#blaze/behemoth

[lambyxd]

MY SONA FLAILS HIS ARMS AROUND RUNS AWAY! THEN FLORPING EXPLODES

[trashogram]

Honey, I Shrunk

Satan/Reader - Your man hates shrinking down to your size bc he’s already a little bitch

{Rated M forrrrrrr the whole point of this silly ficlet}

*~*~*~*

You sighed while leaning back on your elbows, and eyeing up your lover as he literally towered above you.

“Sweetheart, why do you have to make this so difficult?” You asked in a sugarcoated tone.

Satan huffed through his nostrils, smoke and steam billowing into a short lived fog that hung above you. He looked down at you with four narrow eyes as blazing as the sun.

“This is enough.” He replied.

His stony response had you looking nonplussed, eyebrows raised at the blatant lie.

“You’re still big enough to flatten a good ten city blocks, babe.” Another sigh left your lips, ignorant of Satan’s mounting agitation. “And I’m afraid I’m not in the mood for erotic trampling tonight.”

“Unless you’re going with this size so that… it can look smaller?”

The behemoth Sin lunged forward with a bullish snort, full of wrath as he bore sharp teeth twice your size at you.

“You say I’m the one making things difficult but it’s you who is never satisfied!” He roared, blowing back your hair with his hot breath.

The expression on your face didn’t change. Satan huffed and puffed while you waited patiently before exhaling:

“You good?”

Another horse’s whinny, paired with the grating sound of his teeth grinding together sounded before Satan quietly took a couple of deep breaths. You paused before changing tactics, sitting up and shifting onto your knees so that you could crawl over to the face of your darling.

You reached out to him with a gentle hand, palm cool and reassuring over his molten scales. With ease and tenderness, you stroked a line down his tapered snout, adding your other hand before you leaned in to nuzzle him with your entire face.

“I just wanna feel you, Satan.” You admitted, adoration pouring through your every word. “I wanna feel your body on mine. I want you to hold me in your arms and kiss me until I’m breathless.”

The draconian Sin’s pinpointed pupils crossed to peer down at you when you kissed his snout.

“I wanna feel your heat inside me,” You murmured. “When we make love.”

The full-body shudder that followed from your lover echoed through your much smaller frame before Satan nudged you back onto the bed. You brushed aside the curtain of your hair in time to see him slowly shrink down. He was still a great deal larger that you, able to overpower you with his brute strength alone. And his quadra-horns only added to that height —

You grinned as a flush ran through you when he moved to join your bed. He climbed over you, the bed springs groaning — but not breaking — beneath his weight as he caged you in with his thick biceps and broad shoulders.

“Brat.” He rumbled, rubbing his crotch against yours as he breathed into your parted mouth. “I’d never let anyone get away with your impudent requests. But I guess you’ll have to learn that the hard way.”

You could hardly reign in your moan as you heard his buckle being undone. As a distraction, your hands came up to rest against his pectorals, gliding over the thin yet silky maroon material reverently.

“Can’t promise I won’t enjoy the punishment, Your Honor.”

[silverzoomies]

Screwball

peter maximoff x reader smut

warnings: smut, slow burn, kissing, hand jobs, loss of virginity, temperature play, mutant reader, ice powers, porn with plot, clunky writing

word count: 14,151

a/n: im so late posting this. i meant to finish this one like a month ago. but it's already september !! and a heatwave fic seems so out of season !! oh well !! i hope someone out there enjoys this. i went through hell tryin' to finish it. but i'm pretty happy with the way it panned out,,

apologies for the usual: clunky writing, slow as fuck execution, potentially ooc dialogue, etc etc etc kbgsjbdghsoiheg

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Westchester, New York had never seen such a record breaking heat wave.

And in all his reckless, fast paced years up to the ripe age of thirty, neither had Peter.

His fragmented memory is jam packed. Cluttered with disorganized checklists of every place he’s ever been. Not that he’s bragging or anything. But Peter’s basically seen the entire world, and then some. If one were to count those gnarly, X-Men space missions. He’d gone places no non-mutant could ever conceivably dream of reaching. From the deathly cold peak of Mount Everest, to the blistering sands of the Sahara desert itself.

Even with all that collected experience, Peter’s a hundred percent sure; he’s never faced summertime heat as insanely lethal as this.

Okay, sure. Maybe declaring Westchester as hotter than the Sahara might be a bit of a stretch. But to Peter’s credit, this heat wave is dangerous enough to warrant a citywide advisory. Which, in layman’s terms, means: don’t get ballsy. Unless you wanna end up fryin’ like an egg on the sidewalk.

The weather outside is so grisly, in fact, the X-Men themselves had to call their latest mission quits. Imagine that! Crazy, right? A fierce team of mutant heroes, capable of taking on behemoth sized sentinels. And even they didn’t dare another second in the heat.

Peter detached himself from the concept of religion ages ago. But thank the mysterious powers above, whoever they may be. Because he was legit two seconds away from collapsing to the ground, in a boiled heap of skin and bone.

He stumbles off the X-jet on wobbly legs. And no joke, Peter swears his muscles have somehow melted into jelly. It’s supremely embarrassing, the way he struggles to keep up with the team as they move ahead. They all stop before going upstairs, waiting to reconvene with Xavier. Organized in a careless, half circle; the X-Men look as though they’ve returned from an Olympic marathon. Their bodies exhausted, and blanketed in buckets of sweat.

Naturally, on account of Peter’s super dope, mutant genes; his body functioned at a nonstop rate of super sonic speed. As a repercussion, his average body temperature burned leagues hotter than any non-mutant’s. It wasn’t abnormal for Peter to dread the tormenting heat of the summer season.

In the blazing eye of a dangerous heat wave, swarming the city like an apocalyptic storm; Peter’s absolutely certain – like, for sure, he’s teetering on the brink of death. A miserable, stewing-in-your-own-sweat kinda death. Leave it to Logan to recite the eulogy at Peter’s funeral. No doubt, Wolvie would have nothing but positive things to say about Peter after he died. Most definitely.

Peter might be a teensy bit freaked out actually. Since he had no idea he was even capable of experiencing heat exhaustion. It almost makes him paranoid. Like a hypochondriac with a chest ache. In an attempt to force his recovery, Peter chugs through exactly thirteen bottles of dollar store water in a flash. The source of his stash? A stainless steel, mini fridge in Hank’s lab.

He knows Hank’s gonna be totally peeved when he finds the fridge raided clean. But Peter doesn’t bother worrying about that right now. Instead, he makes a mental reminder: Water bottles. An IOU. One he’ll probably forget about within the next two seconds. And never get around to fulfilling.

Professor Chucksters is talking, but Peter can’t find it in himself to listen to a single word. Whatever momentous info the ol’ baldy drops, flies a thousand miles over his feverish head. Peter cranes his neck back in overheated agony, lazily chugging Hank’s last remaining bottle of crisp, cold water. The smooth bite of that cold down Peter’s throat makes him exhale with relief through his nose.

Halfway through, he stops to shower his head in the rest. Letting chilly droplets rain down over his silver hair. Sharp tingles erupt down his neck and across his shoulders. Peter shudders, humming in delight to himself.

Oh. Shit. Wait…

Peter then comes to the regrettable realization that, in a heatwave so hazardous; water is a necessity to be shared.

No shit, blockhead.

Now, mind you, Peter isn’t known for his forethought. He’s pretty overzealous. Had he taken time to stop and think for a hot sec…yeah. Sure. Maybe he should’ve been more mindful of his suffering teammates. Oopsie daisies.

Much like a careless dog, Peter shakes off the cold drops soaking his hair. Sprinkles of water splash all around him, with Jubilee caught in the line of fire. She jumps in place with an abrupt, but silent exclamation of ‘ew!’ Shooting Peter a look of burning fury. Damp strands of Peter’s hair fan over his eyes. He runs his fingers slowly through them to give his forehead some air.

Maybe Peter’s a little delusional. Because he swears on his life he catches a red tint in Jubilee’s cheeks. She scoffs, like she can’t stand his bullshit. He throws her a wink. A beat later, she smiles and rolls her eyes.

Peter smirks. Lucky for him, his speedster charm has yet to fizzle out.

The team waits patiently for their opportune moment to flee. It’s obvious they’re all pretty antsy. Probably since they’re dying to change into something lighter. Better fitted for Satan’s city wide celebration of hellfire and brimstone. Anything but the jumpsuits, at least. But that’s just a hunch.

In Peter’s own personal opinion? The most ideal scenario would be to strut around naked, in nothing at all. Sounds awesome, right? Freedom from the suffocation of needless threads! However, societal standards and modern customs definitely wouldn’t allow such debauchery. Not to mention, Peter isn’t super keen on the idea of peeping his teammates in their birthday suits.

Except for Raven, maybe. He never gets tired of looking at those scales. All that blue. Nice.

Oh. And…you. Frankly, Peter’s willing to risk it all just to catch a glimpse of you in the buff.

He swallows a thick lump forming in his throat, sneaking a lightning fast glance in your direction. Observing you with a gawking gaze, Peter ignores the way his heartbeat kicks up to roadrunner speed. Faster than fast. Like, cartoonishly fast. It’s ridiculous.

You’re completely impervious to any heatwave debuffs. Lucky lucky. Standing there without a care in the world, you listen attentively to professor Charlie Brown’s ramblings. Since you’re so distracted, Peter lets his speedy eyes shamelessly wander. Trailing down the glittering, icy blue of your jumpsuit. Uniquely personalized to coincide with your wintry gimmick.

Which doesn’t at all explain why it’s so inappropriately skin tight.

Peter feels himself choke on his next breath. But he’s quick to blame it on the weather. Yeah. It’s just the heat that’s stifling him. Nothing else. Get real, dude.

The sparkling material of your suit hugs your figure a little too perfectly. Complementing every irresistible curve. Peter always thought you looked so ludicrously fine in that suit. If not way, way, way too distracting. Sometimes, he found it ultra hard – ignoring any euphemisms – to maintain focus during missions. Usually because your frosty ass came twinkling in his peripheral, throwing off his mojo.

But let’s chalk Peter’s lack of focus up to his chronic ADD instead, ‘kay?

Heck. Maybe it wasn’t the ADD’s fault. At least, not entirely. Like, cut the bullshit for a sec. Peter doesn’t have a lot of sexual experience. He’s never gone any further than a dozen heated sessions of heavy petting. And from time to time, though he hates to admit it; it haunts him. The way he’s so suppressed. Overflowing with pent-up desire.

Thirty years old and still a virgin? Clock’s ticking, Quickie. No wonder he can’t take his hungry eyes off your body.

Speaking of your body.

Damn, is it hot in here? Or is it just you?

It’s most definitely not you.

Your body naturally radiates a refreshing aura of frigidity. It’s no coincidence, the way your teammates linger so closely in your proximity. Peter can’t really blame them for doing so. You’re the human equivalent of an icebox. Even a touch of your finger could turn the entire X-mansion into a winter wonderland. Part of him wonders why you haven’t done so already. Since you’d be sparing everyone the infernal anguish of this awful heat wave.

Maybe you’re just as absentminded as he is.

Anyway, right about now, Peter desperately yearns to be a long lost tub of neapolitan. Stuffed deep inside your metaphorical freezer.

Which…sounds way dirtier than intended.

Fuck. Alright. Moving on.

Tugging at the collar of his jumpsuit, Peter fights to catch his breath. The fierce heat from outside has somehow seeped its way into the X-Men’s base of operations. Almost like an act of god. Or more like a punishment, maybe.

In desperate need of relief, Peter looks to you once more. He finds himself struck with an ingenious, lightbulb moment then.

A blink, and he bolts, appearing directly behind you. A faint gust of wind flutters your hair. But the breeze fails to even make you flinch. Peter isn’t the least bit subtle with his actions, as he presses his burning body a little too closely into your back. And hoooooooooooooo mama! The sweet relief of your icy presence is so worth any consequences, should they arise.

You whip your head around suddenly, giving Peter a weird look and a once over. He can’t really blame you for staring at him like that. Sure, you’re both teammates. Even family, one might argue. You’re both fighting for the same cause. But you haven’t built an inseparable bond with Peter or anything.

Honestly, he’d be totally down if you did. But that’s neither here nor there.

Peter always thought you were pretty damn cool. In more ways than one, if your glacial mutation was included in the mix. If he were more honest with himself, he would’ve acknowledged his dumb, boyish crush on you an entire ice-age ago. Oh well.

He’s still too much of an awkward spaz for his own good sometimes.

You seem…confused. Staring at Peter as if silently asking him a question. If he had to guess, it’s probably something along the lines of – what the hell do you think you’re doing, you handsome scoundrel? Peter exchanges your puzzled look with an uneasy smile. Dramatically, he fans himself with a hand. Hoping you get the hint, he pokes his tongue out to playfully express his suffocating torment.

Thankfully, you pick up what he’s putting down. As you turn back around, you giggle cutely. Peter breathes an alleviating sigh. He’s left to bask in the glory of your wintry aura. So freeing, and so, so cold. He could kiss you as a thanks, if only you’d let him. But you’ve already directed your attention to Xavier’s painfully long lecture.

Wait. Seriously, how long was this talk supposed to last? It feels like a million years at this point and-

Peter checks the Star Trek watch on his wrist. It’s only been…five minutes. Huh.

The gathering of ye olde X-council draws to a close. At long last! Xavier wraps up his spiel of heroic efforts , world peace , and wonderful work everyone. Bla bla bla. Don’t get Peter wrong. He harbors a lot of respect for the guy. Any other day, and he would’ve found those words somewhat awe inspiring. If not the slightest bit misguided.

But today? Professor, dude, now’s not the time to be preaching words of wisdom. Your nerd club’s literally cooking from the inside out. Give it a rest.

The team wastes no time. As soon as Chuck’s given the go-ahead, they’re gone. High-tailing it upstairs as fast as their tired legs can go. Which isn’t all that fast. At least, not by Peter’s standards. But he’s hella impressed with the enthusiasm.

Unlike everyone else, you move at a frustratingly slow pace. Walking behind you feels akin to waiting too long in a DMV line. Something Peter’s never had to do a single day in his life. And he’s not about to start now. It’s monotonous, and borderline infuriating. But his heightened impatience is probably just another consequence of this outrageous heat.

You take your sweet ass time – and holy moly, did you have a sweet ass – as you ascend to the first floor of the X-mansion. Peter follows after you like a lost puppy, not too far behind. On your way to – presumably – your room, you climb another, dreaded flight of stairs. And since when were stairs a hindrance to a speedster like Peter? He’s never once felt winded making a simple ascent like this. Ever.

Peter’s growing more and more restless. His skin feels sticky and uncomfortable under his jumpsuit, but he can’t rush home to grab a change of clothes. He’s unwilling to risk a race through whatever hellscape lies in waiting outside. No matter how little time it takes him. Not while his lungs are cooking to a crisp.

He aches for the touch of your icy hands. Plain and simple. Nothing to it. Nothing sexual. No strings attached.

Unless…you had a preference for strings. Peter would tie them around his wrists and move like a marionette puppet if you asked. Shit, you want a whole show? Bring out the dancing Muppets.

Midway through your ascent, Peter appears in front of you. He stops you suddenly, leaning casually with his hand against the wooden railing. His other hand rests on his hip. Lamely, he forces himself to act as naturally as he can. Which is virtually impossible, considering the circumstances. But even so, Peter throws you his signature grin and nods his head.

Be cool, dude. Be cool. Ease into it. Just try not to think about how you’re literally baking to death here.

His overheated exhaustion is impossible to miss. Even a dense chimp in a blindfold could sense something’s off about him. The quick rise and fall of Peter’s chest is a dead give away. Revealing how labored his breathing really is. Trickles of sweat race in a tense competition down Peter’s temples. Warm heat pools in his cheeks, and his skin appears ghostly pale.

That…might be the reason you gaze at him like you’re worried sick. As if you’ve seen a haunting, silverette ghost. Peter looks like he’ll pass out sometime within the next five minutes. Realistically, he should probably seek medical attention immediately. But he fakes his aloof casualness anyway.

“Heyyyyy, what’s the haps? Where’re you headed in such a rush, Screwball?” Peter asks, somewhat condescending.

“Screwball?” You narrow your eyes, puzzled, “Oh, y’know, my room probably? I might take a nap. Why?” You laugh despite your confusion, crossing your arms. Fixing Peter with a look that only suggests one thing: suspicion.

Fair enough.

He nods, rapidly tapping his fingers on the railing.

“Cool. Coooooool. I can dig it. Nothin’ wrong with that. I mean, who wouldn’t wanna spend a summer afternoon like this lazin’ around in bed, amiright?”

Good. Nice and easy. Peter should probably stop there, and speak no further. But his hazy, addled mind works on autopilot. The words race past his lips faster than he can keep up.

“It’s hot as hell today too. So, you could totally sprawl out butt ass naked and-”

Too late.

“...Yeah?” Based on your expression alone, Peter knows he’s made a total ass of himself. By some miracle, you don’t deck him with an icy fist of freezing fury. Not that you seemed the violent type to begin with.

“Wait, no-” He abruptly pauses to try and make sense of his thoughts. A stifling heat in the air swarms his head, drowning Peter in hot molasses, “Oh. Gah! What the hell am I even saying? Sorry, that was-uh…that was totally weird, right? Uh, lemme start over-uhm-”

Peter clears his throat, masking his mortification with his speedster charm. Super popular with the ladies. Tested on the battlefield of life and approved. A five star rating. No need to question why he still hasn’t managed to get laid, like ever.

“Sooooooooo…anyway. Y’wanna hang out?” He asks, cheesing a dorky grin.

“You never ask me to hang out with you. But today, of all days…that’s when you do? Everything’s closed, Peter. Y’know, because of the heat advisory? I mean, clearly…you look like you know.” You gesture to Peter himself.

A sweaty sheen coats his skin. He really should’ve taken a cold shower in the communal washrooms. At least before confronting you like this. Man, he really screwed this up. If this interaction falls flat, Peter’s just gonna bail. Maybe he’ll try and stuff himself in that mini fridge of Hank’s. He’d be way better off there. Until Beastie finds him, anyway.

“Uh, yeah? Pffft …no duh. I knew that. But, so what? Just ‘cuz there’s some lame stuff happening outside. That doesn’t mean we can’t do somethin’ totally cool inside. Know what I mean?” Simple and subtle.

“Hm…” You think on his offer for a moment. But it feels like he's aged another thirty years by the time you reply, “At least let me change first, okay? You probably should too! I know you gotta be burnin’ up in that jumpsuit, sweetheart!”

A dopey smile plays on Peter’s lips, pressing into his dimples.

So…sweetheart, eh? That’s a new one.

Politely, you push past Peter to make your way up the remaining stairs. Without any forethought or plan of action, he cuts you off again. He slides across the floor into your visual radius, worn sneakers squeaking along polished wood. Wait…why’s he losing his balance?? Peter doesn’t usually lose his balance. Shit.

Ah. he’s lightheaded now. Great.

You’re close enough that Peter can feel the tempting coldness radiating off your body. Oh, man. If only you’d envelop him in your frosty arms completely. You could even lay on top of him like a blanket of snow post avalanche. Anything. Please. Peter is so beyond desperate to beat the heat, he’d let you pelt him with a flurry of snowballs. At least then, he wouldn’t feel a spark away from igniting into flames.

