#hopefully that seal thing will finally shut him up

[lokidjarin-7567]

Day 14: Threesome

Frank Castle x Matt Murdock x You

Contents: fem!reader x Frank Castle (The Punisher x Matt Murdock , FMM threesome

W/C: 2.4k

So… it’s been a while. I’ve been super busy and I’ve had awful writers block I’m sorry guys, but istg I will get this Kinktober done if it’s the last thing I do. But I made this one nice and long and slutty to make up for it!! I love Frank and Matt and hopefully yall do too <3

Kinktober Masterlist | General Masterlist | AO3

“Fuck.. Frank,” you whined, eyes rolling back into your head with how far inside he was hitting you, how thick he felt.

“What is it, baby, you want me to go harder?” You whimpered in response, desperate for more but not even being able to speak, already winded from his relentless pace. “Go on, baby, let him hear you.” It dawned on you then - he could hear you. Your bedroom was adjoining the guest room where Matt was sleeping, and with his sense, there was no doubt that he could hear everything…

Oh God, he could hear everything…

You did your very best to keep quiet, even as he rubbed you clit, and somehow pressed himself further into you. You even tried to hold you breath, your pants, but even if you somehow managed that, he would still hear your heartbeat, or the filthy noises Frank was making every time his body met yours.

“Let him hear you.” He repeated, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips. “You hear that, Red.” He spoke with a challenging tone, quiet, sure, but loud enough for Matt to hear, and the thought made you shudder, pussy fluttering around him. “I know you want her too, don’t you? It’s pretty damn obvious…” It was a taunt, blatant and outright, one that you were sure Matt wouldn’t respond to. But then you heard movement in the room next to you. Frank’s finger moved to your lips, sealing them shut with one thick fidget across your cupids bow. He burrowed himself into you, pressing deep and holding himself inside, letting you whine between closed lips. Matt’s footsteps were audible in the next room, even over the blood rushing in your head. He was pacing back and forth. Deliberating. Frank’s finger then left your mouth, trailing down your body to your clit and pressing small circles around it as his cock still filled you. You whimpered, legs shaking as he continued to keep you close to your edge.

“Reddd,” he cooed, desperately trying to goad him with that stupid nickname, “she’s close…”

Surely he wouldn’t actually join you. Of course, Frank wasn’t exactly wrong. You’d noticed the way his head cocked when you spoke, the way he stood close to you when you were working together, as though guarding you. The way he seemed almost dejected when Frank kissed you, or put his arm around you in protection.

You had noticed it most obviously today. You and Frank had finally found the ring of traffickers you had been tracing for weeks, and of course, the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen wasn’t far behind. It had been happening more frequently - running into each other out in the city - and the first few times, Matt and Frank had tried to out-testosterone each other, as though claiming their territory. It took a while, but eventually, you had helped them see how much better they worked together.

And today was no different. It was a matter of minutes until they were all incapacitated and the police were called, and not the corrupt ones, as Matt assured you consistently. Frank was more of a take-justice-into-your-own-hands kind of vigilante, which you didn’t mind. For the most part, you even agreed with him. ‘Dead men don’t rape’ had been your mantra since you were thirteen. But it was refreshing not always having to spill blood. Well, not as much as usual anyway.

The problem was, Matt had been badly hurt. You hadn’t even noticed until he collapsed onto the tarmac, blood gushing from his side, and a nasty welt blooming on his cheek. You were panicking quickly. He usually didn't show when he got hurt. You’d seen his entire back sliced open and he still managed to fight, but now, he could barely walk, and there was no chance he was making it all the way to his home. You begged Frank to let you bring him to your apartment and patch him up. Matt argued weakly, barely able to form coherent sentences, but Frank quickly caught on to your distress, telling him to stop moaning and that it this happening whether he liked it or not.

The three of you managed to stumble home, practically carrying Matt up the stairs to your lousy place. You settled him on the couch before grabbing the first-aid kit you had made up as soon as you and Frank had started this vigilante… thing - you weren’t even sure what to call it really.

“Sorry…” you muttered quietly, as you tried to ascertain where the blood was coming from. He winced as your fingers grazed over his side. “I can’t see where this…” You were quiet, mumbling as you tried to cover up your awkwardness. You needed to take his suit off, but even if he was bleeding, you didn’t quite feel comfortable just undressing him.

“Let me have a look.” Frank said, placing three glances of whiskey on the table. Matt had gotten your subtle hint and started to unstrap his body armour as Frank settled next to him. It turned out to be a stab wound, along with a nasty gash that stretched down his side, shallower than it initially looked though.

“This is gonna hurt, Red..” he muttered, grabbing the antiseptic and bandages. You sat of the edge of the coffee table, grabbing a wipe to clean the small wound on his face, hoping to provide distraction. As soon as Frank started, he hissed in pain, hand shooting out to your thigh and grabbing hard. You had tried your best not to noticed, but you couldn’t help but glanced down at his bare torso as you continued to carefully blot at the cut on his cheek, watching the way his muscles flexed in pain, and the rise and fall of his chest with each steading breath he took. You blushed lightly as you continued to work, but you could feel Frank glancing at you.

He wasn’t insecure in the slightest. And your relationship was very much an open one - with your histories and professions, it would be stupid not to be. But he had never seen it in real life: the look you usually gave him being aimed towards somebody else.

And now you were here, under his strong body, trying not to climax too early and listening intently for the slightest hint that Matt was going to respond to his taunt.

And then he did. You could hear footsteps quickening, then pausing right outside the door, a soft curse muttered under his breath. You whimpered in disappointment, frustration building as Frank fucked into you hard and his fingers moved faster against your aching core.

“Fuck, Matt, are you coming in or not?” You whined it quietly, cautiously. Just loud enough that he could hear, but just quiet enough that you all had plausible deniability if he changed his mind. Luckily for you, he hadn’t.

The door flew open and he strode to you urgently, pressing his lips against yours with fervor. The first taste of him was overwhelming—something you'd wanted for so long, finally happening, and it was better than you could have hoped. You could only imagine how he felt in that moment, his groan of relief and passion falling into your mouth. Your hand flew to his hair, fingertips running through the soft locks. His hand cupped your chin then traced lower, forming a delicate cage around your neck, his thumb rubbing gentle circles against the sensitive skin there. You whined against his lips, your hips bucking into Frank uncontrollably. He had been watching the two of you with a dark look on his face, buried to the hilt inside you. It suited him. He was possessive but not jealous, protective but not obsessive—a perfect middle ground that he thrived in.

His thrusts deepened, and you let out a yelp at the sudden increase of pressure. Matt smiled. His fingers moved from your neck, trailing down your collarbone and lower until he was circling your nipple. He barely touched you, light as air, yet the sensation was dizzying. He started to increase the pressure until he was ready, and then he pinched, just hard enough to send a sharp jolt of pleasure straight to your head. Paired with the way Frank was fucking you, his thumb still circling your clit, it wasn't long before you were coming undone. White hot pleasure overwhelmed your senses, muscles locking and shaking under their expert touches. You tried to moan, the guttural sound escaping you, but Matt’s mouth swallowed it.

“That’s it baby…” Frank crooned, still fucking you through it. “Atta girl.”

It was a while before you could breath again, body still feeling the aftershocks of your orgasm, but you barely had time to recover before you were being moved. You just about registered when your body hit Frank’s solid form, his arms wrapping around you as he tried to manhandle you into position, whispering sweet instructions in your ear.

“You’ve got another round in you, don’t you gorgeous? That’s it, good girl, on your hands and knees for us… give Red a chance to feel that pretty pussy of yours.” You were exhausted, totally fucked out, but when you felt Matt’s hands slide up the back of your thighs, onto your back and hips, as though trying to commit the very shape of you to his memory, you could feel yourself getting wet again. You nodded, smiling up at Frank through half lidded eyes and settling into position, arching your back for the gorgeous man behind you. You glanced back to see him, now stripped naked, his arms flexing as he gripped your hips tight, a low groan escaping his lips. A hand fell to your chin, pulling your attention back to the man in front of you, thumb smearing across your lips then into your mouth. Reminding you who you belonged to. After all the flirting, the teasing, the fucking… you were his. However non-committal you were, however far away you were, whoever you were with, deep down you knew, you would always fall back into his arms.

A knowing smile flashed across his face. He knew it. As you knelt there, his thumb in your hot mouth, your back arched for another man but your eyes on him, he knew he had you.

And that was why he let Matt sink into you. You moaned around Frank’s thumb as he slowly pressed himself deep, feeling every inch of him as he controlled the pace with his fingers biting into your hips. You tried to buck backwards, to make him speed up, to just fuck you already, but he wouldn't let you, his strength keeping you exactly where he wanted you. When his hips finally met your ass, he let out a low growl, pressing his body to the back of yours, and Frank finally freed your mouth, allowing Matt to gather your hair in his hand and twist your head back to kiss you hungrily. His lips left yours, and you whined, but then the hand in your hair started guiding you down towards Frank’s waiting cock, thick and hard and leaking precum and you realised it had been his hand all along. Frank’s. You shouldn't be surprised. You knew he was always in control, and sex was no different.

As your ready mouth sank down onto his erection, he wasted no time bottoming out, pressing into your throat and letting you gag around him just as Matt started to move, dragging out of you with aching patience, then rutting back in. It only took a few thrusts before he was losing control, and his pace quickened, whines and pants and curses falling from his lips as his hips slapped against you. When Frank finally pulled you off him, you were gasping, but he didn't let you have much of a breather, just enough to ease the burning in your lungs a tiny bit. Tears were pricking in your eyes, but he soothed you with praises and pet names, and you knew you could take it. You would take anything he gave you. He pulled you off again, but this time, not enough to take even a full breath before he pressed himself completely into your throat. You had never taken so much before, nose pressing against the very base of him, and you could taste yourself on him, a realisation that made your cunt flutter around Matt, earning a groan. You swallowed around him, eager to please, and it was enough. He stuttered your name, pressing you just a touch deeper, before he came down your throat, and you swallowed quickly, not wanting to waste a single drop.

He finally released you when he was completely spent, letting your head fall to the bed as you desperately caught your breath. You couldn't relax for long though, as Frank scooped you up once more, shuffling forward as your body was flush with his, head lulling over his shoulder. This position meant Matt was fucking up into you, hitting a spot that made you whimper in pure ecstasy, so good you could do nothing but dig your nails into Frank’s back. He growled, hand trailing down your body to find your clit and gently circle, pressure so light you shouldn’t have felt a thing, but you were already so overstimulated, so pent up, and with the way Matt was reaching that perfect place, you were so close.

“There you go pretty girl… that's it baby come on his cock for me…” Frank’s words were the last thing you needed to push you over the edge and you cried out, pleasure so good it was almost painful, whole body squirming in his arms. Matt’s hips stuttered, and he bit down onto your shoulder to suppress his moan as he came inside you, hands still firmly gripping your hips and grinding into you.

Your mind was hazy when you were finally finished, completely melted in Frank’s arms, Matt’s cock still inside you.

“This isn't going to become a habit now, pretty boy. Don't get it twisted. It was only because you got stabbed.” Matt just chuckled, his body collapsing into yours and you felt his cheek against your shoulder, hot breath fanning across your upper arm.

“It was worth it.”

[cardansriddle]

The diary - Tom Riddle x fem!reader

Summary:

When you stumbled upon a mysterious diary in the second-floor lavatory, you never imagined you would be caught in the web of Tom Riddle. What begins as innocent curiosity becomes something darker, as he slips into your dreams, your thoughts, your very skin. And before you realize it, he isn’t just haunting your nights—he’s consuming you, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left that hasn’t been touched by him.

Warnings: dark themes, smut, dub-con? kind of. not proofread. dumbledore cameo

A/N: Hopefully this is a worthy comeback!! It's been such a long time since I last posted here so I hope this isn't too rusty. I surprisingly enjoyed writing a darker narrative so lmk what you guys think!

༻♛༺

You were not exactly at fault for how it started.

You had only wandered into the second-floor girls' lavatory following a trail of water—moonlight slicing through the cracked windows, painting the tiles in silver streaks. The bathroom had been flooding. You’d slipped your wand from your robe pocket, lips parting to cast a simple Reparo to fix the broken pipes—and then you saw it.

A diary.

Its black leather cover shimmered with a slick sheen, as though it had not been drenched at all. There was a mysterious pull to it, and you approached it, not thinking, only feeling—as if the world narrowed to that single object.

The moment your fingers brushed the surface, cool and impossibly dry, a strange silence fell over the lavatory, and something in you shifted. When you grasped it in your hands, you had been overcome with an urge to never part with it again, and just like that...it began.

You had first turned the diary over to determine who it belonged to and had only seen the gold-embroidered name. Tom Marvolo Riddle. The name was unfamiliar to you.

You flipped through its blank pages, frowning. Nothing. No memories. No clues. And yet... it called to be written in, like it craved ink the way lungs craved air. So one day, when you were in the library, you decided to scribble in it, only for the ink to sink into pages of the diary and disappear with no trace left behind.

Then, seconds later, letters bled onto the parchment, neat and elegant.

Hello.

To say you were bewildered, would be an understatement. You thought perhaps it was a trick of light, or maybe it was your lack of sleep finally catching up to you and causing you to imagine things, when once again, words appeared on the page.

What is your name?

You sat for a minute, contemplating if you should really converse with this charmed item. You had never heard of such magic before, and before you knew it, your curiosity had won over any rational thoughts. You hesitated, but only briefly. Then, quill trembling, you wrote your name.

Pleasure to make your acquaintance. I'm Tom Riddle.

Browsing through your head, you came to the conclusion that you had never heard of the name before. Dipping your quill in the ink, you asked him the question that was ringing through your mind.

How are you writing to me through this diary?

I am a memory preserved in this diary.

Your hand faltered. So you were not just conversing with a charmed notebook, you were actually talking to a real person. Well...a memory of a person. A boy sealed in pages like a soul trapped between ink and silence.

Are you a student at Hogwarts?

I was. A long time ago.

Why have you preserved yourself in this diary?

There was no answer. You waited for what felt like hours but could have been only a few minutes, yet he did not respond. There was a strange energy surrounding the item, and had you not been so transfixed, perhaps you would have listened to your intuition and given the diary away to a professor. But your desire to find out more about it clouded over any reason, so you shut the diary and stored it safely in your trunk.

༻♛༺

The next time you opened the cursed object was hours after curfew. You sat cross-legged on your bed, curiosity flooding your brain with endless questions as you picked up your quill and wrote.

Hello, Tom.

It took a few moments for his reply to appear.

Good evening.

You chatted with him for what felt like hours, asking countless questions (and making sure not to touch upon the subject of his preservation in the diary lest he leave you without an answer again), and he in turn inquired you about your life.

You felt silly— finding so much pleasure in talking to a diary, but there was something enigmatic about this Tom Riddle persona that had you hooked.

He asked you things—where you grew up, what subjects you enjoyed, which House you were in. You told him everything. Not because he demanded it, but because with every answer you gave, he gave you more. Ideas, stories, the weight of his voice echoing in the shape of words.

You spoke to him every day. A strange intimacy began to form between you. One that defied explanation.

You shared complaints about professors. Tales of your friends. Moments of quiet vulnerability. You asked him about the school during his time—what had changed, who he had known. He answered thoughtfully, sometimes fondly. But never about himself.

There was always a shadow behind his sentences, like something coiled, waiting.

But as a week passed ever since you first opened that diary, you noticed the unusual amount of exhaustion that would take over your body. You were in a constant state of sleep deprivation, and no amount of potions could keep you energetic enough to go about your day without collapsing.

And then, the dreams began.

They started subtly.

You were wandering Hogwarts, yet it felt different—older, taller. The stone was darker, the air thicker. You turned a corner, and there he was. Standing beneath the arches near the Great Hall, his figure blurred like memory, his eyes like ink poured into glass. A boy—no, a young man. Tall and poised, as if carved from obsidian and smoke. His school robes were immaculate, draped across his frame like they were stitched directly to his spine, and the torchlight behind him caught the sharp angles of his face with clarity.

He was impossibly handsome.

The kind of beauty that felt wrong. Otherworldly. His cheekbones were high and cruel, his mouth curved in a knowing, unreadable line. Dark hair framed his face in elegant waves, shadowing his brow just enough to deepen the darkness in his eyes.

And his eyes were bottomless. Liquid night. No warmth. Only gravity, as though they could pull entire thoughts from your skull if you stared too long.

You knew, without him saying a word: this was Tom Riddle.

You froze, pulse thundering. It was the first time you'd seen him—beyond ink and parchment.

His gaze swept over you, slow and precise, like a knife deciding where to cut.

“Is this a dream?” You whispered.

He stepped forward. Just one pace. Enough to close space, enough to make your breath catch.

“Is it you I’ve been speaking to?” Your voice was smaller now. “The one in the diary?”

He smiled then.

It wasn’t reassuring.

“Yes,” he said.

And just like that—he vanished.

You woke up with a start.

The dormitory was quiet, but everything felt wrong. The edges of your vision blurred as you sat up slowly, blinking into the dim, gray light of early morning.

You were still in your bed. Still in the castle. Still yourself.

Your chest felt tight, as though the air was thicker somehow—harder to breathe. And even though you had just woken, your body pulsed with exhaustion.

The memory of it clung to you like fog—the image of him standing beneath the arches. That strange blend of reverence and possession in his gaze. It felt more real than the four-poster bed around you. More vivid than the chill creeping up your spine.

You pushed the sheets away, shakily reached for your wand, and lit the tip with a whispered Lumos.

The diary was exactly where you had hidden it: under your pillow.

Your fingers brushed over its cool leather cover. You pulled it into your lap, opened it to the first blank page, and hesitated before dipping your quill into ink.

Your hand trembled as you wrote:

Did you come into my dream?

A pause.

Nothing.

No reply.

You swallowed. The silence on the page seemed louder than anything else in the room.

You tried again, slower this time.

Was that really you? I saw you. I spoke to you. Is that possible? Can you do that?

Still, as the ink sank into the page and disappeared, the pages remained stubbornly blank.

The silence felt… deliberate.

You pressed your lips together and stared at the space where his words should have appeared for what felt like eternity.

༻♛༺

The next dream came the following night, as though the moment your head touched your pillow, you slipped into his world.

This time, he was waiting for you in the Astronomy Tower, seated on the ledge with the stars behind him. The wind curled around his form, but he didn’t shiver. His posture was perfect. As though he didn’t feel the cold. Perhaps he didn't.

“You are back again” he stated simply.

“I didn’t have a choice,” you replied, more breath than voice.

“You always have a choice,” Tom murmured. “But curiosity… it tends to be stronger than fear.”

You stood a few feet away, uncertain.

“I don’t understand why I’m seeing you.”

“Because I wanted you to,” he said, tilting his head, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

You met his gaze, perplexed. “Why?”

He ignored your question, abandoning his post at the ledge in favour of stepping closer to you. "You have been asking about me." His tone was disapproving as he regarded you. "You will stop."

"I just wanted to know, to understand—"

“Curiosity,” he interrupted sharply, “is a disease. And you are already sick with it.”

His eyes roamed your face, not unkindly, but with a dangerous precision. As though he were committing each of your expressions to memory. Or dissecting them.

“Not all answers are meant for you. Not all doors are meant to be opened.”

That was the last thing he said before you woke up. You ran your hands over your face, wet with sweat. For the first time since finding the diary, you felt something curl beneath your skin.

Not curiosity. Not excitement.

Something closer to dread.

You couldn't shake the feeling anymore.

The dreams, the exhaustion, the way the world seemed increasingly distant during the day—all of it pointed back to him. Tom.

You had to find answers to the mystery that was this man. You decided to not heed his warnings, and made a mental note to inquire some of your Professors about a student named Tom Riddle.

So throughout the day, as you ignored your friends' concerned questions about your worn-down state, you began your inquiries. Though they seemed fruitless, that is until you crossed paths with Professor Dumbledore that evening outside the Great Hall.

He had always watched you closely—too closely, some students said—but now, when he met your eyes, it was as though he already knew something was amiss.

He greeted you upon your approached, eyes glinting like distant stars, and as perceptive as he was, he made a deduction “you seem… troubled.”

"I wished to ask you about something." You hesitated, then drew a shallow breath.

He waited patiently, nodding his head as he gestured for you to continue. “Professor… have you ever heard of a student named Tom Riddle?”

The silence that followed made the air go cold.

Dumbledore didn’t answer right away. He studied you in that piercing, quiet way of his. As if trying to read not just what you said, but what you meant.

“What brings this particular name to mind?” he asked carefully.

Your fingers curled at your sides. Part of you screamed not to tell him, but the other—rational, terrified part—knew you couldn’t keep pretending you understood what was happening.

“I… found a diary,” you said. “In the castle. It had his name on it.”

Dumbledore’s eyes darkened, barely perceptibly. “A diary?” he repeated. “Where exactly did you find this diary?”

You hesitated. “In the second-floor lavatory."

His face shifted subtly. Something like gravity passed behind his expression.

“Dear girl,” he began, and his voice took on a different weight—no longer gentle, but grave. “You must bring this diary to me. First thing tomorrow morning. Do you understand?”

You nodded, slow, reluctant.

