#gravity flies au

[beetlbi]

Wing au real???!!? This is incredibly low quality bc it’s the only screenshot I could find and didn’t feel like taking my own lol. Yapping in the tags if you’re curious abt this au :3

[year2000electronics]

one of these days ill show up with my own version of relativity falls. just to complete my loadout

[whalesforhands]

what’s yours is mine (10/?)

previous masterlist next

pairing: geto suguru x reader x gojo satoru

You don’t know a lot of things, and you readily admit that. What you do know, is that the friends you’ve made aren’t something you will ever regret. Until your physical body weakens and becomes nothing, you’re more than happy to give your all until you wither away.

What’s yours can be theirs, too. They’re your friends, after-all. (Omegaverse AU)

“Betas, as we all know make up the main bulk of our world,” A circle is drawn around the ‘β’ sign, chalk flaking off as it taps against the blackboard. “But what about Omegas? Does anyone remember what the sign for it looks like?”

Silence. The lead of a pencil cracks when it’s unceremoniously dropped onto the floor, inciting the complaints of students that wanted to do anything but study.

“Amachi-sensei! Please don’t give us another surprise quiz…!” A student whose name escapes your mind sounds out, their hand raised into the air and a pout on their cheeks.

(You’re not really that close with any of your other classmates. Not even acquainted enough to remember their names…)

“Oh my, if you’re asking me like that I really don’t mind making one for all of you right now.” She huffs as she crosses her arms, shaking her head at the room full of her own students.

“Students must be prepared for anything, you know? A quick reminder doesn’t hurt!”

A collective groan and whines of complaints form a chorus of exasperated children.

“Always so excitable, aren’t you, kids?” Her tone is stale as her flats click against polished wooden floors, standing before the class as she adjusts her glasses. “But I’m reviewing this topic again for your sakes! This is your final year as an elementary student and now that you’re all 12,”

A clap of her hands together as she smiles, the apples of her cheeks blushed pink and the mole by her lip stretching out with her expression.

“It’s the year you present your secondary genders! I’m sure you’re all quite excited, are you not?”

Unfortunately for you, you didn’t quite catch any of that. Not one word managed to float into your attentive ears as Suguru flips through your textbook in your stead, inconspicuously making sure that it looked like you were at least following along.

You would be, if you weren’t so distracted.

“Today’s curse is cute too.” It really is. With flappy wings that looked too small for its body, a smooth, round and squishy body with wide, wide eyes that barely blinked—And the way it kept making little ‘chu!’ noises as it floated all around you. “It looks all blobby and chubby.”

(It’s a real wonder how it even flies. Maybe the laws of gravity don’t apply to cursed spirits.)

“You like it, right? I caught it just cause I thought you might.”

“Mhm. I like all the cute looking ones.”

Because Geto Suguru was one of those ‘cursed energy’ users, and Gojo Satoru had deemed him ‘capable’ enough, given what he had claimed to see through those pretty eyes of his that you’re too familiar with.

“Suguru’s different!” He’s huffing at you as he pokes at your cheek, jabbing the pads of his fingers into them as your head steams with all the information he had just dumped onto you in one fell swoop.

“He’s born with a technique and stuff. Real potential and everythin’.”

(Technique… The thing that people are born with and are supposedly meant to gain better control of as they grow older.)

“Bwut yuuu sfaid—“ He finally releases you. “Shoko doesn’t have a technique either…?” Or did you hear wrong? Was she able to officially learn this ‘Jujutsu’ because she did in fact have one? Or is she just special like Satoru because she’s rich too? Your head is really starting to feels like it was desperately trying to work cogs that haven’t been oiled in far too long.

It’s just not clicking.

“She’s different cause she’s like…” His eyes squint at you as your cheeks go back to being abused by hands that took too much interest in them. “Like a Band-Aid in Digimon.”

“But like a really, really weak Band-Aid and stuff. So she’s not a cure all like a Medicine. If ya go crazy in the head she can’t help.” You can see his grin grow all the more when he pulls at your cheeks and squishes them together.

“Hmph! Now she’s not as cool as ya thought, right?” He’s back to that proud smugness in his expression, eyes sparkly and so full of pride. “I still got the best one out of all of ‘em!”

(“So… She’s a like a Hyper Potion in Pokemon?” Just to put it in terms you understand better, anyway. Digimon’s tough.

“Hyper Potion’s too powerful. Treat ‘er like one of those super useless small purple ones that barely heal anything.”

“Those are supposed to only be good early game, though.”)

“Remember to ask your parents to sign your acknowledgment form for the checkup! Did everyone receive a copy?”

“Yes, Amachi-sensei!”

“Then class is dismissed— Don’t forget!”

It looks like Satoru wasn’t coming today either, it seems. Not even when third period rolled about and you were huddled up next to Shoko’s side as her head leans against your shoulder under the shade of the tree in the school courtyard, chatter in your ears and a yawn escaping your mouth.

(You think he must be really busy with his particular rich people stuff. You hope he’s at least eating well.)

Physical education was never your most favourite of classes. Partly because you just couldn’t seem to be good at anything that had to do with sports, and mostly because of all the sweat.

(And also, they separate the boys and girls. At least Suguru’s having fun playing basketball.)

“You have a pretty bad sense of smell, (last name)-chan! Maybe you’ll be a Beta?” Hayashi Yume is one of the few names that you actually do remember. A loud personality and openness to talking to everybody making it a breeze for her to get along with absolutely anyone.

Even you.

(When Gojo Satoru isn’t around, anyway. Suguru seems to think of her of a friend. Shoko too.)

There’s no fighting the most popular topic amongst the final year elementary students. No helping in the fact that this was all on each and everyone’s minds… But you just can’t really bring yourself to care.

“…what do you wanna be, Hayashi-san?” Just to change the topic away from you, away from this sudden spotlight that you don’t want. It was hard making a choice on this already… You don’t want to be ambiguous about it all over again should you be swayed.

“Oh, oh! I wanna be an Alpha, of course!” She gushes and squeals, hands on her cheeks and face alight with a blush so adorned with excitement. “My mother says it’s a one-way ticket to being successful in life! That’s why all the lead roles in movies are always played by ‘em!”

“Ehhh? But that’s just movies, though. Ya wanna be an actor or something?” Nishikawa Emi— You think. Hayashi-san’s best friend and possibly one of the few people in this school willing to talk to you despite your social circle.

You like her. She does the talking for you when you don’t know how to carry on— And you really like her nose bridge because it reminds you of your Saya-chan.

“N-No—“ A sigh, and crossed arms that finally loosen. “Fine, y-yea! I wanna be a famous movie star one day!”

(Hayashi Yume is really easy to read.)

“Pfft—“

“Stop laughing, Emi-tan!”

“I don’t know about you guys, but I’d rather be an Omega.” Nishikawa Emi nods to herself, her head tilted to the side, strong gaze flickering from her best friend to you and Shoko as her arms cross. “They got it really easy, no? Look pretty and they got any Alpha or Beta wrapped around their finger.”

“Eh…? Emi-tan, I thought fair-o-mones only affected Alphas and Omegas…?” Yume scratches at her head, her expression in clear confusion as she tries to recall the lesson they just had— Social Studies was always so difficult for no reason.

“Omegas are pretty enough to charm anyone, duh. My sister gave me a magazine and it was just full of pretty Omegas, and not even one of ‘em was ugly, so it’s gotta be true.”

“Huh…? Really…?”

(“(last name)-chan agrees.”

You think Nishikawa is right. Your Mama is super, duper, extremely heart-stoppingly beautiful. The prettiest around, even your Saya-tan would pale in comparison, and the old couple that lives across your home agree whenever you pop yourself through their gate to get the snacks they keep offering you.

“Mhm.”)

Only two out of three were mentioned to be positive. This must be what Amachi-sensei must have been talking about when she was going on about how there was a ‘bias’ and that ‘people don’t think everything can be equal’.

(Kinda makes sense now, you guess. But you’ll still keep true to your Beta favouritism. What’s so bad about being the most common? You would be able to fit in with lots and lots of people. Common interests save relationships! According to the daily advice channel, anyway.)

“Shoko, what do you wanna be?” It’s whispered and soft— Mindful of how she was quietly snoozing away on your shoulder as you feel her shift, hear her breaths shorten and her see her eyelashes flutter.

“Dunno…” She replies with a tone sluggish and tired, yet somehow able to perfectly comprehend your question. So she was listening despite being asleep. “Everything sounds like a pain to deal with. Don’t wanna choose…” And she’s back into dreamland.

An ambiguous answer.

“Ehhh? Ieiri-chan,” Yume shakes the sleepy girl’s shoulder. “You gotta at least like— Aaah!”

Maybe it’s your weird sense of heroism, the odd feeling of responsibility that came with being the person you are that you’re lunging towards the classmate that you didn’t know all that well, forcing her head down before the basketball could make direct impact with her face.

At the very least, you hope you don’t get a nosebleed. Please don’t let the hit be too hard, please don’t let it break your nose and require you to have emergency surgery like in that one movie Geto-papa played for everyone because Geto-mama didn’t allow you all to watch that one horror movie—!

Your eyes squeeze shut, teeth clenched and jaw tightened. Please, please please please please…!

And— Nothing. Just air in your face, a breeze in your ears and the familiar, panicked sound of a ‘chu!’ as you hear something akin to a spring bouncing. The basketball rebounds off of the poor curse, making it take the brunt of the impact and a surprised squeak escaping it—

Before you watch it get recalled back.

Suguru.

“Ahh! Sorry, sorry! We didn’t mean ta let the ball get so far out of court!” You hear the stampede of feet, the smell of sweat and the feeling of your heartbeat trying to recover from all that adrenaline. “You girls al’right?”

“(last name)-chan almost got hit in the face saving me! Do you boys have no manners at all?!” It’s Hayashi that’s clinging onto you, her arms around your neck as her eyes are teary and her nose was starting to run— A clear show of how touched she was by your actions, before she’s standing up to match the boy’s height to ensue an argument.

(She was always the overdramatic kind. But it works out for you ‘cause heroes always love a good damsel in distress.)

“I said I was sorry!”

“You can’t even keep a single ball in court! What would’ve happened if (last name)-chan wasn’t here and Emi-tan didn’t catch Ieiri-chan?!”

(Mama did once say that people who argue like an old couple may get married one day. Best of wishes to Hayashi-san and… The boy that you can’t seem to remember the name of.)

“You didn’t get hit, right?” A hand settles on your head from above, before helping you to stand up from your tumbled position on the ground. Your eyes flicker up to meet droplets of purple reflecting spots of sunlight, noir hair hastily tied into a miniature ponytail and strands blowing in the wind, whilst the sweat on his furrowed brow was frowned into a panic.

He’s patting your face, your hair, cheeks, eyes, nose— “I’m just checking for bumps. You sure you didn’t get hit?”

“Mn.” You have to assure him as you take out your handkerchief from your pocket, dabbing at the sweat on his forehead and trying to soften the deep furrow. “Of course I didn’t. You’re the one who saved me.”

And you have full trust in him, no matter what. Shouldn’t that be expected? Suguru’s the coolest person you know.

(And Ieiri Shoko remains asleep, even when Suguru is checking you over once more and had to begrudgingly leave with the rest of the boys whilst muttering something under his breath— With the ball tightly clenched in his hands.

Shoko’s now snoozing on Nishikawa’s shoulder as she stays deep within her dream… That drama she was talking about must’ve been really nice.

“Wow… Ieiri-chan must be really tired.”

“…she was studying really hard for the math quiz all night.” Anything to save your dear Shoko’s reputation.

“What?! We have a math quiz?!”

Suguru’s team won the match, by the way. You saw a lot of the opposing team members practically drag themselves to class with bruised faces and sore arms.)

——

“Remember,” Her hand smooths down the messy strands of your bed head, your toothbrush hanging out of your mouth and your eyes groggily blinking at your blurry reflection in the bathroom mirror.

“I’ll love you no matter what you are, okay?” The hairbrush gently combs through locks of your hair, her breathing soft yet just that little bit breathless.

You don’t need much to discern that she was nervous, don’t need superpowers to be able to tell that your Mama was scared. The slightest tremble in her hands, the way she was picking at every strand of your hair that was seemingly ‘out of place’.

But you don’t— Won’t share the same sentiments. Because you don’t care much for this kind of thing. It’s just like taking a test, right?

One that you can’t study for or any of your friends to tutor you for, but still a test all the same.

“It doesn’t matter which one you turn out to be. You’re still you no matter which one, and that won’t change.” A minty exhale accompanied by her very evident stress, her hands fussing over every strand of your already very brushed out hair.

(Was it bad that you didn’t think this was that big of a deal?)

“Mhm…” You’re awake enough to know not to talk with your mouth foaming with toothpaste, awake enough to be aware of how there was just something in the air that had your Mama acting like this today.

(Maybe it’s one of those Heat things you heard Amachi-sensei go through a few weeks ago. Now you wish you paid more attention instead of playing with Suguru’s curses…)

Your eyes meet hers in the foggy mirror of your bathroom; her hair is only slightly messed up, her face ever so pretty, yet so worried as she bites her lip and hugs you close.

“I’ll bwe fwine, Mwama.” (“I’ll be fine, Mama.”) You know better, yet you just can’t help but want to comfort her right now— Even if it’s spat out through a mouthful of minty toothpaste foam and a toothbrush that nearly drops out of your mouth.

“Iiiee profwise.” (“I promise.”)

And that was that. Though, you can still feel her slight uneasiness even when she smiles at your attempt of tying your own shoelaces, can feel that the air just hasn’t settled into the usual calmness that you were used to even when you waved her goodbye at the gate.

(You hope it all goes well today. If not for you, then for your Mama. At the very least, just for her.)

“Satoru.” You smile, a hand going up to wave as you climb into the unassuming, yet extremely fancy vehicle waiting just outside your home.

“Good morning.”

It was like clockwork. Backpack onto the carpeted floors of the car, a moment to catch your breath and your hand reaching towards a head of fluffy white to pat—

Your wrist gets caught.

“Hmph.” He looks pouty, irritated. Like he was going to erupt into a tirade of angry rambling and start comparing you to the ugliest Digimons that he knew of.

“Why’d ya always do that? I-I’m not a kid, ya know?!”

Why? Because you’ve been doing it since… Forever, you guess. He’s never stopped you before, never stopped you until now. So why? Was it the change in the air today? The odd pressure in the atmosphere? It should be obvious, all because he’s—

“Because you’re cute, Satoru.”

He doesn’t look satisfied with that reply. Not at all, especially when he narrows his eyes at you into a glare.

(Cute.)

“What, like a puppy or somethin’? Ya making fun of me?”

“No.” You shake your head, watch as his fingers tighten themselves ever so slightly against your wrist. That’s definitely not how you see him at all, not at all what you feel when you look at him, no matter how cute he was. “That’s not it.”

“Then what?” He had a huff to his tone, irritation and exasperation as he pulls on your hand and forces you to lean closer towards him— To meet his awaiting blue glare.

“Because… I like you too much?”

Silence follows. The air changes, and you catch the shoulders of the nameless driver that usually never said much stiffening—

Did you say something wrong? Something that offended him? You… Didn’t, right? You’ve always called him cute, and he’s always been fine with it. With reddened tips of his ears and eyes that looked like they were gonna bulge out of his head as he covered his face with an angry swing of his arm—

“T-Then I don’t wanna be cute!”

Oh. That’s… Kinda sad. Is it because he doesn’t like you back? That can’t be it, can it? You’ve both been friends since 4, he can’t possibly say that he hated you for all that time, could he?

(But even if he did, you think you’d be at peace to know that he did used to like you. That would be enough.)

“Why not…?” You don’t have a mirror right now, but you’re pretty sure you just can’t help the look of deposed, kicked puppy look in your eyes as you frown. “Satoru, do you not like me…? Did I do something wrong—“

“C-Cute doesn’t mean super attractive! And n-nobody likes to be called that! Hmph!” And he turns away, his hand splayed out on your face and effectively blacking out your vision as he makes sure to keep this distance between you and him.

(So… It was an insult? Have you been insulting your dear Satoru all this time?)

“Sorry, Satoru…”

“Stop apologizing, you stupid dummy!”

“Sorry.”

“Times are always changing, isn’t that right, Saya-san?”

“Indeed, Mr. Reporter! It’s speculated that because of the shift of the moon into its next lunar phase, everyone will be experiencing a change in their life to come.” Her hands wave around, her smile ever so blindingly adorable as you stare up at her pretty face upon the television screen.

Her fingers delicately make a heart, a charming, moe-filled wink towards the camera as you nearly feel your heart stop. “So always expect change, even if it’s ambiguous! You never know if it can be a blessing or a curse if you don’t go and experience it for yourself!”

Maybe change can be a good thing too, if your Saya-tan embraces it.

(“Good… ‘orning…” Geto Suguru was never an early riser. Not even on a day as ‘important’ as this was as he groggily drags himself into the car.

“Suguru.” A turn of your head towards the boy as you shift further inside to make room for him, pressing shoulder to shoulder with your white haired friend as he continues the little ramble about a boss he was fighting. “You look handsome today.”

“Wha—“ And his purple eyes are now blown wide, cheeks growing warm and red splashing onto his face as he freezes midway through— Nearly falling back had it not been for Kimiko-san supporting him from behind. “What— Wha?”

“Hey—! That’s reserved just for me! Don’t go calling Weird Bangs that too!”)

——

“(last name)-san, right?” Her eyes scan over the your sheet of paper as you tiptoe over the counter to meet eyes with the nurse lady.

(You also think it’s funny she’s referring to you in such a formal way despite being so much older than you.)

It’s unfortunate that you had to be separated from your friends… Even Shoko had to wave you goodbye as she was taken away by a personal doctor, whilst you were whisked away and separated from the other girls after brief height and weight measurements.

“No abnormalities in the past few months, correct?”

“Mn.” Not that you know of, anyway. Mama usually answers these types of questions for you at the doctor.

So it is kinda weird answering for yourself. On your tiptoes and with your eyes barely making it over the oddly tall counter. You swore your Mama told you that you’ve been growing a lot lately.

“Please proceed behind the curtain.”

And you did, poking your head in to check for enemies hiding in a corner only to meet with a smiling lady. With a cool lab coat and the— Setho-something scope. Heartbeat reader thingy.

(You know because you saw an episode of Saya-chan roleplaying as a doctor once for a special episode of her zodiac sign forecast. Just because you’re 12, doesn’t mean you need to know the names of everything yet.)

“Hello there.” Her smile is kind. Soft and gentle… And makes you less scared of the fact that she’s a stranger as you slowly, shyly step into the makeshift ‘room’ surrounded by curtains.

“…hi.”

She laughs. “Don’t worry, I don’t bite.” A hand over her mouth as she tries to stifle her laughter and the crow’s feet around her eyes making themselves all the more prominent as you… Relax slightly.

“Ho… Mura-sensei,” You think that’s what the name tag says as you sit down on the very soft, very plush seat. “Am I a Beta?”

(You need to check the brand for this chair. Maybe Satoru will buy it and let you have one of the old, weirdly comfortable chairs he’s got at his house. Mama has been pretending that her back doesn’t hurt lately.)

“Hm.” Her eyes trail over to her computer, before flickering back down to you with an amused chuckle. “Straight to the point, aren’t you?”