Staring at him with an impatient look, you tilt your head and furrow your brows. Awkwardly, Peter shifts on his feet. Thick humidity overflows his lungs, close to bursting with the force of an atomic bomb. Breathing is near impossible at this point. Peter may as well bite the silver bullet, before he finally kicks the bucket.

Godspeed, or however the saying goes.

“Hi…sorry. Okay-uh…hear me out, please?” He begs. Peter brings his hands together in front of him like he’s praying at the altar, “This is gonna sound weird. Like, next-level weird. Yer probably gonna think I’m a huge creep. And I’m not tryna freak you out ‘er anything. ‘kay? Like, I totally get it if yer not down for this. ‘Cuz, y’know, we’re not really all that close. Plus, you probably have other stuff you’d rather be doin’ than helpin’ out some loser like me, but-” Peter rapidly stammers over his words.

Way to go, ponyboy. Graceful as ever.

Holding out a small hand to politely silence Peter, you utter his name in the sweetest tone he’s ever heard. Hushed, soft, and so gentle. Your voice is the equivalent of candy to his eardrums. He kinda really digs the way you sound when you talk. So courteous and nice all the time.

Be still, his palpitating heart. Seriously. Calm down. Or he’s literally gonna die.

“Peter?”

“Uhyeahwhat?” He stammers again.

“Are you…okay? You’re sweating like crazy. You look like you’re gonna pass out, dude.”

Peter throws you an ‘ok’ sign with a hand, his grin sluggish.

“Peachy keen, baby.”

He swears with every fiber of his sweltering soul that calling you ‘baby’ made you blush. But, y’know, since he’s a little bit doubtful, he might have to test that theory again. Just to be a hundred percent sure. Break out the ol’ chalkboard and sketch some x’s and o’s like a scientific diagram. Top of the line research. He’s the leading psychoanalyst in speedster charisma. 

“You sure about that?” You ask, arching a brow, holding an easygoing smile.

Taking a few steps closer, you bless Peter with your emanating chill. He doesn’t at all expect you to raise your hand. Peter swallows a thick, blistering lump in his throat. Frozen in place, he watches in slow motion as you bring the tips of your frosty fingers to his chest. Brisk, winter cold spreads in fractals of frost over his jumpsuit.

Freezing heaven on scorching earth. It’s sorta…poetic, in a way. Peter blinks rapidly, caught in a mind-altering daze for a beat or two. Your touch really is like a miracle cure, alleviating that stifling thickness suffocating his lungs.

“W-Wow. Okay.” He chokes awkwardly, cheeks flushing. His skin tingles under his jumpsuit, “Wow. That’s cool. Literally cool.”

“Peter?”

“Mmmmmmhmmm?” He hums, slouching his shoulders. Peter shamelessly relaxes under your wintry touch.

“You’re suffering in this heat, aren’t you? You need me to help you out?”

Stupidly, like a colossal, doofus dumbass, he shakes his head. You’re offering the exact thing Peter came to you for. A golden opportunity. He’s really hit the jackpot now. All he has to do is face the music, and admit it. Just be honest. Say it, doofus!

“Huh? Naaahhhh! Pffft …why would-...hey, I told ya! I’m juuuust peachy, Screwball! Don’t gotta worry about me!”

Hanging in the air by a delicate string, is a tension Peter’s too stunned to identify. Taking another step closer, the swell of your breasts meets his chest. The hand you’ve placed over his speedy heart trails tantalizingly slow, up to Peter’s flushed cheek. His dark eyes flutter closed, and he almost falls face first into your touch.

“I can take care of you, y'know? I really don’t mind, honey. It wouldn’t be an issue.” Your soft voice exudes genuine compassion. The sweet, gentle attention burns his skin to a boiling point, his veins melting underneath.

That unidentifiable tension in the air permeates, thicker than summertime heat. Despite the relieving cold you’ve given him to bask in; Peter finds it even more difficult to breathe. It confuses him, the way you act so nice and considerate. And now? He’s melting entirely.

Literally. No dramatizations. Peter can feel his damp skin drooping slowly off his bones.

He’s already close enough to death as is. What’s with the tenderness and affection, huh? Were you going out of your way to make sure he dies faster? Have some humanity, for Geddy’s sake. Jeez.

“I-uh…I…” Peter stutters, at a loss for words, “I wouldn’t wanna put you out like that, but…uh…”

“Alright. Whatever you say.” You steadily pull your hand from Peter’s face, “Offer’s still on the table, though!”

Wait. Wait. Wait. Why are you pulling away? No, no, no! You can’t pull away! Not yet! Come on!

All at once, the soothing cold you’ve gifted Peter disappears. No thanks to the steaming fever brought upon by his overheated, speedster body. He nearly whines at the loss, pulling his lip between his teeth to stifle any embarrassing noises.

It takes Peter only a millisecond to give in. With a slower reaction time than usual – not really all that slow, from an outside perspective – he darts his hand out in a flash. Peter lightly grabs your wrist, stopping you from retracting your hand any further.

“Wait-” Peter groans, acting hasty. Frustrated with his own awkwardness, he rolls his eyes, “...I’m…I’m literally dyin’ here, okay? Like, no joke. I think my heart might actually explode. And I…kinda can’t breathe right now? So, uhm…can you just, like, touch me? Just a little bit? But not-” He panics suddenly, eyes widening, “N-Not like-...not in a weird way, I swear!”

He almost tacks on a suggestive ‘unless you really want to,’ but decides against it. Better not, lest he dig himself into a deeper hole. So far under the Earth’s surface, he’ll come out the other side. Not a bad idea, actually. Maybe it’s cooler over there.

“And I’ll totally make it up to you. I promise. Pinky swear. Cross my heart, hope I don’t die of heat stroke.” He insists.

You giggle again, cute as can be. It’s not the least bit condescending either, thankfully. Peter feels the weight of a billion megatons finally lift off his shoulders. With a nod, you take his hand in yours. A surprisingly intimate gesture, since the two of you have never done anything quite like this before. Hell, you’ve never spent time with each other one-on-one outside of the X-Men.

“C’mon, you silly goose.” You lightheartedly joke.

Your affection catches Peter off guard. Not that he’s got a problem with it. No siree. In fact, his heart might’ve skipped a few beats. A lazy smile plays at his lips, as you guide Peter down the hall to your room in your usual, slow stride.

Oh, sweet, frosty sanctuary calls.

As soon as Peter steps inside, you quickly close the door behind you. Feeling somewhat out of place in the unfamiliarity of your space, Peter distracts himself with the posters on your walls. He casts quick glances over the silly knick-knacks occupying your desk and dressers. Turns out, your room has a lot of personality. Neat.

He overhears a faint click suddenly. Whipping around to find you locking the door, Peter narrows his eyes in thought.

Huh.

Maybe he’s overthinking. Probably. But doesn’t locking the door like that suggest some…implications? Then again, Peter could be looking at this in all the wrong ways. Like, okay, if he were being realistic? More than likely, you didn’t wanna risk someone walking in. Not while you got handsy with one of your teammates in your room. Totally reasonable, he thinks.

But then-

Leaning your back against the door, you steadily unzip your glittering suit. Pulling the tiny, snowflake zipper down just enough to expose the swell of – Oh, hellllloooooooooo snowy cleavage. Where in the world have you been all his life? Peter has to refrain from whistling.

Okay. You totally did that on purpose, didn’t you? That was completely intentional. And Peter’s definitely not reading too far into things. He’s most unequivocally not letting his attraction to you affect his perception of a simple gesture. Not at all.

He can’t control his lingering gaze. Peter’s droopy eyes follow the slow movement of your hand, his mouth falling agape in a heat-exhausted stupor. Somewhere around him, he can barely make out your voice. But it’s muffled. All noise. Akin to a teacher from a Peanuts cartoon. Bwah Bwah Bwah Bwah.

Peter blinks.

“Huh? Sorry…you say somethin’?” It’s a failed attempt at a recovery. Peter taps his temple, “Gotta couple screws loose in here right now. Y’know, heat’s kinda gettin’ to me.”

You arch a brow, gazing at Peter like you see right through his bullshit. And yeah, he’s gonna go ahead and bet you probably do.

“Uh huh?” You scoff, giggling, “I asked if you’d be more comfortable on the bed, doofus.”

Moving closer to your bed, you bend over to adjust the fuckload of plushies resting on the blankets. Wow. Check that out. It’s like a Toys R Us threw up. A colorful mess of too many plushies for Peter to count. There’s barely any space to lie down, even if he wanted to.

Doing a quick double take, he glances between you, and your occupied bed. Peter sways where he stands, light headed from heat exhaustion. His brows shoot up in unexpected surprise. He whistles through a suggestive grin.

“Waiiiit, seriously?” Peter huffs a charming laugh, “Wow. Didn’t peg you for the direct type, Screwball. Y’wanna take me out to dinner and a movie first?”

“Dinner and a movie? I dunno, Peter. You’re askin’ for a lot.” You giggle again, acting nonchalant. You make your way around the room to a record player on a corner shelf. Neatly organized vinyls are aligned meticulously next to it. As you poke through your collection, you continue, “But sure. Fuck it, right? Why not! What movie?”

Distracted, as he usually is, Peter glances curiously around your room. Framed photos, postcards, and letters adorn your walls. Pinned carefully in place. Some of the photos, he suspects, are of your family. Others, more than likely friends. There’s even a few group photos of the X-Men together, bringing a fond smile to his face.

Bwah bwah bwah bwah?

Wait. Shit. You’re talking again. And Peter totally missed whatever you said.

“Huh?” Peter darts his head in your direction, watching with half lidded eyes as you set up the record player.

“Dude.” You roll your eyes affectionately, chuckling, “I said, is it hot in here, by the way? Just wondering. Since I can’t really tell.”

“Oh-” Peter exaggerates a sigh, “It’s really bad, babe. Like, sooo bad. I’m definitely gonna die if you don’t come over here and put those icebox hands on me, like, right now. Seriously.” He snickers, falling limply backwards into your bed.

Several plushies bounce with the impact of his weight. Some tumble onto the floor. Others topple onto Peter himself, but he leaves them be. He clutches a Beatles Blue Meanie plush to his chest. Breathing in quick, muggy breaths. Peter finds he’s even more consumed by the record-breaking heat. It’s a miracle he hasn’t disintegrated into a pile of ash by now.

“Howard the Duck.” Peter adds, staring at the ceiling in cloudy thought. He twirls the Blue Meanie in his hands.

“Pffft…what?” You laugh, “What are you even-”

“That’s the movie I wanna see. When you take me out? I wanna watch Howard the Duck. Oh! And I want popcorn too. Can’t watch a movie without popcorn. But it’s gotta be one of the big ones. With extra butter. And some candy-”

“ When I take you out. C’mon, really? Dude, didn’t critics totally pan that movie? I swear, I saw that in the paper just recently! It’s such an awful movie, Peter!”

“Uh, yeah? And so what? That’s kinda what makes it the ultimate date move, babe. Check it out – we could have the most awesome time makin’ fun of it.” Peter throws his head back further into your bed, peering at you from upside down, “Ooooh! Did you hear about the duck boobs scene? No joke. I kid you not. It’s got duck titties.”

A mellow tune slowly encompasses the quiet, muggy space of your room. Peter instantly recognizes it from the first few beats alone. Obscured by Clouds. Pink Floyd. …Cool. Peter’s pretty fond of that album himself. It’s not necessarily his favorite, per se. But it’s awesome enough. And it’s perfectly fitting for the mood of sweltering, summertime vibes too, he thinks.

“I didn’t until now.” You sarcastically scoff. Meandering towards Peter on your bed, “Spoilers, dude.”

He brings his head up to look at you. Spreading himself out, Peter knocks more of your poor plushies to the floor. Carelessly, he drops the Blue Meanie plush. Letting him fall to his ultimate demise. Au revoir, his blueness.

“Right. My bad.” He snickers. After a beat, Peter adds, “I love this album, by the way. It’s a nice vibe.”

In your eyes, he must look a lot like a beached starfish. Sprawled out and helpless. Drying to death in the heat of the summertime sun. Peter has his long legs hanging loosely off the edge of your bed. Moving in between those spread legs, you carefully climb onto the bed. Your knee stops just short of his crotch. As you inch yourself further over his body, Peter’s eyes widen. He blinks slowly, feeling hot beads of sweat roll down his temples.

“I know you do.” You grin down at him with a warm gaze. Peter’s lungs threaten to shrink into nothingness.

“Y-You do? Huh…no shit?” He appears put off, raising a silver brow, “How’d you know?”

You shrug, keeping your grin, “Guess I pay more attention to you than you think, hmm?” Perched over Peter with a palm to the sheets, you brush the silver bangs out of his eyes, “You got any limits?”

Peter blinks again, dumbfounded.

“Lim-...uh, what now?”

“Limits, y’know. Like, where am I free to touch? Anything you’re not comfortable with?”

“Oh. Uh…you can…touch me anywhere? It’s whatever yer comfortable with. Yer the one doin’ me a favor here.” he gazes at you with an unsure, sleepy eyed look. Nervously nibbling his lip, tasting the salt of his sweat, “Do you-uh…do you do this kinda thing a lot? Fer…other people?”

“Nope.” You blink down at him with that genuine, sweet smile again. Shrugging, “Just you.”

A subtle aura of addictive cold radiates from your body like a light. Peter can feel the faintest hint of it as you move in close. It teases him, promising sweet relief from the merciless summer heat. With his lips parted, Peter stares longingly into your eyes. His smile reveals a glimpse of his front teeth, as he snickers in disbelief.

“Uh huh. Alright. See, now I know fer sure yer just messin’ with me.” He bashfully laughs.

“Not yet I’m not.” You throw him a coy wink. Innocently, you ask, “Where do you want me?”

Which could so easily be misconstrued. Dammit.

Yeah. So, this one’s definitely on him. Peter’s inexperienced, sexually charged instincts immediately jump somewhere totally depraved. He’s a little ashamed of that fact. But hey, who’s the one climbing over him on their bed? Who’s the one fluttering those pretty lashes? Giving him those flirtatious smiles. Come on. Really? No wonder he’s lost his mind in the gutter.

Where do you want me?

Peter’s dark eyes immediately dart to his crotch for less than a second. But it happens so fast, he doesn’t doubt you missed it.

“Uhhhhh…I dunno. I didn’t…I didn’t really think about it? But, you cou- HHHHHHhnnnnnnnaaaaaaa-”

Frigid cold invades the exposed skin of Peter’s neck, as you press your hand gently there. A tiny thumb brushes his adam’s apple. Shivering, Peter bunches his shoulders. Tingling chills surge across his body.

“That’s good. That’s g-great. Awesome. Totally awesome. Thanks. Thank you.” He chokes in a rush, instantly melting into your icy touch.

Relaxing his body in your bed, Peter’s head falls loosely back. He breathes a long sigh of relief, his mouth falling open in a dopey smile. His eyes flutter closed as he laughs. Steadily then, your hand travels lower. Grazing frosty fingertips over his chest. Your fingers soon find the zipper of his jumpsuit, and you tug it down a little further.

That heavy tension from earlier grows a thousand times more distracting. For whatever reason, the mellow melody of Pink Floyd’s ‘When You’re In’ only seems to heighten said tension. Almost like it’s setting a certain kinda…steamy mood. 

Did Peter wake up in some cheesy, VHS porno? He’s definitely living the plot of one.

Peter flutters his eyes open, met with the sight of you on your knees over him. Your gaze appearing heavy, focused intently on your task. You nibble your lip in thought, looking fine as hell while doing so. Pressing your small palm to his chest, you finally grace him with glorious cold again. Right over the sweaty abomination for a shirt he wore under his jumpsuit. He’s almost embarrassed that you’re even touching it.

Using your glacial gift, you manifest more coolness. Allowing it to spread all over Peter’s body. He sucks in a harsh breath, freeing his lungs from their heated asphyxiation.

There it is. Sweet, icy sanctuary, at long last.

“Ohhhhhhhh …” Peter groans, “Nice.”

His adam’s apple bobs in his throat, his veins straining under his skin. Digging your nails firmly into his chest, you manifest snowy trails of glittering frost. The biting cold nips at his skin over the fabric of his shirt. Like walking chest first into an arctic glacier.

“Is this helping you much at all?” You ask, barely above a whisper.

“You have nooooooooo idea, babe.” Peter breathes a grateful sigh, “This is, like, so amazing. Thanks. I owe ya one.”

“Nah. Don’t worry about it.”

Your freezing hand meets Peter’s sweaty forehead, pressing into his skin. Like you’re checking his temperature with the gentleness of a mother’s touch. Humming to the music, you card your cold fingers through his damp locks. Firmly massaging Peter’s scalp.

Peter lets his eyes drift shut again. His mouth falling open out of his control. Leaving his hair, you bring your attention back to his body. Watching him carefully for any sign to stop, you tug the wet, frost nipped fabric of his shirt. Bunching it up over his neck, exposing his broad chest.

He shoots an eye open, fixing you with a curious look. Feeling hot skin under your soft palms, you slide your hands over his raised pecs. Your fingers gliding in a touch as delicate as powdered snow. It sends sharp chills down his spine. A sensation he’s quickly finding extremely addictive and all too pleasant.

Instantaneously, something clicks in Peter’s brain.

A beat, and your touch goes from relieving, to downright pleasurable. Even sort of…arousing. Peter immediately reacts, arching his back in an abrupt jolt. He laughs his surprise through a broken moan, tossing his head back for the umpteenth time.

“O-Oh, fuck.” He chokes, loud enough to disturb whoever occupies the room next door.

Peter’s so righteously fucked now. Because he really shouldn’t be as turned on by this as he is. It’s just…he’s so boiling hot. Miserable as hell. And not only are you finally breaking him free of hellfire’s tyranny. But you’re also touching him sorta intimately. Peter’s really not immune to attention like this. Especially not from a stone fox he’s super attracted to.

His nipples harden under your frigid spell, perky against the tips of your fingers. Peter hisses, whimpering another moan without meaning to. Your only response is to giggle. Curiously, you tilt your head. Quickly taking notice of the way Peter’s noises have changed in pitch.

They’re more like moans of ecstasy now. Because, well, they sorta are. Whoops.

Lowering your hips, you suddenly move to rest on Peter’s lap. Just to give your knees some much needed rest. His hammering heart threatens to burst straight through his ribcage. Rising from the bed onto his elbows, Peter tries to protest.

“Wait! Wait, don’t sit- hoooohhhh.” A throaty groan slips off his tongue.

The full weight of your lower half drops onto his lap. Right over the stiff hard-on in his jumpsuit, doing little to hide itself. Your ass is so outrageously cold against his crotch and… oh, fuck. That’s so perfect. Peter groans again through a shuddering breath. Limply, he lowers himself onto his back. Hoping to conceal his shame, he brings his hands to his face.

Except, there’s no denying his obvious desire anymore.

“Auuuuugh.” Peter curses himself, “Shit. I am seriously so, so sorry-” Your name plays on his tongue in a desperate, apologetic tone, “I-I really…I dunno why I’m so-uh…I’m not usually-”

“Hey, don’t worry! It’s okay. Believe me, I don’t mind…”

Gosh. There you go again, doing that thing. The thing where you act so unexpectedly understanding in the face of an awkward situation. But even then, Peter can hear your smooth voice waver. Despite all you try to hide, he can tell. You’re just as nervous as he is, but ultimately better at masking it.