“Do not write in it,” he continued. “Do not open it. Do not let it remain near your bed. This is important. There are things in this castle—remnants of old power—that do not sleep quietly.”

You were confused, but his words lodged somewhere in your chest, and for a moment you truly meant to obey. Truly.

You went straight to your dormitory after dinner, mind spinning. You placed the diary on your desk and pushed it away like it might bite you. You told yourself you would give it to Dumbledore in the morning.

But your body was already betraying you. Before you could even undress or extinguish the lamp, the fatigue crushed over you like a tide. Your vision blurred. Your head hit the pillow without you realizing it.

And in the dark—

He was waiting. And he was not happy.

“I warned you, even if you don’t remember,” he was livid, eyes flashing red as he stared you down. “Not all doors are meant to be opened.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“But you did,” he cut in. “You opened the door. You wrote in my diary. You let me in.”

You swallowed hard. “I didn’t know what you were.”

“Don’t pretend you regret it now.”

His fingers brushed your temple, featherlight. Your breath hitched at the contact—cold and electric. The sensation spilled through you like ice and fire, your skin hyperaware, tingling in the wake of his touch.

“You’ve been dreaming of me ever since,” he said, voice almost tender. “And each time… I take a little more.”

That silenced you.

His hand fell away.

And in that stillness, something inside you twisted—the slow dawning of comprehension. You felt your body differently now. Worn, sluggish. A tightness in your chest, as though some invisible thread had been pulling at your core night after night.

“What do you mean?” you asked, more quietly. “What are you taking?”

He looked at you, and for the first time, the answer wasn’t a riddle or a misdirection.

“You.”

You stared at him, the cold settling deeper into your bones now.

“My energy,” you whispered.

“My sustenance,” he corrected, with something like reverence. “You nourish me. Every moment you spend with me in this place brings me closer to what I once was.”

Your lips parted to speak, but you couldn’t find your voice. He was still watching you—his gaze almost gentle, but entirely unrepentant.

“This is how you’re here,” you breathed. “In my dreams. The diary...”

He nodded. “Dreams are the easiest doors to slip through. And you… you left yours wide open.”

You took a step back. He didn’t follow.

“So you’re not just a memory,” you said slowly. “You’re becoming real again.”

He gave a slow, almost regal inclination of his head. “The diary preserved more than memory. It preserved me. My soul, fractured, yes… but not broken. Not dead. And now—” he inhaled softly, as if tasting something on the air “—I am closer than ever.”

Your heart hammered against your ribs. “And when you’ve taken enough…?”

“Then I’ll be whole again.” His voice darkened with quiet ecstasy. “I will return.”

You felt your stomach sink. Your heart thundered against your ribcage as you dared to ask the next question. “Will I survive it?” Though you already knew.

He tilted his head once more, thoughtful. Almost amused. “No.”

The silence between you stretched, and for a moment, it felt like the dream would shatter under the weight of it.

But then, he stepped forward once again.

“I could drain you,” he said, and this time, his hand rested against your cheek—tender, reverent. “But I find I don’t want to.”

You looked up at him, dazed. “Why?”

Tom smiled. His thumb brushed your lower lip, and your breath trembled. "I find that you amuse me. It almost makes me want to keep you."

You trembled beneath his touch. It felt more real than ever.

“I can almost feel the heat of your blood,” he said, so softly it was almost a kiss, leaning in so close his lips nearly touched your ear. “Taste your thoughts before you think them.”

You felt your knees weaken.

His eyes grew darker, his smile more sinister as he continued. “There are… other ways,” he whispered. “Slower ways. You give willingly. A little more each night. And I become more… solid. Less shadow, more flesh.”

“No,” you whispered, stepping back. “I don’t want this. I—I didn’t ask for any of this.”

Tom tilted his head, that calm, terrible amusement flickering across his features.

“Don’t lie to me,” he said softly. “You wrote to me. You dreamed of me. You gave me everything, piece by piece. And now you want to pretend you didn’t?”

You shook your head. “I didn’t mean to. You infiltrated my dreams. You took from me. I would have never touched that diary if I knew it would lead to this.” You spat.

He brushed your neck with the back of his fingers. The touch was maddening, featherlight and possessive. Your mind screamed to claw your way back to the waking world and burn the damn diary. But your body—traitorous, aching, hungry—moved toward him without permission. His hand slid to your hip, slow, deliberate, and you grabbed his wrist—not to pull him closer. To stop him.

"I will keep you, how does that sound, pet?" Though he was not really asking you. Only toying with you.

“I’m not yours,”

“You were the moment you opened the diary,” he murmured. “You just haven’t accepted it yet.”

His hand cupped your jaw—cool, precise—but his lips were already descending, and when they touched yours, it was like stepping into fire.

The kiss started slow, a careful claiming. His mouth moved against yours with an eerie tenderness. But the softness burned away fast as you tried to resist, replaced by something deeper—hungrier. His other hand found your waist, pulling you flush against him, and you felt it: the sharp line of his body, the impossible heat of him despite the dream. Solid. Real.

Too real.

You gasped into his mouth, and he took the sound like an offering, slipping his tongue past your lips to taste you, coax you deeper. His fingers threaded through your hair, and he pulled until a groan escaped your throat.

Your mind screamed at you to push him away, but you were powerless and for a traitorous moment, you found you didn’t want to leave.

Not now.

Not when your blood hummed and your skin tingled and your body arched toward his like it knew him.

His lips trailed to your jaw, down your throat, leaving a blazing path in their wake. Every kiss was slow, deliberate, reverent—as though he were marking you.

“You see?” he whispered against your skin. “You’re giving.

You didn’t know how the room had changed, only that now you were lying on soft silk sheets, his body above yours, his weight pressing into you. His robes vanished, unspoken, revealing skin pale as marble, carved and perfect. Not boyish. Not innocent. This was a man shaped by ambition, by power, and now—by you.

His eyes—black and gleaming—darkened further, as though those words fed something inside him deeper than magic.

“I will have you,” he said. “And I will keep you.”

He kissed you again—harder this time—and his hands roamed, exploring every inch of you like he was memorizing, claiming, devouring. His name left your lips in a shuddering breath as your clothes faded from your body with the surreal, effortless logic of dreams. Nothing between you now—just skin and heat and the thrum of something sinister binding the two of you together.

He moved over you like a storm—controlled, but intense. His touch was all-consuming. Every motion was deliberate, coaxing the ache between your thighs into a feverish need. He knew exactly what he was doing, guiding your body to open beneath him, to receive him, to belong to him.

When he finally pressed inside you, slow and deep, you cried out—not in pain, but in overwhelming pleasure. He groaned against your neck, a sound of satisfaction, of ownership.

“You feel that?” he whispered into your ear, voice shaking with restraint. “This is real. You’re making me real.”

You clung to him, to the impossible way he filled you, the pressure and stretch and warmth of it, as he began to move. Each thrust was smooth, calculated—building steadily, matching your breath, your moans, until your body rose to meet his instinctively.

His mouth never left your skin. Bites, words—some in Parseltongue—spilled into the hollow of your throat, down your chest, laced with magic you could feel.

You couldn’t speak. You didn’t want to.

You only felt.

The pleasure within you approached fast, and when you came, your body arched into his, trembling and gasping. He followed you seconds later, with a sound so deep, so raw, lodged from his throat. He buried his face in your neck as he spilled inside you, hips stuttering, every inch of him tense, vibrating with power.

After, he didn’t pull away. Staking his claim while inside you.

“I told you there were other ways,” he whispered. “You’ll sleep deeply now. But in the morning… you’ll feel me. In every part of you.”

You drifted into unconsciousness in his arms, too spent to resist, too dazed to care. You had given in. 

Your head screamed.

Your body sighed.

༻♛༺

[hydraamalia]

Love isn’t for me, tots.

Song Inspiration: I Think I Love You by The Partridge Family.

Peter Maximoff x Fem!Reader | Part one of a short series, fluff Fanfic.

Words: shiit idk

Warnings: HOT CRINGE, spoilers for the movies..?, bad grammar, denial of feelings, probably out of character / OOC.

Summary: Peter after breaking his headphones yet again, meets the new employer and friend of Hank's and tots didn't fall in love at first sight, pffttt- a cool speedster like himself is better than that. Love is for losers, obviously. No one could keep up with this jackass.

Ahh the X-Mansion, the smell of sweet, sweet mutant freedom was filling Peter’s lungs. Making him have his usual half grin, also better known as a smirk. Hands in his skinny silver jeans' back-pockets as he traveled throughout the hallways. The hallways were full of children, running around, decorating for summer, the classic student stuff. The easter eggs that had been stuck to the wall since spring, were finally taken down by small child hands. One by one, to be replaced with paper cutouts of sea shells. Life couldn’t be any better for the one and only Quicksilver.

Personally for the Speedster, summer was overrated. Being overheated while running? Not exactly a great combo. He would usually just spend his white ass in a pool, enjoying the sun with huge amounts of sunscreen. He was not trying to be burning red again, tan was not worth the pain he had endured that one summer. Just thinking about it makes him shudder. Yeah, no thank you.

So where was the famous speedster headed? Well towards Hank’s laboratory, why? Well Peter really wanted his whole headphones situation to work again, it broke on the last mission after he uhm… Ahem, kinda rushed into a metal robot man while being distracted. Yeah the headphones weren’t the only thing broken afterwards. But it had been months! Hank had hopefully found time to at least fix the headphones by now. The Beast wasn't THAT busy of a guy.

The thing Peter was distracted by? His teammates yelling at him to look forward at who he was gonna slam into. His ego won that battle though. Reasoning 0, Ego 121.

Peter walked down the stairs and into the basement, turning a hard right into the metal security gate. Putting his eye near the scanner so the door would finally open. Well… It was supposed to open at least, but it didn’t. Instead the small pad above the scanner opened into a blue screen. The words ‘State…. Your…. Reason… Of… Visit…’ flashed on the screen, over and over again. The screen couldn’t be bigger than his palm, so it was hard to read but he got the idea.

Why was Peter the only one with this extra security measure? Seriously, he wasn’t even that bad.

Peter groaned, throwing his head back. He drifted to the right, trying to find any way into the lab, like a small hole but it was sealed shut. So he just gave into the machine, his finger poking the screen as he said. “Headphones Hank, I’m here for my headphones.”

Slowly the doors opened, like extremely, insanely slowly. Peter’s time might pass by slower than everyone else’s but it was like Hank was putting extra caution in Peter not running into the lab. Peter’s eyes were heavy and hurting from the slow eye-roll he was making and wasting.

“Seriously Hank, I won’t run in the lab again, I promise, Boy Scouts Honor or something… I don’t know, my mother never put me into those things.”

That’s when Peter noticed it, the music was different. It was WEIRD. Hell even WEIRDER than usual. It wasn’t Hank's usual Mozart that would burn Peter’s ears. Nope, it was probably some baroque pop and bubblegum pop genre. The words repeating over and over again: I Think I love you! I Think I Love You.

Seriously? Some love song by The Partridge Family? It was so far off his radar. Even Hank's radar in fact.

“Jeez Hank, I knew your music taste sucked but this is seriously getting out of hand-“ Peter had been too distracted by the whole slow door and music, that he hadn’t locked eyes on… A new girl? The big blue furry man was standing beside someone much less hairy, and the Speedster was confused by it. He didn't even finish his sentence because of her sudden spawn into his sight.

“First of all, Peter, this isn’t my music, it’s a friend’s music disk. So I’d appreciate it if you didn’t make a poor impression. And as for your headphones. They should be fully repaired now, let me retrieve them for you. Don't do anything stupid while my back is turned.” Hank warned and moved from the spot by the wall that the two seemed to be working on, making the lady slowly turn around and lock eyes with Peter. A small oil patch was on her cheek, and Peter for once in his life, couldn’t stop staring. Strange, his eyes would usually look anywhere at once. It was almost impossible to keep the guy from looking at one place for too long.

Hank completely ruined the moment by walking in front of Peter’s vision, making him look- or well try to look over the giant fur-ball’s shoulders. He had to just catch her, one more time. Wait- Why did he wanna see her again? “Peter..?”

Shit, shit, SHIT!

Peter got out of his dazed state and took the headphones off Hank’s paw? Would you call that a paw? Whatever Hank's hand would be called before nodding.

“Oh thank god! I have been waiting for these babes for what felt like months.” Mission accomplished, headphones gathered and now Peter could finally run again without the sound of the soundwall breaking.

“Ahem.” Hank faked coughed while looking down at Peter, expecting him to say something probably. But Peter just didn’t know what or maybe he did and just wanted to be a jackass. It really depended on his mood. “Nevermind then, you are impossible to work with.” That further increased Peter’s ego. Reasoning 0, Ego 122.

Hank moved to the side again and that strange dazed feeling came again, his chest heavy. Was this music that was playing killing him? Pfftt probably. The lady had come over, she was holding a cloth that was drenched in black oil and a wrench in her other hand.

“Right.” Hank replied, pushing his glasses further up his face. “Peter, this is my new employer and friend-“ Peter didn't get the rest, not like he really wanted to get the rest of the information. He just raised his hand, a small 'sup' leaving his closed lips. All the while Hank kept on talking about who this chick was.

"Peter, I asked you a question."

Back on track. Peter's attention was snapped back into reality as he looked up at Hank, his expression relaxed. "Sorry didn't catch that, care to repeat it?"

Boom, Peter was kicked out of the lab. The question must not have been important enough to be repeated. He was left to be on his own yet again. Maybe he should have listened just for a bit, however it was funny to piss Hank off. The doors shut and Peter came back to his usual routine. His mind locked on one thing, he was gonna beat his speed record of running around the mansion! Oh and that new lady employer. But that was like the deep corners of his mind right now.

A few hours later: 7:43 PM.

The Good news was that Peter had beaten his record. The Bad news? He might have broken his headphones once again. But this time it wasn't his fault. He was just peacefully making a sandwich as a kid had sneaked up on him and yanked the cord by accident. Trying to pull a prank on Peter. But no biggie, he would just go up to Beast and politely ask him to fix his headphones again.

"Peter, I have much more important things to do than fix your headphones. Besides, this is the fourth time you have broken it, this month." Silence filled the living room. Sure he could buy new sets of earwear, but these were the limited edition versions that he had stolen when he was like 10. Nothing compared to them.

"Come on Hank, please? I swear on my life this is the last time." Hank was in the moment fiddling with some bandages, moving them around a kid's ankle. The very kid who accidentally broke his pair of headphones.

"No Peter, we both know that even if I fix it, it will not be the last time."

Not cool Hank, not cool. That's what Peter thought as he walked off in a half sulk. He wasn't actually mad at the kid, they were young enough to probably not understand how money worked. But that didn't help the sour taste in Peter's mouth, which in turn made him walk at normal speed.

"Your headphones broke again?" The voice was ringing through Peter's ears as he turned his head just so he could look over his right shoulder. There she stood, that new employer.

He tried to respond in a nonchalant way, shrugging his shoulders as he slowly turned around to face her. "Yep, the cord broke." Nailed it.

"I can fix it for you if you want, I have nothing better to do anyways." Now that peaked his interest. Why would this girl help him in any way? He bit the inner side of his cheek.

"What's the catch?"

"What?"

"Whaatttt'ss theeee caaattchh." He repeated slowly, moving his back down slightly. There had to be a catch. No one would just be willing to help Peter without anything in return. It has happened countless times: The whole breaking out his father from the Pentagon without knowing it was his dad was a huge catch with helping the wolverine - and the whole apocalypse alien thingy where he just wanted to contact his dad and he ended up having a steel bar stuck in his leg. Yeah, not exactly trustworthy.

"There's no catch, I just wanna help a friend of a friend." She repeated as Quicksilver stood there, staring directly into her face. And no sign of a lie on her face. He felt that weird tingle of a buzz inside his right side? No, the slight left side of his chest. A buzz feeling that would be like a bee flying past, hearing the flapping of its wings.

"Oh? Well be careful will ya? I don't exactly want these babes ruined." She chuckled at him calling his pair of headphones babes, taking them from his hands by the cord.

"So... You and Hank close?" The words passed by his brain and straight out of his mouth. A tang of bitterness on his tongue which he didn't even know why was there.

"Close and close, we are just old middle school friends. I haven't seen him for what felt like decades. Hell, I didn't even know he had turned blue before a few weeks ago." The sounds of kids laughter went through the halls again as the two stood right in the doorway of the living room.

"Right, gotcha ya. Are you like a technician or somethin'?" He mumbled still having that tint of bitterness on his tongue. Peter had guessed she was a technician after seeing her in the lab, though she just responded with another laugh. Not fully awkward, but close enough. Maybe because they were still pretty much strangers and at best acquaintances.

She looked back up at Peter's eyes after being so focused on his headphones, her lips forming upwards as she spoke. "More of an engineer actually, but I like fiddling with technology."

That's when Peter heard it, that very specific tone of whistling. The melody was unmistakable: “Two people sitting in a tree…” Those little rascals were whistling or humming (did it matter?), and they were aiming it at him. At them. At the two adults talking, something Peter never imagined to be on the other side of. He was usually the guy starting this sort of thing. Whistling when Nightwing and Storm would talk or Jean and Scott were flirting. He wasn't supposed to be at the receiving end. There was no doubt on, he was beet red.

Just had to play it like it was nothing Peter. Because it was nothing.

At least that is what he told himself. In reality, it was clear to everyone but Peter, that he was affected by this.

"Guys, guys what have I told ya? This speedster doesn't do romance." He looked like he was being arrested with his arms in the air and that smug smirk on his face. The kids just booed at him, making him smirk even more. Where had they even come from? Weren't they supposed to be completely obsessed with the sunlight that was outside right now? Fresh air, beautiful sunset? Wasn't that every kids paradise? It wasn't like they were allowed TV at this time anyways-

"You don't do romance?" She had a smirk on her own, her hands on her hips as she stared at Peter. Putting fire into a volcano about to erupt.

"Love isn't for me, tots."

She seemed to be lost in thought after Peter's response. Quiet for a while as they stood there. "Right, then there is a catch for this situation of fixing headphones."

Great, that was great. His big mouth had ruined his free fixing to 100% end up with him saving the world again- or being a burden.

"I'll fix your headphones if you go on a date with me, Mr. Maximoff." Peter automatically choked on his own spit, excuse me... W h a t ? The loud uuu's filled the room as Peter stared at her. There was no way she had just said that.

"What?"

"I said go on a date with me Mr. Maximoff, what? Are you a c-c-chicken?" Peter, a chicken? God no, Peter was anything but a chicken.

"Fine. One date, that's it." He grumbled while crossing his arms. He should have kept his big mouth shut, just this one time. His eyes shut as he buried any sort of heat that had gathered on his face. He was absolutely a deadman.

[maxiemclaren]

hiii!! i love your writing, and do you think you could do one where american!reader and logan gang up on reader, but then logan "accidentally" reveals reader's crush on oscar? tysmmm <33

The Backfire

Pairing - Best Friend Logan x American!Reader x Crush!Oscar

Warnings - Fluff

Summary - Logan and y/n play pranks on their friend Oscar all the time, until one prank backfires and secrets get spilled…

a/n - Let’s get it. Also don’t ask questions about the half-assed pranks.

The three of you have been best friends for years, it’s no surprise really, after all you’ve been racing against each other since F4, growing up in a racing community surrounded by teens; pranks are not a rarity. From small things like changing the color of someone's shampoo to making a sponge look like a brownie and giving it to Oscar after a race win.

Fast forward to the present day where you are all in F1. You couldn’t really understand why it upset you so much when Oscar started to ignore you after played a harmless little prank on him, like you’ve been doing for years. So what does any rational person do? They go to their best friend and bombarded them with questions. Barging your way into Logan’s driver’s room, you bang on the door until he finally answers. “Yes y/n? To what do I owe the pleasure?” he says in a posh voice. “Cut the crap Logan, I need to figure something out and I need your help” you say voice teetering on edge. He moves aside and lets you in the room, where you both sit on the couch and try to figure out what’s going on.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me Logan, it’s like all of a sudden after the prank he started being dry and blunt towards me. And normally I’d just brush it off but this time it just feels different? Like my heart hurts.” You breathe out. Logan just sits there like your own personal therapist, listening to you basically confess that you have different feelings towards Oscar now. “I get like tingles when he walks by or looks at me” you state as you notice Logan starting to drift off, “LOGAN WAKE UP!” you yell. He just looks over to you and says “I know what’s wrong y/n” desperate for an answer you gesture with your hands for him to get on with it.

“You my dearest friend, have a crush on Oscar” He lightly teases. “I most certainly do-my god maybe I do, please don’t tell him!” you begged Logan. He pretended to zip his lips shut and threw you the imaginary key, like he previously just did with Oscar moments before you came in.

Oscar and Logan

“Mate I can’t even talk to her anymore, it’s like I’m scared I’ll say something stupid and she’ll want nothing to do with me. You have to promise me you won’t say anything” Oscar begged his best friend. “Oscar, would I honestly do that to you? Hell the two of you have been making googly eyes at each other for years. You have my word, lips are sealed” Logan stated simply.

