#hes actually just a mutated human but you know it counts

[i-rolled-a-zero]

the problem with dming is having brain rot for your players characters

and a bonus boneless version so you can see his overall body

[quietwingsinthesky]

the last unicorn post from earlier has me thinking about the master. that yana is still in there, you know? is still someone he was, if even for a brief flash across the life of a time lord. there’s no way to unlive that life. there are ways to twist it later, sure, to make utopia into hell on earth. but the life was lived. in much the same way that the doctor can remember, can feel, the love he held onto as john smith even as that life is ripped out of his hands. the doctor choose denial and then grief and then to shutter it all away. and so john smith died, and so professor yana died, and the doctor and the master live on. the doctor has done this before, and he lives in orbit around humanity, trying to keep the best parts of them and hold them deep enough to take root (which he can pretend he gets to choose, as a time lord. as a human, it all floods in and can’t be dug back out.) but what about the master, right?

to borrow a turn of phrase: i think there are two time lords left in the universe, and they both learned how to regret.

[thriftedtchotchkes]

safe & sound

pairing: finnick odair x reader

summary: after years of hard nights and bad dreams, finnick knows better than anyone how to make you feel safe again

warnings: post-mockingjay, established relationship, victor!reader, fluff, comfort, nightmares, brief depictions of death & anxiety

word count: 1.2k

(based on this request, tysm <3)

Callused fingers cradle your cheek while soft lips pepper softer kisses down the slope of your neck. They're a welcome reprieve from the terror that lingers after yet another bad dream.

Yet another night, forced to relive the greatest horrors of your short lifetime. Sometimes it's the arena, your hands covered in the blood of your fellow tributes, their small faces frozen in their final moments of fear.

Tonight's was somehow even worse. It was him, cruelly dismembered while you watched uselessly from the top of that damned ladder. You can still hear them clear as day, hissing your name instead of the Mockingjay's with voices much too human for their mutated, reptilian bodies.

But the games and the war are over now, you know that. You're not trapped in those tunnels anymore, or desperately tugging the love of your life to safety as the Capitol's mutts snap at his ankles in their violent attempts to drag him to his death.

Because in the waking world, they didn't. Finnick is right next to you, whispering sweet nothings in your ear that mean everything. Those gentle words spoken in the dark mean he's still alive.

"Open your eyes, sweetheart. It's not real. None of it is real," he mumbles carefully, shifting to mouth at the sweat-slick skin just below your jaw. The deep timbre and vibration of his voice are soothing, if only a little. "Take a deep breath—in through your nose, out through your mouth. Do it with me, come on."

You do as he says, tensing in anticipation, preparing for the overwhelming scent of roses, but it never comes. Instead, you smell seawater. It's strongest in his sleep-tousled curls, so you nose into them and breathe him in, letting your focus drift elsewhere. Somewhere safe.

Your next exhale is a little steadier, even more still when you repeat the action with him, once then twice. Slowly, everything you see, feel, smell, taste, is him. His lips meet yours, and your eyes remain open even as his flutter closed in your desperation to keep the familiar, nightmarish images that dance behind your eyelids at bay.

But as he coaxes your mouth open and buries his fingers in your hair to pull you closer, everything else begins to fade away. There's only Finnick.

You repeat it to yourself like a mantra—there's no one else here but Finnick. He's right here.

Blunt nails gently scratch your scalp, tensing to keep you near, to maintain the grounding pressure of his lips against yours, and the kiss deepens. But there's no heat behind it. Only the potent taste of sugar cubes and the persistent bite of determination. He won't give up until he banishes every awful recollection and replaces them with newer memories of comfort and peace—at least for the night.

Eventually, he pulls away, chastely pecking your lips a few more times when you chase him. Immediately, you feel colder, and as if he can sense it, he pulls you flush against him, resting his cheek on your collarbone.

"Do you wanna talk about it?" he asks, a faint murmur as he peers up to meet your gaze.

There's concern in his eyes, and you wonder if you were screaming again. God, you hope not. It happens often enough, but even so, it's not something you think either of you will ever get used to.

You sigh and start to shake your head, but stop short. Do you want to talk about it? The answer is usually a resounding no—why dwell on anything that causes so much pain, that you've discussed over and over, practically to death?

And yet, for the first time in a long time, there are words on the tip of your tongue desperate to escape. Tonight, you actually do.

"It was bad, Finn," you whisper shakily, still falsely convinced you need to remain quiet so you're not overheard. "They got you this time. Tore you apart...ripped you to shreds, and I did nothing. None of us did. We let you die—sacrificed you for some greater good, but no one even tried," you spit out, your voice rising in anger the longer you recall your dream. "We could've saved you. We chose not to."

He stays silent, his arms tightening around you as a reminder of your reality. You're positive he can feel you trembling, and his brows knit together in what anyone else would assume is sympathy. But he understands. He felt that crippling fear back then and he feels it radiating off of you in waves right now.

Fighting to hide the intensifying quiver of your lips, you breathe sharply out your nose to dispel your misplaced blame. You didn't lose him, and so of course there's no one at fault. You repeat that like a mantra, too.

"You know, sometimes I wake up searching for you. l expect you to be gone like you were never here at all," you mumble numbly, but your body betrays you, finally giving in to the burning behind your eyes. "It feels like I'm suffocating. I can't breathe no matter how hard I try, and there's this huge weight on my chest, this crushing loneliness I can't shake."

A few stray tears fall against your will, and he brushes them away with a gentle swipe of his thumb before you can rub your skin raw. He cups your cheeks again, guiding you down for another kiss, and it's salty and wet, just like seawater.

You suddenly feel overwhelmingly grateful. Night after night, you go through this same routine, and he calms you without question or complaint, lovingly. After so many years, it feels like second nature to both of you. And when he has his bad nights, quieter than yours but no less traumatic, you soothe his unrest with stories from your childhood, of ocean spray and fishing nets filled to the brim on a stormy day.

Rolling you onto your back, he braces himself on his elbows to keep from crushing you while he shields you from the rest of the world. This bed—the light, scratchy fibers of home woven into your blanket and pillowcases—is the only world that matters, the one you've made for yourselves.

Finnick kisses you breathless, then fills your lungs with his air. You feel lighter. Relieved. Then he speaks and his voice is like a lullaby, better than any bedtime story with a happy ending meant only for you.

"But you always find me, right? When you open your eyes, I'm always here," he says so earnestly that it must be true. You nod, your eyelids growing heavier as the world fades into a wash of bronze and seafoam green. "It's okay to close them. Get some rest. I promise you, I'll be waiting right here in the morning when you wake up."

As you drift off, he lowers his body to rest carefully on top of yours, and his heat acts as a blanket to shelter you against the cool, salty breeze filtering in through an open window.

You're home. You're safe. Tonight, you believe it.

thanks for reading!

[honestlyreadingruinedmylife]

That’s amazing. Of course everyone needs to start somewhere. Of course I understand not everyone likes writing smut.

Young Charles Xavier x reader. She’s also has a mutation. She’s kicked out by her parents when they find out that her boyfriend is in a wheelchair. She turns up in the pouring rain with her puppy under her jacket to keep them dry and a black eye because her dad hit her (you don’t have to write that just imply it)

Hope that’s not to detailed but wanted to give you as much detail as I could to help you write it.

Can you please tag me in any future X-Men fanfiction you write.

Xx

A.N: Okay, I finally got around to finishing this. I'm actually quite proud of it given it's my first time EVER writing fanfiction and especially with it being a request. I hope you enjoy it even though it is a bit cliche at times. Also, there is slight ableism given the prompt, I did some research to make sure I wasn't using any slurs but if I am wrong PLEASE let me know. I will change it.

Word Count: 1251

Pairing: Young Charles Xavier x Female!Reader

Warnings: Ableism (Only a small sentence), gets kind angsty

You didn’t really know how they had found out. You were so careful. Building a wall of lies so thick and so far that you could no longer see the ends. 

You suppose that somewhere along the lines you’d missed a spot, one vital brick that tumbled down the entirety of your life. 

Your parents had only just started getting around to the idea of having a ‘freak’ of a daughter. Constantly telling you how lucky you were to at least look ‘normal’ and not like those ‘other ones’. 

You were one of the good ones. 

They had laid the rules out simply. They didn’t care about your abilities as long as they stayed outside the house and as long as you married a ‘regular human being’. It seemed simple enough and studying for a masters (which they paid for) you figured one more year of hiding wouldn’t be so difficult.

What you never considered was falling madly in love with another mutant. You’d been convinced for so long that you were completely alone in the walls you’d built, that when you met a man who could literally tear them apart you had no choice but to let yourself go.

The argument had started at dinner. It’d been a long day of research which had resulted in nothing but a dead end. Exhausted from sitting reading at a desk all day, you just wanted to get through the traditional family dinner and get straight into bed.

You were sitting in your usual chair, facing your mother while your father sat at the head of the table. It’d been eerily silent from the moment you’d sat down but didn’t mind given your exhaustion.

Suddenly, your father put down his utensils, “I’ve set up a dinner, next week with the neighbors boy,”

Thinking you hadn’t heard correctly, you turn to face him, “pardon?”

“It’s about time that you start thinking of settling down,” your father continues, “most normal girls your age are on their way to having their first child,”

You hear the implication in his voice even if he hadn’t outright said it. Irritated, you push your plate away.

“I am a normal girl, dad,” 

You hear your mother sigh, but you can’t seem to look away from your fathers face that twitches in irritation.

“You know what I meant,” he says your name as if it's a burden. He says it as if you were a curse on his normalcy.

You roll your eyes, “yes I know exactly what you meant, father, and I’m not going to be dressed up like some doll to be paraded for the neighbors boy,”

Another twitch, you know you are pushing him too far, but you can’t seem to care anymore.

“He is of good breeding and a wealthy background,” he picks up his utensils again, “the dinner will be on Monday,”

“Breeding?! I’m not cattle, father,” 

Your fathers face contorts into a scowl and you know he’s losing patience with you, “He will assure you are the last of your kind in my bloodline,”

You can feel your whole body shaking, “I will not go to that dinner, father,”

You hear your mother whisper your name, you suddenly realize that the shaking wasn’t just within your body but the whole house. With your emotions rampant you couldn’t control your powers as naturally as you normally could.

Breathing in and breathing out, you calm yourself enough to stop the shaking. Your father, however, is maroon with malice. You have pushed him too far.

“I will not let my grandchildren be the offspring of a freak and a paralytic!”

You feel your heart stop. Your mind is racing, unstoppable thoughts wreak havoc in your head. He knew. He knew and now your life is over.

“Father-”

“You thought I wouldn’t find out?” Your father continues to yell, “you thought I’d let you disobey me without consequence?”

You could feel your breathing increase as you enter a panic. Everything is muffled, your father continues yelling but you can’t hear a thing he is saying. You have to get away. You have to get to Charles. 

Without realizing, you stand, turning to leave the table, trying to find an escape. With one step, your father is in front of you, rough hands clamping down on your shoulders, forcing you still.

“Let me go,” you whisper, looking down away from your father. 

“I forbid you from seeing that man again!” 

“Let me go,” you feel the ground tremble beneath you.

“He’s one of you isn’t he?” Your fathers grip tightens on your shoulders, “he’s a freak!”

“Let me go!” You shout back in his face. You don’t initially feel the strike, but you can feel the heat begin to blossom around your eye. And you feel the ground erupt into endless shudders as you watch your father lose his balance and fall to the floor.

With the last of your strength, you run towards your room grabbing your research and your puppy that likes to sleep under your bed. As you race to the front door, you glance at your mother fussing over your father, who is still laid on the floor.

Stopping you turn to face your parents, “I am not a freak. Just because I am different doesn’t mean I’m lesser than,”

You turn to open the front door and with foot out your childhood home, you turn one last time, “I’ll never treat my children the way you’ve treated me, mutant or not,”

With those final words, you run into the rain, hailing the first taxi you see.

It wasn’t until you were at Charles’ front door, drenched and with your puppy under your coat, that you realized how bleak your situation truly was. 

No home, no parents, no education. 

With nothing left to lose, you knock as loudly as you can, hoping anyone would hear you over the pounding rain.

Almost immediately, the door swings open. 

Hank at first looks at you with confusion and then concern. He drags you inside and in the same breath yells for Charles.

The second you see Charles look of concern as he approaches you, you feel the tears start to form in your eyes. Finally able to let go, you feel yourself crumble with the weight of the night.

In no time, Charles holds you in his arms, stroking your soaked hair, whispering into your ear, “it’s okay darling you’re safe now, you’re safe here,”

Once you’ve calmed down, you pull away from him holding your own weight again. His hands don’t leave your face, careful with your already bruising eye.

He whispers your name. He whispers it like prayer, like there’s no one else in the world except you and him. He strokes your cheek with his thumb, “How about we run you a warm bath?”

With no strength left to speak and knowing you didn’t need to, you nod into his hands, closing your eyes and soaking in the comforting warmth he exudes. From within your jacket, you feel your puppy shuffle, stuck in between your torso and Charles’ legs. Pulling away slightly, your puppy leaps away from you and begins sniffing around Charles’ wheelchair.

“I see you’ve brought a friend, darling,” he chuckles, as he watches your puppy continuing to adventure.

You hiccup trying to find the words, “I couldn’t leave him in that house,”

Charles looks back at you, his blue eyes wide with adoration, “he has a home here, he’ll always a home here,”

[cafulur]

Modern Personal Assistant Labru AU ✨📋🐉

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

- Laios is a renown animal/monster expert (not sure yet if this is modern as in no monsters or just a modern version of their realm w/ monsters included)

- he does most of his research independently, occasionally working alongside small groups of other scientists

- a new animal species / monster mutation emerges that completely captures the world’s and Laios’s interest. As one of the top zoologists / monsterologists in the nation, he gets requested to head the first ever research on this unknown creature.

- something about this species is so bizarre that in addition to studying it, Laios is suddenly also having to do press conferences to explain to the masses wtf is going on.

- … except he kind of can’t. the first time he gets on the mic in front of a bunch of people, one reporter asks if there is concern for reproduction as we’ve only found two females of the species. Laios goes on a 20 minute rant about the egg laying process they recently discovered and how according to x-rays of the eggs they do not require a mate to reproduce but appear to still seek and thrive off of community. A conference that should’ve had enough time to answer dozens of questions ends with him only have answered two and a half, as he greatly struggled to be succinct and not derail into mile long explanations. But to Laios, every detail counts!! They’re all important pieces to the puzzle!

- his boss pulls him aside— “listen, you’re the only person on the planet at the moment who has the most knowledge about this thing. if you’re going to also be it’s’ spokesperson, you need to handle your PR better and read the room. we’ve assigned you an assistant to help with any future public appearances.