He doesn’t see it, but you gaze down at him rather suggestively. A fresh, newfound sense of lust lingers in your eyes. Raking your nails teasingly down his chest, you draw numbing streaks of snow, making him wince. The frost manifests seamlessly from your fingers, tickling Peter’s ever burning skin. It melts instantly, leaving beaded droplets.

“Does it really feel good when I touch you like this, pretty boy?” You tease, that waver in your voice barely leaking through again.

Wooooah. Okay. Okay. Hold up. Rewind. What?

Peter isn’t hearing you wrong this time. He couldn’t be. It’s impossible to misread the dirty tease in your tone. In the blink of an eye – rapid fire speed – the blood pooling in his cheeks vacates straight to his dick. Peter’s cock twitches, pulsating under his jumpsuit – under you – and shamefully unveiling just how horny he really is.

The high-speed boom boom boom of Peter’s heart skids to a deafening halt. His exhausted lungs finally collapse. Squeezing out his final remnants of life. If someone were to hook him up to an EKG, he surely would’ve flat-lined. Sayonara, suckers. This foolhardy speedster’s at the end of his road.

But…what’s this?! Peter’s still alive and breathing? Who could’ve predicted such a phenomenon??

He lowers his hands from his flushed face, peering over the tips of his fingers. His black coffee eyes blown exceptionally wide.

“Woah. Hold on now. What?” Peter snorts. He shakes himself free of total shock, frantically nodding, “Uh, yeah? It feels…really fuckin’ awesome, to tell you the truth.”

“Mhm?” You hum a sensual vibration, biting your lip, “Mind if I try something bold then?”

Peter arches a curious brow. You’re kind of a little minx, aren’t you?

“Literally? You can do whatever you want with me, babe. I’m all yours.” He heaves an exasperated laugh.

A smirk dawns your pretty lips, and you shimmy backwards over Peter’s lap. Until the bulging swell of his hardness lies before you, squirming under his jumpsuit. Teasing him, you drag your biting touch down to his crotch. Euphoric cold dances across his pelvis. You stop short of his hard-on, and Peter draws in a ragged breath.

“Awww…feelin’ a little stiff, sweetheart?” You coo in a sultry sound. Peter feels his blood pressure drop to a life-threatening degree, “Let me help you out.”

Testing the metaphorical, frozen waters; you bring your frigid palm over his bulge. You watch Peter for any sign to retract your hand, fixing him with an intense look. But to your surprise, his cock doesn’t soften under your frosty touch. Not like one would expect. Oh, no. The opposite happens, in fact.

“Mmmmhh…oh my god.” He moans, his front teeth clamping hard into his lip. Jolting in response to his own sensitivity, he rolls his hips into your small hand, “Please…”

You squeeze the thick length of him as well as you can over his jumpsuit, applying more pressure. Awkwardly stroking his dick with your wintry tipped fingers. The bleak touch you cast sends chills racing through Peter’s veins, and sharp pleasure rises in his groin.

“F-Fer the record, by the way, this is not how I expected this to go.” Peter shivers, breathlessly chuckling.

“Oh, no?” You mutter, climbing over Peter on your knees. Glacial breath ghosts his lips. You lean in close, giving his cock another firm squeeze, “Hope you’re not too disappointed.”

“Fuuuuuuck no, baby. Not a chance.” Peter groans his reply, lifting his hips. Yearning for more of your gratifying chill. Another wintry wave of cold seizes through his groin, and Peter’s eyes roll back, “Holy shit. That’s it.”

Peter finds himself a little conflicted. His brown hues can’t decide if they wanna gaze into your own, or stare longingly at your lips. In the past, Peter thought about those same lips more often than he’d admit. But to be so up close and personal with them like this…

“I’m not even gonna lie to you, Screwball. I really wanna kiss you right now.” Peter admits defeat. Even in your polar proximity, humiliation burns his cheeks with the force of hellfire.

Knitting your brows, you narrow your eyes. And for a painfully long instant, Peter thinks he’s finally fucked up. As if confessing his desire to kiss you was somehow a step too far over the line.

Is there even a line left between the two of you anymore? Or did you both trip over it the moment you gave him ‘fuck me’ eyes?

You lean in a touch closer, quietly chuckling. Cold puffs of air fan over his lips, a needle-thin space away.

“You’re so silly, y’know that? Why do you keep callin’ me Screwball?” You ask, placing a tantalizing kiss to the corner of his lips. Like the touch of a delicate snowflake, “You make it sound like you think I’m crazy.”

“Well, okay, first of all, you gotta be some kinda crazy. ‘Specially if yer screwin’ around with me.” Peter jokes. He’s beyond winded under the teasing brush of your soft lips, “S-Second of all, it’s an ice cream thing. You ever-uhm…stop by an ice cream truck before?”

Why’s he even doing this? Making casual conversation like it’s a date at the diner. Peter half expects you to pull away. Since this is the least sexiest thing he could be doing. Amazingly, you remain where you are. Trailing kisses across Peter’s cheek, down to his ear. Leaving feather-light sparkles of frost in your wake. Still, they melt within seconds.

“Yeah. Of course I have. So?” You mumble.

He tenses as goosebumps descend down his neck. The tight grip you have on his dick doesn’t let up. Any words Peter planned on saying seem completely lost on him now.

“Uhhhh…Screwball’s the little…it’s got the-uh…gumballs at the bottom. It’s, like, a cone-”

Righteous work, casanova.

“Right. And I’m Screwball because…?”

Damn you, little minx! You know why. The answer’s totally obvious. There’s no way you’re that dense. Nah. You’re just so set on teasing Peter, tempting him to nervously ramble. Like you find his embarrassment…humorous or whatever. Pfffbbtt …

“You messin’ with me? It’s ‘cuz it’s ice cream, yeah? No duh. And ice is, like, yer thing, babe. I dunno. It made more sense in my head.” Peter laughs in spite of himself, “Listen…can I please kiss you? Before I make even more of an ass outta myself?”

In this position, Peter can’t kiss you. Even though it’s all he can think about. You’re too busy mouthing at his neck, grazing his skin with your teeth. Fondling his cock in freezing strokes, making him whine under his breath.

Up until this very moment, Peter’s hands remained mostly still. He’d dig his fingernails into your blankets, as the pleasure of freezer burn simmered in his pelvis. But he held himself back from ever really touching you. Since this little interaction wasn’t supposed to end up like this to begin with.

But now? Well…shit.

You knead at his junk like you’re making biscuits, flicking your icy tongue across the skin of his neck. Eliciting another husky whine from deep in his throat. Peter’s pretty sure, judging by your forwardness; you wouldn’t mind so much if he touched you just a little, right? Like, you totally wouldn’t protest if he brought his large hand to the back of your head, would you?

He threads his fingers through your soft hair, tugging your head back gently. Pulling you from his neck, just so he can meet your wanton eyes again. There’s a single second of hesitation, as both of Peter’s hands claim your cheeks. That second seems to stretch for what feels like an hour, while Peter memorizes the features of your face. His racing, speedster heart leaps at the sight.

He swiftly pulls you down for a kiss. It’s clumsy as all get out. Initially, anyway. But if there’s one thing he can actually pride himself on? At the very least, he’s had a lot of experience with canoodling. Kissing you comes as naturally to Peter as running does. His skillful lips and tongue guide yours effortlessly. Coercing you into a heated makeout session. Against his own, your lips are frosty cold. Like drinking crisp water straight from a chilled glass.

Or…it’s more like he’s lapping his tongue across some kind of…slushy ice cream. Like…a Screwball cone, maybe?

No?

Fuck it. Whatever. The only difference is, you don’t taste anything like cherry. You taste like you. And Peter would argue that’s almost better. Almost. Cherry’s pretty hard to beat. It’s a tough competition.

As you fall victim to his bitchin’ makeout skills, Peter indulges himself. He touches you the way he’s dreamed since forever and a day. His hands glide thick fingers down your chilly body. Feeling every glittering facet of your suit under his fingertips. Meeting the curves of your hips, he squeezes them firmly.

“Mmmmm…this is awesome.” Peter breathes, “This is really fuckin’ awesome.” He hums into your lips, stifling a moan by kissing you again. You stroke his clothed cock a little faster, and he chokes, “O-Oh…yer so awesome. Fuck.”

“You’re really awesome yourself. But I’ve always thought that about you.” You titter, nuzzling his nose so tenderly, “The others on the team? Yeah. They’re alright. But you? Peter, you’re the coolest.” You admit with a bashful smile. After locking him in one more, passionate smooch, you pull away, “Sexy too.”

“W-Wait, really? Are you bein’ serious right now?” Peter asks, stupefied. He furrows his brows. Another beat, and he forces himself to smirk proudly, “I-I mean…well, yeah. Pssshh …of course. Why wouldn’t you think that? I’m the bomb, baby.”

Peter keeps his hands on your hips, feeling your ravishing curves. Stroking them with his thumbs. They fit so perfectly in his grasp. And Goddamn, Peter doesn’t ever wanna let go. Mark his words. Right here, right now. He’ll glue his hands to you forever if he has to.

Lowering your ass over his crotch, you keep your erotic gaze focused on his. Your intense eye contact never seems to break for even a moment. Pressing into the exposed, damp skin of his chest, you brace your freezing hands over Peter’s pecs. A filthy moan teases your lips, as you roll your gorgeous hips forward and back. Grinding into his needy bulge.

Oh.

This is happening now. Fuck yeah.

Peter squirms in place, tightening his hold on your hips. His nails tear at the tiny sequins of your jumpsuit, digging into the sparkling material. It’s such a needlessly skin tight thing, for fuck’s sake. Criminally skin tight, even. How did Xavier ever greenlight that? Peter can see the tempting outline of your pussy in it, deliciously rolling into his clothed cock. His mouth waters at the sight. Lifting his hips off the bed, he meets your slow thrusts.

“Ohhhhh. Oh, what the fuck-” He moans an octave louder.

A strangled sound catches in his throat, and you’re quick to shush him the moment it frees itself.

“Pietro, honey, you gotta be quiet, okay?”

Hushed moans pour from your parted lips as you speak his given name. Peter’s completely bushwhacked at the mention of it. Since no one ever – excluding his mom, in her more frustrated moods – uses that name. A tickling flutter erupts with a burst in his belly. He almost creams himself at the sound of that name in your voice.

“Come on. Be good for me. You can be good for me. Can’t you, baby?” You plead. Moving your hips in a painfully slow, steady rhythm.

“Fuuuuuuuck. Babe, please-” Peter begs, “Faster? Faster, please. Yer killin’ me."

Your sharp nails sink into his bare chest, manifesting more glassy shards of frost. Winter cold seizes Peter’s body entirely, infecting him with frostbite’s kiss. Peter knits his brows tightly, his dark eyes mesmerized with your every movement. The freezing solace permeating from your pussy proves a little too overwhelming. As sharp, pinpricks of cold rush through his veins; it all morphs into carnal heat.

His muscles quickly tighten, every inch of him tensing in an instant.

“Wait wait wait! Fuck!” Peter whimpers in desperation, a flurry of moans erupting from his throat. His rock hard cock twitches, pulsating under you as he cums. Leaking thick streams of his seed into his boxers and jumpsuit, “F-Fuck! I’m sorry, baby! Ohhhhh god! I’m so sorry.”

As far as Peter knows, you have no clue he’s a virgin. Until now, he was content with that. He hadn’t planned on announcing it anytime soon. In hindsight, it’s pretty fucking embarrassing how easily he comes undone. All from a little dry humping, no less.

Yeah. You’re bound to figure it out sooner or later. Yikes.

Sticky, white pearls of his cum seep through his jumpsuit, staining the material. Your erotic motions slow to a stop, once you notice the streaks sticking to your clothed cunt. Tilting your head, you raise a brow. A delicate blush swarms your neck and ears, as you stare down at Peter with genuine surprise. He tilts his head back shamefully, sighing.

“D-Did you just-” You hesitate to continue. Wintry fingertips trace over his bare chest, “Damn, Quickie, that was fast.”

“Yeah. Yeah, I know.” Peter sighs again, bringing his fingertips to the bridge of his nose, “Dammit.”

He squeezes his eyes shut tight, feeling blistering warmth rapidly return. Taunting him with the promise of death by suffocation all over again. Before he finally succumbs to it, you crawl over him. Knees braced on either side of his body.

“I’m…god, I’m really fuckin’ sorry about that.” Peter awkwardly stammers, “I-I just…fuck! Yer just so-”

You shush him, chuckling, “Don’t apologize, sweetheart. That was so, sooooooo hot. Really hot, if I’m being honest.”

By virtue of his blessed genes, Peter takes very little time to recover. And hell, you make it an impossible feat not to chub up all over again. Your arctic tongue intertwines with his hotter one, as you meet him in another sloppy kiss. Cold hands grasp his cheeks, quickly sliding through his hair. Dragging your nails across Peter’s scalp, you kiss him with more urgency.

Peter sneaks his hands to your juicy ass, warm palms feeling at your plush booty cheeks. He gives one of them a light, playful smack. Drawing out a squeak from you, Peter giggles into your mouthy kisses. He’s distracted enough, he almost doesn’t notice you tugging the zipper of his jumpsuit.

“C’mon, get this thing off already.” You pull the zipper down even further, murmuring through frantic kisses, “Before you die of heat stroke in my bed.”

With a hmph , Peter nods his head, “Hey, if it’s life ‘er death? Guess I’ve got no choice then, huh?” He replies, fabricating his confidence, “Just a sec.”

Peter sits up fully on your bed, his feet absentmindedly kicking a few plushies on the floor. You slide off the bed entirely. Stepping back to give Peter the space he needs. From your perspective, the removal of his sweaty jumpsuit takes less than a second. But from Peter’s own POV, it’s a thousand years before he finally pulls himself out of his clothes. Clumsily, he peels his sticky limbs free.

“Fuckin’ shit-” He curses, struggling to free one of his ankles once he’s done.

He hadn’t noticed it before, but a faint air of raw cold filters through the space of your room. With his body free of stifling clothing; Peter can finally embrace that coolness in full. It bites sharply at his skin, making him shudder. Peter inhales a slow, deep breath just to feel it all

“Oh, wow! It feels damn good in here, Screwball! Like, woahhh! I feel like I’ve been sweatin’ my balls off this whole time until now.” He says.

“That’s the most charming thing you’ve said all day.” You sarcastically chime. And he snorts.

Peter promptly rids himself of his sweat soaked shirt, aching to feel more frigid air on his skin. He tosses the drenched fabric to the floor. Left in his cum stained boxers, Peter shifts uncomfortably on your bed. Self consciously, he gazes at you with a doe eyed look. He twiddles his thumbs in his lap.

“Sooooooo…uh…a-are you gonna take off yer-uhm…” Peter gives you a once over, gesturing to your jumpsuit.

He lets his long, sturdy legs hang off the side of your bed. Watching as you take slow steps backwards, pulling that tiny, snowflake zipper of yours. Dragging it all the way down. A mischievous spark twinkles in your eye, and Peter’s heart skips a thousand beats. Even though you’re trying your best to be sexy, you’re still just as clumsy as he was.

Which somehow, ultimately makes you even sexier to him.

You peel your limbs out of your glittering jumpsuit. Revealing the underwear beneath, fitting your body in all the right ways. Peter’s adam’s apple bobs, his eyes flitting up and down your curvaceous form. Drinking in the image of you almost completely bare.

“Holy shit.” Peter mumbles, leaning back and bracing his hands on your bed.

You’re giggling again. Blessing his ears with a precious sound he’s grown to adore over the last…however long it’s been since you invited him in. Peter can’t really remember. It’s impossible to hold any sense of rational thought while watching you like this. Especially when you pull off everything except your little, lace panties. Freeing your-

Whoaaaaaaa, mama.

There they are. In all their beautiful, freezing glory. Your icy cold knockers bounce freely. And with a flawlessly executed jiggle, too. If Peter had a sign, he'd rate them a perfect ten.

The skin of your breasts is heavenly soft, dusted in a faint motif of frosty snowflakes. Nipples perky.

Peter's wondered about those suckers for ages. And you most definitely don't disappoint. He whistles, his eyes flying open. Black pupils dilating like drops of heavy ink. No matter how hard he tries, he can't tear his gaze away from those bouncy beauties.

"Damn, Screwball…" Peter grins, shaking his head, "Yer a smokeshow, babe."

Subconsciously, he palms his hardening dick over his boxer briefs. Momentarily grimacing at the texture of drying cum in the fabric. His focused gaze lingers a little too long on your totally righteous titties. You're talking again. Speaking words in that sweet voice, though they go unheard.

Bwah bwah bwah bwah!

You must have given up on trying. He barely sees you coming, as you collide your lips with his again. Shocking him out of his boob-induced daze. The moment you're in close enough range, he reaches out to touch you. Burning hot palms fondle your breasts, fingers toying with your nipples. Furrowing your brows, you squeal into his mouth.

"Your hands-" You whine, "Your hands are so hot. It's like you're on fire." And Peter chuckles a heated breath in response.

"See? And that's why we're here. Gotta beat the heat somehow, eh?" He says, his hands playing with your frosty titties. Silken and cold on his skin.

Sinking to the floor, you lower yourself onto your knees. Peter knows without an ounce of doubt; your poor knees have to be aching like hell right about now. Yet, you persist. He scoots a little further at the edge of your bed, allowing you to ease yourself between his spread legs. With one less layer of clothing in the way of your touch, the coolness feels even more crisp and harsh over his cock.

“God, you’re so pretty…” He mumbles.

Peter stares down at you in awe, curling his fingers into the sheets. Biting your lip with an impish grin, you ease his boxers off completely. As your glimmering eyes meet the full length of his cock, you're instantly enamored. His dick, colored a scarlet hue and pulsing with thick veins, bounces over a silver bush of hair.

You haven't even touched him directly yet. But Peter can already feel that freezing aura easing in close. Swiping your tongue across your plush lips, you gaze at Peter's dick like your hunger hasn't been satiated in weeks.

No words are spoken between you both. As one of your hands treads carefully. Barely touching his thickness with your fingers. You stroke him in slow, but firm motions at first. Peter arches his back in shock, the cold like electricity rushing through his veins. Arctic temperatures rapidly pump his body full of adrenaline.

Maybe that’s why he’s so into this. Being a speedster, he’s always been addicted to the rush of exhilaration.

“Ohhh my god, oh my god, oh my god.” Peter moans.

Your strokes slide up to the swollen, purple-ish head of his cock. Squeezing tightly. But the tip is too outrageously sensitive. A simple, icy cold tug of it gets Peter practically seizing. White light flashes through his vision. And just like that, he’s going totally mental. He jumps with an abrupt jerk, his body vibrating.

Peter whimpers in quick gasps, “Ah! N-Not the tip, baby! Not the tip!”

You make a quick retreat, sliding your hand down to the thick base of his length. Pumping his vascular cock in a frosty fist. He can feel his blood vessels constricting with every motion. Cold creeps under his skin, bringing with it a burning sensation. Peter’s groin tightens, and his moans turn to pleading whimpers.

