#cross dimensional answers

[mknight0000]

Cross-Dimensional Answers Prologue-Ch 2 (Last Legacy)

A/N: HOLY HELL IT IS FINALLY HAPPENING. I really do apologize for waiting over a year to finally post this. I don't really want to go into it, but it is finally happening. Anyways below are the proper credits and I hope you enjoy it.

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Word Count: 2,368

Warnings: Swearing, Potentail poor grammar

Creators: Dev (creator and writer), Ciel (sprites, cgs, illustrations), Hika (bgs, illustrations, gfx), Lulu (writer), and Grace (writer) 

-Carrd Link

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When I wake, a coughing fit rises within me. My lungs burn from the lack of air during the split second of paranormal emptiness. As my breathing becomes more steady, I am met with a cool breeze of earth and rain that flows through my partially undone ponytail. Despite the circumstances, my first thought is:

I feel like a mess.

I move from the ground, feeling the cobblestone-tile ground beneath my hands and knees, its smooth, but uneven texture set beneath me. I open my eyes to see endless firefly lights moving around me, the circles shining brightly. The whispered sound in my ears fades when another breeze blows past.

After letting my eyes adjust, I look around hoping to figure out what the hell happened. In front of me, I see a wide staircase leading up to a large, arched window. Crumpled stone walls surround me, exposing the open room to the forces of nature. I look past the walls into the…night sky?

Wait? What the hell? How is it already nighttime?

Still baffled by the sudden jump in time, I look upwards towards the sky to see clouds moving across the purple atmosphere, red-hued moonlight shining bright. As I glance around, I notice iron-chained chandeliers hanging from the parts of the room that still have a ceiling with faint light glowing from the lit candles.

Before I can take anything else in from the scene, a voice whispers close to me. It’s low and hoarse as if stricken by emotions of various kinds. 

“Five years I’ve dreamt of this day…When at last we would be reunited”

Whilst still on the ground, I look to see someone standing above me, looking straight at me. His wavy, dark brown hair blows against his tan skin, giving a clear view of his gray eyes, brimmed with tears. The stranger wears a dark brown, unbuttoned vest over what seems to be a white, peasant blouse paired with light brown trousers. A black, long, velvety overcoat, adorned with gold accents, is draped over his shoulder and a book is strapped by a belt to his thigh.

He looks slightly familiar. I think to myself, though confused about who this stranger is.

“Yet it seems neither fate nor the stars can keep us apart.” He continues, his breathing labored. 

The mysterious stranger approaches me, kneeling, taking my hands into his and interlocking them. My eyes widen slightly, thoughts of confusion still prominent in my mind. 

“I never stopped looking for you, I never gave up,” he says as he presses a soft kiss to my knuckles. 

My eyes widen even more as my face starts to warm, knowing very well that it is as red as a lowering sunset. Instead of the soft wind and his gentle murmurs, all I hear is my heartbeat, pulsing at a faster rate than before.

What in the depths of hell is going on?????!!!!!!!!!

“Oh! How I missed you!” he says with his lips quirking into a slanted grin, pulling me into a tight embrace. 

“What–Oh!” I exclaimed at the sudden action. 

I can feel his body shaking as I hear slight, silent sobs coming from the strange man. To comfort him, I pat his back lightly, but awkwardly, out of both confusion

and slight concern. In normal circumstances, I would’ve thrown this him off of me, but I can’t help but note the tone of great loss in his voice, leading my heart to pull just a little under the weight of the few words he has said to me. Though he is still sobbing, I decided now is the best time to intervene. 

“Um, I think there has been a mistake,” I say genuinely whilst also feeling him stiffen up as the words leave my mouth, “My name is Megan. I think I may have been teleported here with this staff thingy to wherever this is–honestly, I don’t know, just uuuuhhhhhh….who are you?” 

His face moves quickly, positioning himself in front of me. His slate gray eyes, rimmed with tears, widen, snapping to meet mine, and his brow jumps in shock at my statement.

“You-you're not Rime?” he asks, horror and desperation clear in his voice. 

I shake my head back and forth. After his realization sets in, he leans away from me, his face reddened in embarrassment. He buries his face in his hands, staying in that position for a while with his shoulders trembling with each breath he takes. 

At this point, I do not know what to do except sit there, resting on my knees, and stare at him in unrelenting confusion and worry, though, for some reason, not for myself.

….Should I say something?

As I open my mouth, about to attempt to comfort him, he groans, lifts his head out of his hands, and starts whipping the tears from his face. 

“Bloody hells,” he croaks. 

“Are you okay?” I ask.

“I’m fine,” he responds, “Now, what manner of void fiend are you then? Lich? Revenant? Behold with surplus eyes?”

Manner of void fiend? What is he talking about?

My forehead scrunches in confusion as I try to offer up an answer to his strange question.

“I’m a barista…if that’s what you’re asking.”

As soon as I answer, a flash of frustration passes his face. He pinches the bridge of his nose as he softly mutters to himself under his breath, his head slightly bent down. 

After about a minute, he looks back up at me. He’s no longer crying but I can tell he’s just…tired.  “It seems I’ve made a grave mistake,” he states, “Very well. Allow me to introduce myself.”

He shifts a bit further from me and stands. Before he continues, he offers his hand to me to help me stand up. I thank him as I grab it and get to my feet, though my legs wobble the tiniest bit when I initially stand. As I look back at him, he tucks the hand he offered to me behind his back, and bows deeply with a dramatic, noticeably practiced, flourish. 

“My name is Fleix Iskandar Escellun. House unaffiliated. Necromancer,” he declared as he finished his bow. 

My eyes widen at the mention of his last name. “Escellun? Like Magister Escell?!” I ask in bewilderment.

I can tell that my acknowledgment of his last name soured his mood slightly. His face darkens, and as soon as it does. I can see it. That salty glare that Felix is giving me is just like Escell’s! 

He looks off to the side and grumbles at me. “Tch, he hasn’t been called ‘Magister’ since before i was born.” 

“Wait, is he your father?” 

He stays silent for a moment, looking me up in down. He’s clearly sizing me up. 

“Yes, he is,” a hint of disdain in his voice, but then he looks back at me questionally. “How do you even know that name, barista?” he asks, “You are very clearly not from Astraea.”

My heart stops for a split second once the name of the magical land falls from his lips. I had to have imagined he said that.

“Astraea?” I softly ask him, because there is no way I am currently in the land I have spent countless hours in on a computer screen.

No way…If I am in Astraea, then that means that I have somehow been transported to the world of Last Legacy.

I honestly do not know how to react. I should be ecstatically jumping in the air, at least that would be the reaction of any superfan, but I’m not. Instead, my hands are clammy and my breath starts to falter. My heart is beating faster and everything around me starts to become slightly muffled. 

I cannot be in a different world. I just can’t. This is some sick joke…or maybe I’m just dead?

I gather up my courage and ask, “Is this the afterlife? Am I dead? Why does heaven, or wherever I am, look like a video game?”

Felix looks back at me in slight shock and amusement in response to my question. “Is this cesspool truly how you imagined heaven? Mildew, rubble, me–utterly humiliated,” he humors but his lips turn into a smirk saying, “Although, I suppose I should be flattered you discerned anything divine about me.”

His voice is laced with complete sarcasm, except I catch him shyly lowering his eyes. 

Still confused with this whole situation, I ask, “So are you saying this is more like limbo or hell?”

He turns slightly to the side, gets out his glasses, opens a strange book, and starts reading it. There is no way this book is new. Its frayed, maroon cloth cover is embossed with strange markings and a skull at the center. It’s worn with sand-colored pages that look like they’d crumble with one touch. It’s definitely not something you would find at your average book store. 

“Please. If this were a hell there’d be a great deal more fire and at least twice as many rats,” he answers. 

“Now, I must have mixed up my tals and pals when inscribing the spell circle…” he trails off muttering under his breath whilst flipping through the musty, old tome. 

“So to be sure, I’m not dead?” I ask, not knowing what else to say.

He looks up from the pages, his gray eyes looking straight into mine. I just can’t stop thinking about the similarities between him and his father. I can’t help to feel a tad bit intimidated by the glare. 

He responds to my question, saying, “Sleep, and death, and the void all share their similarities, but you are very much alive.”

“How poetic,” I respond as I look around my surroundings, still baffled at the jump in time. 

He smirks at my retort, “Take it from someone who has died once or twice before.”

My head turns suddenly in his direction out of shock, my eyes widening. 

My reaction makes him chuckle, but he returns back to his book reading what looks to be incomprehensible scribbles. I take this moment to try to calm myself down. 

Okay Megan. Remember those breathing techniques Sarah recommended. Breathe in for five seconds, out for five more. In for five, out for five. In…and out…In…and out…

After a few more rounds, my heart calms, and my breathing evens out. 

I may still be in a world full of wizards and mercenaries, but at least I am now calm…for now.  Now, to find a way back to the convention center.

“So Felix, if you brought me here, does that mean you can send me home as well?”

“Oh I can definitely send you back”

I release a sigh of relief, and a smile overcomes my lips.

“Wonderful! Now how-” I start, but he cuts me off.

“Well probably.” 

My face drops with disappointment.

“Probably? What do you mean probably? I can’t stay here!” I respond, my voice slowly climbing with anger. 

“Well first I need the Astrolabe–” he responds but cuts himself off quickly, “er, that ‘staff-thingy’ you mentioned earlier.

“That’s it? That’s all you need?” I ask, hopefulness laced in between my words, “Then you can return me home?”

“Perhaps. Now, where is it?” he questions, looking around for the Astrolabe. 

I shoot Felix an unknowing look.

“Oh well…um... “ I start, “When I went to pick it up it started glowing, but disappeared right after I touched it…so it may be somewhere around here.”

The color drains from his face at my response. Despite his face seeming still, his eyes fill with anger. He opens his mouth to speak, as if he's about to rip me a new one, but catches himself before speaking. 

“Ah. Well…that complicates things,” he states as he pinches the bridge of his nose.

“What do you mean, ‘complicates things?” I werrily ask. The wind blows my partially undone ponytail, causing a chill to run down my spine, uneasiness filling my stomach. 

Felix whips his head around, facing the door.

“I’ll explain after we’ve shed those pesky guards,” he responds hastily. 

“What guar–” I start, but a loud bang interrupts me, causing me to jump.

I look over at the nearby chestnut-hued door as it buckles violently. The only thing holding it together is a few rusty, wobbling bolts. 

“Damn it all. My summoning may have drawn some unwanted attention–Oh and did I mention we may be trespassing?”

I shoot him a glare, “Maybe you could’ve brought that up earlier!”

Felix merely looks at me and takes a deep breath, before making an arc gracefully in the air with his right hand. Seemingly, out of nothing, a black oval appears in midair. Though ripples emerge from the inky black center, there is a faint, but unclear, image that lies within. 

“Hie thee through the portal,” he quickly remarks, making a shooing motion toward the obsidian entrance. 

I stare back at him incredulously, “You want me to get into that? Where does it even go?”

Suddenly, the rickety door splinters and bows as it continuously keeps getting bashed in. One of the rusty bolts springs free, following onto the stone floor. I am fully aware my options are very small at the moment, but I don’t know how much I can trust this man.

“Somewhere safe,” he responds, “Or rather, to someone safe. Now, I’d appreciate it if you hurried. Holding this open is harder than it looks.”

Though every bone in my body is saying to run, there’s something in his voice that seems trusting and if I don’t listen, I may be in more trouble than I can handle. 

As I take a step forward, Felix holds a hand out. My black backpack dangles from his hand by its strap. My heart lifts a bit at the sight. 

Felix can see my apprehension when he states, “Fear not, barista. I won’t let any harm come to you.”

The guards had persevered in their efforts to break down the door, seeing seconds after Felix’s statement, a group of armored individuals bust into the room with a loud crash. There was no hesitation as I hurled my body into the dark portal, plunging into the unknown darkness. 

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Cannot wait to start the next part....Anisa my darling.

[brain-rot-central]

not to be rude but like AI art literally steals from other artists and it's awful for the planet.. so maybe you should mind AI art? lol

Hey so I'm not really gonna answer this beyond 1) I don't really use Tumblr for debates/arguments about inflammatory topics and 2) I'm purposely ignorant to the entire outrage surrounding AI art because there are too many things demanding "action" and "engagement" from the general public on any given day at this point that I literally have zero left in the tank.

I'm not defending AI art but I'm literally just saying it's not one of the things that "enrage" me as of late. I'm more worried about things going on in my personal life and the current political climate of the US rn tbh and I come here to Tumblr to be horny about fictional characters because that's a better coping mechanism than drinking myself into a stupor or taking bong rip after bong rip to the face.

That being said I subscribe to artists on patreon that create their own art and will always 100% support artists who draw for a living.

[4dbeingguide]

11 tips from a master manifestor.

y’all have been loving my first post and it’s really encouraged me to come back. this time i have 11 tips for you! i would’ve really appreciated a post like this when i was a beginner so i’ve decided to make it for those who may also be starting with their journey. actually it doesn’t matter where you are on this road, this is supposed to help everybody, including master manifestors (yes, sometimes doubts cross our minds, we just know how to deal with them)!

there is a lot of repetition as there are some concepts i want to emphasize on. excuse any grammar errors. let’s get straight to it!

stop giving a fuck about the 3D. that is absolute (as in, don’t check it, don’t wait for anything from it, don’t let it get to you). just stop. i have a post over here that will really help you in doing so (and no, it isn’t me cursing at you while ordering you to stop. it’s me having a discussion with you and listening to your doubts while refuting them and i also back it up with scientific sources).

acknowledge that you already are a master manifestor. you’re already where you need to be. don’t let the illusion that is the 3D tell you otherwise!

if you see a piece of manifestation advice that rubs you the wrong way then simply act as if it’s false and doesn’t apply to your reality. you make the rules.

speaking of rules, make yourself some manifesting rules that dictate that manifesting is effortless and instant for you. don’t settle for less.

keep a success story list (and yes, you can put stuff that you’ve assumed that hasn’t appeared in the 3D since the 4D is the only reality) so that you can use it to reaffirm your belief in the law if you ever doubt it.

never seek approval from the 3D for ANYTHING. it is an ILLUSION. your 4D/mind/assumptions are the OBJECTIVE reality. this also applies to the state of waiting and wanting. why do you want to wait for the approval of an illusion? and what are you wanting when it’s already here?

the 3D is not your enemy and it is impossible for the 3D to reject your manifestation. the bitch is inanimate lmao. have you ever walked in front of a mirror and had it tell you “i’m not gonna reflect right now”? i’m sure the answer is no. the 3D works the same way. it EXISTS to reflect our assumptions. that’s its entire purpose. it is nothing but an illusory perception of our 4D. it actually obeys you down to a T. i was gonna say it’s your pet but pets are actually alive and autonomous, the 3D isn’t. the 3D just an inanimate illusion. your business is in the 4D. that’s where you live.

you don’t need a technique. to manifest, all you have to do is assume you have it or enter the state of having it. techniques simply exist to help you do so (that’s why we affirm/visualize/etc. that we have it) but you can do it directly. that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t use them. do what feels most natural to you. do what is the most efficient when it comes to making you fulfilled (not what gives it to you fastest in the 3D. remember, it’s an illusion).

you shouldn’t care if the 3D will give it to you or not. the 3D is an illusion, remember? a simple way to get yourself to put your eyes on the 4D is saying something to the effect of “this 3D/physical world isn’t real/is an illusion, the 4D/mind is the only true reality, i live in the 4D and thus all my affairs are there and not in the 3D and this is what the 4D is saying: (insert manifestation)”. seriously, all your affairs are in the 4D. you’re 4 dimensional.

when doubts persist, reading rants and banging pots and pans might help sometimes but sometimes you just have to sit down with yourself and have an internal dialogue. you’re human (probably 🤔 just in case you’re manifesting otherwise as you read this, and yes it IS possible). hear what your doubts have to say in full (don’t buy it though) and debunk them calmly and civilly.

limits don’t exist. imagination is the only reality. if you can imagine it then it can happen unless you say it can’t.

if you liked this post, make sure to check out my post here!!! in it i elaborate on how to deal with doubts. have an amazing day 🫶

[anomalyaly]

right where you left me

Summary: You died. Sebastian secretly had a portrait of you commissioned.

I profusely apologize for the pain.

Inspired by @sychenb for the prompt idea. Also crediting @sloanesallow for her headcanon about Sebastian keeping track of numbers.

(also sort of inspired by Unus Annus - iykyk - and Taylor Swift, if you couldn't guess by the title)

Tags: Angst, F!Reader POV (you), unreliable narrator, vague ship (Sebastian x reader/Ominis x reader), Sebastian was in love with you but never confessed, death, grief, ambiguous ending, overall the sads in general, I cried while writing this

[AO3] [Wattpad]

It had been 279 days since you died.

At least, that’s what Sebastian tells you — your portrait, anyway. It was all that was left of you after the devastating battle you had fought and never walked away from. You hadn’t even known he’d had a portrait of you commissioned when you were alive until you woke up, your body cold, your face illuminated by the flickering candles of the Undercroft.

He comes to visit you every day — some days, he simply sits in front of you, cross-legged and silent. You creep into the frame and study him, the shadows on his face, a haunted look in his eye — unfamiliar. You can only recall a bright, talkative, charming boy with whom you were once close. You didn’t recognize him the first time he visited you, yet his presence brings you comfort.

On other days, you see traces of the boy he was before. He bursts in through the gate talking nonstop about everyone who misses you, about something he saw that you would have liked or that reminded him of you. Sometimes, he even brings you gifts and places them in front of your frame so you can admire them when he’s away.

That’s where he keeps you — hidden behind a wooden crate in the Undercroft like a sacred shrine, untouched by anyone but him. He only speaks with you when he is alone.

Another boy comes in on occasion, and you only know because of the sound of his voice and the pulsing red light of his wand that you can see from behind the pile of crates. Ominis, you remember Sebastian telling you, another friend from when you were alive. Sometimes they argue, other times they refuse to acknowledge each other. But Sebastian always keeps you tucked away, his own personal secret.

“It’s almost Christmas,” he sighs as he plops down in front of you. “300 days since you…well, since— ”

He could never bring himself to finish that sentence, even after almost a year. You never finish it for him.

“Are you going back to Feldcroft?” you ask, though you already know the answer.

He shakes his head. “I wouldn’t leave you here alone. I couldn’t do that to you.”

You knew he probably hadn’t been back since that dreadful day. He had only spoken of it once to refresh your memory. He never brought it up again.

“Sebastian,” you say, and he perks up at the sound of his name leaving your painted lips, “how come you always hide me away when Ominis comes in? Doesn’t he want to talk to me, too?”

His eyes flash with something — anger, perhaps, it was hard to tell from your two-dimensional world — and he stands, approaching your portrait. “He wouldn’t understand.”

“I’m only a portrait,” you tease, trying to lighten the mood. “It’s not like you’ve been practicing necromancy.”

It wasn’t the right thing to say, but you don’t completely understand why. He turns away from you, fists clenched, shoulders tense and hunched over, before running his fingers through his hair and repeating himself more adamantly. “He wouldn’t understand.”

You remember him uttering a similar statement throughout your short life at Hogwarts — secrets that only the two of you shared, unbeknownst to Ominis until it was too late. “Surely he misses me, too— ”

“Did you love him?”

The question takes you by surprise, though you think it’s not the first time he’s asked it. “What?”

Sebastian whirls to face you, his gaze intense, demanding. “Did you love him? Or did you love me?”