The both of you were trying to figure out a way of getting Oscar to talk to you again, you decide that maybe Logan needs to pull a prank on Oscar in hopes that he will complain to you about the shared American. Which all leads up to this master prank that you two Americans were up to, something you and Logan both missed about home was the firework shows that would be on display for the Fourth of July. Since you can’t just set off fireworks because you were pretty sure that it was illegal, you decided on a glitter box. The whole idea of the box was that you would disguise it like a gift from Logan, and put it in his driver’s room and wait for him to open it after the race, then poof glitter everywhere.

In hindsight sending in Logan was probably not the best idea, seeing as the two of them were still on good terms and can get distracted and lose track of time. So here you were, waiting for Logan and hopefully Oscar in your driver’s room. You start to grow bored and decide to shut your eyes. Unbeknownst to you, something major was just shared to someone special.

Logan placed the glitter box in Oscar’s driver’s room, and attempted to sneak out but was unsuccessful. “What are you doing here?” Oscar says with his hands on his hips. Logan whipped his head around so fast he thought he had given himself whiplash. Stuttering out some lame excuse about leaving a gift for his best friend. Oscar not believing it for one second gave him two options, the first one being tell him what he was really doing here or open the box to prove that it indeed is just a gift and not a prank.

Logan knowing what would happen if he opened the box, and knowing what would potentially happen if he told the truth, he decided to do the right thing. “Ok ok I confess, y/n and I decided to pull a prank on you with a glitter box, because she wants you to talk to her and she’s sad that you are ignoring her” he manages to spill out. “There’s more to that Logan, you and I both know it, she wouldn’t just be upset if I didn’t text her because we are busy” Oscar said knowingly. “Uh, I, god, she’s going to murder me” Oscar just looked at him to continue. “She might, maybe, most definitely has a crush on you. She told me like 10 mins after you left the other day”. Oscar, too stunned to speak, just left and practically sprinted to your driver’s room. 

You wake up to someone calling your phone, and someone banging at your door? Seeing you have 10 missed calls and 7 texts from Logan, you immediately open the door thinking Logan would be standing there. Instead, you were met with a face you knew and missed all too well, “Osc- Oscar, what are you doing here?” you say shocked. “Is it true y/n? Please tell me what Logan said is true’’ he panted out because he ran all the way from McLaren to Williams. “What’s true? What are you on about?” you say seriously confused. “That you like me too, and like more than just a friend. Because let me tell you, it’s been killing me for years to not be able to say anything to you about it” Oscar pleaded. Torn between what you feel from wanting to strangle your fellow American, to wanting to just kiss Oscar, you decide to grab Oscar’s hands and hold them while you tell him the truth “Yes, it’s true Oscar”. Happy with the confession he picks you up in a hug and says “Well I guess I need to take this pretty girl out on a date hm?” You blush at the compliment. “I suppose so Piastri” you giggle. “About damn time, you two,” says Logan from behind Oscar. You shoot daggers at him and then he backs off, “So tomorrow at 7pm?” Oscar asks you, to which you nod “I’ll see you tomorrow then,” you say and then peck his cheek.

[vixen-tech]

if you want to -- maybe AUTO with a botanist reader? i just think it'd be so interesting how it would play out !! u dont have to, so only do it if u want to!!

🩹 anon

To be Loved, To Maybe be Changed (Auto x Botanist!Reader)

Oh that certainly is a concept!! It's a great one for Auto to, this put an entire storyline in my head that I think justifies breaking out the oneshot format rather than headcanons. Which works out great because I think out of all the Ai's I've written for, he would need the most 'set up' from how not-sentient he's protrayed in Wall-E. Anyways grab a snack floks this is a long one

It had been many generations since the Axium returned home to earth. Humans, robots, and the all important plant finding themselves back on soil, populating the deserted planet once more.

Things have changed since then. The human body began readapting to earth's gravity, the majority of buildings around the landing site have been fixed up and inhabited, and most importantly: the city is covered in plants. Grasses sprout between broken walkways, invy weaves its way up repurposed skyscrapers, gardens spill out of every available alleyway, a gaint tree stands where that first plant took root all those centuries ago. Each year it seems the sky gets a little more blue.

The ever diversifying flora had captivated you ever since you first had the words to describe it. As soon as you had a say so, you began studying it. Dispite the flourishing growth, any sort of plant husbandry was still something of a lost art. You lived off of the ancient manuals and beginners guides that eventually made their way out of the Axium's archives.

Yet even those could only do so much for you when most of the crops that had evolved from that first seedling had taken forms a far cry from their original pre space-age forefathers. It became your life's mission to learn how to best take care of these new cultivars and of course, spread the knowledge (and hopefully passion) for botany that you had gained throughout your life.

That was what fueled your visits to the Axium. Still parked at the foot of that monumental tree, it had been transformed into something of a community center. With most of its facilities still running and new services offered everyday. You often came to drop off your experimental findings, teach classes, and check to see if other botanists had done the same. Why you began exploring the depths of the halls that one fateful day, you still don't know.

The spaceship was massive, clearly a crowning jewel of its time. To this day many rooms remained unused and largely blocked off. The bustle and warmth of public spaces giving way to dust and insect nests as you roam through areas no longer needed. Bathrooms too far from the people to warrant upkeep, storage rooms that were once filled with replacement parts for the robots that now walked side by side with humans. And at the end of your journey, the captain's quarters.

The door was practically sealed shut with age, and the room behind it was hardly any better. The air attacked you with a cloud of dust once you finally managed to shove open the door, and no matter how much you rubbed your eyes there still appeared to be an almost foggy looking quality to the room.

That's when you found Auto.

He was still dangling from the ceiling above a control panel you doubt still worked. You had seen and befriended many robots before, they were just as common as humans in the city nowadays with remarkably little tension between them. Recognizing that the innert steering wheel in front of you was once one, your heart ached. You were no mechanic, but surely you had to at least try to get him up and running again. What can you say, you were always a bit of a bleeding heart.

After carefully detaching him from the ceiling you carried what was essentially an inanimate hunk of metal all the way back home with you. People stared, sure, but they kept any questions or judgments to themselves as you made your way home.

Your residence was rustic, to say the least. A fairly rundown shack renovated into a makeshift greenhouse. Produce and flowering plants alike overflowed from their neat rows of pots on benches. Some were for you, more were to sell, all were part of research in one way or another.

You loved walking through your own little botanical garden to get to your living quarters. The moment you pass through the front doors you're always hit with a wave of earthy freshness. The smell of petrichor and pollen greeted you (and your new... friend?) just as it always did. Never once failing to make you feel at home.

Your living quarters themselves were similarly homey. Not drastically bigger than a hotel room, it's a modest living area with a kitchen tucked in the corner and two doors along the wall. One leading to a compact bathroom, the other your bedroom. Some may call it cramped, but to you it's cozy. You spent most of your time in the greenhouse anyway.

That might have been the only day you mourned your lack of space. As if he were a friend you had to drag home after a night of drinking, you placed Auto on the couch. Promising to yourself that you'd do your best to fix him up. You'd probably have to give him some wheels to, since you ripped him from the ship. Well, your life could always use some more excitement.

--------------------

Your knowledge of machinery had definitely improved over the past few weeks. On all accounts you were extraordinarily lucky that he was in such good shape. Age had rendered most of his circuits unusable, but isolation kept them from becoming unrecognizable. Night after night you would come home with a new part and with surgical delicacy, swap it out for its damaged counterpart.

You had heard stories from the time of the Axium. You knew of the 'evil autopilot program that tried to trap humanity in space'. You knew that you were probably trying to fix said evil autopilot program. It may have been the weeks of one sided bonding, but you didn't buy it. Surely at worst he was just following orders. And who knows, maybe with some free will he might be able to turn over a new leaf.

--------------------

"What happened?" His voice was striking, deep and inhumanly regular in a way that was still seen a trademark of artificial speech. He was upright on the wheeled body you attached him to, the red eye (camera?) at the center of his face seemed to scan you up and down before doing the same to the room around him.

The cocktail of pride and anxiety had yet to leave your chest. You attempted to explain, "Well I fixed you-"

"Before that." He interrupted. Slowly wheeling himself to the living room window, still unsure of the new addition you had made to his body. "Where are we?" He added.

You should have been prepared for that one. "We're on earth, in my house." You watched with apprehension as he stared out the window. The steering wheel that made his outer body clicked back and forth as if he were swaying in thought.

"Earth is habitable." His voice lacked strong inflection, you were unsure if he was asking you a question or stating the fact to himself.

"It has been for a long time." You said as gently as you possibly could. "You were... on that ship for centuries, a lot has changed since then."

If he was listening to you, he made no effort to show it. Instead continuing to look outside as if he were zoning out in thought. "There are plants", he observed.

The view out that window wasn't remarkable by any means. Just some grass and a few odd trees before the city's skyscrapers blocked your line of sight. But the mere mention of plants was always enough to get you excited. "Oh if you're interested in plants you should see this." Gesturing for him to follow you as you opened the door to your greenhouse.

He paused for a moment before trailing behind you.

--------------------

Auto made for a strange guest. With no astro-cruise to run he spent a considerable amount of time staring at you while you worked. It was only as you were measuring the pH of your plants' soil that you began narrating your work to him. It started as a way for you to simply diffuse the tension and explain why you were so invested in the vegetation.

He made for a good wall to rant to. You didn't have many close friends and certainly none as into botany as you, most other botanists spent as much time with their garden as you do. But thankfully, no matter how much you asked if you were being annoying, he would repeat that "The information is important, please continue." All while focused on whatever orchid you made the subject of your newest lecture. You did make it clear that he was free to leave at any time.

He never did.

--------------------

Your first trip to the Axium since Auto's reactivation was an awkward one, at least on your part. When you announced that you needed to go to drop off your latest batch of research he requested to could come with, one of the first things he asked of you since waking up.

Perhaps you shouldn't have been surprised, Auto had barely took a step outside your home. Relying instead on you and whatever books or documentaries you had to fill him in on what the world had become. Who were you to deny him some fresh air?

Although you had grown much more comfortable around him you were still anxious to hear what he thought of everything. And as always his judgment came in the form of definite reports. It was all "Humanity is stable." Or "Plant life is flourishing." If he had any semblance of opinion, he didn't tell you about it.

He didn't behave much differently on the Axium, continuing to trail you like a lost duckling and thoroughly scan the surroundings. It wasn't until you met up with a fellow herbalist that he spoke a word.

They asked you about a specific project you were working on, a new crossbreed of a medicinal herb of particular interest to them. However, as it wasn't the purpose of your trip you didn't have any of its records on you. You were about to apologize and tell them so until Auto informed them, "The crossbreed has shown accelerated growth but a greater sensitivity to sunlight." The herbalist thanked both of you and walked off.

Even though you shouldn't have been shocked to learn that he was actually storing the information you spat at him, it was still nice to know that he cared to some degree.

"Thank you, Auto."

"You're welcome."

--------------------

The days have gone on much the same since then. You had never sought out an adventurous life. Often you go out the greenhouse in the morning and find Auto observing the various moths and flies that had evolved as pollinators alongside the new flora. "Morning Auto!" You would cheerfully greet.

You never fully understood why he stayed, but it didn't matter to you at this point. He was here and he made no effort to go. You had more than enough room in your life for him anyway.

"Good morning."

And so another day starts.

[theloveliestfawn]

A COURT OF VEILED VISIONS

Chapter 16: The Wandering Key

The male looked down. “The knowledge is hidden by necessity. Panic would tear the courts apart. The Dawn Court has kept this a secret for generations.”

“Why them?” Elain asked, her brow furrowing. “Why the Dawn Court?”

The man hesitated. “We sorcerers do exist everywhere else—but in Prythian, the Order resides within the Dawn Court.”

Azriel’s voice went sharp. “Does your own High Lord know about this? 

A beat passed. Then the male prisoner gave a slow, solemn nod. “As the ruler of our land… yes. Thesan oversees the sacrifices. Keeps the Order hidden. He’s shielded us through every war Prythian’s ever faced.”

Silence thickened, pressing like smoke in the dungeon’s stale air.

Then Azriel moved—slow and deliberate—until he crouched before the male, their eyes level, the faelights throwing harsh shadows across his face.

“So,” Azriel said, voice like steel sliding from a sheath, “Thesan has been protecting you zealots in secret and letting you sacrifice innocents.”

The male scoffed, jaw clenched. “It’s not as dramatic as you make it sound. The sacrifice only happens once every five hundred years—”

“Once is enough,” Azriel snapped, shadows curling tighter.

“Anyway,” Elain cut in coolly, folding her arms. “Aren’t you the least bit curious how we knew about the Djinn? About Velius?”

The female rolled her eyes. “Let me guess. Amanai. That girl hardly shuts up.”

Elain’s lips curved. “She did tell us, yes. But we also found records here—in the Night Court library.” She shrugged. “So I suppose this whole Djinn thing isn’t quite as secret as you thought.”

The male sorcerer’s head snapped toward her, eyes wide with disbelief. “That’s impossible. There shouldn’t be anything about the Djinns outside of Helion’s archive—”

“Stop,” the female snarled, turning sharply toward him. Her voice cracked like a whip. “You’re giving it away, idiot.”

Elain just hummed. “No need to worry. We already went into Helion’s archives and got our hands on some very precious scrolls.”

The female’s mouth tightened, her body tense. Azriel only nodded, his shadows curled tighter.

A week ago, Mor and Amren had sent word about finally gaining access to Helion’s archives. According to their letter, they had combed through the sealed collections, gathering every scrap of information they could find. Afterwards, Amren departed briefly for the Summer Court to visit Varian, while Mor made her way to the Winter Court to see Viviane. They were due to return to Velaris by tomorrow. And when they did,  hopefully they'd bring all the answers they need.

The male gasped. “No way. No one should get their hands on it…Helion swore to us he’d never—”

Elain’s smile deepened, far too pleased. “So Helion does know about this. Too bad he’s more on our side.”

From the corner of her eye, she caught Azriel smirking at her. And just like that, her heart fluttered.

“Impossible,” the female spat, chains clinking as she leaned forward. “How did you Night Court freaks even get your hands on those scrolls?”

Elain smiled.“We have our ways.” She didn’t elaborate further, but the letter written by Mor had been clear. She mentioned that Helion in fact had needed...persuading. Some promises were made, ones Mor said were better left unexplained.

The female just stared at her intensely before a slight smirk formed on her thin lips as she scanned Elain from head to toe “You’re a pretty little thing. Did you whore yourself to Helion? I bet he made you work for it.”

Elain face blushed. “No I’m—”

“Ha!” She exclaimed, cutting Elain’s words off. “I see what you truly are.” She tilted her head toward her male companion, eyes narrowing with a knowing sneer. “Are you going to force yourself onto him next? Is that how you get people to talk when blades don’t work on us?” What a true Night Court Whor—”

She didn’t get to finish the word as a sickening crack echoed through the chamber. Azriel’s fist connected with her jaw—hard. The force of it snapped her head to the side, blood spraying across the stone. She crumpled to one knee with a strangled hiss, her breath rattling between clenched teeth.

The male sorcerer snapped the moment he saw his companion slam into the stone wall. With a guttural roar, he lunged forward, muscles bulging against restraint—and with a sharp, metallic snap , the shackles around his wrists shattered like brittle bone.

Azriel’s blade was in his hand before Elain could draw breath.

“Kneel. Back. Down.”

The words weren’t shouted. They were delivered in a cold and intimidating tone that sent shivers to Elain’s skin. The male froze mid-lunge with trembling shoulders and ragged breath. His eyes was blazed with fury… but he sank slowly, reluctantly, back to his knees.

Elain watched Azriel pull fresh iron restraints from the rack beside the wall. These were heavier. The clicks of the new shackles locking into place echoed in the chamber like a countdown. Double-binded now, the male sorcerer glared up from behind his messy hair, chest heaving.

Azriel only stepped back, expression unreadable, blade still dripping blood in his left hand, his fist clenched in the other.

“Try that again,” he said softly, “and I’ll see how many pieces you can break into before you stop twitching.”

He then glanced at the female who’s still hissing in pain.

“You insult her again,” Azriel growled, shadows writhing around him like a storm barely contained, “And I’ll be tempted to tear your little Order out of the shadows it hides in and hunt down every last one of you.”

Azriel’s eyes gleamed like gold as he kept his gaze on her. “I’d start by killing you where you kneel right now.”

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

read the rest here

[24hlevi]

fluff prompt 1 "there it is, there's that smile." with shoko from jjk with a reader that's like kenshi Takahashi

ah thank you so much for requesting this! 🫶

how did you know i love kenshi?? i didnt know if you wanted reader to be blind like him or not so i didn't, sorry!

— SMILE

shoko ieiri (jujutsu kaisen) x gn!reader

genre: fluff

summary: fluff prompt ("there it is, there's that smile") from my 2.5k event

warnings: post!shibuya arc

after the events of shibuya with gojo being sealed, nanami being killed, and many others being critically injured, it was difficult for shoko to get a break or even a simple moment to relax. that was, until you showed up in her little workplace.

you knocked on the wall a couple of times to show your presence, and shoko lightly jumped, turning around to see you standing there.

"hello, y/n," she said, and evident tiredness in her voice as she spoke.

"how are you doing?" you asked, walking towards her.

shoko shrugged. "as well as i can be for my friends dying or being sealed in one night."

you hummed, nodding your head and stopping in front of her. "be honest with me, ieiri."

she let out a short sigh. "let's go outside, i don't think i can stay in here any longer."

"okay," you nodded again, following her outside.

as soon as you two reached the fresh air outside, shoko pulled out a cigarette and lighter, lighting it and immediately taking a drag from it.

"i thought you quit," you said.

"old habits die hard," she responded, taking another drag from it. "you should understand that."

"i do," you nodded, leaning against the railing. "i apologize for not being able to see you much during all of this happening. it's been rough on all of us but, technically we're the last two standing excluding yaga."

shoko hummed with a nod, tapping the cigarette to ash it over the railing. "i mean, there's still him," she said.

you knew who she was speaking of. geto, of course. but, you had a feeling he wasn't the same as he was when you all were students. he didn't seem to be the same guy you knew back then. "i guess you're right," you said. "but, he's not the same."

"i know," shoko sighed, resting her head on the palm of her unoccupied hand. "i don't know what to do anymore. i was barely able to help maki, but everyone else is..." her voice trailed off as she looked at the ground.

"hey," you placed a hand on her shoulder. "you're doing the most you can. none of us expected it to go this way. but, you need to take a break. you're going to overwork yourself and it will be detrimental to you."

"i'll be alright," shoko replied, taking a drag from the cigarette and ashing it again. "it's nothing new at this point."

you were silent for a moment before looking down at her. "how about we go out to eat tonight? just the two of us," you suggested.

"what?" she finally looked up at you, her eyebrows furrowed together in confusion.

"c'mon, you need a break, ieiri. let me take you out to dinner," you smile a small smile at her.

"are you really asking me out right now?" she asked, ashing the cigarette one last time and tossing it over the railing.

"would that be a bad thing?" you retorted, your smile growing. "you can always say no, it won't hurt my feelings."

"as long as you pay, i'd really like to go," she answered, a smile forming on her face.

"there it is, there's that smile," you say, smiling down at her.

"shut up," she gently shoved you.

"don't be like that, ieiri," you chuckled lightly. "i will gladly pay for whatever you want."

"even more sanity?" shoko joked.

"even more sanity," you nodded. "lord knows we all need some more of that."

"you're lucky you're cute," she mumbled, shaking her head.

"so then you'll let me pick you up around eight?" you asked hopefully.

"sure," shoko nodded. "a minute late and i'm not going, though."

"oh my, so scary," you put your hand on your chest in fake fear. "i won't be late though, don't worry."

"you better not be."

[callmebrycelee]

9-1-1: FLASHBACK

By now hopefully you have read the first installment of my 911: Flashback series which is my reaction to the episode “Fight or Flight”. Next, I will be reacting to the season 2, fifteenth episode “Ocean’s 9-1-1” which originally aired on April 22, 2019, on FOX. The episode was written by Andrew Meyers and directed by Mary Wigmore. Without further ado, let’s jump into it!

Quick Recap

We start things off at the Pacific Federal Bank. The bank has closed for the day and many of the workers stay behind to celebrate the retirement of manager Frankin Prentiss (played by Christian Clemenson). At the end of the party, Franklin and fellow employee Nina Wolcott (played by Jenica Begere) go to open the vault. A security truck pulls up to the bank and one of the guards, Billy (played by David Douglas) starts unloading valuables from the vehicle while the other guard, Sam (played by Glee alum Max Adler) watches out. Billy enters the bank with the valuables and flirts with Nina. After depositing the valuables in the safe, he goes to get Franklin’s signature. The two men shake hands. Franklin, presumably a germaphobe, cleanses his hands with sanitizer. On his way out the bank, Billy collapses and starts convulsing. Nina yells for someone to call 9-1-1. She then goes looking for Franklin and finds him foaming at the mouth inside the bank vault.

The 118 arrives on the scene. Buck talks with Sam who is stuck inside the security truck while Bobby, Hen and Eddie tend to our two victims. Eddie believes Franklin and Billy have been exposed to a nerve agent. Bobby alerts his team and the staff they are preparing for a possible chemical exposure incident which means no one can leave or enter the bank. Just then, the vault starts to automatically close with Franklin still inside. Hen goes in to get him out, but he grabs the sides of her face. The door to the vault seals shut trapping the two of them inside. Bobby asks Nina how they can get the vault open. She tells him the vault operates on a time lock and won’t open until the next business day. Bobby radios to Hen but she doesn’t answer. He then looks at the security camera and sees her collapse next to Franklin.