“Mhm.” You wanna get out and get done. Then, you, Shoko, Suguru and Satoru are all gonna gather, open up the little envelope they give you with your assigned secondary genders, look at it and be done forever.

(Because nothing will change between all of you no matter what.)

“Smell this.”

And you do, bringing that little tin up to your nose and taking a big, big whiff of— Some sort of powdery substance inside?

“Powder…?”

The next didn’t seem to be any different, more of that stuff that smelled like nothing no matter how many big whiffs you took and exhaled out.

(Maybe it was some odd test for your nose. You hope you didn’t fail.)

“Form a fist with your hand and show me the underside of your arm, please.”

“…does the needle hurt?”

“Mm…” She thinks for a little bit, as if debating on the question that you gave her as she adjusts the thin needle. “I’d be lying if I said it didn’t, but only for a little bit.”

Well… Good. At least she isn’t lying to you. You don’t like liars. Liars would be like that doctor your Mama called an ‘old coot’ once because he ‘didn’t know what he was doing’ as she carried you out of his examination room.

“I’ll give you a lollipop afterwards.”

“Deal.”

(It did hurt. Kinda. You definitely think it did. Your eyes were squeezed shut so tightly during the process so you don’t even know if it went in or not.)

“It seems that your question has to be undetermined today, (last name)-san.” Her right hand fingers tap against the keyboard as she types sentence after sentence, left hand penning up a messy string of words that you blink at least 3 times at— Before giving up.

“You’ll be receiving your results a little later than everyone else.”

——

“It’s rare.” Eyes trail over another sheet of paper filled with too many hard words and numbers. “But not out of the ordinary. It just means she needs to take extra precautions.”

“What about medication? Is there anything that can be prescribed? It’s dangerous for—“

“(last name)-san. I understand your concerns as a mother, but there is little I can do when your daughter is unable to differentiate the primary scents.”

Middle school is when things get serious, they say. Exams, social lives, more exams, club activities, even more exams… And the high school entrance exams that will determine where you’ll go.

(You don’t even know who ‘they’ are. Who are ‘they’ even to say that? You don’t agree. Mama always tells you that you should enjoy being in the present, no matter how old you get.)

“It’s okay.” She pats your head as you both walk out of the stuffy doctor’s room, her words breathy and clearly stressed. “You’ll be the same as you are now…”

“Mama just needs you to take some medicine everyday from now on, okay?”

But, the first week of middle school is probably the first time that you realize… Geto Suguru is extremely popular.

“Geto-kun! Do you mind teaching me this part?”

“Geto-san~ Ame-chan and I are gonna go to the movies later! Do you want to—“

“Oi! Geto! Come join the Kendo club! Coach said he’s heard about you in elementary!”

More so than the white-haired counterpart that you’re pretty sure even the most grumpy, most abstinent of people would find attractive.

(Mama says it’s because looks can sometimes make up for a lot of brash personalities.)

“U-Um— Gojo-san, if you don’t mind, you can eat some of my bento…!” She’s bowing, shaky hands presenting her cutely wrapped lunchbox as she keeps her shy gaze towards the floor. “I-It would be an honour for you to eat it…!”

Awkward silence and Gojo Satoru staring down your poor classmate with eyes that shone with an extremely proud, azure twinkle.

“Heh.” There’s a pleased, shit-eating grin on his face and barely held back disgust in those pretty eyes of his that flickered to and fro from Suguru to the girl still standing before him. “An honour for you, huh?”

(As if he was trying to show off.)

“But you’re not suggesting that I should be eating that trash in your hands, right?”

(So, it was then that you realize it’s not just your Suguru’s handsome looks that made him so popular with the girls.)

“Satoru.” Suguru’s hand gently dabs a handkerchief against the snowy-haired boy’s face, pressing the soft cloth against his skin and imploring the boy to clear his nostrils lest he somehow infect the rest of you with his germs.

“Your nose is leaking.”

“It’s that damn dusty ass classroom’s fault! How the hell do you both withstand that place?” He sniffles before blowing his nose, pressing the cloth embroidered with Suguru’s initials against his face to wipe up his snot.

“If you knew you should’ve wiped it up sooner. You trying to be the grossest kid in school or something? Tired of being the perfect golden boy?”

“Cry about it and use those ugly bangs of yours to wipe your tears.”

They get along well now. As well as… Getting into spats about games, the weather, why the takoyaki stall you all frequent suddenly used a different brand of bonito flakes, how the inclination of the umbrella Satoru threw did not purposely hit that poor student, why there were badly drawn doodles of Suguru’s face everytime he lent his notes to the both of you— Seriously, how was it possible that they could argue about anything and everything?

It was like a talent in itself. One that you have taken as an everyday occurrence as you chew on another spoonful of rice and enjoy the peace of eating lunch together on the school rooftop.

(You’re pretty sure you’re not allowed up here, but you’re also pretty sure the Gojo family pulled some strings again. Must be nice being rich and powerful.)

He leans in, quickly stealing the bit of food from your chopsticks as you stare on in confusion.

Eh?

“…?” With your head tilted to the side and blinking at him 3 whole times to really make sure.

“What.”

“I thought you didn’t like commoner food?” Especially yours that you and your Mama had made together last night. It’s exciting to be able to bring your own lunch to school once every month. It’s kind of like having the sports festival you used to have in elementary.

Just without the sports.

“Don’t feed him. Let him starve because he forgot to bring his own food today.” Suguru retorts with a huff, stuffing another riceball into his mouth as he angrily chews— Despite the fact that Satoru literally had half a riceball that definitely did not belong to him in his hands.

(It’s nice that they’re nice to each other.

“Hey! If y’er gonna punish me for forgetting, at least remind me with a call or something!”

“No way. You’re just gonna complain that I interrupted you whilst you were in the middle of eating an entire jar of sprinkles.”

“Satoru, is the meatball any good? Kimiko-san gave the recipe to my Mama only recently so we didn’t have much time to practice.”)

“Oh yea!” Rice is on the corner of his lip as he talks through a full mouth. “Kimi-chan says ya need to eat y’er medicine afterwards too or whatever.”

“(name)-sama.” Her slender, calloused hands are gentle as they lift up and off of your face, revealing the 3rd eye on her forehead blinking down at you as you stare back in awe.

(Cursed techniques can be so cool looking.)

“It’s simply a case of equivalent exchange.” The sparkling iris of her eye studies you intensely, staring so vividly into you that it felt like it was peeling back layers of your skin and boring deep into your flesh.

“It looks to me like your body had exchanged your strongest sense in favour of being able to house your current amount of cursed energy…” She sucks in a breath as her face starts to turn blue, her hands turning pale before her special eye disappears— And her face returns to normalcy.

“So your current senses are now akin to a Beta despite your genetic makeup.”

“Satoru’s right, for once.” Suguru’s reaching into his pocket, pulling out a little notepad with specific timings written down. “You gotta take your medicine on time.”

But it tastes really bad—

“I’ll be upset if you don’t.”

And your shoulders slump in defeat just as Satoru takes hold of your chopsticks, stuffing a meatball into your mouth before plopping one into his own.

“Yea, Suguru’s got a point. It’s tough bein’ what you are and stuff, ya know? Even worse if you can’t even feel how ya affect the area.” He swallows. “It’s like putting up a barrier against ya ownself while everyone else already knows what’s going on.”

And you just have to wither on the bench in defeat, back against the wall and letting out a sigh as Gojo continues to help himself to your lunch.

“But Shoko’s got it easy, though…”

“Ieiri?” Suguru’s shoulder brushes against yours as he leans back to stare up at the same sky as you. “That’s cause she’s a Beta. She’s can’t be affected or affect anyone with pheromones.”

Sigh. It must be nice to be like that.

“I wish I was a real Beta.”

“So? What is it?” Satoru’s splayed out on your futon as he stretches his limbs, his backpack hastily thrown to your floor as Suguru watches you hold the letter in your hand.

“You nervous?”

A little bit.

“I’ll open it if you don’t want to.” Shoko pipes up from your side as she peeks over your shoulder at the still unopened letter. “I’ll even read it out loud from the start and stuff.”

“Don’t give it to ‘er. She’s gonna skip out on the important bit accidentally and not realize it cause she can’t read as good as me.”

Just do it, right? You’re going to have to tell your Mama sooner or later when she comes home. So you ignore the light chatter throughout your bedroom, hold your breath as you tear through the envelope and slowly read—

Ah.

*Your child has presented as an Omega.

*As this result came with abnormal observations with your child, (name) (last name), we invite you to make an appointment with Dr. Homura for further evaluation at your earliest discretion.

previous masterlist next

nvy’s aftertalk;

sch has started again for me so i won’t be able to keep to the semi-regular schedule i’ve been updating this 🙂‍↕️

i’ll try to get my wedding fic up if possible if ykw that is and some other stuff too 😭

[sleepy-spacetronaut]

Pilot Project : Vogelfrei, a Gravity falls Fanfic Idea

(POST DATESTAMP: post started on December 8, 2024)

Start note: If some of you remember my post about a potential fanfic with the Handyman Bill Au , then I have great news! Not only have I settled on a title, but the story is lining up for a potentially elaborate sequel! While the first story will mostly be written in a traditional sense, I decided to experiment with comic making for the follow-up story. After mind-boggling hours of search for a pleasant closure to the initial story (for which leaving an open ending seemed tasteless), making a sequel was a rather exciting idea. From all the stories I’ve ever wrote, rarely any had been turned into a duology, let alone one in comic format. Additionally, the sequel will require a lot more world building, unlike the first story, it will loosely follow the bases of the gravity falls books (TBOB and the Adventures) rather than the show.

Fanfic Idea in Brief Details

Title: Vogelfrei/ Pilot Project Vogelfrei

Placeholder title : Tears So Hot They Make The Universe Burn (No comment about the terrible acronym this title would have gotten.)

Expected length : ~15-20K words to begin with (book 1)

The plot : see here for a draft of the plot idea, however it is not up-to-date -> a fresh version with an adequate summary will be posted later.

Pairings? : Billford(One-sided then QPR), Fidauthor (Also QPR) Melody/Soos, Fiddleford/Stanley, Ford & Old Goldie* (briefly).

*canonically, Ford is married to the golden statue because of Stan usurping his name, no one’s happy about it. They get a divorce, much to Stanley’s dismay.

Production: what to expect ?

To start, all the energy I get and pour into making fanfiction is bestowed upon me by coffee, the hyper fixation frenzy of an ADHD brain ,and the reading of amazing fanfiction that inspired me to further my ideas into actual, tangible stories. I will do my best to get the story plot down as text before the enchantment of the fixation flies away, as if I ever lose the interest,the whole house of cards comes tumbling down.

Pacing of the production : I have both the general outlines for Vogelfrei and its sequel ready, with a little luck I will get the first story down through the winter holidays, if not, it will stretch until around June for the completion. The sequel will be produced immediately after the first story is finished.

Comics and artworks: I have recently experimented with 6-10 panel comic strips on my iPad, but I am better at making traditional art. So there will be digital and paper drawn doodles peppered here and on AO3 once the process is started. I will have separate batches of art, one which will contain art directly related to the plot , and another with ‘extras’, labeled accordingly.

Answers to any other inquiries you might have

TBOB and Gravity Falls series compatibility -> will I get spoilers?

If you’re new to the fandom and haven’t seen the whole series yet, I suggest to finish it first and skim over the GF wiki , for context of how Bill ends up in the Theraprism. I haven’t gotten my hands on much of TBOB except some pages and ideas here and there, therefore it probably wont be much of a spoiler—There however will be lots of contradictions, especially with TBOB.

2. Audience ratings

Both are 16+ in my opinion, if you are younger and choose to read regardless of the warnings, that is up to you. Thought keep in mind there will be a significant amount of swearing, some depictions of substance abuse (alcohol mostly, but also some other stuff), self-harm, violence (verbal and physical) and suicidal thoughts (briefly towards the end the first story). In any case, I will add a CW/TW notice when time comes.

3. Asks/Fanart

Questions, comments, music suggestions and fanart are all very welcome! I’m mostly writing this for myself to satisfy cravings, but I’d be glad to know that it also made someone else smile.

End note : Soon the winter holidays will begin and so will my writing, hopefully, I will get the time to do half of the story. I will post here and on AO3, but most of the art will link back to my blog. If , in the end, the story gets to monopolize my tumblr, I will make a separate blog for it to keep this one from getting too cluttered. If you have any questions or comments, feel free to ask!

P.S.: In parallel to this story, I am working on another Gravity falls Au, called Rewind the Timeline, for which I intend to write a short historical fanfiction which will span from the late 18th century throughout the 21st century. It will be focused on Bill’s perspective a lot more than Vogelfrei, which will have some shifts in point of view. You can find the fic idea on my pinned post.

[rambleonwaywardson]

Clegan Astronaut AU - Part 3

Masterpost

AU Summary: the boys as modern day NASA astronauts. Taking place in 2025, Bucky is about to head to the moon as mission commander of Artemis III while Buck is back-up commander and CAPCOM at NASA. Established relationship (obnoxiously in love).

Author's Note: Uh oh, the chapters are getting longer. Hope y'all will stick with me because I have plans for these boys. Heads up, this chapter does contain some expressions of homophobia. Also there's no new terms that I think need defining here, but I'm thinking of creating a term definition post for those I've already used.

--

‘John Egan and Alex Jefferson to make history as first queer and black representation on the moon’ 

‘Artemis III crew ready for liftoff in one month’

‘So three bachelors and a homosexual walk into a bar, er, a rocket…’

‘NASA targeting November 6  launch’

‘NASA’s diversity campaign’

‘What having a gay man in the space program means for the future of America’

‘NASA press conference gets heated after probing sexuality questions’

‘Biddick goes after reporter to defend fellow astronaut’

–

September 30, 2025

Johnson Space Center, Houston, TX

As NASA’s Artemis Public Affairs Officer, it is Marjorie Spencer’s job to relay information about the Artemis program to the public as well as to coordinate press events between the media and the crew and/or mission control. As Public Affairs Officer, it’s her job to wrangle a bunch of rowdy astronauts and convince them to play nice with the press, even when the press doesn’t play nice with them. With this particular crew, it can, often, be like wrangling a bunch of rambunctious, highly opinionated, and incredibly stubborn teenage boys. Or a bunch of selectively trained dogs whose selective training just happens to be whatever they feel like remembering in the moment.

A lot of people don’t truly appreciate how, as Public Affairs Officer, it is Marge’s job to make these boys – ahem, grown men – look presentable to the public when behind the scenes they are the bane of her existence. In the most loving way possible.

Public Affairs Officer, however, is only one of her jobs.

As Best Friend, her job often includes the emotional damage control that flies high above a PAO’s paygrade. 

As she finishes up welcoming a room full of reporters to Johnson Space Center, she reminds them that this will be the last press conference that the astronauts will take part in before starting their pre-launch quarantine process in just a few weeks. They will have another pre-launch press conference while in quarantine a couple of days before they board the Orion crew capsule, before they strap themselves to the top of NASA’s most powerful rocket ever created.

“Please welcome NASA’s Artemis 3 crew,” Marge says smoothly. “Major John Egan, mission commander. First Lieutenant Curtis Biddick, lunar module pilot. Dr. Robert Rosenthal, crew physician. Alexander Jefferson, mission specialist.”

One by one, the crew members, dressed in their NASA flight suits, walk up onto the small stage at the front and take their seats behind the table, which is emblazoned with the NASA logo. They each have a gold astronaut pin on their flight suit collars, signifying the fact that they have already successfully flown in space. These four men are some of the most qualified people currently in the space program, and they were hand-selected two years ago to fly this mission. Together, they have logged nearly 1,000 hours of training for Artemis 3, including crew module sims, lunar module sims, zero-gravity EVAs in the neutral buoyancy tank, and lunar terrain sims. In five weeks, that training will be put to use for the chance to put the next human footprints on the moon.

At first, the questions are typical, what the crew is prepared for. They’ve been answering similar questions through much of the training process. How does it feel to be going to the moon? What will each of their roles be on the mission? What kind of training have they been doing? Do they feel prepared? What does it mean for each of them to be on this mission? What do they think it means for the general public and for the future of science? For the space program? For Bucky and Curt, how does it feel to be the first men since the 70s to step foot on lunar soil?

The crew answers them all genuinely and professionally. They joke with the reporters, a trait that has made them endearing to much of the public. They wax poetic about flying to the moon and how they’ve all dreamed about it, how they’re honored to be a part of something so grand, what they hope it will symbolize for people all over the world. They say exactly what the reporters, and the public, generally want to hear. 

Until they can’t. Because at some point, no matter what you say, to someone somewhere it will never be right. 

To be honest, Bucky often stops listening to the reporters names and affiliations during these things. So he isn’t sure who asks this question, but he perks up when the man says “This question is for John Egan.” Bucky nods and the man goes on. “This crew has become well-known for being a crew of young bachelors, except for you. You’re getting married in just a couple weeks, correct? To Major Gale Cleven, also a NASA astronaut.”

Bucky nods again. “Yes, that’s correct.” 

“Do you or Major Cleven have any concerns about you going to the moon just days after the big day?”

Bucky smirks. “Well, which big day are you referring to? The wedding or the launch?”

The reporters in the room chuckle quietly. “The wedding,” the man says.

Bucky tries not to roll his eyes. You get married and suddenly it doesn’t matter that both spouses have been professional and highly trained adrenaline junkies for years before this. “Of course, there’s always concerns when it comes to hurling yourself off of a planet,” he replies. “But Gale and I have been through this together, more than once. We know the risks, and we support each other 100%. The only thing that will be different is I’ll have a wedding ring with me.”

As reporters clamor to get the next question, Marge points and a woman stands up, introducing herself. “Major Egan,” she starts. Two in a row. Bucky clenches his jaw, worried he knows where this press conference is about to go. “How do you think coming out as a member of the LGBTQ+ community affected your role within NASA and within the Artemis program?”

Bucky takes a quiet but deep breath. “My sexuality has never been a secret,” he answers. At least, it hasn’t been since high school. And yet the media still aren’t comfortable with words like gay or homosexual or queer or even LGBT. When they do say these words, it’s almost hushed, like it’s something terrible. “It wasn’t a secret when I flew on the ISS two years ago, and it isn’t now. My qualifications and experience, I think, speak for themselves as to why I am on this mission.”

“Do you consider yourself a role model for the queer youth of today?” Someone jumps in.

Bucky hears Curt stifle a laugh beside him, and he almost smiles himself. “I’m not trying to be any sort of role model or anything,” he says honestly. “God knows you could find better than me. But I am an Air Force pilot, I am an astronaut, I am an engineer, and yes, I am also going to marry a man next month. And that man has been the love of my life for over a decade. So if those facts can somehow align to give others the opportunity to dream, to believe in themselves and in a better future, then I’m glad.” He glances over at Marge, who looks a little wary of where things are heading, but she gives him a thumbs up for his answer.

“So this isn’t just a publicity stunt in NASA’s diversity agenda?” another reporter asks. At the same time, someone throws their hand up and says “what kind of message is NASA trying to send by putting you on this mission?” 

The questions and excited mumbling of other reporters jumble into some cacophony of muddled sound, and Bucky bites down on the inside of his cheek to keep from saying something out of line. Because as a public figure, anything he says now will be ‘out of line.’