Your portrait blinks, confused. Truthfully, you hadn’t been alive nearly long enough to confirm your feelings for either of them, but you knew that both boys had been important to you during your last few months of life. The portrait of you had only been a time capsule of your fifteen-year-old self — undecided and immature. You’re not even certain if the emotions you feel now are real or remnants of what you experienced when you were alive. “I…I cared deeply for both of you if that’s what you’re asking.”

Your answer nearly breaks him, as if he’s heard it a million times before. He tugs at his hair, the movement causing him to look frenzied and mad. “That’s not what I asked! Who did you — ”

“Sebastian?”

The voice of the intruder causes both of you to freeze. Sebastian pulls himself out from behind the crate and holds a finger to his lips before pushing it in front of you once more.

“Over here, Ominis.”

You hear footsteps and see the red glow of the other boy’s wand, then shuffling as Sebastian strategically places himself in front of the wooden box. The echoing footsteps grow closer, and you straighten at Ominis’s frantic tone as he speaks.

“Who were you talking to?” he asks. “I…I thought I heard…her.”

“No one else is here but me,” Sebastian says, guarded.

You can practically feel Ominis’s internal struggle to believe him. You decide that there have been enough secrets between the three of you — you’re not going to let it carry on post-mortem.

“Ominis? Is that you?” you call out. You hear Sebastian press his body against the crate in front of you. Ominis pushes past him, and they both tumble into it, knocking it over and exposing your portrait.

Chaos ensues at Ominis’s realization. The two boys are shouting at each other in front of you as you are helpless to stop them — Ominis, for having yet another secret kept from him, and Sebastian, for defending his reasonings. You aren’t sure if it’s because of jealousy, grief, or some combination of the two, but all you want is for the noise to stop.

You call out helplessly from your portrait, wishing you could step between them, just as you had done time and time again all those months ago. Before everything had gone so wrong.

Suddenly, hot, angry tears are pouring down both of their faces, and you are overcome with just how useless you are at this moment — a fragmented memory, trapped within the confines of your magical canvas. You want nothing more than to hug each of them, to let them feel your arms around them in comfort and take their pain away.

But you are gone.

The two boys now stand solemn and silent in front of you. Ominis takes a step closer, his wand hovering over your portrait before he runs his fingers along the gilded frame. “Is it…really you?”

“No.” You can hear the flatness in Sebastian’s voice, how tired and worn he truly is. He repeats exactly what you thought only moments before as if to confirm it. “She hardly remembers what happened, or even who we are. She’s just a fragment. A memory.”

You want to argue that it is you, but you know that he’s right. You barely remembered your living self until Sebastian explained everything to you on his daily visits. Whispers of your personality still shine through on occasion, but you are otherwise simply existing.

Ominis sighs, and you can hear the weight behind it, as if he had been holding his breath and finally allowed himself to release it. He traces his fingers along the divots of the frame once more, and you try to will yourself to feel it.

The two boys exchange an unspoken conversation that thickens the tension in the air. They seem to come to an agreement, and you let out a small breath — if you can call it that — of relief when they sit down in front of you and appear to bask in your presence. You stay quiet and allow them this moment — it’s the only thing you can do.

The days that follow are the same. No longer is Sebastian coming in alone for covert meetings with your portrait. Now, you see both Sebastian and Ominis at the same time every single day, a religious appointment that they’ve set aside just for you. They take turns talking to you, even if they can only manage a few words, and you learn to appreciate their company, knowing that you were loved by both of them in life.

Just like old times, Sebastian says, and the three of you laugh.

Christmas approaches quickly, or that’s what they say when they come to visit a short while later. They bring your favorite things from when you were alive — chocolate frogs, flowers, even books, which Sebastian reads to you — and they tell you stories about you and the kind of person they knew you to be. You wonder if it’s true, or if they have created an idealistic image of you since you are no longer there with them. Not really.

Kind, they say that you were, thoughtful, loving, self-sacrificial, and maybe a bit idealistic. You were friends with both of them, after all, the mischievous pair that they were, before everything was taken away from them, before life was unfair. They try to smile for you and remind you that Christmas at the castle is a time for celebration, but you can tell that it’s a weak facade.

You smile back at them anyway.

The anniversary of your death approaches. Neither of them can bring themselves to say anything, aside from a few words to honor you. So the three of you sit in tearful silence, admiring the flowers that they decorated your portrait with. You think you can almost smell the sweet aroma of the bouquets.

Something changes in the air — you can sense it — though you aren’t sure what. You notice it when their visits become shorter, with fewer stories to tell, and fewer presents left in front of your frame. Sebastian and Ominis start showing up at separate times, stopping in for a brief hello before leaving with an excuse. You start to wonder what they are doing when they are gone, but you are unable to leave your frame — only one portrait of you was ever commissioned.

Soon, they start missing days, returning at a later time with profuse apologies about how life was busy, but they still miss you. Difficult classes, detention, studying for NEWTs, and preparing for a career — all of these seem to take precedence over you. But they still manage to make time in all of the hectic day-to-day activities, and you look forward to the days when they do come.

You wake up one morning and realize you are in a different location — Feldcroft, most likely, though you hadn’t seen it since that fateful day. Sebastian hangs your frame up on the wall, promising that he and Ominis will come to visit you more often now that they have graduated.

They don’t.

The length of time in between seeing them grows longer, you’re certain of it. Each time one of them arrives, they look a little bit different — sometimes they have longer hair, other times a bit of scruff around their chins, but they always come in looking more weathered than they had when you last saw them.

You realize that they are doing something that you will never again be able to join them in — growing older. You start to wonder about their lives outside of you, yet your painted mind cannot comprehend what an adult life looks like, forever frozen in your adolescent state. You find that you are unable to relate to any of their stories, and they seem to be holding back in what they choose to share.

I wish you were still here, they always say before they go, and you start to wonder if they mean it.

At long last, the visits from your once two closest friends become scarce, and you aren’t certain how much time has passed since someone last spoke to you. The bright flowers that once decorated your golden frame wither and die, and the little gifts they used to leave stay untouched and unopened. The tiny cottage in Feldcroft becomes a sepulcher of your essence — a permanent reminder that you are no longer among the living.

You can’t help but wonder if it was something you did, if their reasons for not returning were your fault. You can feel the stories that they used to tell you fading away, unable to retain the memories in your current form.

You decide that it’s time to rest.

In the quiet house, just south of Hogwarts, your portrait closes its eyes. You do not wake again.

[zhelin-thames]

Hi! I absolutely adore your stories!! 💖💖💖💖 I don't know if you are taking requests (idk if this counts as one or not) but could you possibly make a part 2 of Tiny Baby Ghost?? It was so funny and cute!!

Heres part 2. I'm open for any requests, including different crossovers(ill only write them if i know the shows tho).

read part 1, part 3 is also out

Danny floated out of Pariah’s hand with a sigh, brushing green ectoplasm off his suit. “Okay, everyone just… chill for two seconds. No smiting, no world-ending threats, no awkward death stares.” He turned to Pariah and Fright Knight. “Dad, Sir Glowstick, I’ve got this.”

Pariah scowled but crossed his massive arms, radiating reluctance. Fright Knight gave a sharp, reluctant nod, fading back into the shadows. Pariah, however, loomed protectively behind Danny like a vengeful thundercloud, making the Batkids visibly tense.

Danny turned to Constantine, his hands on his hips. “Alright, magic man, what’s the ‘big emergency’? Why’d you summon me, specifically?”

Constantine, cigarette now burned down to the filter, pinched the bridge of his nose. “We’re dealing with a dimensional tear. Nasty bit of magic, ancient stuff. Needs a Ghost King’s touch to fix it before it swallows half the world.”

Danny raised an eyebrow. “A tear? Like, between dimensions?”

“Yes,” Superman answered, his voice calm. “It’s growing larger every hour. We believed the Ghost King would be the only one capable of sealing it.”

Danny groaned, dragging his hands down his face. “I’m not the Ghost King. I’m not even remotely qualified for this. Did you not read the fine print on your summoning ritual?”

“You were summoned by name,” Wonder Woman pointed out. “Surely there is a reason the ritual chose you.”

“Yeah, the reason is: the universe loves torturing me,” Danny muttered. He began pacing, muttering under his breath. “Okay, think… dimensional tear, ghost powers… I’ve done that before, sorta…”

Jason, leaning against a table with his arms crossed, snorted. “So, what, Casper? You’re just gonna wing it?”

Danny stopped pacing and glared at him. “Do you have a better idea, Red Hood? What’re you gonna do, shoot the dimensional tear?”

“Couldn’t hurt to try,” Jason shot back, smirking. “Who knows, maybe the bullet’s haunted.”

“Is he always like this?” Danny asked, gesturing at Jason.

“Yes,” Damian said flatly. “And he’s right—your incompetence hardly inspires confidence.”

“Okay, first of all,” Danny snapped, pointing at Damian, “I’m not incompetent. Second, you’re one to talk, kid ninja.”

Damian bristled, stepping forward. “Do you truly believe you could intimidate me, ghost child?”

Danny blinked, then smirked. “Oh, I don’t need to intimidate you.” He snapped his fingers, and his ectoplasmic energy surged, making Damian’s cape float dramatically behind him. The youngest Wayne’s eyes widened before he quickly turned to look at his cape, trying to snatch it down.

Jason doubled over laughing. “That’s perfect! Oh man, I think I like you, kid.”

“Enough,” Batman growled, cutting through the banter. “If you know how to fix the dimensional tear, we need to act now.”

Danny sighed. “Fine. I’ll try something. But no promises this works, because I am not the king.”

“You keep saying that,” Nightwing said, tilting his head. “If you’re not the king, why does the summoning work for you?”

Danny hesitated, glancing over his shoulder at Pariah, who was watching silently, his expression unreadable. “Because technically…” Danny rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m… uh… kinda the ‘heir.’ Sorta. By accident.”

Jason whistled. “You’re the heir to the Ghost King? That’s hilarious.”

“It’s not hilarious!” Danny snapped, throwing his hands in the air. “It’s a massive headache!”

“You have no idea how hard it is to get through high school when random cults keep summoning you to fix their magical problems!” Danny continued. “And now I’ve got Batdad over here grilling me like I’m some supervillain, and Red Riding Hood cracking jokes, and Damian ‘Stabby McSword’ Wayne calling me incompetent! I’m doing my best, okay?”

Jason tried and failed to suppress a laugh at “Stabby McSword,” while Damian’s scowl deepened.

Danny huffed, spinning back to Constantine. “Where’s this tear? Show me, and I’ll try to patch it up. But I’m not promising anything. And when this is over, you’re sending me back home. I’ve got a chem test tomorrow.”

Constantine muttered something about “teenagers” and gestured, summoning a glowing portal. “This way, then.”

Later, at the dimensional tear:

The tear was massive, swirling with chaotic energy that sent Danny’s ectoplasm buzzing uncomfortably. He floated closer, squinting at it. “Oh yeah, this is bad. Super bad. But… I think I can close it. Maybe.”

“Maybe?” Batman asked, his voice sharp.

“Well, unless someone else here has experience closing portals between dimensions,” Danny shot back, “I’m your best shot.”

Damian stepped forward, his expression skeptical. “And if you fail?”

“Then we all die,” Danny said bluntly. “So how about you zip it and let me work, okay, Junior Ninja?”

Jason snickered in the background. “Man, I hope he sticks around. This is the most fun I’ve had in weeks.”

Danny ignored the bickering Batkids, focusing his energy. With a deep breath, he reached out toward the tear, letting his ghost core resonate with the chaotic energy. The others watched in tense silence as ectoplasmic tendrils extended from his hands, wrapping around the edges of the tear.

“It’s… working,” Constantine muttered, his eyes wide.

Danny gritted his teeth, sweat forming on his brow as the tear began to shrink. “Just… a little more…”

With one final surge of energy, the tear sealed shut, leaving behind only a faint green shimmer. Danny staggered back, panting. “There. Done. Crisis averted.”

Superman smiled. “You did well, Danny.”

Danny waved him off. “Yeah, yeah. Just don’t call me again unless it’s an actual emergency. I’ve got enough stress in my life.”

Damian stepped forward, arms crossed. “You were adequate. Barely.”

Danny rolled his eyes. “Gee, thanks, mini-Batman.”

Jason clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re alright, kid. If you ever want to ditch Ghost Dad and hang out, give me a call.”

“Pass,” Danny said dryly, rubbing his temple. “I think one Jason Todd is enough for the multiverse.”

[cosmosis]

MOVED TO @seratopia

miguel o’hara x reader (fluff) - call

miguel calls you because he misses you

. . .

“Lyla.“

“Yah?“

“Call y/n.“

“What do we say?“

“Oh my god, just call her. Please.“

“You’re in your office, call her yourself.“

“Lyla!“

Lyla scoffs, flickering in and out in a flash of cream and pink. Miguel rolls his eyes, watching as a module is pulled up in front of him.

Lyla flickers in, pressing the obnoxiously green “call” button on the screen as Miguel subconsciously fixes his hair. The screen starts to dial, and Lyla chuckles to herself. 

“What?“ Miguel asks, crossing his arms together. 

Lyla’s hand runs up to her mouth. “Pfft. Nothing.“

And with that, she disappears. 

The screen dials for a few more seconds, and finally, you answer the call. A video calling of you, looking down at at the camera on your watch. You’ve got your spider suit on, chaos seeming to be crashing in the background as you zip through a metropolitan city with your webbing. 

“Miguel, baby, you know I’m busy.“ You say, the man watching on his screen as you simultaneously glace down the watch and look back up to swing your webbing against random architecture. 

“I know. Sorry.“ He says, and you look expectantly down at your watch. 

“Did you need something?” You ask, and your watch suddenly drifts over towards behind you, an anomaly chasing behind you. 

“How long will it take for you to be back?“ He asks, hand slithering to the back of his neck. Even from the shitty camera quality, you can see the slightest tinge of blush on his cheek. 

You fight the urge to roll your eyes, sighing to yourself as you bustle through skyscrapers and towers galore. “Is this really was this was about?“

“Yeah, I wanna see you.“ He states. You watch as he starts tapping on the holographic screen, seemingly zooming in on a particular picture. 

You watch as Miguel already goes to grab his spider mask, clutching it in his hand while he taps at his own watch. “Where are you, honey? I can take them off your hands.“

“It’s fine, Miguel. I got it.“

“But I wanna see you.“

“You can wait a little longer, right? Jessica sent me out on this mission.“

“No. I’m going out there, where are you?“

You sigh. “Fine, I’m at Earth-681, Queens.”

“See you in a sec, hun. Love you, bye.“

“Love you. Bet I can finish this guy off before you can even make it down here-“

You hang up, and the call screen flickers dark. Miguel yanks on his spider mask, leaping off his office until...

“Wow.“

Lyla sputters in front of Miguel, laughing to herself in a doubled over position. She flashes in a few more times, each one a different frame of her laughing. Miguel tries to ignore her, speeding up into a run whilst tapping at his watch.  

“You’re really that whipped!“ She exclaims. 

“What does whipped even mean?“ Miguel asks, obviously annoyed. 

“You’ll find out later.“

“Hm.“

“Oh and, just so you know. That entire convo was recorded. Thanks!“

Miguel groans, and Lyla vanishes as soon as she came in. 

. . . 

Miguel dives headfirst into the inter-dimensional juncture, leaping directly into the skies of Earth-681. There’s millions of skyscrapers below, all of them almost identical to any other Earth he’s been on. 

He webs a nearby building, slinging himself through Queens in search of you. His spidey-sense picks up, detecting you to be in his far right. Faster than ever, he slingshots himself through buildings, his heart quickening in his chest at the thought of seeing you. 

Unexpectedly, you aren’t where you’re supposed to be. 

Miguel pauses himself onto the head of a gargoyle, eyes flickering left and right to try and find you. You’re supposed to be hugging him, kissing him, teasing him about dates and what not. 

“Boo.“

Miguel doesn’t even flinch, but he’s more excited than ever to see you. He misses you so much. 

You laugh to yourself, taking a few steps forward to Miguel. He rolls his eyes, and you can even see it through his mask. 

“Haha, very funny.“

“I know, I’m the funniest.“

“C’mere.“

Miguel wastes no time, hastily tugging you into him by your waist, until you’re close enough to hear his heartbeat. You tug your mask off, revealing the face that Miguel knows and loves. 

Tenderly, the man presses you into a kiss, savoring the taste of your lips for a moment longer than he should’ve. You can feel the poke of his fangs on your bottom lip, and you yelp a little in his mouth. 

“Ah, I’m sorry.“

“It’s fine-“

And he a presses a few more gingerly kisses to your cheek, stroking your other with his thumb. His big hand lingers on your lower back, threatening to ghost his fingers against your behind. 

“See, told you I’d finish him off before you’d come.“ You say, indulgently resting your chin on his chest. 

“Can’t believe Jess sent you out here, on your break day too.“ Miguel scowls, “Wanted to take you somewhere special.“

“Welp, now I’m free.“ You shrug, and Miguel leans the both of you against the concrete walls of the tower. 

Something sparks in Miguel’s mind. 

“Hun, what does whipped mean?“

“Whipped?“

“Mhm. Lyla mentioned it earlier.“

You chuckle a little. 

“It’s what you are, Miguel.“

“And what, exactly, is that?“

“Absolutely in love with me. Like you’ll do anything, k’know?“

Miguel grumbles to himself, releasing you from his embrace. 

“I hate that she’s right.“

miguel gets jealous oneshot (same universe)

[andy-15-07]

Infinite Horizons

PAIRING: Reed Richards x reader

WORD COUNT: 1159 | requests are open (send requests, I will gladly answer them all)

Pedro Pascal Masterlist

The Baxter Building hummed with the quiet energy of invention. Fluorescent lights cast a cool glow over the laboratory, where papers, holograms, and whiteboards filled with intricate equations surrounded a single figure.

Reed Richards stood before a towering chalkboard, writing with swift, precise strokes, his mind working at a speed no ordinary person could match. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing forearms dusted with chalk. His dark curls were slightly tousled, and his eyes burned with concentration as he scrawled symbols in a methodical yet fluid rhythm.

You leaned against the doorway, watching him. Admiring him.

There was something about seeing his mind at work that left you breathless. The way his brow furrowed, the way he whispered numbers under his breath, the way his fingers absentmindedly tapped against his chin when he hit a snag in his calculations—it was mesmerizing.

And he hadn’t even noticed you yet.

Smirking, you finally spoke. “You know, Reed, most people don’t spend their Friday nights romancing a chalkboard.”

His hand stilled mid-equation. He turned, his sharp eyes softening the moment they landed on you. “Y/N,” he said, and just like that, the tension in his shoulders eased. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

You stepped forward, arms crossed, head tilted in playful scrutiny. “You were too busy proving the meaning of the universe to notice, Professor Richards.”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Not quite. Just solving a little problem in quantum instability.”

You raised a brow. “A little problem?”

He turned back to the board and gestured at the dizzying array of symbols. “I’m attempting to stabilize the quantum field distortions in our multiversal gate. Right now, the energy fluctuations are unpredictable. If I can refine the equation, I might be able to prevent spontaneous breaches.”

You stared at the equations, pretending to consider them seriously. “Mmm, yes. Of course. Looks like... numbers.”

Reed laughed—a warm, low sound that made your heart flutter.

“You’re impossible,” he murmured, his fingers brushing over your wrist as he pulled you closer.

“And yet, here you are, madly in love with me,” you teased.

His lips quirked. “Madly.”

