)

Metagross (lvl 70)

Meteor mash

Zen headbutt

Hammer arm

Iron defense

Ability : Clear body

Lucario (lvl 70)

Close combat

Dragon pulse

Steel beam

Quick guard

Ability : Inner focus

Genesect (lvl 70)

Metal claw

Bug buzz

Zap cannon

Shadow claw

Ability : Download

Corviknight (lvl 70)

Brave bird

Thief

Steel wing

Roost

Ability : Pressure

Aggron (lvl 70)

Metal burst

Iron tail

Rock slide

Dragon rush

Ability : Sturdy

Shadebreak(Poison)

Seviper (lvl 70)

Belch

Crunch

X-scissor

Iron head

Ability : Shed skin

Drapion (lvl 70)

X-scissor

Cross poison

Toxic spikes

Ice fang

Ability : Battle armor

Toxicroak (lvl 70)

Gunk shot

Bullet punch

Sucker punch

Swords dance

Ability : Dry skin

Toxtricity (lvl 70)

Boomburst

Shock wave

Gunk shot

Hex

Ability : Punk rock

Dragalge (lvl 70)

Outrage

Poison tail

Hydro pump

Play rough

Ability : Poison point

Icesheep(Ice)

Alolan Sandslash (lvl 70)

Icicle crash

Metal claw

Blizzard

Leech life

Ability : Snow cloak

Glaceon (lvl 70)

Blizzard

Ice fang

Bite

Shadow ball

Ability : Ice body

Weavile (lvl 70)

Dark pulse

Icy wind

Metal claw

Screech

Ability : Pressure

Lapras (lvl 70)

Brine

Freeze dry

Hydro pump

Charm

Ability : Hydration

Walrein (lvl 70)

Hail

Aurora beam

Waterfall

Avalanche

Ability : Ice body

Sparkspeckle(Electric)

Zebstrika (lvl 70)

Wild charge

Trash

Eerie impulse

Overheat

Ability : Lightning rod)

Luxray (lvl 70)

Wild charge

Take down

Crunch

Thunder fang

Ability : Intimidate

Boltund (lvl 70)

Electric terrain

Thunder

Snarl

Play rough

Ability : Strong jaw

Ampharos (lvl 70)

Dragon pulse

Zap cannon

Power gem

Bulldoze

Ability : Static

Raichu (lvl 70)

Thunder

Draining kiss

Iron tail

Focus blast

Ability : Static

Pearlstar

Galarian Rapidash (lvl 75)

Smart strike

Psycho cut

Charm

Dazzling gleam

Ability :Pastel veil

Mismagius (lvl 75)

Phantom force

Power gem

Dark pulse

Night shade

Ability : Levitate

Steelix (lvl 75)

Ice fang

Double edge

Iron tail

Dark pulse

Ability : Sheer force

Bewear (lvl 75)

Superpower

Thrash

Brutal swing

Dragon claw

Abilty : Fluffy

Goodra (lvl 75)

Power whip

Muddy water

Poison tail

Ice beam

Ability : Sap sipper

Absol (lvl 75)

Future sight

Sucker punch

Hex

Swords dance

Ability : Pressure

ENJOYYYY :3

okay. this is fucking awesome. and it’s always interesting to hear your guys’s headcanons/perspectives on the characters.

but “giving non-Pokemon OCs Pokemon teams and imagining their role/jobs in the Pokemon universe” is a very specific hyperfixation of mine. i have been doing this with my OCs for years. and you bet your doggone dollar that i have fuckin OPINIONS on what teams my characters would have and what their roles would best fit. and you know what that means.

THE APHIDCLAN POKÉMON AU

(Obviously in this au, they’d all be humans, but I do not have the capacity to make up human designs on the spot for 16 different characters right now, so this is all you’re getting) As always, you play as the player character in a non-descript undecided generation that takes place either in or after Gen 8. You are the newest student of Professor Pearlstar, who is both a man of science studying new Pokemon and the champion of the region. He is regarded as the expert on all things Pokemon and is excellent at taming and raising the creatures (hence why he’s so powerful, and your mentor). He encourages you to go out and explore the region to discover new Pokemon for your Pokédex, and encourages you to do the league challenge while you’re at it. (“but sir, won’t that mean that if i get to the end of the challenge…I’ll be challenging you?” “Yup! Good luck! ^w^”)

Your companion is Lilacpaw. She’s this rebellious preteen brat that you meet on the road, you battle her on occasion but for the most part she’s here to help you out when you need it and continuously check on you as your brand new best friend.

Your rival is Oleander. In my mind, Oleander is too baby to be a gym leader (same with lilac, who in this universe is younger than him. she’s like, 10-13, and he’s 15-16ish), so he’s your rival instead. He bares a resemblance to Gladion in Sun and Moon. He’s a member of the local “evil team,” The Saint Tines, a cult-like organization that keeps stealing and trying to “sacrifice” other people’s Pokemon. You continuously catch fern in the act of participating in crimes that you have to stop by battling him. However, they become your friend over time, slowly realizing how bad news their organization is and leaving it to help you defeat the evil final boss, The Reverend, at the end of the game. The Reverend would be the Giovanni/Cyrus/Lysander/etc character in the game. Oleander and Lilacpaw are siblings that bicker all the damn time

The first gym you face is the Normal type gym, run by gym leader Pigeon.

For ease sake I’m gonna say all gym leaders have 4 pokemon. Pigeon owns a Stoutland (his prize Pokemon), Tauros, Ursaring, and Diggersby. His Pokemon are early lvl 20s. I wanted to give his team a farm theme, since he lives on a farm. He’s the farmhand countryboy man,,,

Next, the Dark type gym, led by Goldshine.

Goldshine owns a Mimikyu, Sableye, Absol, and an Umbreon. His Pokemon are mid lvl 20s. I wanted to give him the most emo misunderstood team possible

The fourth gym would be the fairy type gym, run by Titania.

Titania would have a Togepi, Milotic, Blissey, and a Wigglytuff. She has a very cute and beautiful team, all around late lvl 20s. Shes married to Pigeon and Alder and can frequently be seen hanging around Pigeon’s gym and vice versa. Alder’s role in the game would be closer to a “nurse joy” figure, he continuously pops up around the region throughout your journey, where he heals your pokemon and can sell you various berries and healing supplies. Hes a sweet, traveling old man following the league trail to make sure all those kiddos take care of themselves <3

Next, the Bug type gym, ran by Spiderglade.

Spiderglade owns an Ariados, Parasect, Scyther, and a Dustox. His Pokemon are early lvl 30s. I wanted a strong poison type secondary theme for him, his gym would be heavily centered around poison, toxicity, and pollution. Parasect for mind control symbolism. He’s very much in touch with his little brother, Blisswhistle, though he hasn’t sent his parents letters in a while… also how the hell would he not have at least one spider pokemon

Next, the electric type gym, ran by Sparkspeckle.

Sparkspeckle uses a Flaaffy, Toxtricity, Electabuzz, and a Dedenne. Her team are all mid lvl 30s, her gym probably has a stage built-in with a band playing all the time, and it’s all very crazy electric punk (with a touch of cutesy).

Next, the water type gym, run by Stormwhisper.

Stormwhisper would own a Lapras, Azumarill, Lanturn, Carracosta, all late lvl 30s. He would be a very nice and merciful gym leader, especially in comparison to his siblings. He gives you free healing items before you battle <3

Next, the ice gym, ran by Icesheep.