Another reporter stands up, unbidden, before he can even think of an appropriate answer to either of the questions he was able to hear. “For the rest of the crew,” he calls out, before Marge can direct him to take his seat. “How do you feel about having a gay man in the spacecraft with you?”

Bucky can taste blood as he bites down harder. Marge steps up on stage in a hurry, saying something about that being enough questions about Major Egan’s personal life, and any further questions should be directly mission related.

But Curt has already moved to stand up, and Rosie and John simultaneously reach out from either side to push him back down. Alex leans forward at the other end of the table, intent on putting that question to rest with a facial expression that is as close to a glare as can be managed without getting called out for being ‘unfriendly’ by the media. “This crew is like family,” he states with an overwhelmingly exaggerated sense of calm. “John is one of the best pilots NASA has. We are all proud to call him our friend and our commander.”

Marge, now standing firmly next to Alex at the end of the table so she can moderate more directly, nods at him in approval. As she moves to select someone for the next question, though, one of the reporters near the front scoffs and not-so-subtly mumbles something under his breath that leaves Bucky dazed, his ears ringing. Next thing he knows, Curt’s chair is clattering backwards as he shoots to his feet – “What did you say? What the fuck did you say!” Rosie is holding him back from jumping the table with all of his grip strength, and the newsroom is erupting in shouts from the reporters. Questions and insults fly across the room, directed at one another and at Bucky, too. He just sits there quietly, his elbows on the table and his chin resting on his folded hands, letting the words slap him in the face and settle like stones in his chest. He forces himself to stop biting down on his cheek, and watches numbly as security barges into the frenzied crowd to begin escorting reporters out of the room.

When Rosie finally releases his grip, Curt grabs his chair and sits back down with an angry grunt, shaking his head. “Stupid fucks,” he mutters. Marge ends the press conference after that.

As the room is cleared, the crew is shuffled out of the newsroom and into Marge’s office down the hall. She sighs and puts her head in her hand, pacing the room, her heels clacking methodically on the tile. The men stand quietly in a line, looking anywhere but at each other. Finally, Marge takes a deep breath and looks them each in the eye. “Well,” she says. “That could have been… well. That was bad. Okay, that was bad.” She looks at Bucky. “You did great, John. Thank you for how you handled that. I’m so sorry. We’ll figure out a way to handle this better for your pre-launch press conference.”

Bucky just nods. “Yeah,” he says distantly. “Yeah, no big deal.”

If we’re lucky the fag will die up there.

“It’s a big fucking deal,” Curt mutters angrily. They’re used to this kind of thing by now; between John, a gay man, and Alex, a black man, the crew has become overwhelmingly and depressingly aware that the world has not yet changed quite enough to escape derision over difference being normal, over people existing outside the boxes that society has designed. They deal with it, they move on, they do their job. But today was more… well, it was just more than usual. Like the closer they get to launch, the more the media is concerned about all the wrong things. And the more comfortable they are with voicing it. 

“It’s fine,” Bucky insists. “Nothing that I haven’t heard before, really.” He can hear it in his own voice, though: He isn’t sure how much he believes himself.

If we’re lucky…

Rosie pats him on the shoulder. “Like Alex said, we’re family. We’ve got your back, and we won’t tolerate this shit.” Bucky tries to give a little half smile. 

…the fag will die up there. 

Marge nods and checks their schedule on her tablet. “Let’s, um, let’s all take a breather, okay? We don’t have any major press engagements until right before launch.” She looks up at them, and she fights a frown when she sees the varying states of anger, frustration, and dejection on their faces. She knows it’s not her fault, but it’s her job to coordinate and moderate these events. She tries to smile reassuringly instead. “I’ll work with each of you on your own interviews and media appearances over the next few weeks, but I need you boys to focus on the mission. I’ll take care of addressing how this conference ended, and I’ll work with public relations to make sure we can avoid things getting out of hand in the future.” She knows she has a strongly worded email from the director of the human spaceflight program – or possibly even an impromptu meeting – coming her way any minute. She has to work out how to tidy up this mess, but it can’t be her priority at the moment.

She hugs Alex, Rosie, and Curt as they exit her office. Then she looks at Bucky, who has barely moved at all. “Hey,” she says, putting a hand on his shoulder. 

He glances up at her before looking back at his shoes. “Hey.”

“You okay?”

Bucky shrugs, but doesn’t answer for a long, long moment. “I should be,” he finally sighs. “I’m used to it, really. It’s been the same since my astronaut candidacy was announced. Hell, it’s been the same my whole life.” He scoffs. “I don’t know. It just feels… worse somehow, this time.”

He looks up at Marge again, and Marge feels her chest tighten at the tired sadness in his eyes. Even the toughest men she knows have never been bullet proof. She pulls him into her arms and lets him hold on for as long as he needs as he tries to keep himself together. 

If we’re lucky…

“You’re one of our best,” she tells him quietly as she rubs his back. “Anyone who says otherwise is wrong.”

“I know,” Bucky says, but his voice chokes on the words. “I…” He holds onto her tighter, and he can’t bring himself to say anything else. 

If we’re lucky…

When he lets go, Marge squeezes his arm. Her assistant knocks on the door then, here to tell her that Neil Harding, the director of the human spaceflight program, wants to see her in his office. She thanks the woman and takes a deep breath. “Okay,” she tells Bucky. “I’m going to work on cleaning up this mess. But once I do, I’ll meet you at yours for some good old fashioned damage control.” Damage control meaning drinks, snacks, and general mayhem. Bucky kisses her on the cheek, thanks her, and watches her strut out of the room, off to fulfill her third role: certified badass.

–

Just minutes after Marge leaves Neil Harding’s office, Gale finds himself outside the very same door, wondering why he’s been summoned out of the blue in the middle of his work day. He’s greeted by a woman who he hasn’t seen in years, looking as prim and proper as ever even in her European Space Agency flight suit.

“Sandra?” He asks. 

She turns around and smiles politely at him, that charming and yet almost disarming way she always does. “Gale! Wow, it’s been some time hasn’t it?”

Gale nods, but eyes her carefully in confusion. “Sure has. Nice to see you again.”

Sandra looks unphased though, exactly as he would expect her to. This woman could be faced with a dead body or three or ten – and probably has been – and wouldn’t bat an eye. She is, perhaps, the strongest woman Gale knows, and NASA really is full of strong women. “How are you?” she asks. “And how’s John? Or, Bucky I believe is what people call him around here. You Americans and your funny nicknames.”

“Good, good,” Gale says. “He’s going up on Artemis 3 in November.”

Sandra puts a hand on his shoulder and almost looks… sad? “Oh I know. It’s all the buzz, isn’t it?”

Gale arches an eyebrow, not quite sure what she’s getting at. Before he can say anything, though, the door to Neil’s office opens and the man himself is ushering them inside. 

“Gale! Sandra! We have a lot to cover so get on in here.”

–

When Marge finally lets herself into Buck and Bucky’s home with a spare key, armed with ice cream and alcohol, she stops short as she walks into the living room. She leans against the doorframe, one hand on her hip and the other holding the groceries. It’s only 4pm and Bucky, who went home early after the whole fiasco with the media, is slouched down low in the middle of the couch, bundled in an old Yankees sweatshirt with Pepper curled up at his side, her head in his lap. The news is on, a clip from their press conference earlier. A reporter is talking in depth about the incident, and the entire “controversy” over NASA’s “agenda.” As he watches, he doom-scrolls on his phone, and Marge knows he’s digging himself into a deep, deep hole filled with social media comments. His eyes are red, but his face is dry.

“John,” Marge says. He looks up at her and smiles weakly. She motions towards the TV, where the reporter is now reading an official statement from NASA, saying that the organization supports Major John Egan and the entirety of the Artemis 3 crew 100%; that the crew was selected based on merit and capability; that each member has been extensively trained and has shown that they are highly qualified and prepared for a lunar mission; and that NASA stands by all of their astronauts and employees, regardless of identity, and will not tolerate attacks of any kind such as those that occurred today. 

Bucky watches the report blankly before shifting his eyes over to Marge. She sighs before walking over to the coffee table, where she sets down the bag of groceries and picks up the remote. The TV clicks off. “Enough of that,” she says. When she collapses down next to Bucky and Pepper on the couch, she peeks over at his phone. Social media comments, sure enough. Supportive and detrimental both. She plucks the phone from his hand and turns it off, placing it face down on the coffee table. “And enough of that.”

John just stares at it on the tabletop, idly stroking Pepper’s ears. He won’t look at Marge, so she reaches over across Pepper and places a hand on his shoulder. “John, look at me.”

He does, and he takes a deep, shaky breath. He opens his mouth to speak but closes it again, biting down on the inside of his lip. Pepper licks his hand. He takes another breath and looks Marge right in the eye. “There’s death threats,” he says. When Marge just frowns, he rubs a hand over his face. “For me. And for Gale. Not many, thank God, but they’re there. I read them.” 

“Oh honey,” Marge says sadly. She gets up to switch to his other side, so she can wrap her arms around him properly. He lets himself settle into the embrace and closes his eyes, letting his most trusted friend ground him on one side and his dog on the other. 

“Thank you for issuing that statement,” he mumbles. 

Marge lays her head on top of his. “Harding wants to talk to you tomorrow, and he wanted me to tell you that the human space flight program fully supports you and always has. I think he wanted to give you some space today. Once you’re up for it, we’ll bring the whole crew in to discuss how to handle this in the future.” Bucky gives a small nod of acknowledgement. “You know it’s not really about you, right?” Marge asks. “Those things that people are saying. It’s entirely about them. None of them know you, and no one can, in any meaningful way, deny that you belong on this mission. This is about their own problems and their own prejudices. You,” she squeezes him harder, “have done everything right.”

Bucky is silent for a long time, until finally he says, “I don’t really want to talk about it right now.”

“Alright,” Marge says easily. She leans away and looks at him, grinning. “Time for some damage control.”

–

By 6:30pm, Gale can’t get the door of their house open fast enough. He hasn’t heard from Bucky all day and needs to tell him about the meeting with Harding. When he gets inside, though, he’s greeted by loud music pumping through their stereo speakers. As he walks into the living room, he takes in the sight of half empty cocktail glasses and beer bottles, open ice cream cartons and abandoned spoons, a bag of chips and a plate of fruit, and the throw pillows strewn all over the floor. He pauses in his tracks, staring at the carnage as his excitement drains rapidly from his body. 

Damage Control. 

Fuck. 

Pepper runs out of the kitchen to greet him, tail wagging so hard her whole body goes with it. Gale tilts his head and smiles at her. Throwing his keys on the coffee table next to Bucky’s abandoned phone, he crouches down and scratches under Pepper’s collar. “What happened, Pep?” He asks her. 

She just bumps his hand with her wet nose and spins around once before trotting off back to the kitchen. He follows her tentatively and peeks through the kitchen doorway, where Bucky is sitting on the counter while Marge stands, leaning back against the center island across from him. There’s flour and dirty cooking utensils everywhere, and it smells like tomato sauce. 

Marge looks down at Pep and then up at Gale. “Hey there,” she says. 

They’ve been laughing and singing and dancing all evening, but when Bucky looks up and sees the hesitant half smile on Gale’s face, the furrow in his brow, he knows Gale has already figured out that something is wrong anyways. The smile falls from Bucky’s face at the same time it falls from Gale’s. “Buck,” he says, but it barely pushes past his throat as a whisper. 

“What’s wrong?” Gale asks. He looks from Bucky to Marge and back. “John?”

Bucky shrugs and averts his eyes, watching Pepper instead as she flops down dramatically on the tile floor. “I’m fine,” he says. 

“Come on, John,” Gale sighs. But Bucky won’t look at him, so Gale looks at Marge instead. 

She brushes a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “Some things were said at the press conference today,” she supplies. “We had to end it early, with security pulling some reporters from the room.”

Gale frowns. “What kind of things?”

“Mostly about John’s sexuality. And your relationship. They were pretty innocent at first, but-“

“If we’re lucky the fag will die up there,” Bucky bites out. Gale feels frozen in place. He blinks, shoves his hands in his pockets, takes them out again. “There’s been worse online,” Bucky adds. 

“John,” Gale says quietly. He steps forward, one hand outstretched, but he stops short when Bucky crosses his arms protectively over his chest. 

“It’s not a big deal,” Bucky says, ducking his head. They both know that’s not true. ‘Damage Control’ isn’t for things that aren’t a big deal. Bucky shrugs. “At least, it shouldn’t be a big deal. Hey, I’m used to it right? I just gotta keep on going.” He laughs bitterly, but when he looks up at Gale, the hurt on the other man’s face squeezes his chest all funny and he looks away again. Then there’s a warm arm around his back, a hand on the back of his head. He feels Gale standing in front of him, and he lets his head fall forward to rest against his. Slowly, he lifts his arms to wrap around his fiancé, and he grips the fabric of his shirt in white-knuckled, shaking hands. 

After a couple of long, silent minutes, nothing but their careful breathing passing in the air between them, Bucky takes a deep breath. “Wow, way to put a damper on this little party, huh? Let’s uh, let’s go back to the part where I don’t have to think about this tonight.”

They both know they’ll have to talk about this later, but Gale nods and lets go. Bucky grabs tightly to his hand, though, wanting a tether to stop this feeling of drifting away. 

Marge motions for them to go back out to the living room. “Pizza in the oven. I’ll bring it out in a minute.”

When she does eventually follow them into the living room, carrying a tray of pizza, she walks in on them dancing in the middle of the room to “Can’t Help Falling in Love” by Elvis as it plays over the speakers. Bucky smoothly twirls Gale around before pulling him close again, and Marge is, not for the first time, in awe of the pure adoration that passes between the two of them. “Shouldn’t you save your first dance song for your actual wedding night?” she asks as she sets the pizza on the coffee table next to Bucky’s phone, still upside down, and Gale’s keys. 

They slow to a stop and look at her. Bucky shrugs. “Gotta practice so I don’t trip over myself and embarrass my bride.” 

Gale blushes and half-heartedly mumbles “stop calling me that.” 

Bucky grins. “What? My bride?” He gently pulls Gale down onto the couch with him, wrapping an arm around his waist and kissing him on the temple. “But I love the way it makes you blush.”

Marge gags dramatically and tells them to eat their pizza. 

As they’re polishing it off, even giving Pepper her own little piece, Gale licks his fingers and says nonchalantly, “I have some news.”

When he doesn’t go on, Marge rolls her eyes. “Care to share with the class?”

Gale is quiet for a second, but then a grin spreads across his face as he looks at both of them. “I’m going to the moon earlier than we thought. Artemis 4.”

Bucky jumps up so fast he bangs a knee hard on the table and Marge has to lunge forward to keep the pizza tray from falling to the floor. Pepper jumps up in alarm as Bucky spins to face Gale, ignoring the pain shooting through his leg. “You’ve been home for-“ he checks the clock on the wall. “An hour! And you didn’t say anything until NOW?”

Gale shrugs sheepishly. “There were more important things-“

“No!” Bucky cries. “No… Wait. How in hell did you get yourself onto the A4 roster?”

Artemis 4 is planned to launch in just over a year. Crew selection had been made months ago. Gale rubs the back of his neck. “Well, the two ESA astronauts that were supposed to go got bumped cause of health concerns. ESA was able to put in one other astronaut, but NASA wanted a more experienced pilot in the lander. Harding called me in today.”

“Gale, that’s amazing!” Marge says, crawling across the couch to hug him tight. “Oh my god, this is so amazing. Congratulations!” She’s in part already thinking about the press coordination and social media posting that this necessitates, but holy shit that can wait for now.

When she pulls away, Bucky reaches down and wraps his arms around Gale’s middle, pulling him up from the couch and spinning him around. Then he kisses him hard and spins him again, Gale laughing as he yells for Bucky to set him down. “What!” Bucky exclaims. “You gotta get used to being helpless in the air again, you’re going to the moon!”

Gale rolls his eyes as Bucky sets him down. “Who did ESA toss into the thick of it?” Bucky asks. 

“Sandra Westgate.” Gale raises an eyebrow as he says this, watching for Bucky’s reaction. 

It’s Marge, though, that jumps in as Bucky tries to process that. “No way, Croz’s old flame?”

“Yep.”

Bucky shakes his head, trying not to laugh. Harry Crosby, Houston’s best flight dynamics officer, had spent a hot summer a few years back – before he and his now-wife Jean got back together after a bit of a break – gallivanting about town with Sandra Westgate. She’s top class, one of the best astronauts in the European Space Agency. Gale is lucky to be flying with her, really. But damn. “Does… does Croz know?” 

Gale nods, chuckling. “Yeah, he knows. Saw him gaping at her like a fish as I showed her around this afternoon. They’ve both moved on, but…”

“Awkward,” Marge cringes. 

“She’ll be sticking around Houston for the next year, starting in a couple weeks,” Gale explains. “To train with us.”

“Plenty of time to un-move on,” Bucky muses. 

Marge throws a pillow at him, but he dodges it and watches as it crashes into a fake plant in the corner of the room. “Don’t say that!” Marge reprimands. “Croz and Jean are very happy together you ass.”

Bucky shrugs. “Sorry.” He looks at Gale, who is still standing facing him. “Now don’t you go getting any ideas either. Sandra’s a strong and lovely woman.”

Gale cups the back of Bucky’s neck and kisses him softly. “I would never,” he whispers, before he falls back onto the couch. Bucky collapses next to him, grabbing Gale’s hand again so he can fiddle with his fingers. 

They look at each other, and Bucky presses his lips to Gale’s knuckles. “I’m so proud of you.”

“I’m proud of you, too.”

Marge takes one last bite of pizza. “It’s sickening how in love you two are.”

Gale smiles shyly. “Always have been.”

Bucky smiles back at him, but too many thoughts are swirling around in his head, and he feels the words choke and fizzle on his tongue.

…

Part 4

[mochiwrites]

Do you have anything officially established in the hot n cute au? :D

oh beloved anon, rather than telling you what I have established... allow me to show you 👀

A lone figure squats down on a rooftop, the feathers of his wings fluttering as his eyes scan the streets below him. His brows are creased low and close together in concentration, breath all but silent as he stares. As he watches.

The streets are empty this late at night, quiet. There isn't much happening, as most of the city is fast asleep in their homes, resting or unwinding from a long day.

He does not have that luxury, though it isn't something he minds very much. This is all voluntary, it isn't an obligation, not quite. He's doing this willingly, because his heart beats with a need to help, to extend a hand to those in need and offer them a tug out of the dark.

But tonight he has his eyes on a certain someone, someone he's been chasing for a few nights now. They're no one special or important, at least not in a world of super villains or criminals. No, they're quite unimportant to most. Yet they've caught his eye, and that is a very stupid move. For them that is.

His ear twitches, hearing a noise down below.

"Gotcha."

A wild grin stretches out across his lips, heart picking up in speed as he prepares himself. Standing up from his squatting position, he turns his back to the street below, staring at the star lit sky that wraps around him. The moon shines brilliantly as the wind breezes through his hair. He holds his arms out on either side of him, and with casual movements, he leans back.

Gravity takes him, pulling him down and over the side of the building. The feeling is exhilarating, the wind rushing in his ears, in his feathers. His heart pumps in his ribcage, excitement rushing through him. Behind the mask sitting on his face, he shuts his eyes and lets himself fall.

His name is Grian. And he is a hero.