Your heart did an embarrassingly giddy flip, but you disguised it with another playful remark. “So, what happens if you don’t solve this equation?”

Reed sighed, running a hand through his curls. “Worst case scenario? Unstable dimensional rifts. Possibly reality imploding. Best case scenario? I get a headache and need coffee.”

You gasped dramatically. “A headache? We’re doomed.”

His eyes twinkled. “Not if you stay here and keep distracting me.”

You smirked but didn’t move away. Instead, you stepped behind him, wrapping your arms around his waist, pressing your cheek against his back. You felt him exhale, his muscles relaxing under your touch.

“Your brain is my favorite thing,” you murmured. “Well, one of my favorite things.”

His hand covered yours, fingers lacing together. “That’s comforting.”

“What’s the other worst-case scenario?” you asked, tracing lazy circles on the fabric of his shirt.

Reed hesitated, then sighed. “The math isn’t adding up. If I don’t find the missing variable, I can’t stabilize the distortions. Which means—”

“—which means no experimental travel through the multiverse anytime soon,” you finished.

He turned in your arms, facing you fully. “Exactly.”

You studied him for a long moment. “How long have you been at this?”

His silence was telling.

You groaned. “Reed. Have you even eaten today?”

He pressed his lips together in thought. “I had coffee.”

You placed your hands on your hips. “That’s not food.”

He exhaled through his nose, amused. “I was in the zone.”

“You always say that.”

“And it’s always true.”

You rolled your eyes and grabbed his hand. “Come on, genius. You’re taking a break.”

He resisted for half a second before relenting. “Fine,” he murmured. “But only because you’re bossy.”

You smirked. “And because you love me.”

He squeezed your hand. “That too.”

You sat cross-legged on the couch in the lounge, watching Reed as he leaned against the counter, sipping his coffee. The kitchen was bathed in warm, golden light, making him look impossibly soft despite the sharpness of his intellect.

“So,” you started, “what’s the missing variable?”

Reed sighed, rubbing his forehead. “That’s the problem—I don’t know. The math should work, but there’s a fluctuation that keeps throwing it off.”

You tapped your chin. “Couldn’t it be an external factor? Something you haven’t accounted for yet?”

He hummed in thought. “Possibly.”

“Have you considered... I don’t know, the energy signature of whoever’s opening the breaches? Maybe the anomaly isn’t in the math but in the source itself.”

Reed’s eyes widened slightly. “You might be onto something.”

You grinned. “Of course I am. I’m brilliant.”

He smirked, setting his mug down before walking over and placing his hands on either side of your head, trapping you in. “You are. And now, I’m going to need your help.”

Your brows lifted. “My help? In quantum physics?”

Reed grinned. “I need a second set of eyes. Even if they’re skeptical ones.”

You sighed dramatically. “I suppose I could lend my expertise.”

He chuckled and kissed your forehead. “Then let’s get back to work.”

Hours passed as you sat together in the lab, Reed scribbling equations while you sat beside him, offering insights where you could. It was a strange dance—you weren’t a scientist, but Reed valued your perspective. He thrived on discussion, on the challenge of explaining concepts in ways you could understand.

And you? You just loved watching him work. Eventually, after what felt like an eternity, Reed froze.

Your head shot up from where you’d been resting it on your hand. “What? What is it?”

His eyes flickered with realization. “You were right.”

You blinked. “Obviously. But about what?”

He grabbed your shoulders, excitement radiating off him. “The anomaly wasn’t in the equation itself—it was an external force! If I adjust for the unique energy signature of the breaches, the entire system stabilizes!”

You grinned. “I mean, I did suggest that hours ago.”

He shook his head, grinning. “You did. And I was too busy overcomplicating it to listen.”

You leaned closer, whispering, “Say it.

He narrowed his eyes. “Say what?"

“That I was right.”

He sighed dramatically. “Y/N was right.”

You smirked. “And?”

His lips twitched. “And Reed Richards was wrong.”

You gasped. “A historical moment. I need this on record.”

He kissed you before you could gloat further, his lips warm and insistent. You melted into him, savoring the quiet triumph in his touch. When he pulled away, his voice was soft.

“You’re my favorite variable.”

Your heart clenched in the best way. “And you’re my favorite genius.”

Reed exhaled, resting his forehead against yours. “Thank you for keeping me grounded.”

You smiled, fingers brushing through his curls. “And thank you for reaching for the stars.”

And in that moment, with the weight of the universe pressing against him, Reed Richards knew—no equation, no discovery, no multiverse could ever mean more than you.

[fangswbenefits]

Side Effect

Summary: Miguel has been acting off lately and you find out why… the hard way.

Pairing: Miguel O’Hara x spider-woman!reader

18+. Feral Miguel. Rutting Miguel (side effect of the serum he takes). HEAVY breeding kink. Creampie. Fangs. Hormonal manipulation (mention of serums being injected).

You paced hurriedly through the long corridors of HQ determined to get an answer.

A proper one.

If Miguel O’Hara was growing tired of your casual relationship with him, he’d have to tell that to your face instead of avoiding you.

This had been going on for a couple of days, and you patience was now hanging by a thread. You had tried to reach him through your watch, but he’d either ignore you, or have Lyla come up with ridiculous excuses.

“Visiting Peter and MJ my ass,” you grumbled under you breath, your paces echoing loudly.

The moment you were met with the lab door shut, you stopped dead in your tracks.

That was weird.

“What?”

Approaching the scanner on the wall, you reached out your arm, allowing the sensor to read your dimensional travel watch.

<ACCESS DENIED>

That was really weird.

You flicked your wrist again, but were met with the same message.

This had to be Miguel’s poor idea of a joke, because it made no sense that he’d restrict your access to the very place you worked at.

Letting out a strained breath, you tapped on your watch, hoping to reach Miguel.

But it was Lyla’s orange hologram that emerged instead.

“What’s up, sugar?” she beamed happily, filing her nails.

You scowled. “I was calling Miguel.”

“He has redirected every contact to me,” she shrugged, checking each nail individually.

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Why can’t I get in?”

“That’s classified.”

“Classified?”

She nodded with an obnoxious smile that only served to grind your nerves. “I work here.”

“So does Miguel and he is working now,” she said with another shrug.

Anger flared inside you as your worst fears were confirmed.

He was avoiding you in particular.

“Can you just open the door?”

“No.”

“Please?”

Her eyes narrowed behind her heart-shapped glasses. “No.”

“I really need to talk to him.”

Adjusting her long coat, she clicked her tongue. “I can pass him a message.”

That wasn’t good enough and he would just ignore it as usual.

“Lyla…” you started, putting on your most convincing fake smile with an equally forced sweet voice to match. “You know I’ve always like you, right?”

The AI scoffed. “Nah, flattery doesn’t work on me, sugar. It wasn’t programmed into my coding,” she grinned deviously. “But you’re free to suggest that Miguel adds it in a future patch.”

You shot her a death glare. “Fine. Just… tell him I’m here and… yeah…” your voice trailed off.

She winked. “Gotcha!”

The hologram disappeared at once and you were left staring at the large metal door in front of you.

You waited for a couple of minutes, before realising she wasn’t coming back with an answer, as you had expected.

A random thought crossed your mind when your eyes landed on the scanner, reminding you that there was another way in.

Miguel would probably get really angry that you were about to activate the emergency protocol, but you couldn’t care less at this point.

Tapping the pattern onto the pad above the scanner, you couldn’t help but to feel victorious as the door swung open, alarms blaring and a mechanical voice echoing through the lab.

“Emergency protocol activated. Proceed with caution.”

You only made it a few steps past the door, before something — or rather someone — flung you across the room with the weight of their body keeping you pinned against a wall.

A muscled forearm was at your throat, effectively caging you in.

“What the fuck?”

“Emergency protocol activated. Proceed with caution.”

The red alarm lights rotated hurriedly on the ceiling, but you were able to identify Miguel, as his weight dug further into you.

“What are you doing here?” he growled, the eyes on his mask narrowing menacingly.

Something wasn’t right.

Your spider senses detected an alarming accelerated heart rate from him, as well as increased body temperature.

“Miguel, let go! It’s me,” you grunted, clawing at his arm to alleviate the pressure.

“I know it’s you,” he said lowly, the digital mask vanishing.

From the corner of your eyes you saw him baring his fangs, droplets of paralysing poison dripping.

His pupils were fully blown and you felt fear rise inside you. “What are you doing?!”

As if your voice had managed to snap him out of it, he eased the pressure on you and took a few steps back.

“Lyla, deactivate the emergency protocol and resume the serum synthesis.”

“Got it, Miguel!”

The alarm was turned off immediately and silence took place.

Your breath was coming out in shallow pants, as you tried to make sense of what had just happened.

Was he that angry that he had gone completely feral?

“Miguel… what…”

He turned his back on you and paced to a nearby centrifuge, the screen atop announcing: <DNA stabilising sequence at 24%>

What was he doing?

“Leave.”

“Can we just talk?” you said, still keeping your distance. “I don’t know why you’re avoiding me, but barring my access-“

Miguel turned around to face you, a deep scowl had settled on his face, twisting his lips.

The glare he gave you was enough to send shivers down your spine.

“I need you gone. Now.”

Fuck. Was he that over you that he couldn’t even stand your presence around?

He had shortened the distance between you two, crimson eyes never leaving yours.

“Why? If you don’t want to be with me just say that,” you groaned in frustration. “Don’t stare at me like you’re about to split me in half. It won’t work.”

Miguel had effectively managed to have your back hit the nearby wall once more, just from the weight of his stare alone.

“I told you to leave. I can’t have you around me.”

“Oh, great!” you scoffed. “Thanks for being so direct.”

Miguel didn’t stop moving until his face was only a few inches away from yours. “You don’t get it.”

“You’re right. I don’t. We’re both adults, so you could have just said this a couple of days ago instead of acting like I’m some nuisance.”

His hand came to grip your jaw and you widened your eyes. “You’re on birth control, right?”

“What…”

He took a deep breath, fangs grazing his lower lip. “Answer me.”

“Yes. Of course.”

Wait… was he scared that he might have knocked you up?

His fingers loosened and he pressed his forehead to the wall right beside your head, groaning out loud.

“Miguel… what is going on?”

You wanted to him a comfort squeeze on his arm, but were too frozen to move.

“Why… why do you have to be on birth control?”

Was he pulling your leg? Was this his twisted version of a joke?

This time, you frowned. “What do you mean why? I don’t want to get unexpectedly pregnant.”

Miguel punched the wall with such force it dented the material and making you jolt.

“I’m rutting.”

Your eyes darted to his face as he straightened up, pupils still dilated and beads of sweat rolling down his temples.

“What… rutting?” you asked, mouth dropping open in confusion.

He growled impatiently. “Side effect of my serum. I usually have an antidote at hand when this happens, but I ran out of one of the components…” he paused briefly as if struggling to breath properly. “I had to go to Peter B’s Earth to get more.”

Oh. So that hadn’t been one of Lyla’s ridiculous lies.

You glanced over at the nearby screen:

<DNA stabilising sequence at 34%>

Oh.

“Why didn’t you tell me about this before?” you asked, wanting to bring him some comfort somehow. “We’ve been together for a few months.”

“It was never necessary. I always had the neutraliser for my serum at hand.”

You bit your lip.

He let out a low dark chuckle. “You have no idea how badly I’ve been wanting to breed you.”

This definitely wasn’t something you were expecting to hear from Miguel O’hara himself, and it made your heart skip a beat.

His arms were caging you, his talons digging deep into the metal right next to your head.

“Is… huh… is there anything I can do?” you asked in a whisper. “I mean… in the lab.”

He pressed his lower half into you at once. “Let me breed you.”

You flinched as his hard cock dug into your crotch and you let out a gasp.

“Can’t you just wait for the synthesis to be over?”

The sound of the metal being shredded tore through your ears and his lips nearly brushed yours. “I told you to leave, but you’re too stubborn, aren’t you?”

His breath was hot and you felt goosebumps rise throughout your body.

“Always running that mouth,” he growled, eyes landing on your lips. “Always defying me… and now I really, really need to breed you.”

For some twisted reason, his words and cock twitching against you were slowly swallowing your mind, causing you to abandon reason.

Miguel was a very dedicated lover, but you had never witnessed such yearning from him.

That was a novelty and it was doing wonders to your ego.

Even if there was a scientific explanation, you could help but plant a soft kiss on his cheek. “You can’t breed me… I’m on birth control.”

His hand came to grip your chin again and you saw anger flicker in his eyes. “There’s ways around that.”

Your eyes widened.

He wasn’t being serious…

… was he?

“Miguel…”

The grip tightened and he rolled his hips. “Let me. Please.”

You knew exactly what he was talking about. He had developed a serum that would neutralise all hormonal manipulation as a way to reset your body in case a spider needed to be injected with a serum.

You had helped him develop it.

Its efficacy neared 90%.

You guessed this neutraliser wasn’t able to prevent the side effects from his very specific serum.

And now he wanted to use it on you, so he could successfully breed you.

“Are you sure?” you asked, not sure why agreeing to this in the first place was sending such an adrenaline rush through your veins.

Miguel moved away from you, bolting to one of the desks, rummaging through the drawers.

You swallowed hard, but remained glued to the wall, heart hammering fast in your chest.

<DNA stabilising sequence at 41%>

In a blink of an eye, he was on you again, holding the syringe in his trembling hand. “I’m desperate, but I need your words first.”

You clenched and felt wetness spilling from you.

How was this so arousing?

“What words?”

He moved to place a quivering kiss to your forehead and you saw the liquid wobble inside the container.

“That’s… not the compound we synthesised.”

“It’s more than that,” he said with another kiss. “It stimulates your ovaries.”

Oh… fuck.

He trailed kisses down your face, before pecking your lips. “I have to breed you. Successfully.”

Your legs nearly gave out at his confession and you nearly moaned as he ripped your suit to gain access to your bicep.

“Tell me I can do this.”

His cock was nudging you again as a reminder of his desire, and you nodded.

“No. Say it.”

He was rubbing your skin with his thumb right where he intended to inject the serum.

“Go ahead.”

“Gracias,” he whispered, planting another kiss to your forehead.

At this point, you were far too drunk in lust to think clearly and your lips parted in a pained moaned as you felt a sharp jab in your arm. He kept his lips on you as reassurance, as the liquid tore through your muscle.

Your heartbeat skyrocketed straight away.

You felt your knees buckle under you, but Miguel steadied you with both arms. “I got you.”

A gasp quickly turned into a moan as the effect of the serum consumed you with each passing second.

He trailed his hands down your body and gripped your hips.

“Turn around.”

You let him guide you, biting down hard on your lower lip, you panties sticking to your soaked folds.

More ripping sounds filled the air as Miguel tried to get rid of your suit, exposing your underwear to him.

You balled your fists and felt one hand on your lower back, adding light pressure. “Bend over.”

Doing as commanded, you felt more wetness spill from you as your body readied itself for Miguel.

The pressure increased. “More.”

Your panties were torn apart right away and you glanced over your shoulder, catching a glimpse of Miguel’s fangs peeking through his lips.

His thumb dragged along your folds, teasing your swollen clit and earning a whimper from you.

“Sorry, but I really need to be inside you,” he grumbled and you nodded.

Your heart skipped several beats, as you tried to control your breathing in anticipation.

The tip of his cock was soon pressed against your opening, and you squeezed your eyes shut.

“I’m sorry.”

Before you could inquire what he meant, your mouth fell open as he rammed inside you, bottoming out at once.

He didn’t wait for your to recover from the initial shock, and began pumping into you so ferociously, you had to grab a hold on the metal railing to your right to keep yourself from losing balance.

Miguel heaved a heavy sigh of relief as if he had been waiting a lifetime for this sensation.

Grunts and groans mixed with the wet sounds of your pussy engulfing his cock over and over again.

“Should have bred you sooner…” he managed to say in between snaps of his hips. “Developed that serum just for you…”

Miguel’s idea of dirty talk was effective. Too effective, because you couldn’t hold back from clenching hard around him, savoring the friction and feel of being stuffed full of him.

He picked up the pace and you thought you were going to die.

Not because it was uncomfortable, but because it was too overwhelming, and your body was responding to his in a way you had never experienced before.

You felt your lower abdomen coil at the sides and figured the serum had reached its target destination.

Miguel gripped both your arms and you let go of the railing, as he tugged hard to have your back smack against his hard chest.

“You’re so lucky this rut didn’t hit me harder,” he growled, hips never faltering. “I was barely able to control myself around you…”

Your eyes fluttered shut and you moaned loudly, feeling his pectoral muscles press into your back. This man was too hot and you found yourself thinking that not being bred by him would be a waste.

That genetic material deserved to be spread.

“Being on birth control with me…” he said through gritted teeth, and you felt his fangs nipping your ear lightly. “You. Deserve. To. Be. Bred.” he punctuated each word with a snap of his hips.

An intense wave of pleasure pulsated from your clit, and you recognised the familiar strings of an orgasm pulling you in and embracing you gentle with each stroke.

“Miguel…” you moaned, blinded by lust and desire.

The grip on your arms loosened briefly and he let your torso lean forward ever so slightly, angling your hips in a way that made him his cock hit you over and over again just where you needed the most.

“I want you full with my babies,” he gasped.

Your orgasm hit you with such force, you thought you were going to collapse and slide off his cock, but he wrapped one arm around you, not allowing you to part from him.

“You feel so good… tighter… tighter,” he urged, as your walls contracted around him rhythmically, faintly at first, but the next stronger than the one before.

You were far too gone to form any words and just let your lips part as an intense moan ripped through your throat.

Miguel was mumbling something behind you, but you couldn’t make out any words as you descended from your height.

Even through quivering legs and pulsing clit, you were able to feel it.

He was now pumping you full with broken snaps of his hips.

You glanced down and saw strings of cum dripping from where he was connected with you.

So much cum.

He wasn’t even slowing down, as he’d usually do at this stage.

Miguel kept on ramming into you from behind, sending more and more cum to drip from within you.

An animalistic growl left his mouth as he finally came to a halt, breathing hard.

He remained balls deep inside you, and you planted on hand on the wall to look in absolute awe at the cum dripping and dangling from your clit, a pool of it now at your feet.

“How did you cum so much?” you managed to say in between laboured breaths.

“I’m rutting, cariño. My body produces more,” he said, pressing a kiss to the back of your neck.

You glanced to the screen nearby.

<DNA stabilising sequence at 100%>

“Maybe you can take the neutraliser now?

He slid his cock out of you halfway, before slamming it back, and you felt more cum spill out. “I don’t think so.”

Oh, you were utterly fucked.

In every sense of the word.

Masterlist

[bloggerspam]

Not Exactly the Apple of my Eye

I wrote this for the @haunting-heroes-creative-games WWT Myths game last month, and subsequently co-won my first game!

Figured I'd post it here too, now that all the reveals have happened---have a DPxYJ/DPxDC Snow White AU Crack fic!

===

"You gotta be kidding me," Kon says as he looks down at himself, "this can't be real, right?"

"Feels pretty real to me!" Bart chirps happily, fiddling with his overly large green sleeves.

"Rad." Tim rolls his eyes, crossing his arms and popping his hip and yawning like a disgruntled cat. Sarcasm practically drips from every orifice of his body language, even as he looks 2 seconds away from falling asleep.

"Is this what I think it is?" Cassie yells from further into the room, the sound of a small clamor echoing behind her words.

"If by it you mean some kind of inter-dimensional fucky wucky, then yeah!" Kon waves his arms around, gesturing to the room at large even if she can't see; Tim and Bart can, and that's all that matters. "I think so!"