Icesheep would own a Snom, Aurorus, Beartic, and an Alolan Ninetales. His team is all early lvl 40s, and he’s very friendly as a gym leader! He does warn you about his sibling, however…

The explosive and intimidating poison type gym leader, Shadebreak.

Shadebreak would own a Liepard, Toxtricity, Crobat, and a Gengar. All their Pokemon are mid lvl 40s, and they are merciless. They are the final gym leader. ((Spark likes to talk about how they’re “twinning” with the Toxtricity and similar gym themes, but Shade absolutely hates it and makes a grumpy face every time Spark talks about how they’re so totally twins))

Once you’ve defeated all eight gym leaders, you move on to the…

ELITE FOUR

Gonna be honest, the only two I had actual solid typing in mind with was Gravel w/ Steel Type and Paradiseskies with Flying Type. But Blisswhistle and Firebeetle I had little to NO clue what to do with, so for the most part I decided the elite four’s teams with varied typing in mind for all of them. Gravel is based around dark/steel typing, Paradiseskies is flying/water/fairy based, Blisswhistle is ice/normal/fairy based, and Firebeetle I divided between fire, water, and fairy types because I couldn’t pick between the three.

Blisswhistle, the first Elite Four member you face and the weakest, uses an Aurorus, Cinccino, Frosmoth, Lapras, and a Togekiss. Shes very sweet and loves her gym leader husband very much. ((there really needs to be more rainbow pokemon……))

Firebeetle, the second member you face, owns a Walrein, Primarina, Volcarona, Granbull, and a Centiskorch. He’s happily married to his wife, Gravel.

Paradiseskies, the third and second-strongest elite four member, uses a Florges, Hatterene, Togekiss, Altaria, and a Gardevoir. She’s very happy to work alongside her husband and children.

Gravel the Brutal lives up to their title. A former member of the Saint Tines, she would appear frequently in your continuous efforts to stop the organization, aiding your efforts in taking them down. They use an Obstagoon, a Pangoro, a Steelix, a Garchomp, and a Metagross. All four members are mid lvl 50s to early lvl 60s.

THE CHAMPION AND RIVAL BATTLE

Pearlstar is very proud of you and your progress! You’ve come a long way since you first started your apprenticeship under his wing. But now it’s time for the final test, and stars not holding back. Let’s see if you can handle Pearlstar at his best, hm?

Pearlstar uses a Clefairy, Gallade, Bewear, Galarian Rapidash, Kengaskhan, and a Starmie. They’re all mid lvl 70s. After you beat him, he happily retires the position and tells you how extremely proud he is of your growth as a trainer.

Then Oleander challenges you. All his Pokemon are early lvl 50s (the phantump probably would’ve evolved into a Trevenant by the end of the game, but for the most part it stays a phantump). He uses an Alolan Muk, a Weezing, a Phantump, a Mimikyu, a Vileplume, and a Decidueye (regardless of which starter you chose). By this point, you’d have gone through quite a lot together, and now this battle is more a triumphant rival-to-rival fight for old times sake. He loses, and takes his defeat in stride, thanking you for everything you’ve done for him and all the wonderful times you’ve had together. He hopes to keep in touch.

And I think that’s everything <3

[niqhtlord01]

Humans are weird: Hubris before the fall

( Please come see me on my new patreon and support me for early access to stories and personal story requests :D https://www.patreon.com/NiqhtLord Every bit helps)

A decade ago there was a powerful world by the name of Oma that was the crown jewel of the Omak Domain. Rich with natural resources and rare metals, it was able to establish a powerful trade network that generated billions of credits monthly leading to the people of Oma to grow fat with decadence. This led to a rapid degradation of their societal values to such an extent that they believed that they and only they were truly worthy of running galactic trade and began pressuring their neighboring governments to relinquish trade control of their domains to them.

When they finally approached the humans they sent forth a trade delegation to their parliament. This delegation did not present a sympathetic view of their stewardship, nor a presentation outlining the benefits of their management skills in intergalactic trade. No; this delegation strode into the terran parliament and denounced human trade standards as inferior and unworthy implementation between galactic powers.

No strangers to prideful boasting, the humans naturally took great offense to the grand standing of the delegation and cast them out without even hearing their full proposal. In response, the Oma began sanctioning the terran domain; isolating its trade routes and starving it off much needed resources.

For months the human diplomats tried to reach out to the Oma to find a political solution, but each attempt was met with the repeated message “Submit”.

As time passed and riots began to break out across human worlds from the lack of materials, the terran government finally had enough and dispatched a war fleet to Oma. The fleet was comprised of nearly three fifths of their entire naval power and was spear headed by the latest Herald class battleship “Saladin” with the equally famous Admiral Timmins in command.

Being comprised of mainly trade ships; the Omak Domain navy was primarily built around fast moving frigates, destroyers, and smaller patrol craft capable of catching pirates that preyed upon their shipping lanes. They were little more than a speed bump to the well-disciplined prowess of terran armada and was swept aside easily as the human ships made for orbit directly above Oma. Yet even with this encroaching ring of steel the Oma public did not panic.

Unlike their navy, the Omak Domain’s ground forces were substantially better in comparison. They had fought many ground wars to secure trade outposts, mining operations, and subjugation camps and were thusly made up of a hardened collective of veteran soldiers and automated war machines that were capable to five terran soldiers. So when the human fleet finally did position itself in orbit above Oma, the Omak military was confident they would repel any invasion attempts made by the humans; even going so far as to openly mock Admiral Timmins in a direct communique that not one human soldier would live to set foot on their world.

To their surprise Admiral Timmins agreed to those terms and began the battle.

From the launch bays of every terran ship came hundreds of heavily armed fighters, bombers, drones, and reconnaissance craft that swarmed through Oma’s atmosphere. Not a single lander or ground soldier was deployed as the Admiral coordinated a planet wide devastating air campaign of destruction.

The Omak air force was overwhelmed in a matter of hours by the constant waves of enemy aircraft and found itself further crippled as their launch sites were surgically struck from orbit by human warships. When the last of the Omak air power was expended the human air power had complete control over the skies of the planet.

Civilian targets such as cities and towns were ignored; but the precious foundries, factories, and mining complexes that had given the Omak people such wealth were reduced to little more than burnt pieces of metal and ash. The Omak rulers watched as their life blood of commerce was taken from them one continent at a time and sent countless messages to the human fleet for peace. Their reply was always a single word that none of the Omak would agree to.

“Submit.”

By a month’s end the world of Oma was little more than a smoldering crater. Gleaming cities now stood as silent watchers over miles of burnt landscapes and wasted industrial complexes. The people who had only known wealth and power were now left to wander the ruins of their former trade empire as the human fleet still held orbit over the world. Fragments of the Omak Domain attempted to bypass the human fleet to deliver supplies but each attempt was met with the humans either seizing the ship and the valuable cargo or destroying it just as it was about to land.

It didn’t take long for the previously subjugated peoples that had relinquished control to the Omak to begin rising up once more and regaining their sovereignty. Some the newly freed powers sent their own delegations to the human fleet and kneeled before Admiral Timmins; thanking the humans for bringing their oppressors low. Each time the Admiral would thank the aliens and invite them to the viewing decks so they could look down at the burnt world that had once held them so firmly under its thumb.

In a way it was both a gesture of friendship and a warning to all those that would come after; that the realms of man would never take kindly to the hubris of fools.