- enter Kabru, works in public relations, usually political, and is all too comfortable with addressing the masses. local elections just ended and so as a PR specialist he’s being assigned unconventional work by his management company during this downtime, which includes a rambly scientist with zero social cues or ability to read the room.

- Kabru sits down with Laios at a café a few days before the next conference and they run through a little practice session. Kabru clears his throat and acts as a reporter.

- “So, Mr. Touden, how long do you expect the research to go on for before we know if we can integrate this species into our local environments? Is it even safe for us to be near them?”

- “it’s not a question on whether or not it’s safe for us but whether or not it’s safe for them. they seem to be flighty little guys, and don’t even agitate or fight when provoked. but something about the oils from human skin damages their feathers, they have almost the same texture and composition as paper. it’s really fascinating actually, they somehow appear to be resistant to water but our oils break them down very quickly, and so we’re thinking they might thrive better on reserves people can’t access. but that’s also not exactly ideal due their apparent difficultly living in captivity and small spaces, as well as the potential need to migrate. closing off their environment may actually—“

- Kabru knows deep, deep down in his heart of hearts that he needs to cut the man off right then and there, show him how he could be more concise and clear with his words, and maybe not ramble so much. but Laios is positively glowing with both wonder and genuine concern for this creature, and Kabru cannot help but be completely captivated.

[frenchkisstheabyss]

♰ ɄⱠ₮Ɽ₳ Ø₦Ɇ ♰

♰ Pairing: vampire!hyunjin x vampire!chubby!reader

♰ Genre: horror/angst

♰ Summary: A new drug's turning vampire's feral and when Hyunjin uncovers a plot to pin it all on you, he's determined to make your enemies pay even if he puts himself in danger in the process.

♰ Word Count: 2.3kish

♰ Warnings: mentioned drug use (it's synthetic blood), blood, burning alive, mentions of violence, strong language, stabbing, vampires obviously, low key psychotic love, pet names (baby, honey).

♰ A/N: I created this to have two parts. This one is more action-oriented and the second will be more romantic. I'm just trying to do my part to give us chubby badass vampire babes whose men love them enough to commit murder, ya know?

The underground club scene can grow quite boring for a vampire. Your first few blood raves make you feel more alive than you ever did when you actually had a pulse. But the ones that follow? They become so mundane and predictable that not even the introduction of human drugs can save them from losing their luster.

Enter a new drug, Ultra, synthetic blood by vampires for vampires. Guaranteed to fuck you up. One dose opens your eyes to a world far beyond your own. It mutates your cells. Alters your brain chemistry. Turns you into a brand new beast. The power you gain is addictive and the things you’ll do to hold onto it, the sins you'll commit, you don’t even want to imagine.

But you must imagine them. You are the one who created Ultra, or so they say, and some incredibly powerful people are looking to give you a taste of your own poison. Tell me, are you prepared to die? Again?

Distorted metal music ricochets off of the stone walls of the club with the force of a dozen automatic rifles firing all at once. The occasional rapid flashing of strobe lights illuminates the darkness, giving the few hundred bloodsuckers on the dance floor the closest thing to a sunrise that they can tolerate. Everyone dances except for one weasel of a man. A dealer slinking through the crowd in his worn leather jacket handing off vials of Ultra to this person and the next.

“I won’t have to do this for long,” he tells his friend at the bar when he stops to grab a drink. This friend, a fellow scumbag, grins as he knocks back a shot, completely unphased by the recent carnage caused by the shit his companion has been peddling. “The council says once I do this they can get rid of her and make room for me.” “Make room for you? Tell me you don’t really think those rich fucks would ever let us into their secret society”

The dealer nods to the bartender to give him his usual, “See, that’s your problem. You think too small. That’s why you’ll never get anywhere.” His friend only rolls his eyes, turning to check his surroundings before he leans in to offer some advice. “I’d be quieter about this if I were you. If she finds out you’re trying to set her up she’ll sick her dog on you then you won’t get anywhere either.” “Fuck her” the dealer spits, finishing off his drink, “She can sick her dog on me. I’ll just have to put him down.”

Agitated, he slams his glass down on the bar, nearly shattering it. “I’m supposed to be afraid of her?” he mutters, shoving the other man aside to turn down a winding hallway that leads to the back door. He stops in front of the door to dig for a cigarette, wincing at the brightness of the few working lights that dangle from the ceiling of the desolate hallway. The air shifts, growing colder around him, but he’s much too busy fidgeting with his lighter to notice the change. Too lost in the ecstasy of that first drag to notice the shadow along the wall closing in on him. “I don’t even know why they have to do all of this. Should just kill her. She’s just some stupid b—”  

An ice pick pierces his neck from behind, taking every twist and turn between his muscles before emerging on the other side. The cigarette falls from his lips, extinguished by the tiny pool of blood forming in vivid red on the concrete floor. “Just some what?” Hyunjin questions, rolling the ice pick between the man’s vertebrae. The sound of metal splitting bone is music to Hyunjin’s ears. “Speak! What were you going to call her?” The man opens his mouth but no answers tumble out. Only blood and desperate gasps for air. Tears begin to form in his eyes as the reality of his helplessness sets in.

Hyunjin leans over the man’s shoulder, his large hand reaching around to cover his mouth. “I should’ve known you’d have nothing interesting to say” he sighs, almost sounding disappointed, “You’re just some stupid bitch.” The ice pick slips out smooth as butter, finding a new home in the man’s left lung followed by his right. Hyunjin moves in a blur of darkness, leaving the man spinning in circles trying to predict where the next attack will come from.

Blood pours from a dozen different holes scattered across his body. He reaches out to grab the collar of Hyunjin’s expertly pressed suit only to pull back a fistful of nothing. The coldness, he feels it now as he drops to his knees, his vision darkening. One final stab, inches from his heart, is all he feels before the bulbs in the ceiling pop leaving him in the dark. 

“Oh, Jinnie, look! Here you are!” you sing from the comfort of a rose infused bubble bath. You ease down further into the steamy water, the rose petals dancing at the surface cloaking your naked body. “Pisces,” you begin to read off from the astrology book you’ve been flipping through, “As Jupiter aligns with Neptune in your house of love, you mustn’t shy away from sharing your true feelings with your partner—” Hyunjin kneels beside you, tilting your book back to view the title. He cracks a smile, “A Girl’s Guide to Astrology 2023. After a hundred years, you still believe in that stuff?” “Mmm, maybe” you shrug, running your black manicured nails through his slicked back hair.

Resting his head on the edge of the tub, Hyunjin closes his eyes and lets you massage his scalp. He could stay like this for hours, having you read to him by candlelight as your fingers melt away all that plagues him. “What are your true feelings? You seem troubled.” “No trouble, my love.” Tossing the book to the floor, you raise his head to look at you. It never fails, even after a century together, that looking into his eyes makes you want to melt. Beyond the beauty of his features lies a softness reserved only for moments like this. For moments with you. A softness that most men of your kind lacked even before they turned.

“You’re lying to me, Jinnie. What’s wrong?” One brush of your thumb across his cheek is all it takes to break his defenses. “You know that Ultra stuff that has everyone turning feral?” You nod, not daring to ask if he’d taken it. He’d never touch something like that. Not your Jinnie. Not when he’s seen firsthand what it does. It’d be hypocritical to say that neither of you lusts for violence. But violence directed towards people who don’t deserve it? Tearing the limbs from innocent lovers in the park? Slaughtering whole families? There’s no pride in that. “I caught the guy who’s been dealing it. He’s upstairs. I think—” Hyunjin pauses, bracing for your reaction, “I think the council plans to say that you made it.”

Your iris pulses an electric red, your heart pumping a pure searing hatred through your veins. The council. Five decrepit bastards who rule their own sectors of the city under the guise of keeping the peace between vampires and humans when in reality it’s all about the money. That’s all it’s ever been about. They’re criminals, the same as any mafia you’ve ever known, and you worked your ass off for your seat among them. They could never quite accept that a woman infringed upon their little boys' club. They would’ve put a stake through your heart a long time ago if it weren’t against their own bullshit rules. 

Rule #1: We never kill our own. The Consequence: Death. 

Ultra doesn’t just make vampires kill humans. It makes them kill each other. And finally, when their bodies can’t mutate anymore, it kills the host too. If they can pin this on you then you’re dead. You, every vampire under your protection, and Hyunjin—

Not him. Never him. 

You rip through the halls of your sprawling mansion, hearing Hyunjin’s voice as if it were far away at the end of a long tunnel. “Cover up at least, honey” he insists, throwing a flowy silk robe around your wet body. You slip your arms in, not missing a beat as you grab a blade from the wall on your way to the third floor. You can hear shallow breathing as if it were your own. The stench of whisky and blood floods your senses the closer you get, nearly making you nauseous. Kicking the door into your spare bedroom, you come upon the man plotting your death.

He’s chained to the bed, his clothes tattered where wounds from the ice pick have slowly begun to heal. You descend upon him, your blade pressed to his throat, fangs bared. “Tell me everything” you demand, realizing at once that you’ve seen him before. Nowhere in particular. Here and there. In places you never thought much of. Had his appearances there really been a coincidence? No, there was a reason. He’s been watching you all this time. How didn’t you see it? “No” he refuses, licking the dried blood from his bottom lip, “Kill me and you’ll burn for it. You both know that!”

You gasp, sitting up on top of him, “Oh no, baby, did you hear that?” Hyunjin leans against the wooden bedpost, his reappearance startling the man. “I heard. Kill him and we’ll burn” Hyunjin dramatically cowers in fear, “I’m so scared. We better be careful, huh?” “Mmhmm” you agree, inching the blade away from the man’s neck and burying it in the mattress beside his head. “Jinnie, how long do you think until sunrise?” Hyunjin makes his way to the window, peeking out at the breathtaking landscape that surrounds your home.

It’s early enough in the morning for the sky to still cling to hues of dark blue as the sun creeps up along the horizon. “Half an hour maybe.” “Would you be a dear and open the curtains? It’s so dark in here.” The man’s eyes dart back and forth, watching your smile grow more devious with each curtain Hyunjin ties open. “Wait, you can’t—” the man panics, struggling against his chains. “I know. I know. We can’t kill you!” you groan, climbing off of him, “But we’re gonna. I mean, thanks to you they’ll probably try to kill me anyway, and since you won’t answer any questions you’re useless.”

Hyunjin takes you by the hand, escorting you to the door. “You go to bed. I’ve got it from here” he whispers, kissing you on the forehead. You cross your arms defiantly, refusing to move an inch. “No, we’ll finish this together like we do everything else.” Hyunjin’s arms come around your waist, pressing your plush body to his. “I always take care of you, don't I?” he asks, his hands tracing your figure. “Always.” “Then go and wait for me, okay? This won’t take long.” You glance over at the man on the bed, your mind racing with all the things you could do to him. All horrors he’d very much deserve.

“Fine but hurry. You've been gone all night. I’ve missed you.” Your lips meet, sparking something that sets your body ablaze in a different way. One that has you tugging at the buttons on his shirt as your tongue teases the sharp points of his fangs. You don’t want to break away and neither does he. Once Hyunjin has his hands on you everything around him loses its importance. The only thing his body longs for—needs as if his survival depends upon it—is you. But he manages to turn you loose for your own safety, locking the door when you leave to be extra safe.

Without another word, he circles the room slowly closing each curtain he opened only moments ago. “What happened? Change of heart?” the man taunts, trying and failing to get a rise out of him. Hyunjin grabs the vintage French parlor chair positioned by the window and drags it to the darkest corner of the room. He sits in silence, his face void of emotion, his eyes unblinking. Hyunjin’s focus is no longer on his prisoner but on the evolution of the light that breaks through the curtains.

Minute after agonizing minute passes until the fear of the unknown forces the man to ramble off everything he can think of. Insults, confessions, pleas for mercy. None of it gets the slightest reaction until the faintest sunbeam casts its light on the carpet. Hyunjin rises, locking eyes with the man for the first time as he approaches the sunbeam. “My wife always said we all have special abilities. Things that make us unique,” he says, rolling up his left sleeve. “I didn’t believe her at first but then one day I got caught in the sun.”

Hyunjin shoves his forearm into the sunlight, his bare skin exposed to what should be eating through him like acid. “Nothing, see? It takes a while for me to burn but you—I have a feeling you’ll strike up like a match.” “No, please! You don’t understand!” Hyunjin smirks, twirling over to the window, “You don’t understand. You told my baby she’d burn. You first!” Hyunjin tears open the curtain nearest to the bed, letting the sun shine in at full power. “What a beautiful morning” he hums, sliding the others open to the tune of screams that would wake the dead.

The man on the bed is burning, his skin bubbling like he’s being deep fried. In a sense he is. The heat from the sun is cooking him. He feels every pop. Every sizzle. Tiny fires ignite, charring his skin. Hyunjin watches on, the steam rising from his own skin barely a tickle. He won’t leave this room before he’s seen him burnt to a crisp, reduced to nothing more than a charred corpse for him to deliver to the council as a warning of sorts.

Threaten what he loves and this is only a taste of the fate that awaits them.

[bluu3berry]

HYDE INFO DUMP!!!

Main-Story !!

1. He is the biological mutated son of Sebastian, Hyde was made after an experiment gone wrong in the facility causing them to discovering Sebastian can mitosis due to his genes

.2. Hyde was never a baby but was actually born at the age of 6! He spent most of his time in the dark due to the poor conditions of the hadal black site.

3. Hyde however only escaped after Sebastian escaping which allowed him to leave and find Sebastian, not knowing the thing he created was alive he kinda just left it there. Hyde followed Sebastian since it was the first non-harmful thing to approach them in awhile

4. After Hyde followed Sebastian, for a good couple of days Sebastian kinda... Ignored them denying it was his, but due to loneliness and nothing ,, 'similar" status of him he started to grow fond of Hyde!

5. He started to do a ""business trade" with a literal 8 year old, he would give Hyde shelter, food, warmth, and protection as long as hyde would collect items for him that Sebastian couldn't get himself!

Hyde facts!!

1. Hyde is physically disabled due to his impure genes he has trouble slithering in land and prefers to stay near watery areas. Plus more which I'll talk about later

2. He has very sensitive eyes causing him to be extremely hurt at bright light sources (like the sun, or the flash bang)

3. . Hearing, he can hear normally but if he isn't paying direct attention to you he cannot hear you at times, so he is known to be going " what?, huh? What did you say?"

4. One of his mutations caused his third arm to fuse together by the elbow! Still functional separately but it gets odd to control for him!

5. Hyde is genderless! He has nothing.. to define him in that way, so yes he is canonically nonbinary, why does he use he/they? Well he picked up those pronouns from his father

6. Hyde will eat Expendables. He has no morals against them since he was never a human and never will be, he only knows them as bad people and what he learned from his father.. But he did get curious once.