"No, I mean is this Snow White?" Cassie clarifies as she comes huffing into the room. She too is adjusting her clothes as best she can, trying to figure out what to do with the glasses suddenly on her face.

The four of them stand gathered in the middle of the cottage they've been dumped into, freshly shrunken in height, stripped of their powers and gadgets and suits, and dressed in what seems to be simple cotton peasant shirts and work leggings.

They also have comically large and weirdly soft and sturdy leather shoes, of the Snow White Dwarf variety.

"Aren't there supposed to be seven of us?" Tim mumbles thoughtfully, another yawn causing him to slump and looking mad about it.

"How can you be so calm about this?" Kon huffs, picking up Tim with very little resistance for once and dumping the yawning boy onto a bed labelled Sleepy. Kon himself grumbles as he takes a seat on the next bed over labelled Grumpy.

An angry Kryptonian is not a great idea. Who let this be okay?

"I'm not calm about this…" Tim yawns once more, irritated, "I just can't think straight, I'm too tired."

"You don't sleep on a daily basis though?" Bart walks his way to his own bed, labeled Dopey and test bouncing it. "But it seems fitting at least. Plus, You're not straight anyway. Who's Cassie supposed to be?"

"Doc, I think." Cassie goes to her own bed, looking at it dubiously before deciding to ignore it completely. "He's the only one with glasses right?"

"That…" Tim is curled up on his side now, "still…doesn't answer…"

Soft snores start to drift through the room, another anomaly, considering Tim doesn't actually snore.

"What did the genie lady say?" Bart starfishes on his bed, making snow angels with no snow, "This is all because you decided to hit on her anyway."

"How was I supposed to know?!" Kon angrily pulls the covers off his bed to dump over Tim. "All I said was that she was pretty!"

Before anybody else can say anything, there's another clatter outside the cottage.

"Seriously!?" A voice screams, "Seriously?! Three years and you-" A violent sneeze interrupts the voice—"-still make fucking wishes?"

A small murmur answers the voice, barely audible.

Kon, Cassie and Bart look at each other, before scrambling over to the door. Tim stays dead asleep. When they burst out, tumbling over each other, they're met with the other three dwarves: A young gothic looking girl who keeps sneezing, an African American boy hiding behind another boy with a bedsheet of all things tied around his neck like a cape. The caped boy, with his black hair and blue eyes, looks like he's trying to be a knock off superman.

Kon does not like that. At all.

"Hey!" Rao, it's like he has no control over his temper, "Were you guys fucked over by the genie lady too?"

"Language~" Bart singsongs, giggling. The gothic girl whirls towards them, angry like spitfire, and sneezing just as violently.

"Hello, citizens!" Super-knock-off intones, "What brings you into the ill graces of Desiree?"

"If by Desiree you mean the genie lady," Cassie jabs a thumb at him, "then this guy hit on her."

"O-oh," The shy boy still hiding behind Super-knock-off is blushing hard enough that Kon can see it even with his darker skin, "w-wow, you're pretty…"

"Thanks!" Cassie smiles, winking at him. "The ladies love it, anyway."

The boy squeaks, hiding behind super-knock-off again. Goth-girl rolls her eyes before addressing Cassie.

"Desiree hates that-" a sneeze, "-kind of shit." Goth-girl rubs her nose, to which the bashful boy passes her a tissue from his backpack as if dealing with a rabid animal. The girl takes it with a scoff-turned-sneeze.

"Figured." Cassie shrugs, waving to herself. "I'm Cassie, by the way. Grumpy over here is Connor, and Cutie Pie down here is Bart."

Kon huffs, waving begrudgingly as Bart does a happy little wave.

"Nice to meet you, I'm Danny!" Super-knock off puffs out his chest, before gesturing to the once more sneezing Goth. "This is Sam, and behind me is Tucker!"

"We're not—usually like this." Sam sniffles, sneezing between pauses, "Danny's usually more chill, and Tucker's not this—shy. But if my—math is mathing, it's because—of the dwarf traits."

"Why does being Happy make him so…" Kon sneers, "Do-goodey?"

"Long story. We call him Super Danny in this state." Tucker smiles, peeking out a little more, "Fun Danny was better."

"Hey!" Danny wraps an arm around his friend to bring him up to the forefront, causing Tucker to squeak. "Super Danny had his moments!"

"Where's-" Sam sneezes four times in a row, "-Sleepy?"

"Our friend Tim." Bart gestures towards inside the house, "He's napping in one of the beds inside. He's usually an insomniac, so this is actually pretty great!"

"So," Cassie gets them back on track as they all convene around a sleeping Tim. "Do you guys know how to escape?"

"That is difficult," Danny hums, patting at Tucker who seems to be taking deep breaths to overcome his shyness. Kon tries to follow suit, to temper himself. "Did you perhaps make a wish when hitting on Desiree?"

Kon felt his face go blotchy red, rubbing at his cheek with the back of his hand and looking away.

"Connor." Cassie's voice goes threatening, hands on her hips like a mom scolding a child.

"All I said was Move over Snow White, 'cause you're truly the fairest in the land!" Kon grumbles, crossing his arms. "And that she made me all Bashful, or whatever! I didn't wish for anything!"

"All I did was wish Sam would lighten up," Tucker scratches the back of his neck, inching closer to Danny when Sam bears her teeth. "Normally Desiree would just make Sam glow, or something."

"Who is Desiree anyway?" Bart starts to frown down at himself, rubbing his tummy absentmindedly. "We were just having lunch with Tim's brother-"

Suddenly Kon, Cassie and Bart whip their heads towards each other, exclaiming at the same time: "Dick!"

"Language?" Tucker, who had startled at the sudden yelling and is firmly hiding behind Danny again.

"No, Tim's brother, Richard—he goes by Dick." Cassie explains as the three of them separate to look under furniture and through the house for the older man. They collectively ignore the whispered on purpose? from the other trio.

"He was with us when we got snapped here." Tim yawns, rubbing his eyes and sitting up. "Who are you?"

The new trio introduces themselves to Tim as the rest of them split. Kon is looking under the beds, Bart is upstairs, and Cassie is opening cabinets in the kitchen, if the sounds are to be believed.

"This doesn't really feel like Desiree's usual fare." Sam taps her foot, for some reason the only dwarf who was able to keep her own black studded combat boots. It looks comical paired with her brown shirt and red pants. At least the black belt matches?

"How would you," Tim yawns, standing up and leaning heavily against Kon when he comes back around. "Usually…get rid of her?"

"Usually Phantom would deal with her." Tucker mumbles as Sam starts to pace. She's no longer sneezing now that they're inside, which seems odd.

"Who's Phantom?" Bart's voice bounces as he descends the stairs back to join them. "He's not upstairs, by the way."

"He's Amity Park's local hero!" Danny flashes a gleaming smile, before frowning. "Truly a mystery why she's hanging out around Bludhaven."

"What were you guys-" Kon is interrupted by Sam, who knocks twice on the window she's stopped in front of.

"Uh, guys?" She's staring at something confusedly, "Is Dick…uh, black haired, wearing eye-searingly ugly patterns?"

"That's…" Tim yawns again, sluggishly making his way over to Sam, "probably…him."

"I think he's in the backyard?" Sam tilts her head, "and I think we've found our Snow White."

The seven of them gather quickly around the window, pushing and shoving and…

"Is that a fucking glass coffin?"

===

Jazz has fucked up.

Oooooh she's definitely fucked up.

How was she supposed to know Ghost Writer and Desiree just wanted to hang out?

How was she supposed to know that Desiree's cousin was Scheherazade?

How was she supposed to know Ghost Writer knew that infamous One Thousand and One Night's protagonist?

She just wanted to finally meet her online friend and talk about Jane Austen books, have dinner with her brother and his friends in Bludhaven after!

She really should have aimed better. Stupid thermos, Danny always made it seem so easy!

Now she's running around in this random forest trying to find her brother and his friends dressed like some kind of Prince.

Why do Princes wear such white tights? It's impractical is what it is, there's already a bunch of dirt on the back of her calves!

She's been in this forest for what feels like hours when she hears it; sweet salvation in the form of other people. Jazz frantically makes her way towards it.

"—Snow White?" A boyish voice asks.

"Well, he's certainly—achoo!—pretty enough for it." Sam is saying—is she with the others? "Even with all…that going on."

"At least Danny isn't in the coffin this time?" Tucker sounds unusually shy and timid—it makes Jazz quicken her steps and almost trip over tree roots at least twice.

"Hey—" An unfamiliar feminine voice cuts in, "Tucker, what does that mean?"

"Worry not, Cassie!" Danny! Oh sweet souls, Danny!! "It's an inside joke!"

"It's not really funny…" Another voice, sounding sleepy beyond compare and yawning like a "…is it?"

"Believe it or not," The mysterious feminine voice, Cassie cuts in. "He's usually the one in charge of the brain-cell. We're smart too, he just has no humor."

"I…" Another yawn, "...resent that."

"Tim just doesn't have that sense of whimsy!" That first boyish voice cuts in, ignoring who Jazz presumes is Tim.

"Does that mean we have to find a Prince?" Another masculine voice, angry and fed up, "In the forest?"

And, well, there's never been a better time for Jazz to stumble ass over kettle into the clearing.

"Jazz!" Her trio yells in greeting, rushing over to her as she rights herself. She blinks.

They're all…a lot smaller than she left them. No matter, hugs first, confusion later. (And crying/yelling much much later after that).

They're small enough for her to hoist all three into her arms, even as she notices the other four dwarves and the…glass coffin housing a fully grown man.

"What the—" Jazz whispers, eyeing the strangers.

"Are you the Prince?" Danny asks, and in this form he reminds her so much of when he was little—she wants to squeal but she won't, she won't.

"I think I am." Jazz answers, putting everyone down as they clamor to introduce the new kids and update her on the situation. Jazz, through years of dealing with her brother's trio, manages to understand and reciprocate the exchange of information.

"So I have to kiss him?" Jazz looks at the man, Dick, in the glass coffin dubiously. "I don't even know him?"

"This might be the first time someone's seen him and not kissed him on sight." Bart jokes, "Or, at least, not wanted to."

"Consent is important." Jazz scrunches up her face in consternation. "I will not subject someone to a kiss when they cannot consent."

"What about a kiss on the…hand?" Tim yawns, desperately trying to stay awake. "Nobody…said you had to kiss him on the…lips."

Jazz makes a face in thought. Hm. "What about you?"

"What…about me?" Jazz gestures at Dick when Tim looks at her in confusion.

"He's your brother, you love him, right?" Jazz picks up the sleeping man's hand. "Nobody said it had to be romantic love. Besides, again, I don't believe in love at first sight. I'm demi."

"Demi like, demigod?" Cassie's brow furrows. "What's that got to do with anything?"

"Demi as in demi-sexual or-" Sam sneezes, "-demi-romantic."

Tim seems to think on that a moment, before shrugging. "I do love him. And I used to have a crush on him when I was little, before I got adopted." He picks up the hand and kisses it lightly.

"Oh dude, same." Connor laughs, turning to them. "I think everyone's had a crush on Dick before."

"Not me!" Cassie harrumphs to Bart's laughter and agreement. "Though I do love the guy."

"That doesn't count!" Connor huffs, "Lesbians and Aces are obviously excluded!"

"I'm Ace…" Tucker shyly raises his hand, making a little eep! sound when everyone turns to him. "And I, uhm, have eyes. He's real pretty…"

"Fairest of them all," Sam sniffles, sort of agreeing. "And all that."

"I think," Danny cuts in, "That you have no choice here Jazz. I'm sorry, but it doesn't seem like Tim's kiss is the solution!"

Jazz eyes the sleeping man once more, pursing her lips. No, she really doesn't think she'll do that. Pretty as he is, he's a stranger. And bodily autonomy is important, even if it's just his hand. It sounds like this guy has a lot of admirers, but nobody's actually said anything about how Dick himself feels about it.

Plus, he definitely looks at least a couple years older than her. Though it's hard to tell when you're in your mid twenties.

"Just think of it this way, Jazz." Danny tries to gently say, "You're saving his life, sort of. Like CPR."

Jazz hums, leaning over the man and observing the man's throat. Hm...

"What's she taking so long for?" Cassie whispers, to which Sam only sneezes in response.

Jazz grabs the man by the shoulders, sitting him up and…whack!

"Jazz!" The chorus of children yell at her, some even grabbing at her but she ignores them.

She gives the man's back another smack! And then another, and another until—

Hack! Dick coughs out the piece of poisoned apple lodged in his throat, taking in deep breaths as Jazz rubs his back in support.

"Th-thanks." Dick wipes at his mouth, smiling up gratefully at Jazz. She smiles back, before stepping away to let Tim and his little friends crowd over Dick and give him hugs.

Sam, Tucker and Danny make their way to Jazz, and they watch the reunion fondly.

"How'd you know that would work?" Danny asks her, laughing as Jazz shrugs.

"In the original fairy tale, the Prince discovers Snow White in her glass coffin and decides to keep her because she's so beautiful." Jazz bares her teeth in disgust. "The guards that were with him were kind of clumsy and dropped the casket on its corner, dislodging the apple piece from Snow White's throat. She wakes up, and then they get married."

"That's…" Tucker whispers, shuddering.

"Yeah." Jazz rubs her arms. "Figured I'd give it a shot. Thankfully it worked."

Just as Dick gets out of the coffin, the world around them starts to waver. The dwarven teenagers flicker until they're bigger, almost glitching into their original sizes and proportions. Sam stops sneezing, Tim stops yawning and falling asleep (though he still sports eyebags the size of Guam), and Danny's little blanket sheet disappears.

Jazz, Dick, and seven 17 year olds suddenly find themselves in the middle of the streets of Bludhaven, in the outdoor seating of the local restaurant all of them were eating at before the whole debacle.

Ghost Writer and Desiree are sitting at one of the tables, having tea.

"Well, that was certainly quick." Ghost Writer mumbles, Desiree groaning as she puts down her cup. "I thought we'd have at least a couple more hours."

"I knew I shouldn't have set win conditions." Desiree pouts. "We were just getting to the good part!"

"Every story has to have some kind of conclusion." Ghost Writer argues, jabbing his mug at her. "Besides, I can just-"

"Yeah. Nope." Danny deadpans, grabbing his backpack and jabbing a hand into the bag. "Fuck you."

Before Ghost Writer Desiree can do more than charge an ecto-blast, Danny pulls out a Fenton Thermos and aims it expertly at the two, sucking them up with very little fuss and muss. Jazz is not jealous or mad about it. At all.

As long as she doesn't have to wear those stupid white tights again, everything is A-OK.

"Well." Dick breathes, putting his hands on his hips like some kind of mom. "That was...anti-climactic."

"What the hell was that?" Tim asks Danny, trying to get a closer look at the thermos, "Is that a thermos?"

Jazz looks up at the restaurant, waving over a sever as she takes a seat and beckons for everyone else to do the same. The others start to squish in a couple tables and take seats.

"I'm sure everyone has questions," Jazz smiles up at the waitress in thanks as she passes out menus. "But first, since it's still…" She checks her watch, "just past three, lets have a late lunch, shall we?"

"As long as there's no apple pie for dessert." Dick laughs, opening up his own menu to peruse.

"As you wish!" Jazz rolls her eyes, grinning. Everyone at the table groans.

[bodybaggage]

Phantom in the League

---

The Watchtower hummed with its usual low energy, the heartbeat of Earth's greatest defenders. The Justice League had just wrapped up their latest meeting, discussing the increasing dimensional rifts appearing across the globe. Batman, ever the detective, had been the first to suggest the possibility of a more mystical cause. Naturally, the League looked to Zatanna and Constantine for guidance. But before they could dive too deep, another voice cut through.

"We could always ask Phantom."

Superman’s suggestion was simple, straightforward, and met with a few curious looks. The Kryptonian had always been one to trust his teammates, but Phantom’s origins had been one of the best-kept secrets in the League. Phantom, the young yet mysterious ghostly hero, had been a valuable ally since he’d been recruited after saving Star City from a rampant ghost attack nearly a year ago.

The League had grown used to his presence. His ethereal glow, the way he seemed to fade in and out of sight like a wisp of smoke, and the cryptic smile that often played on his lips. He was a mystery, one they had chosen to respect, but now? Now, they needed answers.

"Do we even know where to find him?" Green Lantern asked, hovering a few inches off the ground. "He just… shows up."

"I can find him," Batman declared, his voice a low growl that brooked no argument. "He can't stay hidden forever."

"He's never been a threat, Bats," Flash pointed out, leaning casually against the conference table. "He's just… Phantom. He helps out, doesn't ask for anything in return, then he's gone."

"That might be true, but we need to know who or what we’re dealing with," Wonder Woman added. "If these dimensional rifts are tied to his abilities or his world, we need to be prepared."

Superman nodded in agreement, his arms crossed over his broad chest. "Let’s just ask him directly. If he trusts us enough to fight alongside us, then he’ll trust us with the truth."

---

Phantom had never been easy to track, but Batman had his ways. And when Batman wanted to find someone, he did.

The Batcomputer pinged with a soft alert as he isolated Phantom’s spectral energy signature, something the Dark Knight had painstakingly compiled over the past few months. It was faint, almost undetectable, but there was enough to trace a general location: an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of Gotham. Fittingly enough.

---

When the League arrived at the warehouse, it was eerily silent. The only sign of life—or unlife—was a soft, pulsing green light emanating from the cracks in the walls. Superman could hear the faintest murmur of voices, and Wonder Woman felt the magical energy in the air thickening, almost like stepping into another world.

“Stay on guard,” Batman instructed, though he knew everyone was already on high alert.

They pushed open the rusted doors, revealing a scene none of them had expected. Phantom was there, hovering mid-air, his back to them. But he wasn’t alone. Standing before him was a massive, imposing figure, crowned with a spectral crown and draped in regal, ghostly armor. The very air around the figure crackled with power—power that seemed to warp reality itself.

"Who the hell is that?" Green Lantern whispered, his ring already flaring to life.

"That's Pariah Dark," Phantom’s voice cut through the silence, clear and calm. He turned slowly, his eyes glowing a vivid green. "The former Ghost King of the Infinite Realms."

“Former?” Wonder Woman questioned, her brow furrowed in concern.

“Yes,” Phantom continued, descending to the ground as he spoke. “He’s no longer the king because… I am.”

The League froze. Superman’s eyes widened slightly, and even Batman seemed taken aback, though he quickly masked it. The implication was massive.

Phantom noticed their reactions and sighed, looking almost tired. “I was hoping to keep this quiet, at least until the time was right. But I suppose now is as good a time as any.”

He walked forward, the green glow around him dimming as he shifted from his ghostly form into that of a human boy—one who looked no older than seventeen. His black hair fell into his face as he offered them a weary smile, his bright blue eyes meeting theirs with surprising warmth.

“My name is Danny. Danny Fenton. And, yes, I’m the current King of the Infinite Realms.”

“The Infinite Realms?” Superman asked, though the name already resonated with him. He had heard of it before—an interdimensional realm of ghosts and spirits, a place of both immense power and danger.

Danny nodded. “It’s… complicated. The realms are like a web of dimensions, all interconnected and constantly shifting. I inherited the throne after defeating Pariah Dark.” He gestured towards the massive ghost, who remained silent, his eyes glowing with an eerie intensity. “It wasn’t exactly by choice, but it’s my responsibility now.”

