#me when i could be doing soil science or whatever the fuck but here i am working in an industry where a single chain is considered

[lesbiten]

That’s technically not off the mark- except replace pets with livestock. There’s been a lot of news articles about how vets sign off / condone the unethical and unsanitary conditions of factory farming - and those vets who try to speak out against it find themselves blacklisted / subject to retaliation from their colleague

this is a very interesting topic but i was really just referring to dogs/how people have convinced themselves that vets who recommend kibble for dogs are evil and just want money

i do think the normalization and comfort surrounding factory farming in the animal industry is...horrifying to say the least. i've gotten the opportunity to be around a lot of people in said industry who see nothing wrong with the way large commercial farms are set up, all because it falls within animal welfare guidelines they created to be bare bones in the first place. its honestly sickening to see people boast their progress in animal welfare when i've seen first hand what they define as "welfare".

that's not to say some parts of it aren't improving - but like 90% of the industry is heavily resistant to seeing new opinions from young people who have the potential to change things for the better - a lot of which i can imagine are vets who want to do what they signed up for, helping animals.

overall small animal vets and large animal/livestock vets are like, entirely different areas of specialty and are filled with very different people. its not surprising to me that theres livestock vets who refuse to see change

[elizabeethan]

The Swan and her Handler

Emma Swan was cursed, and the only way to break it is with True Love's Kiss. Try breaking a curse with True Love's Kiss when you're a damn swan.

Yes, it's true, I've written a CS AU based on Walnut the Crane, a crane who fell in love with her handler. I'm ashamed at how idiotic this is. It’s by far the dumbest thing I've ever written in all my life. It’s nothing more than crack written in about an hour, un-betaed and barely edited. Sorry, and you’re welcome.

Rated T for language

~2000 words

Read my other stuff

Read on Ao3

These damn idiots can’t get anything right. It was bad enough when Emma showed up on their doorstep with perfectly clear care instructions that were completely ignored, but now they keep trying to get her to reproduce as if she’s some kind of zoo animal. 

  Of course, given her current living situation, it does make at least a tiny bit of sense. 

  Ever since the curse, Emma has been stuck in a wildlife refuge and has been unable to get any of her stupid caretakers to figure out how to help her. She knows exactly what she needs, but unfortunately, no one here speaks swan and she can’t exactly hold a pen. Her care instructions were translated upon her transformation, so the one thing that could have helped her now looks like chicken-- er, swan scratch. 

  “She needs a mate,” one of the jack asses points out. “She’ll probably want to mate for life.”

  True, she thinks, although, not with any of the stinky fluff balls you have sent my way.  

  First it was Neal. He tried to mate with her, so she killed him. Last week, they put Walsh in her enclosure, and she pecked at him violently until they took pity on him and sent him to the medical unit. 

  Although today seems different, because her newest caretaker has shown up, and she realizes that he just might be exactly what she’s been looking for. 

Emma Swan, unfortunately very appropriately named, requires a mate who can break her curse, True Loves Kiss the only thing that can bring her back to her truest form as a human adult woman. And when the new dark haired, stunning eyed veterinarian comes strutting into her enclosure, she hurries towards him to get a closer look at his name tag. 

  He jumps away, making some comment about her being fiery , and she blushes, squawking at him as she tries to get closer. Killian , it reads, and if she had lips and not a bill, she would smile. 

  “We think she’s depressed,” the stupid one with the big eyes says. “She’s killed every mate we’ve tried to pair her with.” 

  Good, she thinks. I must have done more damage on Walsh than I initially thought.  

  “You’re just misunderstood, aren’t you, love?” the angel-man asks, making her squawk in agreement. She thinks she could make this quick, this man obviously understanding her horrible twist of fate, so she lunges for him once more, trying hard to kiss his hand and hoping beyond hope that it will transform her back into the woman she's supposed to be. No more feathers, she prays. 

  He exclaims again, jumping and complaining of his hand hurting as she pecks him, so she rolls her eyes and squawks angrily. “Alright, darling,” he says with his hands up, his smooth, accented voice making her heart flutter inside her chest. Her breast? She knows very little about swan anatomy, despite having been turned into one. “Perhaps she’s stressed about her environment. Have you tried giving her a dark, quiet place to nest?” 

  “Not yet,” the dumbass admits. 

  The handsome one, Killian, a name she could get used to rolling off of her tongue, steps away from her, so she hurriedly follows. “Perhaps here in this corner will do.” 

  I would love to spend time in a dark corner with you, she thinks, giving the man what she hopes is a salacious smirk. She watches appreciatively as he sits down, crossing his legs as he starts to fiddle with some sticks as if she would be interested in them. Rather than helping him to make a nest out of the twigs and leaves, she plops herself right in his lap, nestling herself into his crossed legs and gazing up at his beautiful features, earning a smile from him. 

  “There we are, love,” he says happily, clearly surprised that she chose to plant herself upon him, although he shouldn't be. Just look at him, for god’s sake. “Comfortable?” 

  She squawks loudly, making him cringe, then fluffs her feathers in an attempt to gussy herself up for him. If she’s going to earn True Love’s Kiss from this perfect specimen, she’s going to have to work for it. The man chuckles as he looks down at her-- is he gazing? -- and lifts his hand slowly, placing a finger gently upon the top of her head and petting back down her neck, sending a chill down her spine, at least she thinks it’s her spine. She pushes her head towards him again, demanding more attention in an effort to get him to fall for her. It shouldn’t take long; she’s very enchanting. 

  “She’s never been this calm,” the dumb one says, making her snap her head towards him with a glare, shouting at him in disapproval. Killian shushes her soothingly, his finger softly stroking along her stupid feathers once more and making her shut her eyes. 

  “She just needed a bit of attention, it seems.” 

  “We’d best be careful,” someone else says, the bookworm who always thinks she knows everything about swan science. Of course, she probably knows more than Swan Emma. “We wouldn’t want her to imprint on you ,” she seems to joke. 

  “That’s quite alright, isn’t it love?” he asks her, essentially giving her permission to fall in love with this handsome bastard. 

  He comes by a few times a week for the next several months, each time sitting with her in her tiny, dirty nest and not seeming to care that his pants get soiled. She’s always careful to do her business elsewhere, making sure that her prince can sit in comfort when he arrives. She gets angry with him when he brings someone new, a sickly looking male named Graham who she assures is not welcome, so Killian gives up trying to get her to mate with someone. For some reason, they're concerned about her procreating, but she can assure everyone that she will not be giving birth to a damn swan baby while she’s under this curse. 

  One day, when Killian visits near the end of his shift, he’s finally alone, leaving behind the dumb one and the book worm and giving her all of the attention she desires as his strong hand softly pets along her soft feathers. She can’t wait to get rid of these stupid feathers. 

  “You’re quite funny,” he remarks as the sun starts to set. “Unlike any swan I’ve ever met.”

  She squawks at him-- I’m not a damn swan-- and he smiles. “Quire the personality. It always seems like you’re trying to communicate with me.” 

  Yes, you stupid handsome man, that’s exactly right! She tries to nod, lifting and dropping her head in quick succession and making the beauty laugh. She nudges her head against his hand in demand of more pets. 

  “What is it you want me to know, darling?” he asks gently, his voice soft and soothing and deep. 

  She groans, a sound that comes out like a pained cry, and his face shifts. “Are you alright, love?” 

  In pure frustration, Emma drops her head against the man’s chest, likely assaulting him with how badly she smells like bird shit, and he chuckles again, letting his hand run along her feathers some more. “There, there. I know life as a swan must be difficult. All you seem to want is for someone to listen.” 

  She looks up, hoping that her expression conveys her complete and utter irritation at the fact that he’s literally hitting the nail on the head and yet he has no idea. 

  “Such a personality,” he says again. “I’ve got to head home now, love. I’m looking forward to having Chinese for dinner. Perhaps I'll bring you an eggroll tomorrow, or is that insensitive?” 

  She squawks, half because she’s laughing, and half because she would quite literally kill another potential mate for an eggroll. Wanting to beg him not to go, she gives him her best sad face through her inability to emote, and nestles her head against his palm one more time. 

  “I’ll sneak you one, love,” he laughs, and as he does, he finally, finally , leans down towards her, and plants his stupid, dumb, lucious lips upon the top of her stinky bird head. 

  Cramps start to run through her whole stupid bird body, the same ones she felt when she was cursed on Halloween decades ago. He stands, not seeming to notice her pain and discomfort until he’s a few steps away, and he turns back around. “Swan, are you alright?” he asks, as if she could answer, and she shouts back at him wordlessly. 

  She praises whatever gods might be listening as she feels things start to change, her feathers shedding as her skin is exposed to the chilly fall air. The webbing between her toes retracts, her legs turning flesh colored rather than that horrifying orange. Her bill turns back into her nose and mouth, preparing her to smooch her savior rather than peck at him. Finally, she’s back!

  “Bloody fucking hell,” Killian breathes as he stares on, Emma transforming back into her old self, laying in a heap on the ground as she brushes off the dirt and twigs and leaves. 

  “You did it,” she praises before clearing her throat, raw from misuse after all these years. She grins at him as she’s been wanting to since they met, and is met with a horrified, shocked look on his face. His jaw is gaping, his eyes wide as they catch the light of the setting sun. “I knew you would.” 

  “What the fuck?” 

  “You broke the curse,” she says happily, standing up and exposing her nude form to him, cursing the lack of feathers although she vowed she never would. Immediately, he removes his jacket, despite his shock still clearly running through him, and hands it to her. 

  “I did what now?”

  “I was cursed. Why do you think I was such a miserable swan?” 

  He’s looking around, his mouth snapping shut and dropping open in succession as he tries to process the fact that there was a swan in the enclosure just a second ago, and now there’s a frankly beautiful, naked woman standing before him. “You were cursed,” he says doubtfully. 

  “Yes, I was. An evil witch cursed me on Halloween decades ago and I've been stuck in that infernal bird form ever since. All I needed was True Love’s Kiss to break it, but imaging trying to fall in love with someone as a damn bird.” 

  “So you… you fell in love… with me…?” 

  “Obviously,” she smiles, taking a step towards him on shaky legs, tripping and falling into his waiting arms as he catches her, careful not to grope her, although she isn’t sure she would mind. “And you broke the curse, so… Do I have to tell you what that means?”

  “I-- I’m having a lot of trouble processing the fact that I've evidently been in love with a swan for months.” 

  “Well, my name is Emma Swan, so you can be in love with a Swan for the rest of your life, if you’d like.” 

  “Emma,” he murmurs, staring into her eyes and smiling when he seems to recognize her. She’s never been able to see herself in the mirror, because the book worm was worried she would attack it, but based on the way he’s staring, she would guess that the evil witch let her keep her eyes. “Do you know it just happens to be Halloween tonight?”

  “Kismet,” she says softly, gazing up at him. He lifts his hand like he did while she was planted in his lap, and she’s finally able to feel his calloused finger along the skin of her cheek, then of her neck, just as he had done before. 

  “Aye,” he agrees. “The spirit of the holiday does make this whole thing a bit easier to accept.” 