7. Hyde used to be great friends with an Expendable, however this expendable was murdered due to the void mass leaving just the Expendables clothing, which is where Hyde got his bandana from. He learned his lesson that day.

8. Hyde hates sea food, he hates eating it, not because it's technically cannibalism because he just hates sea food. He will visibility gag at the thought of eating shrimp or a squid

More facts!!

9. Hyde loves to color and draw but it's usually really bad drawings due to well,, he has bad vision and poor mobility in his dominate hand which is left hand!

10. Hyde is asexual and aromantic he has no current interest for the future (or even in the future) to get in any romantic or sexual relationships when he reaches that age.

11.. one of hyde's best friends is eyefestation! He finds the shark soothing and usually shares his shitty drawings with the creature, finding her like a mother figure he never had.

12. Hyde hates pandomieums.

13. Hyde is 6ft from the waist up (at the age of 10), not counting his tail which makes him easily into the 20ft counting due to him being shorter then his father.

14. Hyde has a forked tongue and loves to chew on it, so usually it looks like it's a single tongue due to how much he chews on it!

15. Hyde got his name from well hiding! Sebastian would find Him hiding around corners stalking him before he realized what the thing actually is.

16. Hyde's subject name which is Z-13-1 given by the scientist was due to the scientist not thinking Hyde was sentient at all, thinking him more as a drone that Sebastian could control.

-Ping list!

@anon-coke @pucabearry @scramble-eg

@thelunarsystemwrites @superbfirnacho @the-second-reason

[im-bored-so-i-draw]

Burst of inspiration :DDD

I have this concept of silverfish!silverr for such a long time and this is me trying to write the idea down

My drawing pad(?) broke and its been so long since i tried watercolor so the colors are not right in here..

Ref part 1|part 2

WARNING: i ramble below about this idea but my English is bad (and its long)

So first of all i just want to point out that I made him TOO buff. Just saying.

So you know these guys right (This is what my whole reference page is 😭).

'They are fast and they are named SILVERfish so why not base silverr from this?' Is my thought process. He is fast and silver(fish)rruns is not safe from my designing-everything-in-sight-manias ass.

(Thorax: legs)

We start off from the horns. The horns/antenna is a solidified shell around his antenna, slowly covering the whole part in an extremely slow process. The antenna part that is still exposed is working normally to help silverr see. Since you know. He's blind.

Now his back/legs. Well. Legs. Why is it on the shell? Ok now every silverfish spawned is just like that. I have no defense but it looks cool.

2 upper thorax has 4 joints and is bigger than the lower thorax. This made these legs move more freely and faster. But the drawback is that they are heavy.

The lower thorax is a lot lighter and shorter. These two legs are mainly a support for the upper thorax. These thorax also only have 3 joints.

His arms are actually his legs but got mutated(? Modified?) You can actually see the joints visible (some joints are dead so he can't use them). It also has the same hard shell with the horns/antenna at the top.

His legs are also a mutated form of thorax. With some hard shells covering most of his lower leg. The lil hairies is in every part of his body but most visible in the lower legs!

About his tail? Its not actually a tail but a decoration from his cape. (Page 2) he does have a tail but it doesn't get carried to his human form.

Now about the whole deal with him.

Silverfish usually don't live too long, mostly being 8 years or so. Silverr, who is no different, have a different approach for this topic. Instead of growing old, he started to collect this magic orb/pearl from dragons, willingly or not. This magic pearls contains a fraction of dragons power and magic. But having just 1 of these only extends his life for 1 month. One dragon can produce 1-21 pearls, depending on many reasons. Mainly of how powerful the dragon is, technique to absorb it, and how long the dragon lived. The ability to absorb some of the dragon's power and turn it into an object is only possessed by some mobs, and silverfish is one of them.

Most silverfish have 2-10 pearls, scavenging anything remains from a dead dragon. They are not capable of fighting the dragon so they usually wait for a player to slay it.

Silverr is quite lucky to spawn on a completed portal and a freshly slain dragon (more likely by a speedrunner too!). He managed to restore all 23 pearls from the dragon.

Dragon orbs not only can extend their life, but they can use that magic to do... Magic and spells? With this power, they can also change into a human. Well lets say silverr starts running.

Silverr goal is not only to live longer, but he is planning to become a dragon. Why? Immortal. At least until someone kills him. A dragon can live forever as long as there are no one slashing his neck. Also power. Also cool i guess. (Draft)

That's why he went from worlds through worlds to kill their dragon. A part of this dragonification is the growing of hard shells all across his body. When all of his antennas get hard shells around them, he finally counts as a dragon.

Clearly there are a lot i havent write down, but im too sleepy for it.

[fluffyfantasticducky]

Mischievous Matching

☆ Pairing: Loki x Mutant!Reader

☆ Synopsis: Loki is a trouble maker, always one to cause trouble, but he meets a mortal that is even worse than him and he finds himself absolutely powerless and victim of your stupid outdated pranks, but he finds himself to be putty in your hands.

☆ Word Count: 7,656 (good thing I didn't know what to do with this prompt, eh? This is just the second longest fic I've done.)

☆ Notes: My first request! Yay! 🥳Loki is a smitten little lee. I'm really bad at doing pranks so I did the worst and oldest pranks I remembered, because it's funny Loki not growing up on earth wouldn't know any of them. Also, it's not said outright, but in case of doubt the reader's mutation is super-elasticity because guess who started watching One Piece 👒🏴‍☠️.

☆ Warnings: Very bad and outdated pranks, other than that it's just pure fluff and flirting.

Loki thought he was smug. He had always been the smart brother, growing up constantly tricking an entire realm of Gods and Goddesses, he was very little used to people being smarter than him. Of course, he knew a couple of them existed, his mother was one he could never lie to. Odin more often than others saw through his deception and caught him playing pranks on Thor. But when you grow up in a Realm that values more your physical strength and at most your ability to come with war strategies… You come to believe you’re bound to become complacent, and it becomes a matter until… well, what always happens.

Loki would’ve never expected his match would come from Earth. Quite frankly, he had expected humans would always stay the same, kind of like Asgardians did. But they didn’t. Humans (for the most part at least) didn’t have magic or supernatural skills, so they chose to be inventive, they created modern civilizations purely thanks to the fact that humans chose to play smarter.

He wouldn’t admit it, now that Asgard settled on Midgard, and he got to see what humans did with technology… it was sort of admirable how much they had made purely with ingenuity. Only a bit.

There was Stark, who had made a technological empire and entire armies just with just machines, humans like the sanctuary where Strange lived or the Maximoff girl that had learned magic despite their incompatibility with it, or the bug hero’s mentor that figured a way to alter the size of matter itself. Not to mention the Avengers had managed to take him down, a God his ancestors used to venerate without question.

Perhaps some humans were in fact, formidable.

Still Loki could get away with a ridiculous number of things simply because a lot of humans were just that gullible. His illusions had already started wreaking havoc in small towns where his illusions had turned into rumors of what he learned humans called UFOs… although, to be completely fair, he was, by definition, an alien.

But the true meaning of formidable he found in you.

He met you one night he was allowed to visit New York and he decided to mess with passerby Midgardians. He simply sat on a bench of the park casted the illusion of a Ratatoskr and let humans do their thing. Truth to be told, while the creature wasn’t necessarily scary, it was gonna be interesting when the young ones noticed a talking squirrel and he saw some children excitedly trying to catch it, which may or may not have been actually endearing. But the real fun came when the parents became hysterical. Chaos ensued and Loki couldn’t hide a smile.

“That’s yours, isn’t it?” a voice asked, and you sat beside him.

He looked at you perplexed.

“It’s just… it kinda sticks out that you seem even more amused than the actual children playing with that. It’s supposed to be Ratatoskr, right?”

He didn’t expect anyone to notice, he had sat at enough distance that he couldn’t be related to what was going on, and he had a book on his hands so no one would relate his amusement to what’s going on.

The illusion vanished as he lost focus, surprised that you noticed him. He couldn’t hold back a soft laugh through his breath when a woman in her middle age let out a screech threatening to call the cops on an invisible talking squirrel. And to his surprise you laughed too.

“Man, I enjoy seeing your everyday soccer mom lose her marbles at whatever, but actively seeking their wrath takes courage.” You laughed.

You stretched out your hand and introduced yourself with a firm handshake which Loki surprised himself returning and giving away his actual name.

“W-Wait… like the Loki, Thor’s little brother… The Asgardian that… you know… over a decade ago did… you know?” you asked perplexed, not daring to say the actual thing.

Loki tense up, not knowing how you’d act next. For all he knows maybe the police force would end up showing up after all.

“Damn, so what they say is true” you shrugged. “You are a softie now.”

“What they say?” Loki gasped out indignant.

“Yeah, it was over the news a bit after the second snap, Ironman and your brother gave a press conference to explain you were in peace with Earth and it was Thanos’ brainwash.” You explained as a cheeky grin formed on your face. “Ergo, you are a softie.”

Loki was speechless. You knew who he was, you knew what he had done to New York, and yet you were poking the bear with a stick without an ounce of fear in your expression.

“Listen well, mortal, I–” Loki huffed.

“Pfft! I didn’t know Gods blushed.” You laughed heartedly.

“Hang on just a minute!” Loki protested as he became aware of the heat on his cheeks “I am–”

“Surprisingly fun to be around.”

He opened his mouth and closed it again as he found himself with no witty retort for your teasing.

“Thank you, I suppose” was all he could say, with less spite than he usually had when he spoke with mortals.

“I was gonna go grab a bite, wanna join? It’s a bit boring eating alone” you offered.

His stomach growled and he took the offer, partly because he was very hungry and both you had caught his curiosity. You were an odd one, that was for sure.

“So…” you wondered. “Is it true you’re staying with the Avengers?”

“Why do you wanna know?” he asked back.

“Curiosity” you smiled.

A question like that could’ve easily triggered an alarm, but for some reason it didn’t. And you didn’t lie.

“Yes, my brother decided to join the quarters to live with his friends and he took me with him” Loki admitted.

“Took you with him? Like an updog?” you arched an eyebrow in a way that made him feel slightly sheepish.

“Excuse me? What’s that?”

“What’s what?”

“Updog.”

“What about it?”

“What is updog?”

“Not much, what’s up with you?” you wheezed before letting out a dorky laugh.

Despite the fact that the All-Speak did not allow him to understand a place’s lingo he understood he had fallen for a stupid Midgardian joke.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I had to try, oh… oh god, I hadn’t met a anyone who didn’t know that one yet, but I had to try. I like you already.”

Now he was convinced, you were definitely an odd one. Not only did you not fear him, but you were bold enough to pull practical jokes on him and teased him for falling for it. It got on his nerves.

But he couldn’t help but follow you around. You kept teasing him the entire trip to a sandwich shop.

“What do you want to eat?” you smiled.

Loki stared awkwardly at the menu, he recognized some of the ingredients, but he had never been to a place like this. And he wasn’t used enough to human food to make an informed choice.

So, you stepped up and asked him a couple of questions about the food he liked and made a choice for him.

“You can punch me in the arm if it’s not good” you winked at him.

Loki surprised himself smiling at you.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

But it was really good. It wasn’t anywhere near as refined as what he was used to eat, but it was surprisingly good. And you even paid for his food, which spared him the uncomfortable conversation over why he had no money despite leaving in a millionaire’s house.

“Hey, I live a bit far away, do you mind accompanying me home?”

Loki wasn’t sure why he accepted, but he found himself following you around, risking getting lost in New York City since he didn’t really know the area that well just yet. But he got on the bus with you and followed you home.

Which to his surprise… was the compound he himself lived in.

“Wait… D-Did you…?”

Loki felt betrayed. Of course. He should have known Stark would send an agent to find him, no one really trusted him, and they had to assign him a nanny to make sure he–

“I’m glad I ran into you” You spoke, interrupting his train of thought. “I still feel anxious coming so far out of the city alone, sorry if I cut your trip short.”

That caught him off guard. Were you not follow him? He didn’t sense a lie, but perhaps he was still a bit distracted.

“You mean you found me by accident?” Loki asked.

“Yeah, I’m not used to the headquarters being a home, so I need to get out to stretch my legs every once in a while. Otherwise, I feel… I don’t know.”

“Imprisoned.” You finished, as Loki’s lips let out the exact same word in almost a perfect synchronization.

Again, no lie.

“Hah… yeah” you smiled. “Sorry, I probably sound like a brat, complaining about living in such a big place.”

“No, I understand perfectly.” Loki found himself say in soft tone.

Loki walked with you inside and accompanied to your room. The sight when you opened the door was rather dismal. Just a small bed, a desk. But the bed was interesting, or more like what was on top of it. A stuffed little bear with a green bow on its neck, and a travel bag. He assumed they did go with Director Fury’s intention of having the trainees educated like soldiers until they completed their training.

After that day he felt more interested on helping with the training of newer recruits, thing he crushingly refused to do before meeting you. But it was his excuse to see you more. And as he imagined, you were among the best recruits. You weren’t the strongest, nor the fastest, and definitely not the tallest given some mutants came to be even taller than him. But you were agile and flexible, and you worked harder than anyone else to make up for any shortcomings you could have.

And you were smart, the smartest in the group. Loki had seen Stark give tests to the recruits and your results always came among the best, and more often than not, you were on top of those results.

“You did it again” Loki would congratulate you.

“It’s just a number on a paper” you always replied back, “that doesn’t mean I am going to be good on the world out there.”

“And yet your leg is bouncing with excitement” Loki pointed out.

You laughed and placed a hand to your knee to make it stop.

“The ego boost is still appreciated” you replied, a bit sheepish.

You were his favorite of all the recruits. Not that it was a title most competed for, a lot just gave him wary looks when it was his turn to train recruits, after all who wanted to have the man who once terrorized Earth as the class teacher. But you always helped to control the group, willingly volunteering for sparring with him for demonstrations and even while everyone else got a partner you chose him, even when that meant it’d be ten times more difficult than picking another mutant.

But once again, that allowed him to get closer to you.

“I’m telling you, it’s magic!” you assured him pointing to the water bottle as you sat next to him.

“Sure, it is.”

He knew you had no magic. He had read your files –for purely professional reasons, like personalizing– and knew of your abilities. But he also had no clue how you had shoved a coin bigger than the bottles neck all the way to the bottom.

But he didn’t like that playful giggle of yours, it always meant trouble.

“Look inside if you don’t believe me.” You said placing your eye on the bottle orifice to get a better look at the coin.

He sighed and mimicked what you had done, pressing his eye to the bottle’s finish to get a better look and see if he could figure something to get it out.

“I don’t see–”

In a second you had squeezed the bottle and splash him in the face. Which was noticed by a few recruits that let out quiet laughs, unlike you who were giggling shamelessly at his expense.