“So, you’re a king,” Flash summed up, trying to wrap his head around it. “And you’ve been, what? Just hanging out with us, fighting bad guys on Earth?”

Danny chuckled, a sound that held a hint of bitterness. “Pretty much. The Infinite Realms are my duty, but Earth… Earth is my home. I couldn’t just abandon it, not with everything that’s happened.”

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Wonder Woman asked, her tone gentle but firm.

Danny hesitated, his gaze falling to the ground. “I didn’t want you to see me differently. I’m still me, still the same guy who fought alongside you. I just… have a lot more on my plate than most.”

“Kid,” Green Lantern said, lowering his ring, “we’ve all got our secrets. But this? This is big. You could have told us.”

“I know,” Danny admitted, his voice soft. “But I wasn’t ready. I didn’t want to bring my problems into your world. But with these rifts appearing… they might be connected to the Realms, and that means it’s my responsibility to fix it.”

Batman stepped forward, his eyes never leaving Danny’s. “And Pariah Dark?”

The ghost king finally spoke, his voice a deep rumble that seemed to echo through the very fabric of reality. “I am here at the behest of my king. I no longer seek to conquer. My past… transgressions have been put aside.”

Danny glanced at Pariah, his expression unreadable. “Pariah Dark is… complicated. But he’s under control. I’m keeping him in check.”

There was a moment of tense silence before Superman spoke, his voice carrying the authority of a leader but the warmth of a friend. “Danny, we’re a team. We face these challenges together. If the Realms are a threat, we’ll help you. But you need to trust us, just like we trust you.”

Danny looked up, meeting Superman’s gaze, and for the first time, he truly felt like a part of something bigger. Not just a king, not just a hero, but a member of the Justice League.

“Okay,” Danny agreed, his voice firm. “I’ll tell you everything. And together, we’ll stop whatever’s threatening both of our worlds.”

The League nodded in unison, the tension slowly dissipating. They were in this together, just as they had always been.

As they prepared to leave, Danny couldn’t help but feel a sense of relief. The burden of his secret was still heavy, but now he wasn’t carrying it alone. For the first time in a long while, he felt like he truly belonged.

And as the Watchtower’s doors closed behind them, Danny knew that whatever came next, he wouldn’t have to face it alone.

pt.2

---

[mknight0000]

Hey Everyone!!

School is done! I’m so excited to get back to writing for you all! I also plan on posting these on AO3 as well so hopefully I can figure that out soon. Love y’all!

[starry-bi-sky]

DPxDC Masterpost

Almost all of my DPDC posts have the #Danny Fenton is Not the Ghost King tags, barring perhaps my earliest aus like my Thomas Wayne Au (which will be included in the post). This tag includes art i've made, asks i've answered, and non-fic au posts I've created. This is my main tag!

DPxDC posts under the main tag that don't have their own tag: Danny's Life-Changing Cross-Dimensional Roadtrip with A De-Aged Batman Danny is also Bruce Wayne (Starry goes back to their middle school roots) Danny being the first batkid (if i can get the creative juices flowing I will expand on this. mark my words) There is a Damian clone LOOSE in Amity Park. Oh wait, Danny's got him.

My Biggest DPxDC Aus #Danny Fenton is a Clone: all my posts talking about clone!Danny.

Clone Danny Masterpost: previously my pinned post. A no-powers au where Danny is also a clone of Bruce Wayne, also includes some clone^2

#Clone^2: Clone Damian + Clone Danny au combined, explores themes like identity, found family, and growing into your own as a person. Starting post Here.

#Childhood Friends Au or #Cfau: A childhood friends dead on main au that explores grief, how it may change a person, and how growing up in Crime Alley changed Danny. Contains heavier themes like smoking and mild violence.

#Danyal Al Ghul Au: No longer just my "older brother danyal" au, instead it hosts all of my Danyal Al Ghul aus! An excuse for me to delve into the psychological effects that growing up in the League would have on Danny that I don't really see in other DAG aus. Putting the 'assassin' in 'raised by assassins'. Now with a secondary masterpost listing all of my DAG aus!

My Minor DPxDC Aus Danny Fenton is Thomas Wayne: an oldie but a goodie! An reveal gone wrong au where Danny decides to go by his middle name 'Thomas' shortly after the events of TUE, and leaves Amity Park two years later. He finds out that Vlad cloned him again and finds an infant in the lab. Danny takes the baby, names him Bruce, and ends up adopted by the Waynes.

#Danny Fenton is Jason Todd au: An au where Danny is Jason Todd! He was adopted by the Fentons shortly after the events of the carjacking.

#Older Brother Danny: contains all of my aus where Danny is an Older Brother. This currently includes only my DAG posts but it's not limited to Danyal Al Ghul.

#Changeling Danny: a half-ghost? oh, wait, no. that's a changeling. even worse! Danny's got latent fey blood from a Fenton getting freaky with a faerie some dozen generations ago, and it reactivated with a fervor when he had his accident! Instead of a halfa, he became one of the Fair Folk.

#Blood blossom au: currently the name for the time being. A Nightingale/First Batkid au where Vlad poisons Danny with blood blossom extract, and it results in Danny running to Batman! Currently only one post, but it has a lot of branching pathways in the reblogs. Batdad centered! Now comes with its own fanfic!

#tales of the passerine: the official au name for my "Danny being the first batkid" post! This au is what inspired changeling Danny. It's the idea that Danny was the first to be adopted by Bruce, and features me favoring batdad over "lmfao Danny goes fuck you bruce and adopts the other kids" au. Because I want batdad.

(Nightingale is, so far, the official vigilante name for the Eldest Batkid Danny concept on my blog.)

#mother of monsters danny: specifically its mother of monsters dan but i digress. I was messing around with my fem!Danyal au and boom! Her evil timeline self is Layal, the terrifying Mother of Monsters who raises any manner of monstrous beasts. I love her <3

#martha knight au same song, different dance! This is a fem danny version of my aforementioned "Danny is Thomas Wayne" au. Except this time around, Danny is Martha! Arguably my favorite between the two, I feel like I'm able to do more with her than Thomas. Her au's vibe is After All by Christine Ebersole

Bonus Excerpt: a ficlet I made in response to a DPxDC Dead on Main prompt! It's not under the main tag as I didn't make the post, however it can be found if you search #fem danny fenton on my blog. I actually really love this idea so I may make it its own tag in the future.

[batsovergotham]

Chapter 7: Lost to the Unknown Part 2

"Your personal road to ruin. Each will be different. But whatever the story, for you… the nightmare will become real. Just know that I sympathize. Because right now, Angstrom, who poisoned my life threatens everything I love… my nightmare is already real."

Main!Mark Grayson x Psychic! Reader

warnings: more smut </3, panic attacks, angst, baby oliver is a cutie

w/c: 11.5k

a/n: decided i'll finish posting unshaken first before posting my next fic! ty for the feedback :)

The war room is cooler than normal.

Not temperature-wise, though the steel walls and lack of windows give it that artificial chill, but in mood. In the stillness that extends too long between statements. In the way everyone avoids eye contact until they have to look at each other.

Cecil stands at the head of the table. Arms folded. Tablet under one arm, face unreadable. The way it always is when he’s treading a delicate line between diplomacy and control.

Around the table are the highest-ranking Guardian officials. Atom Eve. The Immortal. Black Samson. Dupli-Kate. Bulletproof. A few senior-level analysts. Two additional from the metahuman observation section. You’re not there.

You weren’t invited.

And Mark, he's standing at the back, arms crossed over his chest, his mouth taut. You wouldn’t have realized this meeting was happening if he hadn’t given you a warning half an hour ago.

> Cecil’s calling a closed session. It’s about you.

He’d followed up with a second message seconds later.

> I didn’t know.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・୨୧

“Let’s not dance around it,” Cecil says finally, breaking the stillness. “You’ve seen the reports. You’ve studied the footage. This latest glitch wasn’t just a random rupture. It was targeted. Sustained. And Ace was at the epicenter.”

Eve is the first to speak. “She didn’t cause it.”

“No one’s saying she did,” Cecil answers easily. “What I am saying is that her connection to it wasn’t incidental.”

Black Samson leans forward. “We’ve always known her powers were… unstable.”

“Unstable,” Cecil repeats. “And growing.”

The Immortal’s voice cuts in. “So what are you proposing?”

Cecil taps his tablet. The hologram in the center of the table lights up. A pulse graph appears, one of yours, clearly labeled. “Her readings during the event were unlike anything we’ve recorded. Spikes in psychic output. Dimensional field overlap. A surge of reality-bending pressure coming from inside her.”

Dupli-Kate raises a brow. “Is that the same as saying she opened the glitch?”

“No. But it’s closer to saying the glitch opened through her.”

The room goes quiet again.

Mark speaks up, his voice low but cutting. “She didn’t do anything. She was walking. She didn’t touch a building. She didn’t use her powers. It happened to her.”

Cecil turns to him. “You were there. You saw it. Are you saying what happened wasn’t different from every other problem we’ve experienced so far?”

Mark says nothing. Because he did see it. He did feel it.

Cecil glances back at the group. “Ace has always been an anomaly. We’ve kept that secret for years. GDA training. Emotional regulation. Psychic constraints. And yet, every year her authority rises. Becomes something harder to define. We used to classify her as a telepath with kinetic applications. Now she’s a walking quantum variable. And as of yesterday, she’s the first individual to make touch with whatever’s driving these dimensional breaches.”

“Contact?” Eve repeats. “You think she spoke to it?”

“I don’t think it was words,” Cecil acknowledges. “But something reached into her. And she felt it. She said so herself.”

Mark takes a step forward. “And what? That’s enough to pull her off active duty?”

“Temporarily,” Cecil says. “Yes.”

Eve shakes her head. “Cecil—”

“This isn’t disciplinary,” he replies, harsher now. “It’s precautionary. Until we understand what’s happening, I’m suggesting Ace be banned from full field operations. She’ll still have access to intelligence. Training facilities. Controlled labs. But no patrols. No missions. And no near to active breach zones.”

“And if she resists that?” the Immortal asks.

Cecil doesn’t flinch. “Then we have a problem.”

Mark’s voice raises. “You think cutting her out is going to make this better? She’s the only one who’s connected to what’s happening. If we sideline her, we lose that.”

“If we lose control of her,” Cecil responds, “we lose everything.”

Silence.

He lets it sit.

“She hasn’t done anything wrong,” Eve adds finally, voice strained. “She’s been there for us. For months. Don’t treat her like a loaded gun just because she’s scared.”

“I’m not treating her like a gun,” Cecil explains. “I’m treating her like a mirror. Something that the other side is already trying to use.”

He stares around the room, reading the expressions. He’s not searching for agreement. He’s seeking for capitulation.

And after a beat, he gets it.

No one says yes. But no one stops him either.

Cecil turns back to his tablet.

“I’ll talk to her tonight.”

Mark’s hands clench into fists. “I’ll do it.”

Cecil pauses.

“I should be the one to tell her,” Mark adds. “She’ll hear it better from me.”

Cecil nods once, his face inscrutable. “Fine. But make sure she knows the stakes.”

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・୨୧

You know.

They’re going to treat you like a danger.

Even the ones who claimed they wouldn’t.

Even the ones who love you.

And nevertheless, it still hurts.

You don’t mean to stop walking.

You’re halfway down the corridor, shoes echoing gently on the linoleum, Mark’s hoodie slung over your shoulders because you hadn’t bothered to change after patrol. You thought maybe—maybe—this would simply be a brief check-in. A standard follow-up following what transpired in the district. You knew Cecil wanted to chat. You knew the instant the glitches rippled about you like you were their lighthouse, this wasn’t going to be normal anymore.

But you didn’t expect to hear this.

You’re not even at the door yet. Just near enough for the voices to carry.

“…full containment isn’t off the table,” Cecil replies, voice muted but audible enough through the reinforced glass. “Not indefinitely. Not yet. But I want every branch ready. If she destabilizes again, we need eyes on her, and we need them fast.No holes in surveillance. No more waiting.”

Your breath catches. You slow to a standstill.

Inside the room, the murmur of answers. People agreeing. Some quieter than others.

A new voice—Dupli-Kate, maybe? “Isn’t that a little extreme? We’ve been working with her for months.”

“She’s never synced with an anomaly before,” Cecil answers. “Not like that. That wasn’t simply proximity. That wasn’t simply exposure. She merged.”

“She didn’t mean to,” someone else mutters.

Cecil doesn’t pause. “Intent doesn’t matter if the outcome is world-ending.”

Your heart falls, sluggish and heavy, like a stone dropped into water.

And suddenly, you’re back there. Not on the sidewalk. Not in the shimmer of bending time. No—before that. Before any of this.

Back in the white room. Back under the hum of the collar. Back to the antiseptic calm of the hospital where you weren’t yourself, just a label. A code name. A risk factor. A lovely little lockbox full of stuff they didn’t comprehend.

Your fingers clench on the sleeve of Mark’s sweatshirt, knuckles pale.

And without intending to, you whisper—

“He’s going to lock me up again.”

The words feel like someone else’s voice. A version of you that’s still thirteen, still sitting cross-legged in a white cage, assuming the picture books they handed you represented freedom.

You inch closer to the door. Just far enough to look through the tiny window.

Cecil’s standing at the head of the room, shoulders squared, chin taut. He doesn’t appear furious. He seems like he’s already decided.

“…temporary mission restriction,” he’s saying now. “Field access revoked until further notice. She stays in observation, works via internal debriefings solely. We watch any unexpected surges, follow trends in her talents, and if she shows any symptoms of breach synchronization, we elevate to level six response.”

You flinch.

Level six.

You know what that implies. Sedation. Psychic dampeners. Isolation units two miles below the GDA complex in Colorado. It’s the same approach they employ for dimensional trespassers and renegade multiverse versions.

They’re not only treating you like a danger.

They’re ready to treat you like a weapon.

Someone says something else—soft, careful. “Have we told her?”

Cecil doesn’t glance up from his tablet. “Not yet.”

You take a step back.

You want to burst in. Demand answers. Call them out. Shout. Scream. But your heart is pounding, and your stomach’s already flipping itself inside out. You can’t go in there like this. Not when you already know how it ends. Not when every breath you breathe feels like it’s being measured through glass.

The meeting isn’t done.

They don’t know you’re here.

Not yet.

But they will.

And when they do—when you open that door and confront the room of individuals who’ve spent the past twenty minutes studying your existence like you’re a malfunction waiting to happen—you’re going to have to decide if you go in as a soldier...

…or as something they’ll never be able to box up again.

From the open doorway on the other end of the hall, a voice broke in, sharp, familiar, and dripping with the type of hatred only one person could carry off so nonchalantly.

“Oh, fuck this.”

Everyone turned.

Rex is leaned in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, eyebrows lifted like he’d just walked in on a bunch of grownups fighting over something minute. He’s civilian clothes, hoodie half-zipped, sunglasses tucked into the collar, and yet looks like he hadn’t slept, shaven, or given a shit in at least three days.

Cecil didn’t blink. “You weren’t invited.”

“Yeah, and yet, here I am. Weird, huh?”

The room is quiet. Dupli-Kate blinked from her place toward the rear. Even Eve appears caught off guard. Not by his presence, no one was actually astonished by Rex stepping up unannounced, but by the look on his face. He wasn’t grinning. Wasn’t smirking. There was no proud twist to his mouth. No cocky, self-assured shrug.

He looks irritated.

And worse, serious.

“Go home, Rex,” Cecil says tiredly. “This doesn’t involve you.”

“Bullshit it doesn’t,” Rex shouts, moving completely into the room. “I was in the Guardians with her. I was there when she pulled Kate out of the crater in Prague. I’ve seen her keep a building together while bleeding out. Don’t tell me it doesn’t concern me when you’re in here talking about boxing her up like she’s some living EMP with anxiety issues.”

Cecil straightens slightly, his voice strong. “You heard the report. She was at the core of the greatest abnormality we’ve detected to far. She’s changing, and we don’t know how. I have a responsibility—”

“Yeah, I know,” Rex interjects, pacing now, teeth tense. “You’ve got a responsibility. To the world. To safety. To bullshit words that justify dumping people in places they don’t belong when you’re nervous.”

He turns, looking Cecil dead in the eye.

“You always do this. Something changes, and you behave like it’s a problem that requires a cage. But what if it’s not a problem? What if she’s the only person who can actually stop this shit, and you’re too busy treating her like an infection to notice?”

“She’s unstable.”

“We’re all unstable!” Rex snaps, voice rising. “That’s the whole gig, man. You think any of us sleep at night after the shit we’ve seen? You think we’re not all one bad day away from snapping? The difference is, she’s never broken. Not once. Even when she had every reason to.”

Black Samson leans closer again, observing him intently. “No one’s saying she’s the enemy.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Rex chews out. “Cecil’s practically back in the lab, drawing up collar blueprints.”

Cecil’s voice falls, harsh and frigid. “That’s enough.”

But Rex didn’t stop. He seldom did.

“You know what I remember?” he asks, quieter now, edging closer to the table. “I remember being nineteen and scared out of my fucking mind because the Guardians were dead and we were supposed to fill their shoes. She was the one holding it together when the rest of us were coming apart. So okay, maybe she’s a bit cracked around the edges now, but so are we. That doesn’t mean you get to lock her in a cage and call it mercy.”

Eve speaks out from the corner, her voice gentle. “He’s not wrong.”

Cecil turns toward her, and for the first time, he appears really cornered. “I’m not doing this because I want to.”

“Then stop pretending like you have to,” Rex responds. “You want to monitor her? Fine. Talk to her. Work with her. Don’t pull this cold-shoulder confinement shit and expect her to thank you for it.”

Dupli-Kate looks around at the others, apprehensive yet resolved. “She’s been one of us for a while. She deserves more than this.”

Cecil’s jaw tightens. He doesn’t answer.

Rex takes a breath and shrugs, less casual now, more like a last statement.

“I get it. You’re afraid. But if you treat her like a bomb, don’t be surprised when she quits trying to be anything else.”

He turns and walks out.

No explosion. No mic drop.

Just the sound of the door hissing shut behind him, and the heavy weight of a reality no one in the room wanted to carry.

The conference finishes with a hollow-sounding click as Cecil powers down the projection.

Chairs scratch. Voices begin to mumble in low tones—some exhausted, others hesitant, all of them too quiet to cut through the tempest forming behind Mark’s eyes. He doesn’t move. Not at first. Not even when the Immortal pulls back from the table and gives him a long, knowing look before leaving.

The others started filing out. Dupli-Kate brushes by him, hesitating for just a minute like she may say something—offer some kind of quiet apology or uncomfortable reassurance—but then thinks better of it and goes walking.

Mark hardly hears her disappear.

He’s fixated on Cecil.

And when the door finally hisses shut behind the last police, the stillness that lingers is thick. Charged. Alive with the tension he’s been holding back from the minute your name was mentioned like a warning sign.

“You’re out of your goddamn mind.”

Cecil doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t glance up from his datapad, continuously typing through data. “Good to see you’re still holding in your emotions, Grayson.”

“I sat there and listened to you talk about her like she was some kind of monster.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“No, it’s worse,” Mark snaps, voice rising. “You didn’t say anything directly—you just let your paranoia fill in the blanks.”

Cecil glances up at last, his countenance dull, inscrutable. “You want to tell me I’m wrong? That what happened in the district didn’t show we’re in over our heads?”

Mark moves forward, fists clutched at his sides. “She didn’t do anything. The anomaly discovered her. And instead of asking why, or allowing her space to digest it, you sat in a room full of people and spoke about her like she was already halfway to being a villian.”