  “Yeah,” she says dismissively. “Now take me home. I was promised an eggroll and I haven't eaten anything but grass and stale bread in almost thirty years.”

~~~~

Tagging (with apologies):

@courtorderedcake @kmomof4 @stahlop @klynn-stormz @laschatzi @emelizabeth88 @lfh1226-linda @kday426 @elisethewritingbeast @timeless-love-story @captain-emmajones @gingerpolyglot @ebcaver @ilovemesomekillianjones @teamhook @superchocovian @itsfabianadocarmo @tiganasummertree @gingerchangeling @jrob64 @onceratheart18 @xhookswenchx @winterbaby89 @swampmedusa @ultraluckycatnd @dancingnancyy @love-with-you-i-have-everything @shireness-says @snowbellewells @hollyethecurious @ouatpost @daxx04 @the-darkdragonfly @donteattheappleshook @therooksshiningknight @eeteeaytay @xsajx @itsfridaysomewhere @alexa-fangirl-forever @jonesfandomfanatic @wefoundloveunderthelight @qualitycoffeethings @rapunzelsghosts @spaceconveyor @badcats-andmice @batana54 @sailtoafarawayland @deckerstarblanche @zaharadessert @xarandomdreamx @pirateprincessofpizza @captainswan21 @hookedmom @lostintheskyfaraway @undercaffinatednightmare @strangestarlighttree

[boredoverlord]

Bucky X Reader - Hold the Line

I came in here to show you a good time, so here's my personal work and my very first fanfiction of all time. And because I'm a thirsty bitch, of course it's smut.

Summary : As a young and talented psychologist specializing in difficult people in prison, you believed in a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to work with the SHIELD. Turned out you were tricked to work for HYDRA.

For three years they made you do horrors in the name of an ideology you despised, but you may have found the occasion to finally make a change for the good, when they introduced you to your new patient. 

The Winter Soldier.

Rating : Explicit, please kids, look away ( of course you won't because you're cute little rebels, but please do it)

Word count : 6.4k (chapter 1)

TW:   Light BDSM (for now) Because Bucky is a massive Sub and it seems nobody agrees with me, so I have to do the lord's work here.

Foul language, mention of violence and murder, Masturbation, male orgasm and a tiiiny bit of choking. I started lightly 

 Please consider reading this on Archive of our own or read it below the cut. Lemme know what you think !

Chapter 1: A Story of Almost Everything

You never were the type to brag. But one thing you know is : you’re damn good at your job. Years and years of psychology studies, you barely got to parties, you hardly made any friends, and your sleeping schedule is still a nightmare. Those were sacrifices you did for one sole purpose : helping others. To be the last resort for people who have lost everything. You always firmly believed that you could make a change in the world, even the slightest, even for just one person. That would have been enough to make your lifetime worthy. What's more noble than just a genuine try to make it better, after all ? So you wasted your youth on studies, without a damn blink. And never one ounce of regret. You did it because it felt right. You’re not very brave, but you decided to face your fear a couple of times. You even were an intern in a high security prison, talking to broken men and women who hated your guts. Trying to lead them to another path of life. You heard stories that could break any mind. Only time could tell if you actually helped them. But that’s part of the job. Hope. And hard work.

  That’s why when you started to have a growing reputation, at 26 after five years of studies and several years working in prison and rehabilitation, you were ecstatic when S.H.I.E.L.D contacted you. You quit everything, starting with your homeland in Europe, to fly to Washington DC, to visit the headquarters. The new building, the thrill of novelty, the clean rooms, the medical wing, and Alexander Pierce himself coming to shake your hand and telling you personally the wonders they have in mind for the psychology field. You could prepare people to save the world, you could have all the resources to make research, and fix minds that were supposed to be beyond repair. It was supposed to be just a quick trip, but the visit wasn’t even done when you looked at your guide with enthusiasm : you weren’t going home. Just cancel the fly. You’re taking the job immediately.   It was three years ago.

Enough to understand how fucked you are.

 You didn’t save anyone, you didn’t even work to make the world a better place. Oh but you did work to make a change. A change for HYDRA. They tortured you to make you swallow their ideology, but even if your body surrendered, your mind didn’t, even if it was still a perpetual work on yourself. You never believed in this masquerade, but you know it doesn’t matter. Because HYDRA knows how good you are at your job, and you’re a precious asset. So precious that they pushed all your buttons to make you obey. You tried to act and escape. Their last resort is the Damocles sword they put over your family’s head. Next act of rebellion, heads will roll. And it won’t be yours : no, no. HYDRA won’t give you this relief. It will be your loved ones. So you’re doing what you have to do. It’s the most cowardly choice, you know it. And you’re ashamed. But you’re too terrorised to make it otherwise. So you’re here to twist people's minds to swallow whatever Hydra wants. You make them understand the importance of the organization, when they can’t take it anymore, you make them understand that not only they can, but they must . You saw vulnerable people giving their life to this awful cause, and you are the person to make them understand it was the right thing to do. They gave you kind people with dreams, morals and passion, and you turn this into anger, hate and war, worshipping a crazy doctrine that spoils everything you believed and fought for. You have blood on your hands. You’re THAT good at your job.

 So when they called you for a highly secret mission, you weren’t exactly surprised. Just disgusted by them, and mostly yourself. In the guts of what was called the Ideal Federal Saving Bank, you’re obediently following the chef himself : Alexander Pierce, to your next place of action. “I believe you have read your mission’s order, Y/N ?” “Yes Sir.” You said. “It did mention I will have the whole file today, though. I need to take a look at my patient so I can work in proper condition.” “Whatever you call it.” He said, opening the door of the clandestine laboratory in the now abandoned bank. If not for the machinery, we could still believe that those art deco walls filled with safes would still contain treasures of a lifetime for some people. Now there is nothing of value in here, not even the very skin of every PoS present. And you were including yourself. Making your way in the middle of the heavy set up, you slowly reach the pod in the middle, chewing secretly the interior of your cheeks. You know what’s inside, and it makes you want to puke. Mr Pierce continued “Doctor, as your mission was presented to you, your one on only assignment will be the physical and mostly the psychological perfect condition of the Winter Soldier, for the entire length of this mission on american soil.” Basically, be sure his brain is a fucking slushy. You reluctantly nodded and drew closer. “What’s his condition ?” At the top of your height, barely 5’3, you tiptoed to actually look at him by the window of the cryostasis chamber, since you never got this close of a look, not without the file and basically crumbs of info that were thrown at your face. They expected you to keep a dog on a leash, not making actual work on him, and it shows. White man, late 20s to early 30s, approx 5”7, long dark messy hair, not shaved, geez, it seemed like the poor guy was barely cleaned up before being pushed here.  Good physical condition, breathing was steady. You could see the steam of his breath on the glass. He may be clinically asleep, but she highly doubted he would be in his best shape. He looked uncomfortable, and tired. It wasn’t a restorative sleep. It was a prison. You couldn’t help but notice his prosthetic arm, even if that was the only thing you knew about him. It’s a fascinating work of science, that’s for sure. And even if transhumanism and biomechanical wasn’t your forte, you wanted to have a closer look, to satisfy your curiosity. One of the scientists watching his screen responded : “He’s gently defrozing, should be half conscious in 5 minutes. You may want to take a step down.” You ignore that, and lean your hand to your superior. “May I finally have what I have been asking for ?” With the most irritating smile, he gave you the Winter Soldier’s File and you quickly opened it to have a first look at all the fuss. Basic physical information, previous missions report, date of entering and ending of cryostasis, bare minimal medical record, notes by her predecessor, fucking trigger words to make him kneel like a 12 years old in front of any boysband... nothing about his previous life, his antics, his name, actual disorders, no name, nor adresses… You glaced a bit at Pierce and threw a polite smile. He knows what he’s doing, and he knows you know. You’re extremely good with very violent patients. You have endured rapists and murderers spiting in your face and swearing to bite your head off and fucking your skull. You were traumatized and you cried yourself to sleep, but the following day you did your job again. You’re just here to handle the worst of the worst. And you’re going to do it.

Or he’s going to break your neck and fuck your skull. You’re fine with that.

“Thank you it’s going to be very helpful.” As helpful as a band-aid on a wooden leg. “What’s this device ?” You point your chin to another machine not far away from it. One of the two men finishing installing it, raised his head to look at you. “A memory suppressing machine. Usually he doesn’t need it as much as he used to, but it’s mainly for safety. He must be prepared.” “He’s in a state where he willingly takes it. So don’t hesitate if he’s starting to be annoying, or excited. That can happen. But that mean you would probably have to work more with him to make him fully ready for his mission,” “Understood, thank you for clarification gentlemen.” You smiled and they smiled back. You’re a woman, so you’re used to it. Basically this shit was supposed to hack his brain, and it must be painful. “I would strongly recommend not using it at such a time. From what I quickly read he needs stability and time. Wiping everything out will more likely create more confusion.” You took a look at the file again and took it upon yourself to not have your eyes double in size and screaming at this bunch of idiots. “... and it does seem he’s using it a lot.” 

“We want the asset to be as focused as possible.”

“I understand that, but that's a temporary solution at best. He’s got a brain, not a harddrive. We still don’t know how it can store information, and if it can…” “The last time we used him was five years ago…” Started Pierce, with diplomaty, but also with a tone that wasn’t allowing any more debate on the matter. “And this mission is an absolute priority. The asset is strictly under cryostasis procedure as soon as he’s not needed anymore. The machine will be used if needed.” “I understand your point.” You absolute psychopath. “Then my request is simply to be here if it happens, and to be able to control the shocks. Also, I insist that he must be in perfect condition when you launch the procedure, I’ll personally make it happen and give you a green light.” “Thank you for your hard work.” He said, raising his hand, that you promptly and politely shook. You could feel the angry grasp. “I know you’re the perfect woman for this hard job. Your work is an inspiration for us all.” You wish you could end your life right here right now, instead of being told such atrocities. But you think about your mom and dad. At this time of year they start to prepare the pool for the summer, for the future neighborhood barbecues where they will brag to everyone about their incredible psychiatrist daughter who is doing secret stuff over sea to help save the world. You have to be strong. At least for them. At least for now.

“Hail Hydra.”

“Hail Hydra.” You responded, while your tongue feels like sandpaper.

  “Ok he’s starting to wake up…” Someone warns, as Pierce leaves the room, unbothered. The pod opens before your eyes, as the asset -you hate this term- is being roughly handled and carried away by two dudes to his seat. The one dangerously close to the memory suppressing machine. You squatted in front of him, the time for him to blink several times and look around him. Confused, but it’s not exactly his first rodeo either. His eyes are quickly focused on the first thing in front of him : you. He looked like he was trying to remember who you are, but quickly realized he didn’t know you. Two blue spears digging right into your soul. That’s making you a bit uncomfortable. The same weird feeling of unease you have when a cat is watching you taking a shower. “Hi.” You started, in english, even if he could be from italy you had no freaking clue. You guessed that he was probably slavic. But the file says he’s speaking more than ten languages. And it wasn’t specified when and how the hell did he learn that. “Can you hear me?” He took a few more seconds to look at you, probably the time to finish reading every embarrassing moment of your life, right into your eyes, like your drunk 18th birthday when you finished in your panties swimming in a city fountain, but he nodded eventually. You actually know this look. But it’s the first time you have a super soldier in front of you so it’s of a rare intensity. He’s dissecting you. Gathering information. His eyes moved slightly down : a recent scar on your neck. Right : an ex piercing on the top of your ear, now unusable. Down left : he just realized you’re slightly unbalanced so he knows you have a hip issue. And down right : he’s looking at your hand, you don’t really know what he saw here, maybe calculating how to break them ? You were literally a foot in a viper’s nest. Were you terrified ? Absolutely. Will that forbid you to do your job ? Nope. “Can you follow the light ?” You asked, moving slowly your phone’s lamp from left to right in front of his eyes. He did it without questioning. “Ok good.” You tried a smile, not really knowing why. If he was at least a tenth as clever as the file said he was, he perfectly know that you’re here to fuck him up. But you couldn’t help it. Poor dude. He was visibly more or less your age. He could have been a prince, or thief, a womanizer, or a priest, whatever, HYDRA took everything from him. From his free will, of his right to grow old, to his sleep. “Can you tell me your name ?” He frowned, perplexed. “Winter Soldier.” Shitty answer but at least he was fully aware, and his tongue was working properly. “Nice to meet you, I’m doctor Y/N. We’re here to work together in preparation of your next assignment. Do you understand ?” He nodded, unimpressed. “Good, can you get up ?” He did, so you did it too. And he realized that you were… very short. His eyes literally went up and slooowly down. That was a bit mean, actually. You carefully took a glance behind you, and your eyeroll could probably trigger an earthquake. “Can you all nice gentlemen let down a bit of their weapon ?” You said at the 6 dudes with rifles literally fixed on him, ready to shoot at the wrong twitch of muscle. No wonder he wasn’t talkative. “You won’t say that when he will break your neck with two fingers, ‘mam.”

“He’s pretty stable for now. Plus he’s not fully awake, let’s give him time before threatening him, shall we ?”

Nobody moved for ten seconds before one of them complied, since you didn’t move. The rest of the bunch reluctantly followed . You looked at your patient, hoping that that would have made him a bit more relaxed. Nope, he didn’t give a shit. He wasn't even looking at them. He was looking at you. You’re the mystery of this room to him. But you didn’t need extra vision to understand that Docs treated him like a guinea pig, so he was very understandably extra careful with you. Standing on his feet, all his muscles ready for action,  that’s the exact moment you realized how close you two were. Indeed, if he decided to, your jaw would fly across the room in a single move. You never had such a display of sheer raw strength, and you could feel the heat of his body radiate.

 “He needs a shower, and clothings.” You said, having a look at his 5 years old combat suit still reeking the smell of his sweat. It was intoxicating. They didn’t even allow him to clean himself. Poor dude was frozen in his own filth for the last five years. And you didn’t know why you took an even deeper breath. “And I’m talking about comfy workout clothes, no combat suit. Please escort him and handle him with care, before bringing him to my office.” You actually decided to be sure he wouldn’t be mistreated, by waiting outside the man’s bathrooms. You weren’t certain of how he could react, and you didn’t trust anyone here. If one of them decided to do a piss contest with your patient, it could end badly. So you put your hands in your pockets, looking at the two armed men waiting for the most dangerous assassin in the world to finish scrubbing himself with soap. The atmosphere was heavy and the silence was loud in itself. Even the sound of the shower was stressful and menacing.

 When the Soldier was escorted to your improvised office into the archive, directly linked to a storage room that will be your bedroom for the next weeks, you let him take a seat and promptly blocked the access to the room of the two escort members. “Thank you sirs, that will be all. Please wait here.” They look at you like you just told them you were dating their daughters. “Sorry Miss, but we can’t…” “Sorry Doctor , and I can’t work properly with weapons in my office.” You raised your hand, showing your device on your wrist. Something that would not only call for aid by a simple pressure, but could stun an opponent. Neither them nor you were stupid : it wouldn’t stop The Winter Soldier, maybe he would blink a second at most. But you really wanted to be alone with him. Was he dangerous ? Yes. Were you absolutely certain that you would leave this room alive if you closed this door to their face ? No. But it’s been three years since your priority wasn’t your survival anymore. So you forced a smile and slapped the door. They needed you more than you needed them, so they will obey.

“Douchebags.” You muttered to yourself while coming back to your desk. Your patient didn’t even move a muscle at your little argument. He wasn’t totally inexpressive actually, mostly terribly broody. His hair was still wet from the shower he took, wearing cargo pants, heavy boots and hoodies, generic clothes by HYDRA. You got those too, since you’re not allowed to carry anything personal for mission to mission. You had a tablet for books, music and movies, but that was it. You haven’t opened your shelves yet, but you know it’s full of ugly clothes and generic black panties of doom. 

You took a large inspiration, sat on your desk in front of him, and started : “Ok ‘Winter Soldier’... how are you doing ?” He didn’t even flinch. He was staring into your soul with his eyes lost into dark circles. Depriving someone of proper sleep is a basic rule for brainwash. “You enjoyed the shower ?” Nothing. You waited for a bit to see if he would finally respond. Ten seconds. Twenty. fourty. a minute. When he gathered that you were actually looking for an answer, visibly a first one for him, he finally gave you the courtesy of one. “Yes.” “Perfect.” You didn’t hide your slight smile and tiled your head. “I’ll be sure you’re in your best condition for your next mission. If something’s on your mind, I need to know about it. Nothing will get out of this room. Both of our priorities are your goal, and your condition is the key to success. Which makes you , my high top priority. Do you understand me ?” “Yes.”

“Ok so let’s get going.” You took another file, and took a picture out, ready to handle it to him. “Is the name : Nicholas Fury, ringing some bells to you?” “Yes.” He took it inside his titanium fingers and finally moved his piercing blue eyes away from you to look at the picture. “In two weeks, you’ll be in Washington DC. An entire squad will be deployed to assassinate him. Fury is the leader of the S.H.I.E.L.D, not a mere target. He will break free and fight back. That will be when you’ll show up.” He wasn’t looking at the picture anymore. One thing for sure : at least he was paying attention to you, and what you were saying. And that made you actually kind of proud of yourself. “That was part one. I’ll personally supervise your training with the VR machine and your physical health and condition. I really need you to communicate with me all the time about anything that could be in your mind. The more focused you are, the more Hydra’s plan will succeed.” And what’s that plan ? You have not a single clue. You were a cog in the machine, disposable. Not much more than him. “Do you understand ?” “I understand.” Oh shit, two words this time!

“Good.” You smiled. He didn’t. You move your hands closer to him, to take a grip on the picture. He opened his prosthetic hand, leaving you to take it back. Nothing in his gesture seems dangerous. Just normal, somehow cordial. “I must ask : are you in any pain right now ?” His eyes significantly get from right to left. He must probably wonder why you are asking him that. Did nobody ever ask him such basic questions like : ‘are you in pain?’ This man's sole purpose was to fight, that made no damn sense for you.

“Sir ?” You insisted for an answer, even if the ‘sir’ sounded absolutely ridiculous to your ears. You didn’t know his name, and you don’t feel comfortable calling him “Winter Soldier” , “Soldier”, “Sir De Winter”, “Hey you,he soviet assassin” so it will be “Sir” for now. “Sir are you in pain right now ?” “I’m not in pain.” A complete sentence, that’s progress. You breathed a bit better “Ok good.” You got up from your desk, which was honestly barely taller that him remaining on his chair. He didn’t let go of your eyes and you decided to make a bold move. For now, he was always being responsive so you slowly moved your hands toward him. To his prosthetic hand. “May I take a look, please ?” You glanced at each other, nobody made the first move. In complete silence, if it wasn’t for both of your breaths. You’re almost sure that it has been at least 5 minutes since you decided to speak again. Slowly, and gently, with no signs of confrontation in your body language or speech. “I will not do it until you comply. And you can refuse the contact.” He didn’t answer right away but he finally nodded. 