“You! You... traitorous, cheeky, despicable, insolent–” Loki huffed as he latched onto your ribs and squeezed them repeatedly making you double over in laughter.

You batted his hand gently after about a minute as you regained his composure.

“Oh god, you’re my favorite thing ever, it’s been years since these pranks stooped working on everyone else” you laughed.

Loki huffed. “I wasn’t living here years ago.”

“Oh, I know that’s what makes it funnier” you laughed and patted his shoulder.

Other trainees were looking at him amused, but he noticed they seemed a lot less tense now. As if some of that fear they had was gone. It was… weirdly nice. So, he just sighed and rubbed his face with sleeve to dry himself off.

“You cannot expect me to go easy on you after your little stunt” he asked as he stood up.

“Mm, it’s already, I like rough treatment anyway” you winked at him.

That made some other people in the room as Loki’s cheeks heated up lightly. But he still smirked.

“We’ll see about that in a few minutes, won’t we?”

You were also what humans called, the class clown. And your favorite thing was to prank him. It was all harmless stuff, like when you started a game the entire class to start a game every time, he used Asgardian or just outdated expressions like “Norns” or “Heavens.” Or that time you taped giant googly eyes to your chest, so he had a hard time giving a lecture as he got the urge to laugh every time he glanced at you, and even had the audacity to tell him, “Hey, my eyes are up here!” as you bounced, making the googly eyes bounce all over the place. That time where you filled his locker with confetti and balloons.

It was embarrassing because despite he’s nature, he had no way to get back at you. His illusions didn’t faze you one bit, and the concept of pranks for a god weren’t particularly safe for humans, your style was weirdly benign, and he couldn’t match it. And everything he tried repeating from your pranks wasn’t really surprising.

He used to think nothing could ever bother you at all… Until he was wrong.

He found you one night by the roof, sitting with your legs hanging on the edge, but the little border made a secure railing that kept you safe. You had been gone for hours, even skipping training, and he saw a half empty bottle of Vodka behind you.

“What are you doing here?” he asked as he sat beside you.

“Wasting time, and Tony’s reserves” you joked bitterly. “Watching the forest.”

“It is a lovely night” Loki admitted. “But you were missed at today’s sparring. It is obvious I’m not nearly as tolerable without you around.”

“Just relax, they’ve already warmed up to you” you sighed. “No one likes a stiff teacher.”

It was true hay whenever you made him laugh everyone else seemed to ease up as well. He always attributed to your natural charm and that you relished embarrassing him. But… people were a lot less wary around him lately.

“What made you skip?” he asked.

“It’s the 13th anniversary since my mutation manifested” you sighed and you reached your arm into the sky, it stretched for a few meters before it regained its normal shape.

“I thought people here celebrated that” Loki inquired. “You act as if a partner abandoned you.”

“I don’t know, I think I miss being normal… well, more normal” you chuckled humorlessly. “Not feeling like an actual monster.”

Loki could relate to that, realizing that you are different means you will never wake up with the same concept of yourself, because as it turns out, you are a mistake, a cosmic improbability and turns out, you’ve never been like anyone else around you.

“You are not monster, you’re a–”

“Oh right, because mutant sounds so much nicer.”

“Does it upset you?” Loki asked. “Being the way you are?”

“Yes. No. A little? I don’t know, it’s like a dream living in the Avengers home.” You sighed. “But… don’t you ever get the feeling that rather than wanting to have you around they’re just don’t want you to go rogue? I mean, I get it, with all that’s happening with the Banshee black market…”

Loki couldn’t help but laugh at that. If anyone understood what you felt, that was him. You were a mutant, which granted was becoming much more transcendental these days. More with the mutation enhancing drugs circulating, SHIELD and other organizations were putting a lot of energy to make sure less mutants went on a rampage. But none of you actually had major lists of crimes on their backs, unlike Loki. If anyone was being monitored that was Loki.

Even if he was technically an official Avenger already, it always felt like it was all because of his connection with Thor and at most that he was already highly trained, better than most other Avengers.

“I assure you that they do not think that of you.” Loki spoke reassuringly. “The Incorporations of Mutants Program is simply to remove mutants from a dangerous environment.”

“Yeah, free of Banshee and even add some mutant soldiers to their ranks, it’s a win-win situation” you spoke bitterly.

A part of him felt weirdly nostalgic. His mind took him back to the treasure vault of Asgard, his words reverberating on the walls: «So I am no more than another stolen relic, locked up, here until you might have use of me?» And now, more than a decade later, he found himself defending his father. This was just the same, you weren’t necessarily wrong… but it only a piece of the picture, the hurtful bit of a picture.

“You’re right to feel that way.” Loki spoke reassuringly. “But know that these people care about you… even if their original intentions aren’t as selfless. Trust me, I would know.”

“That’s surprisingly mature for a prince that’s technically younger than me.”

He felt his cheeks warming up to your comment and scoffed out a laugh. Of course, even in a vulnerable moment you wouldn’t let the chance pass to tease him.

“What can I say? I am not just devilishly handsome, charming, and tremendously intelligent,” he smiled, “there’s gotta be some wisdom to balance it all out.”

That made you laugh in that way that made his heart flutter in his chest. And before he knew it, you had rested your head on his shoulder. He felt his cheeks heat up and a smile make its way to his face. Had it always been so difficult concealing his excitement?

“You forgot humble and down to earth” you chuckled and rolled your eyes.

“What can I say, darling?” he smiled, “I’m a perfect man, I am completely irresistible.”

“And you still can’t get a date” you smile nudging his side.

“Not my fault there” Loki chuckled, “I’m quite particular when choosing a lover.”

“Right, and you being insufferable has nothing to do with it” you smiled as you grabbed his side and gave him a few squeezes.

The feeling made him jolt and let out a strangled gasp. Of course, you little brat always took advantage of this silly weakness of him ever since you found out.

He remembered the day you found out, quite vividly.

It was a holiday, so most recruits were out for a couple of days with either family, friends, or a new fling. Even some of the Avengers with friends out of the compound left for a few days. So, it was the super soldiers, the Maximoff twins, Vision, Thor, Loki, and you.

Your family had left for a trip, so you had no reason to leave the compound. Loki was thrilled that he would have you practically to himself. He felt those butterflies deep within his chest every time he saw you alone in a room. Of course, he kept his cool as best he could, still being the same mischievous charmer he’s always been, despite feeling like a giddy kid at the sight of you.

Even the most ordinary of mornings were blissful with you around. Even things like breakfast you could always make a monotone activities fun. Like right now, making Thor and the Maximoff twins laugh and sing around with you while you were whipping pancake mix on a bowl. It was some sort of little dance party while you cooked.

Loki couldn’t help but stare and chuckle softly.

“Loki, good morning” you smiled as poured some mix on a frying pan. “Wanna join us for breakfast?”

“Is it required for me to squirm around like a possessed worm like you’re doing?” he joked.

“Yes, it is imperative that you do, otherwise the pancakes will come flat” you quipped back with a cheeky smile.

“Come on brother, I know Midgard dancing is very different from what we used to see at home,” Thor intervened, “But it is quite fun, give it a try!”

“That’s the attitude, Thor-nderstorm” you grinned as you continued to dance.

“In that case I think I’ll just do with some coffee” he cleared his throat as he spoke.

“Come on, brother” Thor insisted, shameless —or rather, clueless— as usual. “It’s fun!”

“Hey, no shame if he can’t do it” you said, “Not everyone can dance.”

Loki laughed.

“If you call that «dancing», I’ll let you know I am actually a great dancer” he stated, just so you knew.

“Loki, if someone has to inform me of their traits, I have learned not to believe that.” You challenged him.

He looked away, focusing on the black liquid dripping into the coffee pot, trying to think of anything else that wasn’t you. Just the coffee, dark, bitter, that he had to keep himself from drinking before bed or it’d deprive him of sleep... Just the way you…

“ACK—!” he was brought back by the squeeze on his sides that made him jump and hold back a yelp.

He was ready to yell at Thor, when he saw the outstretched arms and you looking at him from the other side of the kitchen, the hands returned to your hips. Everyone was looking at him.

“Oh, you’re back” you saw his rosy cheeks a bit confused. “Honey?”

“Excuse me?”

“What do you want your pancakes with? Honey?”

“Uh- I… I- no… Um, I didn’t— I…” he couldn’t even look at you.

But you gave him a reassuring smile.

“I recall you like them with honey” you smiled, “It’s Thor that likes them with maple syrup.”

“That’s correct” Thor beamed happily.

“Don’t finish it all you hoarder” Pietro quipped as he wrestled with the blond for the bottle of syrup.

He sighed quietly, thankful that they had moved onto the next subject. He served himself his cup of coffee and just when he was going to turn around, he felt a hand on his shoulder, and that gently traveled all the way down his side and caused him to shiver.

He looked at you with daggers in his eyes before checking on the rest that were focused on eating and didn’t notice anything, thankfully. You just look at him and chuckled, before handing him a plate with neatly piled up pancakes with honey and some a small mix of berries you knew he liked.

“I didn’t know all Gods were so ticklish, I thought it was a Thor thing” you whispered. “…Good to know.”

You might as well have buried him alive after that. But, to his surprise you didn’t tell anyone. No one brought it up, not even Thor, who was already painfully aware of how cripplingly sensitive Loki was. No, and the anticipation killed him for the next day or two.

You didn’t bring it up once until one night you had the entire compound to yourselves. The doctor Foster had invited Thor over to «watch movies», not that anyone bought that for a second, the Scarlet Witch had gone on a date with the Vision, Barnes and Rogers were out on a party thing and had taken the Maximoff brother with him to further introduce him as part of the team. So, it was you and Loki completely alone.

You were reading on the couch on the weirdest positions, with your head upside down and the book inelegantly hanging on the air as you red upside down with your back arched as it seemed you’d fall out of the couch any second.

He grinned. It was the perfect chance to get you back. He made sure to be very quiet as he approached you and moved very slowly so you wouldn’t notice him —human earbuds were a blessing for his mischief, but they were not infallible— and right when he was towering over you. He squeezed both your sides.

“AAAAAAHHH!” you screeched as you fell off the couch.

Loki looked over to where you were laying on the floor where you had a hand over your heart.

“Loki! You nearly gave me a heart attack!” You scolded him.

What? No blush, no squeaky voice, no stuttering, no nervous shifting or even a giggle? No nothing? Were you that good at playing dumb? No way.

“What was that for?”

“I am sorry, I simply can’t resist when someone is vulnerable like that” Loki shrugged it off and sat on the couch, hoping you wouldn’t ask him to elaborate. “What are you reading?”

You sat back up next to him and showed him the baby blue book with pink letters and a couple kissing on the cover. One of those romance novels you liked.

“Is that the one you told me about?” Loki asked.

“It’s the one” you grinned and noticed the book beside him. “What are you reading?”

“Just old Asgardian poetry” he said, showing you the book, despite knowing you don’t speak Asgardian. He noticed the look you gave him, with an arched eyebrow and a smug grin, “It’s old even for me. Just old love poems.”

Your eyes sparkled like absolute diamonds, and you scooted closer to him, your face just inches from his. “Can you read one to me?”

He felt his cheeks flush at your excitement, and the clumsiness. But he cleared his throat and opened it on the poem he was reading. But he decided to be smug and read it just like it showed, in old Norse.

“Oh, so funny.” You growled and jabbed his sides.

Loki nearly jumped out of his skin and barked out a laugh. A laugh that didn’t go unnoticed given you quickly followed that same movement that had made him squirm. He very did a very poor job at concealing his reaction.

His brain quickly felt fuzzy, he could feel his restrained laughter echoing in his chest, and even still a few snickers were slipping out. His arms felt like worms just clumsily trying to find your hands to push you away. His face was impossibly hot and surely a dark shade of red at this point. His mind was on its knees begging for him to succumb and allow his body to laugh. And that’s exactly what he did when your hands sneaked past his arms and gently wiggled against the skin on his armpits.

“Wahahait! Stohohohop that!” he laughed.

“So that’s what your laugh sounds like” you teased him. “Hm… it’s actually kinda cute.”

“Stohohop this or ehehehehelse!” he latched his hands to your forearms but found that he didn’t even have the strength in himself to push you away.

Maybe it was that subliminal fear that he knew how fragile humans were. Maybe he was just that stupidly ticklish. Or… maybe your fingers were warm, and soft… and you had never given him this much attention.

He had fallen back on the couch, and you sat on his waist, straddling him with your legs on each side, and your hands were now exploring every bit of his torso to see what got him to laugh the hardest, your eyes were looking for every reaction, and your words were dedicated solely to tease him. He truly had you all for himself right now.

And it was driving him crazy.

“Mohohohortal! Cease this ahahahahat once!” he cackled. “It’s ahahahahan ordeheher!”

“Oh?” you smiled in a made that made his insides tingle, “I don’t think you’re in any position to make that call~”

Your thumbs dug into his hipbones that made him arch his back as he let out a loud screech and followed by a stream of guffaws. You laughed along with him, and it almost made this torture worth it.

Worth it, not more bearable.

“Plehehehease, no more! I surrender!” he laughed as he clumsily slapped your forearm in what he had learned was a sign of giving up.

“Wait, seriously” you asked, a bit surprised that you had actually gotten to him.

“Yehehehes, please, I yieheheheld!”

And thank gods it worked. You immediately stopped tickling him and helped him sit back up.

“You okay there?” you smiled at him, and his only response was tackling you to try getting some well-deserve revenge.

Ever since that night you had tormented every once in a while, by tickling him silly whenever you felt like it. But somehow you always had the decency to make it behind closed doors, where no one could see him laughing like an idiot at the mercy of a mortal simply tickling him. And… laying on your bed at late hours was very much worth it, the books he brought to read for you could always wait.

Loki and you chatted for a few hours and soon you sober up enough which relaxed Loki enough, but he noticed your conversation turned more melancholic, contrasting with your grumpy drunk rant earlier. You talked about your family, old jobs, and a department you owned before moving in on the compound.

“Can I tell you something funny?” you smiled sadly, and he nodded. “I miss being ticklish.”

“Well darling, I think that’s been enough alcohol for you.” Loki said as he grabbed the bottle and made it vanish away from you.

“I mean it!” you laughed.

“You’re insane.”

“It’s… I used to laugh so easy… Now every poke, every squeeze, every jab…” you poked your side and your finger sunk in your skin. “It’s… I don’t know… absorbed? I don’t feel anything like I used to.”

He remembered, the time you tickled him silly, how he attempted to get revenge, and how poorly it ended for him.

He latched his hands to your sides and squeezed you thoroughly. He crawled his hands over your belly, he pinched your ribs, and skittering his fingers under your arms. He experimented on every inch of your body.

But at most you gave him a soft breathy laugh, more amused than ticklish induced.