[k-i-l-l-e-r-b-e-e-6-9]

𝔅𝔩𝔦𝔫𝔡 𝔊𝔲𝔞𝔯𝔡𝔦𝔞𝔫 - 𝔅𝔩𝔬𝔬𝔡 𝔗𝔢𝔞𝔯𝔰

[sugolara]

𝐋𝐲𝐜𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐬

Feat. yandere! Izuku Midoriya x fem! reader

A series

cw: yandere themes, violence, suicidal thoughts, blood, gore, manipulation, stalking, kidnapping, quirkless! au, weapons, murder, angst, mental health, slow updates

˗ˏˋ+ ´ˎ˗ “All I‘ve ever asked was to have your heart, but you refused to even let me in. I destroyed myself, I let you destroy me for you. I was there when you had no one else, I took care of you, did everything for you, ruined my life for you. So the least you can do is let me have my way with you. I’ll jump through loops and loops to just be with you, so please, please let me have your heart.

I love you.

I love you, [̴̵̸̶̶̴̸̸̶̸̶̷̵̴̷̵̸̷̵̵̴̧̧̡̡̧̨̧̡̧̨̨̛̛̛̛͓̣̦͓͓͖̝͔̥͍̭͙̤͇̰̦͖̞̩̩̲̟̞̯͍͍̝̩̭̹̦̳̼̩͕̦̱̪̺̼͓̣̻͕̜̲̬̺̯͇̟̪̟͕͎̦͈̭̪̝̩͈̯̭̱̳̤̫̰͍̝̫͇̠̯̜̞͖̫̿̅̔̏͋̎͂̍̓̏͂̔̀̇͛̂̐̏́̔̀̈́͂̒̿̍̃̀͆͋͗̿̐͛́͊̂̂̈́͛̌͊̂̓̈́̀̓̈́͌͌͂̓́̃̎͐̌̃̄͒̽̎̿͗̄̃͊͑̍͗͛͌̒̆̓͂̅͋̂͛͗̔̌̊̈́̀̓̒̎̽͆̏̂̀̉̆͊̀̈́͘̚̚͘͘̕̕̕͘̕͘͜͜͜͜͝͝͝ͅp̸̵̵̸̸̷̷̸̷̵̵̴̴̵̴̴̷̸̢̧̡̧̧̧̛̛̛̦̣̞͈̥̭͎̣͍̟͓͚̲̝̙̪̹͎̳̬̺̟̹̹̥̦͍̬̙͙̩̰͖̙̫̫͔̦̭̩͉͓͎͍̣͓̦̬̞͕̻̺̩̲̭̣̪̘̬͍̹̣͇̬̹̩̩̙͉̪͕̯͔͔͈̙͔̺̑͋̋̌̎͛̓͌̔̋̑͗͂̈́̽̋̊̅͌͑̂̀͗̈́̌͆͒̇̑̽͒̏́́̒̒̽̋̋̌̏͌̈́͗̀͑̂͐̈́͐̂̓̒̿̃̋̇̊͗̈́̎͋͐̎̾̓͗̐̀̒̆̀͋͒̀͆͐̾́͛͆͗́́̿́̓̆́̎̑̽̊̿̀̽̊͊̚̚̚̚̚͘̚͜͝͝͝͠͝͠͝͝͝͝͝ͅǝ̴̶̵̶̶̶̶̷̶̵̷̵̷̵̴̨̨̢̧̨̰̜̱̫̞̟̘̣̙̲̞̞̬͙̲̱͓̘̺̬̦̭̘̠͖͕̣̱̠͇̩̭͇̥̤̬̜͕͖̰̜͉̺̠͕̟̳̭̹̯̣̭͈̯̫͚͙̦͇͂̋̄͒́̒́̐̀͐̀̂͒̂̾̂͌̀͛̂͌̒̎͒̏̏͂̉̈́̿̌̏̋̐̅̍̿̄̋̓͒̄̈́́̌̀͒̅̓̅̈́͋̏͂̈́̿̅͌̓̅̑̔̌͐́̀́̐͒̃͑̆͋̔̂̆̕͘̚͜͜͜͜͝͝͠͝͝ͅͅͅʇ̴̷̴̸̷̦̟͙͙̤̤̬̠̻̹̫̹̳̥͈̫̾͐̿̇̄̈́͋̆̑͌̐̚͘͘̚͜ɔ̴̶̴̸̵̵̴̶̴̵̵̸̷̶̢̨̢̢̙̱̬̘̫̣̺͙̰̙͍̻̞̫͈͓̱̺̺̜̫̭̬̜̣̭̦͕̝͔͉̠̳̣̳̠̤̤̜͕̬̱͍͖̻̘̭̯̭̺̪̰̝͖͇̹̺̦͕̦͖̳̘͕̘͓̻̱̃̎̄͒͆̑̋͆͑͆͂̅̄͒͋̓̀̏̊̀̇́̀̾̿̄̂͒̍̌́͊̈́̑̍̂̏̂̽̊͊̾͒̀̅͆̈́͋͆͛̏̑̒̾̌́̿̀́̈́̍̍̏͆̊̈́͋̀̽̂̏́͆̽̀̏̉͋͘͘̕̚͘̚͜͝͝͝͝ͅͅɐ̸̷̷̵̶̸̷̸̶̶̴̶̸̨̢̡̢̧̛̛̻̹̥̠̠̦̝̰͔̘̬̳̥̞̥̼̜̥̭̺̦̻̱̹̙̤̟̰͉͙̹͕̯͖̫̈́̎̌͒́̈́́̏̀̒̇͊̇̓͗̆̇̋̊̈́́͋͊̌͋̓̾̃͑̐̿̒͆͋̾͆̍͋̊̒̈́͌̓͆̔̎́͂́̂̑̈́̓͆̀͑̇̚͘͘̚̕͜͜͜͝͝͠͠͝p̴̷̶̷̴̷̶̢̢̧̢̢̡̧̛̛͈̼̪̜̰̥̦͇̤̘͍͕̟̻̥̤̭̥͍̝͖̪̪̠͕̞̼͈͗̀̓̓̐̃́͊̌̔̅͊͛̂̍͋̓̀̃̃̀͛̓̓͊̍̄͛̑̉̓̚͘͜͜͝ͅͅͅǝ̵̷̷̴̴̶̷̶̷̢̺̪͈̥̯̥̘̣͈̘̳̼͉̭̻̜͍̤͚̺̳̯̻̫̺̜̱̥͇̎̑̿͗̽͂̆̆̈́̋͋́͋͑͛͋̌͋̾́̓͌̆̐̾͂̂̊̏̽̕̕̚̚̕͜͝͝͝ɹ̴̵̴̵̸̵̷̶̸̴̷̶̶̷̵̷̷̴̵̧̡̨̧̢̧̛̛̛͕̱͍̣͕̦̻̼̯̹͍̙̥̜̰̱̜͚̺̲͚͖̞̜̲̱̪͖͓̯̳͕̪̹͖̩͔͍̹̙͍̭͉͍̙̭̦̭̼̟͎̬̠̫̣͙̜̥̘̣͖͙̱̦̩͎̟̫̦͕̟̞̼͚̝̰̟̥͎̣̼͈͕̦̠͎̲̫̙̍̓̊̈́̐̃̇̀́̅̉̇̿̄͗͊̈́̎̄̅̿́̆̅͂̊̑͐̎̽̉̒̅͆̇͑̒̍̆̐͆͒̍͌̇̌̒̄͛̇͌̀́̆̊̈́͂̀̏̾͋̈́̀̉̍̌̾̊̈́̌͊͌̀̌̆̇̃̃͐͑̃̆͐͆͊̽̎̅͐̾̎͐̐͂͌̆̂̅͗̆͘̚̕͘̚͜͜͜͠͝͝͝͝͝͝ͅ. ”