With a cheshire grin, you flutter your lashes over a naughty gaze. Leaning forward, you tease the smooth length of his cock with your lips. Kitten licking a vein with the tip of your tongue.

“W-Wait! Hold on, Screwball! Fuck-” One of Peter’s hands finds your head, clutching strands of your hair between his fingers, “It’s too much, baby! I can’t-”

A long, chilling swipe of your tongue brings momentary crystals of ice. Igniting the burn along his skin. Peter never thought himself a masochist. But this freaky, frosty jerk-off session has somehow completely rewired his brain chemistry. Pain never felt so good.

In all your wickedness, little minx, you refuse to heed Peter’s warning. Your mouth engulfs the scorching heat of his cock. Surrounding him in a crisp, cold shroud. Bringing upon him a vengeance of the bleakest kind. Like a frostbitten hug, sending shockwaves of pleasure fluttering through his bones. Peter’s breathing quickens.

“Ah! FUCK! Gonna fuckin-...I’m fuckin’ cumming, baby! Sorry, sorry, sorr-” He falters over broken whines.

Acting on impulse like the total spaz he is, Peter panics. Tugging your head from his cock so he doesn’t bust a load in your mouth. He lags a few seconds behind. Late again, as per usual.

Peter accidentally showers your precious lips in his cum. Painting your face in hot, messy strands of it. He writhes in place, sluggishly rocking his hips forward. The spurting tip of his dick kisses your lips, the length bouncing with every eruption of thick, sticky heat.

For a second time in a row, he’s blown his load prematurely. Impressive, in a really lame way. But, hey, even if Peter feels a little bad for glossing you in his cum. He’s gotta admit, you look drop dead gorgeous like this.

Peter quickly snaps out of his post-nut daze, his eyes dancing across your decorated face.

Ah. Actually, now that he’s thinking somewhat clearly again…it’s a little gross. He fumbles over an onslaught of apologies. Reaching to the floor for his discarded shirt without thinking, he wipes your face clean of his nut.

Wait. Fuck. Why’d he use his shirt? Shit. Get it together, Quickie!

As always, you’re just as chill about this as you have been everything else, “That wasn’t so bad. But thanks. Sorry about your shirt, though.” You giggle. But all Peter does is shamefully laugh in response.

You’re perceptive enough to catch onto his sudden hesitance. He tenses, avoiding your pretty eyes. Bouncing a nervous leg at the speed of a rabbit’s kicks. Twice now, you’ve seen him finish way too early. And though he knows in his heart you wouldn’t judge him for his lack of experience; a small part of him fears the worst.

He really likes you, actually. It’d hurt like hell if you thought less of him over something so trivial.

“You okay there, sweetheart?” You ask. Playful, but still concerned.

Peter’s heart aches in the presence of your gentle nature. Swallowing his pride, he opts to confess. And if you think him pathetic for being a thirty year old virgin? Fuck it. He’s betting Hank’s mini fridge is still vacant.

You’re resting on your knees in between his legs, tracing feather-light, frosty patterns into his thigh. Peter’s skin swiftly erupts in goosebumps again, his body never accustomed to your arctic touch. Taking a deep breath, he drops his head forward.

“I…gotta be honest with ya about somethin’. I’ts-...” Peter cuts himself off with a sigh, burying his face in his hands, “I’m kind of…a virgin. Y’know, if you couldn’t already tell. I just…didn’t wanna say anything.”

“Pfffttt …” You puff in disbelief, like you’re assuming he’s messing with you. But Peter blinks, staring down into your eyes with a look that tells you he’s all business, “You’re serious? But, Peter, no offense? I’m really surprised! You always seemed like such a player. Like, you flirt with literally everyone.”

Peter stares at you in silence. He shakes his head, brows furrowed. A timid grin curling into his lips.

“I guess? I talk a big game, yeah. And I’ve made out with a lotta girls. Screwed around a few times. But…nah. I’ve never-uh…actually, really screwed. I dunno if the timing was never right or what, but…” He shrugs, feigning nonchalance. Despite fighting an internal war of crippling shame.

“Well, we’ll just have to remedy this then, won’t we?” Your hand rises to his chin, thumb tenderly stroking rough, silver stubble.

His eyes fly open, cheeks swarming a bright red. A beat, and Peter’s dick already twitches to life again at the prospect of your offer. However, despite his body’s insatiable desire, he waves his hands and shakes his head.

“N-No! No, babe! Listen, you don’t have to. I really wasn’t implyin’ anything when I said…uh…it’s just…I-I’ve never told anyone. That's all!”

“It’s fine! I said I would take care of you, didn’t I?”

He swallows, caught off guard by your choice of words. ‘Take care of you.’ His brows raise high, and the cartoonishly fast pounding of his heart returns. Fluttering in his chest, hiking up to sonic speed. Peter opens his mouth to protest, to remind you that you shouldn’t feel pressured into stealing his v-card.

But you’re already pushing yourself off the floor, climbing over Peter on your bed. With your icy hand to his chest, you guide him down onto his back. He gazes up at you with an uncertain, but lustful look in his dark eyes. In spite of the significantly cooler temperature of your room; Peter’s entire body breaks out in a humid sweat.

Okay. Calm down, man. Take a chill pill. Relax.

“You got any condoms?” You ask, blunt and up front.

So. This is really happening, huh? Yeah. Peter’s gonna lose his v-card to one of his teammates. No biggie. Screwing his fellow X-Man Screwball? Totally not a big deal.

Peter swallows dryly again, an awkward chuckle vibrating over his tongue.

“Not on me, no. I don’t really-uhhh…carry those around.” He makes a hasty move to sit up, “But I can run to the store really quick and grab some. Y’wanna snack ‘er a drink while I’m at it? I could really go fer somethin’ sweet like-”

Your frosty lips capture his in yet another, intimate kiss. For the sake of Peter’s inexperience, you take your time. Guiding Peter down onto his back once more. Working with tender consideration. When your tongue so lovingly swirls with his, he scowls. Tasting the lingering bitterness of his nut. He curls his lip.

“Euuuugh! Augh! Blegh! Is that really what I taste like? Eck! I’m so sorry, Screwball. I’ll try to spare ya next time. Eugh. That’s disgusting!” He rambles, overcompensating for his uneasy nerves again.

“Next time?” You raise your brows. Supple, wet lips smirking.

“Y-Yeah? Yeah…like… pfftt …if you want…” Peter shrugs, casual, blinking puppy dog eyes, “I dunno about you, but I’m havin’ a killer time fuckin’ around like this.” He adds, fingers toying with the hem of your panties.

Reaching for his cock, you take his length into your icy cold grip. Peter jolts again, cursing under his breath.

“I need to confess something too.” You say, bashful. Peter watches your facade of confidence diminish for a moment, “Would you still wanna do this if I told you I’m just as cold on the inside?”

“Woah…yeah. Listen, that is the opposite of a problem for me.” Peter reassures you, looking between your bodies, “Call me crazy? I’m really diggin’ the whole cold thing.”

He watches your fingers hook through the hem of your panties, sliding them down your smooth legs. It’s a bit awkward for you to get them off in this position. But eventually, you’re entirely exposed.

No more messing around. This is the real deal.

Wiggling your ass, you position your wintry cunt over his cock’s swollen head. Peter’s fingers tremble as they grab your ass for purchase. Holding you steady, he keeps his lidded gaze on your pussy. Entranced in the sight of your puffy lips lowering over his tip. Barely nudging it in, giving just a little tease of what’s to come. He shivers, muscles locking, shockwaves of glacial cold racing through his veins already.

“Ohhhhhhhh …wow…” He whines, teeth clamping his lip, “Please, ya gotta gimme more than that, baby.”

“Pietro, be patient.” You chastise him, fluttering your eyes closed.

Sighs and erotic moans of euphoria rise from the both of you in unison, just as his leaking tip dives through your cushiony walls. Peter shudders again, craning his neck back. Moaning a broken, strangled sound from deep in his chest. The tight, freezing sting of your cunt causes him to tense up. Peter digs his nails into the flesh of your ass, his lips parting for breath.

“Mmmmmfffuuck. You good? You okay?” You ask, little mewls bubbling in your throat.

Through frantic, wordless intakes of breath, Peter nods.

He’s never felt anything like this in all his thirty years of life. It’s a completely new sensation. The plushiest of pins and needles constricting tightly around his cock. Or the world’s softest pillow, pulled straight out of the freezer. Sex with you is the kind he could so easily become addicted to. If it was possible to stay connected this intimately forever, he’d do so in a heartbeat. No questions asked. Totally worth the searing pain of frostbite.

You take a few moments to adjust to the length and girth of him. It feels like centuries before you’re moving, but the wait is more than worth it. Your cunt weeps around his cock, swallowing him up completely in a frosty slickness. Peter chokes, his breath hitching. The pace you set is frustratingly slow, bouncing into his pelvis in steady slams of bush on silver bush.

“Fuck yeah. Just like that. More? C’mon gimme more, baby, please. Oh, please!” He whines, submissive and needy.

Sitting up a little straighter, you balance your cool hands on his chest. Peter’s skin is all raw and red, frostbitten from your previous teasing. It’s a little painful now, actually. Leaving a tingly burn. But the stinging pain registers as pleasure in Peter’s speedy brain.

Your pussy molds perfectly with the thick shape of him. Roughly shocking you with a surge of dull pain, Peter’s cock knocks straight into your squishy cervix. His expression contorts in overstimulation, his mouth falling open. He wets his lips with his tongue.

“That’s it. Fuckin’ ride me. Mmmmm yeah~” Peter moans, “Yer so fuckin’ cold. Shit-” His moans steadily trail off into whimpers.

“Should I stop? Is it too much?” You halt your movements for a second too long.

“Don’t you ever fuckin’ stop.” He groans, animalistic and ragged, “Ohhhh~ Please don’t stop.”

As you thrust your beautiful body into his lap, Peter follows your lead. Driving his hips against your ass with each bounce of contact. Overshadowing that sultry melody of Pink Floyd with the lewd smacking of skin on skin. Your cunt hugs his cock in a grip tight enough to induce more freezer burn. But it’s such an alluring feeling, he bites his lip almost hard enough to draw blood.

Peter’s brown-eyed gaze rakes down your body. Intoxicated with the way your titties bounce and your pussy sucks the ever-speeding soul out of him. He has to mentally-prep himself so he doesn’t cum too soon again. But the piercing cold compressing his dick sends thrilling pulses through his limbs. Erotic pleasure burns deep in his gut.

“Pietro!” You cry. Riding his dick and mewling soft kitten noises, you circle your little clit with your fingers, “Want me to cum on your cock, pretty boy? Wanna feel this tight, little pussy cum for you?” 

Ohhhhh. You can’t do that to him. Dirty, little minx. He’s never heard such filthy words like that come out of your mouth. And the way you sound, how you look touching yourself on his cock; It all triggers a carnal instinct in the recesses of his mind.

Peter lifts his hips in a display of super strength, abusing your cervix repeatedly with his cock. Pounding your pussy so fast and hard. With a force deep and rough enough to make you see stars. A filthy squelch of a sound echoes from inside you.

“Oh my god-” Peter’s face contorts in needy desperation, brows creasing, “Please? Wanna feel you cum, baby. Need you to cum on my dick so bad.”

Sitting up on his elbows with his mouth hanging lazily open, Peter brings his fingers to his drooling tongue. His eyes are half lidded and cloudy, almost rolling back into his skull. He reaches out, the wet pads of his fingers meeting your cute bud. He buzzes his digits in a scorching vibration, knowing how sensitive you are to his heat. Easily coaxing you towards release.

“HOH! FUCK-” Peter’s eyes flutter in shock, “ Ohmyfuckingod that’s really fuckin’ tight. ”

His body tenses hard as stone. Feeling you clench around him while he fucks you so deep he thinks he’s reached your stomach. Within a few, measly seconds of teasing vibrations on your clit; you’re cumming. Coating his cock in a wave of crisp slickness. You tremble uncontrollably, tilting your head back and crying like a siren of the arctic seas. Singing a mantra of the name Pietro.

Peter grips your hips hard with both hands, sinking his blunt nails into your skin. Animalistic instinct overflows his mind as soon as he’s reached his own peak. Ecstasy tumbles over Peter in an overwhelming crash, much like an avalanche. And just as he’s pumping you impossibly full of hot, thick ropes of cum; something happens.

His release burns inside you, pooling in a milky heat. A stark contrast to the freezing temperature constantly flowing through your body. Your nails scratch red lines into his chest, manifesting glass crystals of frost. They burn like hell, and Peter hisses. One, final slap of your ass against his lap, and –

A ripple of explosive, winter cold rushes from your body in a flash. The bombastic wave coats your entire room in powdery snow and sheets of ice. Turning the small space into a glorified freezer. It even hits the record player, slowing the final tune of Obscured by Clouds to a creeping stop. Piercing cold fires through Peter’s lungs, and he chokes on it.

…D…Did that really just happen??

Glancing around frantically, he pushes himself up on your bed.

A soft, tingling blanket of snow drapes his body. Peter sputters, quickly brushing as much of it off as he can. You’re still sitting over his lap, his softening dick tucked safely between your pussy’s plush walls. With every puff of warm air from his lungs, Peter can see his breath fanning like smoke through the air.

“Woooahhhhh, babe…” He nudges you on the shoulder to get your attention, his expression wide eyed and bewildered, “Are you seein’ this shit?”

Recovering from your numbing state of euphoria, you lazily scan your room. You gasp, though it sounds more like a really cute squeak; covering your mouth with a hand.

“Ah! What the hell did I do!? I’m sorry! Oh my god, Peter, I’m so sorry!” You say, dropping your face into Peter’s frost-bitten chest.

He hisses as you lean into his sensitive, scarred skin. And before you can spout off another flurry of sweet apologies – a noise catches the attention of you both. Outside, the two of you hear the unmistakable sound of children’s laughter. Joyful cries, followed by playful giggles and screams. You raise your head, meeting Peter’s doe eyes with a questioning look.

Narrowing his eyes, he pats your thigh. Signaling you to hop off his lap.

Clumsily, Peter zips around the room in a blur, searching for something to cover himself up with. But his clothes are all caked in snow. And not to mention a little something else. Peter has to resort to a blanket stuffed underneath all the others on your bed. Untouched by your surprise blizzard. He cloaks himself in the blanket, appearing at your door in a fwip.

Discreetly, he pulls the door open.

Or, at least, he makes an attempt. It’s completely frozen in place, sealed with ice around the lock and hinges.. Why is he even surprised at this point? Peter tugs the handle once or twice with barely any strength. And when that doesn’t work, he jerks it open with a harsh flex of his muscles. He pokes his fluffy, silverette head halfway out the door. Looking up and down the hallways.

Only to find…

Your orgasmic snowstorm reached places far beyond the confined space of your room. Looks like Christmas came early this year. The hallways of Xavier’s mansion are all drenched in frosty spreads of snow. It’s not nearly as much as what’s accumulated in your room. But it’s enough to stir up the students and teachers. Many of the kids run around excitedly. Bouncing, cheering, celebrating.

And who can blame them?

To those unseen forces of the universe out there: thanks for blessing us all with the power of Screwball's ecstasy.

Out of nowhere, the X-Men’s laser eyed leader makes his appearance. Scott comes skidding to a halt outside your door just at that moment. He balances himself with a hand to your door, a genial smile on his face. A fuzzy fust of red tickles the apples of his cheeks and the tip of his nose.

Across the hall, Logan leans casually against a wall. Puffing a cigar, wearing a thin undershirt that compliments his jacked form a little too well. He stuffs his hands in the pockets of his fitted jeans.

For a moment, Scott doesn’t seem to register why Peter’s even in your room.

But in this life, one speedster can only be so lucky.

“Wh-...Peter? Hey-uh…where’s-” Scott mentions your name, and continues, “I wanted to give ‘em my thanks for doing this.” He gestures over his shoulder to the mess of snow covering the walls and floors, “Some of the kids were getting really sick from the weather. And I know Xavier's gonna be pissed, but-...” His voice slowly trails off.

Scott’s smile falls for a beat. But Peter finds it hard to read his emotions without seeing his eyes clearly. Those sunglasses must do him loads of favors on a daily basis. If he tries, he can gauge what’s going through Scott’s head based on the look of surprise that crosses his face. Followed by a sly, knowing grin.

Summers is an intelligent guy. It doesn’t take long for him to put two and two together.

Especially with the way Peter stands in your doorway. He’s draped in a blanket that clearly isn’t his, shoulders bare underneath. The surface of his skin burns cherry red in some places. His hair is a tousled, fuzzy mess, and his cheeks are flushed bright pink.

Peter awkwardly swallows, avoiding the vibrant gaze of Scott’s red-tinted sunglasses. He directs his attention over his shoulder instead, making accidental eye contact with Logan. Wolvie arches a thick, quizzical brow, his eyes glancing over Peter’s blanketed form.

He really hadn’t meant for anyone to find out about this. But it looks like the cat’s out of the bag.

“You kids better be using protection.” Scott jokes, patronizing.

Which is funny, coming from him. Peter’s got ten years on him at the least.

“Uhhhh, yeah. I’ll totally tell ‘em you said thanks. We cool? Bitchin’. Later, Summers.” Peter rushes through his words ultra fast, before slamming the door shut behind him.

That’ll be a rough one to explain later. But hopefully no one’ll be nosy enough to pry. Besides, Peter doesn’t wanna think about it right now. Since, y’know, he kinda just got laid for the first time. Which is really fucking awesome, now that he can stop and really digest that it happened. And with someone he’s been crushing on too.

Maybe he’s luckier than he thought.

Peter presses his back against your icy door, letting the thick blanket covering his body fall to the floor. Leaving him butt ass naked in your freezer of a room. He rakes his fingers through his hair, cheesing a goofy smile to himself.

“What’s goin’ on? Were you talkin’ to someone?” You ask, emerging from your bathroom and brushing snow off a towel.

“Oh- pfffttt …just Summers. Yeah. He-uh…wanted to tell you thanks. ‘Cuz you kinda went all blizzard on this whole place and now it’s, like-” Peter makes a wide gesture with his hands, mimicking the sound of an avalanche falling. Or, that’s what he tries to do, anyway. He’s never been the best at charades.

“HUH!? What are you-” You rush to your door. Those pretty titties of yours bounce with every step. And Peter ogles them shamelessly. Poking your head through the door, he overhears the sound of your gasp. Followed by the shyest little, “Heyyyyyy, Logan.”

Before you’re closing the door again, marching to your bathroom with your head cast down in shame. 

“Xavier’s gonna kill me, dude! I can’t believe this!” You whisper-shout.

Your bashfulness and frustration are so cute, Peter has to refrain from snickering. And as you reach the doorway, you stop yourself. He catches the motion of your eyes checking him out, before your gazes meet again. Peter smirks.

“Uhm…how was your first time, by the way?” You ask in a quiet, uncertain tone, “Was it…okay?”

Oh, you cannot even be serious right now.

Peter gives you a weird look. Staring at you like you’re some strange, newly discovered entity from a far off universe. Really, you must be, if you’re gonna question a good time like that.

“Okay? Okay?? ” Peter appears before you in less than a blink’s time.

He wraps his strong arm around your waist, pulling you close to his body. Grinning confidently, he darts down to kiss your frosty lips.