“Sorry Loki, I’m not that ticklish” you smiled trying to be apologetic, but you seemed more amused.

Your armed stretched and wrapped in circles around his bicep to pin his arm upward and still stretched enough to reach and tickle under his arm.

Needless to say, this time he didn’t get a break so easily.

“I doubt there is any actual downside to being the way you are” Loki encouraged you, “I’d give anything to not be… you know…”

“Cripplingly ticklish?” you smiled and elbowed his side making his face flush.

Norns, where had the days gone when he used to be a charming silver-tongued flirt? He used to be swooning men, women, and mythical beings alike, but your silly teasing for some reason had him blushing like a young boy.

“I-It’s… not how I would have phrased that…”

“I would” you cut him off with a giggle and poked his ribs, making him jump and barely hold back a squeak. A squeak.

“Right… Nowhere near the point I was trying to make” he sighs.

“I know… I just miss that intimacy” you sighed.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know, tickling was fun when I was little, it’s a nice way of being close to others” you sighed as you rested your head against his shoulder. “And I wish I could have that. Usually I get «no, it’s unfair since you’re not ticklish» and well… No more fun for me.”

Close to others.

He gulped at the warmth of your body as you leaned on him. His heart was racing, his hands were sweaty, his face was burning, he felt a knot in his throat and his breath was hitching.

“Tickle me then.”

“What did you say?!”

What did he say?!

Loki had been through the toughest training regimes growing up, he’d been deadly injured in battle countless time before he even turned 1000 years old, he’d withstand the most merciless tortures, and had been clinically dead more than once. But ever since he was little the one thing he couldn’t stand, was getting tickled. It was so bad to the point where the only people who could tickle him were his parents and Thor… who also had the advantage of being about three times stronger than Loki.

He remembered vividly the last time he was tickled past his limit he had lost control of his magic and unintentionally sent Thor to the healing room for two days (although he had been too proud to admit it had been an accident). The fact that you had left your last encounter tickling him unscathed was a miracle.

“Are you serious?” you asked him, looking at him suspiciously.

Truthfully, he didn’t know if he was. He was so convinced he hated being tickled, that he couldn’t understand why the idea actually felt… Exciting? Appealing? He tried convincing himself it was just the idea of having your hands on him.

“Yes, how bad can it really be?” Loki nearly wanted to die when he felt his voice crack in nervousness, and he had to clear his throat. “You’re just a human, after all.”

“Oh, is that so?” you chuckle. “Mm, I might take you on that offer then.”

You squeezed his side and his breath hitched.

“W-Wait, don’t!” he gasped and grabbed your hand.

“Oh, here better?” you grinned and used your other hand to squeeze above his knee, which made him jolt and grab your other hand by reflex.

“Gods, you do not make this easy” he chuckled softly.

“We don’t have to do this if you’re not comfortable” you smiled genuinely. “I still appreciate the intention.”

The disappointed look on your face was all the motivation he needed, he pulled you towards him and sat facing you, guiding your hands to his sides as he felt his face burning. How terminally insane had he gone?

“Do it before I change my mind” he said firmly.

“Pfft!” you giggled, “You’re crazy.”

“It would seem so” he smiled. “Let’s get this over with…”

You chuckled and you started skittering your fingernails along his sides. Loki’s jaw tensed immediately as he felt his lips started twitching upward.

“Aww… you’re so ticklish, Loki” you smiled as you kept tracing your fingers up and down his sides, from his hips to his upper ribs. “It’s so charming.”

He cursed his choice of wardrobe today, and Midgardian fashion in general, he could have used a good layer of his Asgardian leather armors. Now a cotton shirt and black jeans served him very little as your finger tormented his sides.

And he was starting to giggle already.

“Yohohohou’re such a pehehehehest!”

“C’mon… it is pretty cute how you laugh,” you smiled, “your voice is so deep but your giggles are so light.”

“I’m nohohohot cute! Hehehe- Hey! Dohohohn’t touch thehehehere!” he giggled when your hands wiggled towards the sides of his belly.

“Oh, your pwetty tummy is so ticklish, isn’t it?” you cooed doing bloody baby talk, “You so cute~”

“Stohohohohop!” he guffawed. “Do nohohot patronize mehehehe!”

He hated how well you had learned how sensitive his stomach was. You had tickled him about three times total prior to this peak of insanity, but the weak spot that was his entire abdomen didn’t go unnoticed from the first time.

“I’m sorry, it’s so hard not to tease you when you have such a cute way of laughing.”

“I’m nohohohohot! Stop sahahaying that!” he protested between laughs.

“You should see yourself” you smiled at him. “The way you scrunch up your nose and stick your tongue out ever so slightly is so endearing!”

“Shuhuhuhut up!” he laughed as he bent over to try protecting his belly from your fingers.

You were being so gentle to him, simply skittering your fingers over his shirt. Being anyone else, that might have just gotten a few giggles out, but he was so ridiculously ticklish, especially there. That this delicate taunt to the skin had him hysterical.

“No mohohohore!” he pleaded, “Not thehehehere!”

“Not where?” you asked innocently. “Here?”

And you poked gently over the patch of skin right below his navel.

“Cuhuhut it out! Gehehet away from my stomahahahach!” he cackled, “I’m behehegging you!”

For some reason you decided to listen and move from his gut, moving to poke and knead his ribs, even doing those unbearable ticklish pinches around him.

You had a hellish ability to have him in stitches.

It kept going for a while, you would explore a spot, have him giggling like a child and then move onto the next to start over, not giving him a chance to get used to any sensation or spot.

“Dahahahahahahahaharling, plehehease!” he laughed, “thahahat’s so bahahahad!”

Seemingly that phrased worked and it stopped you giving him the chance to catch his breath, he placed a hand over his chest, feeling it rise and fall as he tried refilling his lungs with air.

“You little imp!” Loki panted “I was being so nice to you!”

“So was I” you smiled, “I’ve tickled you before, you know how bad it can be.”

Surely you were right, but the way you said it, almost like a promise, made Loki’s cheeks flare up, not that it would’ve been noticeable given how his face was flushed from laughing.

“You’re a menace” he chuckled, as he ruffled your hair “How come I’ve grown so fond of a little nuisance like yourself?”

“What can I say? I’m irresistible like that” you laughed as you rested your head against his arm.

He chuckled as he felt a lingering warmth spreading from where you were resting against his arm to his chest.

“Maybe you are” he sighed with a smile. If only you knew.

“Loki… can I ask you something?” you looked up at him.

“What is it?”

“Are you happy… living here?” you asked. “Or… have you never thought of running away?”

His face darkened. It made sense, but the idea of you thinking of him as a potential traitor stung worse than every awful thing said to or by him in stupid fights with Thor or his parents when the arguments got heated.

“Why do you ask?”

“Well, you lived in a castle, with luxury, prestige, fame and power” you spoke, “isn’t this too little for you? Don’t you feel trapped?”

Now that reasoning he didn’t expect. He smiled at you fondly.

“You make me sound like a spoiled brat” he chuckled.

“Aren’t you?” you chuckled.

“Of course not, I am the epitome of humility” he claimed, making you laugh. “But… answering to your question… I used to feel trapped, every day I’d be plotting my escape, how to make my great escape.”

“And we won't hear a word they say…” you chuckled.

“What?” he smiled.

“Nothing, The Great Escape is a song, continue” you smiled.

“And trust me… at first… I tried, they didn’t take long to catch me analyzing their security systems and patrolling schedules in a chance to sneak out. I was given so many last warnings and caused Thor so much trouble. Until… eventually I realized… I had nowhere to run to” Loki spoke sadly, “And eventually I stopped trying, this was all I had, and I had to make the best of it. At least my brother was around…”

“Aw, so you do care about Thor” you smiled as you nudge his side.

“I did not say that, and you are not to tell him that” Loki spoke in a fake seriousness. “His ego is big enough as it is.”

“Oh, you’re criticizing him about his big ego.” You laughed, and Loki’s heart fluttered, “You should tell him, he would be very happy that his little brother loves him.”

“Perhaps I will one day” Loki smiled, resting his cheek on the top of your head. “Now, as I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted…”

“Diva” you muttered under your breath, making Loki chuckle.

“…Eventually I resigned to living here,” he continued. “And one day, the Incorporation of Mutant Program was introduced.”

“I’m still not over the fact that we were named the IMPs” you laughed, making Loki snicker.

“Are you kidding? That was the only thing I considered salvageable of you all at the time.” Loki joked, earning a poke on the ribs from you, “…Among the other Avengers I was requested to instruct the recruits. Which I refused to do.”

“And then you met me” you smiled.

“And then I met you.” Loki agreed. “Which made it all more bearable, you at least provided me with some challenge and entertainment.”

“That’s a really twisted way to say you like me” you chuckled.

If you only knew…

“Would you believe me if I said I did?”

“That’s fair.”

The triggered something in him, a moment of bravado that made him want to risk everything and tell you.

“Are you sure of that?” he asked, as he gently placed a finger under your chin, and pulled for you to look at him. “Even if I said you drive me completely crazy?”

Oh, the look of shock that adorned your now blushing features was delicious.

“Even if I said that I think about you on every waking moment, and that just for the sake of that smile of yours I’d withstand the most barbarous tortures… That for the longest time now you’ve had my heartstrings wrapped around your fingers, playing me like a puppet at your will just for the sake of you one day maybe looking at me the way I look at you.”

“What…? Wh— L-Loki… I— you—!” you stuttered.

Your face was red, but you didn’t seem repelled by his confession. Thank goodness. He thought maybe giving you some time to organize your words was the best thing he could do.

“Why me?” you finally asked.

“Why not?”

“I’m not particularly strong, powerful or attractive” you stated. “Even among just the other recruits.”

“I beg to differ, it takes a lot to render a god helpless like you did earlier.”

“Because you allowed me to” you retorted.

“Because I am crazy about you” Loki said gently.

“Why?”

“You’re stubborn, you get on my nerves all the time, you question and defy my authority every chance you have, and you have no fear of the consequences of crossing a god, especially one with my history.” Loki chuckled. “That takes a lot of courage.”

You smiled at him shyly, and oh gods, the amount of self-control it took not to tackled you and kiss the daylights out of you was ridiculous.

“You are funny, and witty, you have these innocent eyes that make me want to blindly believe you every time you pull one of your stupid pranks on me.”

“And you fall every time” you smiled as the pink shade returned to your cheeks.

“I fall every time” he whispered with a gentle nod. “I fall every time you smile, every time you laugh and every time you look at me as if I was someone interesting and worth getting to know better.”

“You are worth getting to know better… Hell, you’re worth risking a friendship for…”

“Risking a friendship— Mmph?!”

Before he could process what you had done he was already melting against your lips that were sweetly pressed against his.

He felt your fingers sneaking behind him, brushing gently against his neck, which made him laugh softly against the kiss before they continued their journey to his head, where they started playing with his hair in a way that caused him to swoon. In return he placed his hands on the small of your back, brushing his thumbs against you.

And you let out a giggle.

“What was that?” he asked amused.

“W-Wait, do it again!” You smiled brightly.

Loki smiled and brushed his fingers gently across your back and you let out a little giggle.

“It tickled!” You exclaimed.

“Oh did it…?” he smiled and experimented by gently scratching your sides and belly, just soft caresses with his blunt nails over your skin.

And you were giggling like a happy kid.

“Would you look at that…” Loki taunted you. “The little springy mortal is ticklish after all.”

You just rested against his chest as he tickled you, not protesting or squirming at all, just happy giggles. He supposed it made sense, pokes, squeezes, and jabs did nothing, but your skin was still sensitive enough to react to caresses, and it turned out it was all he needed. He took his sweet time exploring every little spot on your body that made you giggle.

Perhaps tickling was fun after all.

| Masterpost |

[psychedelic-ink]

𝐅𝐑𝐀𝐆𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐎𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐖.

DAY NINE OF HAUNTED HOEDOWN

prompt: zombie apocalypse au + "every moment might be our last, let's make the most of it."

pairing: tasm!peter parker x f!reader

genre: explicit smut, minors dni, angst with happy-ish ending

summary: After a massive ecological disaster, the world is overrun by mutated flora and fauna, along with infected humans that sprout vines and flowers. Nature itself has turned against humanity, and you thought Peter would be by your side. That Spider-Man would protect you and those close to you—you never thought you'd be wrong in both aspects. But now he's back, and you don't know how to react.

word count: 1.8k

warnings: arguing, death/grief, brief mention of readers little sister dying, angst, peter is still spiderman in this, emotional sex, piv

a/n: to be completely honest I don't actually think peter would just leave you to fend for yourself in this situation but I really wanted some angsty arguing and this is all I could come up with fgbgfb

The word had gone to shit. You lost everything while seeking refuge. Your friends, your family—everyone. Nature had claimed what was hers violently, poisoning those who came close and changing them as she saw fit. It was beautiful, yet horrifying. Petals sprouted from skin like daisies, eyes replaced by fuzzy pistils as the skull slowly bloomed into beautiful large petals. These were called bloomspawns and they walked aimlessly, looking for their next target to rid the world of humans once and for all. 

New York had quickly became a mess. Planes crashing and humans running over each other to get away. You were amongst them, hand in hand with your sister, trying to find safety. 

Peter was with you then, which meant Spider-man was with you and you felt safe. 

But then he left. Soon after, you lost everyone one by one, your sister’s death hurting you the most. You couldn’t protect her, and she was still young, muscles not strong enough to outrun a bloomspawn. You had to put a bullet in her before she turned and saw nightmares still. He’d said he had to help and that it was happening all around the world. You knew Peter was smart, which meant he needed both his brains and his brawn. 

Some part of you believed there was another reason for his sudden departure, you saw fear in his eyes the day before when you were almost killed—it was the fear of history repeating itself, that you would die too, taking another part of his heart. 

Now, you’re alone. Not a person or any other being in sight as you walk through the ruins of the city you once called home. The chill of the night slowly settles as the sun sinks into the horizon. You’re looking for shelter, any place that can be safe enough for you to spend the night. A soft sigh parts your lips. You’re not even sure why you’re trying to be completely honest, the apocalypse wouldn’t be ending anytime soon. 

Deep in thought, you don’t hear someone moving with haste above the rubble of concrete. 

It all happens in a flash. A covered hand clamps over your mouth, halting the scream that threatens to bubble from your throat, you thrash within the solid embrace of the stranger, attempting to kick him but his legs always seemingly out of reach. You can’t reach your gun or your knife and this time you’re certain death is near—

“Shhh it’s me—it’s me. Peter.”

Peter? 

The grip around you loosens a bit when your struggle slows and becomes nonexistent. You’re breathing heavily, shoulders still tense and untrusting. “Peter Parker,” he clarifies, clearing his throat. “Don’t know why I just said Peter, as if there’s not a million of us.” 