“I’m talking about keeping people safe.”

“You’re talking about caging the first person who’s actually connecting to whatever’s going on.”

Cecil stands then, gently. He doesn’t raise his voice. Doesn’t bristle. He merely moves around the table, pausing a few steps from Mark, that same inscrutable face securely in place.

“Mark,” he replies, “you care about her. I know that. And that’s exactly why you’re not thinking clearly.”

Mark shakes his head. “You don’t get to say that to me. Not after everything you’ve done. Not after how many times you’ve used people.”

Cecil’s voice hardens. “And it kept the world spinning. Do you think I like this? Do you think it’s easy, witnessing someone I helped nurture into a soldier transform into something I can’t predict?”

Mark moves in closer, chest rising and falling. “She’s not a threat.”

“She’s not stable.”

“She’s human.” Mark’s voice is firm. “She’s scared. She’s being driven apart by things no one else understands, and instead of helping her, you’re already creating a prison.”

“She is the prison, Mark!” Cecil eventually breaks, the cold mask breaking. “We’re not talking about trauma or volatility anymore, we’re talking about a possible anchor point for a dimensional collapse! If she slips, it won’t be a breakdown. It’ll be an event.”

Silence.

Mark stares at him, teeth gritted, his hands quivering with the effort it takes not to shatter anything.

And then, softer—deadly quiet: “She heard you.”

That causes Cecil pause. “What?”

“She was outside the door.”

Cecil’s mouth parts, barely. “That wasn’t—”

“She heard you planning to isolate her. She heard you call her unstable. She heard you say she might not have a choice.”

Cecil’s shoulders slump, ever so little. “That’s… unfortunate.”

“Yeah,” Mark replies, hollow. “It is.”

He takes a step back, his voice low now, devastated.

“You know what the worst part is? She trusted you. Still. After everything. She told me, once, that you were the only one who never flinched when her powers started appearing early. That even as the collar went on, you stared her in the eye. Like she was still a person.”

Cecil says nothing.

“But now,” Mark goes on, his voice straining, “you’re not even pretending anymore. You’ve chosen who she is. What she’s supposed to be. And you didn’t even have the guts to tell it to her face.”

Cecil drops his gaze. “I made a call based on the data.”

“No,” Mark growls. “You made a call based on fear.”

He turns, striding for the door.

“Where are you going?” Cecil asks.

Mark stops, one hand on the sensor panel.

“To find her,” he adds without looking back. “Before you take the last thing she has left.”

And with that, the door hisses open.

And he’s gone.

Leaving Cecil alone.

With nothing but statistics on a screen,

And the silent thought That maybe—for the first time— He’s made a mistake he can’t calculate his way out of.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・୨୧

You don’t recall leaving.

One second, you’re standing in that hallway, outside the briefing room, hearing your name dissected like a problem to be solved, and the next, you’re moving. Fast. Quiet. Like muscle memory took over. Like your body decided it couldn’t bear another second pushed against that glass door, listening to people who once claimed they had your back act like you were a broken lock about to crack.

You don’t make a scene. You don’t burst in or yell or ask why. You just leave.

The fluorescent lights blur above as you move, too quickly, not fast enough. Every footstep resonating in your brain like it doesn’t belong to you. You’re not sure if you’re holding your breath or if you just forgot how to exhale.

You don’t know where you’re headed. You just know you have to get out.

Past the laboratories.

Past the common area where two interns peek up and then away swiftly, evidently advised to keep their heads down. Past the elevators. Down a maintenance stairs you scarcely think to take. The concrete is cool under your boots. Smells like steel and cold and disinfectant. You keep walking. Keep inhaling like it hurts.

Your hands are shaking. You stuff them in your pockets.

‘They’re going to lock me up again.’

You don’t need to speak it loudly anymore. It’s already burnt into the front of your brain, looping like a warning.

‘They’re going to lock me up again.’

They’re going to take away your name and give you a confinement code. They’re going to reduce you to a danger level on a secret chart and assess your humanity in how still you can keep your hands.

You’re halfway down a lower-level hallway when a voice yells out your name.

You stop. You shouldn’t. You want to keep going. But your feet root to the floor like they don’t belong to you anymore.

Mark rounds the corner first.

He seems breathless. And wrecked. Like every word stated in the meeting scratched its way beneath his skin. His chest rises and falls in tight, shallow motions. His jacket’s partly unzipped. His hair’s a disaster.

You don’t say anything. Neither does he—not at first.

Then he lifts a hand, nearly reaching for you, before he pulls it back like he’s terrified to touch you. Like you may break.

“I was going to tell you,” he adds gently. “I didn’t know—he didn’t—Cecil didn’t say it was about containment until—”

“I heard all of it,” you say, voice low and piercing and too even to be anything but a warning. “Start to finish.”

Mark winces. “I was going to tell you myself. I swear.”

“You let them talk about me like I wasn’t even real.” You don’t mean for it to come out like that. But it does. “Like I wasn’t just outside the door.”

“I didn’t know you were there—”

“That’s not the point.”

Silence. He knows it. You saw it hit him. The remorse seeping behind his eyes like something he’s trying to avoid.

“You’re not alone in this.”

You swallow. Your hands clench into fists in your pockets. “I feel alone.”

Before Mark can speak again, another voice echoes down the corridor.

“Jesus Christ, you walk fast.”

You blink. Look past Mark.

Rex.

He’s jog-walking toward you, appearing as irritated as always but strangely still… different. His hair’s a mess too, and his hoodie’s half-unzipped like he didn’t even bother attempting to make himself appear like a superhero today. But he slows when he sees your face.

And for once, he doesn’t crack a joke. Doesn’t smirk. He merely exhales, long and low.

“You good?” he says.

You don’t answer.

“You heard the meeting,” he says. “Of course you did. And sure, it was a shitshow.”

“You could say that.”

“I did say that. Loudly.” He shoves his hands into his pockets and stares down the corridor. “I’m probably banned again. Which… is surprising, given I didn’t even formally work here anymore.”

You nearly grin. You don’t.

Mark steps closer to you again. “We’re not letting this happen.”

“‘We?” you inquire, glancing between them.

“I mean,” Rex adds, lifting a brow, “I’m not usually one for emotional solidarity, but yeah. We.”

You glance at them. Really look.

Mark, still too stiff, still trying too hard to mend things with his hands while the damage was in the stillness. And Rex, bracing against the moment with snark and impatience because he doesn’t know how to remain still amid someone else’s agony without squirming. But he’s here. They both are.

“I didn’t ask for you to fix this,” you mumble.

“We know,” Mark says. “We’re not trying to fix it. We just… don’t want you to go through it alone.”

You don’t notice you’re shaking until Rex’s voice softens.

“Hey,” he says. “You’re still you. Powers or no powers. Glitches or no glitches. And if they think they can box you up like some sort of scientific project, they’ve got another thing coming.”

You finally breathe. Really breathe. A full breath.

And your voice, cracked, exhausted, human, says

“I don’t know who I am if I can’t use what I am.”

“You’ll figure it out,” Mark promises. “We’ll figure it out.”

Rex nods. “And if not, we’ll blow a hole in the wall and bust you out. Old school.”

You nearly laugh.

And for now, that’s enough.

You don't go back upstairs.

Not straight away.

The three of you sat in the maintenance corridor like students who fled class and sought a quiet stairway to pout in. It's chilly down here, concrete and buzzing pipes, the subtle industrial scent of metal in the air, but yet it feels more honest than the briefing room above. No one’s faking here. There’s no plan, no tact. Just the raw weight of what was spoken, and what it represents.

You sit with your back against the wall, legs splayed out in front of you. Mark’s a few feet distant, head low, forearms braced on his knees. Rex sits directly on the floor, hoodie hood pulled up halfway over his head like he can hide from the shitstorm building over all of you.

No one speaks for a time.

It’s Rex who breaks the stillness first, because of course it is.

He huffs out a breath. “You ever notice how every time we think we’ve figured things out, Cecil finds a way to make everything feel like a trap?”

You tilt your head. “I don’t think it ever stopped feeling like one.”

Mark doesn’t look up. “It’s different now. He doesn’t trust us, he doesn’t trust you. And that changes everything.”

“I don’t think he ever really trusted me,” you add gently, startling yourself with how solid your voice sounds. “I think he just convinced himself he could manage me. Same as the collar. Same as the basement cell. Keep me quiet, keep me confined, make sure the leash is long enough that I don’t realize it.”

Mark finally glances at you. “I don’t think of you like that.”

“I know,” you whisper, gazing away. “But he does.”

“Yeah, well…” Rex mutters, tossing a little bolt he discovered on the floor and catching it again. “Cecil’s whole thing is turning people into weapons and then getting mad when they don’t want to stay pointed at the target.”

You grin weakly, the type that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “That’s a good line. You should write that down.”

“I would, but then he’d probably have me assassinated.”

That earns a giggle from you. Mark, too, makes a tired huff of amusement, even if he still looks like he’s carrying the weight of the entire debate upstairs.

“I keep thinking…” you trail off, fingers fumbling in your lap. “What if they’re right? What if something’s changing in me and I don’t even realize it? What if the next time I glitch, I pull half the city with me?”

“You won’t,” Mark responds quickly.

“You can’t know that.”

“I do,” he affirms, voice quiet but definite. “Because I’ve seen you fight harder to stay grounded than anyone I’ve ever met. Even before we realized what you were capable of. You’re not reckless. You’re afraid. And that’s okay.”

You swallow heavily, throat burning.

“But being scared doesn’t mean you’re out of control,” he continues.

Rex lays out alongside you with a groan. “Also, side note, if you ever did pull half the city with you, I’m like 80% sure I’d still be on your side. Might complain the whole time, but I’d be there.”

You laugh, actually laugh, and it’s a touch wobbly, a little shocked. “Thanks, Rex.”

“Hey, I’m a man of loyalty. And sarcasm. Sometimes both.”

You rest your head back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling. “I used to think that if I stayed good, if I followed the rules, if I made myself useful enough… they’d stop being afraid of me.”

“And?” Mark asks softly.

“They’re never going to stop being afraid.”

The words hang in the air like frost.

Rex shrugs. “Fuck 'em.”

You gaze at him.

“No, seriously,” he adds, supporting his elbow on one knee. “Let them be scared. You’re not here to make them feel safe. You’re here to be you. And if that comes with a little chaos? Fuck it.”

Mark exhales gently. “You don’t have to earn your right to exist. You’re not a weapon. You’re you. And that’s okay.”

You nod. Your eyes hurt.

And you don’t say it, but you think it:

I want to believe you.

A long stillness follows, yet it’s not heavy. Not this time. It’s the type that creeps in when there’s nothing left to protect and no sense pretending.

Finally, Mark gets himself to his feet and reaches out a hand.

You take it.

He lifts you up, steady and warm, his fingers lingering around yours.

Rex stands too, reluctantly, with a groan, and raises his arms above his head.

“So what now?” he says.

You wipe at your face, swallowing the last of the shakiness in your chest. “Now?”

You peek up the stairway toward the conference room, the chamber that still smells like uncertainty and policy and control. Then you look back at them, Mark, with his loyalty so intense it hurts; Rex, with his cynical voice and surprising sensitivity.

And you take a breath.

The sun hasn’t yet fully set as you push through the glass doors at the front of HQ. The air outside is sharp and crisp, early evening chill stinging against the warmth still clinging to your skin from the walk down. Street sounds are distant, muted by the thick paneled walls behind you. Mark and Rex are still somewhere inside, wrapping off loose ends with the briefing aftermath. You’d told them you needed air. That you only needed a minute.

You weren’t lying.

You just didn’t realize how little time you had left.

You’re halfway down the front stairs when it hits.

It’s not gentle. Not slow. Not like the earlier pulses that bled in at the edges of your senses like whispers in the dark.

This is violent.

A tug in your chest, swift and sharp, like a hook inserted beneath your sternum, pushed forward by unseen hands. Your knees buckle and you grab yourself on the steel railing with a strangled gasp, hand burning from the friction. Your vision becomes white for a second, then dark, then wrong.

The world bends.

The city before you, cars, streetlights, the gentle glow of offices in the tower across the street, all of it twists.

The air around you warps like heatwaves, yet there’s no heat, only pressure. Crushing. The sky overhead spreads thin, like paint stretched across canvas too fast. Colors flow into one another, amber into violet into green into something you don’t have a name for. Everything feels too slow and too fast at the same time, like time itself is trying to go in two ways at once and can’t decide which one to select.

Your air shudders out of you in short spurts.

You strive to focus, to anchor. You smack your hand against the rail, attempting to anchor yourself with pain, with feeling. It doesn’t work. You can feel yourself flickering, your thoughts changing in and out of rhythm with the environment around you. Your fingers appear overly long one second, too short the next. The cityscape in front of you swirls, becomes rural, then old, then alien.

Your knees strike the pavement. Hard.

You don't recall falling.

A scream is swelling in your throat, but you don't let it out. You can’t. Because somewhere behind the pandemonium, someone is watching you again. You can feel it. Like a presence just beneath the curve of space, pressing against the seams of the cosmos.

Then the voice returns.

Not uttered. Not out loud.

Not again.

It’s thought. But not yours.

The pressure surges, and the world around you shatters—at least that’s what it feels like.

The sidewalk slips away like paper. The air turns to glass and eventually to smoke. You see flickers, images sewn together like frames from several films: your own face, older; Mark’s figure, bloodstained and bleak; a battlefield under two suns; Rex standing in a corridor of mirrors, staring at something he doesn’t recognize.

You attempt to yell his name, but your voice melts into static.

And then—

It everything slams back.

Like someone snapped a rubber band across the sky.

You’re on the steps again, face pallid, chest heaving, palms scraped open. Your knuckles sting from how firmly you must’ve squeezed your hands. Your body is shivering uncontrollably, your whole neurological system screaming for a solution your brain doesn’t have.

But the street? The city? Back to normal.

Pedestrians stroll past if nothing happened. A man examines his phone as he passes you, hardly even glancing your way. Like you didn’t just glitch through time itself.

You’re still on your knees.

You can still feel the imprint of that voice behind your eyes.

Footsteps behind you—fast.

It’s Mark. And behind him—Rex.

You attempt to speak, but your throat is raw. Mark’s already kneeling alongside you, hands on your shoulders, anchoring you, frightened. You can see it on his face. He’s seen you afraid before. But never like this. Not like you’ve just came back from somewhere else.

“I’m fine,” you manage, but you sound far from it.

“No, you’re not,” he replies, eyes searching you like he’s checking for wounds he can’t see. “You’re shaking—what happened?”

Rex crouches on your other side. “What the hell was that? You look like you just went through a blender.”

You chuckle once, short, empty. “I think I just… went somewhere. Or everywhere. I don’t know.”

Mark’s jaw tightens. “You glitched.”

“No,” you answer, voice hushed now. “This wasn’t a glitch.”

They both glance at you.

And when you finally lift your head, eyes wide and wild, voice quivering with the weight of what you felt, what you heard, you say

“It’s getting closer. Whatever it is. It’s looking for me.”

You're still kneeling as the next wave hits.

It’s not as sharp as the first, not a blade this time, but a pulse. Rhythmic. Deep. Like the city itself is breathing, and the breath is wrong. Too sluggish. Too loud. You feel it through the soles of your boots, the bones in your jaw. The type of emotion that doesn't come from outside, it blossoms inside your blood, like your own heartbeat has gone out of rhythm with time.

And suddenly the world flickers.

Hard.

The sidewalk under your palms fractures, not with cracks, but with possibilities. You see flashes of it as stone, as sand, as nothing.The skyscraper opposite from HQ, glass-fronted, elegantly corporate, sputters like a dying bulb. One second it’s clean, next it’s a skeleton of itself, twisted metal beams stretching like fingers into a bruised crimson sky. You blink, and it’s back. Blink again, and it’s gone, replaced by its own devastation, then with something… alien. The city continues moving around you. Layered.

You double over, gasping, but the air’s too thick now. Tastes like static. Smells like ozone and ash.

“Hey!”

Mark’s voice rips through it again, but this time it’s not alone.

More footsteps. The unmistakable sound of powered boots, of hard impact, of gasping terror and armor plates sliding. The Guardians are rushing outside. Eve, already gleaming. Bulletproof searching the horizon, anxious and ready. The Immortal with his jaw set like a thunder cloud.

“What’s happening to her?” Eve sighs as she draws to a standstill, eyes widening at the warped skyline.

Black Samson doesn’t answer. He’s looking, frozen. Because the buildings? They’re not just flickering. They’re clashing. Existing and unexisting in jagged spurts, like time is struggling to remember which version it wants to retain. Every window becomes a coin flip. Whole streets dissolve into themselves before springing back.

And you—at the core of it.

You grasp the sidewalk like it’ll hold you attached, but even your hands are splitting, replicating in flashes, one minute bleeding, the next scarless. One hand tiny and childish. Another older, weathered, sporting a ring you’ve never seen.

Mark says your name again, gripping your shoulder now. His grasp is solid, anchoring. He’s kneeling with you, ignoring the flickers, gaze fixated on you. “Stay with me. You’re here.”

But then you see her.

The original version. Just to your left.

You turn, and there you are. But not you. A version of you, slumped over and bleeding out, eyes vacant. Another, across the street, limping, face half-covered in soot and ash.

You can’t breathe.

You stand without realizing it, wobbling upright, Mark rising with you in fear.

“They’re me,” you say, breath fogging in the thickening air. “I’m seeing… versions of myself.”

Eve’s voice is near now, wavering yet firm. “What do you mean?”

“They’re all me,” you remark, glancing around. “Dead. Different. Like the barrier’s gone. Like they’re leaking in.”

Bulletproof’s scanning grows quicker, more agitated. “I’m picking up energy signatures I can’t track. This isn’t just her, it’s multiversal bleed. All across the block.”

“No,” you murmur. “Not the block. Just around me.”

And then, another flash.

This one feels like it rips through you.

Your knees buckle, and suddenly, the city’s gone. Or not gone, replaced. You’re standing in a crater. Rubble. Screams. A crimson sky filled with smoke. And in front of you, Mark, broken and immobile, a version of him dead at your feet. Your knees strike the earth with a hollow sound, your lips wide in a mute scream. And then—just as fast—it’s gone.

You’re back.

Still on the HQ stairs. Still surrounded by people chanting your name.

You slump on Mark’s chest.

“I saw a version where you died,” you gasp, voice strained. “Where I killed everything. Where I—I don’t even think I was me anymore.”

He hugs you tighter.

“Listen to me. That’s not this timeline. That’s not you.”

“How do you know?” you snap, trembling. “How do you know I’m not becoming her? That thing—whatever’s pulling at me—it’s growing stronger. It’s not random anymore. It’s reaching through.”

You glance at him, desperate. “And I think it wants me to help it.”

The streetlights overhead flicker.

The air pulses again—slow and deep. A heartbeat. Not yours. Not human.

Behind you, Rex whispers: “Okay. Yeah. We are gone over red alert.”

The Guardians create a half-circle around you as the air begins to twist again. And Mark, still holding you, stares up at the changing sky, his mouth tight.

“We need to get her inside. Now.”

“I don’t think inside’s going to matter,” you mumble. “If it wants me, it already has me.”

And even while they strive to shelter you, to protect you, to fix whatever this is…

You realize

They’re not fast enough.

No one is.

Because the fractures aren’t only in the world anymore.

They’re in you.

The surge collapses like a wave reaching shore.