Slowly, you took his hand into yours, lifting it from his thigh where it was resting. At the beginning it was just taking a look. But he wasn’t making any moves, so you decided to take your observation a little further. You used your other hands to start to move each finger separately, taking a step closer to him. Finally, you made one  of your hands slowly sliding into the hoodie, to feel the muscles, the nerves, how it feels like a real arm. It was cold, but you felt it shudder to your touch. That was the line you decided to not take it further.

“Thank you, Soldier.” You said with a smile, taking away your hands from him. You moved behind your desk, opening your notepad to take a bunch of notes, breaking the contact with him. Just a second. But when you raised your eyes again, The Winter Soldier wasn’t in sight.  

 You shuddered and didn’t make a single move. If it wasn’t for your fingers grasping your desk. You did your best to have a steady respiration and not start to panic. Your throat dried up immediately. You took a deep breath and say : “Please, get back to your seat.” You slowly moved your head to look right back at him. He was standing. His eyes were black, taking loud deep breaths, fixing your behind your shoulder. Tall. Dangerous. You were terrorised. And he could smell it. He didn’t move so you stood up as well, and slowly faced him. You try to remain in total control of your body and not start to fidget. You could scream for help, but for whatever reason, you still had the feeling you could handle the situation. Trying to convince yourself that it wasn’t the first time a patient was disobedient. The only difference was that this one could crush your skull in a bat of an eye, 

 “Get back.” You said once again, bearing his piercing eyes, but he didn’t budge. So you took out your hand and put it on his chest. You felt like an ant against a mountain, but you pushed him a bit. “We will go nowhere this way.” You resumed trying to get a step closer, even if it will be creating a proximity that could be even more lethal to you. “So please, get back to…”

Something happened. It was obvious, and clear as day : you felt the bulge between his legs. Right above your navel. Hardening even more now that he could feel your body. You decided immediately to repress the shameful feeling of your very inside warming up and tickling you. “Winter Soldier.” You growled, angry but trying your best to remain as professional as you could. Of course, of fucking course. This guy was gorged on serum and hormones, quick, violent actions, and adrenaline. Pumping in his veins, burning 24/7. His body was on the edge all the time, and he just awoke from a dreamless slumber. He was a human, whatever all these idiots were thinking, not a freakin’ cyborg. When was the last time he saw a woman that he didn’t smash the head on a wall ? You even suspected that Pierce was counting on it. Nonetheless, you were alone in an office, literally glued with the world's most dangerous assassin, who was having a massive hard-on. Throbbing against you. You had your share of very awkward situations in your short life time. But nothing, nothing prepared you for this. And you had even less of an idea of what to do because he was doing nothing . He was feeling uncomfortable, that you could say, but he wasn’t really doing any moves to attack you, or even take you. He was standing here, with heavy breathing, his eyes still piercing you. And you slowly slided your gaze to his lips, finding the vision of his hard laboured breath strangely mesmerizing.

 Short of ideas, your reflexes took the best (or the worst) of you, and without you realizing it, your hand was around his neck. Your palm pressured on his glottis, and you clearly felt him swallow. As clearly as you felt him becoming even harder. Your breath was starting to shake, as you felt a not-so subtle chill coursing your spin. You drew his face and your face closer, as you finally moved forward, forcing him to move as well. Forcing was a strong word : the last time you hit a punching bag, you hurt yourself and sobbed for an hour. But for whatever reason, he did whatever you wanted. As if he was testing your resolve to make him obey. But there was nothing on his file about this behaviour. He tried to attack, kill and escape. Nothing about testing the limits of anyone.

“You. Will. Sit. Down!” you spat, through your teeth, forcing even more your grip around his neck, as your other hand was reaching for his hair. You pulled it, not too harshly, but you could definitely smell the musk, and the wetness of what stayed of his shower.

You did it. He was sitting down again. And your bodies departed for one another. For once he tried to escape your gaze, which was a strangely human reaction. You both managed to get your breath back, before you decided to call the guard to adjourn your observation.

As soon as the door closed behind them, you felt your legs giving up and you sat on the ground, back against your desk, a small wimp leaving your throat. You felt your eyes starting to wet, and your teeth rattled a bit so you tried to cuddle yourself to try to retake control on your body. Your hands were shaking uncontrollably as his intoxicating smell was still all around you. It was by far one of the most terrifying experiences you ever felt, and it was all clouded by the phantom feeling of his body against yours. You could still feel his gaze, his heat, his… well, his cock against your belly. You were still chilling, trying to repress whatever you were feeling at this instant. Because it wasn’t right, for you. Nor him. Everyone in this godforsaken organisation was treating him like a dog, just here to attack and do tricks, but you swore to yourself not to do the same. You will succeed at your mission, but you’ll do it from the crumbs of humanity and morality that HYDRA left you. You will do anything possible that the mission will be complete, the most painless possible for this broken man you just saw. Wait a second.

Painless .

You jumped on your feet, ignoring the numbness of your legs caused by the shock, and you ran at the door, screaming at the three men at the end of the corridor. “HEY !” The guards startled a bit and looked at you “I changed my mind. Bring the Winter Soldier back to my office.” They briefly exchange what seems to be a bunch of insults about you, but they comply to bring the Soldier back. Him ? He seemed absolutely unbothered. 

You closed the door behind the both of you, to the face of the guards yet again. He was standing here, showing his back as you slowly got back in front of him. Hands in your pocket, not really sure of what to do nor how to do it. He was looking at you, this same feeling of unease than before. And for reasons : a small glance confirmed that he was still rock hard. You didn’t make any move for a long time, until you finally put your hand on his chest. You felt his breathing becoming slightly quicker. “You’re not in pain.” You whispered, and he shook his head, negatively. “That was the wrong question. I’m sorry... “ Without you noticing, you had the palm of your hand on his cheek, scrubing lightly his stubble with your thumb as an apology. You breathed in, just couldn’t believe what you were about to say. “Do you need help ?” His expression didn’t change, but his eyes ? They became a bit brighter, you could even see a bit of relief when you saw him nod.

You swiftly move your other index on his pillowy lips as you still lower your voice. “They cannot hear us.” He nodded again as the only feeling of your finger as close to his mouth made him shiver with anticipation. He was literally dying of anything that could relieve him. And for what you understood, as your conversation continued, he trusted you with his body, to provide him with the sweet touch he has been totally deprived of. You slowly push away your index to gently slide your thumb between his lips, and he sighed with pleasure as he took it with an eagerness you would never have believed possible. The most deadly assassin in the world, the legendary Winter Soldier that everyone wishes he wasn’t real, was purring while sucking your finger. If you weren’t the shrink, you’ll be needing one immediately. You gently moved him to make him sit in his chair, he was way too tall for you to handle this with ease. “What about the showers?” You asked him, as you removed your thumb to make it gently slide on his lips, your other hand crawling across his chest to his pants. He swallowed before whispering. “I could but... “ his well built square jaws started to tense, with a visible revulsion. “... They can watch.” Disgusting. He couldn’t even close the damn door of the shower. “You’re safe here.” You said as your hand was finally reaching the bulge behind his Hydra cargo pants. You didn’t know what you expected but… it was way beyond that. He hissed a bit at the feeling of your hand as you started to touch it gently over the fabric. 

Now he was panting, looking at you as you were a single oasis after years of thirst in the desert. “Please…” You heard, barely audible when he was starting to lose it. “I got you, but you have to promise me to be good.” “Anything. Please…” 

And at your very surprise, you obliged him. Using your hand to plunge into his pants, while the other fast pressed into his mouth, muffing the immediate deep moan that escaped at the very second you touched his pulsing penis. He started panting even more, as he used his flesh arm to drive you onto him. His forehead against yours. You couldn’t stop yourself from getting closer and closer. Actually you let go of his -massive- erection a second to just drop out his pants, and his breach. You stopped a second, only to watch him begging you with his eyes, as you could feel his saliva at the palm of your hand while you muzzled him. It was it. You realized what kind of power you have over this man. He has been used and abused in every single way, but for once : someone’s finally doing what he wanted. You had his pleasure in your very hands, and for once in years, you could finally help someone. So you’re gonna do it, you’re going to make him feel good. Very good. “Good boy.” You muttered, without knowing where the hell that could come from, and you reached him again. Stroking your hands up and down his shaft, nourishing yourself over the vibration of his muffled moans against your hand. His eyes weren't leaving yours, if it wasn’t for when they seemed to roll to the sky. His vision periodically blackened by the waves of forbidden pleasure he was feeling over his body, who was barely him anymore. Your eyes were gorging on the vision of his handsome muscular man, surrendering himself to your touch, sweating, trembling and panting for you. You were saluted by an utterly satisfied noise the moment you decided to lean over his manhood to drip a large amount of your own saliva moist what was already on the edge of ruin. You rolled your thumb against his tip, massage his veins with just one finger… anything to make him feel something. Anything that wasn’t pure anger, hatred or apathy. You were inclined to believe the file saying that he was nothing but a perfectly built weapon for HYDRA to command. But now, when you tickled, teased and made him shiver, and you felt all his sincere gratitude, you were certain : There is a man in here. And he was finally feeling good .

But soon, it wasn’t enough anymore. Seeing his bare thighs, powerful, thicken by years of training and super soldier serum, tensed by all the nerves and muscles deliciously answering to your call, made your inside warmed up. Your core was aching, screaming for proximity and intimacy, and before you understood what happened, you sat astride on his left thigh. The soft flesh between your legs immediately responded with delight, making you shiver. Almost instantly, you felt his grip on your hip, of the cold metal digging into your flesh with despair. It was a super soldier, with the stamina of several dozen men, but it’s been so long, and you were touching him with perfection. You felt his head on your shoulder, and slowly you started licking his temple, tasting the very fruit of your hard work : his sweat. 

Galvanized by his intoxicating smell, and the thrusting he started giving to your hand, you started to move like a snake, rocking against his skin, looking for some pressure despite the fabric of your pants, mercilessly acting like a barrier of your own pleasure. You could get it off, but it was a limit that you forbid yourself to cross. But it’s true, as you were working him, you couldn’t stop yourself to think of how this would feel. Sliding inside you. You were so very short and fragile, and compared to your hand, his phallus was gigantic. He could ruin you, split you in half, using his bare hands and make you do anything. But the only person in control here, were you. And only you. You never felt anything like this before. And it’s highly probable than neither did he. You tried to vanish the thought, but the more you could feel his thigh between yours, the more you became obsessed.

 The more he was approaching, the more eager the soldier became. Both of his hands firmly gripped on your behind, almost certain that it will leave bruises, but you didn’t care at this very moment. His grunts against your hands became more and more intense, and you started to feel he was about to give in. In between your fingers, small drips of salivas were started to escape. You couldn’t give up your grip now, so you made it even more tight, drawing your lips closer to your hands, you whispered as your sore wrist fastened its path “I’m here for you. Give everything to me.”

 His panting became incontrolable, his eyes rolled out, his head dropped back, before he finally reached his peak. You felt the deep vibration of his ultimate cry on your hand, as your other hand was dripping of hot seed. You slowly removed your other hand from his face, and could contemplate your masterpiece :  the Soldier absolutely looked like a mess, with his red face, his eyes blinking furiously, covered with his own saliva. You left his leg, both your hands dripping of his bodily fluids. You used the one that was on his lips to pick his head and forced him to look at you. You ravished your vision of this man who absolutely surrendered to your good care, deeply satisfied with your attention. You cradled his face, and you took a large lick of his spit from his chin to his mouth. Where he leaned for a wet and warm kiss. You took a good taste of him, intoxicated by whatever pheromones he could diffuse around you.

 You look at him another few seconds, before recluandly moving away, to the bathroom where you not only washed your hands, but came back with a wet towel. You first cleaned with infinite care his face, and then his genitals, making sure he wouldn’t have any kind of unpleasant sensation as he had a big day ahead of him. You were his doctor and caretaker, and he had a mission to prepare. He seemed to respond well to the cleaning, not really expressive, but he made no sudden move. You could see him sighing with ease, closing his eyes as he rubbed his cheek in your palm again, when you were caressing him with the wet towel. You could still hear a loud satisfying purr. If you didn’t specifically ask him to kill someone less that an hour ago, you would actually find this absolutely adorable.

 You breathed in and out, making sure he was okay. “Are you feeling better ?...” He nodded, visibly relaxed, as he was closing his pants but not much more expressive than before. He stood up, in front of you, like nothing happened. “Yes.” But to your surprise he added a second later. “Thank you, doctor.” You smiled at him as you couldn’t keep yourself from making your knuckles caressing his cheek, and finally tracking the shape of his jaws. “Good boy.” You heard yourself say, wondering what the fuck was wrong with you.He didn’t react. All the shivers, purring,  sighing, and moans disappeared as soon as his pants closed. It was for the best, and you quickly took your hand back, clearing your throat. You call the guards. The Winter Soldier was fully ready for his mission preparation, and you asked them to give him some time to recover from… his cryostatic, before you would start the procedure.

 In the meantime, you need a shower. A long, hot, steamy, shower. 

[nypmphetsbastard]

Paradis Island ch 3

Parings: yelena x reader

—————————————

YOU PAID NO MIND to the constant buzzing coming from your back pocket as you made your way to your local library. Feelings weren't something you were really used to. Whenever you fell on the playground as a child or injured yourself in any way your parents had always told you to suck it up and stop crying. So you did. If you fell, if you got hurt, wether emotionally or physically it didn't matter— you didn't cry, wail out in pain or even tell anyone; bandaging up your open wounds and feelings before they could spill out fo the world to see became a constant routine. Ironically enough, in young adulthood you now knew nothing of how to express emotions or even pinpoint how you were feeling.

Was it jealously? Sadness? You didn't know. You didn't know.You didn't know.You didn't know. You didn't know. And it drove you crazy.

"Hey...are you okay?" You were pulled out of your trance as a warm hand landed on your shoulder, you raised your eyes up to the person and saw Hange standing in front of you with a look of worry written on their face.

"I-...i.." your mouth seemed to be in the place as your mind, scrambled and tangled together like cable wires.

"Hey, it's okay. Here, sit down, have some water." Hange said worriedly, handing you a water bottle from their bookbag. You took it gratefully and chugged down most of the water till you felt like your breath had finally caught up to you. Hange didn't ask any questions as they watched you chug down their water and opted to rubbing your back until you wiped your mouth and handed back the water to them.

"Thank you, Hange. I really needed that." You thanked

"Anytime." They smiled at you and began pulling out notebooks and pens from their bag, not looking at you. Biting your lips in nervousness, you tapped them on the shoulder.

"Aren't you gonna ask what's wrong?" You asked, genuine confusion on your face. It was nerve wracking to you, not having someone constantly breathing down your throat asking a bunch of questions and pressuring you into answer. The silent treatment to you was always a punishment growing up. And it only made it worse in adulthood.

"No. Unless you directly tell me you want to talk about something i don't feel like i should intrude." They explained, you blinked in surprise. "Would you like to talk abut anything?" They asked patiently. You shook your head, still mentally in shock at what a patient and understanding Hange is.

"Alright. How was college been for you so far? I was a complete mess when i first came but you seem to handling it well."

"Tch, you'd be surprised. Some teachers gave a first day assignment, others didn't, but it's nothing i can't handle. Oh and then..." You rambled some more as Hange listened intently and even told their own college stories.

And finally, after a long time of searching, you felt like you finally had a real friend. A real chance at creating something and becoming what your teenage self would've wanted you to be. It felt nice being heard, a rare privilege you never got back home yet something you desperately longed for and cringed onto the majority of your life. Having friends was a strange thing for someone as closed off as you but in that moment, you'd sell an arm and a leg for stay forever. To stay here listening to Hange as thy spoke of their young shenanigans and telling some old childhood stories knowing they were listening no interacting with you the entire time. To sty in a moment forever, why couldn't you? Truly a curse.

Only after almost 2 hours of talking did Hange finally drop the bomb of having to leave, soiling your perfect moment. 

"Alright hun, i gotta go help Eren with some science thing but i will definitely text you later." They let go of their titan grip on you and walked away, waving you a goodbye and leaving at the back of the library, alone.

With. Sigh, you reached into your school bag and smiled softy at the book you pulled out. Thankfully in Pieck's rush to throw your school essentials in your bag, she snuck in the book you were eyeing the day before, 'Alice in Wonderland'. Another moment you were hoping to stay in forever. The crisp smell of a new book and the warm cozy feeling you got as you snuggled into the plush chair felt like heaven. Hange did not lie when they said they found the best spot in the library.

A smile creeped up on your lips as your eyes scanned the words on the pages, a warm feeling rising your chest and a sense of familiarity at Alice's situation. Just a regular girl stuck in a mundane boring life that'd been scheduled ahead of time for her with nobody to understand her curiosity and need to learn something knew. In a way, you understood her. Alice had achieved the life you wanted. To run away, to meet new people, go on adventure and find who the real Alice was. A journey in life you had yet to come across. Finding the real you, you wondered what it'd be.

"Hey." Flinching at the familiar voice, you craned your neck up to face the woman you had just caught making out with your roommate. "What's got you smiling like that over here?" Yelena asked, you dropped the smile on your face and put a placement piece on your book page before closing it and giving Yelena your full attention.

"Nothing." She quirked up an eyebrow at your one word response

"Damn, you sleep with one roommate and suddenly we're not friends." She teased, crossing her arms over her chest and smirking down at you. You rolled your eyes and looked back down at the cover of your book with the full intention to pack everything up and get out before you said something embarrassing.

"We were never friends" you mumbled, not thinking anything of it and not bothering to look up to see her expression. Well, it didn't seem like you ad to, especially when Yelena rested the palm of her hand on the side of the mini couch and bent down to your sitting height, looking directly into your eyes.

"Are you sure about that?" She questioned.