HAZMAT units arrive and escort each of the bank employees out of the building and to a decontamination tent. Bobby calls his bestie Michael and asks him what he knows about breaking into a bank vault. He then asks Michael for blueprints to the building. Michael tells him he doesn’t have access to that information. Bobby would need to put in a request to get a copy of the blueprints. Bobby says there’s no time for that. Michael tells Bobby he knows a man who can give them what they need, the issue is the guy likes Michael, and the feelings are not mutual. Bobby basically asks Michael to use his masculine wiles to get the blueprints. After Michael calls back with information about the vault, Buck gets behind the wheel of the truck and uses a winch to tear off a section of the wall just in time for the vault door to open.

We learn that Billy has died which means Hen and Franklin could fall victim to whatever agent the two were exposed. Hen and Franklin are taken to the hospital while Bobby, Chimney, Buck, and Eddie return to the station. When they arrive, they are greeted by Detective Lennie Wash (played by Terry Woodbury) and several LAPD officers. A few of the officers find $300,000 in stolen cash stowed away on the ladder truck.

In the next scene, Hen, Maddie, Buck, Chimney, Bobby, Michael, Athena, Eddie, Sam, and Franklin are questioned by Detective Wash and his partner, Detective Anita Mercer (played by Jama Williamson). This is my favorite scene of the episode because so much information is learned via each interrogation. Maddie, who took the emergency call and dispatched the 118 to the bank, sent a text to Buck saying their money problems are finally over. Buck clarifies that Maddie’s landlord finally agreed to let her out of her lease and refund her security deposit. The detectives accuse Bobby of conspiring with Michael to steal the blueprints to the bank. Michael explains that the blueprints were not stolen and that he was only trying to help his friends – Bobby and Hen. Athena flat out laughs in the detective’s faces for even insinuating Bobby and Michael were up to no good. Eddie’s interrogation is interesting because they find it suspicious that he was the first to suggest they were dealing with a nerve agent. They then bring up the fact that he’s been picking up additional shifts which suggests he may be having financial issues. We get a flashback from a conversation between Eddie and Shannon. The latter brings up concerns about their financial situation and questions why Eddie would be taking surfing lessons when they have Carla, Christopher’s private school, physical therapy and after-school care to pay for. Oh, and Eddie also tells the detectives he doesn’t really know the others, which is both funny and totally in-character for him. Buck accuses Hen of being cranky due to the events that took place the morning of the emergency. With Chimney being back at work, Hen was adamant they throw him a party to celebrate his return. In another flashback, we see Bobby talking with Marty Collins (played by Joseph Lyle Taylor) whom we met in the last episode. Marty tells Bobby their ladder truck is fixed. He then talks to Hen about how he’s cured his arthritis with some alternative medicine. We also learn Franklin is still not feeling 100% after being released from the hospital and Sam tells the detectives he was ordered to vacate the security truck so he could get decontaminated.

The next day, everyone’s favorite duo Athena and Hen go to the bank. They are greeted by Nina who ushers them inside. She tells them the bank will be closed for at least a week. Hen says she doesn’t remember much about that evening and hopes looking around will help her jog her memory. Nina tells Athena and Hen that Franklin had a phobia about getting locked in the vault, most likely exacerbated by reading about a kid in Florida who got locked in one. Nina further explains why he retired. Hen asks if she can look inside the vault. While inside, she finds Franklin’s hand sanitizer. She turns it over to the detectives who accuse her of planting it there. Athena assures them she was with Hen the entire time and nothing was planted. She then shows the detectives the story about the boy in Florida who got locked inside the bank vault. In the article, it details how they got the kid out which is very similar to how Bobby and the 118 got Hen and Franklin out of the vault. Nina, who is inside the vault, starts to panic over $6 million dollars worth of diamonds missing from a safety deposit box. Athena asks her who else had access to the safety deposit box.

Athena, Hen and both detectives go to Franklin’s home and find him dead. The detectives search Franklin’s body but do not find the missing diamonds. Detective Wash blames Hen. The next morning, everyone’s homes and business are raided in search for the missing diamonds. Only Athena is prepared for the search. That evening, while having drinks, Hen gets a call with the results of her toxicology report. Athena gets a text with the results as well. Turns out scorpion venom is to blame for why Hen collapsed inside the vault. It was found in the Franklin’s hand sanitizer. Hen, being the smart cookie she is, figures out who is to blame.

Over at the 118, Marty is arrested for bank robbery and murder. Marty is interrogated by Detectives Wash and Mercer. Sam identifies Marty as the one who told him to leave the truck. We learn that Marty was Franklin’s ex brother-in-law and the two conspired to rob the bank. Franklin was the inside man and faked a medical emergency. They knew HAZMAT would have to seal off the bank which meant everyone’s focus would be on the people inside the bank and not what was going on outside. Marty posed as a HAZMAT worker, ordered Sam to leave the armored truck so that he could rob it. Marty then used the 118 as mules to carry the money away from the scene. What Marty wasn’t counting on was getting double-crossed by Franklin. Franklin used Marty’s original plan to steal diamonds inside the vault. He knew the vault was on a timer and the door would close with him inside of it which means he would’ve had plenty of time to locate the safety deposit box and steal the diamonds. What Franklin wasn’t counting on was Hen running inside the vault right as it was starting to close. So, to improvise, Franklin used the scorpion venom in his hand sanitizer to dispatch Hen, so he had time to grab the diamonds. To smuggle the diamonds out of the bank, Franklin used the time he was trapped inside the vault to swallow them one at a time. When he and Hen were rescued and taken to the hospital, he placed an anonymous call to the authorities about the stolen money. By the time Marty returned to the station later that night, the money had already been confiscated by LAPD. The only question left to answer is, who killed Franklin? Turns out, diamonds are really sharp, and they ripped his intestines to shreds as they were digested resulting in his death. So neither of our criminals got to reap the benefits of their respective robberies. Franklin is dead and Marty most definitely will spend a lot of time behind bars. Whew, that was a lot!

As the saying goes, all’s well that ends well. However, as the episode ends, we get one last revelation. Chief Alonzo (played by Javier Grajeda) drops by Bobby’s apartment to let him know he’s been placed on suspicion pending a full inquiry. Dun-dun-dunnnnn. Athena questions why Bobby is being relieved of his duty. The chief explains that Bobby lied to them when he joined the LAFD. When Athena asks him what he lied about, Bobby tells her he lied about what happened in Minnesota.

Funny Moments

Moment #1: Bobby asks Michael for the blueprints to the bank.

Michael: “Okay. All right. I-I do know a guy that works in that office. Chuck. He, uh… likes me.”

Bobby: “Well, like him back.”

Moment #2: Athena arrives with Chimney’s cake.

Buck: “Kind of a letdown, isn’t it? Last time we had a cake in the shape of his head with a licorice rebar through it.”

Hen: “Yeah, but this time he only got stabbed.”

Moment #3: Michael and Eddie being interrogated about their relationship with Bobby.

Michael: “I mean, yes, Bobby’s a friend, too. Hell, they’re all my friends.

Bobby: “I don’t really know him.”

Moment #4: After the interrogation.

Buck: “I’m so confused. Can you start over?”

911 Lore

We see some fractures in Eddie and Shannon’s relationship; Shannon voices concerns over their finances and Eddie seems pretty cavalier when it comes to money

After Chimney’s accident in season one, the 118 got him a cake in the shape of his head with a piece of licorice rebar; this time Chimney’s cake is a regular sheet cake with no words or embellishments

Athena doesn’t seem too shocked that Bobby lied when he joined the LAFD; perhaps Bobby already told her about what happened in Minnesota

The Bobby/Michael friendship is one of my favorite relationships on the show

Buck is currently living with Maddie; although it should be noted that Maddie is making plans to move out of her apartment

Bobby’s apartment has a little more character to it now that he’s dating Athena

In a show where most of our main characters are first responders (police, paramedics, firefighters, and dispatch), it’s cool that Michael is an architect and Karen is a literal rocket science, although we learn Karen lost her job at the Jet Propulsion Laboratory.

So, what did you think about the episode “Ocean’s 9-1-1”? As I mentioned in my inaugural 911: Flashback reaction, season two is my favorite season. I feel like we are still getting to know these characters and I love how the writers are playing around with different dynamics. We got a lot of Athena and Hen’s friendship as well as Bobby’s friendship with Michael. We’re also seeing more of the Buckley siblings, and this episode illustrates something that will continue to hint at throughout the series which is Eddie’s tenuous relationship with the rest of the 118. I do think the others like Eddie, and I think he likes the others; however, outside of his friendship with Buck, I don’t think he puts much effort into his relationships with Bobby, Hen, and Chimney. I absolutely loved the heist element of this episode. We’ve had some heavy episodes this season, especially with the Maddie/Doug/Chimney triangle, so I really like that we got some levity and comedy. Another thing I like about this episode is that we don’t really get to see the 118 and Athena respond to other emergencies. The emergency at the bank is the only one we see this episode, but the episode was just as entertaining. One thing I have noticed with this show is that they’ll introduce a future antagonist an episode or two before the episode where they play a role in the plot. It was genius to introduce Marty in the last episode. I didn’t originally suspect he was involved with the robbery, so it was a pleasant surprise when I found out he was the one responsible. I also like that this episode sets up a future plot with Bobby. I will explore what happens with Bobby getting placed on suspension in a future reaction. Until then, see you next time …

[random-introverted-blog]

Across Stars and Time [Ascended!Astarion x F!Reader]

Spawn vs Ascended oh my gawd

Edit: Due to incredibly popular demand on AO3 (again) this story has been converted to a full story called His Star - His Queen. It's being cross posted between here and AO3

Read His Star - His Queen on AO3

Read His Star - His Queen on Tumblr

Intended Audience: Mature [Merely a suggestion, like speed limits, right?]

Who be smoochin?: Astarion x F!Reader

The Bit: At long last, Astarion will be free of his master and you will be his most enthusiastic cheerleader as he ends Cazador, once and for all. So you think until you find an Imposter Astarion that waits in the center of the room for you. Cazador tortured and dying at his feet. And your Astarion, to his horror, faces the true cost of his ascension. You.

Warnings/Advisories: ANGST, no happy ending (though it ends on a brighter/hopeful note), major character death (not either Astarion, that would be too easy on both of them), references of past SA, references of suicide, a reference of sucidal ideation, violence, injuries, yandere doing yandere things, obsessive and possessive behavior, your boyfriend is getting the shit kicked out of him, your "husband" who is the same man from another universe is kicking the shit out of himself, "HERE COMES ASCENDANT ASTARION WITH THE STEEL CHAIR FROM THE TOP ROPE", is it time magic or jumping across realities, "SPAWN ASTARION WITH THE SUPLEX"

Words, all the word (count): a whopping 5,390

Writing art and breaking hearts in 3...2...1

-ˋˏ’✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈-ˋˏ’✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈-ˋˏ’✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

"Save it for when I'm standing over Cazador's bloody corpse." Astarion had said when he stopped you from kissing him today.

And that was fine, sure, you really wanted to, but you could understand he was not in the head-space to be affectionate with you. It didn't change how he felt, or how you felt, so what did it matter? You could wait your whole life for his kisses and embraces and still die happy, so long as it was a life shared with him. There was nothing you wanted more than Astarion, baggage and all. No matter how unsure and self conscious he was about what he believed he lacked or couldn't give you. You crossed your fingers that it would be enough he would decide against completing the ritual. It would change him, that you knew without a doubt. And you were nervous it wouldn't be a change for the better.

You loved him for him, as much as you were afraid to use those exact words, and you had seen plenty of times what immense power does to people... your heart clenched thinking of that happening to him.

Nights nuzzled into his chest, legs tangled together, fingers in your hair. The safest and warmest you've ever felt was being in his cold arms. These were some of your best memories in the few you still held from your past life. And you made sure he knew he didn't even need to do any of that, the cuddles and kisses, to have your love. It was unconditional. It always would be.

You couldn't wait to stand with him as he finally ended this chapter of his life and turned the page, and his eyes toward a brighter future. Hopefully, if he wished it... it would include you.

But something was wrong. There wasn't a single servant to be seen in the whole place. You found the signet ring left on the floor in front of the sealed door and Astarion chalked it all up to Cazador paving the way for his "homecoming party". It didn't sit right with you, and you had tried to express as much to him but it just made him snap at you. After all, he spent two hundred years as a slave to the vampire lord. Who were you to question what he did and didn't know?

After that, you had kept your mouth shut. It hurt, but you had already forgiven his bad mood. You understood he was going through a lot, anxiety eating him from the inside out. So you kept your thoughts to yourself and did your best to keep your perceptive eyes peeled for any clues. Your gut instinct was right. When you found the elevator to the crypt, you had silently hoped it would ease your own troubled thoughts, your paranoia, but truth be told; it made it worse.

You looked among your companions to gauge if they perhaps felt the same. As rare as it was to see them all together on a mission, Astarion had earned their friendship just as much as you had, and not a one turned down the chance to deliver a long overdue beat down on Cazador Szarr.

But the only thing you registered on their faces was a determination for violence. Glad as you were, you were just as eager, of course, but that did little to soothe your nerves. It wasn't uncertainty, like Astarion's, much as he tried to mask it. No, something felt... changed. Unbalanced. Your tadpole, maybe? No, it was quiet as a babe. Your urges? No, your bhaalspawn blood, despite feeling a mite antsy, was relatively subdued.

As you crossed the crypt on the way toward the two large, ancient doors, a voice called out to Astarion. He stopped, glanced at you and turned slowly toward the cell. Expression impassive but footsteps cautious, until his eyes widened. "Sebastian??" He gasped, taking one step back.

"What are you doing out here?" The spawn asked, clinging to the bars. "You're supposed to be in there!" The man jabbed a finger toward the door.

Drawing your brows together, you glanced at the doors behind you, and you started to drift toward it. Screams caught your ears from within. Muffled, but sharper as you moved closer. A hand on your shoulder, and you found Gale, Halsin and Shadowheart at your back while Astarion was distracted with the spawn. Tempted as you were to stay, he seemed to be really distraught. Something was undeniably wrong now. Why were they so convinced he had already come through here?

Those screams were unlike anything you had ever heard, sounds of terror and agony that sent shivers down your spine. You had heard and seen a lot in your travels, you all had. But nothing quite like the sounds coming from beyond these doors.

Halsin took the lead and pushed the doors open, you close behind, Shadowheart and Gale took the rear behind you.

You were startled when the doors slammed shut behind Shadowheart, and the four of you looked among yourselves, searching for an answer for the other. When all you received were questioning stares, your eyes wandered to the center of the chamber and you descended the long stone staircase. Lining the platform, hovering above red sigils, were Astarion's siblings. Veils of darkness covered their faces, whatever it was doing, the source of their twisted symphony for relief.

Dead center of the platform, a figure in top-grade studded leather armor hunched over someone on their hands and knees. Hands visibly trembling against the floor, drenched in sweat.

As if sensing your presence, the figure tossed something from their right hand, a blade skidding across the floor, their now free hand raised in the air and snapped their long fingers. Instant silence fell over the ritual chamber. "Ah, there you are..." a voice greeted in a low, familiar purr. "I've been waiting..." they continued, slowly straightening to full height, presenting you the equally... hauntingly familiar white curly haired back of their head. "Waiting since the moment I set eyes on you." Looking over their shoulder before at last, turning to face you. "Waiting... to have you."

"What kind of sick magic is this? An identity spell?" Gale questioned, as confused and audibly disturbed as the rest of you. Bewildered at this seemingly perfect copy of Astarion. No... something was off. You just couldn't put your finger on it. It wasn't anything on a physical level, as far as you could tell. He wasn't wearing the same armor, though. Like you noted earlier, this was top grade studded leather armor, dyed a midnight black and dark red. Yours was wearing the set of Spidersilk armor you had pried from the dead drow woman back at the Emerald Grove.

"Cazador, if you think hiding behind his face is going to stop me from peeling yours from your bones, allow me to let you down now." You glared, readying your weapon and assuming your stance. The others followed your lead, as always.

But the Mimic chuckled, a soft, airy sound too like Astarion for it to be a mimic. "He won't be able to answer you, my dear" they chuckled, tone filled with amusement. "He's long swallowed his own tongue." You watched the deep crimson cloak sway behind them as they circled around the trembling man, turning him over their black boot. The man fell onto his back, and you assumed the dark-haired elven man, face swollen, bloody and almost too distorted to be recognized as a face, was all that remained of Cazador.

He gasped and wheezed, and the mimic used their foot to force Cazador's head up to face you, providing you a better look. Sure as they said, there was no tongue... or fangs, either. Only two gaps in the top row of teeth where they should be.

Unceremoniously, they dropped his head to the floor, and you realize the mimic hasn't actually taken their eyes off you since they circled around Cazador. "I am a man of considerable patience, but even I grew bored idling about, waiting for him to bring you to me, my treasure."

"A shapeshifter." You blurted out as the thought crossed your mind. "Really, an imposter of my lover? I'm almost flattered, dear sister" a mocking grin splitting your lips, hand tight around your weapon, magic crackling at your fingertips, waiting to be unleashed should they make a move against you.

The imposter raised their eyebrows before meeting your grin with their own. "No, darling. I'm more Me than that... creature you've been putting up with."

"What in the nine hells are you then?" you bite impatiently, tired of this back and forth. Something was wrong. Horribly wrong. That you couldn't figure it out was wearing on you.

Behind you, the doors burst open, but neither of you looked away from your standoff to see. Footsteps rushing down the stairs, "y/n!" Astarion called after you, coming to an audible skidding stop at the scene before him.

"I'm the man you love, pet." The Imposter responded, as if the rest of your team didn't just rush in, as if the real Astarion wasn't joining your side, daggers drawn. "I'm the man who in another life you denied, using a disintegrate scroll on yourself to reject everything I gave you. The man who has crossed the stars and time itself to return you to his side." They took a step toward you but you held your ground, ignoring every impulse to turn heel and bolt the other way as they partly lifted their hands from their side. "I am High Lord Astarion Ancunín. Vampire Ascendant." Smirking from ear to ear in a way that was undeniably Astarion. From the glance you spare at your Astarion, he seemed just as stunned, confused... worried.

Still, you searched him for it: deception, doubt, a half truth, anything and your heart sunk further, the more you found to only prove his point. To your horror, this was Astarion. Somehow, as he said, crossed the barriers of your realities to be here.

Ascendant... This is what Astarion would become if he completed the ritual.

You searched his eyes, for what you couldn't say for sure, something to reject this, reject him. Something that would wake you from this nightmare. His eyes were cold, dark with malice, lacking any of the warmth you felt when you stared into your Astarion's, they were commanding, all-consuming.

Your body stiffened, rigid. You couldn't look away.

"There..." The Ascendant sighs, almost dreamily, "come here to me, my treasure..." Extending his arms wide, inviting you into them, and you feel every muscle in your body acting on its own.

Panic nearly takes your senses. "No, I can't..." you force the words out before your throat tightens and your tongue stills.

But that's all he needs to hear to understand. Astarion's arm wraps around your waist as your feet move, pulling you into his arms instead. With a mind of its own, your body thrashes and squirms against him as if desperately trying to heed the Ascendants' command, but he doesn't let go. "Easy, darling, I've got you..." He murmurs in your ear, not unlike the nights he's comforted you, tied up and writhing on your bedroll. "I won't let him... I won't..." you detect the softest of tremors in his voice while you struggle to regain control of your limbs.

Behind you, you listen to your friends scrambling to form a protective line between both of you and the Ascendant. "I don't know what damnable creature you are," Wyll says from somewhere in the line, "but I know my friend Astarion, and that's enough reason for me to drive my blade through your putrid heart."

"What you are is an abomination." Halsin speaks right after him, "part of understanding and appreciating the artistry of life is understanding the role death plays in nature's beauty. But frankly... I cannot imagine any reason for your existence." He concludes with a harsh glare at the Ascendant.

Who merely lifts an eyebrow. "How imbecilic." He says impassively, glancing among your six friends. Suddenly his eyes glow and mist red, and with a wave of his hand the very shadows at their backs surge to life.

Halsin's shadow is upon him with a viciousness you've only seen in rabid animals, shredding him to ribbons before he even turns to face the monster.

Lae'zel holds her own well enough before hers takes her to the ground. Though it seems grim, she appears to be regaining the upper hand quickly.

Gale whips around and reaches to grab Wyll and cast Dimension Door, but his own shadow counterspells him and blasts him with a ray of frost so hard it sends him hurtling through the air.

The Ascendant watches the wizard sail past him with a barely suppressed humor to his features. "Oh, dear..." He mutters just loud enough to be heard, "not going quite the way you expected, is it?" He mutters, raising his hand to examine his nails. Only appearing mildly interested in the chaos unfolding in front of him.

Wyll dispatches his shadow, only to watch Karlach overwhelmed by hers, and he shouts in horror. Barely reaching her in time to block the downswing aimed for her chest.