“Screwball, baby, that was a total rush. Are you crazy? It’s not every day I make somebody cum so hard they kickstart an early winter, y’know. Not bad fer my first time, if I do say so myself.” He waggles his brows.

I’m really glad I could help you out…” You mutter, smiling so sweet.

Your fingers trace the burns littering Peter’s chest with a feather-light touch. Even the faintest brush makes him wince in pain. But he’s not ashamed to admit it’s totally worth it. What’s a little freezer burn and frostbite between friends, huh?

Or, between…whatever the two of you are now.

“Oh, you did wayyyy more than help me out.” Peter winks, kissing you once more, “You rocked my world babe. Don’t sweat it, ‘kay? I had a great time.”

You saunter off to your bathroom then. And Peter reaches out to playfully smack your ass as you walk away. He admires your gorgeous figure in all its naked glory. His eyes following the jiggle of your booty cheeks.

“Yer still takin’ me on that date, right? Dinner and a movie?” He asks, startling you with his sudden appearance in the bathroom. Peter presses himself into your back, standing tall in comparison to your height.

“Can we hold off? Do you think you can wait until the city isn’t on fire?” You meet his dark eyes in the mirror over the sink, “And it can’t be Howard the Duck.”

“No. It’s most definitely gotta be Howard the Duck.” Peter brings his warm hands to your shoulders, thumbs gliding along your soft skin. He leans down to pepper your sex hair in kisses, “I won’t accept nothin’ else, got it?

“Mmmhm. Shouldn’t I be the judge of that, Peter? Since, like, you keep implying I’m the one paying.”

He scoffs, slowly gliding his large hands over the irresistible curves of your body. He gives a mischievous grin through the mirror, his look oozing speedster charm.

“Who said anything about paying?”

[elizabethemerald]

Servitor of a Death God

AO3

Kara Zor-El crashed into the street, shattering the concrete under her. She pushed herself shakily up for a moment before she collapsed again. She could feel every broken rib as a separate screaming pain. Blood bubbled and foamed at her lips as she forced her eyes to open. Kon slammed down only a few feet from her, a pained groan his only sound. 

Doomsday had once again come to Metropolis. 

Kal was fighting him as well as he was able and the rest of the available Justice League was doing everything they could to keep this from becoming a slaughter. However there was only so much any of them could do to even hold Doomsday back, much less stop the monstrosity. It was now even more dangerous and smart enough to overcome any foe. 

Kara could feel the tremors from the blows of Kal and Doomsday as she once again tried to lift off and rejoin the fight. Wonder Woman had been thrown through several buildings. The Lanterns were all but broken. Aquaman was crushed under Doomsday’s foot with so much force that it was only Kara’s super hearing that told her he was still alive at all. 

Kon forced himself back to his feet and used his telekinesis to throw a piece of rubble before he fell to his knees again. Kara pushed off from the ground and landed behind the behemoth landing several blows to hopefully give Kal a chance to regroup and attack with new energy. 

Doomsday smacked her down and stomped her into the pavement. Oh blessed Rao that hurt. Kara could hardly hear past the ringing in her ears. She was only distantly aware of Lois holding Jon back and keeping him from joining the fight. If he did then the entirety of the surviving members of the Noble House of El would be fighting to stop this creature. And if they fail, the entirety of the House of El would die in the fight. 

Several super powered punches knocked Doomsday back away from her as Kal tried to rally. He was bleeding, Kryptonian blood flowing, a rare sight. She could hear his heart racing and he kept rising to face the final gift and curse of Krypton. 

She pulled herself out of the hole Doomsday had driven her into with difficulty in time to see Kal backhanded down the street. He skidded like a stone skipped across a lake. Kara roared in fury, her eyes blazing red as her heat vision blasted out catching Doomsday in the back and almost driving him to his knees. She held the beam, trying to force him down, but its strength and durability was greater than her stamina and it pushed through her heat vision to knock her to the ground. 

Kara gasped in pain, then almost immediately choked as it slammed her into the ground several more times. Each blow brought a new wave of pain as her bones, normally strong as steel, shattered like toothpicks. Her invulnerable skin was torn to shreds under the claws and bone spurs of Doomsday. After one final all mighty blow, Doomsday picked her up and flung her from the battle. 

She crashed to the ground, leaving a furrow carved into the ground like a meteor. Blood choked her as she tried to catch her breath. Her hands shook and she couldn’t feel her legs at all. She forced one eye open, her other swollen completely shut, if it even still worked. 

It took several attempts for her to actually understand what was surrounding her. Tombstones. Doomsday had thrown her directly into a human graveyard. If she had any breath in her chest she would have laughed at the irony, because this would surely be where she died. 

Kara couldn’t help thinking back about her childhood as blood poured slowly from her lips and her many, many wounds. She remembered the lessons she had about the history of the Noble House of El. They were once priests to one of Krypton’s gods. Dan-El, the dark god of death, the opposite of Rao’s light. As the people of Krypton developed scientifically and dedicated themselves to isolation, their gods fell to the wayside. The people lost their connection to death and to Dan-El as the years progressed. 

Her father had mourned that so much of their culture was lost, so many of the messages and means of worship of the different gods vanished, and now with Krypton gone, and the last Kryptonians fighting to death in the city streets there seemed to be no way for the scriptures of worship to Dan-El to see the light again. 

She turned herself over with difficulty, a choked scream gurling out of her at the unspeakable pain. She pulled herself to the closest headstone, her vision fading. One of the last scriptures of Dan-El that had remained was one promising that he would return to save the House of El, if they only would call on him. 

“Dan… El…” Blood bubbled and foamed at her lips as she whispered to the headstone. “Please… please…” 

Her vision faded almost completely, only a tiny pinprick remaining as her breath stuttered to a close. Over the ringing in her ears she could hear the beating of her heart slowing, and stilling… and stopping. 

“Please…” 

A bright radioactive green flashed before her eyes, as the last daughter of Krypton faded from her adoptive planet. 

.

The sky over Metropolis split as a brilliant green lightning bolt flashed across the sky. Those who were sheltering away from the battle between Titans taking place in the streets shuddered in fear, terrified of what new threat could be appearing. Superman and Doomsday stilled in their calamitous fight as the lightning arced from the outskirts of the city to crash at their feet, driving them apart. 

Clark fell to his knees as a being stepped out from the column of light that remained frozen there in the air. Even the pebbles and shattered glass thrown up by their fight moved as if in slow motion. The figure, back lit by the green lightning, was tall with fine white hair that floated as if he was in space. A cloak of stars and a crown of green fire graced the shoulders and head of the figure. Clark’s jaw dropped as he saw the Kryptonian God of Death, Dan-El, before him. He perfectly matched the historical records from the Fortress of Solitude. 

Dan-El turned to him and Clark found himself frozen. He wanted to fight, to run, it couldn’t be his time to die yet. He had to defeat Doomsday, he had to survive, his family was counting on him. 

“You are fortunate, son of El, that someone remembered the ancient prayers.” Dan-El spoke, his voice seeming to pierce directly into Clark’s brain. “It is not yet your time, you have many more lives to save.” Dan-El paused and glanced back at the column of light behind him, then gave Clark a kind look. “You have honored your ancestors, Son of El, your family is proud of what you’ve accomplished, and what you have yet to do.” 

Then he turned and Clark felt like the entire weight of the sky had fallen from his shoulders. Tears sprang to his eyes at his relief even before he processed Dan-El’s words and the tears became a torrent. Then the God of Death turned to Doomsday and offered it a hand. 

“Poor creature of destruction, Death was never the relief it should have been for you, only a new torture at the hand of your creator. Come to me, and come to your rest. Let Death finally embrace and hold you.” 

Doomsday hesitated, its biologically prerogative screaming that it must always survive, no matter what, but after thousands upon thousands of painful deaths, what little of its brain was not dedicated to destruction desperately longed for peace. Doomsday reached out to Dan-El and the two turned and stepped into the burning light, until both disappeared in an instant. 

Clark blinked the light from his eyes and looked around. The column of light had vanished and with it Doomsday and Dan-El. The fight was over. Metropolis stood in silence, stunned that Death had come to the city. 

.

In the months following the fight with Doomsday, Metropolis recovered as it did after every fight, battle or invasion that happened in the city. The citizens held their breath in the hope that Doomsday was truly gone and would not return again to devastated their home. Each day that went by without his shadow darkening the horizon and no return of the flash of green lightning that had taken him away let the people breathe a little easier. 

Superman healed from his injuries and was once again seen patrolling the skies over Metropolis and the rest of the world alongside his two sons. The world and the Justice League returned to their regular everyday levels of chaos and world ending threats, hopeful once again that the day would be saved by a hero in a crimson cape. 

However there was one crimson cape that had not returned to the skies. Kara Zor-El, Supergirl never again took to the air over Metropolis after her confrontation with Doomsday. While she still lived, her time as a hero was over. 

Her recovery took longer than Clark’s, her injuries were far too severe. Sometimes she could stand strong and tall just like any of the other Kryptonians. However, many times, her hands shook too much, and her legs couldn’t bear her own weight. The best scientists and engineers of Earth combined the best of human and Kryptonian engineering to create a wheel chair for her, yet still she did wish to return to combat. 

Instead of facing down threats as a caped hero, she worked on creating a temple to the Kryptonian god of death, Dan-El. The temple had information and sacred rites of the almost forgotten deity, as well as the history of Krypton. Unlike the other museums and history books, the temple had the true and accurate history of those people. Their most arrogant and humble moments are all on display, along with all the average, everyday moments of life on a planet now long gone. 

Kara had given up her red cape in favor of a black, floor length cloak, embroidered with the stars Dan-El loved. Her colorful skirts and outfits were handed in for the robes of the ancient clerics of the House of El. During and after her recovery she dedicated herself to serving the god that had stopped Doomsday. 

The worship of Dan-El was at first limited to those within Metropolis, but slowly it spread across the globe with the help of Kara and her temple. She gave sermons that were broadcasted worldwide, whether she was standing proud or sitting in her wheelchair with her hands shaking so hard the rattling could be picked up by her microphone. 

Some of the hero community were baffled by her choices, that she would willingly step away from saving people, none more than Clark. Even with her injuries she could still help the superheroes even if she didn’t want to be on the front lines herself, just like how Oracle still helped as a computer specialist. He brought it up with her repeatedly, but each time she turned him down and said that she was serving her purpose. 

“Kara, please-” Clark tried again after one of her sermons on Dan-El’s teachings. 

“Clark!” Kara interrupted him. She glanced at the followers who were learning how the Kryptonians venerated death before she led the way into her private office. “I’ve made my choice and you need to respect it.” 

“Kara, you still have the power to help others. Don’t you have a responsibility to do so?” 

She scowled at him. “I am helping people. I’m helping them come to terms with the vast world of Death.” Clark took a breath to speak, but she spoke over him. “And I am fulfilling my oath to Dan-El in exchange for his assistance with Doomsday.” 

“Kara-”

“Listen to my heart, Kal.” Kara ordered. 

Clark looked at her in confusion before focusing on her. She watched his face twist and fall in confusion and dismay. 

“Wha-?”

“I died that day.” Kara snapped. “I breathed my last in the graveyard where I called him. He promised to answer my final request, to spare you from Doomsday’s wrath, without any obligation, in this life or the next. However, he offered me a chance, a chance to keep facing the world, despite my pain and my tremors. He froze my heart in between one beat and the last. I will never fully heal, so I have chosen to utilize the borrowed time to act as his Servitor. I will spread the word of Dan-El, the Phantom King of Death, to those of Earth. Because he gave me the time.” 

Clark looked at her frozen, grief raging across his face. 

“Kara, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know.” 

“You weren’t supposed to.” Kara said simply, before she lifted the hood of her cloak over her golden hair. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have another sermon in a few minutes.” 

.

From his frozen throne within the Infinite Realms, Danny Phantom, known as Dan-El to the Kryptonians, watched his Servitor. His name had all but disappeared from the thoughts of mortals, yet now it would once again be able to spread across the universe. He hoped that his message would help. Help prevent the fate of Krypton from repeating itself. Help prevent the fate of his own home universe, where the actions of a corrupt government led to all of life being cut off from Death. He had spared her, the last daughter of Krypton, in the desperate hope that all the various worlds of this universe, and the many universes they have contact with would spread his messages. 

[lmkwritings]

Hi, um... I was wondering if your requests were open. So, I have a slight idea, so in season three when Nezha chases after Wukong to retrieve the map to the Samahi(?) fire. Kaiju/size shifter reader comes after them both because they are Nezha's husband, concerned for Nezha and angry at Wukong because they were supposed to be leaving for their honeymoon. Sorry if it isn't well thought out of too difficult, I thought it would be cute. Have a good day or night

“Samadhi”, and i just found a solid idea for this one.

this Motherfu-

you growl low in your throat, your large maw opening up wide to crunch and tear through glaciers of ice.

wukong had to need the map. he just HAD to take it and subsequently your husbands attention.

an ear piercing roar tears through the skies and the heavens themselves, the clouds and waters parting for the kaiju that marched on towards the samadhi fires mountain.

your kaiju form was that of a snapping turtle- a large spiked tail, a humongous spiked shell lay on your back. four searing red eyes glowered out at the horizon.

and your maw- the natural shape of a turtles mouth, but giants whisps and licks of Red and Black seeped out, lashing and curling at the open air.

your legs sunk into the sea up to your knees, clawed hands pulled up, eyes narrowed.

you were going to flay that simian.

teeth bared, it only took you a few strides to reach the mainland, and subsequently, megaopolis.

it was frozen- you should probably ask why, but your more concerned with unfreezing it. to get your husband back.

and his attention.

your eyes landed on the massive mech standing at the edge of the city, just into the desert, twin swords drawn and a blazing black flame encasing it like a second skin.

you recognized that warmth- those flames. you helped create that blessing- it was but a fragment of your own.

fully baring your teeth, a boil built in your chest, burning hot and acidic. that feeling crawled through your throat, letting molten stars drip from your maw and stain the sands below with the fury of the universe, living and beautiful and Furious.

a low whine built, the heat growing, sand becoming glass and skies growing black with smoke, eyes glowing, bones and spines pulsing with the heat, a ball of the very concept of Hate built in the back of your throat, growing in size and shape.

it took only a second, but you watched the flames grow green, acid in color and full of Pride and Passion- and knew those flames were of your heart no more, knew they had become the soul of someone more than your hatred.

a viscous grin tore across your face, and you took a step forward, planting your feet, dipping down and angled your head just right.

a massive monkey like mecha formed from the light of the heavens, it was frantic in nature as it scooped up a handful of tiny creatures- mortals, most likely. unimportant.

a deep breath, and that whine burst into a deep and guttural Roar.

the beam of bloodlust and molten stars and blooming galaxies tore through the air, the mecha throwing itself to the side as the frozen beast was struck through its core, the very concept of the damned thing incinerated, the metal reduced to lakes of molten ore, the heat from the blast having turned the surrounding desert into massive towers and glaciers of glass.

the metal behemoth was gone, reduced to nothing but the memory of it.

the mecha’s head was turned toward what once was, and then whipped towards you-

oh.

you lit up.

“Xiaotian!” you called, your projection lighting up as it stood tall, and then started making its way across the thawing city. carefully picking your way across the melting streets, you beam as your feet sink into the desert sands.

ambling your way over, you angle your head down to make eye contact.

“where’s your mentor?”

“…i really don’t want to answer that.” he squeaked.

your frown was very telling in the way the protege flinched.

“Liánhuā!” you lit up again, projection dropping, and your small body falling for not even a second before you were held tight in your husbands arms.

“Liánhuā, what are you doing here? i thought i asked you to remain in heaven!” he cried, gripping you close, regardless of how you nuzzled into him.

smiling you let everything wash over you, keeping yourself pressed close to your husband, arms looped around his neck and hands clasped.

“is she alright?-“

you would’ve thrown yourself at wukong if it wasn’t for nezha’s grip on you tightening.

“wukong, you disrupted our honeymoon with this. i feel it best if you distance yourself from her.” nezha’s voice had a little growl to it, his body warming with his frustration. you nuzzled further into his neck.

while your anger with wukong was.. immense, you sighed softly, happy to have your husband close to you again.

[foundry-fabrications]

Hey folks! It took WAY too long to get this out, but it's finally done. Well, technically it isn't done, but I'll get to that in a bit. One weird thing that needs explanation at a time.

So, as one can tell, I didn't just make statblocks for the behemoths, write some lore, and call it a day. I've discovered that I really don't like making statblocks and dealing with all the nonsense that comes with it (CR is a joke, and I'm not laughing). So, in typical Foundry fashion, I tried doing something weird that requires more work and ultimately still required me to make statblocks anyway. Yeah, I'm not smart. 

So I made them templates instead. And while I was tempted to give up and just do the obvious thing since I was just going to end up with stats anyway, making them templates makes a certain amount of sense from a lore perspective and I genuinely think is an interesting idea worth pursuing. Quick lore tidbit, behemoths are likely the result of normal creatures becoming mutated by aether (it's not certain, but there are signs of this origin from what I've read), so a template makes logical sense. So, as long as I pick appropriate creatures for the template examples, the end result will get you pretty close to the behemoths in game. Sure, they're not perfect, but it would be easy to tweak them to better suit your game.

So the other behemoth in the room is there are only 3 behemoths here. I had intended on releasing them all at once. Turns out there's like 30+ behemoths AND 5 basically legendary behemoths. So, I'm splitting them up into their elemental categories, and the legendaries by themselves. I already have the Blaze behemoths written out, so those won't take nearly as long. As I complete each category, I'll update this post and make y'all aware of the additions. By the end, I'll have one document with all of them in it, a brew to rival Flesh & Bone. 

But for now, a quick break to work on something else my ADHD has compelled me to rework. Stay tuned for that. Anyway, stay safe, don't forget to love each other, and I'll see you next time.

Enjoy my work? Consider leaving me a Tip or supporting me on Patreon! Patrons gain access to high quality PDFs for all of my content, weekly updates, early access, and more!

[thlayli-ra]

Trick! Stitches, from the whump prompt, for cmjf? (Dealers choice on giving/receiving)

So I'm kiiiiiiinda cheating a bit here. I've based this fic in @comediakaidanovsky body-swap au, where Drew's body has been possessed by MJF, so technically speaking it is CMJF, but also kinda Punkintyre too. Hope that's ok!

Trick - 'Stitches'

Characters - MJF, CM Punk, Drew McIntyre's body

Rating - Mature

Warnings - Injury description, mentions of rape (although none happens), blood

The first thing Max did when he got to the back was find an empty bathroom. The lightbulb above his head was small and dull but it shone bright like a low sun on a winter's evening, it's blazing rays blinding. He rushed to the mirror and Drew's face stared back at him, deep ocean blue eyes, swamped on every side by rich scarlet. The blood was everywhere, in his long hair, in his ears, covering every inch of skin on his face and shoulders and dripping down his chest and stomach. It soiled the white patches on his trunks and there were even pin-pricks of it on his knee pads and thighs too, however he wasn't sure if that was his blood, or Punk's.