Seconds before he can hit the ground he beats his wings in one, two, big flaps, catching the wind on his feathers. Swooping up to right himself, he spots his target of the night and lands elegantly on the ground. His heeled boots land silently on the ground, and Grian sets a hand on his hip.

He tilts his head to the side, watching the other for just a moment. His target tonight is a serial burglar, he's been all over the news as of late, and Grian thought he'd be the perfect guy to go after to start off.

And even better, he's caught the guy right in the act.

The man is fiddling with the lock on someone's house, muttering curses as he wiggles with something in the door knob. "Dammit, where's that lock pick?"

There's a tap on his shoulder, and he pauses to look to the side. "Here you go." The man blinks as he stares at the lockpick he had been looking for.

"Oh... thanks," he says, taking it. He takes the lock pick and fits it into the lock before his brain catches up with him, and his head whips to the side. "H-Hey, hang on a moment! Who the hell?!"

Grian offers him a smirk and a wave, "Hey there! Lovely night, innit?"

The man yelps in fear, taking a few quick steps back before turning and running off. He leaves his bags behind as he tries to make a break for it, and Grian sighs. "Why is running away everyone's first instinct?"

Quick to follow after him, Grian flaps his wings and flies right after him. It doesn't take the avian very long to catch up, considering how fast of a flier he is. With ease, he's flying right alongside the criminal, "You should know that you can't outrun me, pal! This isn't going to be a very fun game of chase for you."

"W-What the hell?!" the man shrieks, and Grian lifts a brow at him.

"What? Never seen an avian before? C'mon mate, we're living in the twentieth century! Get with the program," Grian huffs, shaking his head. Seeing as the man is frozen in either shock or fear, Grian spreads his wings out wide, making himself appear larger. Just for extra intimidation. "Now, we can do this the hard way, or the easy way. Which one would you pre--"

"HOTGUY!"

There's a voice shouting from above, the sound of an arrow whizzing past his ear, and before Grian can even finish his sentence there's something heavy falling over him, making him squawk loudly in surprise. The sudden weight sends him down to his knees, which is rather painful considering the concrete that lies beneath them.

From behind him, he hears the sounds of feet hitting the ground, and a smooth, velvet like voice follows, "Good evening, criminal! Wow, you guys sure are getting bolder, doing your criminal stuff out in the open street!"

Two black booted feet enter his vision, and Grian isn't sure if his heart drops or if it lodges itself in his throat. It certainly skips a beat, that much is for sure. "Not to worry, dear citizen! The criminal has been apprehended."

He'd know that voice anywhere. He's spent months hearing that voice in interviews, in compilation videos on the internet. It's a voice he's always wanted to hear in person, except he had never considered it possible, never considered it a reality.

But now he's hearing that voice in person.

Entering his vision is none other than the city's very own hero, Hotguy. His brown hair is pulled back in a small pony tail, a black mask outlined in orange and blue sitting on his face. He holds his bow in one hand, an arrow in the other. He wears a tight fitting black top, sleeves short. There's an insignia on his chest, the right side orange and the left blue. The edges of the insignia curl up toward his chest, almost mimicking that of an arrowhead.

On his hands are black fingerless gloves, though his left arm has an arm guard on it.

Seeing him in person rather than on a television screen is... whoa it's doing something to Grian's heart. Focus!

Hotguy walks over to the burglar, who for one looks nervous out of his wits, clapping the man on the back. "You're safe now, sir! You should head home before anyone else tries to sneak up on ya. Good ol' Hotguy won't always be around to swoop in and save the day!" He winks.

The man blinks at the hero, "R-Right..."

Grian wants to scream. Or let the ground swallow him whole. Either option works. Maybe even both. How is Hotguy reading the situation so wrong? The guy's literally dressed head in toe in black! He's even got a ski mask on! How is he missing this?!

The hero looks between Grian and the burglar he had been trying to apprehend, blinking. He crouches down in front of Grian specifically, setting a hand on his chin, "I don't think I've ever seen you around before! A new up and coming villain, perhaps?"

Despite his own admiration for the hero in front of him, all Grian can feel is annoyance. "Try up and coming hero, actually!" he snaps. He was so close to catching him too! All that work… ruined by a single net. “You’ve caught the wrong guy!”

“Hero? Wait wrong guy?!” Hotguy questions, looking between Grian and the burglar behind him that’s now not so subtly trying to make a run for it.

He pauses as both heroes’ eyes land on him, and he lets out a noise of fear before breaking out in a hasty run.

“Annnnnd now he’s getting away. Great,” Grian sighs in frustration before struggling to get the net off of himself. There's a small pout on his face as he mumbles, “There goes days of work flushed down the drain.”

“Oh,” the taller hero says, staring at the spot where Grian’s burglar was once standing. “Oh! Oh gosh, I’m so sorry about that!” He looks back over to Grian, wincing at his frown. "H-Here, lemme help you out!" He sets his bow back into the holster on his back as he drops his arrow back in his quiver. He then hurries to help Grian out of the net.

“It’s fine,” Grian grumbles as the net comes off. He stands to his full height, looking at Hotguy with a frown as he flexes his wings. He grabs the net and shoves it into Hotguy’s arms with a huff. “With any luck I’ll just catch him trying to break into someone’s house again.”

Honestly there's nothing fine about any of this. Here Grian was, trying to do a good thing, a good deed, only to be humiliated. By someone he looks up to, no less! Caught in his net. Because Hotguy thought he was the criminal here. He's embarrassed and frustrated because he put a lot of time into cornering that burglar, and now he's back to square one. All because of some careless mistake made by someone else.

By Hotguy of all people.

Thank goodness for his mask, because his face feels like it's on fire. Every part of Grian is screaming at him to make some sort of quick escape, and that's exactly what he's planning on doing. He really doesn't want to stick around for a conversation, not after that.

"Well, see you around!" Grian calls out before spreading his wings. He inhales softly before shooting up into the air.

"W-Wait!" He hears Hotguy calling out to him, but Grian doesn't stop to stick around.

He'd very much like to go home and shove his face in a pillow.

What was the saying, never meet your heroes? Well, Grian can understand why.

[joeytime]

Superhero au where Lewis can manipulate gravity, making things sink to the ground or float into the atmosphere. His childhood friend, Nico, is a flyer, soaring through the sky like a kite cut loose.

They're everything, friends, teammates, childhood buddies, rivals and perhaps lovers.

They become a hero duo, Lewis disorients enemies by floating them and Nico swoops in like a falcon to fight them high in the air where he is most comfortable. Then, Lewis slams enemies back onto the ground to defend Nico like a lion.

Nico, who loves the feeling of flying, loves the freedom it grants him from everyday life. He jokes that he was born lighter than air.

Lewis, who's only power drawback is that he can't use them on himself, he's permanently grounded on the earth, even Nico can't lift him. Lewis, who's forced to watch Nico soar in the sky but be forever tied to the ground. Lewis, who slowly yearns for freedom as Nico escapes into the sky from paparazzi, managers and enemies, leaving Lewis to handle everything by himself. Lewis, who slowly grows resentful, jealousy coursing through his dense bones.

Lewis who subconsciously uses his powers bit by bit, weighing Nico to the earth, to him. Nico struggling to fly, he thinks it's some mental block, he visits therapists, older heroes, he even goes on a month long vacation with Lewis in case it's the stress.

Until one day, a villain escapes and Nico wants to fly to catch them but he can't lift his feet off the ground, he falls, humiliated. Lewis is right beside him, asking him what's going on while tears stream down Nico's face. Nico thinks, I lost it.

Paparazzi surround and crowd them and Nico looks into Lewis' eyes. And, his eyes are faintly glowing, like he's using his powers.

Nico realises what had been happening, that Lewis has been sabotaging him. He's hit by emotion, he's not angry, he's not sad. Nico has been feeling so trapped recently and to find out that it was Lewis? He is hurt.

In front of all the paparazzi, Nico yells at Lewis, he screams at Lewis and cries and wails at him, he's so betrayed and upset he doesn't notice the tears in Lewis' dull eyes.

Nico, finally out Lewis' grasp, flies. He leaves Lewis surrounded by hungry reporters and paparazzi like he always does.

Lewis watches Nico fly further away from him, watches Nico retire to have a family and leave the superhero world while Lewis dodges phone calls from a desperate Toto Wolff, pleading for him to stay for the safety of the world.

Nico flies as high as he can and Lewis stays right on the earth.

[davestridernb]

@duskyashe​ here is my Raven (eldritch Nightwing) design from Encryptid/Calling All The Monsters! Drawn in sketchbook & colored on the computer. Feat. colored sketch and concept of how it looks in the dark. Very long details below the cut.

Firstly, the pose and drawing style used on the left is inspired by Lilo & Stitch, because of the description "He held his ready stance for a count of eight, then started relaxing parts of his body opposite how one would normally relax their body, starting with his legs and working his way up to his shoulders." which reminded me of how character weight was drawn in the movie opposite of how it usually is, keeping the weight rooted low with gravity and pulled towards the ends of the limbs.

The coloration concept is based off of animals that have direction-dependent color, the most famous of which is the blue morpho butterfly, but one which most people have probably also seen is the super black bird of paradise. So the idea of how that works in the wild is that tilting movements or seeing it at the right angle causes a disorienting flash of color, which I hoped to use here for Raven!Nightwing's eldritch illusion.

His fingerstripes aren't strictly straight but more inspired by tree bark/veins/cirque du soleil costumes, where lines that curve across limbs make the poses look more twisted and fantastical rather than emphasizing the actual direction of the limb, which is what the straighter lines in most hero costumes are supposed to do.

His wingsuit structure as described is a snap-out style that he holds the ends of when he flies, which I've augmented with small electromagnets to seal the airspace between his arms and the wings, which can turn on and off with a current. The structure itself is similar to the draco lizard in nature, where the draco lizard has modified rib bones that hinge at the top of its wings and fold back down to its sides when not in use. The edges on the wingsuit have a soft tattered texture that helps silence the wings like owls' feathers, as well as obscure the outline a little.

I wanted to avoid showing human skin, so I used a full face mask and repurposed the Nightwing V into an abstract suggestion of a beak. His real eyes can either be disguised with colored lenses that match the stripe or can be white, but there are also decoy eyes scattered in different spots on the suit that have cameras. At first it was just the two on the sides of the head to increase peripheral vision, but I thought it would be super cool if Raven could just see in a bunch of directions and into small spaces like Emily Eyefinger just because he has several small working cameras in different locations on his body. Ravens and eldritch beings are both associated with eyes so it works? ^u^

Regarding the wing coloration, this was the last addition to the design. I considered eyespots, just as I considered larger wings, but I really wanted to avoid the design getting mistaken for Mothman from a distance. The premise of the AU relies on the power of belief, so people need to recognize Raven on sight and also believe he's an eldritch being, so I went with one big solid eye that no one expects just opening out of the darkness when you’ve done something wrong. Yikes. Raven knows where you sleep.

[sirowsky-stories]

The Old Prince

Part 10

Author's Note: I had hoped to post this on Friday, but a pesky work-weekend got in the way. Also, this was one of those chapters that never wanted to end! Which is why it's easily the biggest one yet.

Description: Your confrontation with Simon reveals some very big obstacles. (Sorry, it's a bit short, I don't wanna spoil anything.)

Rating: Mature 18+ONLY Warnings: Monster Oberyn Martell x Female Reader, AU fic, obviously Halloween themed, reader cusses. Smut. And a kinda weird situation occurring in relation to the smut. Word Count: 9862 Author's Masterlist

   He reacts to the name as if he too remembers it, and somewhere deep within him, a rumbling which could rival even the toughest thunder starts to build.    It’s so immense that the very air vibrates with it, and when he opens his jaws to release it, you can hardly believe what you’re seeing when actual lightning accompanies the flame of magmatic intensity, destroying trees and unnatural creatures alike everywhere it goes.

   Then, just as your hope rekindles with the apparent shift of odds into your favor, the dying flames reveal that the spirits have finally arrived. But the reason for their tardiness becomes painfully obvious when you realize they’ve all been corrupted.    No longer the lightly glowing figures of mystical energies, they now appear to be solid, straining under their own weight, looking as though something’s tried to rip them apart, leaving strangely thick black smoke pluming out of their open wounds.

   Positioning themselves in a circle around the two of you, their new master commands them to destroy, and as if they’ve become puppets on strings, they obey without hesitation.    The polar bear, Ursa, is supposed to be able to freeze things at will, but her powers have also been mutated, so when she tries to create frozen spikes, like spears out of the ground, what happens instead is that she cleaves the ground, creating massive crevasses from which more roots and evil beings spring.

   Lupus normally channels the power of the earth to make things grow, and she still does, except there’s only darkness to feed. Only the destructive and malicious beings brought to life by the Darkling are aided by her efforts, doubling in size in mere seconds.    Meanwhile, Caelum is generating multiple twisters where she would ordinarily only manage to spark sudden microbursts for a few minutes at a time. The butterfly is somehow creating toxic spores where she would usually just be able to pollinate anything that grows.

   How Octopus is managing on land you have no idea, but she’s covering everything she touches with some kind of corrosive grey slime, which is especially bad considering the area she can affect with her size and the reach of her tentacles.    The bat’s normal power is giving sight to those who wander in the dark, but she’s now creating clouds made of soot, removing all visibility wherever she flies. Although she’s struggling so badly against the forces of gravity, usually not able to affect her much at all, that she’s barely able to get off the ground.

   Scarabaeus is supposed to be able to move through any solid structures, but her corrupted form is instead incapable of remaining solid at all, changing from liquid to gaseous form at random, which also has the very disturbing effect of leaving anything she passes through, completely disemboweled.    As for the deer, Cervus, who’s original power is the absorption of both energy and matter, she seems to be in a state of continuous implosion, like a star perpetually about to collapse, sucking everything into its core to be crushed.

   In your human form, you’ve never met the spirit of summer before, although you do know her from your other life. She’s easily the largest of the land-living spirits, rivalling Oberyn’s green dragon, although her current mass is much more concentrated than his was.    Also, she wouldn’t normally have much mass at all. But tonight, her might has been transformed from a benign gigantic horse, capable of bringing warmth even to the coldest of places, into a burning demon, seemingly made of oil.

   They attack without any coordination, or pre-determined plan of any kind, it seems, coming at Tyrannus from all angles at once. His size puts them at a disadvantage since only the flying ones can reach further up his body than his legs, but they’re unfortunately also highly tolerant to his flame, even with the lightning.    His scales are thick, though, shielding him from their mutated powers, leaving him mostly concerned with keeping you out of their reach.

   You know that even Lux has never witnessed all the spirits succumb to the dark one’s power before, because it’s never been allowed to get this far. But Simon’s clever deceit must’ve blinded them until it was already too late. Which begs the question:    Why are you not turning dark as well?    If the Darkling can have such a crippling effect on all the others, how is it you’re not feeling so much as a tingle in your fingertips?

   It could be your connection to Oberyn, since love is still more powerful than anything, but the more you think about it, the more it seems like it’s your human form which shields you from his influence.    Strangely, it makes a lot of sense. Because ordinary humans can’t see or be directly harmed by spirits, so logically, your alter ego should be impervious to his manipulation.

   However, your body might not be safe from his powers or the spirits’ ability to cause you serious physical harm.    You have demonstrated that you’re capable of incredible healing, but you don’t know how far that reaches. Even Oberyn isn’t completely immortal, so it stands to reason you might have a few limitations as well.

   He moves incredibly fast despite his size, having lost none of his usual agility since his body is still the same snakelike shape. So, even though his enemies are repeatedly attacking him from all sides, he manages to evade them while striking both punches and flames at them, slowing them down if not seriously damaging them.    Until Caelum manages to slip past his limbs and teeth, using one of her twisters as camouflage.

   Staying in your blind spot, she sinks her claws into your back before you’ve had a chance to notice her, and aside from the fact that having your skin ripped open is always terribly painful, it seems that the black oily stuff which covers them all is also either poisonous or acidic when it enters your blood. Because holy fuck, does it sting.    You’re already laying down as flat over the base of the dragon’s neck as you can manage, but the sharp, lasting pain makes you lose your grip just as Oberyn turns sharply to the left.

   “Kaivalya!” you hear a thunderous roar exclaim while you’re falling through the air, which confuses you.

   He can’t speak. Not as himself or as Tyrannus, his mouth and throat are incapable of forming words, so how did that just happen?

   It doesn’t matter much anymore when you realize you’re falling much further than what should be ground level, which must mean you’re careering into one of the many crevasses Ursa’s made in her attempts to unbalance the dragon.    Your front is facing up, so you can see the darkened sky as you continue to fall, until you drop far enough that the edges of the abyss come into view, crawling with roots and other malicious things, feeding off the conflict and the violence above.

   Then suddenly, a bright white tail is breaking through the increasing darkness around you. It effortlessly breaks through the meager defenses put up by the wormlike appendages of this evil Earth, reaching you with such speed and forcefulness that it sends you hurtling upwards instead, as though you were a tennis ball and his tail the racket.    And once you’re back above ground, easily reaching a thousand feet height at the crescent before you begin to fall back down, all three of the flying spirits are converging on you.

   A twister forms right beside you, sucking you in and then spitting you out even higher up, before Vespertilio sends a cloud of absolute darkness around you.    You know you’re far enough up that Oberyn has to fly to reach you, and if he was, his wings would create a thunderous sound as they beat against the air and the atmosphere, and you can’t hear anything like that.    But you can hear the rapid, strained flaps of the bat’s wings as it struggles to get to you.

   The darkness is so thick you can’t see your hands in front of your face, but you can feel that you’re once again falling and without seeing, you have no way of knowing how long it’ll take before you hit the ground.    Can you survive a broken neck? You don’t know. Just like you don’t know what happens if you get torn to pieces by the spirits. You might simply revert to your spirit form, but then that would likely make you corruptible again.    And maybe that’s exactly what Simon is after. Maybe all this is just about darkening you, because if he can do that, then there won’t be any more hope for the world.

   A sound reaches you from somewhere below, and then a strong huff of warm air disperses the cloud underneath you, letting you see that you’re still hundreds of feet from the ground. But you also see a pair of bright blue eyes, which then quickly disappear from your view when the largest jaws ever to exist on this planet are opened wide, right beneath you.

   “Trust me,” the same rumbling voice as before sounds, even though his mouth hasn’t moved.

   But it’s him. Either inside your head or somehow speaking to you through the ether, but you know without a doubt it’s your Oberyn.    And you do trust him. Which is why you let yourself fall forwards, straightening your arms out in front of you, turning your body into a spear so you’ll fall quicker.    It’s not without fear you pass his rows of giant teeth, falling paralleled to his tongue and heading right for his throat, held perfectly straight to facilitate your journey into his stomach, but he must have a plan.

   He closes his jaws in the same moment you reach the bottom of his mouth, and everything becomes pitch black.    You can feel your body continue to fall, even as the walls of his throat begin to close around you, slowing your descent surprisingly gently. And before you know it, you’re at the bottom. Although, it’s not how you might’ve imagined a dragon’s stomach might look, if you’d ever had the crazy idea to imagine being swallowed by one.

   There’s no fluid in there at all, to help break down your components and extract the nutrients from your body. And it’s anything but dark.    Just like with humans, his stomach sits adjacent to his lungs, so when the fire is sparked, his entire torso is lit up internally.    You can only see the shine, nothing of what else is actually inside of him, but it’s kinda beautiful.