"And how about you druid—Oh, dear..." he gasps, a feigned expression of shock flitting across his face, moving that same hand to his mouth, a wicked smile barely concealed behind his splayed fingers. You shiver at the sadistic delight dancing shamelessly in his eyes while he gawks at the sight of Halsin, savaged and lifeless, face down in a pool of his own blood. "You always had that coming, you dimwitted oaf. The first time too..." He huffs, straightening his posture and holding his head up as he leers down at the body with blatant disdain. "And you know what they say about your own worst enemy...." As he glances among your friends, one by one struggling and fending for themselves.

Astarion tugs at your arm when your body stills against his. "We need to go, now!" he hurries, dragging you behind him.

He reaches the bottom of the stairs before you pull your arm free. "We're just going to leave them?!" you ask incredulously, raising your voice, gesturing and looking behind you.

Shadowheart thoroughly thrashes her dark copy with impressive efficiency, diverting her energy now to the Ascendant. The familiar chant falls from her lips as she begins to cast Turn Undead. Vanishing in a blur of crimson mist, he reappears in front of her, and she successfully gets the spell off a mere second later.

But he stood there, unfazed. Flashing a wicked grin, he confidently takes hold of Shadowhearts' hands, lifting them up and then abruptly wrenching them in opposing directions, sending an uneasy wave through your body. She cries out in agony, and the Ascendant allows her to collapse to her knees before he callously brushes her aside with his boot, treating her as though she were nothing more than a worn-out toy.

Astarion takes your arm again, returning your attention to him and desperate urgency flashes over his features. "You don't understand. I know what he wants, and I won't let him—"

Just as he turns around for the stairs, a flash of red mist. "Tut-tut." The Ascendant scolds, clearly unimpressed, scowling at Astarion as the very shadows of the room gather around his hands.

Reacting faster than your vampire, you swiftly shove yourself between the two Astarions, acting on instinct.

Pain ripples through you unlike anything you've felt before, like a hammer of fire and ice that makes your blood boil and freeze all at once. The blast launches you back into Astarion hard enough to send you hurtling through the air, past Gale casting another spell.

Your body slams into the unforgiving coldness of the stone platform, causing a sharp intake of breath and a loud grunt of pain involuntarily slips past your lips. The force of the impact propels you into a chaotic, disorienting tumble, your cheek scraping the rough texture of the floor as you skid to a halt.

Despite the pain on your face, you dug deep and pushed on your arms, your body trembling slightly as you managed to roll onto your back. Vision hazy and unfocused. What in the sweet hells kind of magic was that?

Where's...?

Straining your eyes, you see Gale rushing toward you before ominous black chains materialized from the floor and curled around his arms and legs, forcefully dragging him to his knees. Instinctively reaching for the wizard but your thoughts and concerns quickly shift elsewhere at the sound of your name. Tilting your head backwards, your heart almost settles at the sight of your pale elf scrambling to his feet toward you, "Astarion!" you call back, mustering your strength again in an attempt to get back on your feet.

And as quickly as you felt some sense of relief at the sight of him, your heart sinks violently at the tendril, the whip of dark magic that coils tightly around his body and flings him backward, away from you. With his rogueish reflexes, he quickly gathers his feet under him and lunges for his attacker. Fiercely, you struggle to your knees, desperate to help him.

The Ascendant effortlessly extends his arm, gathering at his legs, "even vermin must kneel before a god," he sneers, snapping his arm back to his side, sending a grunting, growling Astarion down with it, knees slamming to the ground. A fury to his stride "you were always worthless, sniveling..." raising his boot and pressing it harshly onto your vampire's shoulder, "groveling." Pushing him harshly down onto his hands.

Lightning flies from behind you, a quick glance reveals Gale had managed to get the spell off, and the Ascendant winces at the unexpected attack, stumbling off of Astarion. Who doesn't waste the opportunity and tackles his full weight into him. It doesn't do more than throw the Ascendant somewhat off balance as the two wrestle for the upper hand. "Bluster all you want, but I see what you really are! A lost, empty, miserable creature! Trying to fill a hole in your heart that all the power in the world will never sate!" Astarion snarls with his fangs on full display.

With a shove, the Ascendant puts distance between him and Astarion. His eyes glow red again and he grabs Astarion by the throat, lifting him into the air like a rag-doll. A familiar hand touches your shoulder and you're about to turn and thank Gale when the Ascendant's head snaps in your direction. The chains, which never fully released Gale, tighten around his arms and legs but begin to pull slowly in opposite directions. Then he opens his hand, his palm flat and level with the ground. Darkness swirling from the room and around his fingers like moths to a flame, and he steadily curls them back into his hand as it simmers a soft, red glow.

Blobs of shadow ooze from the floor and take the shape of monsters, soldiers, ghouls... One dozen, then two. Far more than you know your friends and you can fend off on your own. "Wait!" You shout before you can fully think of why you're doing so, rising to your feet at last, despite the way your legs ache and demand you don't.

Eerily, it all comes to a stop. All of it. And though the Ascendant pauses a long while, even he flings Astarion carelessly behind him before he slowly turns to you. "Apologies, my treasure... I got carried away." He says calmly, watching you cautiously circle around him.

You hesitantly look around the room. From Cazador's body, to Halsin's mangled and brutalized and the six spawn still muzzled with dark magic... "why are you doing all this?" is all you can ask in a barely audible whisper.

"You." He answers, so simple yet with such reverence. "For you, for us, I have dominated this city, compelled it to kneel before you, reduced it to little more than your personal footstool for your amusement." His eyes were distant with fond memories, and evidently clueless to the horror in your eyes. "I made you my queen, and I sat you beside me on a throne befitting of one, one that embodied your grace and beauty." You watched his eyes gaze upward, still deep in his recollections.

"The sight of you seated beside me never failed to make my heart swell with pride and fill me with contentment, like a melody playing in my soul." The words tumbling out, as if he'd been holding them in for centuries, bringing a hand to rest flat against the chest of his armor, over his heart.

"Hundreds of servants who kissed the ground you blessed with your every step as you tread the halls of our palace... and still, you rejected me." The Ascendant growls, taking a step toward you that has you quickly reeling backward, away from him. "After everything I taught you, all the delights of obedience, slow as you were to learn them... Countless nights spent coaxing your body to submission to me with nothing but pleasure. And you. Still—"

"No wonder I fucking killed myself." You spat, cutting him off before he could make you vomit... gods, how your stomach churned... "By the hells," you muttered, a look of disgust on your face. "What made you think I'd ever want that? The Astarion I know, my Astarion, would never... He knows me. Sees me." Gesturing behind you, and on cue, you felt his hand brush yours. "Did you?" The words sounding like a soft plea on behalf of your Other Self. A life, by what he described, you loathed.

The Ascendant regards you, his face impassive and impossible to read and all you could hope - pray for, was that your words were getting through. Even if he may not be your Astarion, it still pained you to see him like this. Amazed you he didn't look any different in the physical sense...

But then you watched his piercing scarlet eyes swirl back, full of malice, the twisted obsession of a love now corrupted, a chilling fury smoldering in his gaze as it consumed you. Commanding.

He grinned as your limbs once again went rigid. "Yes. I do." Casually raising his hand, this time you can only helplessly watch as another burst of foul magic slams into Astarion behind you, "now be a good girl, stop struggling and come to me."

In an instant, you berated yourself for your own stupidity to fall for this again, as your body stiffly, though slowly, moved forward. Behind you, chaos erupted as the creatures summoned by the Ascendant swarmed upon your friends. To your relief, you hear them fighting, possibly even holding them off, but that just meant you were on your own against... this.

Straining with all your will, you tore your gaze away from his eyes and fixated on the center of his chest. Though it had no effect on the command already imposed on your unwilling body, it felt less forceful. You grimaced, wriggling your fingers as you fought to regain any semblance of control from him. You never told Astarion you love him, you have to tell him, and you need to beat this if you ever want to...

With a fierce growl, your arms at last heed your demands, allowing you to swiftly reach for the dagger holstered at your side. However, you misjudged the distance between you two and realize too late you're within his grasp, and he quickly seizes your wrists, forcefully pulling you towards him. "Gods, I've missed you, my love..." The Ascendant's warm breath caressed your ear, his grip strong and possessive. Tight and suffocating.

Warm... He's...

With precision, he extends his hand towards your face, gently leading it to meet his own. The moment your lips touch, a searing heat spreads through your body, intensified by the graze of his fangs against your lip. As if anticipating your resistance, his other hand swiftly clasps the back of your head, holding you in place. Preventing any thought you may have had about breaking away before he's done.

It freezes you at first. The similarity, yet stark difference, of his lips hits you like a sudden gust of wind. It's a complete contrast to the cold you've grown accustomed to and sincerely enjoy from your Astarion.

How similar, but utterly different, his lips are. They radiate warmth, as do his hands and breath. It's a complete contrast to the cold you've grown accustomed to and sincerely enjoy from your Astarion. The smell of the Ascendant, rosemary and bergamot, differs from yours, though, with his comes a tinge of a frosty winter evening. Against every sense in your mind, screaming at you to stop him, fight this, your heart races with a sickening blend of fear and want.

Still, you fought, barely resisting the intense urge to kiss him back. This wasn't your Astarion. Yours was... calling out to you, and you could barely hear him. Could barely hear anything other than the Ascendants' breaths and mouth moving on yours, as if tempting you to sync with the kiss before he silently gives up and barely separates from you. "Come with me, my dark consort." He practically purrs, his lips brushing yours. "Faerûn waits eagerly for the return of its queen..."

The realization dawns on you, and your gut clenches in anticipation of what is about to unfold. You make one final, desperate attempt to wrench yourself free. Sights and sounds beyond the Ascendant return to you. Prying your arms free, you push against his chest.

Gods above, you don't want to live the nightmare he just described for yourself.

He sighs at your struggling and tsk's, "it seems I truly will have to teach you, and your body, all over again... And here I was hoping I could have the chain removed from the bottom of your throne..." murmuring softly, words dripping with disappointment, like the steady fall of rain.

Did your other self have a spare scroll handy...?

You writhe in his arms, twisting away in your attempt to untangle yourself from his grasp and slip down to the floor, knowing that attacking him with your hands will be useless and unable to grab your dagger in this position. You focus all your energy on trying to escape.

Across the floor, your eyes meet Astarion's. Your Astarion. Fighting viciously through wave after wave of monsters, unable to make any ground toward you. A shared desperation in your eyes, even as a sinister red glow slowly surrounds you. You never told him... you need to tell him...

Damn this. Damn him. "I love you, Astarion." You choke back the sob threatening to spill out, praying to whatever god is listening that he at least hears you say it.

For better or worse, his eyes gloss, "I'll find you, my love, I swear..."

Red swirls blind you.

And you're gone.

‐–‐–‐–‐–‐–‐–‐–‐–‐–‐–‐–‐–‐–‐–‐–‐–‐–‐–‐–‐–‐–‐–‐–‐–‐

The moment you disappear, so does the small horde of creatures. Astarion shakily crosses the floor until he reaches the spot where they stood. Where He took you.

He collapses.

And he screams.

Screams until his throat is raw. Screams ugly, heart wrenching sobs that stung the ears like knives, with the power to move even the most callous heart with pity.

Today was supposed to be the start of his new life. One he dreamed of for two centuries, that he would share with you. Cazador lay dead beside him, so it was still possible, but what use was this freedom when he felt emptier than he's ever felt in his entire existence, living and undead? While within reach, it offered no solace. He would be alone. Again.

Astarion swore he would find you, but how would he? Would he have to ascend? Seize that power and ascend as well? Could Shadowheart bring back Cazador, just to use and spend him, so that Astarion could save you?

The way he... the Ascendant looked at you... It was vile. Utterly devoted to you, yet possessed by obsession. A gnarled, grotesque, and barely recognizable idea of his own love for you. The things he would do to force you to... love him. While wearing his face.

The terror that if he ascended here and now, that he could become that bastard...

Not even the tadpole, the Absolute mattered to him anymore. Not when he faced life without you, the only person to see him, to love him... For him.

He truly meant it. Not everyone had a heart like you. No one was like you. He would never find another love like what he feels for you.

Why didn't he just kiss you this morning when he had the chance...?

An odd, dense mist formed in front of him, and Astarion reluctantly watched it. Hells, the last thing he needs is... whatever this is.

"This simply cannot be permitted." Said a soft-spoken voice as an elven woman emerged from within. Her eyes scanning over the scene. She wore a light grey robe and a symbol around her neck shaped like a golden, dawning sun with five half crescents like spokes of a wheel. Her hair was long and bright, eyes a pale blue.

She knelt in front of Astarion, her fingers brushing what he is only now seeing. Dark, simmering runes that form a circle around where He stood, where He took you. "Are you keen to uphold your promise?" She asked without looking up at him.

Astarion blinked, but he refused to hesitate. "If you have a way to help me save her, talk quickly." He replies impatiently.

The woman slowly rose to her feet and Astarion, though his knees trembled slightly, rose to join her. "Save may be too strong a word. Her suffering is inevitable now, and it will be plentiful in supply." A small frown flickered across her features. If she noticed the anguish that those words caused him, she paid no mind. "But we may yet return her here, where she belongs. Where she's needed." She says calmly. "But it cannot be so without you."

"What part of 'talk quickly' do you not understand? Are they not words you comprehend? Tell me what you need and I'll do it."

"Patience, little vampling." The woman soothes, unperturbed by his temper. "This timeline must sleep before her disappearance can affect it. In turn, your parasite will sleep, just as hers has already." She explains patiently, as another figure, a small Elven man with a journal and quill in hand, emerges from the mist and joins her side. He kneels down and begins studying the runes, drawing them on the parchment. "It will not be simple or easy. The Ascendants' power has risen to heights we haven't seen in other timelines. But he cannot continue his rise unchallenged." She continues with a small shake of her head.

Astarion moved to take a step toward her, only for the man to catch his foot gently, holding it back from covering one of the runes. "Tell me what you need from me, and I will give it." He says back firmly, a growl edging his tone.

The woman nodded. "Come with me. We have much to discuss." She gestures slowly with one hand behind her, toward the mist.

He's about to start toward it with little hesitation, before he stops and looks back. Karlach kneeling beside Halsin's mangled remains, Wyll's hand on her shoulder. Gale and Lae'zel were on either side of Shadowheart, who was nursing her broken hands.

She gives a nod, committed to this just as much as he was. "Get her back. And thrash the bastard for me." The cleric encourages with a weary but determined smile.

With a nod and a silent promise, he turns back to the woman and now the man, their presence looming at the edge of the mist, and he strides resolutely forward to enter it alongside them.

"I love you, Astarion." His heart shattering all over again remembering the tremble in your voice.

Astarion swore he would find you.

And this time he would say it back.

-ˋˏ’✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈-ˋˏ’✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈-ˋˏ’✄┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈

A/N: Sorry, I just didn't have the heart to end it on a note of "oh no Spawn Astarion is just fucked now I guess".

This had been an idea on and off, but was inspired to go for it when I saw it prompted during my regular tumblr scroll. I have written, and rewritten and written it again, over and over, and this is the culmination of endless suffering. So... Thanks for reading this far! Hope you liked it!

EDIT: this is intended as a one-shot. There is no planned continuation. The ending is written to provide an alternate, a sense of hope, if you, the reader is unhappy with the "bad end". You can decide for yourself if Astarion is successful at finding you, if he survives a second confrontation, the consequences of it all, etc.

Of course, I have plenty of ideas for how I'd continue it but I have no serious interest to at the moment. I might write it privately for myself if I do, but it depends how much people care about this.

[aalissy]

Emma, Louis, Hugo

Whoohoo!! Welcome to the end of Adrienette April for this year!! I really hope you enjoy this lil ending chapter <3. Also, please feel free to join me tomorrow as I begin Marichat May :)

AO3

Adrien and Marinette sat on the balcony of their cozy Parisian apartment, sipping on hot cocoa as they watched the city lights twinkle in the distance. The soft glow of the moon bathed them in a warm embrace, casting a serene ambiance around them. They finally got to take a brief moment of rest as their kids were inside, sleeping for what would hopefully be the rest of the night.

Marinette sighed contentedly, leaning her head on Adrien's shoulder. "I dreamed about times like this, you know," she mused, a nostalgic smile playing on her lips. “Us and the three kids. I had their names picked out since middle school and everything.”

Adrien wrapped an arm around Marinette, gazing into her eyes with affection. "And what beautiful names they are," he said, brushing a kiss against her forehead. "You know, I’d still give everything to go and tell younger you that someday you’d end up married to me. And that we’d use those names you picked out and everything. I’d just love to see you blush and stammer again."

She shoved his shoulder, rolling her eyes at him even as her lips twitched with amusement. “And I’d love to go tell middle school you that he’d end up married to Ladybug. I’m sure he’d turn just as red if not redder.”

She stuck her tongue out at him and Adrien threw his head back in a loud laugh. “You know, you’re probably right,” he managed to say after his laughter subsided.

A comfortable silence settled between them as they sipped on their hot cocoa. They looked out at the beautiful, twinkling stars, listening to the sounds of the streets of Paris that came from below them. It was peaceful. A wonderful, warm night.

Marinette eventually broke the silence by giggling, her eyes twinkling with fond memories. "Remember when Emma turned our living room into an art studio, and we found paint on everything, including Plagg?"

Adrien chuckled, nodding in agreement. "How could I forget? Plagg wouldn’t shut up about that incident for weeks. He forced me to buy him boxes and boxes of camembert to make up for it." His voice turned more nasally as he attempted to do an impression of the kwami. “Gods are not meant to be purple, Adrien. Tell your offspring to paint the canvas. Not me.”

Marinette snorted. “Yes, I do remember that! Tikki was positively delighted by Plagg’s little color change. She laughed at him every chance she got. Between you and me, I think she even tried to get little Emma to do it again.”

“My lips are sealed,” Adrien said, making a gesture of zipping his lips shut.

"And what about sweet Louis?" Marinette continued with a playful glint in her eyes. "Our little explorer who once convinced us to go on a 'treasure hunt' in the park, only to find a collection of shiny rocks and leaves."

Adrien laughed, shaking his head fondly at the memory. "He's got my adventurous spirit, that's for sure. And adorable, baby Hugo has always been fascinated by the simplest things in nature. I love how he finds beauty in everything around him."

"He gets that from you too, Adrien," Marinette remarked, a soft smile on her face. "You've always had a way of seeing the beauty in the world."

“Then little Emma definitely inherited your artistic talent.” He grinned back at her.

“Of course she did!” she said proudly, lifting up her chin. “Who do you think also grew up painting the walls in my parents’ home?”

As they reminisced about their children's antics and milestones, their hearts swelled with gratitude for the family they had created together. Adrien squeezed Marinette's hand gently, his gaze filled with love. "I'm so grateful that we managed to find each other and make a family. Every day is a wonderful adventure with all of you."

Marinette leaned in, pecking a kiss on his cheek. "Me too, Adrien. Our family is everything to me. I wouldn't have it any other way."

They sat together in another companionable silence, basking in the warmth of their affection and the knowledge that their home was filled with the laughter and love of Emma, Louis, and Hugo. As the night grew deeper, they knew that their bond as a family would only continue to grow stronger with each passing day.

[yujo-nishimura]

The Escape - Part 32

Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 - Part 7 - Part 8 - Part 9 - Part 10 - Part 11 - Part 12 - Part 13 - Part 14 - Part 15 - Part 16 - Part 17 - Part 18 - Part 19 - Part 20 - Part 21 - Part 22 - Part 23 - Part 24 - Part 25 - Part 26 - Part 27 - Part 28 - Part 29 - Part 30 - Part 31

Warning: angst, emotional abuse, loneliness, despair - as a writer I would say here is the big plot twist and after that everything will get better (hopefully)... :)

That night you had the worst nightmares you have had in a while. After crying yourself to sleep you saw Buggy in your dreams, the small Buggy as you had first met him, sitting together with Gaimon, holding a glass, smiling at you, his face friendly and full of innocence. You wanted to go over to him, you wanted to sit with your friends and laugh and drink and enjoy the good times you always had together. While you trying to reach him, stretching out your hand, his body turned into wax, his face a sad grimace. He tried to move his lips, but everything was inaudible. You called out for him, wanting to run towards him, but something is holding you back. As you looked down to your feet you can see quick sand, slowly swallowing your feet, reaching now all the way up to your knees. The sand is hot, you cannot move, you start to lose sight of Buggy. Feeling desperate, knowing if you could have told him only one thing, this one thing - you could have escaped the quicksand and also rescued your captain from the wax. 

Panting and gasping for air you wake up, immediately sitting up, pressing your palm to your anxious heart, trying to calm it down. You should have told Buggy that you love him. You had so many chances. The first time he forcefully shut you up, being afraid of hearing these words from you. The second time you had no courage. There was no third time. And now it was too late. You tried to slow down your breath and think of what to do next. You had spent the last days in self pity and despair. You did not believe that Buggy had really abandoned you and sold you to a mighty warlord for a handful of berries. There was something else about this story which was fishy. If this was his plan all along why did he not give you to the marines in the first place? They probably would have even paid a better bounty than a criminal like Crocodile. And why would he think you would just stay here in this desert city and live with a chain-smoking devil fruit eater? 