D̴̦̟͙̹͈̲̻̆̈́̄̏̆͘ͅȍ̴͇̐͂͘͝ ̸͖͕͖̙̻̗͇́̆̓͊̊̀͝n̷̞̼̪̈́ó̴͙͎̼͓͖̘̦̠̱̿͗̐̌͑͠ͅt̵̜͈̰̝̰̳͓̝̗̋̃̉̏̀͒͘̕ ̵̫̻̦̑̋f̵̻̳̼̽͗̀̓̋̀̏̔͠o̷͔̼͠r̴̬̙͙̖͈̖̼͐͘͜͝ğ̵̩͈͔̉̋̆̂͌́͋͠ȩ̷̯̼̗͈͔͓͌̅̿t̷̻͕̭͖̤̫̑̈́̑̅͌̆́ ̷̡̧̣̮͈̋͒͐́̄͊̕̕ḿ̴̡͔̳͈͙̞̈́͂̿̊͜͝e̵͍̬̥͕̻̼͎̊͆̔.̶͖̗̼̬͖̼̼̞͖́̉̃͋̀̽

ON HOLD [till I figure out the plot]

playlist!

✿ Flesh and Bone - Brendan Benson ✿ Treehouse - Alex G ✿ Special Death - Mirah ✿ Empty Words - Bowery Electric ✿ Your face - Wisp ✿ 4:00 A.M - Taeko Onuki ✿ Me and the Devil - Soap&Skin ✿ You're Gonna Miss Me - Connie Francis ✿ Let Go - Ark Patrol ✿ (You Don’t Know) How Glad I Am - Nancy Wilson ✿ The Devil Within - Digital Daggers ✿ (I Don’t Think We Should) Take It Slow - LSD and the Search for God ✿ Beach Walk - Whitewoods ✿ Never Land [A Fragment] - The Sisters Of Mercy ✿ The Killing Moon - Echo And The Bunnymen ✿ Soulvaki Space Station - Slowdive ✿ Sing - Slowdive ✿ Miranda - Slowdive ✿ Melon Yellow - Slowdive ✿ Nausea - Craft Spells ✿ Various Types of Ads - Rory in early 20s ✿ Here She Comes - Slowdive ✿ Crazy For You - Slowdive ✿ A Quick One Before the Eternal Worm Devours Connecticut - Have A Nice Life ✿ Soundtrack for Your Backseat - sundiver ca ✿ Marigold - Nirvana ✿ Beat - Bowery Electric ✿ Salad Days - Mac DeMarco ✿ Sony - VHS ✿ Full Moon - The Black Ghosts ✿ Floating World - Bowery Electric ✿ Anemone - The Brian Jonestown Massacre ✿ "annihilate the sparrow, that stealer of speed, and our harvest will abound; we will watch our wealth flood in." - Red Sparowes ✿ There Are Some Remedies Worse Than Disease - This Will Destroy You ✿ You Are Here with Me (In This Sequence of Dreams) - Woods of Ypres ✿ A message of avarice rained down and carried us away into false dreams of endless riches. - Red Sparowes ✿ Maniac - John Maus ✿ oh my god - teen suicide ✿ everything is fine - teen suicide ✿ The Equalizer - Clinic ✿ Metal Heart - Cat Power ✿ millions starved and we became skinnier, while our leaders became fatter and fatter. - Red Sparowes ✿ Exquisite Tension - You'll Never Get To Heaven ✿ Audio 002 - Next To Blue ✿ as the light fades - a vow ✿ Tonight You Belong To Me - Patience & Prudence ✿ December Nostalgic - Rasmus H Thomsen ✿ Black Light - Bowery Electric ✿ Alice - Cocteau Twins ✿ Two of Hearts - Stacey Q

table of contents:

Lotus Flower

Yellow Tulip

Belladonna

Single Dahlia

Bells-of-Ireland

A Halloween Special

Begonia

Geranium

Clematis

Hibiscus

A Christmas Special

Holly

Grass

Coriander

Monkshood

A Valentine Special

Ì̶̢̩̬̩̝̱̝̙̺̉̿̋̒͌͝'̶̛̞͕̂̽͐͒̓͋̐̅̚͜l̵̘̙͗̇́̐̎͒̄͘ḻ̷̣́͊̔̀̽̿̚͜ ̸̧̡̜̯̖̠͉̥̰̖͋́̓͘n̸̪̻̤̙̫͙͂͗ḙ̸̺̥̭̏̽͌̎̈́͝͠v̴̧̙͔̮̙̰̲̄͘ê̷͈̓ŗ̸̛͈̜̟̙͚̤͙͉̯͌̔̑̽͠ ̵̜̰̬̹͊͌͂̌͗͋͠f̴̮͇̦͂̃͌̔͌̎̐̚ȯ̶̡͔r̴͔̼̖͐̅͒̑̕͝ġ̵́͌͑̈́̌̄ͅé̶̘͉̠̭͚͌̋̎̊̀̄̚͝͠ṭ̵̻̅̇͑̈́̆̽͊̇ ̸̫̳͎̗͙̅́̒͐̉̏͒͘y̷̪̝̔͛̓̕͠͠o̵̞̱̻̟̹͝ú̸̧̪̘͓̙̪̖̔͜.̶̮̭͓͍̝̗̍

[winxanity-ii]

⌜Know No Evil | Chapter 22 Chapter 22 | race for glory⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽

❘ prev. chapter ❘༻✦༺❘ next chapter ❘

Present Mic's voice boomed across the stadium, his energetic commentary filling the air. "[And we're off to a racing start! How 'bout some color commentary, while we give folks the play-by-play, Mummy Man?]" he shouted, his enthusiasm palpable even from where you stood.

You glanced towards the commentator's booth, spotting Aizawa draped head to toe in bandages from the injuries he sustained during the USJ villain attack days ago. His presence here, despite his condition, is a testament to his dedication.

"[First, please don't call me that. Second, again, how did you manage to talk me into this?]" Aizawa responded, his tone flat and uninterested, clearly not sharing Present Mic's enthusiasm.

"[It's called: Keeping your job! So, Eraserhead, what should we be paying attention to in the early stages of the race? The lead? The stragglers?]" Present Mic pressed on, eager to get the audience engaged.

"[The doorway.]"

"[Whoa! Look at that! Ha! Good eye. Seems that Todoroki from Class 1-A takes the lead by using his ice-Quirk to trap the competition! Smart move, but brutal!]"

The noise of the stadium and Present Mic's booming voice fades into the background as you focus on the race. A few students began catching up to you—Aoyama, Kirishima, Yaoyorozu, and Bakugo.

Bakugo doesn't spare you a glance, his eyes narrowing and nose flaring as he shouts, "I won't let you get away that easily, you Icy-Hot, bastard! You froze me in place once before, it won't happen again." Using his quirk, he propels himself forward with explosive speed, flying towards Todoroki with a fierce determination.

Behind you was Mineta, using his purple balls and bouncing off the remaining ice. "Ha! I outwitted you all! How pathetic!" He shouted at the top of his lungs, two balls in each hand, bouncing towards you all to take the lead. "So long, suckers—!"

WHAM!

Before he could overrun you all, a giant robotic arm smashed into him, throwing him in another direction.

Suddenly, large, towering mechanical giants with glowing red eyes and metallic limbs trample towards you all in several directions. "Targets acquired…Terminate them."