   There’s an intricate and very symmetrical network of veins within the lining of the stomach, and when the fire illuminates them, the heat within his blood makes them glow. And yet, the temperature inside remains unchanged. Probably around forty degrees Celsius, feverishly warm for a human, which is how Oberyn has always seemed to you.    However, the sounds he makes are even louder in here, so when he suddenly roars, you’re instantly on your knees and doing your best to cover your ears, hoping your eardrums haven’t already burst.

   “Stop!” you try to yell when it never seems to end, but you can’t even hear yourself over the deafening vibrations.

   Apparently though, he can, because he immediately goes quiet, and then that deep voice finds you again.

   “Are you alright, my lady?”

   You must be hearing him inside your mind somehow, because even if you haven’t already gone deaf, your ears can’t possibly have recovered enough for you to hear normally yet.

   “No!” you half-shriek, confirming at least partial damage to your auditory system because you can hardly hear your own voice. “Keep it down, you just blew my ears out!”

   “Oh… My apologies. In my defense, I have never done this before.”

   “No shit…”

-=<>=-=<>=-=<>=-

   He knows you will be safe within him as this much older dragon ate only stone and magma to support his being when there was no other life on this world yet. It has no means of digesting human tissues and bones, nor the need for it.    From the beginning of this battle, the spirits have aimed almost exclusively at you, leading him to the conclusion that Simon has no interest in him, merely in acquiring the last free spirit and completing the Darkling curse.

   If this happens, the entire planet will become as the North American continent in a matter of minutes. All of it consumed by death, darkness and despair, with no hope or end in sight. And without Lux to bring back the sun, it will likely remain so for thousands of years.    Tyrannus is too powerful even for all of them combined to vanquish, but Oberyn is equally unable to annihilate Simon while the spirits fight for him, so until the two of you can discover how to liberate The Decem from the dark one’s sickening grasp, the best he can do is keep you safe.

   Gambling on the notion that these debased beings all seem unwilling to stray too far away from the group, he remains airborne after swallowing you, intent on leaving the scene as quickly as he can.    Of course, Caelum, Vespertilio and Papilio do not approve of this plan, and follow as he departs due east, back towards the coast.

   Their perverted powers are thrown recklessly in his path, the desperation to not disappoint their master now the single goal of their altered reality.    But their quarry is not only much larger than before. He is also armored with scales so thick not even the pressure and heat of the planet’s core could undo him, leaving their mediocre displays of strength little more than an irritation to his ascent.

   His theory about their tendency to remain with the group prove accurate when the three flying spirits veer off and return to the blackened landscape before he’s even left the American continent. This thought, however, offers him no peace. For they are stronger as a group, and the longer they remain so, they will fuel and feed the growing energies of hate and depravity until it eventually transforms them completely.

   They are still only darkened versions of their original selves, but if Simon has his claws embedded within them for long enough, he will turn their hearts to stone, and then they shall truly become the monstrosities of men’s most feared nightmares.    If this comes to pass, they will never again be returned to their former glory, no matter how much light you might shine upon them. And without them, the world will never truly recover.

   He heads northeast across the Atlantic, flying fast and very high now that you are travelling safely hidden from the extreme temperatures and lack of oxygen. The sky is remarkably clear once he leaves the ashes and unnatural darkness of America behind, and he wishes that you could see the beauty of the world from the thermosphere, nine kilometers above the surface.    As Lux, you probably have, but as a human, you never could.

   And there is something truly beautiful within such fragility.

   It doesn’t take long once he returns to the more familiar troposphere, before he is joined by yet more man-made flying machines, although this time, they wisely keep their distance and merely follow his journey, rather than attempt another confrontation.    Oberyn is glad for this, because aside from the fact that he does not wish to harm them, they may also become most important to the survival of the world, as even their relatively small firepower could prove crucial within the larger picture of this war.

   So, he makes no attempt to frighten them, flying calmly even as they dare a closer look.    Despite their oxygen masks, he can see their eyes quite clearly, and when one of the pilots pulls up alongside him, he can see how she tries to measure him from nose-tip to tail-end, raising her eyebrows in disbelief at whatever number she settles on.    He estimates roughly five hundred yards himself.

   These are British RAF fighters, which must mean that word of his existence has spread since his latest encounter with such crafts. Although, they all probably think there are two dragons at this point, as there is little resemblance between Tyrannus and his comparably puny longtime green alter ego.

   Whatever they believe is irrelevant. So long as he must not fight both humans and dark souls the world’s armies may create their own explanations for his presence. He requires only that they act to protect their lands, as even a small grenade lobbed at the spreading weeds of death will slow their advancement somewhat.    For now, the darkness is contained on the North American continent, unable to spread further until the air and the oceans have also been sufficiently infected. But it is only a matter of time.

   As he crosses over the British Isles, a warm updraft fills his wings, allowing him to soar effortlessly. Which is good since just one flap of his enormous wings will displace enough air to potentially create massive wind-shifts on the ground below.    The warm air sits lower in the atmosphere, however, leaving him quite visible to anyone who happens to look high enough, and given the sudden changes in the sounds he can hear from down there, at least some people do spot him.

   To that end, the fighter planes are no help, as their noisy engines easily draw people’s eyes upwards, but again, this is largely irrelevant.    Unless the two of you can discover how to defeat Simon, these people will know of worse things than dragons soon enough.    Dodging numerous commercial jets at various altitudes as he crosses directly above Manchester, Oberyn then leaves Great Britain behind, heading for the quieter skies of the Nordic countries.

   The RAF apparently are not cleared to continue following him into Norwegian airspace, veering off well before he crosses over land again.    For a moment, he amuses himself by imagining the communication between these pilots and Norwegian air traffic control, because he could picture how it must have sounded if they requested permission to continue following a dragon into Norway’s domain.

   Once certain he is alone, he finds a nice large mountaintop with a solid flat surface and sets down as gently as he can to avoid kicking off a rockslide.    You have been quiet since he accidentally broke your eardrums, and he hopes you will have healed already, but he worries that the injury might have nothing to do with your lack of interaction.

   “Valya?” he prods, keeping his volume low, and he can feel how you begin to move inside of him.

   “Yeah?” you reply, and you sound mostly tired.

   “We are safe for now. Would you like to come out?”

   “That depends… Would I be going back up, or continuing further down?”

   “Up, of course, my dear.”

   “Okay, just tell me what to do,” you sigh, but it is clear from your tone that you were only asking about the direction as a way of relieving tension.

   “I would prefer not to regurgitate you, but if I lay my head down and keep my body standing, you should be able to crawl out on your own.”

   “Alright, give it a try.”

   He does as he has suggested, and then experience the peculiar sensation of what a human might compare to an ant trying to crawl out of their throat.    It tickles, but not enough to cause him discomfort, and before long he can feel your footsteps pattering over his tongue and then climbing past the row of teeth on his lower jaw, before a muted thud lets him know you have hit the ground.    Closing his mouth and raising his head enough that he can see the ground directly before him, he finds you brushing snow off your pants, and you appear unharmed.

   “How are your ears?” he asks, and you stop moving to meet his eyes.

   “Better. But how am I hearing you? Is this some kind of telepathy?”

   “No, not quite. As I understand it, this is only possible between the two of us, and only because of the unique bond we now share.”

   “Right. Which bond, though? I can think of at least two.”

   “Love and Tyrannus?” he guesses, to which you nod, so he elaborates. “All these years, you’ve carried the white dragon within you, unknowingly becoming one with it, so familiar with its energy that you didn’t even realize it when you began to feed it to me. Because to your heart, there is no distinction. We are the beings you love, and we love you equally.”

   “Do you feel different? I mean, like there’s two of you in there?”

   “Tyrannus has not been alive for eons. He is only energy now. But I do feel some things so deeply engraved into his soul they cannot be erased. His anger… and his hope. Mere echoes now, and yet, so undeniably clear.    He was truly mighty.”

   “So are you, Oberyn,” you say softly, smiling slightly as you admire his new form, before you seem to will yourself to return to darker matters. “Unfortunately, we have less pleasant things to talk about, starting with where we are.”

   “I believe it’s called the Scandes. The mountain range between Norway and Sweden.”

   “Okay. And why are we here?”

   “Because we need to think, and this place is quiet. This far north there’s hardly any air traffic and aside from the occasional hiker, not a lot of people. This time of year, it is a bit cold, but nothing I cannot shield you from.    I have wandered these hills and mountains many times in my life, and they have always helped to soothe my worries.”

   “I believe you. I feel calmer already. And it does seem prudent to steer clear of the States until we at least have a plan.”

   You cross your arms over your waist but then remember that you are still wearing the same torn clothes as before, and this seems to deflate your energy somehow.

   “So, can you still change back, or will all that,” you gesture to his general enormity, “not fit within the human form anymore?”

   “It will. Although I am hesitant to leave us so vulnerable. My human form is still the weakest part of me.”

   “And who’s gonna come after us here?”

   “It is the threats one doesn’t see coming that are the most dangerous.    But I see your point.”

   Strangely, it feels exactly the same to return to this shape despite the extreme change he has undergone. The dragon folds away as fluently and easily as it always has.    But it does throw him for a moment, to suddenly lose the higher perspective, and he hadn’t considered just how much better Tyrannus’ senses are. He feels almost blind at first, even though his own senses are still far superior to ordinary humans.

   “Are you alright?” you ask, noticing his disorientation.

   “Yes. Just slightly jarred. The difference in size is a bit befuddling at first.”

   “I’m sure it is, but at least I can hug you now,” you say while closing the distance between you and wrapping your arms around him in a firm embrace.

   “Oh, I have missed this,” he admits while he mirrors you, breathing in your scent once more and relishing in the feeling of your body pressed against his.

   In that regard, there is no comparison. Nothing ever feels as good as your skin against his own, no matter how incredible the dragon’s senses are.

   “It’s hard to believe it was still just this morning that we woke up together in your bed. I mean, we’ve been jumping between time zones, so the actual hours might be more, but it’s still the same date.”

   “Indeed. How strange that everything seemed so simple then,” he observes, recalling the hours he spent watching you sleep, thinking of nothing but you and how you make him feel.

   His entire world had fit into that bed in those precious, serene hours.

   “Fucking Simon…” you growl after a minute, pulling away from him as your stress once again increases. “I can’t believe he manipulated all the spirits. I mean, I know they’re emotionally driven, but aren’t they supposed to have better instincts than to be fooled by a Darkling?”

   “Well, no, actually,” he replies simply, to which you seem quite perplexed, so he continues. “The only way for any spirit to discern the presence of a Darkling is by the effect it has on the world. To find the being itself, only its capacity to see and interact with them is what provides them a definitive answer.    They can immediately sense if darkness is tainting the world, and where, but they rely on evil to reveal itself, as it always does.”

   “Wait… that would mean Simon must’ve understood more about them from the start than any other dark one before him, to let him use their blind spots against them like that.    But I don’t get it. He said he’d been practicing, using his powers, honing them for a long time. How could he do that without them reacting to it, at some point?”

   “How he knew about his powers I cannot fathom. No Darkling is born with this understanding. However, if he discovered a way to use them without allowing them to infect anything, then it is possible The Decem were unable to detect it.”

   “Not even Caelum? She can’t just sense darkness in the air somehow?” you wonder, getting frustrated enough to start pacing around him, but remaining close since his warmth is all that shields you from the Nordic winter chill.

   “No. Only if that power manages to dilute the air, as it now has over the American continent,” he answers, and you throw your arms out to the sides in a gesture which he interprets to be burgeoning anger at Simon’s apparent advantages.

   He understands your feelings, especially since you cannot recall any of the details surrounding the spirits and their capabilities, but unfortunately, your foe is the very worst this world has to offer.    As much as he wishes to shield you, he must also make sure you realize exactly what it is you are up against.

   “I don’t know if you noticed, but the clouds there are no longer clouds, just dead spores and ashes, remnants of nature now reduced to particles of death. And once he gathers enough of them, he can send those clouds across the seas to infect other parts of the world.    In time, his evil will turn all oceans into vast fields of mud and oil, impossible to travel over or through, filled with the same mutated monstrosities we saw over there. And eventually, the air will be so thick with these ashes that no sunlight will reach us anymore, at which point… salvation will no longer be possible.”

   You stop pacing then, once more wrapping your arms around yourself as if the winds have sent a chill through you, despite the heat he radiates towards you.    There is fear in your eyes as you are probably imagining the world his words are painting for you, but you bite it back, determined to find a solution.

   “So, what can we do? How do we stop him? Because I doubt we can save the spirits without first freeing them from his darkness.”

   “You are correct. Only the destruction of the Darkling will end his reign.    Unfortunately, aside from the spirits, I know of nothing which can kill him,” he admits, but you are undeterred by this.

   “You were there when they killed the last one, right?” you recall, to which he merely nods since he can guess where you are going with this. “So, how did they do it?”

   Oberyn has avoided visiting the details of this memory for a very long time, but you are right to ask this question, as even though the spirits are not going to be able to help you this time, their methods might reveal some useful information.

   “It happened nearly four millennia ago. He was a simple farmer, a good man by all accounts. Until a conflict in their settlement broke out and his wife and two children became the victims of circumstance.”

   “The Darkling had a family?” you skeptically question.

   “Unlike Simon, they are usually unaware of the evil within until something happens to them which is so painful that their souls are torn apart. This unleashes the darkness and forever destroys the person they once were.    This man went from a loving husband and father to a vicious beast, holding nothing back and sparing no one from his rage. He turned the lands upon which he had lived from a jungle teeming with life, into a pit of death into which countless thousands of people and animals were pulled and tortured to death. He had no wish to corrupt them or turn them into evil beings, he merely wished for all things to die as painfully as anything can.    Today, the place is known as the Lonar crater of southern India, but it was neither made by a meteor strike, nor as long ago as science estimates.”

   “His evil created a crater?”

   “When living things rooted to the ground are tainted with darkness, they spread it through the bedrock in search of other things to infect, which can lead to the collapse of entire mountains, given enough time.”

   “How much time?” you ask, and he can see in your eyes that you are worried about how long it might take before Simon’s evil will create eternal scars upon the Earth.

   “This Darkling reigned for three centuries before The Decem was able to stop him. And at that point, the entire European, Asian and African continents were covered in darkness.”

   He gives you a minute with that, because it seems to affect you most severely, but the story is not yet over.

   “I had no intention of joining the fight, as I could simply fly away from it, not wanting to realize that as it continued to spread, there would eventually be nowhere left to go.    But in the end, it was not the understanding that the world was ending which convinced me to go back, but simply the thought that I would not be the worst monster among such things. That in their midst, I might actually appear… beautiful.”

   You step closer to him then, unfolding your arms to place a gentle hand over his cheek. A silent reminder of how you see him, regardless of his form, and he takes a moment to lean into your touch.

   “I was late to the party, however,” he continues then. “For a mere fortnight I battled the darkened vegetation at the heart of its outbreak, trying to carve a path to the man responsible, unaware that I was closely monitored by the spirits.    At this point, only four of them had avoided getting caught by the darkness. Ursa, Papilio, Cervus and Equus.”

   “The elements,” you observe. “Are they somehow stronger than the others?”

   “Not stronger, but perhaps more resilient against corruption. Although, I don’t know why.    In any case, my efforts eventually led them to the Darkling, and once they had access to him, he never stood a chance.    He couldn’t see them coming, so when they all charged him together, he was immediately overpowered.    Ursa impaled him with her icicles, and then each of them took one limb and one direction, pulling him apart, not at the joints, but at the weakened area at the center of his chest where the spears of ice had already broken his spine and sternum.”

   “And that was it?”

   “No, he was still alive afterwards, bleeding black goop into the soil which seemed to superpower the mutated vegetation. Roots the size of redwoods erupted from the ground, all aiming for the spirits, because so long as he was still alive, the Darkling could reassemble himself.    But the elementals knew better. They had already abandoned the severed pieces, locating his heart instead. Not a lump of red flesh, but rather a small grey stone covered in coiled up vines.”

   “So, his heart has to be destroyed before he’ll ever really be dead? How predictable.”

   “Indeed. Had Scarabaeus been able to, she would’ve been the one to do it by simply passing through the stone, turning solid in the middle of it. But as she was already dead, Equus was the one who delivered the final blow,” Oberyn finishes, recalling the quaking bedrock in the aftermath of the horse’s powerful stomp.

   He closes his eyes for a few seconds then, hoping you have not detected the sorrow which plagues him at the memory, for he knows not how to explain it.    As much as he wishes to ensure you will be well informed of all aspects of your foe, he is leaving out one detail of this gruesome story. Which is that the man, the grieving human, had reemerged once his body had been broken and the darkness within him begun to pour out.    In those final moments before his life had truly been ended, he was just a devastated father, as tortured and tormented as those whom he had killed.

   Simon might be different, but he was not born with malicious intent. At some point, something must have happened to him to make him aware of his own darkness, and rather than fear it, he chose to embrace it. But before this, he was likely a normal human boy, with normal human feelings.    Which means if you succeed in stopping him, he might revert to that being in the moments before his end, and if this should happen, you will be forced to watch that boy die in agony.

   “Okay, dumb question maybe, but it still needs to be asked,” you sigh, while attempting to massage your own neck. “Can’t we just drop a small mountain on top of him, then? I mean, if all we need to do is crack his dead heart to pieces.”

   “Unfortunately, that won’t work, because even if his body is damaged, he can heal it so long as his heart is intact.”

   “And, let me guess: because it’s made of stone, the vines around it are enough to make it nearly indestructible from the outside?”

   You read the answer in his eyes without him even changing his expression, and you let your head hang low for a minute while you try to think.

   “You said that the other Darkling couldn’t detect the spirits. Is the same true for Simon?”

   “Yes. But since you’re human, he will be able to detect you.”

   “God damned it. Can’t we just catch one fucking break!” you end on a scream, turned away from him, sending your voice out over the mountain range where it echoes around for much longer than your ears can hear.

   He steps closer and wraps his arms around your waist from behind, feeling you relax into his chest almost as if unaware of it yourself.

   “How do we stand a chance without the spirits?” you ask, and in your voice, he can hear such pain.

   Not for fear that you will suffer, if he knows you as well as he believes to, but for fear of how much the world will suffer in each moment you stand idle, unable to act because of the staggering lack of options.

   “As Oberyn, I was able to carve a path for them through the death-lands. As Tyrannus, I am certain I can do the same for you, however powerful our foe might be.    The question we face is not how to reach him, but how to get close enough to rip his heart out when he is protected by the mighty nine.”

   For a long while, you stand silent within his embrace, although he feels certain he might be able to hear how hard you are thinking if he should focus well enough.    Then, something moves through you. He can feel it, not because you actually move, but through a sudden and very distinct shift in your energy.    No longer somber and despondent, you whirl around and take his hands, abruptly confident, as you appear to have uncovered something workable.

   “I might be human, but I’m also light itself. And if there’s any reason I can think of to keep me separate from the other spirits, it must be because I’m their protector.    My place in all this isn’t to fight the Darkling, it’s just to save them. That’s my purpose,” you animatedly explain, your eyes alight with understanding, while he remains uncertain.

   “But… how can you? They are no longer spirits at all; their very essences have been destroyed.”