You breath caught in your throat at your closeness, so close you could smell the artificial lemon and lavender encompassing her clothing and the fresh mint in her breath. So close you see the splashes of brown in her dark eyes and non existent pores on her pale skin. For as short as you've known her, it never occurred to you how much of an effect she seemed to have over you until now.

"I don't think your girlfriend would appreciate this." You pointed out blankly, a hint of jealousy seeing out through your words.

Yet she smirked. She fucking smirked.

"Aw, is my little kitten jealous?" Yelena teased cockily, raising one of your hands up to wipe away any imaginary loose hairs on your forehead. Your eyebrows pinched together in annoyance as you pushed her hand out of your face. "What's wrong? Do you wanna be mine?"

You scoffed and leaned back in your seat to create space between the two of you, "Like i said, your girlfriend wouldn't appreciate this, or did you forget you had one of those?" You mocked.

"Yeah" Yelena said bluntly with a slight smile, you scoffed and looked at her in anger. Getting up from your seat, you grabbed your bag and stood in front of her.

"Seriously? You're such an asshole." You snapped at her as she just leaned against the table behind her without a care in the world. "You know, you don't deserve Pieck." You huffed before turning your back on her and walking away.

"You're right." You stopped walking at her words but kept your back to her, "I don't deserve Pieck." Her steps got closer till she was finally behind you and towering over you as she did to everyone, "Which is why she isn't mine." She whispered in your ear.

Yelena smirked at the confusion coating your face as she walked around you till she stood right in front of you. "We're not dating. Which you would've known if you didn't jump to conclusions." She joked, you crossed your arms defensively.

"I walk in on you on top of my roommate and, what? Am i supposed to assume you were just kissing as friends?"

"Yes, exactly." She agreed, you snorted and rolled your eyes again. "Oh come on, its college, who doesn't kiss their friends?"

You turned to her with an incredulous look on your face, "Me? Who the hell kisses their friends?" You exclaimed

"Ah i understand now, if you want a kiss you could've just asked, babe." Yelena flirted, giving you a wink and smile. You felt your eyes nearly roll to the back of your head as you shook your head and began walking towards the exit of the library.

"I already told you, we're not friends, Yelena" you stated, the blonde haired woman snickered and walked in front of you, stopping you once more.

"We can be strangers who kiss, kitten. Maybe then the jealously won't get to that pretty head of yours." She joked, your mouth dropped open and you pushed her out of our way for the final time, not bothering to turn around.

"We are not friends."

"Not yet, my love." Yelena called out behind you as you stormed off, laughing your angry face that did nothing but make her want you even more.

Pushing open your dorm room door, you were somewhat relieved you didn't find any more PG-13 action going on again but still groaned and kicked off your shoes at the front of the door. Pieck looked up from her mini alter and waved at you with a small crystal in her hand.

"Hey, again." She greeted you, you mumbled back a greeting and hopped straight into bed, "Ew, outside clothes on the bed, kid." Pieck complained, you whined at how right she was and sat up again.

"I know I'm just tired."  You whined, Pieck chuckled lightly and put down her incense and stood up to throw you a towel.

"Well you've got maybe 30 minutes before your next class, try to take a nap." She suggested, "What's got you so tired anyway?"

"Mmh, after my fourth period class i spent almost 2 hours in the library talking with Hange and after they left i started reading the book you packed, thanks for that by the way. Anyways, your girlfri—close friend, friend who you kiss - whatever the hell you two are started bugging me while i was trying to read." You spilled tiredly

"You mean Yelena?" You nodded, "Mhm I didn't know you guys were friends." Pieck inquired, you groaned again and stood up to stretch.

"We are NOT  friends." You insisted, ready to head out the door, "you can have her all to yourself." you convinced yourself.

[realityhelixcreates]

Beta, Theta, and Me Chapter 10: Territorial

Chapters: 10/?

Fandom: Thor (Movies), Avengers (Movies) Marvel Cinematic Universe

Rating: PG-13

Warnings: Relationships: Loki x Reader (But not right now),Drug Use

Characters:  Loki(Marvel) Additional Tags:  A/B/O, Sorta, More Of An Exploration Of  Life And Self Expression Within An A/B/O Framework, Loki Does What He Wants, But Loki Does Not Actually Do What He Wants, Antagonistic Bosses,  Loki Has A Throne Now, But It’s Not What He Wanted

Summary: You learn the reality of not being alone in the universe

You hunkered down in your soft, fold-out futon couch, shaken by what you now knew.

They were invaders. Loki, Thor, all  the Asgardians, an invading force.

But they weren't invading this planet.

You didn't think you'd ever forget the blazing triumph in Loki's eyes, as he explained the plan. He might as well explain it to you. There was nothing you could do about it. There was nothing you would do about it. And Loki knew it.

Rain slammed into the glass like stones, flung by screaming wind. It had been pouring all day, even before you'd served Loki his breakfast.

“Did someone piss off your brother or what?” you joked. Loki swiftly grasped your hand before you could crush his pill for the morning.

“Yes, and I would have my mind clear when he comes to visit. I will bear the pain until afterwards.”

Thunder cracked the personable atmosphere of breakfast.

“You should retire to your rooms for a while.” Loki said. So you gathered up what was left of your meal and returned to your apartment. You had a nice little table in front of a window, where you sat with your orange juice and pancakes, watching the sheeting rain.

The sound of the Bifrost roared down louder than the rain. Thor had come by to discuss things with Loki several times now, you hiding out in your room each time. You weren't sure why you were never allowed to be seen-perhaps servants in Asgard were supposed to be invisible or something. Or perhaps Loki wasn't actually supposed to have you. Oh well, it wouldn't be the first time you were living somewhere illegally.

The two of them talked very loudly, almost shouting, but it didn't sound like a fight. It sounded more like enthusiasm, rising and falling, the foreign words and unfamiliar cadence. Thor stayed for several hours, keeping up their lively discussion, but you didn't once hear either of them laugh. Whatever their enthusiasm was about, it probably wasn't a cheerful thing.

You relaxed in your apartment, reading a battered old book while they hashed out whatever they were working on, making yourself a light lunch while the rain weakened and petered out. The Bifrost roared again, just as the sun struggled out of the clouds.

Not long after, you heard Loki calling for you, always as if he were right beside you. He was waiting at the table when you exited back out into his miniature kingdom, eyes bright with the exercise of thought. He waited patiently while you prepared fresh tea for him, and mixed it with his medicine, drinking it without complaint. Thor's Alpha scent hung around the place, somehow harsher than Loki's. You were tempted to dampen it with a scented spray, but you knew Loki didn't like them. 'Stinking, chemical concoctions' he called them.

You did chores around the penthouse, as he went over the contents of a notebook. You knew his medicine was taking effect when he suddenly started talking.

“How do you feel about this building?” he asked abruptly, shoving the notebook at you.

“How do I feel about it? Uh, well, let me see.” You took the notebook, full of runes and sketches. The sketch of the house Loki indicated appeared to you like a man-made hill, a cluster of little domes around a large dome, with no windows but several doors. It had a vintage science fiction kind of look, as if someone had designed a Hobbit hole for the far future.

“It's cute.” you said. “Looks like some kind of earth house?”

“Not quite.” he said, smug amusement coloring his voice. “Would you live in such a house?”

“Sure, I'd live in any kind of house. A house is a house, and I'm never gonna be picky about that. I do wonder about the inside lighting, since there's no windows.” “Oh, it would be lit by magic. Magic light it so easy to make that many forms of magic create light as a by-product! It would be bright as day on the inside. There could be no windows, because the structure would be partially underground, and the outside walls would be about nine feet thick.”

“Wow. I knew earthworks need thick walls, but that seems like kind of a lot.”

“But would you still live in such a home?”

“Well yeah. Still a house, after all. Look, I know you're high as a kite right now, but this is about something, isn't it? Is it what Thor was here to talk about?” “Insolent thing. I'm not that high. Am I? No, of course not. But yes, this is about our meeting this morning. Twice has my brother come bearing distressing news about the future of Asgard, and this time, we began planning. These houses are a part of it.”

“Is something wrong with Asgard? Are you guys gonna be okay?”

“Oh yes, we will be fine. I foresaw something like this happening, and my brother's pride is sorely bruised, but our people are in no danger. You see, the government of Canada set aside some land for Asgard to settle upon-a handful of islands off the coast of the larger island of Nova Scotia. This seemed quite generous at first, and quite in line with the kindliness that country is famed for. I could have told Thor that it would prove somehow false. If not humanity itself, then the governing bodies of humanity certainly are the least trustworthy things in this whole great galaxy.”

“What did they do?” you asked. “Are they trying to bilk you? Make you pay for it all? Force you into debt?”

“No, no. They gave us the land so that the native peoples they stole it from could never get it back. Settler's laws, or some such.”

“That's awful!” The disillusionment led straight to disgust, and no small amount of disappointment. Because Canada did seem so nice, and maybe it was just a form of American wish fulfillment to believe that Canada was somehow 'better' than the States. But realistically, both countries had been formed in the same way: European settlers sweeping from one coast to the other. And the only way it seemed that they knew how to do that was to smash their way through whoever was between the Here, and the There.

“Indeed.” Loki sneered. “Thor is enraged at the sheer ingratitude. Many times he has been involved in the protection of your backwater globe, and these fools seek to use him as a pawn. I may occasionally want to stab his face off, but he is still a god, and we are all of us above the petty greed and power games that humans play against one another.”

“What are you going to do?”

“It's very simple. We are going to secure the land, build a legal cage so tight that it cannot be taken away, make it ours completely, and without question. Then, when we have gathered the necessary supplies, we will turn the land over to the people it was stolen from, and Asgard will leave. We will invite them to live among us in the interim, and likely leave a small garrison behind to guard against Canadian invasion.”

“Ha!” you burst out. “Good! Fuck those guys! But where is Asgard going to go then? I can't think of anyplace that isn't already full of people. Except maybe Antarctica? It'd be pretty hard to live there though.”

“Asgard has the technology to make practically any rock a paradise.” Loki bragged. “But we will not be moving to Antarctica, no. We will not remain on Earth. No, Earth had it's chance, and chose betrayal. We will be moving to the planet you call Mars.”

“What? Mars? Like Mars, Mars?” you sat, shocked, the notebook in your lap. “You can't just...”

Loki silenced you with a thin, smug smile.

“Whyever not?” he asked. “Who lives there? What lives there? Nothing, and no one. We would not be pushing anybody out of their homelands, nor posing a danger to any ecosystem. There is nothing there but remote controlled toys. No one has claim over it. I know there is at least one fool who fancies himself a genius, and has convinced many that he owns the place, but how is he going to get there? In one of his constantly exploding vehicles? No, Earth has no power over Mars, and soon it will be ours. We are the ones who can make it a livable land. Humans simply don't have the technology or experience. Can you harness Bifrost energy to get the core and mantle moving again, to create a magnetic field? You do not. Can you live safely on the surface for long enough to get anything done? You cannot. In fact, for humans to be safe on Mars, you would have to hide behind around nine feet of Martian soil.”

“Nine-like the house? That design is for a Mars house?”

“Clever thing. Yes, it is for a Mars house. Part of a community partially above and partially below ground, connected by buried roadways. A city adapted to the planets unique characteristics. We will alter the landscape, reignite the magnetic field, cleanse the soil of radiation, perhaps use that as a secondary energy source for a while. The planet is rich in water: this whole system is so rich in resources that it would absolutely be under attack at all times if more people knew about it.

But you have us now. We know how to render empty planets useful. Once we have made Mars into our new Asgard, we will turn our eyes to the great potential of the one you call Venus.”

“You're gonna take Venus too?” you exclaimed.

“Take? Again, who owns it? No one. There is no one to take it from. Imagine thinking that just because you see something, just because you name it, that somehow means you own it. No one lives there, and there are no habitats to destroy, so why does this offend you so?”

You couldn't really answer. Everything he had said was true. And yet, you still somehow felt a sort of proprietary nebulous collective ownership over the planetary system that was your species only home.

“Do you feel entitled to the asteroids as well? The comets? The moons and atmospheres of the giant planets? The very dust of the stellar cloud? Your species once shared this backwater world with multiple other human species, but now that you are the only ones left, you've forgotten how to share with anyone.”

“Is it sharing? You can travel around better than we can. Will there be anything left by the time we're able to travel like you?”

He chuckled, the condescension like a thick layer of butter over bread.

“Oh, I understand now. You're so used to the overarching greed and cruelty of your own people, that you can't imagine that we could be any different. We aren't going to lock you little humans away from Mars, or Venus, or any other place. Indeed, why do you think we've been studying how thick a wall is needed for human safety on Mars? It is all but certain that humans and Asgardians will live side by side throughout this star system. You will join us sooner or later. It is inevitable. The instant the perceived challenge is issued, your desiccated space programs will flare back to life. You humans are incredibly competitive, though in a different way than Asgardians. We are more individual, but you drift towards teams. It will be interesting to see how the competition plays out.”

“You're looking forward to this?” you asked.

“I am counting on it.” he said. “Now, do you think that house would be big enough for you? It will be roughly three times the size of your current apartment, and partially underground. Would that bother you? Would you need more space?”

The notebook slipped to the floor. “You can't mean...” you whispered.

“Give it some thought. It won't be for a while yet, but I'm pretty sure it will be within your lifetime. Would you like to be the first human on Mars? Beat that so-called genius to the red planet? See us kickstart the world?”

It was a fantastic dream. Impossible. Completely impossible. But could you? “I-I don't know...”

“Think on it. But for now, I think this medicine is making me weary. I am losing track of time and thought. Take me to the window, and sit with me there.”

You did, making yourself comfortable on your special cushion, as he rambled about Asgardian building techniques, methods of energy storage, and how to contain oxygen in their hypothetical underground cities while working on building a sustainable atmosphere. He talked about Mars as if it were no more than a challenge, explaining all the resources that made the planet such a likely candidate for the transformation process. How they could alter the thin atmosphere with Thor's power to create ozone, split molecules to create oxygen, how to decontaminate irradiated soil, and even enrich it with naturally occurring resources. You didn't understand much of it, but the gist was that they had done this before, and only lacked the resources to build the tools they needed. As soon as they had that, there were no limits. According to Loki, it could all be done very fast.

And he was very fixated on the idea of you coming with him, seemed to have a very romanticized view of the human drive to explore. In some ways, he wasn't wrong. The thought of being the first human to travel to the red planet, to walk on its surface, to live there-it was thrilling. It was a dream humankind had harbored for a long time.

On the other hand, as far as you understood, Mars was kind of a shithole.

Yes, Loki claimed that his people could change that, prattling on about groves, and grasslands, and even tropics. He was also high. He could just as easily be talking nonsense.

Atmosphere notwithstanding, Mars was farther from the sun than Earth was. Wouldn't it always be colder? You could envision, after a lot of work and change, the planet hosting the kinds of things that grew in Siberia maybe. Lichens and short, scrubby grasses, possibly even conifers. Maybe seaweed, in the great seas and lakes he described the icecaps filling up.

But delicate tropical flowers, and big, soft fruits, and plants that needed three hundred days of strong sun and sweltering temperatures to thrive? No way. Better to leave the jungles to Venus.

Which was apparently part of the plan. The thinning of the atmosphere of Venus, would contribute to the thickening of the atmosphere of Mars. It involved even more technobabble that you couldn't grasp, but Loki was very sure about the viability of transferring resources throughout the solar system. From atmosphere, to water, to metals, to trace elements, Asgardians apparently knew how to do it all. It almost made you believe it.

Loki babbled like a bird all through dinner and the evening, and you were almost glad to be sent off the warm his bed. Your brain was exhausted, but he was as energetic as ever.

Stripped of your uniform, you snuggled into his luxurious bed, still trying to resolve the image of Loki-lover of opulent baths, rich clothing, and indulgent bedding-with that of an excited, daring, and rough living pioneer. You drifted off to a daydream of him, in a pith helmet and beige jodhpurs, standing majestically in a jeep that kicked up the Martian dust behind it...

                                                                               ******

...And awoke to Loki sniffing your hair.

He was pressed all alongside you, snuggled up with an arm thrown over your waist. And he was sniffing your hair.

He must have noticed a change in your breathing or physical pliancy, because he withdrew his arm immediately.

“Ah.” he whispered. “The jig is up, as they say.”

You scooted quickly away from him.

“What the hell do you think you're doing?” you demanded.

“Forgive me.” he said, yawning. “You just seemed so peaceful. I thought it a shame to wake you.”

“Did you turn off my alarm?”

He had the grace to look mildly ashamed.

“That...might have happened.”

“And there was nothing you could do but try to cop a feel?”

“I prefer to think of it as a friendly cuddle.”

“Well don't! Don't think you can just do whatever you want with me!”

“I shan't, I promise. As your master, I promise, I will not again overstep the bounds of our agreement. As my servant, I ask your trust.”

“...Maybe tomorrow.”

Face burning fiercely, you exited the bed, and hurried for the door. Your clothing was on the other side of the bed-the other side of Loki. In the dark, he might or might not getting a good look at your underwear clad rear, depending on how well Asgardians could see in the dark, so you booked it out of his room, across the hall, and into yours before he could say anything.

You threw yourself onto your futon, huddled down in your nice new blankets, and shivered. Your trust? He asked for your trust? He asked you to leave everything you knew, your whole world, to walk the distant sands of Mars? Something you couldn't even safely do until the planet had been transformed? He dared to lure you into a false sense of security in his sweet-smelling bed, and then ask for your trust? How much of your life were you willing to give?

[glimmerglanger]

So I’ve been plagued by this since I read mirror AU. For your spice week, how would you feel about obikin sex with an audience? Can be purely for pleasure or a ritual thing or an accident, but like, thinking of Anakin staking a claim in front of Cody in agaptfaa may have awoken something in me? Ditto prime Anakin and mirror Anakin with either Obi-Wan. I know Obes would think it riduculous/primitive but maybe find it hot anyway?

Anonymous said:

hmm this isn’t particularly spicy on its own but it can be added to a spicy september fic? like ur prompts are the ice cream and this ask is the extra toppings haha. but like obi wan’s pale skin being marked up with finger shaped bruises and hickeys and his own flush? bonus points if he’s ‘pleasantly sore’ 🥺

Mmmmm, I like these ideas very, very much! I went with ritual sex with an audience because I’m legitimately so, so weak for that. Marking ended up fitting in very well with this particular plot bunny. Hey, if we’re staking a claim…. No reason for half measures. Established relationship set during the Clone Wars (close to the end, with Anakin’s mental state being frayed).

This is NOT SAFE FOR WIZARDS. No real warnings beyond that. We’ve wrapped up Spicy September Week with this fic! I hope you all enjoyed it! Thanks for all the wonderful prompts! I’ll be posting all the fics over on ao3 to make sure they don’t get lost etc. Hope everyone has a great rest of the week, time for me to get back to prepping for Whumptober!