Ohhh, Punk! Punk had bled first, and bled beautifully. Max had stood there, standing tall in Drew's size 13 boots, mesmerised at the sight. Betraying the wonder on his face with a hypnotic tilt of his head and signature lop-sided smirk. Punk caught him doing it, had glared back under those flat eyebrows as if Max had walked in on him in the shower. That messy mix of outrage and embarrassment and vulnerability. A sudden urge to cover himself up, reclaim his decency, all while keeping tabs on the six foot five behemoth stalking towards him with evil intentions.

Max had been in this position before. Multiple times now, even in his old body, back when he was little, pathetic Maxwell Jacob Friedman and Punk had been the one towering above him, all arrogant, self-serving and narcissistic. Back when Punk was on the other end of a chain tethering them together, on his knees with blood dribbling down his face. For a brief spell, Max had held all the power, the cockroach trapped in the palm of his hand and all he had to do was curl his fingers and squeeze.

And yet, both times, it was Punk who had emerged victorious. Like any cockroach, he was almost impossible to kill, and had forced Max back, beating him mercilessly until he was black and blue, tearing him open.

Looking at Drew's face in the mirror, Max ran a blunt finger along the gaping gash on his brow. The blinding light flickered away then slid back again. He blinked, trying to make sense of it, then placed his entire palm over the laceration. The light blotted out completely. Drew's eyes blinked and Max's eyes blinked and Drew looked up and Max looked up and both of them could see the grimy ceiling of the bathroom above their heads.

'Did it work?'

Max leapt back at the sudden sound of another voice. Spinning around he found Punk there in the bathroom with him. Blood-stained, bedraggled, breathing raspy and ragged, Punk stood with his booted feet apart and his tattooed arms at his side, fingers balled up into fists.

'What are you doing here?' Max spat, the rumble of Drew's voice pounding the echoing walls of the restroom. 'Get out!'

'You didn't answer me-'

'I said GET OUT!'

'No!' Punk took a step forward, unfazed by the angry behemoth in front of him. 'Not until I know if it's worked.'

'What are you talking about?' Max snarled.

'I know it's you, Max!'

Max's head went light, the blood draining out of him, quite literally. He staggered back like a man caught in the cop's flashlight digging a hole to bury his latest murder victim.

'H-how-?'

'You serious? You really think wearing Drew's face hid you away all this time?' Punk laughed scornfully, shaking his head. 'I mean nothing to Drew McIntyre and all of a sudden, he starts quoting my promos and dropping my name at every turn and calling me his "muse" and how I "complete him"? Calling me "Punky'"? You fucking kidding me, Max?'

Drew's face paled under the crimson mask, his hands began to tremble.

'I thought you got the hint back in Glasgow,' he went on, 'you know, when I gave you that receipt for what you did to me at Daily's Place.' Punk bent down, trying to catch Drew - or rather, Max's - eye. 'You remember that, Max?'

Of course he did! He remembered all of it. Every moment he shared the same ring, the same space, the same air as Punk, he remembered. But that moment in particular, when Punk looked at him with all the remorse of a neglectful father, when he opened his arms and welcomed Max in, dropping both the tough guy facade and his defences. The soft flesh free from its hard shell, ripe for Max to rip apart. How pretty did he look gasping for air as the collar choked him, how his blood had glittered in the light. Max had coloured his palm with it, smeared it across his own young, naive face embossed on his shirt. Symbolising a death, a rebirth, a baptism. (He kept that shirt in a special box next to their dog collars).

'What do you want, Punk?' Max growled, his voice so much lower and intimidating in his new body.

'What I want is for all this shit between us to be over,' Punk replied. 'It was mildly annoying in the beginning and I was able to ignore it but you kept coming for me and pushing me and you know what, that I could deal with. Even when you attacked me in my hometown, I could put my hands up and say that I deserved that - now we're even.'

Punk's face went dark, his voice turning into that deep rasp he reserved for when he was seething with unchecked wrath.

'But then you went and involved my family,' Punk advanced on Max who stood his ground, watching the older man draw closer. 'The moment my wife's name came out your filthy mouth, you crossed a line and I had no other choice than to put an end to this. For good.'

'How? How exactly are you going to "put an end" to me, Punky?' Max opened his impressive arms out wide, mocking Punk, goading him. 'You had your chance out there in Hell itself and you chickened out.'

That maddening smirk manifested on Punk's face, so smug that Max wanted to slap it right off him, but instead he watched as his adversary lifted his hazel eyes up and up.

'Did I?' Punk grinned, 'Look at that big, gaping hole I left in Drew's head. Can you see it Max? Can you see the light?'

Max's heart jerked in his chest, his breath catching in his throat. 'You... you-'

'Go towards it, Max,' Punk said, imitating some kind of holy messiah. 'Be free.'

'You bastard!' Max turned away, trying to fend off the fiery glare at the top of his vision.

But Punk refused to let up. 'You don't belong in there, Max.'

'You really expect me to go back to that sorry excuse of a body?' Max protested. 'Have you seen what Drew did to it? How that brainless idiot let them desecrate it with that shitty tattoo?'

'It's time, Max. You have to go.'

'Well, you know what, he can keep it. If Drew wants to clap his hands like a performing seal for Tony and all his fucking marks then that's fine by me. Hope he enjoys having an actual ass for once.'

'Max!'

'NO! I'm not leaving. You won't make me!'

Punk was close now, too close, boxing Max into the corner. 'It's not yours. You have to give it back.'

'NO!'

With both hands he shoved Punk on the chest, only realising his mistake when he saw the indignant look on the older man's face. How his brows lowered and the bridge of his nose scrunched, how his lips pulled back to bare his teeth.

Then he pounced!

Honing in on the gash on Max's forehead, he dug eight of his fingers in and pulled, wrenching the crevice apart.

Max squealed as the light gushed in all around him.

'GET OUT!' Punk bellowed into the open mouth of the wound. 'GET OUT, MAX, GET-'

Max grabbed Punk by the throat, effortlessly cutting off his air with one squeeze of his fist. Their gazes met for a brief moment before Max drove the older man back, slamming him into the counter. Punk let out a strangled cry, gasping as the pressure kept coming until he was bent right back over the counter's edge, his spine arched at an excruciating angle and his bare shoulders pressing into the cold metal of the sinks.

From on high, Max watched his muse struggle, watched his inked fingers clawing at Drew's meaty fist to try and dislodge them, watched his wide mouth open and close like a fish trying to gulp down air, watched his blood-stained face turn a deep, vicious red. Watched his eyes bulge, his pupils constrict.

Max watched it all, entranced. Punk always suffered so... perfectly. It was intoxicating.

Ever since that moment at Daily's Place when something switched in his brain, when Max had found himself standing at a crossroads with two options and he chose the latter, he had finally woken up and realised that he would never gain this man's respect.

But he could hold something even more precious.

'I get it now,' Max sneered directly in Punk's panic-stricken face. 'I know why you want me out of this body.' He leaned in close, drinking in the raspy chokes of Punk's failed breaths. 'You're afraid of me.'

All this strength, all this power! He controlled Punk so completely and with such little effort. He could do whatever he wanted with him. He could snap his neck with a twist of his wrist. Keep applying the pressure to his jugular and watch the light slowly dim from his eyes. He could fill the sink to the top and shove his face in, watch him writhe and flail as he slowly drowned, maybe yank his head back to hear him splutter before forcing him under again.

Or he could turn him around, rip those sorry excuses for trunks down and kick his ankles good and wide...

But Max did none of those things. Instead, he simply let Punk go and stepped back as the older man crumpled to the floor. Down on all fours like a dog, gasping in air and coughing up blood.

'You're fucking pathetic,' he uttered and stepped over his fallen idol to leave the bathroom.

Marching down the corridors, Max's brain raced with thoughts until he reached his destination. Settling himself into the chair, he turned to the medic and pointed at his brow. 'Stitch it up,' he demanded, and he sat serenely while the staples were driven in, the light dimming with each one until there was nothing left but darkness.

When he went to leave the Trainer's Room, he almost bumped into Punk who gaped up at his shiny staples with new-found horror. Max gave a huff of cruel laughter then walked away.

'It's not over yet, Punky,' he proclaimed in Drew's deep brogue. 'It's like I told you before - this only ends when I go to your funeral. And piss on your grave!'

[darkinterstate]

Welcome to the Blog!

Hello there! This is a Tumblr blog for showing off a Sonic au of mine. I'm not the most regular poster but most of the stuff I will post here will be dedicated to introducing all the characters I have thus far. If you love seeing a Sonic who's kinda fucking angry with it, I think this au will have you in good hands.

To answer some questions I think most would be inclined to ask:

What is the Story?

Haha. Still working on it. The main idea though is pretty simple, figure out how to get out of the Dark Interstate, break God-Tamer's corruption, help out friends, and beat up bad guys attempting to take God-Tamer and awaken the beast that dwells within.

The Characters?

I'll list them off by name, who they are, and what continuity they come from.

God-Tamer (Sonic)

A variant who was able to withstand the corruption of a deity's control only known as Genesis, or to others, The Progenitor. He watched his world decay until he was the only one left, thanks to Genesis taking partial control and letting loose. He's a little angry about it. He's the protagonist and we will watch as he keeps trucking on through determined to get rid of Genesis and the evil that plagues the Dark Interstate. He's from the game continuity, a lil while after Frontiers.

Spot (???)

An anomalous critter born from the relic energy of the Dark Interstate that took the form of Sonic after finding him to be a cool guy. He is able to create portals that look like black spots, a deceptively hard guy to hit. He's ine of God-Tamer's closest allies. Was inspired by the Fleetway continuity's Sonic and has a noticable cockney accent.

The Sundown Protocol (Metal Sonic)

In the darkest depths of The Land of Darkness, Dr. Robotnik was building the perfect machine, but he never got to see the end of it. One day, a great cataclysm hit the desolate city of Robotropolis that was so fast an abrupt, not even the doctor could have foreseen it. In his dying moments, a protocol was enacted. The Sundown Protocol. Taking the most powerful machine he had, was given absolute dominion over the assets of their great leader, to continue his legacy. At the time, the prototype for Hyper Metal Sonic was considered the most powerful of them all. A crimson behemoth that looked more like mecha sonic than metal, still trying to figure out the best types designs worked best for his vision. He was alone, and carried out research to further enhance his own body to perfection the vision of what was meant to be, but it's still a work in progress... for now. If not obvious, Sundown comes from the OVA continuity.

Terios and Cinder/Blaze are still being worked on as of rn and will introduce them later on

What is the Dark Interstate?

An extension to the idea of the Archie multiverse's cosmic interstate, complete with its own nonsensical roads and ethereal looks but with a crimson makeover. It's a sector of the Cosmic Interstate, seemingly blocking anyone leaving and entering it, and for everyone within its walls, have no idea why it's there or why it was even made for that matter. Maybe something could break it open? Who knows.

The Tone?

It will be taking itself seriously for the most part but there will be unserious stuff spread through and especially for some one off posts I will make every now and then on here.

Inspirations?

Jujutsu Kaisen is a big one, same for Archie, and unfortunately due to a previous fixation, exes have some DNA mixed into the designs of some (BUT NOT ALL) characters.

Ty for reading, if you're interested I recommend following and seeing what I have in store! Now have this still video of my boy God-Tamer

[sweet-evie]

Satoru, Suguru, Sukuna, and Choso in a Rock Band AU... I need my brain to shut up about this and I need to quell my thirst!

✨ masterlist ✨

I could have used J-Rock artists as prime reference, but... listening to my own playlist got me into this mess.

The band lineup in my head:

Sukuna on Drums

Choso on Bass Guitar

Suguru as Lead Guitarist & Main Backup Vocalist

Satoru as Rhythm Guitarist & Lead Vocalist

All of them can scream sing and growl, but...

Sukuna is the best at death growling + gutturals. Think Nergal from Behemoth.

Choso is a false chord scream king. Plus, for some reason, he sings like Corey Taylor in my head.

Suguru is 100% a pro at fry screaming. Also sings like Alex Varkatzas probably.

Satoru probably screams and growls like Andy Biersack or sings like M. Shadows or David Draiman... I can't decide. Although, can 100% picture him belting out The Vengeful One.

Anyways...

Satoru and Suguru are power duo lyricists... Like, they're so good at writing songs together. The themes in each album always defer, but they're really good at hammering in a message (subtle or overt) into every song.

Also also, picture Satoru and Suguru singing into a mic onstage, taking the entire crowd hostage with those never-declining face cards, fingers flawlessly gliding over the frets, pressing on the strings, playing their guitars in perfect harmony. 😩 LAWRD HELP ME, I WANT THEIR TONGUES IN MY MOUTH. 😭

Them playing these guitar solos on 3:21 - 3:55... Satoru doing rhythms at 3:21 and Suguru comes in at 3:36...

From debut, Satoru became extremely popular for never showing people his full face. The fans have never seen his eyes. Yes, he performs with a blindfold on, and during interviews, his eyes are always covered by his signature dark sunglasses.

His eye reveal was in a music video. It played a part skyrocketing the band's fame. And when the band performed live after that music video, Satoru is playing onstage without a blindfold or sunglasses on. Cue the infinite rizz.

Fans always rave that Satoru looks so innocent and cute when his eyes are on full-display (man belongs in a romcom movie) and he's not performing or screaming like a demon into the microphone.

Even after the eye reveal, Satoru still performs with a blindfold on most of the time, and he takes it off with extra flair and drama when the fans ask for it during a concert.

Satoru is very playful when interacting with fans -- a far cry from his onstage persona.

Also, fans are so tickled and pleased that for all his screaming and growling in songs and concerts, Suguru is actually very soft-spoken when he's just talking normally.

Suguru has a tongue piercing and the sexiest dragon tattoo sprawled across his back.

Need I mention the fans love the way Suguru says Satoru's name? Even in this AU, the fans ship SatoSugu. 😝

Suguru is also the one band member who gives insightful answers during interviews. Like, it's always deep with him, much to Choso and Satoru's amusement, and Sukuna's irritation.

Speaking of Sukuna...

Sukuna never wears a shirt during concerts. He has tattoos and he's showing them off like no one's business. Imagine him pounding at those drums, tattooed face, chest, and arms in full display, eyes blazing, tongue out and everything. [DON'T YOU WANT TO LICK HIM? 😜]

Sukuna's the drummer, but he has a microphone too, because he's the best at death growling and they have songs where they get into that.

No one plays drums like Sukuna can. It's a running gag in their fandom that Sukuna had four arms in another life because how in the fuck can he do what he do?

Sukuna is also famous for getting shit-faced before an onstage performance. For some reason, he plays perfectly fine even when he's inebriated or high. It's a flex! 😩

By contrast, Choso and Suguru eat super healthy.

Satoru is always on a sugar-high. Did we expect anything less?

Satoru and Suguru will write really dark songs and they will hand over the vocals to Sukuna, because it fits him so well. Kinda like this:

Satoru may be lead vocalist on paper, but all the boys in this band can sing, and they're all hot when they do it. 😝

The fans love it when Choso goes apeshit on the microphone. I imagine him singing this and it's a treat every fucking time!

Choso is baby. 😝 He's so cute and always looks out for everyone behind the scenes. The band has filmed backstage documentaries before, and the fans who've seen those love Choso so much because he takes care of all the members.

Choso plays bass and each time he has a solo in the song, it's a guaranteed eargasm. 😩🙏 Can he finger me the way he fingers that bass please?

Choso is so sweet to the fans... Always gives them attention even when he's not supposed to. (e.g., when he leaves his house and he finds them outside the gate). He just can't be mean!

Satoru and Suguru are fan service kings! Like during concerts, they don't shy away from getting super close to the crowd. They're also multi-tasking kings, because imagine playing an instrumental solo, singing, and doing crowd work at the same time.

The four of them are trolls! Satoru and Sukuna are the biggest trolls and menaces. Suguru goes along with whatever Satoru wants, and Choso tries and fails to be responsible.

They are well aware of the baseless rumors around their songs and performances (that they're spawns of hell, they worship the devil, etc.), and they play into it to annoy the haters some more and give them fodder. Hate comments are free publicity apparently.

Dating any one of them will either be fun and chill, or just outright chaos. No in-between.

I don't think Sukuna would date anyone though. He strikes me as a pump-and-dump type of man. Hooking up with him means a grand time in the sheets, but it's only good until he gets bored. After he gets bored, it's done. Bye!

Choso would treat you right, no questions. He makes time and does whatever you want to do. You want to workout with him? Okay! You want your own personal concert? Why, of course! You want time for private getaways? He's booking first class plane tickets to a vacation destination of your choice. You want to learn how to play bass guitar? "Come here, Darling. Let me show you."

With Satoru and Suguru, it's a toss up. Mostly because I think it will have to take someone super special (a person who isn't easily cowed and who loves either of them so much) to get either of them to fall in love. When they fall in love with their S/Os though, they're all in.

Dating Satoru or Suguru in this situation means having rock songs written about you. It's one of their love languages in this AU.

I also don't know what their band would be called. 😝

[petalsprompts]

𝐀𝐍𝐈𝐌𝐄; 𝙰𝚁𝙸𝙵𝚄𝚁𝙴𝚃𝙰: 𝙵𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝙲𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚆𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍'𝚜 𝚂𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚜𝚝

change  pronouns,  tenses  and  other  details  as  deemed  necessary. &  please  specify  muse  when  sending  to  a  mumu.

𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐋.

Thanks  for  all  the  help.  I  owe  you  one.

Sorry.  Looks  like  I  had  you  worried  to  death.

You've  done  well  to  survive  the  trials  and  make  it  here.

You  have  my  word,  we'll  be  back. Don't worry, okay?

Hey,  [Name],  let's  stay  here  for  a  while.

It  might  just  be  us  against  the  world  on  this  journey.

Listen,  we're  gonna  kill  that  thing  and  survive.

Just  please  don't  use  it  for  evil.

Why  exactly  are  you  locked  down  here?

𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐓.

They  need  time  to  heal  from  their  grief  and  terror!

If  things  become  too  tough  to  bear  and  it  hurts  too  much  to  carry  alone,  you  can  always  cry  on  my  shoulder.

You're  here?  Are you  real?  I... I  thought  I'd  been  abandoned  again.

They  just  saw  one  of  their  friends  die!

Oh,  God,  I  just  wanted  to  protect  her/him/them.  And  I  failed.  How  can  I  live  with  that?

I  thought  I'd  be  alone  in  the  dark  again...

I  told  you  before,  I  don't  give  a  crap  about  what  happens  to  this  world.

This  loss  was  unfortunate,  indeed.

We  can't  let  the  death  of  our  comrade  hold  us  back  forever!

We  may  not  have  enough  lives  saved  up  to  survive  this.

𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄 + 𝐀𝐅𝐅𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍.

All  of  me  is  yours,  [Name],  so  there's  no  reason  to  be  shy;  take  a  look.

I  love  how  kind  you  are.

I'll never let go of you hand.

I'll  protect  you,  and  you'll  protect  me.

My  beloved.

But I want you to look.

I  wasn't  afraid  of  anything,  until  I  thought  of  a  world  without  you.

Of  course  I'll  be  fine,  I  have  you.  That's  all  I  need  to  be  happy.

Whatever  path  you're  on,  I'll  follow  it  with  you.

I  don't  care  about  anything  else,  just  you.

Now,  little  miss  [Name],  I  think  I  told  you  I  was  gonna  bathe  alone,  didn't I?

𝐌𝐀𝐆𝐈𝐂.