Present Mic's voice boomed across the stadium, filled with excitement. "[Ooh! Enemies have shown up out of nowhere! I bet we're in for a treat here! A test of strength and cunning! It's the first obstacle of the race—a 'Robo Inferno'!]"

These were the same faux-robot villains from the U.A. Entrance Exam.

A general studies student nearby exclaimed, "Seriously?"

A support course student added, "This is what they meant by 'obstacles'? So this is what the other students faced in their entrance exams. Where does the school even get the funding for these things?"

The robots stood in a blockade; their movements are slow but powerful.

Todoroki looked over his shoulder at the approaching participants before muttering to himself, "The school obviously went through a lot of trouble, but I wish they'd prepared something a little more difficult. Especially since my old man's watching." With a sigh, he swiftly used his Quirk, freezing the robots in precarious positions.

Seeing this, you cursed under your breath, crouching low as you ran before smoothly and safely sliding through an open space between a few of the frozen robots; while other students cheered in happiness.

"Hey, he stopped the robots!" "Look! Between their legs! We can get through!"

"Hell yeah, this is gonna be a breeze!"

Todoroki, with a cold and blank look in his eyes, said ominously, "Careful, now. I froze them while they were off their balance…On purpose." Just as he finished this ominous line, the frozen robots began to topple like dominos, falling onto any unfortunate student left in their path.

Present Mic's voice rang out, "[Oh~ stone cold! That's Todoroki from 1-A's own Hero Course, keeping his lead with a devastating display! Amazing! He's one we should watch. It almost seems unfair! Thoughts?]"

Aizawa, his voice calm and measured, responded, "[His attack was both offensive and defensive. Something to always be sure to efficiently display.]"

Present Mic continued, "[I'll say! No wonder he was let in on recommendations! He'd never even fought those Robo Infernos before, but they didn't stand a chance against his chart-topping moves!]"

As you continued to push through the chaos, you heard a shout from a nearby student, "Hey! There's someone trapped under that robot!"

Another voice replied, "Do you think we should try and help 'em? Are people seriously gonna die here?"

Gasps erupted from the audience as Kirishima popped up from beneath the metal robot, his body hardened like a rock. "I'm alive!" he declared, a grin on his face.

Present Mic's commentary followed, "[Kirishima from Class 1-A! What a hardcore debut for this rookie!]"

Kirishima glanced around, his expression serious. "Todoroki, I can't believe you pulled something like that. Jeez. Anyone but me woulda been killed!"

"[Kirishima Eijiro. His Quirk: Hardening! This power makes his entire body hard as a rock! That means he can be the ultimate shield, or a devastating weapon!]"

Tetsutetsu burst up from beneath the metal debris as well, looking just as determined. "Class 1-A really is full a' jerks! I'll smash that ice guy when I get my hands on him," he growled.

"[Tetsutetsu from Class 1-B was also stuck underneath! What are the odds?]"

 "Ya' know, anyone other than me woulda been killed!" Tetsutetsu added with a scowl.

Present Mic's voice continued his lively narration, "[Tetsutetsu Tetsutetsu! His Quirk: Steel! This makes his entire body hard as steel! So he can be the ultimate shield, or a devastating weapon!]"

Kirishima and Tetsutetsu locked eyes, realizing the similarity in their quirks. "Our Quirks are basically the same! How am I supposed to stand out now?" Kirishima shouted, pointing to his silver counterpart.

Tetsutetsu retorted, "You damn copycat!"

Present Mic chimed in, "[Man, how lucky are they? They don't have to worry about being crushed!]"

Kirishima, always the friendly one, suggested with a feral smile, "We're racing each other, but we can team up for now."

Tetsutetsu nodded in agreement. "Alright! Let's carve a path."

Gasps and murmurs spread among the student competitors. "We can do that?" one whispered to another, surprised by the unexpected alliance forming before their eyes.

The teamwork between Kirishima and Tetsutetsu created a ripple effect, inspiring others to strategize and cooperate.

Bakugo, scoffed, ignoring it all, muttering to himself, "No way am I letting Todoroki beat me." His determination was palpable as he used his Quirk to propel himself forward, explosions crackling around him. The blasts propelled him over the obstacles with ease, his focus laser-sharp on Todoroki ahead.

Present Mic's voice boomed across the stadium, filled with excitement. "[Class 1-A's Bakugo is rocketing over the obstacles! Clever!]"

Sero, not far behind, called out, "You seem like you'd be the type to plow straight through, but you can go around when you need to, huh? I'm going to hitch a ride! See ya!" He laughed as he used his Quirk to attach to Tokoyami, who was using his own Quirk to fly by. The tape from Sero's elbows shot out, latching onto Dark Shadow, allowing him to swing through the air with ease.

Present Mic provided the play-by-play, "[Sero Hanta. His Quirk: Tape! He can shoot tape-like material from his elbows, stick it to objects or wrap things up. You should see the traps he makes when he rips it off!]"

Tokoyami instructed Dark Shadow, "Let's land!" as he maneuvered through the air.

"Aye, aye!" The shadowy creature responded enthusiastically before shifting shape, helping Tokoyami to land smoothly on a piece of debris.

"[Tokoyami Fumikage. His Quirk: Dark Shadow! He's got a shadow-like monster inside him that can materialize and morph into any creation he wants.]"

As the competition heated up, Present Mic remarked, "[Looks like all the pack leaders are from Class 1-A. At least for now.]"

You were running at a steady pace, jumping over debris and parkouring until you gained a good bird’s eye view of the surrounding chaos. 

"[It’s not that Class 1-B and the other students are doing poorly,]" Aizawa commented, observing the race. "[It’s just… Class 1-A’s learned not to hesitate.]"

Students from all courses were trying their best to make it through this obstacle. Seeing a large robot attacking a sand-quirk user a few feet away, you raced over, landing on its shoulder. Using Control, you took control of the larger robot, manipulating its movements with precision and using it to carve a path for yourself through the obstacle.

"[They’ve seen what the real world is like. They’ve felt the fear of facing villains,]" Aizawa continued. "[Yet they fight on, trying to overcome that fear. They’ve grown. All of them. And they know that they have to act quickly if they want to stay alive.]"

You snorted, dodging a scrap piece of flying metal as the robot lumbered on. Such praises being sung about 1-A, yet you guarantee the world would crumble if it knew that you had the leader of the League of Villains at the mercy of your hands.

If anything, this entire festival should be scrapped and turned into a ceremony dedicated to you single-handedly deciding to keep the peace for now.

 Lost in your thoughts, you found yourself destroying a great deal more robots than you intended. The mechanical giants crumbled under your control, clearing a wide path and inadvertently aiding several other students who scrambled to follow in your wake.

"[Hold up, Eraser! We might have judged too quickly because it looks like Akuma from Class 1-B is coming to show the rest how it’s done!]"

You snap out of your thoughts, looking up, only to find your face plastered across the Jumbotron, another screen to the left replaying your previous maneuver.

The footage showed you commanding a large robot to tear through a swath of its comrades, the mechanical giant ripping through others with a fierce efficiency. The robots crumbled under the force of your control, creating a dramatic display of power and precision.

"[Akuma ____. Her Quirk: Marionette! This allows her the ability to control the movement of anything—both animate and inanimate—with shadow-like strings, like a puppeteer!]"

Internally, you cursed yourself as the info about your ‘Quirk’ was revealed, giving you more screen time. You were supposed to stay under the radar.

Using your power, you crashed the robot you were riding into another one, the impact causing a chain reaction of destruction. You jumped off at the last moment, parkouring off the neighboring falling debris and landing into a rolling crouch, the movement smooth and controlled.