No huge explosion, no cinematic end. Just a long, rattling sigh from the cosmos, as if it had been holding its breath through you, and finally let go.

The metropolis returns to itself in parts.

The flashing ends. The buildings settle. The lights stabilize. That awful vibration in your bones begins to lessen, not evaporate, but recede like a predator that’s gotten its full for now. The distortion in the air disappears, leaving a peculiar silence behind. Not peaceful. Stunned.

You’re still crushed against Mark’s chest, your fingers fisted in the fabric of his jacket like it's the only solid thing left in your world.

“I didn’t mean to,” you mumble. It comes out hoarse. Weak.

“I know,” Mark breaths into your hair. “I know.”

But the others, Eve, Samson, Bulletproof, they’re all still there. Watching. Not with terror, not precisely, but with a kind of wide-eyed tension that aches more than you want to acknowledge. Like they want to believe in you. Like they're trying. But the vision of skyscrapers melting into ruins and your own shattered self standing shoulder to side with shadows of who you may become, it’s new. Still engraved in their pupils like afterimages from a too-bright light.

You can feel it. The change in the air.

The fear.

And then—

Footsteps.

Measured. Familiar. Cecil.

He passes through the wrecked HQ door carefully, signature red tie blowing softly in the air, clipboard discarded for once. No security crew, no guards. Just him. And that look on his face, that terrible, inscrutable expression you know too well.

He doesn’t appear furious. That would be easy. Anger is harsh and loud and predictable. But this?

This is disappointment. Confirmation.

He steps across a cracked chunk of pavement. The pavement where you slumped is still charred, still shimmering faintly with leftover electricity. There are signs where the concrete split, charred lines spiderwebbing away from where you stood like lightning scars.

He pauses a few feet in front of you, observes the street like he’s filming the crime scene of something inevitable.

And then, gently, like he doesn’t need to raise his voice to gut you—

“You just proved my point.”

Your heart lurches.

Mark’s body tenses around you, but you’re already pushing away, staggering to your feet. Your hands won’t quit shaking. Your skin’s chilly and burning at once. You’re not sure how you’re still standing.

“You don’t understand,” you say, breath shallow. “It’s not me. It’s something else, something that’s using me. I didn’t do this!”

Cecil’s face doesn’t alter. “That distinction may not matter anymore.”

The words struck harder than anything else that’s happened all day.

You feel your chest constrict. Like a fist is tightening around your lungs. You gaze at Mark, but he’s still frozen. Still torn between protecting you and digesting what just transpired.

“I can’t go back,” you remark abruptly, your voice rising. Your eyes widen at the understanding. “I can’t—I can’t go back to the facility. You’re going to lock me up again, I know it.”

Cecil’s quiet is deafening.

You step back. “No. No—no, I’ve been there. I’ve done it. You can’t—”

Mark starts as he says your name, advancing near you again.

You shake your head. “You said you wouldn’t let them do that again. You promised—”

“I meant it!” he shouts, but it sounds too thin now. Too little next to what you just done. What you are becoming.

Your breathing spirals. You can’t feel your hands anymore.

You backpedal like you’re under assault. “It’s not me—it’s not me! I was trying to stop it, not cause it—God, I didn’t ask for this—”

“Then control it,” Cecil adds.

Your vision blurs. “You think I didn’t try?”

You feel the panic rising in your chest, acidic and quick. You want to run. You want to scream. You want to dig your fingers into your flesh and pull whatever this thing is out of you until you’re clean again, human again.

But you know it won’t work.

That voice wasn’t wrong.

“I don’t know how,” you gasp out. “I don’t know how to stop this.”

Cecil takes one step closer, and even though he doesn’t raise his voice, the weight of it crushes the gap between you.

“That’s exactly why we have to contain you.”

You snap.

“No,” you say, too loud, too fast. “No, I’m not going back in a cell. I’m not going to be your experiment again. I’m not your mistake to take care of.”

And your voice—your power—echoes when you utter it. Just barely. Just enough to make the air ripple.

Eve steps forward then, cautiously. Hands lifted.

She whispers gently. “Just breathe, okay? Nobody’s taking you anywhere.”

But you don’t hear her. You’re already withdrawing within your thoughts, terror flashing like broken lights. Because you know how this ends. You've seen it. You just saw it.

You don’t get to be the hero.

You get to be the anomaly. The event. The variable that becomes too unstable to live freely.

And now the worst part? You’re starting to believe they’re right.

Mark says your name again, voice breaking now, coming between you and Cecil. “Look at me. Just—look at me.”

You do.

And for a minute, it’s only the two of you.

“You’re not alone. I’m still here. No matter what.”

You believe him. And you don't.

Because the tempest inside you doesn't care who loves you.

It only knows how to develop.

And in the silence that follows, you mumble the one thing you’re actually terrified of.

“I don’t think I can come back from this.”

Mark comes forward like a hurricane coming to a standstill, fast and sharp, yet terrifyingly silent. You’re still breathing behind him, your body trembling so violently your knees are barely holding you upright. But you don’t fall. Because he’s already there. Not simply in front of you—in the way.

His voice, when it comes, is low. Measured. Too calm. And it’s the type of stillness that causes everyone in the radius stop breathing.

“She’s not going anywhere.”

Cecil doesn’t blink. His hands are folded behind his back, tie flapping lightly in the breeze, the shattered concrete below breaking faintly from the residual energy still vibrating through your body. He keeps his eyes on Mark, but the air between them seems like it’s going to crack.

“I wasn’t asking,” Mark says, louder now. “She’s not going back.”

Rex moves next you, calm for once. No jokes. No sarcasm. Just observing with that unique, coiled knowledge of his that only shows up when things are going to go very awful.

Cecil’s eyes dart past Mark. To you.

You feel it—his stare like a weight over your shoulders, measuring you up like statistics, like figures. Not Ace, but a threat profile. A prospective occurrence. A ticking clock.

Mark sees it, too.

And something in him snaps.

“You don’t get to look at her like that,” Mark yells, pushing forward again until they’re nearly chest to chest. “Like she’s a problem you’re going to solve if you just put her back in a box.”

Cecil doesn’t move. “She just fractured three timelines, Grayson. In the midst of downtown. No warning. No control. You really want to tell me I’m wrong to be cautious?”

“I want you to shut the hell up about her like she’s not standing right behind me, terrified.”

You’re hardly breathing.

It’s too much. The air. The electricity still fizzing under your skin. The versions of yourself still flashing across your memory, burned-in ghosts of who you could be, who you will be, if this monster inside you keeps driving you apart.

You grip your arms firmly over your chest, like it’ll protect you from drifting away.

“I can’t—I can’t go back there,” you say, voice weak and cracking. “Please—Mark, I can’t. I can’t be locked away again. I’ll break. I’ll—I’ll lose myself. I’ll disappear and you won’t even know me when—when—”

Mark turns, fast, holding your face in both hands, pushing you to look at him.

“Hey. Look at me. You’re not going away. Not without me. Not like that.”

“I hurt people—”

“No, you didn’t,” he says. “You held it in. You stayed. You fought it.”

“But what if I don’t next time?”

“Then we handle it together. But I will not let them put you in a cell again and pretend they’re helping.”

You hear it, then.

The despair. The terror he’s concealing underneath the wrath.

He’s just as afraid as you.

And then Cecil speaks again—calm, cold, terrible.

“…Fine.”

The phrase drops like a cold stone in water.

Mark narrows his gaze. “What?”

Cecil exhales slowly. “She doesn’t go back. Not yet.”

Your knees buckle, and Rex takes your arm, steadying you.

“But,” Cecil adds, stare going steel-sharp again, “if she loses control again—if someone dies, or if the city folds in half, or if she tears another hole in the goddamn multiverse—then I won��t ask twice. Not again”

The quiet is immediate.

Final.

“And I won’t send a team next time,” he continues. “I’ll come myself.”

Mark moves forward again like he’s going to swing, but you seize his hand, fingers shaking.

He stops. But only just.

Cecil greets your eyes. For the first time, you see something flash there, not malice. Not cruelty. But something that hurts. Something that looks a lot like guilt wearing a mask.

“I don’t want to do this to you,” he says. Quiet. Honest. “But I will. If it comes to that.”

He turns, going back toward HQ.

And for the first time, you don’t feel safer inside.

You stand there for a moment, the air chilly against your sweat-damp skin. The sun has fully set now, and the destroyed block is lighted by emergency lights and the faint hum of shattered streetlamps. Everything’s still.

Mark hasn't let go of your hand.

Rex sighs alongside you. “So. That was fun.”

You don’t laugh.

You just glance up at the sky, where the colors finally stopped moving.

But you know it’s not over.

The city holds its breath around you.

Somewhere in the distant, sirens blur into the wind, their warbling call dying off as fast as they came. Above, the sky has finally settled into a genuine night, no more changing purples and greens, no flickering stars spilling across histories. Just a peaceful, cloud-cloaked black extending over the ruins below. But the stillness isn't peace. It's aftermath. That dreadful silence following the scream, where everything is too motionless, too meticulous.

You can still feel it humming under your skin.

Your body feels like it’s been stretched thin across realms. Your fingertips hurt. The bones in your legs feel like glass. But worse than that, you still feel it. That thing inside you. The echo of a tug that hadn’t come from outside, but from within. It’s quiet now, coiled someplace deep, but it’s still there.

Waiting.

Watching.

And you don’t know if it’s asleep or simply being patient.

Mark hasn’t moved since Cecil went away.

Neither have you.

The rest of the Guardians linger around the periphery, Eve, arms crossed and face pale, watching with concern but giving you space. Bulletproof muttering quietly into a comm, trying to coordinate a safe perimeter around the city block that just witnessed three alternate timelines crash into each other like waves.

And Rex? Still on your left, one hand clutching your arm, not tight, not constraining, just steady. Grounding. In case you fall again.

Your knees hurt. You’re still trembling. You haven’t uttered a word since Cecil departed, but the ringing in your ears hasn’t stopped.

Cecil’s words replay in your thoughts like a hammer on a bruise.

“If she loses control again… I won’t ask twice.”

The threat was almost gentle, and strangely that made it scarier. He wasn’t being harsh. He wasn’t even being theatrical.

You finally find your voice, silent and empty. “I don’t think I can fix this.”

Mark’s hand tightens around yours. “Yes, you can.”

“I don’t know how,” you mumble. “This isn’t just telepathy. Or projection. It’s not a power I can shut off. Something’s waking up in me, and it doesn’t care if I’m ready.”

Your chest tightens again. “It doesn’t ask. It takes.”

You gaze up at him, blinking tears from your eyes.

“And what if next time… it’s not me anymore? * What if it turns me into something you can’t stop?”

Mark’s jaw tenses. His eyes flare with something urgent, something hot and furious below the terror. “Then we drag you back. We fight for you. We don’t toss you in a goddamn prison.”

He draws you closer, voice low. “I’m not letting them take you from me.”

Your breath catches.

And suddenly, behind you, Rex speaks, dry but not nasty. “Yeah, seconded. For the record.”

You gaze at him.

He shifts uncomfortably, massages the back of his neck. “Look, I’m not exactly known for... emotional intelligence. Or stability. Or anything useful, actually. But I do know what it looks like when someone’s going to spiral and everyone around them starts flinching.”

He flicks his chin toward HQ. “That’s what they’re doing. Flinching. Preparing for the version of you that goes nuclear.”

You gaze at the ground.

Rex steps closer. “But you’re still here. Not some glitch. Not a recollection. You.”

“And we’re here, too,” Eve murmurs gently from the shadows. She goes over, kneels by you. “If this thing is in you, whatever it is, we figure it out. Together.”

For the first time since the world bent around you, something in your chest moves. Not fear. Not power. Just something small.

Hope.

You slump to the concrete again, this time not because you’re falling, but because you need to sit. Because you need to feel the earth and remind yourself that it’s real.

Mark sits next you without reluctance. Shoulder pushed to yours. Warm. Steady. Rex crouches on your other side, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet like he can’t keep still even in comfort. Eve crosses her legs in front of you. She’s gleaming faintly. Always.

The city is slowly returning to normal. Or at least trying to.

But you’re still terrified.

You sit there in the rubble of your darkest moment.

Hands bleeding, flesh tingling with something not quite yours.

The darkness breaks wide open.

You barely have time to scream before the world itself breaks open behind Mark.

No warning. No signal from your power. No gut-deep instinct like previously. This time it comes from somewhere else. A wound in space—vertical and bright green, sickening and pulsating like a pulse out of tune with the cosmos.

Mark turns—too late.

The tear taking him.

One second, he’s standing alongside you, hand on your back, chest rising with the same breath as yours. The next, he’s jerking forward like somebody lassoed him from the chest.

“Mark!”

Your scream doesn’t echo. The sound gets swallowed by the gateway, drawn into the infinite, churning light. Green arcs of electricity wrap around his limbs like they were *waiting* for him, dragging him toward the breach.

It’s him.

It’s not random.

This isn’t a glitch. It’s a target.

Mark’s fingers claw at the air, grasping for you—his eyes wide.

You don’t hesitate.

You launch toward him with everything you have left.

Your fingers find his wrist, grip tightening until your knuckles become white. He clutches your forearm in response, just as urgently. You sink your heels into the earth, already sparking with mental energy, pushing against the pull like you’re attempting to keep back the water.

The city transforms again around you. Pavement warps. Wind howls. Debris flies toward the green light like it’s being fed into a vacuum.

You lock eyes with him.

“I’ve got you,” you say, voice trembling. “I’ve got you!”

But even as you say it—you feel it in your core.

You’re losing him.

His grasp starts to slip. Not because he’s letting go. But because the pull is greater than anything you've ever felt, stronger than the universe wants you to be.

Eve’s shouting your name, but it’s far. Rex is rushing toward you, energy gathering in his palms.

Mark’s voice bursts over the thunder of the gateway.

“Let go.”

“No!”

“You have to.”

“I won’t.”

His fingers are slipping. His hand’s shaking so violently you can’t tell whether one of you is breaking apart quicker.

You see it in his face.

He knows.

This is the only way.

If you don’t let go, you’ll go with him.

And then, you make the mistake of looking into the portal.

You see it.

The other Mark. The one grinning. Standing just over the threshold. White clothes bathed in black-red blood. A reflection of the man you love, warped by something evil and eternal. He extends his hand in a false wave, then tilts his head, daring you.

Your grasp falters for a fleeting second.

It’s all the gateway needs.

Mark’s fingers fall from yours—

—and he’s gone.

Swallowed whole.

The gateway crashes shut with a sound like thunder underwater.

The street is silent.

The wind ceases.

The world halts.

And you—

You’re still grasping for him.

Your arm is stuck mid-air. Your body still shaking from the exertion. But your hand is empty. The space in front of you is empty. Your chest is—

Gone.

The scream that exits your mouth isn’t a sound. It’s a wound. It breaks loose from your ribcage like it had claws. You drop to your knees, not because your legs gave out, but because everything else did.

He’s gone.

Mark is gone.

And the last thing he did was make you let him go.

Rex falls to your side first, grabbing you before your face meets the concrete. “Shit, shit—stay with me.”

You’re not hearing him. You’re seeing green.

Eve is already on communications, her voice breaking. “We just lost Mark—Cecil, did you see that? Did you see that?!”

But even despite the mounting fear, the reinforcements rushing to the scene, the Guardians attempting to put together what just occurred, one thing becomes plain to you.

This wasn’t about your power.

This wasn’t about a mistake.

The breach came for Mark.

Specifically.

And now he's somewhere else.

Alone.

Or worse… with another version of himself.

You clamp your palms to your lips, shivering so furiously you can't breathe.

“I was holding him,” you murmur. “I was holding him.”

And no one knows how to answer you.

Because the truth is too terrible to express out loud.

You were.

And you still lost him.

The stillness once the gateway closed was awful. Not the tranquil kind, the sort that follows explosions.

The sort that fills your ears when your heartbeat is too loud, too sluggish, too empty.

You’re still kneeling where you collapsed, right hand floating mid-air like it’s waiting for his fingers to return. Waiting for him to bring you back to your feet as he always does, like this was just another near-death event to add to the long, terrifying list.

But he’s not there.

And this time, you know he isn’t coming back. Not today. Maybe not ever.

You taste blood in your tongue. You don’t remember biting your tongue, but it makes sense—somewhere in the shrieking, somewhere in the sob that tore away from you like it had a mind of its own. You can’t feel your throat anymore.

You can’t feel anything.

Says your name, one hand clutching your shoulder, his voice shorn of its typical harshness. “Come on. Look at me.”

You can’t.

Because if you look at him, it’s real.

If you speak it out loud, it’s true.

You blink hard, and a tear slides down your face, slow and bitter. You shake your head, still looking at your own hand. “I had him. Rex, I had him. I felt his hand. He was right there.”

Rex’s hand tightens.

“I didn’t let go,” you reply, softly. “I didn’t. I swear to God, I didn’t let go.”

Rex doesn’t answer. He doesn’t say ‘of course you didn’t’ or ‘it’s not your fault.’ Because he knows better. He understands such comments don’t help. They don’t touch this type of loss.

Behind you, Eve’s footsteps crunch over the concrete. She’s chatting swiftly into her earpiece—her voice tight, clipped, frantic.

“—Yes. Green energy signature, verified portal breach. No trace of Mark. No reaction from transponder. I said he’s gone, Cecil. Gone.”

She pauses when she sees you. Her face softens.

Her brilliance dims.

She lowers her arm.

You eventually glance up. Your face is pallid. Lips cracked. Eyes dull.

“I think he knew,” you whisper. “I think Mark knew it was coming. Right before it took him—he didn’t even fight it. Not really.”

Eve steps closer. “He was trying to protect you.”

You let out a faint, broken laugh. “He always does. Even when I don’t want him to.”

Rex sits back on his heels, stroking a hand over his hair. “That thing was looking for him. It wasn’t a random glitch. It came for him. You saw it, right?”

Eve nods, mouth hard. “Yeah. And the green? It’s not Ace’s color. This wasn’t her. This wasn’t her power.”

Your head is swimming. “Then whose was it?”

No one answers.

Because no one knows.

Rex rises immediately, pacing. “Okay. Okay. So we find out where it went. We figure out way to track it. We rip the universe a new one if we have to. But we get him back.”

“You don’t even know where he is,” you whisper. “He could be in a dead timeline. An alternative Earth. A collapsed dimension. We don’t know the rules anymore.”

“So what?” Rex says. “This isn’t even in the top five weirdest things we’ve faced.”

You gaze up at him again, eyes rimmed crimson.

Rex shrugs. “I mean. Maybe top three.”

That draws a puff of breath from you. Barely a chuckle. But it’s enough to help him ease a bit.

Eve kneels in front of you now. Her voice is gentle. Steady. “We’re not going to stop. You hear me? We’ll figure out where he is. We’ll discover a way to trace the energy signature, hell, Cecil’s got a whole wing of dimensional physicists already. And you? You’ve seen things no one else has. Whatever this thing is, you’re tied to it.”

You swallow. “So it’s my fault.”

“No,” she says, sternly. “It means you’re our best chance.”

You gaze back at the charred land where Mark vanished. It still hums slightly, like the planet hasn’t entirely healed.

You don’t feel healed either. You feel broken.

But somewhere inside the ache, something snaps.

Resolve.

You adjust your weight, bring your feet beneath you. Rex extends a hand and helps you up.

You wobble, knees weak, yet you stand.

And when you speak, your voice is stronger.

“Get Cecil on the line. Tell him I need every scan of that gateway. Every frequency, every variation, every frame of film. I want to know what took him.”