Using  an  enchantment  to  try  to  force  me  to  experience  my  own  personal  hell?  That's  pretty  intense.

O  heavenly  blessing,  lend  them  your  strength!

It's  like  something's  being  imprinted  onto  my  mind.

They're  not  slower,  you  just  got  faster!

Looks  like  that  magic  circle  is  connected  to  the  surface.

When  I  give  the  signal,  cast  Azure  Blaze.

Oh,  also  it  seems like  I've  learned  a  new  kind  of  magic  —  Ancient  Magic.

I  need  your  magic  to  help  me.

Huh,  I  guess  Ancient  Magic  is  more  compatible  with  some  casters  than  others.

Oh God, it's  a  Behemoth...

[sephirthoughts]

Vincent's New Kid Just Dropped CH 16:

Meanwhile, in the snow-scoured wastes of the polar north:

subtitle: guess who's back

prev. chap here

RATING: teen and up for some canon typical violence and nonsexual nudity that you can't actually see cause it's just words on a screen

WARNINGS: tooth-rotting family fluff

By the time the little girl saw the beast—a tower of black hide and sinuous muscle, huge horns and slavering maw, filled with fangs as long as her arm—it was too late to run. Too late to hide. Her final thoughts were not of her mother, or her little brother. Her mind simply went blank with terror, and she stood paralyzed, staring up at certain death, as it emerged from the darkness beneath the trees.

Behemoth, these things were called. Creatures of tremendous power and human-like intelligence. The only beasts that, even in her village of skilled hunters, children were taught to fear and avoid at all costs. There was no hunting the behemoth, for there was no steel that could pierce that hide, no shield that could resist those claws, and once you were caught in its fell gaze, no escape. All you could do was pray the goddess would grant you a quick death.

For a long and breathless moment, there was silence. The child’s hand reached up of its own accord, to clutch her goddess amulet. With a low growl, like the distant roll of thunder, the beast sprang. Her basket fell to the ground, and the mushrooms tumbled out, rolling about on the frozen soil.

Just before the jaws of hell closed upon her, a miracle occurred. A roaring rush of wind and burst of brilliant fire brought the answer of the goddess from the heavens. The behemoth was thrown away, by the blast, and crashed into the trees.

Before the girl had time to blink, the deadly beast was back on its feet, roaring with rage at having been interfered with. But its murderous eyes no longer saw her. Rather, it bounded forward and made a tremendous leap, into the air, determined to destroy the presumptuous fool who would dare to attack the king of the beasts.

An arc of flame, from a blazing crimson blade, so bright that dazzled the child’s eyes and left trails in her vision, flashed out toward the beast. But…it missed. Or it simply passed ineffectually through the behemoth's body, because nothing happened.

The girl’s heart sank, but then she saw it. A molten-red line vertically bisecting the creature’s face. Before it even comprehended how it died, the behemoth fell, severed cleanly down the center, into two halves, which crashed to the earth in bloody, steaming heaps.

Only then did the girl realize the forest all around her was burning. She ran about, looking frantically for a way out, but the flames were rampant. She was trapped on all sides. Had she been saved from the beast only to die in the fire?

Just when she thought hope was lost, through the haze of smoke, a figure descended and stood before her, backlit by the raging inferno. Its pale face was more beautiful than any woman’s, and yet its features were fierce and noble, and it had the proud bearing of a warrior. Its hair was a river of molten copper, glimmering in the red firelight, flowing over its shoulders and nearly reaching its waist. Behind it, were stretched out a pair of huge, vermillion wings, each feather tipped with gold.

Coughing and blinking away tears, the girl gazed up at it, in fear and wonder, thinking she had died already and this angel had come to claim her soul.

With a gentle smile, which seemed to contain all the mercy and compassion in the world, her savior bent and held out a hand. The girl threw herself trustingly into the angel’s strong arms, where she was held securely and whisked away into the air, leaving the burning patch of forest far below them.

The angel flew at a dizzying speed, but the girl felt no fear. She clung happily to her savior and even peered down at the landscape, as the trees flashed by. A blizzard was blowing in from the east, and the icy winds of the northern climate, especially at this elevation, should have frozen her solid. The angel, however, had surrounded them with a halo of golden fire, that kept the driving snow at bay.

She’d only been out gathering herbs and mushrooms, not far from her village, and so within a few minutes, the angel was descending again. Its black boots touched down lightly upon the inch of snow that had already fallen, and it set the girl gently on her feet.

A cry went up from the watchers, and the villagers came running, many falling on their knees in awe and terror. When the girl's parents saw her and heard what happened, they knelt down right there in the snow and kowtowed to the angelic being, which had delivered their child to safety.

It became quickly apparent that the people thought this was the goddess, herself. But then the angel spoke. It was a smooth and lovely voice, with the music of the divine in it, but it was a man’s voice, nonetheless.

“Please, do not bow to me. I am not—no, no, that is unnecessary,” he was saying, to little avail, as the chief and others rushed to bring out the finest things the village had, as offerings of thanks. “I suppose…if you insist, I am a little hungry.”

With his reluctant consent, the angel was half dragged by the women to the main village hall, where councils and communal feasts were held, and everyone got busy preparing an impromptu banquet. The small children who were trailing after him gasped and ‘oohed’ when he retracted his enormous wings, and began clamoring for him to bring them out again.

The girl he’d saved, whose name was Atka, tossed her braided head and scolded them to behave themselves. Her parents were just regular tribesmen, with no special status, but after being personally saved by the angel of the goddess, she had climbed to the sky in one step. The other children quickly did as she said, all determined to bask in her reflected glory.

To the villagers’ surprise and hearty approbation, the angel didn’t object to sitting right at the communal table, with everyone else, and didn’t turn up his beautiful nose at their simple fare, of roasted game with dried fruits and cheese, millet porridge, and coarse but fresh-baked bread.

He had a strangely archaic way of speaking their language, but everyone thought that was perfectly fitting, for an angel. The only problem was that he was rather softspoken, which made it hard to hear him over the commotion. As a result, everyone hissed and told each other to shut up, when he talked, which drowned out whatever he said, just as surely.

The chief commanded that barrels of wine be brought out and passed around, making the atmosphere festive, as Atka was made to stand up and repeat the tale of how she was saved from the beast, about ten times. All the while, people were unconsciously scooting and leaning toward the angel, as his person was actually radiating soothing warmth, like a brazier.

At length, he rose and announced his intention to depart. Of course, everyone wanted to beg him to stay, but no one dared make any demands of a messenger of the goddess. In the end, the whole village accompanied him out, leaving the feasting hall deserted, but for several opportunistic cats.

Refusing all gifts but for some dry goods, medicine, and a large, warm pelt, from the chief’s personal store, the angel finally departed. When his wings unfurled and he shot away like an arrow, into the dark, snowy sky, trailing brilliant, crimson fire, all those doubters who’d arrived late and hadn’t seen him do anything particularly angelic, were silenced for good.

After he left, Atka naturally became the center of attention. She was practically mobbed by invitations from other children to stay at their houses, and had all manner of trinkets shoved into her hands. Her father, who had been a little concerned for his daughter’s prospects, given her well-known fiery temperament, was already fending off marriage proposals from the best families in the village, while her mother and the other women got to work planning to build a proper shrine to the angel.

———

Somewhere in the windswept snowscape, of the uninhabitable northern tundra, a cyclone of crimson flames roared to life and blazed in the darkness, swirling around a specific spot, till a layer of ice and snow was melted away, revealing a massive, iron hatch. When it was sufficiently thawed, a gloved hand, belonging the very same angel from the village, took hold of the twelve-ton hatch and easily lifted it open, to drop down into the inky blackness inside.

The huge launch door had been buried in snow and frozen shut, in the brief hours he’d been away, but that was usual. When he wanted to open it from the inside, he had to heat the metal, to melt the layer of ice. The freezing over was a little troublesome, but didn’t annoy him, since it was essentially a free security measure.

Not that anyone ever trekked all the way up here, to potentially stumble upon his lair. Even the hardy, northern tribes only went up as far as Atka’s little village. No one tried to cross the mountains, into the frozen plains of the polar region. No one but him. Even Shinra had long abandoned this underground outpost, which he now inhabited.

The facility had only been a remote launch base, which was sparsely manned. The whole of it consisted of a single missile silo (sans missile), a small control center, crewmen’s quarters and lavatory, a galley kitchen, and an infirmary/lab.

The place had never been powered down, because it was a lot of bother to depressurize and close up the mako pumps, and Shinra was highly irresponsible, to say the least. That benefited the current occupant, because so long as the pumps functioned, the power would last nearly forever. Not actually forever, which was a concept he had to confront regularly, these days.

“I’ve returned, brother,” he said, seemingly to no one, as he switched on the infirmary lights.

In the center of the small lab, was a restorative pod, for one patient, which included a lot of internal diagnostic equipment, and valves at the head, which released pure, atomized mako, either manually, or according to a pre-set schedule. It was cylindrical, metal on the bottom half and glass on the top half. Through the glass was visible the body of a man, who lay unconscious inside.

“Nothing interesting, today, I’m afraid,” the angel went on, as he approached the pod. “Just a behemoth, lurking near a little hunting village. They were grateful that I’d killed the beast, which had been troubling them and scaring off game, so they insisted on giving me supper and some gifts. Speaking of which, I brought you a present.”

From a storage materia, he summoned the things from the villagers, and placed them on the steel exam table, near the restoration pod, as if to display them to the other man.

“Look at this, little brother,” he smiled, hoisting up a heavy, luxurious, snow-white pelt, which was both longer and wider than he was tall. “It’s from a snow lion, that their chief hunted. Isn’t it gorgeous? I’m going to make it into a coat for you. The leather is white and supple, but very strong, and the fur will keep you warm, even in this dismal place.”

As usual, the comatose man in the pod made no reply.

“The rest of this is mostly dry goods to add to our stock, and some healing potions, made by their medicine woman. They also gave me this skin balm, that the village women swear by. They say it’s made from rendered whale fat, but it doesn’t have an unpleasant smell, because of their filtering process and the herbs they infuse into it.” He removed the lid from the earthenware jar and gave it a few sniffs. “It does smell rather nice. I’ll put some on you, after your bath.”

So saying, he put all the things back into his storage materia, then went to a monitor and tapped a few keys, triggering the release of a glowing-green mist into the restoration pod. After peering into the pod again, he went away to shower and change his clothing.

He knew all about mako, now, but he felt no guilt taking the lifeblood of the Planet, to nourish his little brother. The Planet had a responsibility to provide for them, as its anointed guardian and its precious Weapon. That was why the child (as he thought of the tall, muscular, young man) was in this state, to begin with.

Guilt did torment him, but it was of another kind. After his little brothers rescued him and brought him to Deepground, he refused to assist them in their revolt against Shinra. Seeing, now, what had become of them, his soul was racked by remorse, but at the time, he was too weary and borne down by grief to take part in their revolution. Selfishly, he buried himself in that crystalline cave, where he fell straightaway into a deep sleep.

It seemed to him that no time had passed at all, when he was suddenly awakened from that peaceful oblivion, by the urgent distress of the Planet. There was only a moment of disorientation, however. The Planet made him aware of the time that had passed and of the significant events. The geostigma, the rise of Jenova’s remnants, and the short-lived resurrection of Sephiroth, whose mind had been fully corrupted by Jenova.

The current emergency, was that Chaos and Omega had awakened. Not only had they awakened, they were apparently in deadly conflict. He knew without the Planet telling him, that something had gone terribly wrong. There was no comprehensible reason a Weapon and its herald should fight with one another.

On top of that, his function was to prevent their awakening, in the first place. Not that he was meant to interfere once the apocalypse had begun—he was no match for Chaos or Omega—but he was supposed to be awakened in time to get ahead of the circumstances that would lead to it.

That he hadn’t, could only mean they’d awakened prematurely. Which meant someone had tampered with forces they had no right to and did not comprehend. And ‘someone’ almost always meant Shinra.

When the kings of hell fight, it’s the underlings who suffer, so it seemed that his role was to be shielding humans from the worst of it. But their fight was astonishingly brief. By the time Genesis arrived, the battle was over and the dust was settling. Chaos had defeated Omega and was nowhere to be found.

Both appeared to have been vaporized, reentering the Planet’s atmosphere, but with the last of its fading awareness, the heart of Omega cried out, in desperation and tremendous pain. He flew to the location from which the cry was coming, only to find the last person he expected.

When Genesis laid hands on his genetically-spliced brother, a torrent of memories, from both Weiss and Nero’s perspectives, flooded into his consciousness. Unfortunately, the memory streams were jumbled and fragmentary, with large gaps, due to mental and physical trauma, Hojo’s interference, and the heavy psychic toll of joining with Omega.

After ensuring that Weiss was safe, for the moment, Genesis searched for the younger brother within a wide radius of the fight area. Try as he might, he could discover no sign of Nero, nor could he sense his darkness anywhere. In the end, all he could do was carry Weiss away, to a hidden place in the north.

The abandoned missile base was discovered by the three Firsts accidentally, during extreme climate survival training. After finding that any record of it had been long purged from Shinra’s databases, the three agreed to keep it a secret between them, as their last-resort fallback point, should they ever need it. It was the safest place for Genesis, now, since the only other people in the world who knew about it were dead.

After he showered, Genesis pulled his long hair into a braid, to keep it out of the way, then rolled a medical cart over to the restorative pod. The glass cover opened obediently, letting out the acrid-metallic tang of mako, which tickled his nose and made him sneeze.

With a basin of warm water and a washcloth, he carefully bathed Weiss, and then towel-dried his body. As promised, he took out that herbal ointment and rubbed it on his flawless skin, from head to toe. It smelled lovely and gave his chiseled muscles a slight sheen, making him seem even more like a deity in repose, than usual.

“Comatose for three years, and another two like this, and you still look like a marble sculpture of a god,” Genesis chuckled. “The perfect SOLDIER, indeed.”

When he was finished bathing Weiss, he took away the basin and towels, then scooted a chair up beside the pod. He intended to read aloud to him, like he did nearly every night, but in something of a self-indulgent mood, he laid his head on that big, broad chest and closed his eyes, instead.  

Weiss’ heart beat once, every ten minutes. Slow but steady, was that infinitely comforting sound. The heartbeat that proved he wasn’t absolutely alone, in this world. That he still had someone. One with whom he shared blood and the burden of consecration, after all that they loved had been taken from them.

Genesis drifted off to sleep, that way, lulled by the glacial heartbeat of his only person. In his dream, that sound became the heartbeat of the Planet. It was dying, a long, natural death. In a few million years, it would die forever. Then Genesis and Chaos would accompany Omega, in carrying the lifestream to the new world.

In that new world, life would begin anew, civilizations would rise and fall, gods would be born and die, while they slept, deep in the earth, awaiting another end. Another planet’s death. Another journey, another rebirth, another long sleep. Such was the cycle. In their innocence, they had become eternal, and now they must walk the road they had paved.

“It’s not so terrible, as long as the three of us are together,” said Weiss, who was standing beside him at the edge of creation, gazing out into the vastness of space and time.

“But if we’re not all together…” Genesis murmured, hardly daring to look into those icy eyes. “I can’t find him. I can’t feel him. I’m afraid he—”

“We will be together,” Weiss answered calmly. “You need not worry about such things. He lives, and I will find him.”

“How do you know?”

Weiss smiled down at him, a pure, white star, shining in the void. “How could I not know?”

When Genesis woke, Weiss’ bare chest was wet with tears, and his cheekbone had left a pink mark on the bulging pectoral muscle. Which definitely meant he had a mark on his face too, he thought, as he sat up, irritably rubbing his cheek.

“Nero…”

The weak, cracked whisper may as well have been a thunderclap that shook the heavens. Genesis jolted and stared dumbly, for a moment, before he’d gathered his wits enough to even lose his composure.

“Weiss! You’re awake! You’ve come back!” he said, leaping bodily onto the man, to drag him into his arms. “Was that you, in the dream, just now? Speak to me! Say something!”

Weiss’ eyelashes fluttered, as he struggled to open his eyes. “You’re…heavy.”

“Only just woke up and already being a baby,” Genesis sniffled, continuing to hug him tightly.

Nevermind that a six-foot-two-inch tall super-soldier was sitting on his lap and manhandling him like a sack of rice, Weiss was already groggy and disoriented, and weaker than a kitten. He guessed having awakened from a coma, via fusing with a demigod, and then diving directly into another coma, would do that to a person. When Genesis finally let go of him, he flopped limply onto his back and lay there, helplessly.

“What’s wrong with you?” Genesis frowned, dabbing his tears with his sleeve. “Can’t you sit up on your own?”

Weiss, who could hardly even open his eyes on his own: “…”

“Ah, of course. I don't know why I assumed that when you woke up, your recovery would be immediate.”

Pale lips curved into a faint smile, as Weiss studied his face.

“I know, I know. I fell asleep on you again,” Genesis grumbled, giving his cheek another rub.

White eyebrows made a tiny upward twitch. 

Genesis flushed pink with embarrassment. “It’s nothing weird! I lie on your chest to listen to your heartbeat, and sometimes I fall asleep like that! It…does sound a touch weird, now that I say it aloud. But I never meant it in a weird way!”

Weiss looked down at his bare waist, which Genesis was still straddling, then back up.

“Also not weird,” Genesis defended, crossing his arms. “I was simply overcome with joy, to see you awake, and became demonstrative. Anyway, why can’t I sit on you, if I want? It’s perfectly normal unless you make it weird.”

“Nero,” Wiess whispered. “Where is Nero?”

Genesis dropped the banter and his expression became grave. “I’m sorry. I don’t know. I looked everywhere, but I couldn’t find any sign of him. When do you last remember seeing him?”

“He was with me. With Omega. Chaos. Tore us apart. There’s no…nothing else.” His voice was thin and shaky, and he was quickly becoming less coherent.

“You need to rest,” Genesis said decidedly. “We’ll talk about this when you’re feeling better.”

He climbed off Weiss and took a thick, wool blanket from the storage materia, which he spread over him, before he went to turn the lights down.

“Big brother?” Weiss called after him, in a plaintive, almost childish tone. “I’m hungry.”

Genesis smiled over his shoulder. “I’m going to cook you some rice porridge. That should be easy on your stomach. I’ll wake you when it’s ready.”

Weiss, despite his superhuman body maintaining itself in near perfect stasis, using mako alone, had not eaten in five years. That meant the process of getting his stomach used to food again had to be undertaken cautiously. He objected to what he termed ‘pointless fussiness’, saying he would be fine, but Genesis pulled rank as big brother and got his way (though, it did help that Weiss was too weak to hold the spoon on his own).

As it turned out, big brother was right. He had to thin out the porridge till it was basically just rice-infused water, before Weiss could tolerate any, without vomiting. For several long days, Genesis tended assiduously to his recovery, helping him stretch and massaging and his weakened muscles, and patiently hand feeding him, spoonful by spoonful, like a mother caring for a severely ill child.

Gradually, he was able to increase the rice ratio, and add more broth to the plain water. By the time the porridge was at full strength, Weiss was sitting up and eating on his own. He still had to be carried to the bathroom, but after a five year coma, getting this much better in a little over a week, was downright miraculous.

“Eh? Meat today?” Weiss asked, looking up delightedly from his bowl.