["And the landing Mwah! Straight out of retro Marvel films! Hey! Eraser, didn’t she save your life at the USJ incident?] Present Mic continued, clearly enjoying the spectacle.

"[Yes, Akuma-san played a vital role in my recovery. Now, can we please move on to other contestants?]" Aizawa replied, his tone annoyed.

"[Right, right, my fault. Anyways, for those of you who thought the first obstacle was easy, let’s see how ya feel about the second one.]"

Ahead of you loomed a large canyon, its depths obscured by shadows. Long tightropes stretched between large stone pillars, forming a precarious path to the other side.

["If they slip and fall, they’re out! If they wanna pass this test, they’ll have to get creative. It’s 'The Fall'!]"

You stood on the edge, looking down into the abyss. It was dark, the depth seemingly endless. A small current of air burst from below, making the challenge even more difficult. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw other students standing near the edge, contemplating their next move.

Asui, with her usual calm, assessed the situation. "Ribbit! Ribbit. This is my moment. Easy peasy," she said, her voice steady and confident before flicking her tongue out and flinging herself from wire to wire like a jungle gym.

Nearby, Hatsume chuckled, her excitement barely contained. "Yes. Finally. This is my chance to show off what I can do. My support items are gonna steal the spotlight from these wannabe heroes. Everyone! Observe what my brilliant gadgets can do! Wire arrows and hover soles!" She launched into action, her gadgets activating with a series of mechanical clicks and whirs.

Mina, caught off guard, shouted after her, "You're from Support! Hey! How come you got to bring all that stuff?"

Hatsume responded without breaking stride, "Students in the hero course get all kinds of combat training for their Quirks. In order to keep things fair and give us a fighting chance, we're allowed to bring whatever gadgets and costumes we want into the games, so long as we developed them ourselves. So, sit back and enjoy the show."

She continued, her voice filled with pride and determination, "For those of us in the support course, this is the perfect obstacle to show off our ingenious ideas and creations to any companies out there who might wanna recruit us!" Hatsume’s laugh echoed across the canyon. "I hope employers are watching! My super-cute little babies are sure to make a splash." She cackled with delight as her gadgets carried her effortlessly across the obstacle.

Mina, grumbling to herself, muttered, "Talk about annoying."

Present Mic's voice cut through the noise, adding his enthusiastic commentary. "[In the world of heroes, it can be hard to get popular without a flashy Quirk. Right, Eraser Head?]"

"[I don't know what you're talking about, idiot.]"

Present Mic continued, "[Ha, ha, ha. Good one, buddy. Anywho, looks like Todoroki is still skating by easily!]" Todoroki, looking determined, gracefully skated across a frozen wire, his focus unwavering.

Nearby, random audience members voiced their thoughts:

"The dude in first place is so far ahead."

"His Quirk is really powerful, but it's his natural athletic talent and keen judgment keeping him in first place."

"I'm not surprised. Don't you know who his father is? The Flame Hero, Endeavor!"

"Wait, for real? That guy's second only to All Might himself."

"Everyone'll be fighting to have him as a sidekick for sure."

"[The leader's putting distance between him and the students stuck at 'The Fall!' It hasn't been announced how many competitors will make it through to the next round, so there's no time to relax,]" Present Mic announced as many began throwing themselves onto the obstacle at hand, immediately failing.

Taking a focusing breath, you leapt onto the first tightrope without hesitation, your movements precise and balanced. You cartwheeled, swung, and flipped across the ropes with a gymnast’s grace, each move calculated to maintain your momentum and avoid the gusts of air that threatened to knock you off balance.

Each flip felt like a breath of fresh air—of dangerous thrills as everything spun into a blur.

Present Mic’s commentary followed your every move. "[Once again, Akuma from Class 1-B wows the stands as she makes this look as easy as breathing. Watch as she moves like a professional gymnast out there! Such agility and control! Absolutely stunning!]"

Aizawa watched with a critical eye. "[She’s not just moving forward. She’s analyzing each step, anticipating the challenges. It’s a smart approach.]"

You reached the midway point of the obstacle, where the ropes became thinner and the gusts stronger. Focusing on your breathing and maintaining your center of gravity, you continued forward.

The other students around you were struggling, some slipping and barely catching themselves, while others fell into the abyss below, their screams echoing in the darkness.

You glanced back momentarily, assessing the positions of your classmates and competitors. With a determined look, you pushed forward, swinging from one rope to another with a fluidity that seemed almost effortless.

Reaching the end of the tightrope challenge, you landed gracefully on the final stone pillar. The crowd erupted into cheers at your performance, impressed by your display of skill and composure.

Present Mic’s voice boomed again. "[And she makes it! Akuma from Class 1-B has conquered 'The Fall'! What an impressive performance!]"

You didn’t have time to bask in the applause. The next and final obstacle awaited: the minefield.

"[And now, we're finally approaching the last obstacle. Everyone had better tread carefully. You're stepping onto a minefield! If you look carefully, you can see where those little bombs are buried, so keep your eyes on the ground, folks. By the way, those land mines were designed for the games, so they might be loud and flashy, but they're not all that powerful. Just enough to make you wet your pants!]"

"[Get ahold of yourself, Present Mic.]"

Faint explosions began to echo around the course, and some students screamed as they triggered the mines. You saw Todoroki near the edge of the minefield, observing an unfortunate competitor get thrown back several feet in the opposite direction. "Very clever. Those in the lead are actually at a disadvantage here. Guess it makes for good entertainment," he remarked, his tone as cold as his ice.

Bakugo, using his Quirk to shoot over the minefield, shouted back at Todoroki, "Bastard! Your declaration of war was to the wrong person!" His eyes burned with fierce determination as he propelled himself forward, explosions blasting from his palms.

Present Mic’s voice rang out, "[Just like that, a new student takes the lead! The media here is going crazy! There's nothing they love more than an upset!]"

Seeing Bakugo's rapid advance, Todoroki immediately followed, using his ice Quirk to create a slick path over the mines, freezing the ground beneath him with precision. His face remained stoic as he glided smoothly, determined to reclaim the lead.

"[Hey, hey, hey! The rest of the competitors are catching up, too! And what's this? Can our two leaders fight each other and stay in front of the competition?]"

You quickly analyzed the situation, taking in the chaos around you before taking a moment to decide to strategize your approach.

"[Looks like Akuma from 1-B has run out of fabulous attention-grabbers and is stumped! Even the best can get caught up in the heat of the moment, huh?]"

It didn't take but a second for Present Mic's harmless comment to spark up a wave of conversation in the stands.

"Come on, Akuma! Do something already!"

"You're getting left behind!"

"Don't just stand there! Everyone else is beating you!"

Up in the commentators' stand, Aizawa found himself unconsciously leaning forward, eyes zoning in on your figure. As the echoes of the audience's complaints and critiques filled his ears, his eyes flashed a light yellow for a split second before he found himself speaking into the mic. "[A good hero knows when to take time and strategize. It's not all about being flashy and hotheaded.]"

His words cooled the critiques of the audience, immediately turning the wave with many now complimenting your strategy.

"Yeah, she's smart! Look at her thinking it through!"

"That's right, don't rush it, Akuma!"

"She's got a plan, you just wait!"

In reality, Present Mic's words didn’t cause you any issues—if anything, you didn’t hear them at all—but Aizawa's rebuttal is what shook you from the task at hand.

You hissed, "Hero?" before pausing.