Rex blinks. “Damn. Okay.”

You keep going. “We’ll build something if we have to. A tracker. A gate. I don’t care. I don’t sleep till we bring him back.”

Eve nods, a gentle grin blossoming through the pain. “There she is.”

You don’t grin back. But the fire’s back in your eyes.

And this time, you’ll rip through reality itself if that’s what it takes to bring him home.

Far away, miles, maybe dimensions, removed from the flickering city skyline and the shattered street where you last stood shouting Mark’s name into a quiet emptiness, he watches.

Not via a screen.

Through a crack.

A window that doesn’t reflect light but bends it. One that hums quietly in the midst of a black chamber, the edges pulsating with residual energy drawn from a dozen dead timelines. It isn’t simply glass, it’s a creation of connected worlds, a multi-dimensional interface bound together with pure will and a deep, burning yearning for power.

And Angstrom Levy is quiet.

Poised.

Patient.

He leans forward with both hands on the edge of the platform, his mismatched eyes mirroring the final seconds of the mayhem in your timeline, your knees striking the pavement, Mark ripped from your hold, the horror on your face as the portal swallowed him whole.

Despair.

Not panic.

Not anger.

Not defiance.

Despair.

The type that unroots you. The type that makes even someone like you hesitate.

Angstrom’s smile curves slowly, carefully. Not wide. Not manic. Controlled. Calculated.

“She’s vulnerable now,” he says, more to himself than to the dimmed lab of alternate-tech and suspended variables around him. “Just what I needed.”

He straightens, the quiet echo of his footfall gentle on the metal floor. All around him, inactive gateways hum faintly, kept in stasis. Each one meticulously adjusted to a version of reality where you’re dead. Even when you never stopped fighting. And a few—his favorite—where you stood at Mark’s side till the end of the world.

He never liked those ones.

Too happy.

He looks to one of the closest monitors. The picture turns slowly—a version of you, fragmented, changed, younger. Held in a containment chamber. Not unlike the ones Cecil formerly used. You were dangerous there too. But tiny. Manageable. Full of possibility that hadn’t yet developed claws.

“I told them she was a liability,” he adds, touching the border of the screen. “They should’ve listened then.”

The picture flickers. Changes. Now it's you again—but this you, there and genuine, hunched amid the debris of your city block, hands clinched around nothing, jaw shaking in the aftermath of loss.

“But now… now you’re mine.”

His eyes travel to another screen. A static-ridden vision of Mark, somewhere away. Struggling in a setting not designed for him. Not human. Not anything he understands.

Angstrom tilts his head, looking.

“Don’t worry, Grayson. She’ll come for you. That’s the point.”

He moves away, hands clenched loosely behind his back.

His voice softens, almost gentle.

He grins again, teeth gleaming and even amid the glow of broken light.

“I’ll be waiting.”

And behind him, a dormant gateway flickers.

Green. Hungry. Alive.

And ready.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・୨୧

You don’t remember the walk to Debbie’s house.

Not really.

You remember the streetlights passing like ghosts. You remember the cold. How it started to creep into your bones around the time you left the wreckage of HQ, after the emergency teams showed up and Cecil tried to offer you a place to “rest,”like rest could undo what happened. Like a cup of coffee in some sterile GDA room would be enough to stitch back the gaping hole where he had been.

You walked away without answering. You didn’t trust your voice to work.

And now here you are.

Standing on her porch with shaking hands and a shattered soul, unable to bring yourself to knock on the door. You can feel the heat of the house just behind it. You can hear the faint sounds of the TV playing inside, the laugh track of some sitcom echoing through the walls, blissfully unaware of what the universe just stole from you.

Your knuckles hit the wood before you make the conscious decision to do it.

Three sharp knocks.

The sound of them is loud. Jarring. Final.

The door opens faster than you expect.

Debbie stands there in leggings and a sweatshirt, her hair pulled back, eyes tired but warm. She was probably just settling in for the night. She smiles when she sees you, until she sees you.

Then the smile drops.

Because you look like you’ve been through something.

And the second you see her face, that familiarity, that quiet kind of strength that only mothers have, you break.

It doesn’t happen all at once. It never does.

It starts in your throat, a sob that trembles before it escapes. Then your knees weaken. Your arms wrap around your own chest, like you’re trying to hold your pieces in. Your breath stutters. Debbie says your name, already stepping forward. Her hands come to your shoulders. “Hey—hey, sweetheart. What happened?”

You can’t answer. You can’t breathe.

“I—” you try. “I lost—I—”

And that’s it. You’re gone.

You fall into her arms like gravity decided to stop pretending. Your body crumples forward, and she catches you like she’s been doing it her whole life. She pulls you inside, one arm wrapped tightly around your back, guiding you gently, urgently, to the couch. She doesn’t ask anything else right away. She just holds you.

Your sobs come in waves. Gut-deep. Ugly. You clutch at the front of her sweatshirt like a child, like someone drowning. Your whole body trembles with the weight of it.

Debbie just strokes your hair.

“I’m here,” she whispers. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

It’s not okay.

But she says it anyway.

Because that’s what Mark used to say.

That thought makes it worse.

“I tried,” you cry. “I tried to hold on. I didn’t let go. I swear—”

She doesn’t say anything.

What can she?

After a while, when your sobs have dulled into tremors, she pulls back just enough to look at you. “What happened?”

And before you can answer, a soft little voice pipes up behind you.

“Ma?”

You turn.

Oliver stands at the threshold of the hallway in tiny pajamas, hair sticking up in wild tufts from sleep. His little feet shuffle as he rubs one eye with his fist, the other hand clutching his toy elephant. When he sees you, his eyes widen.

You try to smile. You fail.

“Bra Bra?” he asks. His voice is small.

Your heart cracks wide open.

You press a hand over your mouth as the tears start again, silent this time. All you can do is shake your head.

Debbie goes to Oliver, scoops him up into her arms. He curls against her chest, sleepy and confused.

“Where Bra Bra?” he asks again, blinking at you.

You inhale shakily. Your voice is a ghost when you speak.

“He’s gone.”

Debbie looks at you over Oliver’s head. “Gone… how?”

You swallow, hard. “A portal. It wasn’t mine. It was something else. Green. It… it opened behind him. Took him. I tried to stop it. I had him, Debbie. I was holding him. But it still—”

You break again, burying your face in your hands.

“I couldn’t save him.”

Debbie doesn’t speak for a long moment. You think she’s processing. Or maybe holding herself together for Oliver, who’s still curled against her, not fully understanding, but sensing the sadness in the room. He watches you with wide, solemn eyes.

“He will come back,” she says finally. Quiet. Steady. “You’ll bring him back. I know you will.”

You shake your head. “You didn’t see it. The thing that took him—it wanted him. This wasn’t random. This was intentional.”

Debbie walks back to the couch, sits beside you, holding Oliver in her lap. She rests her free hand on your knee.

“You brought him back from worse,” she says. “And you’re not alone. We’ll help you. I will. Whatever it takes.”

You look up at her. Your vision blurs again.

“But what if I’m not enough?”

She smiles, tired, broken, but real.

“Then we’ll be enough together.”

Oliver leans out from her arms and crawls awkwardly into your lap. He tucks his little body against yours and rests his head on your shoulder. You cradle him instinctively, your fingers trembling in his soft hair.

“Bra Bra okay,” he mumbles, sleepy.

You press your lips to the top of his head.

You want to believe that.

God, you want to.

But all you have now is the memory of Mark’s voice, his final words.

"Let go."

And the promise you made to yourself in that moment.

You will not rest. Not until he’s home.

୨୧・┈┈・┈┈・୨୧

taglist: @ladynoirx321

comment if you'd like to be apart of the taglist<3

[mahoganyrust]

So Im new to the httyd fandom and I was curious about the hijack ship. I don’t think Jack Frost is in httyd. Was it just one of those things where you saw Rise of the Guardians and thought Jack would go well with Hiccup? I’m just curious. ☺️

Hiiii. So I’m definitely not the one that came up with Hijack XD The ship has been around for over a decade now it’s not exactly news. But I understand when ppl first come across it it seems strange so I’ll give you a rundown.

And you’d be right. Jack isn’t in httyd and nor is Hiccup in Rotg. So in the fanon community, this is what we call a ‘rare pair’ or aka, a ship that crosses fandoms and is made up mostly of fanon content. It might seem strange but it happens a lot. It’s fanon. And crossovers are the traditional crux fun of fanfiction so it’s not that weird.

Hijack is heavily associated with a very popular quadruple crossover known as ROTBTD or Rise of The Brave Tangled Dragons. This is an intersection between Disney Merida and Rapunzel with Dreamworks Jack and Hiccup. Rotbtd went craaaazyy in the 2010s and there’s a lot of different content with fics and fanart.

From this, some ppl often ship Jackunzel or Mericup or etc etc you get the idea there’s a lot of different dynamics.

I never really dove too heavily into the rotbtd stuff but I’m still familiar.

So that’s the history. As for Jack and Hiccup? They’re weird as hell I get it lmao. Like wtf is this? XD.

Hiccup’s married with kids. Jack’s in the modern era etc. They have a lot of canon hurdles so why do people ship them?

My answer?

They work.

They work together so well in so many different ways that it takes over your brain. Hijack grows on you bit by bit.

As for what they have in common. They’re both big fliers and adrenaline junkies. They both question their purpose. They both know what it’s like to lose family. They both have gone through years of loneliness. Jack is a guardian, Hiccup is a chief - they’re both protectors. They’re both fighters. They’ve both been suddenly shunned after feeling like they were finally beginning to belong. They both have issues with footwear (lmao sorry). Hiccup creates inventions, Jack creates frosty art and fun with his powers. They both do their character development by a lake in a forest lol. They both have burly accented father figures XD. Jack is the boy who fell into icy water. Hiccup is the boy who fell into blazing fire.

There’s a beautiful parallel in lines here.

Rotg: “Jack Frost is many things, but he is not a guardian.”

Httyd: “You are many things Hiccup, but a dragon killer is not one of them.”

And they both originate each from their own book series that got adapted.

And that’s just the factual stuff. When it comes to their personalities whooowheeeeee.

From the last decade I’ve seen lots of stuff that does them a disservice when ppl reduce Jack to the outgoing ‘jokester’ and Hiccup to the introvert ‘nerdy guy’. In the earlier days some ppl were shipping httyd1 Hiccup, which personally I find extremely weird. Never engaged with that lol. After httyd2 came out that disappeared mostly but still it’s unsettling.

Anyways I don’t like the simplification of their characters and prefer when maybe older creators can take them in a more emotionally complex direction and when they do ohhhh my goddddddd. You end up with storytelling masterpieces with amazing character dimensionality.

I could go on for hours. There’s just something about them. It’s hard to put it into a single word but when they’re done right they just work.

[spitdrunken]

notes: temporary character death

You were a little kid, when you’d first met him. But so was he. It had been a time before time, when many things did not yet exist, and even more were simply incomprehensible. 

Other kids always talked about Bill and his ‘weird’ eye. You didn’t really get it. Your mom told you to be nice to Bill, but you didn’t really know him. When you asked the other kids why he or his eye was weird, none of them knew what to say. And if they did, they all gave a different answer. You guessed their parents just told them he was weird. Maybe you were weird, too, then. You never really knew what to say or how to approach anyone, and it’d only become a problem when your parents asked you if you had any friends. That was the moment you had realised that you didn’t. 

You didn’t really know why you picked Bill, back then. You didn’t care about him either way. But you did liked his shoes. They were big, a cool colour, and they were squeaky when he moved. What was there not to like? That morning, you had asked your dad what you should ask when you wanted to play together with someone. He had said that, after school, you should get someone’s parents’ permission if you want to play after school. 

“Bill’s mom, can Bill play?” You’d ask who you would later get to know as miss Scalene.

“I don’t know!” She responded, in that slow, sweet tone people who spend a lot of time around young children naturally begin to emulate. “I think you should Billy ask that.”

“Oh. I thought his name was Bill! I’m sorry.” You called out, swaying a little from side to side. 

“It’s Bill,” he’d said. His voice was higher than you had expected. “But mom calls me Billy.”

“Oh,” you started again. “Can I call you that too?” You asked. 

“…Mm.” Billy had hummed. “Okay. I guess.” Even when he’d said the affirmative, he hadn’t sounded entirely convinced. He was hesitant to appear from next to his mom. 

“So. Do you wanna play, Billy?” He glowed a little brighter. 

He was quiet for a moment. You think his mom squeezed his hand. “Sure. But what?” 

You didn’t really have much experience playing with other kids, either. But you weren’t about to tell your new friend Billy that! You’d offered to play hide and seek together, to which he’d agreed. After just a little bit of time together, talking and playing came a lot more easily. 

You would play hide and seek together quite a lot. That was the first time you really came face-to-face with Billy’s mischievous side. He had advantages over you that you simply could not imagine. With his eye, that could see ‘every’ which way, was always able to spot you long before you bumped into him. Yours were always just fixed in a single direction, bumping into other shapes was normal and expected. Billy never did that. He could suddenly appear behind you, and you had no idea how he did it. If you ever found him, it was because he could no longer contain his laughter, or because of the squeaking of his shoes. 

For a while, this went fine. But you grew sick of losing all the time. You’d eventually stopped, swayed violently from side to side (a sight of great displeasure amongst your two dimensional race) and cried big, fat tears. Your purple glow diminished to a flickering.

“It’s not fair!” You mumbled out, and crossed your arms in front of your chest. “You always win, and I never, ever do. You’re cheating.”

“I’m not cheating!” He exclaimed a little too loudly, and you cried even harder. “It’s my eye,” he said and pointed at it. “It’s not my fault I can see things you can’t. I’m not cheating.” 

“…It’s still cheating if you’re not doing it on purpose,” you mumbled huffily. Not to mention, he had been way too happy beating you over and over and over again! You sniffle and loosen your arms. “Did you know people call your eye weird? Why is it like that?”

“Yes. Duh. I know people say that… And I dunno. Mom says it’ll be alright when I’m older.” You were too young to know to recognize or maneuverer around a touchy subject. “…Do you think it’s weird?”

“I don’t know yet,” you responded. “What else can you see? And do?” 

Billy told you about the stars. Whereas his parents had tolerated his talks about the stars, had found his enthusiasm for something they couldn’t see endearing and worrying in equal measure, you were fascinated by them. Perhaps exactly because you couldn’t see them, your interest had expanded. Bill and you would exchange drawings. He’d draw the stars for you, while you would show him what the world looked like to you, or other things. Sometimes, you drew the two of you together, too. 

Afterwards, the two of you had become inseparable. And, years later, when Billy’s parents had lost all hope in the possibility that his eye would change, when people started to fear him, you’d stuck by his side like glue. He had told you of his plan to show everyone the stars, and you’d practically vibrated with excitement. You had counted down the hours. 

And, like the rest of them, you had ended up smashed. Into. Pieces, scattered into nothing but the finest of dust, leaving behind a pile of static, writhing blood. Maybe, unlike the rest, you had felt a sliver of happiness when you died. Maybe you’d even gotten to see it. 

--

In another life, many, many, many years in the future, you had been a human. In this life, you were born with the same fascination for the stars, and granted the opportunity to study them to your heart’s content. Maybe the Axolotl had taken mercy on your soul, or something along those lines. You had a good life. A comfortable one. A life that was much, much happier than the one you had lived a trillion years ago. 

But you had a childhood imaginary friend. Perhaps a part of your traumatic past life had lodged itself so deeply in your soul that not even reincarnation had washed away all memories of it. You had a childhood imaginary friend named Billy, who was a floating little triangle with a big, glossy eye and cool shoes. As you grew older, he’d slipped from your mind, and the only remnant of his existence were some drawings you’d kept of him in a forgotten drawer in your room. 

When you had doodled him again once, many years later, the shape was in line enough with his current appearance to allow him a portal of view into your life. He hadn’t been able to explain what it was that drew himself to you. Why he started to infiltrate your dreams, merely to watch from a distance. The design of your mindscape, the big, starry expanse spanning out above it, had felt familiar to him. The desire to watch you go about your day and do the boring, mundane things that every meatbag does every single day. But when he finally decided to show himself in one of your dreams, it had all clicked into place.

“Billy!” You’d exclaimed happily. “Huh… I haven’t thought about you in forever. It’s been a really long time.” It was something in your eyes and the way you’d said it, that had jolted him back all that time. He’d almost forgotten about you. Forgotten your name, and what you’d looked like. Only vague memories of happiness had remained in contrast with the sight of your corpse. “But you look a bit different from what I remember. Well, a dream’s a dream, right?”

“Y…Yeah, well, ahahaha!” It wasn’t often that Bill was thrown off-balance, and it’d made him a little sick. His mind jumped between destroying you from the inside out then and there, and cradling you into a little pocket dimension he could fit in the palm of his hand for the rest of his eternity. “You’ve changed, too, kid. Like you said, a lot of time has passed. So! What are you up to now, huh?” 

Bill knew from the moment he set his eye upon you, that he’d have a soft spot for you. It was dangerous. You weren’t like those others, who he could grow amused with for a little bit, toy around with and, eventually, discard without a second thought. No. The two of you went waaaay back, and he’d already seen you die once before. 

Could he really let that happen again? 

[sinnn8]

If universes aligned

pairing: Miguel o hara x Spidergirl!reader

Prompt: Miguel falling for Spidergirl!reader and being a complete simp for her whenever she is around him

a/n: I got this request from alathan13 ty! I added a bit of a twist. send me some requests!!!

Masterlist | ask

Miguel was stuck in a different dimension because of Lyla. The prototype for the watch worked but she couldn't get him back. So he decided to find a Spiderman and that's when he met Y/n Spider girl.

He couldn't stop thinking about Y/n once he came back after being with her for a month and getting to know her. Miguel knew he had to find a way to confess his feelings to her, even though the odds seemed against him.

One day, as fate would have it, Miguel managed to track down a dimensional rift that led him to y/n universe. Determined to seize the opportunity, he mustered up all his courage and entered the portal.

Emerging in a world unfamiliar to him, Miguel found himself in the heart of the city where y/n patrolled. He awaited her arrival As soon as she appeared Miguel's heart skipped a beat.

"Y/n!" he called out, his voice filled with a mix of anticipation and hope.

Y/n paused mid-air, looking around to locate the source of the voice. Her gaze fell upon Miguel, and recognition flickered in her eyes. Descending gracefully, she landed in front of him.

"Miguel? What are you doing here?" she asked, her voice tinged with surprise.

Taking a deep breath, Miguel gathered his thoughts. "Y/n, I traveled across dimensions to be with you. The first time I saw you, I knew there was something special about you. Your strength, your bravery, and your unwavering commitment to justice... they've touched me in a way I can't describe."

Y/n studied him intently, her masked eyes revealing a mix of curiosity and confusion. "Miguel, this is unexpected. We come from different worlds, different realities. How can this be?"

Miguel's eyes met hers "I don't have all the answers, Y/n. But what I do know is the connection I feel towards you. I've fallen for you, and I can't ignore these emotions any longer. You inspire me to be a better person, to fight for what's right. I want to be by your side, no matter the challenges we may face."

y/n remained silent for a moment. "Miguel, this is a lot to take in. Our lives are intertwined with dangers. But I can't deny how I feel about you, even across dimensions. there's a reason our paths have crossed."

Hope surged through Miguel as he heard her words made him feel seen and understood. Y/n raised her hand to his cheek and kissed him on the lips knowing what she was doing was wrong but she didn't care.