“Just a bit of steamed white fish,” Genesis said. “You’ve been tolerating the porridge well. It’s about time to try something a little more solid.”

He swallowed the hearty bite he’d taken. “Did you find it, here?”

Genesis looked theatrically offended. “I, feed you deep-frozen Shinra mystery meat from Goddess knows when? Never! I threw out all the old food and gave the kitchen a good cleaning, before I put our things in there.”

“There’s a lot of food,” Weiss remarked, after swallowing several more large spoonfuls. “Frozen meat, dried fruit and herbs…I can smell it all. How did you get so many things?”

“We’ve lived here for two years,” Genesis reminded him. “While you’ve been malingering, I’ve been helping remote villages deal with monsters and whatnot. They often feel moved to thank me with gifts of food and other sundries, so who am I to reject their kindness? Besides, it saves me the bother of flying a thousand miles to go shopping.”

Weiss nodded. “You don’t have any money, do you.”

“I do not,” Genesis admitted, with a scowl. “Shinra froze my personal accounts, when I abandoned ship, and my adopted parents’ estate all went to a variety of charities, since I’d been declared dead.”

“Mm,” Weiss hummed, licking the last of the porridge from his spoon. “This is really good. Maybe you could get work as a cook.”

“A cook?” Genesis sputtered. “Are you—I am the Planet’s guardian! Chosen by the Goddess, herself! You want me to get work as a cook?”

“No, I just wanted to see your face, when I suggested it,” Weiss grinned. “It’s beneath you to cook for humans. It’s beneath you to be helping them with monsters, too.”

Genesis took his empty bowl and refilled it, from the steaming pot on the cart. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that, little brother. Since I’ve awakened before my appointed time, I’ve decided to use the gift of the Goddess to give aid and protection to those in need of it. I…would like you to help me do that.”

“No,” Weiss said flatly.

“As you pointed out yourself, I have no money, and neither do you,” Genesis continued, unperturbed, having expected this reaction. “We must support ourselves somehow, so unless you’d like to take a post as a menial laborer, this is the best option.”

“We are the strongest beings on the Planet,” Weiss laughed. “Anything we want, we can have. Who would dare hinder us?”

Genesis’ brow furrowed. “You mean to set yourself up as a warlord, then? Taking what you will from the weak and defenseless, simply because you can?”

“Why not? What have humans done to deserve mercy from me?”

“You know I won’t allow it.”

“And you know that at my full strength, you are no match for me,” Weiss challenged. “Will you be able to stop me?”

“No,” Genesis replied. “But I will be…very disappointed, in you.”

Weiss’ smirk vanished, and he quickly scooted over to take Genesis’ hand. “Brother, I was only joking. I have no interest in being a warlord. All I want is to find Nero, and to live peacefully with him, in a place of our own, the way I promised him we would.”

Genesis was mollified and squeezed his hand back. “I, too, wish to find him. I sorely regret that I didn’t stay, to help you, when you asked. I was stricken with grief and had no will to go on, at the time.”

“You couldn’t have helped much, if you had stayed,” Weiss reassured him. “We both saw how weakened you were, from the degradation. Even with the gift of the goddess, you needed time to regenerate.”

“So smart, seeing through your big brother, like that,” Genesis complained, roughing up his white mane, for good measure (which would have amounted to begging for death, for anyone aside from himself and Nero). “You could at least pretend to think I’m amazing and powerful.”

“I do think that. It’s just that I’m stronger,” Weiss reasoned. “There’s no one stronger than me, now that Chaos is gone.”

“Chaos isn’t dead, little brother. It’s not so easy to kill the old gods.”

“But he returned to the Planet, which is almost the same. Didn’t he?”

“He did, and he didn’t. The Planet felt Chaos return, and yet it still feels his conscious will, separate from itself.”

“I see. What is he doing?”

“He’s not doing anything. That’s part of why this is so strange. We should only be awake when we’re needed, but we’re all conscious, even though nothing is happening.”

Weiss considered this, for a moment. “I think we should look for Chaos.”

“How do you propose we do that? The Planet doesn’t let me feel his location, only his consciousness.”

“When we fought, Chaos was possessing a human. If it’s awake, then it’s probably still with him.”

“But how could it…that’s impossible,” Genesis objected. “Its power would obliterate a human’s body.”

“Not this one,” Weiss shrugged. “He was able to contain it and even control it.”

Genesis went a shade paler. “Control it? Are you certain he was human?”

“He was, at some point. I didn’t get much of a chance to observe him, because of that scheming worm Hojo. But I did hear a name. Vincent Valentine. He’s the one we have to look for. Find the man and we find the monster.”

“The situation is even more complicated than I thought, then. You are severely weakened, and separated from Omega’s body. If this Vincent Valentine is truly possessed by Chaos, and you try to fight him, the consequences—”

“I don’t want to fight him. I just want Nero.”

“What if he wants to fight you.”

“It’ll be alright,” Weiss said cheerfully, patting his back. “I’ve got big brother to rely on, now.”

“Oh…joy,” Genesis sighed.

THE AUTHOR HAS SOMETHING TO SAY genesis i'm sick too come take care of meeeeee

[cabramso]

did you even know that its blazing behemoth crocodile beast Wednesday?

[goldengalaxy-gg-official]

Knead My Heart Until It's Ready To Be Glazed

Chapter 1: Cinnamon in Autumn

Main tags: Fluff, pining, romance, coffee shop au

Pairings: Blaze x Gasquatch

The cool air pushed through Blaze’s hair as he walked through the streets of Axle City. His hands were comfortably tucked in the pockets of his pants as he walked on the sidewalk filled with dried leaves. Autumn was Blaze’s favorite season, contrary to popular belief. It was not just because of the constant cool red that greeted him wherever he walked, but Blaze considered this time to be one of the calmest in all of the years. Blaze was always full of energy with people. That’s why he loved it when he could take some time to cool down. 

He pushed his hand against the glass door and listened as the bell jingled, greeting him as he walked to the counter. 

The barista working at the cashier faced away from Blaze, but he could see this man was rather tall. About 6 feet, at least. He could assume he had a beard with the way hair puffed out from the side of his face to the bottom of his chin. 

Blaze cleared his throat and greeted, “Morning, bud.”

The barista turned to him, pausing whatever he was doing, and Blaze was surprised to see Gasquatch. The behemoth of a man greeted Blaze with a large smile and he leaned against the counter at the sight of his friend, towering over the red-haired hero with a friendly grin. “Oh, Blaze! Hey!”

“Gasquatch,” Blaze mirrored the grin. “I didn’t know you were working as a barista.” Blaze never expected to see Gasquatch work something as common as a barista from a newly-opened coffee shop but when Blaze thought about it, it suited him.

Gasquatch laughed and said, “Well, I need to get by somehow. And it’s been really fun, actually!”

“How long have you been working?” Blaze asked. 

“Since Carlito’s opened,” Gasquatch said, taking his position at the counter. “I got hired because a friend of the manager recommended me. I say I got lucky that I passed the interview,” he lightly jokes. “What can I get ‘ya today, Blaze?” 

Blaze hummed and looked through the menu. “What can you recommend?” he asked. 

“Well, the Pumpkin Spice Latte is our best seller since it’s autumn season but I personally like the Double Dutch Cinnamon Cortado,” Gasquatch said. 

“Cortado, huh? Well, I’ll try that one.”

Gasquatch’s lips poked at the edges of his cheeks as he put in the order. 

“How much do I owe you, big guy?” Blaze asked, pulling out his wallet from his pocket. 

“Oh, it’s okay. It’s on the house!” Gasquatch said. 

Blaze blinked before he had a small chuckle escape his lips. “Alright, then.” He took out a few coins and put them on the tip box beside the machine. “Thanks, big guy! I’ll take that one to-go.”

“Alrighty!”

Blaze ordered two Double Dutch Cinnamon Cortados but he only took one. “The other one is for you, big guy.” 

Blaze could see Gasquatch’s eyes sparkle as he took the drink from the counter. He said, “Awe, thanks, Blaze. You didn’t have to.”

“Consider it my thanks,” Blaze said, raising his cup of cortado. “I’ll see you around, big guy.” Blaze strutted out of the small coffee shop, putting the hot beverage to his lips and then exhaling the warmth that entered his body. 

Cinnamon on an autumn day. 

It was quite nice. 

notes: I wanna dedicate this first chapter to all of those yearnings for Blaze x Gasquatch since they've read Gemini!!! Or just Blaze x Gasquatch shippers in general lol thanks to @grayblqnkets for encouraging me to make this story. I dedicate this story to her<3

[one-of-many-journeys]

Day 25

Pitchcliff

At dawn, I tried out the new weapons I bought from the market the night before on a couple of Ravagers. New Carja sling with flame and shock bombs, and a sharpshot bow with harvest arrows. 

For the journey south, I stripped a few layers from my heavy duty armour. All that climbing yesterday wreaked havoc on my arms, lugging all that metal with me. Riding south, I got myself into a dangerous situation. Machines everywhere, but I managed to take down one persevering Behemoth and it’s pet Longleg while avoiding a group of Snapmaws. Picked up some good parts to fortify my new weapons. Did some climbing too. Great views.

Looking out from the top of the ridge, I spotted a man made archway in the distance. Machines surrounded it on all sides; there was no getting through undetected. How could someone live in this place? 

Machine carcasses littered the yard, scored with pocks and scratches and…teeth marks. Banuk markings on the shack wall. 

There was a figure standing in the dark corner, just staring, smiling. Waiting for me to approach. I kept my guard up. His name was Brin, and he spoke in circles and images more than plain words, but what was clearer was his condition: scratch wounds on his chest and face, oil on his teeth, grit stains down his chin mixing with blood. I was right about the teeth marks. 

His brain was clearly…addled. He’s been harvesting the blood from machines and drinking it down for years. Apparently consuming it gives him dreams—visions, prophecies—and in the small pieces of clarity I could pick from his story, I found truth. There were allusions to the Old Ones’ fate, to Faro’s machines. He told me of his tribe—his lack of a tribe, really. Once, he was Banuk, which confirms what I believed about Sylens, since Brin’s branded with matching blue cables. They cast him out for his beverage of choice and left him to die on the ice. I guess becoming an outcast in Banuk lands really is a death sentence, no chance about it. They called his behaviour sacrilege. Do the Banuk...worship the machines?

Brin asked me to bring him the blood of a Sawtooth. The last time he tousled with one, he said, a frenzy came over him and he started gnawing on the wiring of its neck as it tore his skin to ribbons. If I didn’t get it for him, his next attempt would probably kill him.

There was a Sawtooth not far from the house. I rode through the gathering dust storm, took it down, extracted its…fluids, and returned to Brin. As he stood there, letting the drink settle, I took stock and tried not to listen to the noise. Acid bite, gurgling, popping bones, breath rasping through a scorched throat. Brin twitched and gasped as the substance showed its supposed secrets to him.

The dream he then spoke of was thick with imagery—storms, drums, blood-hungry animals. It almost seemed like he was describing the Derangement, that the new, deadly machines were built in the image of older machines or weapons or creatures, from wars that were fought long before us. Did the Cauldrons learn how to build them, or did someone teach them? Someone who remembers. 

Brin wanted Corrupter blood next, as in the stuff that’s corrosive to the touch and eats through metal. Apparently he’s enjoyed it already, but I needed to move on. I’m sure my path will take me back this way again someday. Not sure if I can say I’m looking forward to it. 

The nearest camp I knew of was the Sun Furrows Hunting Ground. I arrived there a couple hours after dark, still unable to run the final trial. I’ll be back for that blazing sun. Traded with the merchant and slept under the stars to the deep, chest-pounding steps of the Thunderjaw pacing below.

[silverstormsxx]

Friends With A Spider - An Underfell Fic

UNDERFELL: MAY WE PERSEVERE

AU premise:

So i was thinking about how in Underfell, everyone good becomes bad and everyone bad becomes good

And y'know how in Undertale, Muffet is infamously known as being well.. a very bad person?

Well I thought: why not have muffet swapped as well?

----

Growing up, Muffet knew something was wrong with the world.

The people around her were bloodthirsty. Needlessly violent. Killing everything they could get their hands on to support their twisted view of the world.

Even her parents seemed to buy into the mindset held by most of the monsters in the Underground.

It was kill or be killed. No question about it.

They always scolded her whenever she tried to argue against it. If she was particularly good that day, she would be sent off to bed with an empty stomach and only three fresh wounds the maids would take care of in the morning.

The only friends she ever had were the spiders.

Her happiest memories were having a tea party with Cocoa, or licking frosting fresh from the whip after baking cupcakes with Sugar or hearing stories from other parts of the Underground by Miss Vanilla, the oldest and wisest spider alive.

As such, when her parents had disappeared under "mysterious circumstances" (which she suspected had something to do with those shady businessmen they had made deals with in order to further their business' influence,) she of course dedicated her reign as Queen of the Spider Clans to ensuring that the spiders of the Underground were taken care of and happy.

No longer would they be purposefully stepped on and abused and killed and even stepped on by some especially sick fucks (She had heard many a horror story about a short skeleton who went out of his way to make the few spiders who could tolerate Snowdin's intense climate lives hell.)

In a way, she saw it as returning the favor for being the only reason she hadn't decided to end it all a long time ago.

She started up a bake sale. She needed to find a way to raise money to safely transport all of the spiders trapped in the Ruins through Snowdin, after all! And what better way to do that than through an activity she had always loved?

Business was.. slow, at first, but little by little, it picked up speed. Any day now, the bake sale would garner enough money to finally but that heated limo she had been dreaming about for years.

It had seemed like a fever dream for the longest time, but now she could finally see it in arms' reach!

Any day now. She just knew it!

----

A child in a black sweater, striped in shades of red, holding a flower pot with a buttercup in it faced off against a monster closely resembling a volcano. A cloud hovered above them, spewing out strikes of lightning ominously.

The child attempted to hug the monster, only to get knocked back by yet another bolt of lightning, sending them and the buttercup they held flying.

As the child winced and tried to look over their wounds, the flower that lay beside them yelled out: "FRISK! WATCH OUT-"

But before they could even process that sentence, they were met face to face with a terribly sharp lightning bolt.

They braced themselves for the pain that would surely soon follow, already imagining the feeling of their heart getting fried and toasted from the inside out, their very SOUL being lit aflame and burning in a blaze of glory before fracturing into a million pieces.

But it never came.

Opening their eyes, Frisk looked at the monster that had been attacking them, only to see that it had been restrained by purple webs.

The Vulkin was pushed aside, tossed somewhere unknown as a spider-like monster descended from above, with purplish gray skin and five beady, black eyes.

Frisk and Flowey tensed up in fear as they saw the monster that had dispatched the Vulkin they were having trouble with so effortlessly. They prepared themselves for anything - getting eaten by a bulking behemoth of a spider, being drowned in liters upon liters of tea, getting stuck in one of her insidious cobwebs..

Anything but the sound of a quiet, meek voice that made both of their heads turn up.

"Are.. are you two okay?"

---

[damien-wolfram-art]

Titan’s Rest

@hashimada-week

@flawlessstriker made some art based on this one

Here it is!

A century ago, The Land of Fire was covered in trees and full of life. The Land of Trees would’ve seemed like a better name then. Now, however the land lies still– its forests charred. None more so than the trees at Titan’s Rest, where the great Wood Golem, Hashirama once clashed with the ancient Susanoo, Madara. 

In the time that they ruled, Wood Golems and Susanoo were both imposing behemoths. The Susanoo were creatures that arose from the continent’s fiery formation. Their hulking armored forms were made of earth, rock, and metals. Most impressively, Susanoo ran on the heat of the planet itself. Each individual had a molten core of magma fed by the earth that erupted from its joints when roused. Some Susanoo had crystals adorning their shoulders and sprouting from their heads in the shapes of intricate headdresses. These were some of the most desirable and attractive.

Madara was one of the most desired of the Susanoo. The females of his kind rarely left him alone for he was strong, sturdy, and his core boiled stoutly no matter the weather. When he was formed, he crawled out of the magma with his four powerful arms and when he dressed himself, he made quite the statement. He carried a blazing sword that he forged himself and clad himself in a pleated metal armor sode. He adorned his back arms with large blue crystals that he had harvested so that they resembled glistening wings. He also made a small headdress for himself from some of the same crystals that rimmed the seams on his head and neck. This is where his fire escaped from, causing a plume that resembled a majestic mane.

  It wasn’t until the day this curious Susanoo rose up and cultivated their molten soup of a continent into something less primordial, that the land’s name lost its meaning. The Susanoo may have been the ones who named The Land of Fire, for fire was what they knew, but Madara had no interest in women or remaining stagnant in the lava pools. He’d shoo them constantly in favor of gardening. 

When the first tree sprouted, he was infatuated. He couldn’t help but tell the other Susanoo all about the new life he’d created. This proof of concept encouraged other Susanoo to join him. Soon, more and more trees were growing all over the Land of Fire! Some of them grew to be larger than the Susanoo and with these trees, the Wood Golems were born.

At first, like the trees, there were very few Wood Golems. Forming from the tree bark, they developed quickly, absorbing life energy from the water and air around them.  One Wood Golem was friendlier than the rest. His name was Hashirama– a strong oaken behemoth with thick arms, and long vines that sprouted from his head. He fashioned himself armor from the wood he grew from in admiration of the Susanoo. He was Madara’s favorite. He took that mimicry as flattery and wholeheartedly accepted his creations.

  One day, Hashirama explained to him that Wood Golems had the ability to breathe in carbon dioxide and produce oxygen, something necessary to feed a Susanoo’s flame. Madara then showed Hashirama that he could summon rain to feed the Wood Golems by breathing fire into the clouds. This got Madara to believe that together the Susanoo and Wood Golems could thrive. Before long, the number of Wood Golems rivaled that of the Susanoo.

The continent however could only sustain one group of titans. Their growing population and their reliance on the earth caused resources to become scarce. The Wood Golems needed the earth for their trees so that they could procreate. The Susanoo needed the earth to feed their fires and so, they were at odds. Thus, began a long era of warring between the two groups.

For years, The Land of Fire was ravaged by their battles. The forests were burnt, and the waters became black– laden with ash. The culmination of all the fighting occurred at Titan’s Rest, although it had yet to earn that name then.

Hashirama and Madara were the last of their kind. Although neither one wished for conflict, both had suffered heavy losses and neither would back down. Madara leveled the forest for hundreds of kilometers with one swing of his sword. The remnants of the burning trees are what became Titan’s Rest, but what truly made the place iconic was how the two ended their conflict.

At the center of Titan’s Rest stand the remains of the two colossal beasts locked in combat. The Susanoo, Madara, no longer burns– his black craggy core, exposed by his own sword piercing his chest, suffocated by Hashirama’s wooden tendrils. In his efforts to stop Madara from destroying the lush world he and the other Susanoo had worked so hard to create, Hashirama disarmed his friend. He then plunged the sword deep into the Susanoo’s chest and gave up all of his breath. It was that expulsion of all the stored carbon dioxide in Hashirama’s body that not only stopped Madara, but it also stopped Hashirama dead in his tracks.

Their pain contorted expressions, fading rock, and withered wood serve as a reminder of a world that could never have been. A dichotomy that could never be overcome. They have stood this way ever since and that is the story of Titan’s Rest.