You took a moment to look at your surroundings, at the audience cheering at you all racing through this obstacle course—something that wasn’t even the actual sports festival but just a preliminary to weed out the useless and weak... It's almost as if you become aware of your situation: here you were, basically putting on a show for these buffoons and pests in the crowd as if you were some show pony.

"[Todoroki and Bakugo are neck and neck for the lead and knocking on the finish line!]"

You feel your breathing pick up as everything suddenly felt amplified by 100%—the sounds, the smells, everything. Just as you feel your disgust reach an inferno and about to explode, a huge explosion happens yards down from you.

"[What's with that huge explosion in the back?! That was way more powerful than it should be!]"

"What the..." Your sentence trails off as you see Midoriya skyrocket over the minefield on top of a slab of metal. Following his trajectory, you see dozens of exploded and dug-up mines. "Huh," you murmured to yourself. "What a clever boy."

"[Huh? Incredible! Well, whatever just happened, Class 1-A's Izuku Midoriya is suddenly in hot pursuit of first place!]"

As you watched Midoriya soar through the air, you couldn't help but feel a mix of irritation and begrudging respect. His unorthodox strategy had turned the tide in his favor, propelling him past numerous competitors and straight into the spotlight.

"[In a stunning move, Midoriya has blasted past his classmates from Class 1-A! I don't believe it—he cleared that minefield in an instant! Eraser Head, your students are amazing! What the heck are you teaching them?]"

"[This has nothing to do with me. Each of them is powered by their own drive to succeed.]"

"[There ya' have it, folks. Eraser Head is a terrible teacher.]"

"[I'm what?]"

"Deku! What the hell do you think you're doing, huh!?" Bakugo had a feral look on his face as he and Todoroki found themselves a bit behind the greenette.

You shook your head, berating yourself for getting lost in the thrill, reminding yourself that you weren’t here to put on a show and get first place, but to get a bird's eye view of your pet's will and determination to achieve his goal.

With a scoff and renewed focus, you devised a quick strategy to navigate the minefield, balancing caution with speed. Mixing your early gymnastic and aerobic skills with a bit of inspiration from Midoriya, you purposefully stepped on a nearby mine, using the explosion to propel yourself forward.

Carefully timing your jumps, you use the debris as stepping stones.

Whenever you touched the ground or found someone in a better mine-placement, you subtly knocked them into neighboring mines' paths, causing distractions and clearing a path for yourself.

The students around you were caught off guard, some yelping in surprise as they are thrown into the air by the blasts.

"[Whoa! Did you see that? Akuma from Class 1-B is using the explosions to her advantage! What a risky yet effective strategy!]" Present Mic’s voice boomed across the stadium, capturing the audience's attention.

Aizawa, leaning forward slightly, added, "[A calculated risk. She's using her environment and competitors to her benefit. It's not the most heroic approach, but it's undeniably effective.]"

You smirked, satisfied with your progress. You continued to leap from one debris piece to another, your movements fluid and precise. Each explosion propelled you closer to the end, while your manipulation of the other students' movements created chaos behind you.

As you neared the end of the minefield, you saw Bakugo, Midoriya, and Todoroki ahead, their fierce competition driving them forward.

"[Who would have imagined at the beginning of this race that the climax would be a non-stop mega-mix of surprises? The first to make it back into the stadium is the first-place winner! And that winner is...Izuku Midoriya. Midoriya from Class 1-A is our champion!]"

The audience erupts in cheers, a thunderous wave of applause and excitement. You keep your pace steady, ignoring the noise and focusing on your final steps through the minefield. By the time you exited into the stadium, bright flashes of cameras greet you from all sides.

"[And ...19th place! Akuma ____!]"

Though you weren't exhausted, there's was a light sheen of sweat across your forehead. You took a deep breath, feeling the cool air of the stadium wash over you.

"[The contestants are pouring in one after the other! Let's hear some applause for all our competitors as we prepare the results.]"

You look around, eyes immediately zeroing in on Bakugo. He's standing off to the side, eyes narrowed and focused on Midoriya, who is currently surrounded by his friends, Iida and Uraraka, congratulating him.

The tension in Bakugo's stance is palpable, his fists clenched at his sides. You make your way over, saying nothing as you stand beside him, observing the scene with detached interest. Eventually, you turn your head to face him, saying, "2nd place."

Bakugo's jaw tightens, his eyes briefly flicking towards you before returning to Midoriya. "This was only the preliminaries," he grunts, his voice low and simmering with frustration.

You hum thoughtfully, "I suppose it is." Then, before leaving, you send him a callous smile. "Well, I must be off. I have to congratulate Izuku on his victory." Taking a few steps away, you pause and glance over your shoulder. "Good luck in the next trial," you add, a hint of mockery in your tone.

Bakugo's eyes follow you, his expression looking defeated before hardening once more. "I got this..." he murmurs to himself before moving on.

You continue towards Midoriya, weaving through the crowd of students and spectators. It wasn’t hard to get to him, seeing as the boy already gave you his undivided attention the moment he saw you.

"H-hi, ____," Midoriya stutters, his face already taking on a pink hue, his surprise and nervousness evident. For a millisecond, your eye twitches at his use of your name, but you push the annoyance down.

Pulling your lips up into a sweet smile, you respond, "Hi, Izuku," before turning to his two friends with polite bows. "Uraraka-san, Iida-kun."

Seeing as his friend went immobile outside being able to say hello, Iida takes the initiative to speak to you. "It's a pleasure seeing you, Akuma-san. Congratulations on passing the preliminary round. What brings you here?"

You give a gracious nod. "Thank you for the congrats, Iida-kun, and the same to you as well. I was actually over here to personally congratulate Izuku on reaching first place. This was a very tense and tough obstacle course, and his performance was truly impressive."

Midoriya's face turns an even deeper shade of red. "T-thank you, ____!" he exclaims, then quickly corrects himself. "I-I mean, thank you for the congrats..."

You smile warmly, turning to include Iida and Uraraka in the conversation. "You both did exceptionally well too. Iida-kun, your speed and precision were remarkable. Uraraka-san, your quick thinking and strategy were truly admirable. You all have amazing talents."

Iida adjusts his glasses, a hint of a blush creeping up his cheeks. "Thank you, Akuma-san. Your words are most kind."

Uraraka beams, her cheeks rosy. "Thanks, Akuma-san! You were incredible out there too!"

Midoriya, still flustered, manages to stammer, "Y-yeah, you were amazing. I'm really looking forward to seeing how you do in the next round."

You give him a gracious nod, just as Midnight’s voice booms through the stadium.

"The first game for the first years is finally over, and what a game it was!" Midnight declares, her voice sultry and commanding, drawing everyone's attention to the center stage where she stands in her revealing costume. The bright lights of the stadium shine off her whip as she twirls it playfully. "Now, let's take a quick look at the standings, shall we?"

Aoyama lets out a small whimper, drawing a few chuckles from the crowd.

"Only the top 40 contestants will advance to the next round. But don't be too let down if you didn't make the cut!" Midnight continues, her tone teasing yet encouraging. "We've prepared other opportunities for you to shine."

You watch as the students around you react, some with visible relief and others with disappointment. The screen shows the rankings, and you note your position among the top 42 with a calm satisfaction.

"Now the real fun is about to begin. The chance to fully move yourselves into the limelight! Give it your best!" Midnight's eyes sparkle mischievously. "Let's see what we have in store for you next. Will your wildest fantasies come to life? Prepare yourselves... for this!"

The competitors shout out in unison, "Cavalry battle!?"

Complaints and murmurs spread through the crowd.

"I'm terrible at those."

"I should have gotten disqualified in the preliminary round."