You looked around in your room, not seeing any chance to escape. The windows were sealed with iron bars, the door always locked. You laid back in your pillows and sighed loudly. You knew what to do - you would have to use your charisma and charm once more to finally play along and get out of this palace. And then you would have a chance to meet your former captain again. Would you tear him to pieces for past grievances, or would you be overwhelmed by an intense desire to kiss him passionately? In this moment, you found yourself unsure of which path to take, uncertain of what would be the most appropriate response.

Until the morning you were laying awake in your bed, your mind full of thoughts of revenge and determination. Before dawn, you got up, went into the bathroom and take a long and soothing bath. You decided to use the finest shampoos Crocodile has provided you with and you even found some makeup to enhance your natural beauty. For someone who had been abducted and hadn't slept much you actually looked great. As you came out of the bathroom you went to the closet, taking out one of the most beautiful dancer costumes embroidered with pearls and stones. As you gazed into the mirror, a bittersweet nostalgia washed over you. Reflected back was an image of a lady, no longer adorned with the trappings of a pirate's life - maybe this was the life you had actually longed for?

Seizing a book from the nearby shelf, you swiftly tore out a piece of paper from its first page. With a sense of urgency, you etched a message onto the paper before carefully tucking it into the pocket of your skirt, ensuring its safekeeping. As if he would have predicted your timing, the door opened and Crocodile entered your room carefully, unsure in which state he would find you in. You sat on the chair next to the window, holding the book you just had grabbed, pretending you were reading and awaiting his arrival. It was the first time he saw you in the clothes he had chosen for you and on top of that you were not in your bed, but bathed and dressed sitting on a chair.

 “Good morning!”, you greeted him with a smile. You were determined to make you both feel better by showing kindness.  “Good morning…”, he hesitated, hearing you saying this for the first time as well.  Slowly walking towards you, his face was blurred in confusion.  “Feeling better, eh?”, he asks, putting the tray in front of you on the little table next to your chair.  “Much better. Thank you for breakfast.”, you put the book down, making sure he won't see the first page being ripped out. 

Not knowing how to handle your kindness, just like Buggy, Crocodile turned around on his heel. 

“Wait, don't you want to eat with me? I am tired of eating alone..”, you asked him carefully, making sure your voice doesn't sound too demanding. 

“I already ate. Maybe later..”, his short answer left you a bit disappointed and without further ado he left the room and you alone again. A heavy sigh escaped your lips, carrying with it a mix of frustration and resignation. You had made an effort to accommodate his desires, to align your actions with his expectations. Yet, it seemed that your attempt had backfired, leaving you questioning the complexities of your relationship.

You spent the day reading, trying to distract yourself. Every time the sadness seemed to overwhelm you, you took a pen and started writing on some pages of the book letters to Buggy. But as time passed, frustration welled up within you. The letters, filled with raw vulnerability and unspoken yearning, felt somehow inadequate. They failed to capture the depth of your emotions or bridge the gap between you and Buggy. You also felt just mad at him. In a surge of exasperation, you tore the pages apart, crumpling them into a ball before casting them beneath your pillow.

Crocodile came back around lunch time, bringing you another meal at midday for the first time since he had captured you. This time he carried two trays, both full of fruit, meat, rice, even a bottle of wine and two beautifully crafted crystal glasses. “Lets have lunch together!”, he proposed and you were relieved he seemed to have understood your good intentions. Without taking his coat off, he sat down next to you on a chair, facing the window, the trays placed in front of you. He offered you wine without saying a word and you happily nodded, knowing this would take the edge and your nervousness off. As you both started drinking and eating in silence, the sun of Alabasta shone through the window, lightening up your meal and his face. He was still looking at you with suspicion, his forehead slightly wrinkled. You knew you would need to talk to him to make him trust you more. 

“Thank you for giving me the chance to talk to Buggy last night. I have to admit I was sad at first…” 

Crocodile paused mid-meal, his gaze fixed upon you, intrigue etched across his features. He appeared genuinely interested in what you had to say, inviting you to continue sharing your thoughts.

“But I understand now that he was after my bounty all along. He just saw me as something easy he could use and get rid off again..” 

The warlord fell silent, giving you the chance to share your feelings with him. You could see his face was more at ease now, the presence of wine had also contributed to his eased demeanor.

“I just thought… that I would be more for Captain Buggy than just a simple crew member..”

“Is that so?”, Crocodile took another sip of wine before he lit his cigar. You can feel his eyes now wandering all over your body. You are taking another sip of the wine, trying your best to stay in the role. 

"Yes, I thought... I mean, after we shared some nights together," you began, your voice trailing off slightly as you broached the sensitive topic.

Crocodile's voice rose a notch as he interjected, his curiosity piqued by your statement. The subtle shift in his tone did not escape your notice, and it brought a smile to your lips. His eyes betrayed a mixture of confusion and something deeper—an unmistakable desire.

You met his gaze with an air of candor, fully aware of the effect your words were having on him. The room seemed to crackle with anticipation as you continued. “So, he didn't treat you right?” “No, he did not offer me a beautiful room with so many books like you do now. A private bath. A spacious bed with luxurious sheets. And all these beautiful clothes…!”, you let your hands gently slide down over your clothed shoulders and your slightly exposed décolte. You can hear him clearing his throat and taking another bigger sip of wine. He has almost finished his whole glass in one gulp. 

You think of the beautiful green dress Buggy had bought you. The dress you haven't worn yet, the dress you loved so much, which was so much more elegant and sophisticated than the cheap dancers clothes hanging in this closet of yours in your little prison cell. You decided at that moment to not only tear Buggy to pieces but also steal your dress back. 

“Well, this is all yours and you can have even more. If you join forces with me, I can buy you whatever your heart desires.”, Crocodiles voice called you back into your grim reality.

“Anything I want?”

“Anything.”, he repeats and empties the wine bottle into his glass without offering you more. 

You sit back and smile at him. 

“Can you take me for a walk? I am dying in here out of boredom. I want to see the town of Alabasta!”

He suddenly gets up, the cigar gleaming angrily in his mouth. 

“You can go out later. It is still too early for you.” 

“But…!”

"Let's discuss this later!" he repeated firmly, seizing both trays and hastening towards the door.

Caught off guard, you found yourself unable to react as he swiftly exited the room, leaving you behind. Your voice, a mere whisper, escaped silently, "Shit!"

Crocodile never returned, not even for dinner, leaving you with yet another day of receiving only two meals. Surprisingly, this arrangement suited your current state of mind. Frustration simmered within you, fueled by the frustration he presented and the exhausting effort required to maintain the facade. In truth, you were looking forward to an evening spent in solitude, allowing your thoughts to wander freely, particularly towards Buggy.

Caught in a tumultuous whirlwind of conflicting emotions, you found yourself trapped between disbelief and the painful realization that he had indeed betrayed you—a despicable pirate who had forsaken you for the allure of some cheap berries. The few moments when you had called him out on his behavior and he had defended himself as “I am a pirate, you cannot think highly of me..” was something you remembered now as you were sitting on your bed.

In a fit of frustration, you tore at the fabric of your skirt, rending it into tattered pieces. The desire for him still burned within you, despite the pain he had caused. Closing your eyes, you envisioned his handsome face, his defined cheekbones, his penetrating gaze, the red nose, and the smudged clown makeup. Vivid memories of his intense presence flooded your senses—the way his eyes glinted with desire, the sound of his voice as he moaned softly. The overwhelming rush of emotions threatened to engulf you entirely.

Overwhelmed by the weight of your emotions, you rose abruptly, a scream tearing from your throat. The torn fabric of the skirt scattered on the floor as you unleashed your agony, your voice reverberating against the walls. Frustration turned into fury as you struck the bookshelf, causing books to tumble to the ground, their pages rustling in protest.

Exhausted from the cathartic release of your screams, you sank to your knees, cradling yourself in your own arms. Rocking back and forth, tears streamed down your face, you were exhausted. In that moment, you allowed yourself to surrender to the overwhelming vulnerability that had been building within you.

You were so strong all day, it was okay to be weak now and give in to your feelings. Tomorrow was another day… 

[tinymoonrider]

Blue Moon — WIP

Summary: It's that time of year again... Do you think you can survive? He sure doesn't... Not without help at least...

Warnings: Yandere themes, Purge Themes, NOT PROOF READ AT ALL and it ends on a Cliff Hanger

The reader is Gender Neutral :)

A/N: This is an unfinished WIP that I was trying to get done for months now and haven't been able to. I wanted to publish it instead of just deleting it completely.

I do apologize for not being able to get it done. Hopefully you'll still enjoy it.

———02:06:34:08———

I tugged my jacket closer towards my body, my head turning down towards my feet. As I walked faster towards my building, I tried to ignore those on the streets harassing passersby. Unable to drown out the sounds of their chanting and prying questions, I look away from them. “‘Ey, don’t ya need some protection?” A man wearing a blue beanie and thick matching sweatshirt sidesteps in front of me, hands out in front of his chest to show me no harm. Shaking my head, I force a polite smile trying to evade his blocking body.

“Oh come on? I know where you live, I doubt you have any weapons that will actually protect you…” My lips drop as I force my way through. “I’m sorry, that’s… I didn’t mean it like that! I swear!” Walking faster down the street, I don’t look back at him.

Now in front of my building, I slip my card out of my pocket and across the reader. Wiggling my way through the rusted door with a groan, I carefully look around before continuing through. Once my body was finally in the safety of my building, I forced the door shut and straightened my clothes. Heading down towards the lobby, I spot the building manager, Mr. Faux wiping down the grey stained counter tops of the front desk. Looking up at me he smiles, eyes crinkling more at the gesture.

“(Y/n), how are you?” He stops wiping, his body straightening slightly.

I smile, “Doing alright. Still can’t fix the front door?” He shakes his head, blinking a couple of times.

“I called management, they said they’d send someone over…” Chuckling solemnly, I shake my head along with him.

“At this point, I’ll just call someone up. It’s getting ridiculous.” Mr. Faux laughs, his body shaking along with the movement.

“Don’t worry about it. My son can take care of it. That way no one has to pay for something so ridiculous… Have a good day alright, (Y/n)?” I nod, watching as Mr. Faux waddles away.

Heading up to the eighth floor, I walked down the empty hallway towards my unit, the flickering florescent lights above buzzing in an agitated manner. Getting into my apartment, I set down my things and started to prepare dinner. Washing my hands and gathering my ingredients, I stumble upon a yellow envelope pinned to the fridge, my name printed on the front. Dark blue, curly letters stretch along the paper, every swirl and curl drawing me in more and more. Taking it out of the clip I notice the red embossing sealing the letter shut. A small Delilah flower colored in black ink marks the waxy seal. Running my fingertips over it, each and every bump vibrates my skin faster and faster. Peeling it away from the paper, I carefully take out the contents and placed them down onto the counter in front of me.

The white stock paper a stark contrast to the red ink scrawled in the front in bold lettering. Based off of the way the ink sticks to the page, it was printed, not handwritten:

Dear (Y/n),

I hope this letter finds you well. I hope you aren’t planning on participating in the events taking place on: March 21. Although it is your given right, granted by our New Founding Fathers of America, I do ask that you join us at La Belle’s @ 6:00 PM. Although any and all crimes are legal on this day, we do ask that you keep any and all weapons at home. The events taking place on this day will not be required. In fact, we wish to keep any and all patrons as safe as possible.

We do understand the possible fears and risks you may be having, especially on this day, but do know that we will ensure your protection. After all, your protection means our lives are protected as well!

At exactly 5:30 PM on March 21, a car with the license plate: AV2782 will be waiting for you at the back of your building. We do hope you will willingly join us as more details will be provided on the drive there.

——Koala

My eyebrows furrowed down to a singular line the more I kept reading. Biting back the noise that wanted to escape my throat, I looked around the room, a cold chill running up my spine. As I set down the letter, I take a peak inside the envelope, a sticker name tag with the picture of a small brown mouse was printed on the front. On the back it said, “Not to be put on until you have arrived at the event!” Putting it off to the side, I then pulled out a small bingo card with a random assortment of letters. Flipping it over two small shapes were burned into the back. Quickly placing all contents back into its original packaging, I rushed towards my room only to find Gus laying on the bed, eyes focused on his phone.

“Hey, you…” He grinned, his phone being thrown into his lap. “I see you found your letter,” sitting up he crawls over towards me. Pulling me closer, he traps me between his legs before trailing kisses up my arms and towards my sternum, his eyebrows raising, obviously waiting for some sort of answer.

“What?” My hands push against his chest for a moment as I try to create space.

“What was the letter about?” My gaze focuses onto his features for a moment.

“You weren’t the one who wrote it to me?” He shakes his head, concern creeping onto his features. Before he can say anything, I interrupt him, “Where did you get it?”

He shrugs leaning back on his forearms, “‘Was in our mailbox… Why?” He studies my features for a moment before sitting up, hands reached out towards mine, but not quite touching. “Something wrong? What was in it?”

I shake my head my nails scraping against my skin, “I think it was some sort of prank… It— It was about the purge…” He nods his head slowly. With a deep breath, he flashes me a charming smile.

“I’m sure it will be alright. The building will be on lock down… Do you know who it’s from?” Closing my eyes I take a deep breath.

“I don’t know. They called themselves Koala… There’s some sort of event taking place at La Belle’s… It starts at six.” When I open my eyes, Gus’ hazel ones peer at me from his spot on the couch.

“I’m sure that whoever is sending those letters are trying to trick people into become martyrs for ‘the holiday’.” His fingers scrunch up angrily at the words, “Just ignore it for now. There’s not much we can do about it anyway…” I nod.

“You’re probably right.”

Gus smiles up at me, his lips pressing a kiss against my stomach, “I’m going to start dinner. Go ahead and rest up.”

Mumbling out a “thank you,” I take Gus’ spot before flopping back onto the soft mattress. With the warm comforter wrapped around my body, I drift off to the noise of my blind’s rustling slightly.

————02:01:57:09———

Walking out into the bright living room, I searched for Gus, my eyes squinting slightly. Gus’ arms wrap around my body before I can process, his breath fanning against my neck and ears. Sharp tingles run through my body quickly as he pulls me closer towards him, a hum tickling my ears.

His head buries in the crook of my neck as he mumbles out, “How was your nap?” I nodded, leaning more into the warm embrace.

“Very, nice. Thank you for taking care of things for me.” He hums again as his fingers trace my back line.

I let him pull me towards the couch, fuzzy blankets with yellow ducks scattered along the fabric soon engulfs me. Cushions pressed along my sides, he leans into me, his hand running down my arms. Turning on the TV, the news flashes on screen. Two women in blazers sit behind a clear crystal desk, their papers and laptops sitting just off to the side, perfectly framing them in the middle. The one with a deep maroon blazer and black tight curls looks into the camera with such ferocity it shakes me. The other, with a much softer look placed onto her face, wears a soft blue blazer that compliments her skin perfectly. Their names slide on screen in front of them momentarily.

“Just as a reminder for all citizens and purge tourists: At seven o’ clock on March twenty first, all crimes, including murder will be legal. What an exciting day for us all…” She pauses, her fingers pushing back curls, “However our New Founding Father’s of America wants to remind everyone that any and all crimes committed on this day, although legal here, isn’t out there.”

Her partner chimes in, “That’s right Monica. Many countries around the world are appalled at our Purge practices every year as many of our citizens, including theirs, participate in such ‘barbaric acts’. From what our resources have been telling us, this also includes world wide illegal acts such as identity theft. Selling this information to hackers across the world, even if you are still in the country, is still illegal. You will be forced to hold up to these crimes if you do participate, so we all urge you to be safe. Be careful and may your deity—or lack thereof—be with you all on this upcoming holiday.”

Her partner Monica nods, “Thank you Lindsey. This brings us to our next segment; should the warning announcement be changed as not everyone believes in the same type of God, one God—as some faiths are polytheistic, or a God at all. What if it’s just a higher power or mantra? All of this and more, coming up next…” The screen fades to black as a commercial blinds us a moment later.

Gus snickers quietly next to me, his body shaking mine involuntarily. Looking at him, he shakes his head, looking away from me, “It’s nothing I promise. I just… I never thought things would end up this way…” A sad look takes over his features, body leaning heavier against mine, “I just wish she wasn’t taken from us. Had it not been… We thought it would work.” I nod my head.

“It’s not your fault you know. Things happen and nothing is fool proof.” My hand rubs his back as tears spill from his waterline.

“I would give anything to get her back. Anything.” He looks away from me momentarily, his hands wiping his cheeks.

“I know… I would too.” He pulls me into a hug, his chin hooking over my shoulder.

———00:00:48:55———

It was less than an hour before commencement. My work was merciful enough to give us the week off so I was allowed to stay home while I prepared for the Purge. Gus, on the other hand wasn’t so lucky. As soon as he rushed through the door he locked himself in the bathroom, the shower running. Leaning against the door, I listened for anything out of the ordinary. Satisfied that the only noises I could hear were the pelting of water against tile, I pulled away and started on dinner. As soon as he got out of the shower, he pressed his sticky skin against my back with a chuckle.

“Hey…”

I rolled my eyes playfully, “Hey yourself…” Wiggling my body so I could face him, my hands push against his chest. “Why don’t you get dressed. We’re going to start lock down soon.” He nods, his expression dropping down along with his head. With a deep inhale he pulls himself away from me before dragging himself into the shared bedroom.

As I rushed around the kitchen, the news and their countdown timer as background noise, I gathered all of the ingredients for some stuffed bell peppers. ‘Hopefully this will help you get your mind off of things…’ Just as I was about to start chopping a knock at the door interrupted my thoughts. A pulsing feeling running through my body as Gus slips on a shirt, eyes locking with mine before going over to the door. I watch as he takes a look through the peephole, his shoulders relaxing. He shakes his head with a sad smile.

“I’ll be right back. It’s Mr. Faux, I ran into him earlier, I think he’s here to continue our conversation…” As he cracks the door open, he waits for me to leave.

“What about?”

His head shakes once more, “Nothing important… Just about the front door. It won’t be a problem after tonight.” I nod, smiling. Just as I’m about to head back into the kitchen, I look back at him once more.

“Is everything alright? I know this day is pretty hard for you… I’m here if you want to talk about it.” My hands fiddle with the side of my shirt, “You know that right?” The corners of his mouth lift up but his eyes don’t shine like they usually do. He nods before slipping outside. My fingers tighten around my shirt as I head back to the kitchen, the pulsing feeling still not leaving my body.

As soon as I had placed the peppers in the oven, Gus walked back in his eyes darting everywhere else but mine. Going over towards him, I watched as he ran his fingers along the pictures of us together hung up on the wall. Placing a hand onto his shoulder, I let him shrug me away, a sigh escaping his lips. Turning back towards me, he opens his mouth to speak but the TV interrupts him. The screen flashing blue, the monotone voice playing through the speakers as the alarm blares at us. Commencement.

———00:11:59:59———

"(Y/n)… Mr. Faux said there's a car waiting for you outside. Are you planning to go to that party?" I shook my head.

"No. Are they still there?" Gus shrugs a sigh escaping his throat. I watch as he swings himself over the couch, a groan escaping his throat. I watched as he leaned forward, hands cupping the back of his head before leaning back once more.

"There's something I need to tell you… Come here." He waves me over. Cautiously walking over towards him, I take a seat and let my fingers thread through his. His eyebrows furrow into a thin line, "About that letter—"

All the lights go out followed by accompanying screams. His fingers tighten around mine, "What's going on?"

"I need to get you out of here. This isn't worth it. It isn't worth it let's go." He tugs me up and drags me around the unit, through the darkness, the screams get louder. His hand never left mine as he swung the front door open. Leading me through the building, a sliver of light hits our eyes as I realize we're at the back of the building. "Once you're out, run to my car," he hands me his set of keys, "get in and lock it. If I'm not there in ten minutes, start driving without me. Go to this location. Take the back roads. Once you arrive, the password is written on the back of the paper. In the glove compartment there is a mask with neon lights. Turn it on and cover your identity. No matter what, you will not take it off until this night is over and you are safe. Completely. Without a doubt, safe. Got that?"

My head spins, "Gus, please." His fingers curl around my shoulders. Looking behind him, he sighs.

"Please. Please just do it. Okay?" Nodding, he presses his lips to mine, warmth flooding my body, "I love you so much. Please, stay safe." Carefully he takes off the barricades from the door and props it open. Checking the immediate surroundings around the building, he nods at me. "Go first, I'll be behind you to cover you."

Nodding, I make a full sprint towards his car, both items clenched tight between my fingers. Moments later, I jumped into the drivers seat, the doors locked behind me as I waited for him to catch up. I feel my uneven breaths escape from my slightly parted lips.

Gus pops up next to me, hand slamming against the window. "(Y/n), I'm here, unlock the door!" After following his command, I clamber over the side console and into the passenger seat. Once Gus settles in, he combs his hair with his slender fingers. His eyes were wide as he gripped the steering wheel. "Are… Are you ready?" He says somewhat breathlessly. I nod and let him drive us to our destination.