~~~~~~~

They landed on Tuls on a clear, cool morning, with frost across the ground. Technically, Anakin wasn’t even supposed to be on the mission, but he’d been working with the 212th when Obi-Wan’s orders came through and…

Well. They’d had enough things go wrong for Jedi sent on solo missions from the Senate. He’d decided he ought to tag along, and Obi-Wan hadn’t protested. They’d even had some time to sleep, on the flight to Tuls. Anakin had hoped they might have time for a bit more than sleep, but Obi-Wan had still been recovering from...whatever the kriff had happened to him over Raydonia.

Anakin took one look at the fading bruises all down his ribs, and lost the urge to press the issue. It was more than enough to hold Obi-Wan close while they slept, to pour healing energy down into his skin, hoping to ease as much of the damage as he could.

By the time they arrived on Tuls, most of the marks had faded away. Obi-Wan had stretched that morning, when he woke, and looked down at his side with a surprise written all over his expression. “Feeling better?” Anakin had asked, dropping a kiss against his ribs, and Obi-Wan had smiled at him, looking soft and still mussed from sleep.

But that had been earlier, when it was just them. Obi-Wan looked nothing but professional as they set foot on Tuls soil, met by an entire delegation of tired, stooped humanoids, who looked at them and said, “Thank goodness you have finally arrived, Jedi. There is no longer much time.”

#

“I’m sorry,” Obi-Wan said, after the Tuls delegation had hurried them along, out of the cold and into a finally appointed meeting chamber. There was a fire crackling in a large hearth along one wall, which was a relief. There was a bitter chill in the air, which seemed odd. Anakin was almost sure Obi-Wan had said that it was supposed to be late spring on the planet. “I was not informed we were on a time-table, but you mentioned--”

“We are very late to bring the spring,” an older man said, rising heavily from a chair by the fire. He was solidly built - Anakin guessed he’d probably been all muscle, once. Time had added a healthy girth around his waist. He wore a crown of dark stone cut through with pale lines.

Obi-Wan glanced at Anakin, and Anakin shrugged. Obi-Wan looked back at the man and said, “And you… require our help, to bring the spring?”

The man nodded. He said, “Forgive my manners. I am King Urtus. And, yes. We need your help, specifically, Master Jedi.” Anakin could feel the relief radiating off of all of these people, even as their leader spoke.

“Ah,” Obi-Wan said, shifting around, loosening his shoulders in a little movement that Anakin wasn’t sure anyone else would identify as the first step towards a fight. “May I ask why? I’ve not heard of such assistance being required before.”

Urtus grimaced, looked to the side, and spat into the fire. “We did not need outside assistance. Not before the Separatist attacked us. The Keeper of Seasons was killed in the attack. Her apprentice…” He gestured to a boy standing to one side; the kid looked to be in his early teens. “Is not yet of age to bring the spring.”

“I think…” Obi-Wan said, as a creeping feeling ran down Anakin’s back, “that you ought to tell us, exactly, how one brings the spring, here on Tuls.”

#

“Are you serious?” Anakin said, after Urtus finished explaining exactly what it was they wanted Obi-Wan to do. He felt a prickle across his shoulders as everyone in the room turned to look at him, including Obi-Wan, who raised an eyebrow for good measure.

“We are quite serious,” Urtus said, as though he had not just suggested that - that Obi-Wan come down to some - some kind of ritual chamber and take off all his clothes and--

“Getting kr -- engaging in intercourse doesn’t make the seasons change,” Anakin said, feeling his cheeks getting far too warm. He, abruptly, didn’t like the way any of the people in the room were looking at Obi-Wan.

Urtus shrugged. “It ever has on Tuls,” he said. 

Anakin looked at Obi-Wan, hoping for support on how mad the entire suggestion was. He got a shrug, instead, and a thoughtful look, as Obi-Wan said, “I can feel the Force flowing through the core of this world. It is possible the seasons have become tied to… rituals, of a sort. And carnal relations are often tied to the advent of spring.”