His hand finally falls away from your mouth but he’s still holding you flush against his body, your back pressed firmly against his chest. 

“Peter?” you say, almost brokenly. “You’re. . . here?” 

You part away to turn around and he lets you. He doesn’t have the mask on but is wearing the red and blue suit. Your heart somersaults, body caught between a deep yearning and violent anger. He smiles as your gaze meets his but the expression quickly flickers and disappears. The sky above you transitions into twilight, painting the horizon with a mesmerizing palette of deep purples and shades of dark blue. You wrap your arms around yourself, tearing your gaze away from him. 

“Where the fuck have you been?” you ask, voice soft and silent despite the words. “I needed you with me, Peter.” 

Peter attempts to take a step forward and stops when he sees your arms tightening around yourself, “You know why,” he says, knowing well it’s a weak excuse. “They needed me. We’re so close to a cure.” 

You almost want to laugh, what good is a cure when you’ve lost everything. 

“Everyone’s dead, Peter,” you finally look at him, challenging the comfort he came to offer after abandoning you. Venom drips from every word. “She’s fucking DEAD, Peter!” 

You do walk up to him then. Full of rage and bloodlust. You push him away but he barely moves, his eyes gradually moving between your face and your balled fists. “It’s your fault!” you shout again, side-fists hitting his chest. You know he doesn’t feel it. That you’re not strong enough to hurt him—and you don’t want to hurt him, but you’re just so mad. “Sarah’s dead because of you! B—Because of me.” 

You break down and your knees give way, you manage to remain upright just in time for Peter to hold you, wrapping strong arms around you as you begin to sob into his chest. 

You’re shaking, nose stuffed, and throat raw. No matter how many times you blame Peter, it was your fault too, you had to share the blame. He holds you tight, biceps tensing every time you dare to move away from him. He cradles the back of your head, lips touching your forehead. 

“It’s not your fault,” he mutters. “If you want to blame someone blame me. I’m the asshole who left. I was the one afraid and bolted the first chance I got. You’re a survivor, unlike me—I’m truly sorry. I never meant for this to happen.” 

“She really liked you, you know?” you answer, ignoring all that he said. Your voice bounces off of his chest. “She believed you would come for us. That there was no way you would just leave and if you did, it had to be for something great.” 

Peter doesn’t answer and you continue, “If you found a cure, I guess she was right.” 

“I should have never left you or her,” he says, tilting your head up from your chin. A soft gasp parts your lips. Your anger melts away, leaving yearning and want to fill the void it left behind. The whites of his eyes are stained with red, glimmering with unshed tears. You hold his face between your hands and pull him close until your lips brushes upon his. You almost smile as you hear Peter’s breath hitch, a sound that you’ve missed so dearly. 

His lips meet yours halfway. His kiss is a lifeline in a world that's fallen apart, a fragile connection to a time when things were simpler, when your sister's laughter filled the air, and the bloomspawns were nothing more than weeds underneath your feet. The taste of his lips is just like you remember. Sweet, tender. You want to give every part of yourself to him. Every inch, every scar, every wound. 

You pull him closer, fingers tangled in the tattered remnants of his suit, as if trying to hold onto the past, to the world that once was where Spider-man was enough to save the day. 

Peter responds in kind, his kiss deepening with the tilt of his head. You feel his tongue tracing the seam of your lips and you part for him with a soft whimper. He licks himself into your mouth, tongues moving in unison, your body rapidly grows hot. Arousal pools between your legs and he swallows all the tiny noises that you make, his hands deftly moving over your body. 

Everything happens so quickly. You two find a small room that is solid enough to keep you safe for the night, not that you’re worried when Peter is around, he strips your quickly, kissing every patch of exposed skin as he lays you upon the old dusty bed. Your hand moves down between his legs, feeling the heft of him through the thin fabric while he sucks on your neck with an insatiable hunger. Peter groans into your skin and ruts into your palm. 

“Been so long,” he whispers, pulling back to look at you. “I’ve missed you, I don’t deserve you.” 

You kiss him again, long and deep and before you know it he’s pulling away. He shreds himself from his suit and climbs between your already spread legs with his cock in his hand, “Why?” he chokes out. 

"Every moment might be our last,” you smile despite yourself, your grief momentarly forgotten thanks to him. “Let's make the most of it."

You swear you see his pupils dilate. He strokes and spreads the beading precome all over his length. He lines himself up with you, the head of his cock teasing your entrance. 

“I really need to be inside you right now,” he murmurs against your lips. “Is that okay?” 

“Yes,” you gasp, back arching. “Peter, please—” 

Your plea is enough for him to press forward, burying himself wholly with one smooth thrust. Your cheeks heat up at how wet you are and how easy your body made it for him. Experimentally, Peter pulls back and sinks into the tight fist of your heat again, wet sounds echoing from where you two connect. 

“Holy shit, baby,” he groans, eyelids fluttering. “Are you this wet for me?” 

He doesn’t wait for your answer and fucks himseld deeper into you. Peter’s movements are sloppy and full of need, an ache you’ve been feeling all this time when you were apart from him. Your breathing is labored and your chest heaves with the effort of his thrusts. But his rhythm is perfect, hitting all the right spots within you, as if he'd memorized the map of your body after all the times before. Your body trembles against him as pleasure builds within. 

He nibbles your neck and teases your skin with his fingers and kisses, pushing you that much further. He rocks his hips forward, making the bed move along with you, your body dripping for him. 

Your fingers curl against his skin and your eyes close in delight. You sense Peter straining. You nearly wrap your legs around his waist wanting to feel him in your deepest parts but he pulls out. He presses his sweaty forehead against yours, his chest eheaving as he fucks his fists. He shudders on top of you, thick ropes of come dripping down his fingers and onto your stomach. A shiver crawls up your spine. You arch your back, letting out a moan of your own as he continues to stain your skin. 

When he’s done, you expect him to wrap his arms around you, but you’re pelasantly surprised as Peter moves down your body, lifting both your legs above his shoulder. His warm breath tickles your soaked pussy, forcing the clench of muscle. 

“Did you think I would leave you hanging?” he asks, tone playful. “Fuck, I’ve missed your taste so bad.” 

Your eyes roll back as his tongue licks between your folds. In that moment, nothing else matters. Jut him and you, in this room, hoping that this broken world would soon heal.

No matter what the future brings, you know you are safe in the arms of your Spider-Man.

[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

[flowerpotmage]

Tight Grip, Broken Dam (10)

<< Previous Chapter | Masterlist | Next Chapter >>

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

Pair: Miguel O'Hara & GN!Reader

Notes: for series: slow burn, ambiguous relationship, found family dynamics, reader is in their late 20s. for chapter: blood, gore, semi-graphic descriptions of injury

Word Count: 5.3k

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

The sound of city traffic washes over you like a chorus of songbirds, like the rattle of rough pebbles gently dragged against each other by retreating waves. Up here, high on the old domed rooftop, the sounds of the city feel as much a part of the natural world as the post-twilight darkness that blankets the sky. It’s only the beginning of the night, so your suit is still clean and your skin still dry, unsalted from sweat.

You never go out on weekends, at least not as anyone other than Spider: it’s too busy of a night to neglect your responsibilities. Too many people clashing in the night, like so many bumper cars at the fair. Everyone wants something on late, free weekend nights. And it’s your job to play referee.

You snort as the thought crosses your mind. You’ve been spending too much time around the serious Spiders if this is what your internal monologue has become. Bumper cars? Referee? You’re a mutated human in a custom made suit swinging on material that comes out of your own damn body in the dark of night to thwart petty criminals. Hardly something to be poetic about.

At least you’re not the only one. Even putting the others in the Spider Society aside, it’s a relief to know that there’s other heroes here in your own dimension putting in the work. The X-Men, Tony Stark, even the historic legend of Captain America. You. And, over the last year, the masked man of Hell’s Kitchen. Having someone else local leaves one less neighborhood for you to worry about.

There, in the distance: Frantic flashes of red and blue catch your focus. You pull your mask down, the barrier pushing away the soft caress of cool night air on your skin, and swing off into the city towards them.

Upon arrival you see a ring of police cars radiating around a nightclub entrance, blockades on either end of the street. They’re surrounding a venue you’ve never heard of before, much less actually been to.

“Howdy, officers,” you say, dropping down near a cluster of uniforms talking nervously amongst themselves. “What seems to be the problem?”

The one with his back turns towards you, and you recognize something familiar in the blue of his eyes, his blond hair. Your eyes dart down to his uniform—Ah. This must be the new captain.

“Captain,” you greet, with a little salute.

“Spider,” he says, glancing from you to the club building. “It’s been a while.”

You know what he’s referring to: your abrupt and sudden withdrawal from cooperating with the police force.

“Family matters,” is all you say. Not a lie.

This new Captain looks like he wants to say something, but then with another glance at the building and a shake of his head he thinks better of it. “We have a hostage situation,” he says.

“Any demands?”

“Not as of yet,” he says, and the two of you begin walking closer to the building, closer to the edge of the perimeter. “Our guess is at least five men.”

You don’t miss the way he seems reluctant to even be telling you this, the uncomfortable sideways glances and the tension in his shoulders that you just know isn’t only from the turn his work has taken for the night.

You perch your hands on your hips, surveying the building. It’s at least four stories high, no windows except at the top floor. You point up at them, looking at the Captain.

“I can get in and at least give you a better picture of what’s inside.”

He purses his lips. “I don’t kn–”

But you’re already pulling yourself up into the air on your web, landing on the brick between two windows. The lights are off inside, and the reflecting red and blue of the lights off the glass doesn’t give you an easy look inside. Neither do the drawn curtains.

“Spider’s going in?” you hear someone say down below, the faint voice bumping against your focus. 

You don’t catch the captain’s returning comment, but you do hear the gruffness of his voice.

You push your thoughts aside, crawling on the wall over to the next window—Aha! A gap in the curtains lets you peer through and scan the room as best you can. It seems to be a managerial office for the club. There’s a desk and a couch, art on the walls, a freestanding wardrobe to one side. The door across from the window is cracked, letting a sliver of light shine through, the characteristic pre-green era yellow cutting across the carpet.

Carefully, you slide the window open.

No alarm. Cocky.

You glance back at the officers on the street below. You wave, point a thumb in through the window, salute, and vault in—but not before catching the way the captain throws a disbelieving hand in the air.

You slide the window closed, staying crouched to the ground and strain to listen.

This floor is silent. No, wait—

The creak of a floorboard in the hall outside the room you’re in.

Still crouched, you half-crawl your way to the cracked doorway. If you stay low they’re less likely to see you peek through out of the corner of their eyes—People never expect you to come from below.

In the hall is one man, shifting from foot to foot under the weight of his tactical gear. Everything about his stance screams casual, confident, relaxed.

Good.

When he turns his head away to cough into his elbow, even with his ski mask covering his mouth (aw, he cares!) you pull the door open and make your move. He’s webbed against the wall in the blink of an eye, his ski mask stuffed in his mouth.

He yells at you through it, voice muffled, when you pat his cheek and slip down the hall.

That’s a promising start, you think to yourself.

The third floor is empty, the space containing a large dressing room with sprawling messy vanities covered in makeup and spare bits of clothes. At least, you think it is until you hear a voice whisper–shout your moniker.

“Spider!”

You whip your head around, looking for the source of the hiss, when a clothing rack in the corner rustles and a face peers out from between two sparkling slinky dresses. You glance back over your shoulder, rushing over in a slight crouch.

“Are you alright?”

She’s pretty, you briefly think. Full round lips, dark glossy brown hair in 1920s style fingerwaves–

She nods. “Thank god you’re here, I don’t know what–”

“It’s okay,” you reassure, reaching out to calm her with a hand on her forearm. “The police are outside. How many are there?”

She shakes her head frantically, body trembling.

“What happened?” you press.

“A bunch of men came in, all geared up like some kind of action movie SWAT team,” she whispers. “I was working the top balcony, bussing tables. I was near the stairs when they came in.”

“How many?”

She shakes her head again. “And then there was this bright orange light, not the club lights going up, and–” she somehow manages to look you right in the eye through the lenses of your mask. “This big, huge monster came rocketing through and then it— it— it started eating–”

You freeze. An anomaly? Again?

“I’ll take care of it,” you reassure, squeezing her arm. “But, just to make sure, when you say eating-”

“It bit one of the guys’ heads off. Literally.”

Your stomach lurches. “Got it.” You start to go, pause and turn to look back at her. “Stay here.”

She nods, retreating back behind her shield of sequins and silk. You turn to go, and then realize—

“Hey, where are the stairs?”

One of her hands pokes back out and points you in the right direction.

“Got it. Thanks.”

It turns out the first two floors of the club are one big open space, a wraparound balcony lined with booths and tables taking up what would be the second story. The music is still playing; a song with a lively beat for dancing and a crooning man’s voice, one you think is trying too hard to sound sexy.

People are cowering and crying in their designer clothes, and it doesn’t take you long to figure out why they’re in such a state despite the absence of the armed men that had originally brought the swarm of officers to the door.

You’d never thought you’d describe crunching as wet, but that’s the only thing that comes to mind when the sounds reach your ears through the somewhat dulled music. Wet crunching, and slurps, and—and pleased growls.

“Tasty. Different.”

You know that voice.

Nobody sees you on the ceiling, crawling on your fingertips. There’s a splatter of blood and shredded black fabric on the balcony, where you guess one of the original perps had stood.

Your stomach squeezes, twisting and rocking in unease. Much like the sound of him eating, the smell of blood now carries through the smells of designer perfumes and colognes and spilled drinks, finding your nose under your mask. There’s a sickening rip and slurp, the sound of something wet hitting the floor, and then you’re far enough into the room to see him down below.

Venom.

He’s not your dimension’s Venom, no—this one looks, for lack of a better adjective, wetter. The club lights bounce off his form, shining and shimmering and enhancing every inch of hulking alien flesh. In his hands is–

You have to cover your mouth. This is not your Venom.

You worry that you might be out of your depth with this one. But he’s almost out of armed men to eat, if the… If the unrecognizable thing in his hands is enough to go off, or the unconscious man six feet away with a missing lower leg, face down and shaking on the tile.

You decide to start with him, while this Venom is still eating.

Silently, you begin lowering yourself down on a web to the dance floor, gesturing at various patrons to be quiet, to not give you away. You drop the last few feet to land beside the man on the ground, forcing down your roiling stomach at the sight of his knee. He’s barely conscious, and for that you’re glad. It means he’s silent when you cover his bleeding stump with your web to stem the flow of blood and remains so when you lift him into your arms. He’s bigger, but you’re strong, and you swing him up to the balcony to tuck into a booth with crying and cowering patrons.