———00:11:24:19———

After about thirty minutes into the drive, we finally arrived at a large office-like building. Giant spotlights bolted into the ground shined up at the tinted windows. Pulling up towards the front drive, two men in fully padded suits waited at the front door, eyes trained forward guns strapped to their backs and legs. Turning towards Gus, who has refused to answer any of my questions so far, reaches into the glove compartment and places the mask over his face. Reaching inside once again, he takes out a similar mask, only mine has a wider toothy grin plastered on the front.

Handing it to me, he waits for it to cover my features before exiting the car. Opening my door, he takes my hand and pulls me so I stand behind him, his left hand roughly gripping my right one as he leads us up towards the padded suits. One turns towards him, a grimace etched into his lips as he leans forward. A deep booming voice growls out, "Password."

"AV 2782." The suit nods to their counterpart as they swing the doors open for us. Inside, a crushed velvet carpet and matching curtains decorate the room. Figures donned in blank white masks stand single file blocking us from moving anywhere but forward. Letting Gus lead the way, I follow him to the front desk where a figure donned in a splitting, two faced mask holds out his hands. I watch as Gus reaches into his pocket, pulling out his ID and placing it into the form's hands, Gus turns towards me.

"I don't have my ID… I left it in the apartment…" I whisper, hands clutching his shirt. He shakes his head.

"Don't worry. Do you still have the letter?" I nodded. "Good. Hand it to them and when we get inside, stick to me." Pulling it out of my pocket, my gut twists as I let them take it from me. After a quick scan at both, the white masked figures create a small opening for us to walk through.

Heading into the elevator and up to the top floor, Gus' fingers slap away my hands, his eyes unable to meet mine. Even behind closed doors. Once they open, dim lights and people sitting at circular tables, all focus onto us.

A figure donned in a feathery mask stands, somewhat elevated, at the front of the room. With a microphone in hand, they take a deep breath in, a smile creeping up onto their face, "Let the games begin."

———00:10:59:59———

We are lead to a table in the back of the room, the lights dimming around us. Now seated, Gus grabs my hand, squeezing me tight. A light flashes towards the front. An exhibition. A red dot at the corner of the screen projected onto the wall indicating that what we’re currently seeing is live. A series of images flashes before us. A padded room with a singular chair placed in the middle, several shots of a park, another of an office building. The screen goes black for a moment as a spotlight shines onto a mask-less announcer stands before us. Her attire is unlike anyone else’s. Tight leather wraps around her figure like a second skin, bright neon makeup painting her features. In smeary purple lipstick, she raises her microphone to her lips, a slurty voice putting us all in a trance.

“Welcome everyone… I’m so glad to announce this year’s contestants for the Purge Party,” she pauses, pulling out a paper, “Out of the thirty six invitations sent out to our people, only three of them came willingly… One is missing.” She purrs. Turning towards the screen she scans the faces that have now popped up on screen.

“Well, not really…” her eyes lock with mine, tongue running along her lips with a moan, “It seems as though our little runaway wanted to join our fun…” A spotlight illuminates our table, Gus’ fingers squeezing mine tightly. “And here I thought we would have to say goodbye to little Sara. You know the rules, Hon. We need all thirty six players… Is Sara our replacement for your little Mouse?”

Gus stands up, his fingers shaking as he looks down towards me. His hand never leaving mine he looks back up towards the announcer. “I wanted to deliver this one personally. They’re quite the fighter…” his voice cracks, “It was the most logical decision.” The crowd cheers as two bulky frames rush to my side, pulling me from my seat and dragging me away behind metal doors.

My mask drops from my face as I scream out to Gus. He doesn’t look back.

[stuckinuniformdevelopment]

@janitorlarry7

(Previous) "I-I see.." Larry listened and looked down at his legs for a brief moment upon Teddy mentioning them before following right behind him to another room. "..Is there no protective gear for them whatsoever or something?"

The door shut immediately after Larry entered. The hiss of gas flooding into the chamber happen to coincide with Teddy sharply inhaling through his teeth, much to his relief.

He didn’t want Larry to think he was being a bother for requesting proper PPE. Far from it! He just... wasn’t sure how to help.

Teddy crossed his arms and put his hand on his chin as he waited for the chamber to do its thing. What would cover his legs that wouldn’t create a tripping hazard..? He was so deep in thought that he didn’t notice that the door to the laboratory had opened at first.

The main floor was arranged in a grid with machines and small research stations taking up a square or two, with walkways down the middle and supplies hung on the walls.

“I’ll find something,” Teddy said as he stepped out of the decontamination chamber.

He briefly paused to check the progress of a weaving machine on his way to a door opposite of the door he entered. It was labelled, “Cleaning Supplies & First Aid” with safety posters surrounding it.

Once they reached it Teddy turned to go in the room right next door. It turned out to be a walk-in closet full of various assorted clothing. Including some lab coats and uniforms mixed in with the rest.

One side of the room was lined with long, short drawers labelled with numbers. He opened a few before finally pulling a vacuum sealed bag out of drawer 47.

“These may be a bit baggy..,” Teddy said as he pulled the pants out and put the shirt back, "...but I made these for Freddy so hopefully they’re long enough.”

Then he smiled while holding them out to Larry. “I’m glad you said you’d rather have a rash than risk arachnomorph venom.”

[quietwingsinthesky]

👀👀👀 Sorry for adding to your work but can I get Sam drinking Lucifer's blood

Hello hello hello anon sorry for the wait but hopefully the extra uh 3000 words makes up for it <3 and also born-again identity fix-it since it’s topical for me atm.

Sam is very familiar with dying.

It’s usually faster than this. He closes his eyes, and he’s facing Dean in Cold Oak with a knife in his spine or he’s sitting on a motel bed with a shotgun pointed at his chest. It hurts, but it’s brief like a ripped off band-aid. He goes into the cold, beckoning dark. He feels safe there. All the world fades away. Just like falling asleep, he wakes up a little later, his wounds vanished like a dream but the dried blood on his clothes left as a warning.

He’s never marinated in his own death before. He can feel it seeping into his pores. His head is throbbing like thunder even when Lucifer shuts up, too far gone to survive this without a miracle that isn’t coming. He was wondering a while ago what parts of him would fail first, and Lucifer “helped” by counting down the hours for him, straddling Sam’s torso with his fingers trailing over his skin. Poking Sam’s ribs vindictively as he laid out exactly when Sam could expect his organs to give up the fight. “First time dying alone, Sammy?” he said, doing that awful thing where his voice got soft and sympathetic just so that he could tear it away a moment later. “Dean’s not going to make it back in time. We knew that the minute he left.” Sam looked away from him, heave of his head to the side. “I’m here. I won’t leave you. Isn’t that comforting?”

He’d waited for a response. Sam couldn’t give him one. He’d decided to find the answer inside Sam instead, a vivisection that stretched on and on until Sam couldn’t cry anymore, and when it was over, there was no blood, no cuts, just Lucifer looking so pleased with himself as Sam tried not to throw up. Sam was too tired to do anything but turn away from him again.

Something new had kept Sam awake the past few days as his time ran out. A sound he’d been deafened by once before as the final seal broke and the Cage opened under his feet and all the light and power that was Lucifer came screaming out. Hearing it now made his teeth rattle. He’s never heard his hallucination make anything close to that noise. He taunts and insults and shouts in a very human way. Even his torture is crude and physical. Sam isn’t fit to be haunted by an angel, no matter how fallen. When the sound finally went silent again, Sam wasn't sure if he was relieved or not.

His hallucination hadn’t given him more than a day before Sam’s liver fails first. He might be lying. The fallen-out hairs on Sam’s pillow beg to differ.

Sam’s mind is filled with calm and dreadful certainty. It’s over. He lost.

And Lucifer still won’t shut up. He’s doing it to rub it in now, gloating. Sam weakly cups his ears, and that does nothing to block it out.

There’s been someone else in his room for the past day. She looks like a woman, finely dressed, watching him impassively as his condition worsens. She’s not one of the staff. He’s pretty sure no one else can see her, no one but him and Lucifer.

“Vulture,” Lucifer spits at her, “I’m not finished. Find somewhere else to circle.” She doesn’t react except to look at her watch and then look at Sam. There is something like pity in her eyes, the hollow sort that brings no comfort and takes no action. Sam feels weirdly grateful to Lucifer for snapping at her like a feral dog, even if she can’t hear it. There’s no way he could do it himself.

It’s not hard to guess what she is and who she’s here for.

Sam stares at her as his head throbs. Every part of his body aches. His heartbeat feels weak. She frowns, nods, and taps her watch. Not long, then. He wishes Dean hadn’t bothered to try and save him. He wants one last embrace, Dean’s voice all rough and faux hopeful telling him it’ll be okay, they figure this out. If nothing else, it’s comforting that with Crowley’s hands on the reins of Hell, no demon alive will be taking a deal with Dean.

Sam’s tired. It’s okay. He won’t fight. He’ll go quiet.

“Back to me,” Lucifer says, because he never lets Sam forget it.

Sam doesn’t even care. He’s out of vacation days. It’s back to the Cage, where he belongs. Castiel never should have pulled him out. Dean never should have dragged his soul along, too. He wasn’t worth the effort.

Lucifer laughs again. Sam flinches. The reaper folds her arms.

And then, for the first time in days, there’s silence.

Sam doesn’t trust it. He doesn’t let his eyes close. The longer it stretches on, the more his body tenses in anticipation. The other shoe will drop. It’s only a matter of time.

He hears a beating sound. His hair gets blown out of place, tickling his face. He can see three people in his room.

“Sam?” asks Lucifer, softly. He doesn’t look very good. He’s bleeding, open sores that line his face, his hands, and probably other places Sam can’t see. Sam’s head swims. His eyes waver back to the Lucifer who was here first, who doesn’t have a mark on him and never has. He wears his face like he never needed Sam’s.

“It isn’t enough I have to share you with her. Now I’m encroaching on my own territory?” he says like he’s about to throw a tantrum.

The other Lucifer turns to face him. Sam’s hallucination of him is as caught off-guard as Sam feels. Lucifer, the one who bleeds, tilts his head, looks this image of himself up and down, and when he looks back over at Sam, his expression is contorted in sorrow. “Is that how you see me?” he asks.

“It’s what we are,” the hallucination answers for Sam. Sam’s not sure which ‘we’ he’s talking about.

“Be quiet,” Lucifer orders. Sam’s eyes widen as the impossible happens, a flicker along the edge of his hallucination’s appearance.

“If Sam can’t make me, what makes you think you-“ There’s a desperate edge to his tone, wholly unlike the way he ever sounded when Sam banished him. Lucifer glares at him.

“I said, shut up.”

He’s gone. Just like that. Sam exhales. Lucifer turns to the reaper.

“You can leave.”

The reaper’s voice follows, “We have an appointment.” Lucifer sighs heavily.

“You had one.” He comes closer to Sam, sitting on the side of the cot. Sam shuts his eyes tight. Lucifer touches his shoulder. He feels cold. With all the hellfire in Sam’s head, he’d forgotten that. “He belongs to me. When he dies, I’m who you’d deliver his soul to.” He waits a beat. “Am I right?”

“You are,” the reaper confirms.

“Then your role here’s irrelevant. I’m collecting him personally.” Sam shakes. Lucifer’s attention turns, his hand weighing heavier on Sam’s shoulder. “Don’t be afraid, Sam. I’m here.” He pets Sam’s hair, and he grimaces when strands pull free too easily. “I let you out of my sight for five minutes…” his voice trails off. There’s too much pain in it for him to speak around. He swallows and looks back over his shoulder at the reaper. “I told you to leave.”

“I still have to make sure that his soul crosses over.” She makes Sam sound like a job. An important one, but still just business. Lucifer hates that. Sam’s not sure how he knows exactly, but he can feel it prickling under his own skin.

“It won’t be.” Lucifer’s fingers trail over Sam’s face, from the bags under his eyes to the almost healed bruises from his accident. “I won’t tell you again. I have spent the last century dragging myself out of Hell to find him. You don’t want to be the one to get in my way now.” She makes an extremely disgruntled sigh.

And then there’s only one person in the room with Sam. Alone together at last.

Sam’s eyes want to close badly. This Lucifer is so quiet, his touch so gentle and calming.

“No, not yet, Sam,” Lucifer says. “If you fall asleep now, you won’t wake up. Let’s not get on Death’s nerves anymore than we already have.” Sam whimpers. He should have known this was all too good to be true. Not even this Lucifer will let him sleep. “I know,” he murmurs, “I know. Believe me, I plan to whisk you away to a much more comfortable bed than this one and force you to sleep for a week, but there’s something we have to take care of first.” Lucifer’s hand slides down his body to rest on his chest. Sam breathes in, pushing his hand up minutely. His eyes narrow for a moment, searching. What he finds makes his frown deepen.

Sam makes a questioning noise. It’s more than he’s been able to force himself to do for a while. Lucifer’s made him talkative. Lucifer glances up to meet his eyes before fixing them back on Sam’s middle. “There’s a lot of damage here, Sam. The Cage doesn’t let anything go that easily. I don’t know how you’ve survived this long.” Sam almost chokes on a laugh. Easily. “I know how to heal you. I need your consent to-“

“No,” Sam croaks. Lucifer stops.

“I don’t want you to die,” he says, stubborn and upset.

“I'm not your vessel.” Speaking makes Sam feel like he’s going to vomit or pass out or both. Lucifer’s eyes widen for a moment before he regains his composure.

"That's not what I'm asking." Sam finds that hard to believe. Both of their bodies are falling apart. "You really think I'm just a monster, don't you?" He looks like Sam has actually hurt him. Sam... isn't sure what he thinks. His head is too filled with smoke, the clashing battle between the Lucifer in his mind who wanted to tear into him and the one sitting on his cot who wants to put him back together. He can't make them fit together. Lucifer is touching his face again. His thumb presses against Sam's lips like that's the closest either of them can bear to a kiss. "You need a little of me inside you for your body to be strong enough to heal itself, but that doesn't mean I have to take you as a vessel." Sam makes a face. "Stop looking at me like that. It wasn't an innuendo. I'm offering to bleed for you."

The fear that clutches Sam's chest makes his weak heart do double-time. He tries to push Lucifer's hand away from his face, but even if he had been human, Sam doubts he could have. "No," he forces out, "no, please, don't."

"Sam, calm down. You'll hurt yourself." Sam refuses. He won't do it again. He won't become that thing again, the monster Dean wanted to put down, selfish and arrogant and the reason the whole world was going to end. He won't let Lucifer turn him into that. Lucifer doesn't move, both hands on Sam's shoulders to keep him from trying to roll out of the bed to escape. He speaks slowly, pulling Sam back from the edge of panic, "I'm not a demon. My blood isn't addictive and it can't change you. Nothing about me can change you." His palm cups Sam's face again. "I'm already a part of you."

He's telling the truth. Sam can feel it. He doesn't understand how.

"Do I have your consent?" Lucifer asks again. Sam looks into his eyes. Lucifer cares about his answer. Sam inhales sharply as he realizes that Lucifer will save him, but that he also loves Sam enough to let him go. He won't be happy about it, but he'll respect that last wish. Sam can say no. Maybe it's a meaningless gesture when his soul will still be folded into Lucifer's grace, but if he really wants this to be over, if it's too much, than he can close his eyes and go to sleep. It'll be just like every other time, brief pain, into the dark, to be kept safe, only this time he will never wake up. Sam lays his hand over Lucifer's. All the devil cares about is what will make him happy.

"Yes," Sam decides. Lucifer is here, and it feels like he can breathe again. Quickly, Lucifer withdraws his hand. A cut opens over a patch of unblemished skin. It will be cleaner that way, but Sam's exhausted mind wonders if Lucifer would let him up to press his mouth against the burns and lick the blood up from them. He doesn't have long to contemplate that before Lucifer holds the cut over his mouth. Bright red blood drips from the cut, dotting Sam's chapped lips. His tongue slides out to taste it and more fall into his open mouth. It’s nothing like demon blood. The only similarity is how quickly the need for more consumes his thoughts. A drop or two isn't enough to sate him. He reaches for Lucifer's arm, hands trembling, and drags the cut down to his mouth. Lucifer lets him, leaning in to give Sam a better angle to latch onto the wound.

The cut is deep enough that when Sam sucks on it, it flows into his mouth like a stream. Lucifer's veins are opened up for him. Sam shuts his eyes, losing himself to it in seconds. There's a voice in the back of his head demanding that he pull all of Lucifer inside him, where he belongs, where Sam needs him. With thirsty gulps, he tries to make that a reality. Lucifer's other hand strokes his hair, lifting Sam's head slightly so that he doesn't choke while he's drinking. Sam's tongue keeps the cut wet, wriggling its way into Lucifer's flesh greedily like he can coax out more blood that way. The supply is steady, always enough to fill Sam's mouth, but not so much that he can't swallow it down in time. Lucifer's vessel obeys him, and it won't heal itself until Sam has first.

"Take everything you need," Lucifer encourages. Sam is holding on too tight, his nails digging little crescents into Lucifer's already bruised skin. He doesn't complain. Sam's not sure he can even feel it above the delirious joy of part of him being accepted back into Sam's body. "Take it all, if you want to. You can. I'd let you." Sam pulls off the cut to breathe. It still drips over his gasping mouth, drops rolling down his tongue to the back of his throat. The metallic taste lingers. There's no sulfur in Lucifer's blood, nothing but pure salvation, saved for Sam alone.

Drinking from him feels like trying to swallow an nuclear reactor. Sam can't get enough of him. The remnants of Lucifer's grace are mixed in with every drop, filling Sam up. Under his skin, he feels like his insides are being caressed, every pain wiped away. His heartbeat strengthens as Lucifer's grace gets into his own veins and powers the cells through. The fog in Sam's head doesn't lift, but it clears more than it has in days.

He brings Lucifer's wrist back to his mouth and latches on again.

Sam holds onto him with more strength than his body should have. He keeps drinking, mouthful after mouthful. With each breath, each heartbeat, Lucifer’s grace pumps further through every organ. Sam’s lips are smeared with his blood.

He’s not sure how long he drinks from Lucifer. He goes until his stomach starts to protest and Lucifer himself looks pale and unsteady. He’s stopped petting Sam’s hair to keep a hand against the cot, leaning heavily on it but never taking away his blood. Sam laps at his wrist gratefully before he pushes it away. It’s the reminder he’s needed for months of his own willpower.

Lucifer looks worse than he did when he arrived. There’s another wound blistering at the collar of his shirt. Sam reaches for him. Lucifer offers his wrist again, but Sam bypasses it, grasping his shoulder and drawing him close. Lucifer bows over Sam as Sam gently kisses the burns. He wishes that was enough to heal Lucifer.

“What’s the plan now?” Sam asks. He’s running on the strength of his high, but beneath it, he can still feel his body trying to shut him down and pass out. He resists of his own free will for a few moments longer in Lucifer’s presence. Lucifer smiles.

”That was the plan. I came to save you, and now I have.” Sam presses his lips against a scabbed-over sore. Lucifer is so beautiful. He’d almost forgotten that with only the pale imitation of his hallucination to look at. “I can bring you somewhere more comfortable to rest if you give me a minute to recover.”

”And after that?”

”I don’t know.” His eyes drift over to the desk on the opposite side of the room. It’s empty. It will remain empty. Sam can’t feel the whispering inside of his head that means the hallucination is about to come back. Even if it did, Lucifer has chased it off once.

“Stay with me,” Sam says. Lucifer looks back at him. He’s surprised, but with the offer given freely, he won’t deny himself what he needs. If Lucifer had a hard time existing without Sam when he had a purpose, as terrible an ends as the Apocalypse was, Sam can’t imagine he’d have any idea how to find his way in the world now without him.

And more importantly, Sam missed him.

”Okay,” Lucifer breathes, turning his head so that Sam’s next kiss presses to his mouth. It leaves his own blood on bottom lip, which Sam licks off. Then, he brushes another kiss to a burn on Lucifer’s chin. “They're only going to get worse,” Lucifer tells him. “I can’t heal them.”

“As long as we can figure out a way for your vessel to hold you, I don’t care.” He kisses another. This one is bleeding, and Sam doesn’t spare a thought to kissing it anyway. “Besides, I’ve got some new scars to show you, too.”

”Later,” Lucifer says. He lays Sam back down. Sam doesn’t resist. Not even the angel blood inside him can keep him conscious now. Lucifer lays his hand over Sam’s eyes. “I promise, when you wake up, it won’t be in this cell.” Sam chuckles weakly. The moment before he passes out, he remembers that Dean is going to return at some point. He opens his mouth to tell Lucifer to leave a note for him or something to let Dean knows that the devil’s (consensually) kidnapping his brother, but he’s gone before he can get a single word out.

[froppy-butterflyfan2000]

Pandora materialize a hatchet, she hold the hatchet in both hands, swinging it onto the tree. Denki’s eyes are widen as he felt the tree shaken up. He looks down to see Pandora start chopping the trunk of the tree down. “Hey! Stop! Don’t do that!”

Pandora ignores him and continues chopping the tree.

“I said stop!” Denki protested.

“Then, come down,” Pandora demanded, while not stopping in tearing down the tree.

“I will not, I will go to another tree then.” Denki refused.

Pandora angrily swings her hatchet so hard, the tree finally break.