Sometimes Anakin wanted to shake him. Not everything had to be a science project.

Urtus cleared his throat, before Anakin could point out that now was not the time to get curious about the ecosystem of some new world. “Please,” Urtus said. “It should be nearly summer now. We beg for your assistance with this matter.”

“Why does this have to be Obi-Wan?” Anakin asked, shifting to put himself between them and Obi-Wan, just in case they got grabby.

“We can feel his connection to the Force,” Urtus said, straightening and meeting Anakin’s gaze for the first time. “The planet responds to him, already.” Anakin figured he’d have to take Urtus’ word for that.

And Anakin knew damn well there was no way Obi-Wan was actually going to decline. He’d be full of concern about the fate of the planet and the safety of these people and if it meant him getting fucked on an altar to set things to rights, then so be it. So, it wasn’t much of a surprise when Obi-Wan said, “Of course, I will assist in any way I can.”

Urtus sagged with relief. Anakin felt the emotion vibrating through the rest of the crowd, and fine, he supposed they could make this work. He could help and they’d just get this over with, and-- Urtus said, “We will prepare you and arrange the melee immediately, then.”

The back of Anakin’s neck prickled, even as Obi-Wan asked, “Melee?”

Urtus nodded. “Indeed. To determine who shall have the right to assist you. So you may remove winter’s veil and bring the spring.”

Anakin tightened his grip on Obi-Wan’s arm; he felt Obi-Wan’s emotions shift, some hint of worry entering his feelings for the first time. None of it came through in Obi-Wan’s tone when he said, “Surely, I select who has the...right?”

Urtus shook his heavy head, making a deep humming sound. “No. It must be whoever is touched most deeply by winter, as decided by the Force,” he said, “it has ever been thus.”

Anakin looked over the crowd in the room. He really disliked the way they were eying Obi-Wan, and wondered, if he picked Obi-Wan up and bolted, what his odds were of getting to the ship. Probably not high, if Obi-Wan decided to fight him. Which he almost certainly would.

Anakin blew out a breath, instead, and said, “Is anyone allowed to join this melee, then?” Because, kriff, if it was a fight they wanted… Well. He was more than happy to give it to them.

# 

In the end, the Tuls were agreeable to the idea of Anakin joining the melee. He had no idea what they meant by ‘touched by winter’ and he didn’t really care. He was taken to a chamber to prepare with all the rest of the entrants, while Obi-Wan was spirited off elsewhere. They were only to use weapons with blunted edges, apparently, but that was fine. Anakin had long ago learned how to fight with whatever was to hand.

He cracked his neck side to side, selected a weapon that fitted his hand, and waited, ignoring the chatter around the rest of the room.

It seemed to take an age and a half before the doors were opened again and they were led out, across a frozen expanse of ground, and into a small entryway, directly into the earth. It was dark inside, and warmer. There were steps, leading down, and Anakin followed the figure in front of him, flexing his fingers in and out until they, finally, reached the bottom.

They were… in a large, open space, ringed with seats stretching upward, many of them filled. The walls glowed, faintly. Anakin barely noticed any of that, because, in the center of the… well, the arena, there was a familiar figure.

Someone had taken Obi-Wan’s tunics and left him wearing…pieces of white fabric, tied in bands around his body. His eyes and mouth were both wrapped. There were more bindings around his arms and hands. He was standing in front of a tall lump of stone. Anakin assumed, with a hot lurch of his gut, that this was the altar.

Which meant the Tuls fully expected someone to fuck Obi-Wan right there in the center of this arena and, well. There was no way Anakin was going to let anyone else touch him. He took a breath, adjusted his grip on his weapon, and waited while Urtus made some kind of speech that he didn’t care about.

He shifted his weight from foot to foot, waiting for the moment when the melee started, and then springing into action. The Tuls were determined, he had to give them that. And they seemed to have decided that they didn’t actually care who won the right, as long as it wasn’t him.

They swarmed him, and Anakin snarled. Even with numbers, they were not a match, and he knew it. They had not a fraction of the practice and experience he’d gained, and he knocked them aside, one after another.

One almost cracked him over the back of the head with a cudgel, only to slip on nothing a moment before the blow could land, falling into one of his fellows, instead, and Anakin half-laughed at the feeling of Obi-Wan’s presence against his skin.

The Tuls woman in front of him balked at his laughter, and Anakin took the opportunity to elbow her in the gut, listening to the sound she made as she folded up, flinging himself back into the fight. There was no real strategy to it, it was nothing but a brawl, fierce and vicious, devolving, finally, into a bare knuckled scrap between the last contenders.

Anakin had something of an advantage in that area, and grinned fiercely at the sound his fist made hitting the jaw of the last Tuls standing between him and Obi-Wan. The man had a half a head of height on Anakin, but went over backwards with a satisfying thump.

Anakin stood, for a moment, in the midst of the groaning fallen, breathing hard. His clothes were torn and bloody, he noted. He throbbed from a dozen different places, wounds aching. He tasted copper on his tongue and turned his head to the side, spitting, even as drums started around the room.

He distantly remembered being told about the drums, and grinned, because they meant he’d won.

He met Urtus’ eyes across the arena, nodded, and stalked towards the center of the space. Obi-Wan hadn’t moved, standing there still as a statue. There were, Anakin noticed, as he got closer, clothes wrapped around his knees and ankles, too. His feet were bare on the stone and there were strange tendrils of light winding away from him, out through the stone.

Anakin decided he didn’t care about the light, right at that moment. His blood burned in his veins, his gut full of fire from the battle. He was already hard, when he stopped in front of Obi-Wan and reached out, grabbing the wrap around his eyes and pulling it away.

Obi-Wan blinked open his eyes, so clear and blue, and did not look surprised to find Anakin before him. Anakin grabbed the wrap over his mouth, hoping he was doing an adequate job removing winter’s veil, and Obi-Wan said, quietly, something tense in his expression, just for a moment, “I knew it would be you.”

Anakin shivered and could not stop himself from sliding a hand back into Obi-Wan’s hair and leaning closer, kissing his mouth, aware he was leaving smears of blood behind and - and liking it, liking the way it marked Obi-Wan’s clean, perfect skin. “I think I had some help,” he murmured, against Obi-Wan’s mouth, and felt Obi-Wan smile.

“Maybe a little,” Obi-Wan agreed, and Anakin kissed him again, pleased to know it had been him Obi-Wan wanted with him, here in the middle of an arena, here at this crude altar.

It made his pulse beat faster, instructions for what he was supposed to do jumbling together in his head. The Tuls had been specific about some things, but it was hard to focus on what they’d wanted. He’d needed to - to take Obi-Wan out of these bindings, definitely. 

Anakin could do that, He kept one hand in Obi-Wan’s hair, aware of all the eyes on them. He expected a prickle of anxiety across his nerves, he even anticipated, in a flash of worry, that he would not be able to maintain his current state of interest, not while knowing so many people were watching.

But these people had thought they could have Obi-Wan. Thought they could just use him for their ritual. And he, abruptly, quite liked the idea of showing them all just how wrong they were. He slid his mouth to Obi-Wan’s neck, nipping at the skin and then sucking, hearing Obi-Wan make a loud, surprised sound.

He slid his other hand down, tearing at the white wrappings, careless and rough. He just wanted them off. 

“The altar,” Obi-Wan ground out, his hands freed to come up, to grip at Anakin, pulling him closer. “We need to--the stone is Force-reactive, we need to be on--”

Anakin got the idea. The altar was the size of a large table, rising directly out of the floor. It came up to his thighs, he noted, even as he pulled the last of the wrappings away, grabbed Obi-Wan’s thighs, and lifted him. 

The stone lit up beneath Obi-Wan, when Anakin turned and put him down on the altar. Veins of color shot through it, so bright they were almost blinding. A murmur went up through the crowd, relief and joy, but Anakin barely noted it. 

Obi-Wan lit up, as well, and that was far more interesting. Trails of light stretched under his skin, glowing. He looked like something out of a dream, something magical. But then, he always had. Anakin groaned and crawled onto the altar, falling forward to kiss him, hands all over his skin, warm and soft and perfect.

He left behind smears of blood, marks that showed where he’d touched, and groaned at the sight of it. Everyone on Tuls had wanted Obi-Wan, but he was the only one who got to have this, the only one who got to touch, and he wanted, suddenly and fiercely, for them all to know it.

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan panted, tugging at the closures on Anakin’s tunics. They were hanging off of him already, and Anakin yanked the outer tunic off, tossing it aside. He cared little about the under tunic; it wasn’t in his way. He slid a hand down, curled his fingers around Obi-Wan’s cock, and watched the light beneath him shift, spreading away from the altar, out across the arena.

Obi-Wan’s hands clenched at his belt. He made a sound, thick and pleasure-drunk, as Anakin stroked him, setting a fast, brutal pace. He had not patience within him, at the moment, he just wanted. Wanted to watch Obi-Wan’s eyes flutter, wanted everyone in the arena to see what he got to do.

He bent forward, kissing Obi-Wan deep and filthy, the drums pounding around them, almost drowning out the sound Obi-Wan made when he spilled all over Anakin’s fingers. 

“Force,” Obi-Wan panted, and Anakin grinned, rubbing his fingers together and considering. They’d not given him anything to ease the way. He shrugged, decided to make do, and slid his fingers back, between Obi-Wan’s legs.

He found Obi-Wan slick already, slick enough to slide two fingers in at once, and the revelation punched a groan out of him. “I thought,” Obi-wan gasped, deliciously flushed and glowing, “I’d better, ah, be ready.”

Anakin nodded. He felt quite beyond words, aching with so much want it felt hard to think. He wanted, so badly, to stretch out over Obi-Wan like this, to touch his glowing skin and let all the Tuls see how good he could make Obi-Wan feel, show them his beauty, the light of him--

The Tuls had warned them both that they might be...affected by the ritual. Anakin was willing to blame the hot jump of his pulse on whatever the kriff the Force was currently doing, whatever was making Obi-Wan light up, the glow off of his skin chasing away all the shadows in Anakin’s head, leaving him… singularly focused.

The urge to make everyone see swallowed him. Anakin took another kiss, hard, and then rocked onto his heels, batting Obi-Wan’s hands away - he’d gotten Anakin’s slacks open, that was more than good enough - and gripped at Obi-Wan’s hip.

Obi-Wan made a thick sound, surprised, when Anakin dragged his fingers out. His gasped beautifully, his skin all aglow, brighter spots of light at his freckles. Anakin ran a hand over his chest, awed, and then settled his hands, pulling Obi-Wan’s hips just so, gripping tight.

He heard the sound Obi-Wan made over the drums when he pushed in. Around them, the light started picking up colors, purples and pinks and blues, greens, spreading around the room, spreading across Obi-Wan’s skin, like an aurora, a celestial event, right in front of him.

Anakin jolted at the feeling of being in him. It was always amazing; he could have happily fucked Obi-Wan for the rest of his life, but-- Sinking into him on the altar felt like something else, the sensation spreading out to each nerve, clearing his head, leaving nothing but want and need and desire behind.

Anakin needed to fuck him, needed to drive into him, needing to make him gasp and cry out. Anakin gripped him, hard, keeping a hold on him, knowing he was leaving marks behind and - and liking it. He wanted marks, his marks, all over Obi-Wan’s skin, wanted everyone on Tuls and all the other worlds in the galaxy to know that Obi-Wan was--

Obi-Wan’s trembled, light spreading out from him, through the stone, the colors getting brighter, sharper. And Anakin wanted everyone to see, deeply. Force, he loved the way Obi-Wan looked when he was getting fucked, loved the way Obi-Wan’s mouth got soft, the way he flushed all across his cheeks and down his throat.

Every inch of him was beautiful, and Anakin groaned, driving into him as the light curled and flowed around them. He wished he had another hand, to curl around Obi-Wan’s cock, and in that moment saw no reason not to utilize the Force.

Obi-Wan jerked, full-bodied, when Anakin curled tendrils of the Force against his skin, pressure and sensation. Anakin thought he heard his name - it was hard to tell, the drums had gotten louder and his blood was pounding in his ears - and he took it as encouragement.

It felt like encouragement, through Obi-Wan’s emotions, overspilling into Anakin’s head.

He touched and touched and groaned when he felt Obi-Wan quake, come spilling across their skin and the altar and--and something shifted in the air around them, in the presence of the Force through the room. Anakin felt like lightning grounded down through his spine, pleasure and primal want swimming up through him.

He lost himself, for a moment, aware of nothing but pleasure, but needing to fuck into Obi-Wan, desperately, but the sheer joy of spilling within him. Anakin groaned, cock pulsing, and slumped forward, over Obi-Wan’s glowing form.

He held Obi-Wan - almost limp - and buried his face against Obi-Wan’s throat. He sucked hungry kisses against the skin, wanting to leave more marks, wanting to stain the pale flesh, wanting to leave no room for doubt that Obi-Wan was--

Was breathing shakily, trembles moving through him.

Anakin swallowed, hard, wrestling back control of all his riotous wants. He was aware, distantly, of cheering and the brilliant lights filling the chamber. But that all felt far away as he stroked a hand comfortingly across Obi-Wan’s stomach, pressing softer kisses to his skin, and holding him, there on the altar.

He managed to ask, as he got his breath back, “You think that did it?”

Obi-Wan laughed, tilting his head further to the side in what Anakin took as an invitation, and said, “Darling, you may have overshot us right into summer.”

[nalgenewhore]

A rogue storm had her presumed dead and stranded on the red planet. Left on her own, astronaut Aelin Galathynius has four years to make it to the next drop-site, some two thousand miles. Armed with her smarts and dwindling supplies, Aelin attempts to survive on an inhospitable planet, when the nearest help is only millions of miles away.

masterlist - ao3 - last chapter - next chapter 

+*+*+*+*+*+*

Aelin carefully filled a container of water and walked it to her garden, pouring it over the crops and repeating the process until each little plant had been watered.

A camera had been set up in her garden so she spoke to it, still speaking as though TNSB couldn’t hear her or see her every move. “Now that everyone can talk to me, they never want to shut up.” She kissed the leaf of the smallest plant, smiling down at it and whispering a soft word of encouragement.