"Ugh, it's not an individual event; we gotta work in groups?"

Mineta's eyes light up with a mischievous grin. "Oh, yes. I wonder how they'll split us up."

Midnight raises her whip, snapping it for dramatic effect. "Allow me to explain. The participants will form teams of two-to-four people as they see fit. In theory, it's basically the same as a regular playground game. But there is one difference. Each player has been assigned a point value based on the results from the obstacle course."

A random student chimes in, "I get it, a point-based system like the entrance exams. That seems pretty simple. So that means each team will have a different point value based on which students are on it."

Midnight smirks, clearly enjoying the suspense. "Uh-huh! Maybe you should shut up and let me explain things to you. Now, then. The point assignments go up by increments of five, starting from the bottom. For example, 42nd place is worth five points, and 41st is worth ten. And the point value assigned to the first place contestant is... ten million!"

The stadium erupts in shock.

"Ten million!?" the competitors exclaim, excluding you, who just raise an eyebrow.

Hatsume grins, gears already turning in her mind. "In other words, if you take down his team..."

The other students echo her sentiment. "...You'll win the Cavalry Game and take the lead yourself."

Midnight continues, "That's right. It's survival of the fittest, with a chance for those at the bottom to overthrow the top!"

You glance over at Midoriya, who looks absolutely terrified. His face pales, the only color left being his stark freckles standing out against his skin. The sheer weight of the ten million points visibly pressing down on him.

You couldn't wait to see how this play out.

The Cavalry Battle was sure to be a spectacle, and you were more than ready to observe—and manipulate—every moment.

A/N: wheeeww, cant believe it took me from 7pm--to 2am to write a 5k worded chapter out 💀💀 curse me and my perfectionism 💔 anywho, hope this was mildly interesting as we get this party started! next up: calvary battle (and if thats not too manywords, aslo the lil recreational activities/todoroki backstory bit, dont know how imma do it, but its gon get done 😤😤

[gattnk]

Raf and Sulfus, Sulfus and Raf.

I finally finished my AF main cast redesigns for my rewrite project! I've had these two for a while, but I didn't want to post them until the rest of the gang was also ready for some reason. Anyways, here's my design notes for the main duo:

I wanted to treat this entire project the way I would if I'd been actually hired to reboot the IP as a professional. With this in mind, I kept the designs simple enough for serialized production while also doing my best to make them "fashionable" like the original material.

The comic's motifs for both characters made me decide on the moon and star as their core design elements early on. I simplified these shapes even further to their most basic form: angels will be represented by/associated with circles, and devils with triangles.

I designed Raf with a crescent moon in mind: she's very curvy but there's still some pointiness to her shapes. Sulfus was modelled after a 5-point star instead: all points, sharp angles and straight lines.

Since both the comics and series had Raf characterized as a go-getter (she's the leader and main character), I dressed her in some casual but sporty clothes to reflect this; I envisioned her as the "speedster" of the group, someone who's quick to jump into action once a goal or "finish line" is set. This Raf likes running and jogging as much as flying, so she sports (ha!) a nice tan as well.

Sulfus is the quintessential bad boy: he listens to heavy music, rides a motorbike, his snake mascot's resting mode looks like a tattoo, he surfs lava just for fun... I took his hobbies into account more than his previous emo/scene or classic rockstar looks from the series/comic, and came up with a healthy mix of functional speed biker fashion with melodic/power metal band influences.

Raf's main colors are blue, gold and white, a high contrast to the red, grey and black colors of Sulfus. Since Raf has a bright red spot in her design, it was only fair to give Sulfus gold eyes and blueish black and grey tones in turn.

Since Raf is more romantic and very sincere, her red ladybug (symbol of luck, new beginnings and love) is very bright and eye-catching, contrasted by Sulfus' soft, cool hues. His ring-necked snake (which is much more subtle than his original green rattlesnake/coral snake) represents Sulfus' more secretive side.

I'd go into more depth about their updated personalities and backstories, but this post is long as it is :V If any of you is interested in seeing more of this pair in action, here's my AFapril comic challenge thing.

I'll Fly With You (rewrite fic) Art masterpost

[boinkingbattlemechs]

Phoenix Hawk

First introduced by the Terran Hegemony in 2568, the Phoenix Hawk was one of the most famous BattleMechs in the Inner Sphere. The 'Mech began life when Orguss Industries realized that it could reinforce the Stinger chassis to create a larger version, one with the same speed and maneuverability as the Stinger but with superior armor, firepower, and electronics. Though not without its own drawbacks, the Phoenix Hawk quickly became the standard by which all other reconnaissance 'Mechs were measured.

Originally a staple of the Star League Defense Force, Phoenix Hawks remained common within the armies of the Successor States after the fall of the Star League. At first Phoenix Hawks were grouped together to form powerful recon lances, but as they started reaching their various deployments, their full potential as command 'Mechs was discovered and many were reassigned to instead lead units of smaller recon 'Mechs. By the middle of the thirty-first century the Phoenix Hawk was still in production at factories on Keystone, New Avalon, Coventry, Jarett and Satalice. Its commonness made it an early candidate for the use of recovered lostech following the Helm Memory Core recovery, and a variety of upgraded variants were produced in time for the Clan Invasion.

When Vicore Industries began peddling its Project Phoenix concept, they had trouble even arranging a meeting with Ceres Metals about upgrading the Phoenix Hawk, until General Motors agreed to contact them on their behalf. What followed were several months of negotiations, concluding with an agreement for Ceres to build the new PXH-4L Phoenix Hawk on St. Ives in exchange for technical assistance retooling their BJ-3 Blackjack production line. The Capellan Confederation, impressed with what they saw in these new Phoenix Hawks, acquired the first run when they stepped off the production lines in late 3066 and assigned them to front-line units; their job was to work alongside RVN-4L Ravens in a support role. New variants based on this updated 'Mech soon found their way into the hands of other users, including ComStar and the Word of Blake.

Standing at 11 meters tall, the Phoenix Hawk was armed in such a way that it can be used in several different combat roles including command, reconnaissance, and front line duty. The primary weapon on board was a Harmon large laser carried in the right arm, giving the 'Mech a weapon which could strike at an enemy at a respectable distance. This was backed up by two Harmon medium lasers for close range combat, one in either forearm. Finally, to deter infantry attacks, the 'Mech carried two M100 Heavy machine guns, one in each arm, with one ton of ammunition stored in the center torso.

Eight tons of armoring on the Phoenix Hawk gave it acceptable endurance for short combat actions, though not for any sustained brawling. Just 10 single heat sinks meant the 'Mech had a relatively low heat threshold; green pilots were known to lose their 'Mechs by overtaxing this system overusing their heat-intensive weapons and jump jets. However, a GM 270 fusion engine also gave the Phoenix Hawk a good cruising speed of 64.8 km/h, and the 'Mech could go from standing still to top speed within the span of 100 meters. Six jump jets split between right and left rear torsos provided a maximum jumping distance of 180 meters. These attributes helped make the 'Mech just as fast and maneuverable as its smaller brethren, the Stinger and Wasp.

It was the Phoenix Hawk's electronics, though, which truly helped it perform best as a command 'Mech for recon lances. Its Tek Tru-Trak targeting computer was particularly accurate, while the heavily shielded Tek BattleCom system could overcome interfering radiation, whether ambient or manmade, that would've shut down other units. Unfortunately, after the fall of the Star League, the ability to reproduce these systems became lost and many units had to replace them with simpler systems, such as the Octagon Tartrac System C and Neil 6000 respectively.