“I need you to do me a favor,” you whisper to them. “See that door over there? That goes to the next floor. I need you to all start, as quietly as possible, start getting out of here. And I need you to bring this guy with you. Can you do that?”

Wide, wet eyes stare back at you.

“Can you do that?” You ask again, voice firm. They nod.

You have to trust them, and you start sneaking people out of the top balcony out to the next floor.

They’re almost all gone when Venom finishes his meal and turns to find that his next course has disappeared.

He roars.

“Okay, no more sneaking, go, gogogo–”

The last stragglers run for it, and you web the door shut behind them, vaulting over the railing to keep Venom’s attention off the lower floor guests and on you. 

Venom launches at you with big angry teeth and claws, chasing you up to the balcony when you swing out of his reach.

Step one: Get Venom away from people. Check.

“FRONT DOOR!” You shout over the railing, dodging Venom’s outstretched talons with a spin that would have left you dizzy before the spider bite.

You don’t bother looking to see if the crowd below listens, all your attention on dodging Venom and keeping him up here, away from the civilians. You leap from floor, to ceiling, dropping and leaping back from a swipe of claws, landing on your back on the booth table—

Cornered.

Venom’s on you in seconds, claws ripping through the leg of your suit, shredding across your ribs as you scramble backwards, the table splintered into pieces where you had been moments before. Muscle memory and instincts take over, and you flip up onto the ceiling again, shooting off and away over his head.

He’s big, strong and hungry.

But you’re fast. And clever.

You get him to follow you, your back to the balcony—a quick look over your shoulder confirms that the club doors are open, the last people scrambling for the exit. Venom’s tackle crashes you both through the metal railing, a quick web to his face preventing him from swallowing your arm whole before you crash to the floor.

Another glance, the last person is out the door.

Step two: Get the first floor clear. Check.

You kick him off, his hands still clawing at the webs on his face. Two more webs stick them there, another rooting his feet to the floor.

A quick flick of your wrist sends a containment generator out of your watch and skittering across the floor, the polyhedral containment field springing out around his massive raging form. And none too soon, as his hands rip free of the webs less than a second later.

“Fuck,” you sigh, head thumping back onto the floor where you still lie from the tackle through the balcony railing.

Your heart pounds, and as adrenaline recedes, the sharp sting of your injuries comes to the forefront. You touch your hand to your ribs and it comes away soaked. “Great. Now I have to make a new suit again.”

You push through to lift the watering can above your head to water the pothos nearest your kitchen, medical tape pulling uncomfortably at your skin. The unpleasant feeling almost distracts from the way the cuts, if you can call them that, prickle with warmth—you lower the watering can, touching the bandage through your shirt. It hasn't bled through but you can still feel the wetness of your own blood on your skin, the prickle of it beading through the cracks between stitches and scabs, the strange tickle when a droplet runs down under the bandage, and worst of all the sticky not-quite-squelch of the bandage drinking the blood off your skin when you press on it.

You hate having to take the night off. On a Saturday, no less.

Deciding to leave the rest unwatered for now, you leave the watering can on the counter and lower yourself down onto the couch, propping your injured leg up on the coffee table for a long night of television, rest, and guilt over staying home—or what would have been a long night if you hadn't fallen asleep twenty minutes after turning on the TV.

It's the warm gentle weight of a hand on your knee and the soft whisper of your name that wakes you. If you were more conscious you would probably be embarrassed by the grumble-groan that leaves your throat as you stir.

The hand squeezes your knee, a gentle twitch in the palm as it returns to rest.

You open your eyes.

Miguel is crouched on the floor in front of you—not a Spider-Man crouch, no, just a casual crouch to bring himself down to your level.

He says your name when your bleary eyes find his own, his tone as firm as his voice is quiet. As if he doesn't want to wake you. As if you're in trouble, hand caught in the proverbial cookie jar.

“Why do I smell blood?”

You blink once, eyes widening as you sit up, and then you wince.

The bandage on your ribs actually does squelch this time, without so much as a prod or poke from your hands. It seems your rather unfortunate injury had partially split back open by your inconvenient sleeping spot and the contorted position you’d eventually slumped into. You look down, lifting up the edge of your shirt to check the bandage on your ribs—it hasn't bled through or started to leak, thank goodness, but your bandages do need changing.

Miguel’s hand is still on your knee, and when you lift the hem of your shirt his hand tightens, the muscles and tendons tensing.

“What happened?”

You drop the fabric back down, quickly. “Venom anomaly last night.”

You can see the way his jaw clenches even though you're not looking directly at him, and the silence grows hot and coppery. Something in your mouth tastes like a hot, clean spoon pressed into your tongue.

“Where is your first aid kit?” He asks, voice still low.

The unsettling heat vanishes, leaving you with a burnt tongue.

“Hall closet,” you murmur. “By the washing machine.”

His hand slides from your knee, he sighs almost imperceptibly, and then he stands and leaves to get your medical supplies.

You start to wake further, nervousness practicing its tiptoes in your gut.

Miguel returns, setting the first aid kit on your coffee table and opening it—

“Wait,” you blurt. “I don't want to stain the couch.”

Miguel gives you the dryest Are you shocking shitting me right now expression you’ve seen, perhaps ever.

“Bathroom,” you say. “Easier to clean.”

Miguel grunts, closing the first aid kit. “Alright.”

You don't need the help, but he gives it anyway, carefully pulling you up from the couch so you don’t pull the injury further. You reassure him you can walk fine, but he still shadows you down the hall, lurking in the space barely three feet from you as you sit on the edge of the tub.

“Happy?” You ask, glancing up at him and away again as you adjust to get more comfortable. It comes out defensive; you hadn't realized how self conscious you had become, on top of your nervousness.

“Hardly.” He nods his head towards the toilet. “Just sit on the lid. It’ll be more comfortable.”

He’s right, so you do.

“Okay, happy now?”

He just grunts, turning and leaving to get the first aid kit from your coffee table.

You sigh, staring at the tile and the mat under your feet, the soft green piling hypnotic in your tired, mildly pained state. You consider taking your shirt off before he gets back, the idea of removing it in front of him making heat rise up your chest and neck and—

He’s back, setting the kit on the floor and kneeling in front of you after washing his hands.

“Shirt,” is all he says after a long, silent pause.

You nod, and with only the slightest struggle, you get it off. You avoid looking at him, and he avoids looking anywhere but your bandage.

You realize this is the second time he's seen you shirtless, the first having been when you were crying in a ball on your floor, propped against your dresser. You’re sure you had snot on your face then, and now–

“Can you turn?” He asks, his voice a low murmur, though not quite soft.

You nod, turning slightly so that your injury is facing him head on.

“I’m going to remove the bandage now,” he says.

You just nod, feeling his eyes flick to your own. He nods in response to your silent permission, and then you're holding your breath as his fingers—so warm on your skin—start to peel back the medical tape and the enormous non-stick gauze pad covering half of your left ribcage.

His short huff of disapproval at the sight of your bloody, gashed torso seems to echo in the silence of your bathroom, magnified by cold hard tile.

“You said an anomaly did this?”

You look at him, all creased brows and clenched teeth staring at the mess of red on your skin.

Your voice is barely a whisper. “Yeah.”

He turns and reaches for a bottle of saline solution from your kit, switching the lid out for the angled applicator nozzle. You turn your head away, lifting your arm slightly to give him room.

The saline isn't cold, but after the brief touch of his hands it might as well be. Saltwater slides over your skin, blood turning it shades of red and pink as it runs down and soaks into the hem of your sweatpants. Miguel takes a few passes, until the bottle is nearly empty, and then sets it aside.

“There's dried parts still,” he says, and you peer down under your arm.

Your skin is shiny, slick and wet as if just out of the shower. Sheer red lingers in the water by your hip, and the dark fabric soaks it up, turning dark and heavy. Your eye slides up, landing on the three gashes across your ribs. The middle one is the largest, cracked scabs struggling to meet in the center where you had stretched it open in your sleep. The bleeding has slowed, thickened blood doing its best to stay where it belongs, but still you think if you take too large a breath that the movement will break the surface tension and it will begin running down your skin once more. The two on either side are slightly smaller, small beads of blood welling between cracked scabs but not yet threatening to ruin Miguel’s efforts at cleaning you up.

Between them all you see what he means; dried flakes and smudges of blood between and around the torn skin that the gentle saline rinse hadn't dislodged. Just enough to be uncomfortable if he leaves it there.

Miguel turns and retrieves sterilizing pads from the kit, tearing the first open. “Sorry about this.”

“‘S fine,” you say, tearing your eyes away from his hand as it reaches for your skin, the other resting on your knee to steady his reach.

Miguel continues to work quietly and as gently as possible, wiping away the dried blood with the sterilizing alcohol pad. He goes through two of the large ones before opening a third, dabbing at the wounds themselves.

You grit your teeth at the sting.

“Did you at least get this looked at?” Miguel’s voice is wry.

You nod, looking at him sideways. “First thing I did after bringing the anomaly in. Spider-Doctor said it looked worse than it is.”

“Doctor Parker,” he corrects. “How much worse? Because it looks pretty bad.” Miguel meets your eyes for the first time since you took your shirt off, lips pursed and eyebrow raised in skepticism.

Your breath catches, and he looks down.

You realize his hand had frozen on your ribs only when he pulls the sterilizing pad away, crumpling it and tossing it in the nearby bathroom garbage with the rest.

“Surface damage,” you whisper, swallowing and tearing your gaze off of him. “Just difficult to heal because of where it is.”

Miguel grunts, taking out a new, fresh gauze pad and shifting closer on his knees to you. You lift your arm again for him, and he leans in, placing the gauze over your ribs now that the skin has dried.

When the flat of his palms spread the pad smoothly over the curve of your torso, following the bend of your ribs, your breath catches (again) for an entirely different reason than the contact on your injury. Even through the gauze you can feel the radiating warmth of his palms, the gentle pressure sending pleasant static through your nerves.

“Sorry,” he apologizes again. “I’m almost done.”

“You’re handling this better than last time,” you blurt, and immediately grimace when he pauses to stare at you. “When I scraped my hands.”

He doesn't say anything for a long moment, turning his focus to the medical tape in his hands and smoothing it down across your skin. You try not to shiver.

“Done,” he says, and turns away, closing the first aid kit. “I’ll let you change.”

The bathroom door clicks shut behind him when he leaves.

You sigh, wincing at the stretch of your ribs and the pull of the medical tape on your skin, before burying your face in your hands. You don't allow yourself to linger long, finally lifting your head with a sharp inhale and rising from the toilet lid. You shed your clothes, kicking the blood and saline soaked sweats and underwear into the empty, dry bathtub. At least the shallower wounds on your leg are fine. No need to get Miguel even more tense about the state of your body than he already is.

You use the hand towel to dry the lingering dampness on your side and hip, tossing it into the tub with the rest.

Deep breath. Well, as deep as you can safely manage.

With a full towel now wrapped around your naked body you leave the bathroom, walking down the hallway to the light of the living room and the door of your bedroom.

Miguel is standing, back to you, and looking closely at one of your hanging plants near the kitchen. He doesn't turn around, so you wordlessly slip into your room and pull on new underwear, new pajamas. Loose, comfortable sweatpants to let the bandage on your leg sit comfortably, loose shirt to leave your ribs space to breathe.

Again, you pause to take a deep breath. Not from pain, but in an attempt to relieve the buildup of tension in your shoulders.

You slip back down the hall to retrieve your pile of clothes in the tub and throw them in the wash, a hefty pour of hydrogen peroxide onto the fabric foams and sizzles into the color of yellowed seafoam and rust.

You close the lid and start the wash.

Back in the living room, you find Miguel filling your watering can.

“What are you doing?”

He looks over at you, glances over your clean clothes before meeting your eyes again. He turns back to the sink, shutting off the faucet. “What do you think?”

“I’m not sure.” You cross your arms, trying not to smile even as you frown in confusion.

He gestures at your living room, at the numerous plants filling the space, at the hanging pothos you had watered earlier—the one he had been examining. “You stretched too high.”

You blink. “I was fine when I sat down.”

“And then you fell asleep on the couch, which made it worse.”

You wrinkle your nose, looking away. “Not on purpose.”

Silence, for a long moment, and then you see him walk around the kitchen counter in your periphery. “I know.” Another long pause. “Which plants still need watering?”

You look at him, at the watering can that looks like a teapot in his hands.

“Um.” You straighten, pointing at a standing plant—a dracaena almost as tall as you that had once belonged to your aunt. “That one.”

“Tell me when,” he says, tilting the spout over the dirt.

The two of you continue like that, you pointing out which plants need water and Miguel watering them for you until you give the word. By the end you find that your shoulders aren’t so tense, and you’re even smiling—until Miguel sets the watering can down.

He lingers at the counter, leaning on his hands, his back to you.

You grimace, looking away and crossing your arms. You feel exposed, self-conscious in your pajamas.

“Why didn’t you call for backup?”

“I had it under control.”

He turns around, still leaning back against the counter. “You had it–” he cuts himself off, squeezing his eyes shut and taking a breath. “You should have called.”

The silence stretches, once again growing hot and coppery.

“I’m not an idiot,” you say, voice clear as it is quiet. “I know you’ve been keeping me off missions and backup calls.”

You can feel the way the silence changes.

“I–”

The fight drains out of you all at once. “Can we just… can we not, right now?” You swallow the lump in your throat. “I just… I’m still tired, and I don’t really want to be lectured by my boss in my own home about how I’m not…”

When he speaks again his voice is quiet, hesitant. Almost hurt. “Not what?”

You shrug, still unable to look at him. “I don’t know. I just don’t want to have this fight again.”

Miguel straightens from where he had been leaning, reaches a hand towards you with a soft murmur of your name. When you don’t pull away, he lets his hand rest on your own where it holds your opposite arm.

You look at him.

“I’m sorry,” he says, brows furrowed, though this time the lines spell regret, instead of frustration. “That’s not why I…” he sighs, letting his hand slide away, off of yours and back to his side.

You nod, relaxing the tension in your crossed arms. “Just…” your brow creases as you continue to frown off to the side.

You don't want this. You want to be in bed, melting into the softness of your blanket and the cushion of your pillows. You want Miguel there with you, the weight of him beside you keeping you safe and warm in your sleep, wordlessly reassuring you with his presence that everything will be alright, that despite your injuries (because yes, you're fine and you know you will heal, but right now you still feel like a failure because you can't fulfill your responsibilities to your own damn dimension and okay, yes, you're feeling a little vulnerable too which is normal when someone is hurt) you’ll be okay.

“I just…” you continue. “I hate feeling like you still don't think I can take care of myself, or that I can’t do this. I don’t know—” you cut yourself off. You want to say ‘I don't know what this is and I can't bear to have things feel this way when I'm already hurt and I need you. Please trust me. Please be here for me,’ but all that comes out is: “It’s part of the job. It’s what I signed on for, when I put on the mask. We all did.”