“They’ve even got a whole team micromanaging my crops. Which is just great,” she added sarcastically. Aelin and the botany team were not on the best of terms. “I don’t mean to sound arrogant,” she spread her arms, as if to say look at all of this, “but I am the best botanist on this planet.”

Aelin put the container down and dusted her hands, “In other news, they want me to pose for a picture. I’m debating between ‘High School Prom’,”’ she posed with her hands elbows bent and hands clasped over her stomach, “or ‘Happy College Student On A Pamphlet’,” she hooked her thumbs through imaginary backpack straps, pasting on a gloriously fake grin. “I’m not sure how it’ll all convey with my spacesuit on, but we’ll figure it out.”

Aelin laughed to herself and walked out to the kitchen area, now addressing the camera by the microwave, “Another cool thing about this communication business: email! I get a big data dump, like when I was on The Lani and stuff. Athletes, academics, musicians and even the prime minister too. But the coolest, the single coolest email I got was from my alma mater, the University of Orynth. They tell me that once you’ve grown crops somewhere, you’ve officially ‘colonized’ it.” A cocky grin overtook her features, “So I colonized Farnor. Suck it, TNSB botany team,” she stuck her tongue out before fetching her suit to take her photo.

 +*+*+*+*+*+*

Asterin was in stitches as she looked at the picture Aelin had sent. The golden-haired astronaut was mid-jump, her legs bent and her arms stretched up to the sky and she could make out the huge grin splitting the woman’s face. “Oh, this is so like her,” she murmured, tracing an iron nail over the photo. “This – I can use.”

“Good,” Weylan said, already on to the next topic. He addressed Sartaq and Gavriel on the screen, “Sartaq, is your team still on schedule.”

The man looked beat, a certain bleakness in his eyes, “It’ll be tight, but we’ll make it.”

“Make sure you do.” He tapped the table, “Nine-month flight puts us at day 868. Did we get the Botany Team’s assessment?”

Gavriel nodded, “They estimate her crops will last her until day 900. They resentfully admit Aelin’s doing a remarkable job.”

“Resentfully?” Manon questioned, arching a manicured brow.

“Yes, um, Aelin has a tendency to tell them to go have sex with themselves whenever they disagree with her or question her method. Either that or she tells them she’s the best botanist on Farnor and therefore she doesn’t have to listen to mediocre scientists,” Gavriel told them, a slight wince on his face.

The director of TNSB just shook his head, “Get her in line. We can’t have any miscommunications.” He turned to Manon and Asterin, who were both badly hiding their amused grins. “Food gets there at 868, hers lasts until 900…I hate this margin.”

“And that’s assuming nothing goes wrong,” commented Manon, ever-so helpfully.

+*+*+*+*+*+*

Aelin grabbed her toolkit and wedged it under her arm as she walked to the airlock, going out to do some late-night modifications on the rover.

Something was niggling in the back of her mind, but she paid it no heed, just wanting to do her work and sleep like the dead after whatever meager dinner she could scrounge up. She was running out of ketchup and she dreaded the day that she was forced to eat plain cooked potatoes.

A yawn grew in her and her eyes watered, gods above, she just wanted to sleep.

When one was stranded on a desolate, slumber was a fickle thing. Aelin’s eyes grew heavy as she pulled the airlock handle down.

All she heard was a ripping sound going along the canvas of the airlock before she was airborne, an explosion catapulting her and the tunnel far far away.

A strangled, panicked cry escaped her as she was battered and flung around the airlock as it flew through the air and crashed, her helmet crashing into something and she heard a cracking sound, closing her eyes on instinct.

The canvas tube rolled too many times for her to count until eventually it stopped and Aelin sat up, alarms blaring in her helmet.

It was cracked.

Fuck, it was cracked, a little hole where the polycarbonate-plexiglass had been chipped free. The beeping didn’t stop and Aelin fought to keep her breathing under control as she scrambled to her feet and wrenched the duct tape free, ripping off a length and taping it across the longest crack and then another across it.

Her toolkit had spilled everywhere and she grabbed a sharp screwdriver, stabbed it into the fabric of the airlock and yanked it down, creating a big enough rip for her to stumble out of.

Aelin could hardly see past the duct tape and she spun around, desperately looking for the hab and then sprinting, tripping countless times in her mad dash.

She stepped foot in and saw… her crops, destroyed beyond recognition.

Her lifeline was destroyed and Aelin gasped, her throat tight as she staggered out. She couldn’t stay here tonight and no good would come if she attempted to fix anything now.

Making her way to the rover, tears dripped down her cheeks until violent sobs were ripping from her throat and chest. She stumbled over a pile of rocks and fell to her knees, her gloves digging into the red dirt. There was no other answer; Aelin was going to die here alone.

A scream tore from her and soon enough, she was cursing the gods, “Where are you?! Why do you fail me time and time again?!” Her throat was raw and on fire. Her voice cracked, “Somebody save me.”

But no one answered her calls, not as she stayed there, kneeling in the sand, the reality of everything crashing down on her. There was no hope left, no bright and beautiful feeling.

The gods had never been there for her. Never.

Not when her parents died in that car wreck, not when she had to protect little Elide when she herself needed protecting, not when they made her fall for a heartless and cruel bastard, who carried a chip on his shoulder, going through life thinking no one had it as hard as he did.

It was stupid and childish to think they would save her now.

 +*+*+*+*+*+*

The mood in Mission Control was somber, nobody daring to speak as Nox read off the message Aelin had sent. “…crops are dead. Complete loss of pressure sterilized the soil and boiled off whatever was left in the water reclaimer…”

The only upside was that Aelin had managed to store away buckets of water and didn’t have to worry about that. “How long does she have,” Asterin asked.

“Well, she can still eat the potatoes she has. We estimate about two-hundred days.”

“Rations get her to what? Day four-ten?”

“Yes, so with potatoes, she can stretch to six-ten.”

“Prelim calculations call for a four-hundred-day round trip.”

 “By day 868 she’ll be long dead,” said Manon, her face emotionless. Her eyes narrowed and she sucked on her teeth, “It’s day one-thirty-five right now, we need thirteen to mount the boosters and do inspections… which give RPL forty-seven days to make the probe. Darkness above, gods damn it.”

“How long does it usually take?”

Gavriel answered Nox, his voice defeated, “Six months.”

Weylan spoke to Gavriel, already standing and doing his suit jacket up, “I’ll let you tell Sartaq and his team.”

 +*+*+*+*+*+*

Fenrys was sitting in front of The Lani’s communications computer, typing an email to Aelin. TNSB had finally given them the ok to speak with her and only Fenrys had been up to the task.

Dearest G-Money, he wrote, laughing quietly to himself, Apparently, TNSB deemed it appropriate for us to talk to you and I drew the short straw. Sorry we left you on Farnor, we don’t like you very much and we were all tired of you hogging shower times. The downside is we have to rotate through your tasks, but it’s only dirt (not real science). How’s Farnor?

 +*+*+*+*+*+*

Aelin was crying as she read Fenrys’ email. Oh, how she missed them, so terribly. The day had been a long one, one where it seemed she couldn’t stop the tears even as she fixed the mess that had been made.

She didn’t think she’d ever been as heartbroken as when she was clearing out her ruined garden and dumping the dead plants outside. After she spent a few minutes mourning all her work, thinking to herself that the botany team would be thrilled she had finally failed, she got busy – covering the hole made in the hab by taping over a plastic tarp she would no longer need now that the greenhouse was useless.

The wind was making it flutter and flap, but it would hold as she replied to her friend.

My most beloved Fenny,

Farnor is fine. How’s The Lani? Cramped, with those two broody men? I accidentally blew up the hab, but fortunately, all your movies were spared which means tonight I’m going to eat plain potatoes and watch Mulan.

Everyday I go outside and look at the vast horizon, just because I can and guess what, I officially colonized Farnor.

I hope the girls are going easy on you poor boys, I know they can be rather ruthless when it comes to board and card games.

Say hello to the others and tell Lorcan that I’m gonna beat his ass if he’s still blaming himself.

After a few minutes, she read his typed reply, just two words, Will do.

Aelin did indeed watch Mulan as she ate her dinner and then, she got up, licking her plate clean and walking it to the sink before she sat down in front of her laptop once more, opening the video journal.

She wished so badly that she could be doing anything other than this, but enough was enough. She wasn’t a child and could no longer put this off. She owed it to herself and to her crew.

“Manon, it’s currently day one-thirty-six, around nine PM. I have a favour to ask of you, and I’m sending these to you, only you, because you’re the only one who will understand. Thank you for everything you did and thank you-“ her voice broke, “thank you for being my friend.”

Aelin took a second, her eyes shut as tears slipped past her lashes, “I want you to send these to the crew in case I don’t make it, ok?”

It took a lot to decide to send these, but Aelin pushed through, addressing the first one to Nesryn.

“Faliq… thank you for being you. Every day spent with you is one I cherish, because I love you so much. Thank you for getting me hooked on The Anatolia Story; it’s addictive. I’ve read fourteen out of twenty-eight volumes and I can’t wait to finish it, but I’m trying to ration them. I won’t forgive you for liking Twilight. Take good care of my goddaughter and your wife. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you guys. Every day I miss you.”

The rest of the letters went the same way, with her saying her last goodbye to her family. Every word had her throat growing tighter and tighter, until only Elide and Rowan were left. She didn’t know what to say to him, how to tell him she loved him so when she would be dead too soon.

Hot tears were streaming down her face and she looked crazy as she spoke to Elide.

“Ellie-Boo. I-“ she sobbed once and covered her mouth, “I love you so so much. To infinity and beyond,” referencing the movie that had their obsession with outer-space beginning, Toy Story. “There’s too much to say to you. You’re my person, baby girl. Without you, I would’ve probably wound up in a ditch somewhere. I want you to have the biggest wedding and a dress with enough sequins so that I can see it in the Afterworld. You are not allowed to be sad, no tears, Elide. I mean it. My funeral better be so much better than the one TNSB had – boooring!” Aelin smiled cheekily and then grew serious, the redness from her crying making the turquoise of her eyes pop. “Be happy, my darling sister. Because guess what, you and me? More than anything, we deserve to know happiness and you’re going to have to take my happy too. I love you, to infinity and beyond.” She pressed a kiss to her fingertips and touched the screen.

The letter she dreaded having to dictate was staring her in the face and Aelin stood up, walking around in circles as she attempted to order her thoughts. Eventually, she sat down, “…Rowan. I… there’s a lot to say, but I won’t ever be able to stop crying if I say everything. Basically, I love you. I don’t know how or when or even why, but I do. I’m completely in love with you, buzzard. And I wish I hadn’t been such a coward to keep it all to myself all this time. I wish that we could’ve been together and in the next life, I will find you and I will not be scared of it, ok? I will find you again and I will not be afraid.” 

She couldn’t say another thing and ended the video, sitting and staring at the wall until she finally fell asleep.

+*+*+*+*+*+*

an: that wasn’t a very nice chapter huh....anyhoo! comment/send me an ask to be added or removed from the tag list! thank you for reading darlings 

@mythicaitt @kandasboi @schmlip-scribble @the-regal-warrior @westofmoon @empire-of-wildfire @rhysands-highlady @city-of-fae @shyvioletcat @alifletcher2012 @tangledraysofsunshine @ttakeitbacknoww @tswaney17 @ourbooksuniverse @flora-and-fae @thesirenwashere​ @queenofxhearts​ @that-other-pineapple​ @sleeping-and-books​ @superspiritfestival​ @faerie-queen-fireheart​ @chemicha​ @rowaelin-cressworth​ @mynewdreamwasyou​ @candid-confetti​ @bat-wing-rhys​ @the-reading-obsessed-stitchbear​ @feyrethedarklady​ @booklover41802​ @rowaelinforeverworld​ @jamesxdaisy​ @julemmaes​ @hellas-himself​ 

[ravenvsfox]

klance holodeck fic 1/2

Lance is gone. Lost in the plunging gaps between astral bodies, sewn into an invisible seam in spacetime. Missing, for two long years. It’s impossible, to think of the time he's already lost with him. Time passes strangely in a war, and stranger still in space. Stars gasp their dying breaths and ripe dust clouds give birth to whole planetary systems. Some light reaches them with its centuries-old fingers and some can’t weather the journey. So many beings shiver and die. Lance would be twenty now. He tries not to think about it.

Keith can't bring himself to grieve when he knows Lance is still out there. Instead, he follows versions of him down holographic rabbit holes, trying to pry closure out of his memories, and losing himself to an obsession with the simulated landscapes where Lance was never lost.

(Read on AO3)

At first, it’s a french restaurant.

Slate grey and stationery white, sunlight drooping over the tablecloths like curling petals on calla lilies. Keith presses the knot of his tie into the hollow of his throat and swallows against his fingers. The get-up is ridiculous—grey suit, red tie, cufflinks, Italian leather shoes.

He’s never worn anything so expensive or well-tailored in his life, and he can already picture the precise geometry of Lance’s expression when he sees him: badly suppressed smile, like a slipped disc, his cheeks puckered.

Keith seats himself next to the window, fiddling almost immediately with the circlet of his napkin ring. The trees outside rustle and drizzle shade over buskers and vendors across the street. His designer watch has both hands folded over the twelve. A waiter breezes past and lays a rectangle of cardstock in front of him, smiling conspiratorially. As soon as he’s out of view, Keith has forgotten his face.

He looks at the menu, and the transition from the burbling restaurant to the cramped typeface is disorienting, like a cut scene in a video game. When he puts the menu down again, his head is swimming sickly with words like bordelaise and remoulade. And then, like a sweet apparition from a terrible dream, Lance drifts through the doorway.

For a moment, the sight of him is impossibly painful.

Keith’s fingers go again to the knot of his tie, and he makes an involuntary noise, gulping air as if surfacing from extreme physical exertion.

“Lance,” he chokes.

Lance smiles, quicksilver. “Hello.”

“You’re here,” Keith says, staggering to his feet. He crosses the bistro to take Lance bracingly by the wrists. The napkin holder is still in his hand, and the circle of it presses into Lance’s forearm so tightly that his skin bulges through it a little. “Do you—do you know where you’ve been?”