   “No, I don’t believe that. Because if it was true, their mystical powers would’ve disappeared completely, but they haven’t, they’re just corrupted. I can bring them back, Oberyn.    Don’t you see? My light heals me because that’s what it was always meant to do: heal spirits.”

   Suddenly your confidence becomes infectious, as he realizes how much this all sounds true and right.    There must be a reason for your detachment to the others, a reason behind the fact that not even the protectors of this world can recognize you, and this might well be it.    But his hope is still stunted by one stubbornly persistent problem.

   “Alright. Then I suppose all you need to do is figure out how to use it,” he says, and sees the optimism disappear from your frame as if an arctic wind has swept by and stolen it.

   He takes a deep breath to re-center himself, reaching the conclusion that none of this is going to be solved right here and now. The world suffers while solutions evade you, but there is nothing to be done about that. If you rush in without a plan, one that actually has a fighting chance, you may well doom the earth to eternal darkness.

   “Come, my love. You need new clothes, food and a night’s rest. There’s a village close by; we will go there to recover for now.”

   You are not happy with this suggestion. He can see protests wanting to escape your mouth in the way you repeatedly search for the right words to voice your complaints. But in the end, you find none, allowing his reasoning to stand unchallenged.    Backing away, he brings forth the ancient beast, once again slightly offset by the extreme shifts in perspectives and sensory input. You look so small as he offers you his front paw and then lifts you up to his shoulder.

   Not wanting to scare people with a dramatic entrance, he decides to walk down the mountain, surprisingly well camouflaged against the snow and protruding rocks in the dark. But this does not prevent him from being spotted by a couple apparently living on the damned mountainside, where no one should have been able to build anything.    Slightly shocked to suddenly hear voices beneath him, he stops, finding their house perched on an outcrop, seemingly without any road or lift leading up to it.    How do they even get to the village for supplies?

   They are understandably equally shocked to see him, merely standing paralyzed as he observes them for a few moments.

   “Norwegians are unusual people,” he says to you in his mind, to which you chuckle.

   “The Vikings wouldn’t have been nearly as successful in their conquests if they’d allowed terrain to stand in their way.”

   He does not argue this point, as he has seen Vikings for himself and knows firsthand just how hardy and resilient they were.    You are still several miles from the village at this point, so the couple will likely not cause any widespread panic. He leaves their home untouched, walking carefully past it so as not to trigger any avalanches, and when he reaches the little town down by the fjord, it looks perfectly calm and still.

   Creeping as close as he dares, he doesn’t change back until he is just a few hundred yards from the closest houses, to keep the distance you will have to walk as short as possible since it takes so much more time. But no one seems to notice.    It’s late, but the tourist center should still be open, and they often have emergency supplies for unfortunate travelers, such as clothes, in the event someone’s luggage is lost, and stores are closed.    It is easy to find, sporting large flags on top of the single-story building, and it is still open.

   “Hei, vhordan kan jeg hjelpe deg?” a tall blonde woman behind the reception greets when you approach her desk.

   “Hi, we’re American,” you start, and the woman immediately repeats her greeting in English, which you politely thank her for before continuing. “As you can see, I’m in dire need of some new clothes. You wouldn’t happen to have some sweaters and jackets for sale, would you?”

   “Certainly, follow me and I’ll show you where,” the receptionist smiles while getting up to assist you. “May I ask what happened?”

   “Oh, that’s a long story and I’m very tired. Do you know if any hotel in town might have a room available?”

   “There’s only one hotel here, but last I heard they weren’t fully booked for this week. It’s easy to find, just head down to the water and follow the road, you’ll see the signs.”

   “Thank you,” you reply as you arrive in the gift shop area of the center, where there is an entire section devoted to equipping both humans and common pets to survive arctic weather.

   You know your size and pick a thinner sweater along with a thicker jacket, to give you more options based on where in the world you and Oberyn might end up next. But as you are beginning to move back towards the receptionist’s desk, where the items must be paid, you lean closer to him and whisper.

   “Uh, I’m assuming you have some way of paying for this, because I don’t.”

   “Not to worry, darling. I never go anywhere without this,” he says, while pulling out a blank card from a concealed pocket in the side of his coat.

   It connects to a bank account in the name of one Christopher Wilkins, who does not exist except on paper, but has a few million dollars all the same. Oberyn has twenty of these identities, all of which have similar accounts at dozens of different banks around the world, which all together adds up to over one billion dollars.    He offers the card for payment and the purchase goes through without difficulty.    You get changed in the bathroom before you leave the tourist center, walking towards the hotel hand in hand, when northern lights suddenly appear above you.

   “Are you doing this, Valya?” he asks with a smile, knowing he is probably wrong but wanting to believe it could be true.

   “If I am, it’s not by choice,” you sigh, looking up at the dancing green spectacle with awe. “I wish it were, though.”

   The hotel is as easy to locate as the receptionist suggested, and you arrive to find the doors open despite the clock on the wall next to it reading nearly 11 pm.    Only half of the thirty rooms are occupied, so he pays for a night in a larger suite even though the two of you do not require so much space. He just wants you to be comfortable, and the suite has a bathtub, which he feels might be needed to get you to relax.

   The hotel uses old-fashioned keys for the rooms, so once inside, he drops them into a plastic bowl on a sideboard in the hall, and then immediately begins to work on the buttons of his coat.    You hang up your new jacket, kick off your snowy wet boots, and head straight for the double bed to lay down.

   “I feel like I could sleep for a week. But you’re probably not even tired.”

   “Not like you, but I could do with a few hours. Adjusting to Tyrannus has taken a bit more effort than my usual transformation. Plus, we don’t know when we might get the chance to rest again.”

   Shrugging off the coat, he hangs it up in the hallway closet and sits down on a stool helpfully placed beside the closet, to unlace his shoes.

   “And what about food?” you inquire, turning your head towards him as you have undoubtedly not forgotten the green dragon’s appetite and likely draw the conclusion that the much larger white one must require much more.

   “Strange though it may seem, aside from a rather unusual craving for pistachios, both my alter ego and I are perfectly fine,” he explains, momentarily wondering if the hotel restaurant might be open, and if he should go in search of some nuts.

   However, once the moment passes, he feels only confused by his own hankering.

   “But you haven’t eaten anything all day, and you’ve been fighting a lot.”

   “Actually, I did eat some unfortunate bystanders in Detroit,” he recalls, which prompts you to sit up on the edge of the bed.

   “Detroit was horrible. In every way. All those emergency responders… they died horrifically, and I just stood there,” you remember, and tears form in your eyes at the images which must be burning the insides of them. “I couldn’t do anything.”

   “No, you could not have helped them. Those creatures may have been alone, untethered to the greater darkness, but that is also what made them so erratic and unpredictable, though still just as deadly.”

   “Yeah…” you agree, turning your gaze down to your own hands, but then something seems to occur to you, as a crease bothers your brows. “But I made one of them stop.”

   This surprises Oberyn, who is just about to stand having finished with his shoes, and instead remain still as he waits for you to elaborate.

   “I yelled at it to stop, and it did. Just for a moment, and right before you came barreling onto the same street, but it stopped. And it looked angry about it.”

   “As if it had been halted against its will?”

   “That’s what it felt like, but I can’t be sure. Do you think I could’ve managed to command it somehow? Is that something Lux could do?”

   “Possibly. The true power of Day is her ability to spread hope. If you were desperate enough, it is conceivable that you could have forced this creature to stop by using the sunlight as a physical barrier.”

   “I can do that?”

   “I should think so. You created an entire human being with it, I’d say you could definitely stop one little monster if you set your mind to it,” he winks at you, before getting up and moving towards the bathroom.

   “If only I knew how the hell I do these things,” you say as he disappears into the tiled space and turns on the tap for the tub.

   “You’ll figure it out, I have no doubts about that,” he replies while checking the temperature of the water, returning to the bedroom before he continues. “On a more positive note, the innocents I killed in Detroit will be the last innocents ever to fall victim to my beast. Nothing like that will ever happen again, because this dragon doesn’t need food of any kind.”

   You have your head resting in your hands when he emerges from the bathroom, but you straighten out as you hear his words, and quietly trace his path over to the bed where he takes a seat beside you.

   “Really? How can you be certain? You’ve only had it in you for a few hours.”

   “Did you not notice the complete lack of stomach acid in there.”

   “I did, but I figured maybe you had another stomach somewhere and I just wasn’t far enough through the system to be at any risk of digestion.”

   “No there’s only one stomach, but this dragon stopped eating long before Lux changed him. And even when he did eat, it was at a time before organic life had evolved into actual creatures, so he fed only on magma and rocks. It’s what made him grow to such a size and develop those incredibly thick scales.”

   “Yeah, I’ll bet. Who needs protein when you’ve got minerals.”

   He smiles at you then, even though you are not trying to be amusing, delivering the phrase with sarcasm rather than joviality. You are too tired to enjoy yourself now, so instead of contesting your mildly snarky attitude, he sweeps you off the bed and into his arms in a swift and soft movement, returning to the bathroom where he puts you down in front of the just filled up tub.

   “Are you trying to tell me I’m dirty without using any words?” you ask, still presenting the same general irritation, which is why he merely continues to smile warmly while he undresses you.

   It takes only minutes for the hot water to begin relaxing you, while Oberyn gently helps you wash your back and shoulders, then your feet, before leaving you to just soak and warm your battered muscles while he steps over to the shower and rinses himself off.    He is surprised to find that he has neglected to notice you leaving the tub, when your hands are suddenly returning the favor, rubbing liquid soap into his back. But he loves the feeling, having never experienced such care from a partner before, and remains still to let you work.

   Before long, you are both clean from head to toe, which is when the caring touches change character, becoming craving instead.    He brings you back to the bed without bothering to grab a towel on the way, abruptly needing you so badly he cannot wait long enough even for you to squeeze the bulk of the water from your hair.

   Last night had been soft and tender, but when he enters you tonight, it is with fervency, perhaps even a streak of frenzy, giving you hardly any time to adjust before he is already working up a strong rhythm with firm snaps of his hips, making you jolt with each one.    He feels strangely uncontrolled. Fully aware that such treatment could hurt you, but utterly unable to stop himself. Something drives his body which is not so simple a thing as lust. There is a deeper purpose at work, one he cannot discern, but remains a slave to for now.

   You seem only pleased with him, though, showing no indication of distress or discomfort, meeting his forceful movements with an equally firm resistance, as if under the same spell he is.    The need drives him so relentlessly that he reaches his peak in mere minutes, coming hard within the depths of your being, where he is so warmly received.    But you do not follow.

   As he stills above you, your body remains unsatisfied, which gives him a sickly feeling to his stomach, because however much he seeks his own pleasure, yours is the real price. But this entire copulation has felt off, which intensifies his disappointment with himself, so when he pulls back, seeking your eyes so that he might beg your forgiveness, he is more than ashamed of himself. He feels rotten.

   The feeling leaps away, however, when shock takes its place as he sees your face.    Your eyes are frozen, staring at nothing, and the tension in your body has given way to complete relaxation. Too complete.

   “Valya?” he whispers, unable to bring any strength to his voice because what he sees within your eyes now is not life.

   “Lux?” he tries, even weaker now, hoping merely your human form is lost to him, while the spirit remains.

   Your own alter ego taking over, much as the dragon has done to him in the past.    But there is no response from you. No breath. No pulse.

-=<>=-=<>=-=<>=-

   You feel wonderful. Even when he pounds into you, all you experience is pleasure, wanting more no matter how good he makes you feel. The pressure builds and shifts, flowing through you at different intensities depending on your breaths, which muscles are tense and which nerves are most directly affected.    It feels like flying through clouds of pure pleasure, devoid of thoughts or intentions.

   And then it just… stops.    You feel how he comes, and you’re just one moment away from following up with the best orgasm of your life when everything suddenly goes quiet and still. Not just around you, but in you. No more pleasure, no more heat or sweat or even the cold sensation of the sticky fabric underneath your head, drenched by the water from your hair.

   Opening your eyes, you find yourself elsewhere. There’s no Oberyn, no bed, no hotel room. You’re not even sure there’s an Earth.    But there is a presence.    Nothing around you is identifiable, the best you can come up with is that it looks like something Jackson Pollock might’ve painted if someone had asked him what life on a gas-giant might look like. And yet, something here is familiar.

   It’s neither light nor dark, and at the same time it’s both, but it’s almost like your eyes and brain aren’t designed to interpret what they’re seeing, so all you get is a colorful mess with the appearance of a flashlight slowly spinning around in the middle of it.    Then you seem to blink, and suddenly you’re staring at yourself, as if there was a mirror in front of you. Only your reflection doesn’t move with you.

   “Hello?” you try to say, but no sound comes out, leaving you wondering if you even have a mouth here.

   That’s when you realize you aren’t breathing either, so wherever you are, this is a place outside of normal space.    You wonder if it could be some form of heaven, although you don’t believe in that, but it also doesn’t seem like it would be.    No, in your heart you know this is something else. Important to you, specifically.

   Your reflection doesn’t move, but you feel certain it holds answers for you, so you try walking towards it. Your legs don’t seem to move at all, but you still glide closer to the other you, so perhaps all you need to do is think of the movement.    When you get closer, her chest starts to glow, as if there’s a shining gem halfway between her throat and her breasts. Then she raises her hands to show you how they’ve started shining as well, right in the centers of the palms, getting brighter with each passing moment.

   Eventually, the light becomes so bright you can’t see anything anymore, but your eyes remain open, unbothered by the complete whiteness.    And that’s when you suddenly understand what this is.    Why it happened in the middle of a moment of passion, you have no fucking clue, but given how important it is, you don’t linger on the inexplicable, taking the win instead.

   Because you’ve finally found Lux. Somewhere within yourself, she connects you to this other place. Her world. Outside all other aspects of reality, by the looks of it, but clearly also able to interact with everything, everywhere.    She made you, but at the same time, she is you, and here in her world, you’re able to see things the way she does. You understand the power of light and the ways in which you can bend it to your will, as if you’d done nothing else your whole life.

   And once everything is clear to you, once you’ve unlocked all this knowledge she put in you from the start, the whiteness turns to dark, gravity returns, your lungs expand on reflex as oxygen once again exists, and you open your eyes to find that the darkness was just the insides of your own eyelids.

   Surprisingly, though, it isn’t Oberyn’s face you look up at, but rather two very shocked paramedics, who despite their training, freeze when you come to.    Apparently, you’ve been “dead” for a while.

   “Oh… Well, this is awkward,” you say to try and relieve the tension, and then there’s a loud racket before Oberyn appears beside you, having risen so quickly his chair fell over.

   He doesn’t speak, but his eyes scream of the pain he’s suffered in however long a time you’ve been unresponsive, so to ease his worries, you ignore the urgings of the medical staff for you to remain still, and sit up to hug him. He trembles like a leaf in your arms, holding you very tightly, before he reaches down behind you to pull the covers up over your bare shoulders. You hadn’t even reflected on the fact that you’re naked.

   “What happened?” he finally asks, his voice sore with how hard he must’ve cried.

   But you smile in return, so filled with hope now that not even his sorrow can dampen your spirits.

   “You brought me to the light, honey,” you tell him, and his sadness gives way to confusion.

   There’s no quick or easy way to explain what you’ve just experienced, so you settle for the most important part, which can’t be seen, only felt.    You reach out and place one hand on the shoulder of the paramedic closest to you, locating the darkness in her heart without effort.

   “Don’t worry about your father, Nora. He’s not going to hurt himself, he just needs you to stop and listen to his pain,” you say, feeling her father’s agony through the bond of love between them. “You always want to fix everything that hurts, but sometimes pain has a purpose. Let him tell you about it, and I promise you, he will be alright.”

   The middle-aged woman looks at you as if you’ve just reached into her heart and given it a good twist, which in truth, you sort of have.

   “H-… How do you kn-…?” she tries, but then sorrow rocks through her, stealing her voice.

   To answer her, you let the hand at her shoulder channel the light from your own heart, and it glows for just a second as you pour hope into her being.    Her sorrow immediately lessens, brightening her eyes and smoothing the tense lines around her mouth.    You smile softly at her, and she nods in gratitude, even though she doesn’t understand what’s just happened, before starting to pack up their gear. Her colleague looks like one giant question mark, but apparently decides not to argue.

   They leave a minute later, and Oberyn places a hand at your jaw, drawing your gaze back to him.

   “I do not pretend to understand anything of what has just transpired here, but… you are ready now. Aren’t you? To fight.”

   “I am,” you confirm. “I know what we need to do.”

   “Does that mean we’re going back to America?”

   “No,” you firmly state, finally without a shred of doubt within you. “It means we’re going everywhere else.”

Part 11

The Ten Spirits of the World Air - Forest - Water - Stone - Night - Autumn - Winter - Spring - Summer.

Thank you so much for reading and I hope you enjoyed it! If you wish to be notified when this story is updated, follow @sirowsky-stories and turn on notifications, or just ask nicely, and I'll tag you.

@harriedandharassed @kittenlittle24 @joelswritingmistress @pedrostories

[i-am-church-the-cat]

After watching 2024 ISU Montreal, Logan as a figure skater has been on my mind for the longest time.

god...aaaa...im rolling on the floor rn, i can't handle it

the years of my life invested in YOI and figure skating aus is unstoppable, i can't hold it back, i must type-ity-type

Logan's father introduced him and Dalton to ice skating through hockey. Even living in Florida, they had been fans of any and every sport. Football was a favorite, of course, as was basketball, baseball, soccer, lacrosse, sailing, surfing, skiing, and golf. High-contact sports were the most compelling to boys of their age, so when they learned that there was a sport where guys slammed into each other with knives on their feet, they had to check it out.

But starting hockey wasn't what made Logan fall in love with the ice. The first time he'd ever skated had been with his mother on a lake by her childhood home back up in Ohio. He'd been so small, stuck to her side like a barnacle, a mama's boy since the beginning.

The smooth glide of his feet across the clear surface was revelatory. The weight of himself was no longer holding him down, gravity was easier to fight on skates instead of shoes. The thin white lines they left behind them were entrancing. Logan never worried about getting lost because he always knew where he'd been.

Hockey was fun but it wasn't what Logan wanted. The ice wasn't made for chipped teeth and blood-soaked spit. Something that was safety and grace, as dangerous as it was beautiful, deserved more respect than that.

There was a kid on the team between his and Dalton's, Lance. He was cool in a weird sort of way and didn't care that Logan never knew when to speak and when to stay silent. They didn't hang out often and they've fallen out of touch since, but it was his fault that Logan became who he was.

Or, more accurately, his sister's.

Chloe wasn't very graceful but she was an artist and she loved the ice. If Logan got to practice early enough, he could watch the tail end of her figure skating practice. Mr. Stroll always rented out the entire rink for Chloe and her private figure skating coach, only the best for his daughter. So a lot of the times it would be just her, dancing on the ice, her coach, shouting critiques over her chosen music, and Logan, sitting lonely and enraptured in the stands.

It took him almost a month of watching Chloe before he got up the nerve to try out some of the things he had seen. The choreography wasn't that hard, though Logan's rhythm wasn't the greatest at nine years old. But the jumps were hard, and the jumps hurt, and he couldn't figure it out.

But something always made him get back up and keep trying. He couldn't stop once he got something stuck in his mind and the leaps and twists of figure skating jumps were stuck like flies in amber.