When you finally look at Miguel his brows are angled up towards the center of his forehead some pained mix of understanding and regret and… Something else you can’t immediately name.

“I know you’re capable,” he says. “I don’t…” it's his turn to frown, to turn his head away and grimace at the thoughts and emotions bubbling inside. He sighs, starting over. “I know you know what you…” he sighs again, his shoulders slumping forward. “It was unfair of me.”

You nod, the both of you standing in silence, looking away from one another.

“I’m tired,” you finally say, quietly. “Are you staying over?”

Miguel looks at you, eyebrows raised in equal measures of surprise and confusion. “I didn’t think…”

You swallow, looking down, toeing the air as if it was a pebble under your feet. “I could… I could use the company, I think.” You try to shrug it off, the admission that you could in any way want him there. The implication that you need him in any way.

Miguel softens. “Then of course.”

You nod, glancing at him and then turning towards your room. Miguel turns the lights off, close behind. He overtakes you in the bedroom easily, long legs carrying him to your bed before you’re halfway across the room to pull the sheets back for you. He helps you to climb in with a soft murmur to be careful, before he leaves to change into the pajamas you keep for him. You’re glad when he returns quickly, sliding into his side of the bed—facing you.

It doesn’t take long for the tide of sleep to reclaim you and drag him under as well, his arm carefully wrapped over your side.

<< Previous Chapter | Masterlist | Next Chapter >>

[pianocat939]

Celina: *releases a little blurb about platonic yandere Donnie*

Her fans: *read it*

…

Her fans: *bowing down* oh sweet goddess of yandere fan fiction, we as your loyal fan base and vessels require a part two!

Celina: uh-

(I’m sorry. I had to write this, it was my first thought when I read your short blurb. It’s up to you if you wanna write more to it, you seem very busy so I won’t press. Enjoy your day ;) PS: yandere Mikey says if you don’t hydrate you will be bound down to a chair and be forced to attend his 6-hour-long seminar about why water is important for the human body. And yes, the word count is the same, if not more, as that of ‘The Odyssey’)

ugh- two more weeks before the musical and then I'll be free...except for studying for my AP exams-

1st part

Tw: implied forced mutation, abandonment, heavier angst than usual, brief mentions of death (but doesn't actually happen)

"Oh my god! What is that- that weird turtle creature?!"

"Get away! It might be dangerous!"

The child looks up at their parents in pain and in desperation. They were no longer human but now a turtle-human thing of some sort. But surely their own parents should recognize them right? But to their dismay, their parents dash away from them, terrified for their lives. Leaving the poor child alone and afraid: not used to their new form.

"Mom...Dad...but- but- it's still me." The young one begs quietly, a voice that of a whisp, tears streaming down their face at the realization that they were alone, and abandoned. They stare down at their hands, sorrow running through their mind. Their hands were no longer the five-fingered skin anymore; it was a shade of green, with only three fingers with scales dotting the surface. "How could this happen to me?"

The newly mutated turtle shuffles back into a corner, encompassing itself in the shadows, hiding their new form. It anxiously scratches its arm a bit, eyes darting everywhere around the landscape. "How am I gonna live? I'm...I'm just a kid still." More water droplets flow from their eyes, stinging their skin with unfamiliar wetness. They silently hunch over and stare at the ground, feeling a hole gaping in their stomach: their center feels chilled as if an actual hole was there. "I'm...I'm gonna die soon. There's no way I'll make it, not in this form."

"Not if an adult is willing to assist a child of need."

An unfamiliar voice speaks, and slowly a somewhat tall turtle mutant emerges from behind the wall. He kneeled down in front of the young one to make himself less intimidating. "Did...Did your parents leave you after you mutated?" He questions with a frown, his eyes seem to hold sympathy, an understanding of the pain the child is going through.

At that moment, they truly realized what had happened moments before. They were left behind, abandoned. Standing alone to fend off the world. They broke down completely, no longer leaking a few tears from their eyeballs, but a whole waterfall. They had nowhere to go, no one to talk to, just a pitiful form of an ugly turtle beast.

The man firmly hugs the small kid, patting their shell gently. "I know you don't know me at all, but...I'm willing to fill in the role of a parent." He offers, voice gently and warm in attempt to comfort the poor emotional wreck. "I'll...I'll teach you the life of living as a mutant, and I promise, you'll be safe and taken care of." He notices the child relaxing a bit and gingerly rocks them while they lean into his embrace.

"So...Will you trust me?" He hesitantly asks, patiently waiting for their response.

For a few moments there's a silence before the young one answers, "I'll trust you."

The older man smiles and nods in confirmation. "I'm Donatello. You can call me Donnie if you would like, or any title you wish to name your newly appointed guardian." He stands up and motions the little kid to follow him as he saunters, ensuring his new family member can keep up. "What's your name?"

"Y/n." Their voice is still raspy from crying, but there's a sense of warmth in it: hope. They pursue him, feeling an odd safety to the man. "You have a lot of gadgets on you, are you a scientist?" They interrogate, pointing at his arm brace.

Donatello grins in pride and joy, "Why yes, little turtle. I love science, and I make lots of technological inventions; it is my passion."

"Cool! I like science too!" They cheer quietly, excited that their new protector has a similar interest in science.

The inventor laughs in a proud matter, staring down at the little one in a loving, fatherly matter. "Then you'll be ecstatic to see all my inventions, I just know it."

He had done it. This wonderful child was now his. His to take care of, protect, and to love. They'll no longer have to suffer that neglectful world their parents once reinforced. They can just stay in their father's embrace, and watch rockets fly as a pass time.

What a wonderful unification.

——————————————————

I do love myself a good angst piece- needless to say I enjoyed writing this- now I shall sleep, it's 2 AM.

I think I might have a little talent in angst writing-

- Celina

[permalockdown]

long post containing a lockdown infodump so LOCK IN. there will be stim gifs!

tl;drs will be included

so i’ve been doing a lot of research on covid, especially on why we went into lockdown in the first place?

covid was so unknown at the time, having ONE viral relative: SARS (the epidemic in 2003/04, no cases since). so i researched SARS. (scroll

checkpoint one: SARS

tl;dr, SARS didnt burn itself out, it was still contained due to human intervention, but it had very little asymptomatic cases and was not known to spread until symptom onset.

tl;dr two, covid was most transmissible before its symptom onset, and had LOTS of transmittable asymptomatic cases.

SARS-CoV-1 is an abbreviation for severe acute respiratory syndrome, coronavirus one. it caused a global epidemic in 2003-04, and a case hasnt been reported since then. covid is SARS-CoV-2. the two were about 80% similar, but those differences are key in covids boom.

im not gonna go in-detail about the specific mutations that cause these things (but i do know them, i think u guys might get bored) but covid had a much higher asymptomatic case rate (as high as 40%, estimated by wastewater) and still remained contagious. SARS on the otherhand had very little asymptomatic cases, and it did not remain contagious.

this is really important to consider, as 50-70% of SARS victims needed oxygen supplementation, and 20-30% were in the ICU. 13% of cases died. this is a lot compared to the 15-20% of hospitalizations due to covid, and 3-5% needing critical care.

quarantining and isolation was a lot easier when the virus wasnt spread until symptom onset, and most of the time caused severe enough illness to warrant hospitalization.

there was no cure or vaccine for SARS, you just had to wait it out and treat its symptoms.

checkpoint two: COVID

tl;dr, covid was a more severe illness with an extremely contagious nature. nobody knew what to do, and the american leadership added more strain due to the fact that trump tried to downplay the virus.

now that we know that covid was very unknown at the time, its parent virus had no cure and no vaccine, and covid bumped the transmission into gear, we can actually understand why lockdowns happened.

covid wasn’t mild like the flu or the common cold, but was still extremely contagious. shelter-in-place orders were placed so that the virus didn’t spread as quickly and mutate to become either more contagious, more deadly, or both, as more cases means more mutations.

i live in the united states, so im going to focus a little bit on that. right-wing ideology had gotten much more severe since 2003, and former president donald trump is, well, an idiot. he made false claims about the virus and his administration was focused on downplaying the situation rather than ramping up on medical supplies and telling the people what to do.

the election year had a lot to do with the pandemic, especially with america as a large world leader, and most right-wingers would die for their beloved trump. they refused to listen to anyone on the left-leaning.

we went into lockdown due to global unpreparedness, world leader unpreparedness, and general lack of knowledge.

checkpoint three: what would another lockdown need?

another lockdown would still need relevant political interference, which, hooray! is still happening in the united states. if you research the social aspects of any new diseases, right-wing folk tend to say they’re not falling for a “ploy to get biden back in office”. this includes not wearing masks, not quarantining, not getting vaccines, etc.

for a known virus to cause a pandemic, it would need to mutate so fast that it becomes extremely different from its parent. it would need to transmit human-to-human, have many asymptomatic cases, and still manage to cause severe infection in previously healthy people.

i’m not really counting on monkeypox 1b to cause a pandemic, but idk! things always happen :3 i am however counting on bird flu, as it clearly has less of a watchful eye over it, has never transmitted h2h before, and causes severe illness.

like and subscribe

[saltydoesstuff]

Feral ROTTMNT HCs PT. 1

I've been seeing so many AUs and such for Rise! but not so much on if the boys were raised wild/more heavily entuned to their animalistic nature (if there is already, I'd love to see!) So here are some personal head canons on how I think they would act (All characters are portrayed as 18+! Unless stated otherwise)

---------------------------- - The turtles after mutation and saved by Splinter would have either somehow escaped and got lost, or if we want a darker twist Splinter had shortly perished after being mutated. Whether it is was due to the mutagen being too much for his body to bear long term, or other reasons is up to interpretation - They had ended up in the surrounding woods around New York through the sewer systems and had settled where it felt more natural. They had stayed hidden in abandoned burrows and ponds for the most part of their very early years - Raph being the biggest, even when they were small is the one that protects him and his brothers from predators growing up when they did eventually venture out into the open for food. Being a mutant turtle has some serious perks when it comes to survival, that includes a nastier bite force when push comes to shove. I feel like he would be the most defensive when it comes to Donnie's safety, as he's most at risk due to his softer shell - Because of this, Raph carries many scars from throughout their childhood and teens. Most of them he got from getting his brothers out of dangerous situations. Sometimes he swears his brothers have no self-preservation, it only got worse when they got curious about the humans and society - As you might expect, the brothers cannot speak english. They were never taught, so they communicate through hisses, chirps, churrs, etc instead. They believe others can just magically understand them, they soon realize this is not the case - Leo, Mikey and Donnie are the ones that are fascinated by humans first and try to find out more. Raph simply comes along to make sure they don't get themselves killed, he does start to see why they love them after a few trips into the city though - They get around via the sewer tunnels, and spy on people through storm drains - Donnie likes collecting trinkets and broken tech pieces that people throw away while Mikey takes a shine towards the more colorful things that get tossed, including used art supplies. He likes to use them on himself or his brothers if they let him, or just simply decorate whatever surface he finds suitable - Leo just likes stealing food from people when they aren't looking, maybe their wallets too if it's just sitting out in the open. Just about anything he can get his hands on honestly without being caught - He has a collection of random ID cards and Drivers Licenses stacked up somewhere in the den they had made when burrows got too small for them, he just thinks their neat even if he doesn't know what they are. He'll make fun of the pictures and try to mimic them with his brothers - Raph mainly just takes things he thinks will benefit their home, thrown away blankets and stuffed animals is his go to- but he will nab anything he thinks his brothers will like if he can get it - He's the one that actually got them their masks, he thought that it could be used as camouflage if they ever got spotted by humans since they see humans dressed up with colors all the time - It does not work at all, but A for effort big guy Okay so it is word count, at some point it just doesn't save your work anymore lol. I'll be sure to post more stuff and how our dear Y/N gets mixed up in this

[purpledisastertwin900]

What if Hunter was the only grimwalker without magic and Belos did that intentionally.

Okay so the other day, I was literally Just Sitting There and my twin @disastertwins9000 just comes AT me with this theory-and I was like b r u h. Because, that totally makes sense when you look at all the clues!!!!

First off, when Darius talks about his mentor, he says “he was the most powerful witch I’d ever known.” Well, you could say, artificial staff. Good point, but listen Darius went to school with EDA. Edalyn Clawthorne. The most powerful witch on the isles, dude. And he’s saying that the previous GG is more powerful than her?! The Owl Lady?! Ain’t no way Darius would say that if the GG was just relying on an artificial staff! Plus, how could he mentor Darius if he couldn’t do half the stuff a witch should be able to??? Clue #1 checks out.

Second, Belos says “out of all the Grimwalkers, you looked the most like him.” This would also make sense, because if all the previous Grimwalkers had a bile sack/some way to create magic on their own, that would not only make them fundamentally different from Caleb but also it would allow for more “wild magic” tendencies/mutations, if you will. But with Hunter, if there’s no source of wild magic contaminating the human DNA, that would make him the “cleanest version” of all the Grimwalkers-he’d look and act the closest to Caleb-bc neither of them have a natural source of magic. Clue #2 checks out

Lastly, it would also make sense for Belos to try and create a Grimwalker that was “weaker”, especially since he was only expecting Hunter to last until Day of Unity-it’s pretty safe to say that all the previous Grimwalkers found out about that, rebelled, and lost their lives doing so-it totally makes sense that Belos would try to make one that was more “pure” and less wild than the other ones-especially if you consider the dwindling Palistrom wood that actually became a really big problem, the limited resources that go into making another Grimwalker, and the fact that Belos didn’t need this one to be powerful. He just needed this one to last until day of unity, and he needed it to be obedient. So, all that combined, plus the fact that this grimwalker would be reliant on Belos for any sort of magic power, therefore this one would be easier to manipulate, taking away its natural source of magic makes TOTAL sense. Clue #3 checks out more than it should.

I don’t know if this one is canon, but the last piece of evidence that supports this theory is that there seems to be a lot of bad rap about Grimwalkers-well duh, it’s in the name. But if all Grimwalkers were just magicless witches, they’d be called like. Dimwalkers or smth idk, ain’t nobody would be scared of that guy. Especially if he had to use a staff as the only way to do magic. That’s lame man. Ur basically a human. Buuuut if Grimwalkers were a super powerful species that had weapon-like tendencies, and had both a magic source and a freakin galderstone in their chests, yep that’s pretty grim. Walk away from that. Again, idk if this one counts, I don’t remember anything in canon that says Grimwalkers were particularly scary, but for the sake of argument I wanted to include this point. Also it was rly smart somebody tell me I’m smart plz I-

So yeah. What if Hunter was the only Grimwalker without magic. That’d be wild and i wouldn’t cry. I really wouldn’t. (/fkin lie)