“Timburr!” Said Pandora, letting the tree fall. Denki is floating, managed to escape from falling down with the tree and having his body twisted, then he looks at Pandora, then at the stump, he gave her the middle finger. Pandora groans, annoyed by his attitude. He wasn’t that difficult.

“Looks, we need to works together. We have the same objectives. Finding out the mastermind behind the attacks, and hopefully you will find your friend.” Pandora explained. “So there will be no deaths, and according to you, not another war between vampires, witches, and fairies. We have limited time.”

Denki is quiet, and looking down. She is right. It just that, he is not feeling well right now. Pandora crossed her arms. “Care to explains why you don’t want to see me?” She asked.

Denki opens his mouth to say something, but couldn’t find the words to explains. “This is about him, right?”

Denki looks at Pandora and nod. “And also seeing Dracula spied on us…. After we managed to escape Hamilton. That is all too much.”

Denki nod again.

Pandora perturbed. “Yeah… That vampire known about what is going on than we do,” Pandora analyzed. “Yet, he chose not to see us in person. If he told us what is going on, it would be better.”

Denki floating down and landed on to the ground.

“………… It must be because we are this generation’s children of the night. That he wanted to test us.” Said Denki.

Whether they have the blood of Varnae flowing through their veins, or Cain in one version.

Pandora hums. “Question is, what kind of test?”.

“My guess…. Is…-,” Denki spoke, but then shuts his mouth because he knows people don’t like him when he talks a lot.

“Hey, you can tell me. I won’t be annoyed,” Pandora promised.

“Whenever we would stop the mastermind from changing the order of vampires. Both ancient and new. Because we are… Not a part of the algorithm.” Denki finally predicted. “Just like Tormenta, and perhaps the four vampire covens in Townsville.”

“Hmmm, interesting, and why is that?” Said Pandora.

Denki closed his eyes, then opened his mouth, causing Pandora’s mind to blow.

“That’s…. That’s sounds dumb Denki….” Pandora denied. Pandora grabs his hand, pulling him so he can walks with her further into the forest of tall trees with thick canopies of leaves. The gentle rustling of leaves as the wind moves through the trees. The same wind that touch their skin.

“You shouldn’t be overthinking and be a defeatist.” Pandora noted, while she is holding onto Denki’s hand, “You seem to believe you are a know-it-all until you see the wrongs. That is just all men are.”

Denki’s lips are sealed and just listen. She’s right. He should have kept his mouth shut and do what he was told…. Things wouldn’t be end up like this. Perhaps his friend would still be around. Or perhaps he shouldn’t have been staying in Townsville. His sister doesn’t want to around him because she hates him. He cannot controls his powers because of his own emotions. He failed in not allowing the vampire coven to stay.

Townsville is not for him. He doesn’t really belongs there.

Pandora belongs to @animeclub78

"What are you doing up there?"

"Hiding from you. Go away."

"You can't hide from me. My senses are far superior to yours."

"Can't get up here, though, can you?"

[quibble-auk]

Hahaha, I finally finished writing this bit. Look at me go. Idk if this turned out exactly how I wanted it, there are some things I just kinda… idk, I guessed? I randomly just made decisions about how stuff worked without much thought?

If that makes sense…

@thebrokenmechanicalpencil

I had to split this in two, hopefully I can get the second part out soon…

—

The battlefield was quiet—eerily so.

Scattered wreckage smoldered beneath a sky cloaked in ash-gray clouds. A flickering Autobot distress signal crackled faintly in the distance, pulsing like a heartbeat in the haze.

Jeopardy crouched near a collapsed mech, his scanners searching for vital signs as he grabbed tools from the compartments in his arms. His movements were swift, methodical, the product of training and instinct. Programs surged into action as he assessed the patient below him, analyzing and informing the medic was wrong.

Behind him, a larger stood watch, Dropmix. The dark medic’s expression was grim as he looked over the wreckage. His cold eye watching for any sign of movement, for any potential threat. He always insisted on watching over Jeopardy—not that he minded of course—though sometimes it felt rather counterproductive. They could save more lives if they split.

Still, Jeopardy worked without argument. He appreciated the other’s reassuring company, it was comforting to know that in case something went wrong—if he messed up���someone was there.

The injured mech beneath him stirred, letting out a garbled static-sputter through a cracked vocalizer. He pressed one hand gently to the bot’s chest, trying to settle them before they caused more damage.

“Easy,” Jeopardy murmured. “My name is Jeopardy, I’m a medic. You're gonna be alright.”

A sharp tremor rolled through the ground, seeker engines screeching harshly above. They weren’t flying low, not enough to warrant their concern, they were most likely caught in an aerial skirmish. Another tremor shook the ground, closer this time.

Dropmix stiffened, looking in the direction of the disturbance, he looked up over the broken wall that provided them cover “Jeopardy. Something's coming.”

“Alright, I just need a few more—” Jeopardy’s words were cut short as a low hiss broke through the air, sinister and serpentine. He paused and looked up, right as warnings started flashing across his HUD—a hazardous airborne compound.

Jeopardy’s spark jumped.

A low, unnatural whump echoed through the haze behind them—followed by a hollow clink as something metallic rolled across the debris-strewn ground and struck the base of the wall beside them.

Dropmix moved forward with an unnatural grace, quickly placing himself between whatever had landed and Jeopardy. The dark mech grabbed whatever it was and threw it back over the wall—another one landed on the other side of Jeopardy, this time he was able to see what it was before Dropmix intervened.

A small, cylindrical object—rounded edges, dull green casing, and a blinking red light embedded in its side. A grenade, not standard—chemical. They were being gassed with something. Jeopardy could hear another one land nearby, and another. The grenade clicked and hissed, thick mist rolling from the pressurized canister.

The entire front was under siege.

Jeopardy didn’t hesitate. Unused medical protocols humming to life, what was usually used to fight against contamination could be repurposed for protection against gas.

His faceplate snapped shut with a sharp hiss, internal filtration kicking in a millisecond later. Plates and panels shifted, closing any gaps that could expose his protoform, vents shuddering closed as he shifted to rely on what air he could filter though alone. A visor sealed off his optics, protecting it from whatever toxin spread in the air.

The battlefield had just turned into a deathtrap.

Another gas bomb detonated nearby, the force throwing up loose debris and smoke. The haze thickened until the sun above was just a dim smear behind clouds of toxin.

“Dropmix, mask up!” Jeopardy shouted through his mask, focusing on the mech below him. His processor whirred as he tried to come up with a solution to protect them from the gas.

“What should I do to cover the patient?” He called back towards his mentor, nervous hands pulling the broken mech below closer. His voice cut sharp through the static haze of his comms, his eyes flicking rapidly between the unconscious mech on the ground and the rising clouds of toxin curling through the air like a living thing.

There was no response.

“I don’t… what do I do? How-how do I keep them safe?” The younger medic stammered, hands shaking a bit more as he continued to tend to the wounded mech below. He didn’t look up, spark thrumming unevenly in his chest. Panicking while using only his filtered air supply would only cause problems, he needed to calm down. Jeopardy needed to relax, he had to if he wanted to do his job. His vocalizer clicked uselessly, “Dropmix?”

He looked up—and his systems faltered.

Dropmix was still standing, but not moving to protect himself, not like he should. His shoulders were hunched, his vents exposed and still open, pulling in the contaminated air—gagging on it. He leaned against the wall for support as his body heaved, trembling slightly. His eye, usually bright with sharp calculation, was flickering. Lagging. Failing. Unfocused.

“Dropmix!” Jeopardy’s voice strained, panels fighting the urge to flare in rising distress. He looked over the larger mech. “What are you doing? You need to seal your mask.”

The other didn’t answer immediately.

His vents rasped, grinding with an ugly wheeze as his body instinctively tried to purge the contaminated air, coughing uselessly, vents hissing under strain. The gas clung to his armor, thick as oil, streaking corrosion lines across his seams.

Jeopardy blinked, holding onto the injured mech a bit tighter despite knowing better. He needed to stay calm, to keep himself together—it was easier said than done when he was watching his mentor struggle against basic protocol. His voice lowered, a concerned whisper, “Dropmix?”

Dropmix’s usually steady frame trembled under the weight of the toxin. He gave a ragged breath—one that rattled like broken machinery—unfocused eye staring at the ground. His frame shuddered, engine sputtering and stalling under the strain of whatever toxin had entered his system. Something corrosive—Jeopardy assumed—a compound that would attack the exposed internal workings of mechs who could seal themselves off.

A few, agonizingly long, seconds passed before the dark mech finally met Jeopardy’s anxious gaze.

“I…” Dropmix’s voice crackled, weak and broken. His frame trembled, the faintest whine of something misfiring echoing beneath the growing hiss of gas.

Jeopardy didn’t look away, the patient below him not forgotten but no longer a priority—there was a new one, one that was far more important. His systems whined, “You what? What’s wrong with your mask?”

A pause. A long, shuddering moment of silence.

Dropmix turned his head just slightly—just enough for Jeopardy to see the flickering uncertainty in his eye. His vocalizer stammered, static lacing the words before they even formed.

“I—I don’t—” His hand clenched weakly over a vent, as if it could somehow stop the leaking air, trembling against the corroding metal. His vocalizer clicked once, uncertainly “It’s… not functioning properly.”

“That’s impossible!” Jeopardy strained, lowering the unmoving mech in his arms down. “Run your diagnostics, your contamination protocols can’t—”

“I said it’s not functioning,” Dropmix snapped, sharper than intended. The outburst left him coughing again, harsh and strained, his shoulders curling inward. The shame bled through his frame like leaking coolant.

Jeopardy froze, spark skipping in his chest. Any motion to stand up abandoned as he slowly sunk into his kneeling position. His eyes widened as he instinctively leaned away from the other, sucking in a harsh breath of filtered air. The smaller medic’s hands shook more, fear tightening in his chest, curling its vicious claws into his spark.

He hated being afraid—especially of Dropmix, he wasn’t supposed to. Dropmix was safe. He didn’t yell, he didn’t hurt.

The older mech flinched.

It wasn’t the recoil of anger—but guilt. Deep, painful guilt that made his frame seem suddenly smaller despite its size. The harsh edge in his voice had already faded, leaving only rawness behind. He stumbled back slightly, lowering his gaze.

Somehow, he managed to find a voice despite the fear. Jeopardy clicked a few times before his voice cracked softly through the gas hiss. “Dropmix… I don’t understand.”

Dropmix didn’t answer right away.

The gas thickened, curling like smoke around their feet, hissing softly as it ate into the ground. A distant explosion cracked the sky open, a shockwave rolling through the ruin-strewn battlefield—but all Jeopardy could hear was the rasping of Dropmix’s vents and the hollow, awful silence hanging in the air.

The silence stretched too long.

“Dropmix,” Jeopardy said again, sharper now, more pleading than commanding.

At last, the dark mech shifted. He didn’t look up, but he spoke, grating and static filled, “Higher ground… gas is thick.”

Jeopardy flinched at the hollow rasp of Dropmix’s voice. It sounded wrong—too wrong. Strained. Slurred. Like he was dragging each word through a failing processor. It wasn’t an answer, not really, not to the question that Jeopardy was asking. He knew better though, he knew not to pry and ask useless, silly questions. It only made things worse.

He latched onto the words. He needed something to do—some way to fix.

“Yes. Okay. Higher ground.” Jeopardy’s hands moved quickly now, wrapping around the smaller mech below him and carefully lifting them. He rose to his feet, using his scanners to try and orient himself towards the nearest high ground. “We can make it to the ridge—maybe. It’s elevated. We just need to move fast.”

Jeopardy’s voice was tight, mechanical, focused—he was using discipline as a shield to keep his panic in check. He adjusted the injured mech in his arms and looked over his shoulder. “Dropmix. Can you walk?”

There was a pause—too long.

Jeopardy turned.

Dropmix was still kneeling, his shoulders hunched low, vents hissing weakly. Corrosion was already eating into the couple of exposed vents on his frame—too few for a frame his size. His fingers twitched against the debris-littered ground, but he didn’t rise.

Jeopardy’s grip tightened on the unconscious mech in his arms.

“No. No, no, no,” he muttered, hesitantly stepping closer. “Dropmix, we don’t have time for this. Please—I can’t carry both of you. I-I need you on your feet.”

Dropmix didn’t look up. His vents stuttered—then seized—before releasing another horrible wheeze. The dark mech shook, his one optic flickered as if it couldn’t decide whether to remain online or shut down entirely.

“I know,” he rasped, voice paper-thin and glitched. “I know you can’t carry me. Just… give me a second.”

Jeopardy’s processors whirred desperately as he scanned Dropmix’s frame, looking for any sign of stabilizing systems or emergency protocols. But the corrosion was already working its cruel damage, seeping into critical joints and internal circuits. It ate away at internal supports and gathering in vents—stopping all ventilation. Dropmix’s stressed body was already overheating due to lack of proper airflow. Time was bleeding away faster than Jeopardy could measure.

He tore his gaze from Dropmix to the rising gas swirling around them, the mist now thick enough to blind any unfiltered sensor. His mind raced through protocols, scanning his memory banks for any emergency solutions. The patient’s condition suddenly seemed less urgent compared to the looming threat of the toxin that had claimed Dropmix’s systems.

The smaller medic hated to admit it, but he wouldn’t be able to save both of them. He knew it. He would have to choose. The unknown mech in his arms would be struggling against the same toxin Dropmix was along with their injuries. More of their internals were exposed to the toxin, the damage would be more severe. Dropmix was a medic, he was valuable, saving him would save more lives in the long run.

Jeopardy hated choosing. It was wrong, his spark twisted in his chest, his programs hummed angrily against it. He had to though, even if it was a little selfish. Even if it would eat away at him in the middle of the night, if he would forever have to live with the knowledge that he hadn’t been enough.

He swallowed hard, tightening his grip on the injured mech, trying to ignore the ragged breathing sounds from Dropmix and the relentless hiss of the toxic gas curling around their feet.

“Dropmix,” Jeopardy said quietly, voice trembling beneath the filter, he looked between his mentor and the bot in his arms. His frame shaking weakly as the weight settled in his chest, he would be the one to decide who lives and who dies.

“I…” His grip loosened on the unknown mech’s frame. His legs locked. He didn’t move. Couldn’t.

It wasn’t logical. It wasn’t strategic. It was selfish.

But it was him.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered—not to Dropmix, but to the stranger in his arms.

With a grunt, Jeopardy eased the injured mech back to the ground. He double-checked their vitals one last time—pulse weak but steady—and gently sealed a low-grade emergency barrier over their vents. It wouldn’t hold long, but maybe… maybe long enough.

He was lying to himself.

That seal wouldn’t last. Not in this air. Not against a chemical compound eating through armor like acid. The injured mech would be gone before the sun cleared the haze—if it ever did.

But Jeopardy turned away anyway.

He turned away because Dropmix was still alive, and he needed him to stay that way. Because if Dropmix fell, Jeopardy didn’t know if he’d be able to go on without him.

The younger medic stumbled through the smog, half-blind, back to where Dropmix still knelt. A low, warning whine pulsed from the older mech’s frame, a last-ditch alert from systems on the brink of collapse. Jeopardy dropped beside him, trembling hands moving to pull the dark mech closer. He braced himself and stood, grunting with effort as he hauled Dropmix off of the ground.

He nearly fell the moment he did.

Dropmix was heavy—so much heavier than Jeopardy thought he would be. His frame was dense with thick armor, built for durability over mobility. And now? That strength worked against him, his weight dead and dragging like a fallen pillar. But Jeopardy didn’t stop. He couldn’t.

The smaller medic slung Dropmix’s arm over his shoulders, he took a second to stabilize himself, “Mixer, I can’t… I need a little bit of help. Please.”

Dropmix didn’t answer with words, but Jeopardy felt it.

A faint shift. A tightening in the arm slung over his shoulders. The smallest press of weight—not enough to support himself, not really—but enough to say “I’m trying.”

That was all Jeopardy needed.

He staggered forward, boots crunching through shattered plating and loose slag, each step a silent prayer to whatever ancient code governed fate. The gas was heavier here. It clung to him like a living thing, dragging fingers down his armor, whispering promises of failure, of death.

But Jeopardy kept moving.

He counted the distance in paces. Fifteen to the rise. Five more to a broken outcropping that might offer shelter. His HUD struggled to keep up, pinging rapidly between emergency alerts and structural scans of the terrain ahead. Most of the data was corrupted or useless—too much interference—but the rise held. Stone and alloy, fractured but stable.

Jeopardy’s vents cycled with strained steadiness, his own filtration system nearing its tolerance threshold. The toxin was denser before the base of the rise—pooling, rising like a tide that swallowed the ruins in silence. Each breath hissed through his mask like a countdown.

Twelve paces.

Dropmix stumbled beside him, weight dragging harder with every step, his own frame buckling in intervals like a dying pulse. Jeopardy’s shoulder burned under the strain, servos grinding. The older mech was barely conscious now—his optic dim, flickering like a failing sparkline.

Eight paces now.

Jeopardy clenched his jaw, tightening his grip beneath Dropmix’s arm, fingers digging into warped plating slick with clinging toxins—too thick to penetrate thankfully. His own frame trembled with the strain of keeping his contamination protocols in place and dragging the heavy mech—warning pings blared in the back of his processor, but he tuned them out. He had no room for warnings. Only forward.

The ridge loomed closer, jagged and steep, a ragged outcropping that broke through the cloud of poison like a beacon. Just a little longer and they would be at the base, then the real battle would begin, moving uphill. The battlefield stretched endlessly behind them, consumed in thick, noxious mist. He dared not look back.

Five paces.

Dropmix’s weight faltered again—this time harder. The older mech’s knee gave out with a clatter, and only Jeopardy’s sudden shift kept him from collapsing entirely.

“No—nonono, come on—please—Dropmix, stay with me,” Jeopardy gasped, voice cracking with static as he begged his mentor, “Just a bit further.”

Dropmix gave a low groan in response, his vents rasping, a tortured noise like grinding glass. His frame sagged, heavier than ever, nearly limp.

Jeopardy felt something tighten in his spark. His feet slipped on loose rubble, but he shoved forward with everything he had left. His knees buckled with the force, but he didn’t fall.

He couldn’t.

Jeopardy dug his feet in, bracing against the slope of broken metal and cracked stone as they reached the rise. The incline was jagged, but it lifted them away from the thickest of the gas—he could already feel a subtle thinning in the air, his filtration system no longer screaming in full-blown alarm. Still, Dropmix wasn’t responding—his weight was full now.

Jeopardy’s frame ached from the effort, each step up the incline feeling like climbing with the dead.

“Come on, just… just a bit more,” he muttered through clenched vocalizers, fingers locking tighter around Dropmix’s frame. The slope bit into his stabilizers, fighting against him trying to drag Dropmix up.

They crested the ridge on sheer willpower.

The moment Jeopardy stumbled over the last rise, he dropped to one knee—Dropmix collapsing with him in a heap of tangled limbs and labored static. The air was thinner here. Not clean, but thin enough for his scanners to stop screaming at him about the toxins. He took one deep pull of filtered air and immediately turned to Dropmix.

Jeopardy rolled Dropmix onto his side with careful, trembling hands, optics scanning frantically. His HUD highlighted every visible seam, every vent and panel along Dropmix’s helmet and neck, searching for any emergency filter or deployable mask.

His fingers pressed, prodded, and slid along the dark plating — over vents, creases, and joints — but found nothing. No sliding panel. No latch. No compartment.

“Dropmix,” Jeopardy whispered, voice tight with disbelief. He looked again, and again, searching for the mask that may be able to give his mentor some semblance of relief, to trigger the right protocols and protect him. But there weren't even locking mechanisms along the rest of him, nothing that would seal off seams and vents like Jeopardy. “Dropmix your… I..”

Jeopardy’s voice cracked, the words choking in his vocalizer. He pressed his fingers along the edges of Dropmix’s helm once more, hoping for a seam, a latch, anything. But the dark medic’s armor was smooth, unyielding—a single shell with no sign of emergency filtration.

Jeopardy’s optics widened, disbelief hardening into dawning horror. No filtration seals. No emergency vents. No internal air supply. Nothing.

He pulled back slightly, his processors racing, running diagnostic scans on Dropmix’s frame. The way heat was building under his plating was off—wrong, it didn’t match where the mech’s vents sat. Heat pooled in areas as if there were struggling vents trying to disperse heat, when there were none.

His fingers froze as he traced the fractured and cracking glass of Dropmix’s chest plate. It was thick, durable, stronger than average, but something had struck it hard enough—a round of blaster fire—and it had shattered a small section of it. Enough to expose what lay beneath.

Jeopardy’s breath hitched behind his sealed mask as narrowed his eyes, using the expanded HUD his visor provided to zoom in on the jagged crack in Dropmix’s chest plate. Beneath the fractured armor was another layer—dark, scarred, and corroded.

That wasn’t his armor. It was a shell—something worn, not welded. Underneath… wasn’t a medic at all.

The outer, sleek black plating of a combat medic. Durable, strong, thick. The inner was softer, more delicate looking, still rough, but thinner. Familiar—Jeopardy had seen it before, on the twins. It didn’t belong to a medic.

It belonged to a Gladiator.

Jeopardy froze.

Not frontline. Not combat medic.

Pitborn.