The first jump he ever landed was a toe loop. Not that he knew what it was called at the time, and he barely finished a whole rotation, but he stayed standing which was better than he had done in the couple weeks he'd been trying any time he could steal some ice time. When Logan had hit the ice, wobbling but not falling, he'd let out a shocked, delighted laugh. Instead of being sated, his fascination with figure skating just wanted more.

"You're a little old to not be landing singles."

Logan whirled around at the unexpected voice. He'd thought he was totally alone, the rink on the edges of closing. But there was Chloe Stroll's figure skating coach, looking at him with calculating eyes. Logan tried to hold himself up taller, to look more secure than he felt.

"I- I've never tried before," Logan had admitted. He'd felt embarrassed and then felt mad for feeling embarrassed. The coach had looked considering.

"Have you ever tried ballet? You might want to start there."

Logan, even at nine, had recoiled at the idea. It had taken all his courage just to practice figure skating in private, in steps and moments he could steal. But ballet was- his dad would never want him to do that. Dalton would laugh at him, the couple friends he had would think he's weird. He couldn't do ballet.

But he couldn't give up the ice, either. Even when his hockey season ended, Logan was at the rink every day, begging his mom to take him after school. He was older than most kids were when they started and he didn't have a coach or any proper training. If he wanted to do the kind of things Logan wanted to do on the ice, he'd have to push himself further, train his body more, practice for hours on end. A few hours every week wasn't enough.

It was nearing the summer time when Logan worked up all the courage in his little body to ask for ballet lessons. He'd done research, used the family computer to look up ballet teachers in the area, ones that specialized in training athletes for other sports. He had his arguments, his bargaining chips, his promises and dreams all held in the palm of his head.

Logan worked up the courage to ask.

And his father had laughed.

So had Dalton. The only one who didn't laugh was his mother, who saw the heartbreak Logan tried so hard to hide with his fake laughter. Of course, he was only joking. That was the only possibly explanation for why he would say such a thing.

Logan's dreams died that night. He resigned himself to copying jumps he saw on YouTube, stolen moments in the ice rink that felt safer than his own home sometimes.

But the next week, when his mom was taking him to the ice rink, Logan realized they'd made a wrong turn. When he mentioned it to his mom, she'd just shushed him. He'd been left in confusion all the way up to the small, squat building. He'd picked out the words on the sign in front of him like a crow picking out gems from the refuse.

Ayliah's Ballet School

Logan's dad was mad when he found out about the lessons a few months later. In response, Logan had brought all the figure skating magazines he'd been hoarding down from his room and showed them to his parents. The pages he'd bookmarked, the sketches he'd made to try and figure out a skater's pose, the torn-out descriptions of an intricate step sequence. He'd looked up at his dad with big, desperate eyes, willing him to understand the inextricable draw figure skating had at him.

By the time he started fifth grade, Logan had a ballet teacher and figure skating coach. By the end of fifth grade, he had landed his first triple jump.

--

At 19, Logan was the most anxious he could ever remember being. He was also more excited than he thought physically possible.

It was his third year in the senior series, and for the first time, he'd been invited to two ISU grand prix. He had an actual chance at the world championships, something he hadn't had since he won the junior series at 16.

Logan's choreography that year was good, really good. He'd put way more work into his presentation after what an opposing skater had said to him at nationals last year.

"Your jumps might have won you one championship, but everyone can jump in the senior series. Stand out, Logan, or get out."

For Logan, who had never cared much what music he had or what step sequences he did as long as it got him enough points, it was a rough wake up call. He was proud of his jumps, the technical perfection he'd spent years and years honing. He could now land the the quad toe loop, quad salchow, and quad Lutz consistently in competition. But his artistry left something to be desired, and it hurt his program scores in the long run.

He'd changed that this year. He'd worked with his choreographer for months to find the right music, the right transitions, the right spins and steps. Logan had even reached out to a figure skater he'd skated with in the junior leagues who always had the best costumes about his stylist.

The first thing he'd noticed about the ice was that it was a canvas, a glistening field just awaiting someone to paint it in soft white stripes. He'd fallen in love with the danger of it, the allure, but he had neglected the emotional appeal. Madame Ayliah would surely be disappointed if he saw him.

But not this year. Not with a short program as bold as the one he had this year, not with a free skate this spellbinding. Logan had even started drafting ideas for a exhibition state, caught in the draw of expressing his emotions on the ice. He was never good at being vulnerable but this year, the ice demanded it of him. He demanded it of himself.

The US could send three men's figure skaters to the World Championships. Three out of thousands. Logan was going to show why he deserved to be one of them.

One day, Logan would lay on the ice, bleeding and broken, and know its cruel love had run out. But today, it welcomed him home.

[impishnature]

I know I’d been a long time since you wrote for gravity falls but if you ever did I think I would actually scream. Your fics were such a highlight of my day and it was always a pleasure to read them, even the unfinished ones were such a joy to read.

Oh thank you! I'm glad they were a highlight for you c: I don't know if I will ever go back, maybe I'll get the buzz again but at the moment if I were to write anything I think it'd be Stranger Things.

I planned out an entire maze runner au with friends but I don't even know if I'll ever write it ^^;; I've gone back to being a lurker/reader myself haha! Maybe I'll just put up my rambling plot notes.

But I will never say never to GF. Special place in my heart for bringing me some awesome friends. c:

Weird how time flies. I got to know one of them through them drawing fanart for one of my fics. Which was... I don't even know how long ago now? @sightkeeper how long have we known each other now? Anyway what's even weirder is that it's now already been almost a year since we met up in person. I travelled to Canada to spend 2 weeks with a bestie that I'd have never had known if not for GF. Like that's breaking my brain a bit. Or maybe it's because it's almost 2am and I should probably be sleeping haha!

[sandinthemachine]

Chilling Rapture

Part 2 of Deadly Nightshade, a monster!König au.

Part 1

Masterlist

I actually had so much fun finishing this one, my power went out and I had to handwrite it by candlelight until my wifi came back on, hopefully it's strong enough to post this now because the lights keep flickering.

I also have a draft sketch of the map so hopefully that can come soon as well.

For those interested, the songs at the beginning will sometimes be chosen for a little bonus foreshadowing. There's also a Shirley Jackson reference in this one for any classic horror fans out there. Hope you enjoy :)

Warnings: nothing serious yet (lemme know if I missed anything)

Word count: 3,313

There's someone walking over my grave For a sudden shiver is making its way Creeping over me, coursing down my spine And taking over this body of mine I can feel it in the depths of my being A chill of the blood, an ominous feeling -"Walking Over My Grave" by Blackbriar

It is a quiet kind of night.

No. To say it is quiet does not do it nearly the kind of justice it deserves, nor does it stir up the emotions such a night as this has urged forward, deep in the pit of your stomach where your dinner still sits heavily.

Quiet ushers forth a peaceful kind of relaxation wholly unlike the thick black tar rising up your back.

Silent perhaps is closer, only insofar as the word conjures in you the hopeless repetition of the phrase silent as the grave.

You find every warning and caution drifting through your head as you shift in the bed, but where you would expect fear you feel only an anticipation, strangely dissonant with the weariness of your body.

Where are the birds? Where are the whales? Why hasn’t there been a single gust of wind?

The sea, in clear view of the window when the curtains are open, is soundless. How is that even possible? It is as if some strange god has thrown a great smothering blanket over the entire island, trapping each tiny soul in the silence below. Like flies in honey.

You can’t even hear the blood rushing in your ears.

You find yourself staring at the window curtains, their blackness somehow darker than the shadows around them.

With no notion of why or even how, you find your legs swinging over the bed very much of their own accord, carrying you to those curtains, and behind you the soundless void presses in, a great wave bearing you forward, and you think perhaps you could open this window, let it carry you right to the ocean itself and down below, for surely then you’d hear something, even if it was your own splash before you were dragged below.

You brush the thought aside with a quiet resignation. You will open the window, you think. But only to hear the water.

The curtain fabric brushes velvety soft over your fingers as you push them aside, ears perked to hear a shuffling of fabric, a metal scrape of rings over curtain rods, but neither sound ever comes.

You pause at the drawn curtains, staring at what you know to be the window. It is completely indistinguishable from the darkness of the walls and the curtains, such that you find yourself raising a hand, pressing a palm into the cool glass to make sure it’s there. But when you remove your hand it is as if the window once again vanishes, leaving you staring blankly, eyes nearly burning in their hopeless struggle to see.

You feel strangely dizzy all at once, as if gravity is shifting, pulling at the air around your face, warping the flooring beneath your feet, tilting the walls in hopelessly contrived angles you can’t possibly see in this crushing dark. You could be upside down now, walking on the ceiling with no idea. Perhaps there is no ceiling at all and you are stepping straight up the walls and soon you will step off and fall sideways for an eternity and you will never even see the ground flying by you. Or maybe you will keep walking right up into the sky, only all the stars are gone and you’ll never know the cool mist is clouds wrapping around you as you climb for the rest of eternity.

You shake your head.

Why are you here again?

You suddenly get the overwhelmingly primal feeling that something is watching you, something carved from the darkness itself with no need for eyes or ears, stalking up to you, and you will never see or hear it, you’ll only know it’s there the second it reaches through the window and claws sink into your ribs, grabbing at the heart whose frantic beating it senses like a beacon in the night and…

You yank the curtains closed, stumbling backwards. The need to gasp briefly possesses you, but your throat tightens against your will, cutting off even that sound in a mocking kind of rage.

My quiet, a thousand thoughts chant through your head. My quiet, my darkness, my place, mine mine mine.

And you, who are you to break the silence of this night that doesn’t belong to you?

Your heart stuttering and flapping against your chest, you fall back into bed, tucking your legs up against your chest so tightly you feel it in your lungs.

You bury your face in your knees, swallow a sob.

And try desperately to sleep.

You finally shift again, dragging your head upward as a sluggish grey takes over the room, shoving the shadows further and further into the corners. You stare at your bare shins as the light hits them, a single finger tracing delicately over deep blue-black. You hover your hands over the outlines with a detached kind of contemplation, fingers stretching back into place, perfectly aligning with the rounded shapes.

You hadn’t felt it last night.

Best not to think about that, actually. You let your eyes drift back to the window curtains, fitting your lower lip between your teeth as you take in their limp form.

Right now, stained by the leaden rays of another grey dawn, they’re just curtains. Old and decrepit, with a fraying bottom corner and a coffee stain along one edge. Beyond them is a dusty window, and a view to a monotonously dark sea.

Nothing more.

Never anything more.

The walk to the kitchen is uneventful, the shadows thin and cowardly. A persistent chill worms its way up your neck, but even that gives up when you pull a blanket around yourself, tucking it over your head like a fluffy oversized hoodie.

When you were little, you and your mother always used to bundle up like this, huddled on the couch on cold winter nights as you begged your father to hurry up and restart the fire, please, I’ll freeze solid this instant if you don’t.

Be a lot less complaining around here if you did. And he’d grin at your indignant face, winking over at your uncle in the armchair as they both chuckled.

He’d always pull out extra blankets afterwards, though.

With a loud gulp, you pull the blanket tighter around you.

You should write to your uncle. Yes, that’s exactly what you’ll do, you know you packed stamps and envelopes and...

Damn.

You forgot to pack a pen.

It’s fine, that’s an easy enough thing to find.

In any other house, that is. For the more you search, the more you realize just how little this place has. One floor of cramped rooms smelling of dust, dust, and more dust. A tiny office with an empty desk. Even stranger, atop the desk, atop every surface, actually, are no clear patches, no thinner patches of the dusty coating to indicate that anything had ever been on top of them. Did your uncle have any stuff? Or was he really just content with this place as it was?

You begin to wonder if he ever really lived here at all, or if maybe this is some kind of cruel prank the world is playing on you, sending you to this decrepit old cottage on a tiny island in the middle of nowhere with no friends and nothing to-

Elisha. Probably not a friend. Yet. You’d met her once, after all. But maybe friendly enough to give you a pen. That wasn’t too much to ask, was it?

You try not to dwell on that question as you throw on some warmer layers and shove past the front door.

Immediately you’re greeted by a frenzy of your own coughing as the acrid tang of cigarette smoke floods your lungs.

What the hell?

You spin all around, scanning your yard, but of course the only one here is you. As you walk forward, the smell quickly fades, and you decide that’s a problem for another time. For all you know, it won’t ever happen again, anyway.

Elisha’s house shows no signs of life, so you knock on her neighbor’s door instead. Almost immediately the rickety door swings open to reveal a stout old man glowering at you past a crooked hooked nose.

You stutter out a hello, earning nothing but an eyebrow raise. “I…uh, well, I just moved in down there and, anyway I just came by to ask Elisha for a pen but it doesn’t seem like she’s…home.”

You trail off as he marches past you, right up to shake Elisha’s poor door with a trio of hard knocks. “New one’s here!” he yells out, not even listening for a reply before picking his way back to his own porch, giving you a wide berth. “She’ll be down in a minute.”

“Thank you, sir.”

He pauses in the doorway, regarding you for a moment before giving a quick nod. With that, he disappears back inside.

A little creak pulls your attention back to Elisha’s door just as her head pokes out of it. “Oh, sweetie, what are you doing standing out in the cold?” She gestures frantically. “In, in!”

With nothing better to do, you oblige.

Her cottage is as small as yours, but that’s where the resemblance ends. A warm fire blazes in the fireplace, combining with the soft light of a couple candles to cast the entire living room in a comforting orange glow. There’s no hint of dust to be found, only soft chairs and a couch covered in extra pillows and fuzzy blankets. Dark blues and emerald greens. An oil painting of a salt marsh hangs above the fire place. Peaceful. Full of sunlight. You take a deep breath, sighing. Woodsmoke and vanilla. Fresh coffee. A hint of ocean salt.

She’s watching, you now realize, heat flushing through your cheeks as you glance at the floor. Even the carpet looks soft. “I…I was actually just stopping by to ask if you have a pen.”

She smiles softly. “Of course, dear.” She moves to the counter, deftly plucking one from a hand-painted mug before pausing. “Have you eaten yet?”

“No, ma’am.” The carpet is the perfect shade of green.

“You had better stay, then. I just made fresh rolls, I have plenty of extra.” She tucks the pen into her pocket.

“Oh, I really shouldn’t.” There’s a faded spot in front of the fire. Does she have a cat?”

“Really, it would be my pleasure.”

“I have to get b-”

A hand taps on your shoulder and you jump, finally looking up again. Something warm presses against your sternum, and you glance down. Tea. Your fingers curl around it hesitantly, the weight of it somehow unfamiliar in your stiff hands.

Elisha was just talking. You glance up, trying to force a smile. “Sorry?”

She only sighs. “Couldn’t sleep, could ya?”

Your eyes drift back to the mug, taking in the little gold stars painted along the rim. Their edges begin to blur, and you blink, a little too fast, shake your head even faster. The walls feel cramped again.

“Hey, hey.” Bony fingers wrap around yours, gently pulling you forward, and a hand is on your shoulder, guiding you to sit on the couch. You let yourself sink down, barely noticing Elisha walk away until she’s back and a plate of warm food is being placed in your lap. Your eyes are wider now, burning just a little as you look up at her. She’s already turned away, though, swiping a book up from a side table and curling in an armchair to read.

Tentatively your fingers close around a roll, guiding it to your mouth as the smell floods through your brain.

You’re sure Elisha’s cooking is lovely, but you regret to admit the food is gone before you’ve even tasted it, the crumbs cleaned from the plate with careful fingers, the tea drank in great desperate sips and embarrassingly loud swallows.

You smile at the bottom of the mug now, counting the gold constellations dancing along it. There are dozens of little stars stretching across the inky blue, the gold paint twinkling gleefully as you tilt it this way and that. How did someone paint so many so neatly? Did they have a stamp, maybe? A really long brush and a steady hand? When was the last time you painted?

You push the thought away, glancing up at Elisha. She’s on a new book now, eyes wide and focused.

“Who’s the man next door?”

She jumps a little, eyes a bit wild as they focus on you again. “Hm? Oh.” She laughs. “He scare ya? Don’t worry, George is harmless. Just not a morning person. Runs in the family, I guess.” She holds her palm over her mouth to cover a big yawn.

You giggle, and she raises an eyebrow. “Sorry, guess I didn’t see the resemblance.”

She laughs. “What, the eyebrows weren’t a dead giveaway?”

“Everyone here has the same eyebrows.”

She snorts, slapping her palm over her mouth with wide eyes before you both burst out laughing. “Don’t let anyone hear you say that,” she wheezes between laughs.

“It’s true, though!”

She rubs her eyes, shaking her head with a grin still plastered across her face. “Oh, dear me. You met Martin yet?”

“No.”

“Now there’s a set of eyebrows.”

You quickly lose track of time as the pair of you sit there, her happily describing in detail all the people on the island. And, of course, their eyebrows. The ferryman is Francis (the alliteration makes you smile). He doesn’t live here, but everyone knows him anyway. You learn her brother’s name is John, but that was their father’s name, so everyone calls him Jack. He doesn’t talk much in the mornings, but he sings in the town bar some nights. The man at the general store you met yesterday is Ed. He’s ‘a grouchy old eyesore,’ apparently. But Elisha had smiled as she said it.

Eventually she trails off, her eyes shifting to the window. “It’s probably time you headed back.”

Your eyebrows knit together in confusion before you realize she’s right. The fire is long dead, and the candles flickered out hours ago. Without their light, it’s easy to see the grey outdoors steadily fading to black once again.

Elisha walks you out the door, hovering on her porch. “You come back here if you need anything, you understand?”

You nod dutifully. “Of course.”

“Oh! Almost left without this.” She fishes the pen out of her pocket, stuffing it into your hands.

“Right, yeah. And…Elisha, thank you…for today.” You gesture vaguely, not sure what else to say, but she only smiles softly, giving you one last nod.

You start down the steps and pause, eyes settling on her brother’s porch. He sits in his rickety old chair, eyes fixed on the distance. Smoking a cigarette.

“Um, Elisha?”

“Yes, dear?”

“Could you tell your brother to be careful when he smokes? I think the wind blew some of it my way this morning, and my lungs can’t really take that.”

She stares at you for a long moment, head tilting slightly. “There wasn’t any wind this morning, dear.”

“Oh.” You swallow, shaking your head. “Never…mind.”

With one last look back at her brother, you head home.

Something feels…off. Your heartbeat picked up as soon as you entered the driveway, and now the hairs on the back of your neck prickle.

Your hand hovers over the doorknob, trembling slightly.

You glance back.

Nothing. A little bird hops across the lawn. It freezes, shaking slightly as it looks at you, before flying away with a squawk.

Your hand tightens around the handle, wrist turning very carefully, opening the door.

A bellowing howl echoes across the marsh.

You leap through the door, slamming it behind you. Your hands shake as they grab at the lock, slipping and sliding off it before it finally clicks into place and you back away, stumbling and barely catching yourself.

You rush over to your bag, flinging it to the side as you throw the closet open, fingers curling tightly around the old bat. You flick it upwards, relishing in its comforting weight as you clutch it to your chest.

THUNK.

You leap backwards as something heavy crashes against your bedroom window.

Did the house shake, too? Or was that your imagination?

Did the curtains quiver just now? Or was that you?

A tiny croak sounds through the window, and you gasp, taking a step closer. Another strangled sound breaks the silence, garbled and unintelligible. Your eyes narrow as you press your ears against the wall, the little sounds continuing.

Carefully you pick your way to the door, the bat resting over one shoulder. You open it just a crack, poking your head out. Nothing. You slide out of it sideways, crouching low as you work your way around the house, eyes fixating on every shadow lengthening and waving in the rapidly dimming light.

You turn, the corner, raising up the bat.

A raven lays twitching on the ground below the window.

Your shoulders slouch, letting the weapon drag along the ground. Slowly, you approach the struggling bird, taking in its pitifully flapping wings as it lays on its back, legs kicking uselessly upwards.

“Oh, you poor thing.”

Gingerly you kneel in front of it, laying the bat aside as you gather it into your arms.

A hulking black shadow gallops across the yard, disappearing into the thick bushes with a crash.

You snatch the bat and sprint inside.

The bird doesn’t seem hurt. Its wings stretch and bend fine as they flap weakly against you, and its legs are shaky but not broken. Only its eyes betray it, flickering wildly around as frantic pants shake its entire body. You cradle its limp head, quietly shushing its cries as you hold a glass of water against its beak. It shudders, throwing its head back before swallowing. Gradually its head tilts, and it stretches its neck forward again for another long drink.

“There you go, that’s it,” you soothe, laying it on the floor with the water as you pull down a blanket, tucking it around the bird. It shudders, fluffing up its feathers before settling in, tucking its head under a wing.

You can’t help but smile at that.

With one last glance at the window, you climb into bed, bat still in hand, and try to sleep.

A raucous squawk yanks you from consciousness, followed by a crash.

“What the…oh, no.”

You leap out of bed, dashing into the kitchen to find the raven dragging a shiny pan across the floor.

“Hey, nonono, not yours.”

It squawks belligerently, hopping backwards with a glare.

You sigh, shaking your head. “Fine, then.” You pick your way around the disgruntled bird so you can pull out the can of tomatoes. “Trade?”

The bird tilts its head expectantly, letting the pan’s handle fall to the floor with a twang. You nod and fish out a tomato, dropping to a crouch to proffer it. The little devil eagerly hops forwards, snatching the food from your grasp and ripping it to pieces, spreading tomato guts all over your floor before happily taking a couple more from you.

You straighten again, regarding the bird with a discerning look. “Yeah, I think you’ll be just fine, buddy.”

You slide the jar back onto the counter and open the door with a sweeping gesture, smiling as the bird croaks joyfully, catapulting itself through the doorway and whirling in the air. You skip around the house after it, watching it whirl higher and higher before diving down into the trees and brush of the swamp.

Maybe being here won’t be so bad, after all.

But as you turn to head back inside, your entire body stiffens.

Carved into the dirt beneath your bedroom window…is a single massive footprint.

taglist: @die-prophetin, @fatedeniedhope, @kakashiislut, @lirinchi

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[xthewhiteravenx]

Fanfic Ideas I Probably Will Never Write: Solby Top Gun AU

“ Revvin' up your engine Listen to her howlin' roar Metal under tension Beggin' you to touch and go Highway to the Danger Zone ”

[ Spotify Playlist HERE ]

Sam Golbach

Lieutenant 

Navy

Call Sign: Ghost

Colby Brock

Lieutenant

Navy

Call Sign: Wolf

The Naval air station's hangar upon Long Beach was bathed in the harsh glow of overhead lights. They cast elongated shadows across the sleek fighter jets neatly aligned in rows. Usually, the light bothered the pilots, but tonight it signaled only that they were to have fun.

Lieutenant Sam Golbach, known by his call-sign amongst the crew as "Ghost" because of his elusive and skillful maneuvers, stood next to his jet. He ran his hand along its smooth surface, fingers brushing over the emblem of his call sign painted on the frame. He cooed at his jet, praising it like it were an animal.

Just as he finished his pre-flight checks that involved said cooing, the familiar voice of Lieutenant Colby Brock (known as "Wolf") echoed through the hangar. Colby approached, an easy swagger in his step and a cocky grin on his lips as he put his bomber jacket on. His insignia's shined brightly in the lights.

"Ready to see how a real pilot flies, Ghost?" Colby quipped, offering a mocking salute.

Sam raised an eyebrow as he raised his head away from his jet. Not one to back down from a challenge, he called out, "I've seen your version of 'real flying,' Brock," and he cat-called, "It's definitely something."

A charged exchange of glances spoke volumes – their rivalry was all in good fun, but the competitive spark burned bright between them.

Colby's grin only widened, "You won't be saying that when you're eating my exhaust fumes, baby."

With a shared smirk and unspoken understanding, they turned and climbed into their respective fighter jets. Sam tried not to think about how he had Wolf's tongue down his throat the night before.

Inside the cockpit of his jet, Sam adjusted his headset with practiced ease. His heart raced with a mix of excitement and determination. Colby's voice crackled through the radio.

"Hey! Ghost! Don't get too distracted by my dazzling ass up there," Colby's voice teased.

Sam chuckled, his voice dripping with playful sarcasm, "Oh, don't worry, Wolfy. I'll do my best to keep my eyes on the horizon and away for your ass."

One by one, their jets took off from the flight deck. High above the expanse of the open ocean, they streaked through the night sky like shooting stars. Sam and Colby executed daring rolls, loops, and tight turns in perfect sync, a breathtaking ballet of man and machine. The two dared each other to races and mock dog fights. Of course, the Tower screamed at them for being reckless, but neither cared.

In the cockpit of his own jet, Colby's grin was audible in his voice, "Admit it, Ghost, I've got your heart racing up here."

Sam's fingers tightened around the controls. He smirked, determined not to let Colby gain the upper hand so easily, "Keep dreaming! Let's not forget who still holds the high score at the arcade."

"Oh you're asking for it now, baby! Don't threaten me with my scores!"

Their jets skimmed the surface of the ocean, performing gravity-defying maneuvers that left trails of whitecaps in their wake. The moonlight danced on the water below, mirroring their intricate moves.

In the cockpit of his jet, Colby's voice broke through the radio again, a mix of exhilaration and competitiveness, "You're good, Ghost. But I'm better."

Sam's eyes narrowed playfully as he initiated a daring nosedive, the wind roaring past his cockpit, "Prove it, Wolf."

As the night sky enveloped them, the two jets continued their electrifying performance, pushing the boundaries of both physics and skill. Each move was executed with precision and finesse, a testament to their years of training and undeniable talent.

Colby's voice crackled through the radio again, a mixture of triumph and laughter when he took aim at Sam's jet, "I told you, Ghost. I'm always one step ahead."

Sam's grin matched the sentiment, a mix of admiration and competitiveness in his expression, "There's always next round. What do you say to me down on my knees, darling?"

"I'll race you back."

And with that unspoken promise, the jets streaked away into the obsidian canvas of the night, leaving behind a trail of stardust as their rivalry continued to soar to new heights.

[justwantedtowrite]

Verlaine (sesshomaru) gang

BSD Inuyasha AU post

Verlaine uses brutalization (dog demon form) to stop dazai from giving the hat (tetsusaiga) to chuuya because it will give him more control over his destructive powers and:

better control=recklessness=dangerous situations=grave injuries=death

(He's an overthinker and an overprotective brother) this happened inside a black book (black pearl) that can suck up anyone who touches it in a portable space, that space being the place where the exorcists (scientists) experimented on them.

Gin as rin who's selectively mute because of the abuse she's suffered after being separated from his brother (Ryuu journeyed alone for fear of hurting her, regretted it, and came back to the other orphans slaughtered by wolves, he thought her dead) but still a compassionate person who helped Verlaine recover (he taught her some easy assassination skills while technically bed ridden, because "why is this girl skinny and perpetually bruised??" some self defense ought to help)

Rimbaud as verlaine's companion ever since paul decimated the transcendents (tribe) forcing him to do their hard work. At first he saw a strong yet unpolished individual to hone like the tribe did to him but overtime they overcame each other's walls and became closer. (They're lovers by the way, oh verlaine kinda adopted gin, so i guess they're a family now)

Tessaiga as another hat (a different one) that could help control and enhance healing powers. When gin died and rimbaud arrived wearing the hat (he was planning to give it back to Verlaine since it was left after the brothers' fight) he was suddenly able to see gin's soul and keep it in her body using illumination so he did (partly because she was a child, mostly because he saw the devastated look in verlaine's face)

Guivre as a-un, he didn't have a name until gin gave him one (it was her first spoken words too! Rimbaud is very proud, Verlaine too, they give him throwing knives as a gift). He looks like a mini Godzilla and could spit (miniscule) beams of gravity, he's gin's personal body guard and transportation (since verlaine just flies and rimbaud can travel using illumination)

[fnafsbheadcanon]

Time loop after ruin AU: After Gregory dies he gets sent back in time for a couple minutes to get another chance. This is after ruin, Cassie becomes the new Vanny, and Gregory already knows that many times and now he's just tired.

Cassie, Freddy, Vanessa, and the other animatronics stand behind her; glaring at Gregory, and the boy is just fed with the non-stop villain monologue.

Vannie: Now you are alone. My friends, Vanessa and Freddy hate you for what you did.

Roxy: Cassie be careful to that psycho.

Gregory: You know what? It's real cute that you think you're gonna defeat me with the "power of friendship" and all, but again I am the one with the powers of a God. *Whispers to himself* I don't consider myself one.

Vannie: You motherfucker you didn't let me finish!-

Gregory:Uh-huh, go ahead.

Vannie: I have my friends and allies in my side-

Gregory: (Interrupting her by babbling loudly) Shut up, shut up, shut the fuck up. I'm the one with the pow- I don't care. I do not care! You don't understand, I am tired of dealing with the same shit over and over again! You're words- this is not- This means nothing to me!

Everyone watches Gregory ion confusion of what he means.

Gregory: This means nothing to me, all right? You mean NOTHING to me. You and your little friends are fuckin' annoying with your bullshit 'playing the hero' route!

They are all in shock. Especially Cassie. She was expecting him to cry or get scared, but seeing him like this... was not what she was expecting, in fact she never seen Gregory get so... angry before. To say Cassie was a little nervous by Gregory snapping was an understatement.

Gregory: This is why no matter how many allies or fighting words you say, this is why I always win! I'm the good guy! Do you realize? I am the good guy here! I am the winner of everything! God decided to give me this power and I'm supposed to maybe treat you like you're my playthings like, "Oh look, I am the owner of this world, and can do whatever I want," yeah, whatever, fuckin' (babbles gibberish)

Vannie: (Visibly grunting from the madness)

Gregory: I killed you in one timeline, and saved you in another, and then I am INEVITABLY sent back to what appears to be the forced timeline to deal with this shit. I get to apparently to whatever the fuck I want. Like this- *Motions his hand, which makes the mask Cassie has in her face to suddenly come off her face and now in the hands of Gregory*

All of them are baffled.

Cassie: What the hell?!

Gregory: It's great, this power and more, gimme that! You don't get this, you lost your stupid little privileges! Fuck you! Dipshits!

Releases all of his power, from telekinesis, to teleportation. And manages to defeat all of the animatronics, Cassie, Vanessa, and Freddy.

Gregory then flies.

Gregory: Look, I can do this! I can do this anytime I want! *Snaps his fingers that make everyone float around like zero gravity* This is nothing to me! You are nothing to me! I hate you! I HATE YOU! THIS IS MY ULTIMATE FUCKING POWER!

Ha ha sonic fan dub reference

[drjoneslabratory]

The Splatoon rant The franchise that won't leave my brain alone: 1 the biggest nitpick/issue I have with this franchise.

(Before you read, this is my opinion and this is just me rambling. Don't take it too seriously, I didn't as there are probably typos and grammar issues but ill fix it later as its lunchtime here and I am hungry.)

Anyways...

Splatoon is one of those franchises where it has something so strong that I can't stop thinking about it/draw ocs/write AU lore for it. I haven't touched it in ages as Its still in a box and I have drift. But I still think about it/listen to music, consume fancontent and still read the lore and think of the gameplay.

For years I had this Splatoon fps game I always wanted to play. I have thought about it, and drawn ocs/enemies/bosses/factions/guns for over seven years. (I am soon to show this wacky fandom one day)

Ever since playing Splatoon 2, the squid-to-kid ink mechanic has fascinated me. It's on the same level as the gravity gun/portal gun and the grappling hook/titans from Titanfall in terms of creative innovation in the shooter genre. Despite me having issues with the campaign and story etc. There is nothing like it (foam stars don't count) The multiplayer (of all games), is the most fun I had with a multiplayer pvp game since Titanfall 2 and I think one of the few multiplayer PVP shooter games that is casual and non-competitive focused. And more importantly not a gritty tactical mil-sim/cod clone or generic "not overwatch/Fortnite clone number 10000" It's its own thing, and it does it really well.

Everything is unlockable in the game, there are no microtransactions. No season passes and once in a while simple updates keep it fresh. and not make it repetitive for a concept that seems it be a trap for boring repetitive gameplay.

There are DLCS, but they are worth the price for the content you get. Octo Expansion/Side orders are full-on expansion packs.

Splatoon brings me back to a time when shooter games were focused on simple fun and had a gameplay loop that people wanted to spend hours on.

Splatoon Proved to me (personally) that those games are still possible. And maybe the issue with modern AAA gaming is that Gamers have unrealistic expectations and developers and publishers trying to find new ways of laundering money/investment to appease stockholders.

(seriously am I the only one who is concerned with hearing new articles about the alleged "Most expensive game ever produced every once and awhile, there is no way that is sustainable, especially with these live service games that keep popping up like fruit flies and then die, or showing signs of decay)

The thing, I think bothers me most about Splatoon, is that, I really, I mean this, don't like the single-player campaigns, more particularly the Main Octo-trooper enemies you fight in every goddamn game. Because they are just so... boring and not fun (To me at least). It pains me, really fucking does as Splatoon is capable of having fun Enimies (the Octoling soldiers (though I think have issues, but they are a solid starting point I wish they expanded on) and Salmonoids (god they are so fucking awesome) and whatever the robo fish bots are called in side order)

My main issue with the octo-troopers is that

Boring that most Octo troopers just kinda stand there and then move around. acting more like turrets than soldiers

not really threatening/poor readability of what you are fighting, I am not saying their being goofy is bad, in fact, the weirdness of Splatoon enemies (all of them) is what I think makes it unique, and what it is, but I feel like there comes A point where they are just "Too Goofy" and I think it can hinder combat encounters and can confuse the player on what enemy you are fighting. An example of Good/bad execution of this is

The Octosniper and Commander are my examples of "Goofy done right" and "threatening enemy you need to pay attention to" They fire their guns out of their mouth and have "out there" proportions and designs, One has cool sunglasses the other a peeping eye. but I also get the idea, that these are trained soldiers who were trained to shoot to kill and won't hold back. So I have to be careful around them or I am a goner.

For goofy done wrong, I think I can make the argument that I think the Octobomber and rocket Octotrooper enemies are A prime example.

I fucking hate these assholes, I moved them around Poorly to prove a point that, I can't tell which one is which from afar and often mistake one for another. doesn't help one has a more powerful attack and takes up more hitpoints. The only thing that separates them is easily missable and I think lazily done addition to their helicopter helmet.

Now back to the examples.

Most don't really use the main gimmick of the games (squid-to-kid ink mechanic The Octostamps and Squee-Gs don't count) What I mean is how the ink mechanic can affect combat encounters and I think (As far as I remember) only a few really "take advantage" of Splatoon gimmicks, I really like the shielded octo-troopers as they capture gimmick you are using ink as your main projectile type. you can blind them and have them freak out giving you an easy shot. The octopods glitch out and fly back causing an explosion of your own ink if defeated, creating huge ink puddles. Octodivers try to flank you by hiding in their own ink.

Most feel like obstacles then actual enemies The Tentakooks are a good example, mostly just item holders and nothing really else. Same with octo ballers. Most just try to cover large areas of ink with their own, which isn't bad, but feels like most enemies, most don't really do much.

Don't feel like A real army or "Bad guys" (I get its lore point, but from a gameplay view, They feel so incompetent compared to the Octoling soldiers and bosses heck I question why Mr Grizz would choose them over the Salmonoids (I, am glad I am not alone with being disappointed with Splatoon 3 campaign)

(this one is gonna rustle some jimmies, but don't take this the wrong way) The fact is all the Octoling soldiers you fight, use the same model and they all look the same and have no differences. I get it everyone loves the lesbian child soldiers but I think it wouldn't hurt if there was a male model (and there was a male model originally) or at least had different skin tones. (at first, I thought they were all clones, but apparently, they are all different people, I am sorry but I find it hard to believe Marina, agent 8, and Acht were in the same army when they all look the same no matter what rank, including 8 if you make yours a guy and not white) But the fact some have different weapons with different combat styles the elite's only difference is their black hair with seaweed.

I am sorry but when I am shooting trying not to die, I don't know which Octoling is holding which, and the fact it's third person really handicaps my focus. At least the elites have glowing green seaweed but if you removed that, you couldn't tell which one is the elite. I am trying my best to not come across as "There needs to be more boys, girls are icky" but I wish there was more diversity/readability for the Octoling soldiers, I really wish they were the main enemies you fought. If I were to do it. Id make them a mesh between the elites from halo or HECU from black mesa and Zombie Marines from doom the Gunners from fallout 4. There is this mod I have for Black Mesa that adds female/more diverse HECU soldiers. its random every time, but it makes combat/readability so much better. If I am in a combat section with them, I can now easily tell witch ones witch, who is holding witch weapon, witch one is coming to get me and how do I respond.

The elites and Marines from Doom are the perfect example of a "Readability" Zombie marines have a rifle and are slow firing meant to pepper you, the Sargent/shotgun zombies are the upper class meant to keep you aware as one shot at low health and your dead, The chain gunners are the beefy "wake up call" as they have a repeating hit scan attack causing players to be aware of how they move in a area and giving them a target to kill before the other demons. For the new ones "The shock troopers" in the recent expansion "Legacy of Rust" are An upgrade from regular Marines having a plasma rifle attack that they can spam blocking areas and keeping people focused. The gunners from Fallout 4 are not really that special they are just reskinned raiders with a military gimmick, but they provide a good example of the thing Fallout 4 I Like, make every human enemy you fight have a rank/variation, and each gunner though having a template/variation, you feel like you are fighting a skilled solider of that rank and they are unique/different enough, you feel like you're not fighting the same enemy over and over again.

The elites are so barebones and simple, but so effective, in CE, the upper-ranked elites are just a color swap with a weapon change at the top.

This a good video on the topic as it does it better than I can ever do I know these are not the types of games, I assume most splat fans play (I'll provide links and context later on if anyone is interested)

I know that this is a Nintendo game and demographics blah blah blah I'll I'm asking for is little more creativity and I wish that the single-player campaign was given more attention and life as the multiplayer I really think the default campaigns are just not really fun to be honest.

I don't wanna say it's bad or mediocre, as when they have their high points and when you fight the bosses the campaigns start to shine. I say this as a Galaxy fan, but I don't like how they're just islands and feel more like tutorials than actual levels and feel more like cut levels from Mario Galaxy than its own thing.

I am not trying to bring up lore or anything as this is going on long enough and I have a lot to say about the lore.

If you read this far, thank you, know, this is my opinion, and you're not invalid for thinking otherwise, I am just a nerd who likes shooter games and I really like Splatoon, and I feel like it can be even better than it is!