Lance should be defensive, or sly, or angry, or bashful. He should be telling a story that Keith can barely follow at a pitch that he can barely stomach, bragging about all the stupid things and downplaying all the impressive things.

Keith knows that’s not how this works, but still. It’s the Lance he knows.

He focuses on the brittle warmth of his body, the details that are just right. His heart breathes into the paper bag of his chest.

Lance just keeps smiling wanly. His hair is styled wrong—there’s too much volume, and it swoops down too close to one eye. His tie is robin’s egg blue. “No need to get up for little old me.”

Keith shakes his head, off-balance. “What?”

“I’m here to spend time with you! Why don’t we take a seat?”

Keith swallows painfully. It’s like looking at an animatronic figure of his friend—a jolting uncanny robot at an amusement park. “Lance, look at me.”

“How could I not?” he says cheekily, and winks. But his eyes haven’t quite settled into the same groove as Keith’s.

“Tell me—“ Keith starts. “Tell me what you remember. Tell me who you are.”

“Oh, you know me,” he says. “Name’s Lance ‘Loverboy’ McClain, blue paladin, sharpshooter extraordinaire, and defender of the universe.”

“Please.” It’s meant to be derisive, but it ends up falling somewhere closer to desperate. His hands slide up from Lance’s forearms to his shoulders. The napkin ring clatters pointedly to the floor. In a wide, embarrassing moment of weakness, Keith says, “you have to--be him. At least try.”

Lance chuckles.

Keith shakes him, and his shoulders jitter unnaturally.

“Come on. What’s the point if you can’t even act like him? Who would fucking buy this?”

“I don’t—“

“Stop using his voice,” he warns. His hands have crept up to Lance’s neck, and abruptly he lets go, repulsed at the almost-familiar feel of him.

“I would also be pretty overwhelmed to meet an intergalactic celebrity,” Lance assures him.

He’s starting to breathe too fast. He keeps seeing the real Lance—craned into the three-dimensional spread of a star map, brow furrowed, freckled hand curled loosely in the handle of whatever hot drink he found planet-side—superimposed over this stranger’s weird, unblemished face.

“Who am I?” Keith demands.

Lance grins. “My date.”

Keith pushes him hard in the chest. He nearly topples into a neighbouring table, and it’s unlikely, how he keeps his gangly legs underneath his body.

“Easy, sweetheart,” Lance says. “This isn’t the place for roughhousing.”

It’s the wrong cadence, but it’s so like something Lance would say that it’s debilitating. Keith stumbles through the momentum of another graceless shove.

“I told you to stop using his voice,” Keith snaps. “This is cruel.”

“Didn’t you want to meet me here?” Lance asks innocently.

“Of course I did. But you’re not—not—” Suddenly, he’s so fatigued with disappointment that he can’t speak.

After a long moment, he feels an ephemeral hand on his shoulder. And with the help of the ghostly waitstaff, the false Lance maneuvers him back to his place at the table. “Just tell me where to look and I’ll go there,” Keith begs, half-stumbling, half-dragged into his seat. “I swear. I know I can find you, I’ve faced bad odds before.”

“How about a drink?” Lance is saying, apparently unfazed.

“I thought that if you thought like Lance, maybe I could talk an answer out of you,” Keith says. Lance cocks his head, pleasantly receptive. “But really I thought I would look at you and I would feel better. Or at least I would feel angry. But you’re worse than a punching bag.”

“Red?” Lance says, and Keith’s heart is—airborne.

“What?” he asks sharply.

“Wine,” Lance explains. “Red or white?”

His whole body caves in. Rockslide. Catastrophic. He looks into Lance’s wide, earnest eyes, feeling uncomfortably like he’s levelling a shotgun at a newborn. “Neither. End simulation.”

The bistro melts instantly into the oily blackness of the Paladin Simulator.

His jaw is clamped tightly with shame and grief, and as the dark presses in, he folds his arms self-consciously over his chest. He’s ending his session an hour early, and he’s grateful, now, for the uninterrupted quiet.

He shouldn’t have let himself do this.

It should have been obvious what a bad idea it was when he didn’t tell any of the other paladins what he was planning; he was already falling back into his old, knee-jerk isolation, trusting only himself with his secrets.

He just couldn’t take any more of their pity. It was constant, wide-eyed, confused—why would the person who got along with Lance the least feel his absence the most? Sometimes, Hunk looked at Keith exactly the same way he looked at an old clunker of an engine that was in need of replacing.

Keith had heard tell of the simulators years ago, they all had. Liberated planets with the tech (and the admiration) had started building little cyber shrines to Voltron. Like a hyper-advanced arcade game, you could plug in your specifications, step into the simulator, and play out your wildest fantasies.

He’d gathered that tittering fans, unexceptional nerdy types, and bright-eyed kids were the most common customers; the lettering on the swinging board out front promised all kinds of adventure and celebrity:

Join Voltron! Become one of the gang, fighting Galra scum and saving the galaxy from tyranny!

Enjoy a candlelit dinner with the paladin of your choice, and get up close and personal with your hero!

Pick up your very own bayard, and spar with living combat legends! Who will win?!

Although it’s more advanced than the training room controls on the castle of lions, the programming still has its limits. The likenesses aren’t really supposed to stand up to the scrutiny of someone like, say, a paladin himself, but the experience is still sensory, impossible, the science fiction daydream of someone on Earth.

Lance used to love the idea of it, joking that it was the Star Trek filler episode he always wanted. He said he would win every game, romance himself, and beat up holo-Keith without feeling bad about it. He said he could finally stop pulling punches when Keith was just, like, light particles and shit.

In his grief, Keith convinced himself it was right and just and necessary to believe in a false lead. He told himself that the coat rack in the dark looked enough like a person that maybe he could hang all his hopes on it.

And so he had sought out the small, ever-bright planet of Seachmall, where night lasted for twilit months, and massive outdoor markets boasted every good and service you could possibly think of. Continent to continent there were melting, zipping lights, sky-high neon encircling tall buildings like bangles, and criss-crossing lanterns—buoyant in the low gravity—coasting up towards their celestial cousins.

In the capital, the local population joyfully shared liquor and arm-clasping greetings, speaking in the fast creole dialect of a port city, dancing to reality-bending music that haunts every forking path in a dizzying labyrinth of market stalls. Every single day on Seachmall was a feverish, luminous midnight that raged unceasingly past its breaking point.

And every step in the springy too-dark soil, every halting conversation in common, every sizzling technological spectacle that borders on nightmarish, Keith thought that Lance would have eaten this experience alive.

But Lance is gone.

Lost in the plunging gaps between astral bodies, sewn into an invisible seam in spacetime. Missing, for two long years.

It’s impossible, to think of the time he's already lost with him. Time passes strangely in a war, and stranger still in space. Stars gasp their dying breaths and ripe dust clouds give birth to whole planetary systems. Some light reaches them with its centuries-old fingers and some can’t weather the journey. So many beings shiver and die. Lance would be twenty now. He tries not to think about it.

Often, he resents those years he spent on a space whale, cresting out of his teenage years faster than he could track, trying to staunch the flow of memories with the paladins before he lost them all. He gets double vision looking at his mother, thinking of what he knows about love and struggling to apply it to this stranger.

When Lance disappeared just months after Keith returned to the castle of lions, he understood, finally, that loss is the bitter shrapnel of love.

In an alternate universe, Keith would have threaded Lance’s difficult needle, held his jaw, sharp and slight as a paring knife, and told him every wriggling, guilty, breathless feeling he’s inspired in him since they were sixteen.

In that universe, he stepped out of the time warp and into Lance’s embrace, and they were never parted again.

But that’s not what happened. Instead, Pidge started to refer to Lance in the past tense. Allura took over piloting Blue full-time, and Keith Red. The castle, already barren with the loss of Altea, became even more eerily quiet. Keith’s guilt swelled up and took any of their remaining teamwork hostage.

Space is so massively large and radiantly indifferent, but Lance is out there, surely, or Keith would have felt Voltron’s current being disrupted, as it had been when Shiro blinked out of the Black lion. But time stretched on, and he felt nothing at all.

When Lance disappeared it was from the middle of a battle for a nothing quadrant of space, and he was practically teleported out of the fray. They recovered his lion on a smalltime Galra ship within the hour, no sign of a struggle, no sign of Lance.

It was eery. Impossible. They interrogated sentries and hacked systems, combed entire light years of space using Allura’s wormholes. They waited for a distress signal, an apology, a triumphant return. But he just—vanished.

Keith ripped through the galaxy for any scrap of him, a blue flash, those bright ringlets of laughter, the flush of his skin tone in a kaleidoscope of different species.

Allura and Shiro joined him on the ground at first; Pidge, Coran, and Matt worked tirelessly to devise a tracking system, while Hunk took Red apart, hoping to unlock the moment that she and Lance had detached—but it was like her memory had been wiped clean. All they could feel was the panicked thrum of her loose bond with Lance, Keith more than anyone.

Romelle and Krolia hadn’t known Lance for long, but they always came when called. More bodies in the search party, more hands in the alliance. Once, he caught Romelle’s lip wobbling during a debrief, and he remembered the way that Lance had dragged an extra chair in for her first team meeting, winking, and then laughing himself to stitches when Romelle tried to wink back and couldn’t.

In pieces, Keith understood that he loved Lance, and as always, he was processing an obvious truth too late. His grief was swollen purple, and even as he told himself that no one would ever, ever understand, he knew they did. All around him they did, loudly and at length, hurting at such a frequency that Keith was scared it would drown out Lance’s return.

He left the castle of lions more frequently, turning over whole populations, infiltrating Galra ship after Galra ship, singularly driven—but also callous and unbalanced without his team, participating in more violence in six months than he had in five years of war and survival.

Once, Keith stumbled into Lance’s abandoned room and pulled clothes and trinkets out of his closet, stirring up the smell of him and crying like a child. He picked fights with his mother, because she had been a terrible absence once, too. In the artificial light of castle dawn, he sparred more than his body could sustain, and when he found a planet full of unmarked tombstones in his search, he ripped at the ground with his bare hands until his fingernails tore.

The longer he looked, the more he found that the whole universe was exquisite with death, every piece of it burnt out and drifting into expanding blackness. He was so tired of feeling like space rock himself, fast, deadly, and aimless, waiting to burn up in the atmosphere somewhere. So, heart striving ahead of his body like an eager dog, pockets full of tokens, he wandered Seachmall until he found the flashy booth where he would waste the next eight months of his life.

He leaves the simulated french restaurant that first time fully believing that he’ll never be so weak again, but it’s barely twenty vargas before he’s back, trembling all over.

He finds Lance in a simulation of battle, and in the rush, it’s much easier to forget that he’s a fake.

“Not this time, amigo,” Lance crows, looping around an enemy ship and blasting ice the whole time, showing off. Keith is shocked to find a smile bruising his own face. His hands close over fake-Red’s controls. It’s so strange, not feeling her at all while he’s piloting. It’s as impersonal as a Garrison sim, but eons more advanced, nearly authentic. He can feel the heat of battle through Red’s visor, and as always, his calloused thumbs creak against the wheel when he turns too sharply.

“On your right,” Keith warns.

Lance dodges dutifully. “Thanks!”

I know, Lance groans, in his memory. I’m out here flying too, Keith, this isn’t one of those drills where I’m fucking blindfolded—

“Red Paladin,” Allura’s voice cries, weirdly high and operatic. “The evil lord Zarkon is moving in for the kill. You must help us form Voltron!”

“Yeah, right,” he huffs.

The forming itself is so stupid, obviously programmed by an outside observer who’s never felt the itch of unity, the reverse detonation of an impossible bomb, where every scattered thing fits back together to be whole again.

There’s a silly bit of choreography, and fake-Red goes on rails, like a carnival ride. And then, without feeling anything concrete, Voltron pulls in around him.

“Hooray!” Pidge says, sounding like a munchkin from The Wizard of Oz.

“Nothing can stop us now!” Shiro says, sounding like Shiro.

“Can we get back to putting Zarkon in a second grave now, please?” Keith says.

“Always the fighter, Red,” Lance says. Keith blinks.

“I love you,” he blurts.

“Aw,” Hunk says. “I love you guys too.”

“Lance—“

“Use your sword? Exactly what I was thinking,” Lance says.

“Let’s do it,” Shiro says. “Use your bayard, Red.”

“I know,” Keith snaps.

It’s obvious that the simulation has programmed Red in as shorthand for whatever player is in his spot. It would be the same no matter what lion was chosen, but hearing Lance’s nickname for him out of Shiro’s mouth is just—stunningly wrong.

The world trembles from the impact of a Galra bogey, uncomfortably real, and his instincts press him into action.

He turns his bayard in its slot, and the sword shimmers into reality. He watches at a remove as Voltron slices at Zarkon’s craft.

It’s actually starting to get to him, the memory of this battle, the reality of which was a lot more challenging, and much, much uglier. He remembers his frenetic pulse in his fingertips, the threat pressing endlessly past their defences, the damage to Green’s hull, and the awful discovery of Black’s empty cockpit afterwards.

He shudders.

“End simulation.”

In the dark, the adrenaline eases its panicked hands from his throat. You’re alive, he reminds himself. You survived. So did Shiro. So will Lance.

______

The next day, he goes back again.

He spars with himself, out of curiosity, and then with Shiro and Lance, but the holo-paladins are uninspired, easily blocked, programmed to strut and preen through choreography more than they are to improvise and adapt. Lance doesn’t play dirty even once, and Keith shuts down the simulation again, gutted. He wishes there were different difficulty levels, like the bots in the castle. You could program almost anything into—

He stops, midway back to his cruiser, the braid of market-goers loosening around him.

He taps twice on his communicator, and hastily opens a channel with Pidge.

After the long, peculiar swish of the line connecting, she answers, “‘sup?”

“I need you to do something for me.”

“Urgently?” she asks, distracted. He can hear the clatter of keys and the beep and whir of her latest project.

“It’s about Lance.”

The clatter stops. She doesn’t speak for long enough that Keith feels truly bad about himself. And then, “well Jesus, Keith. Isn’t it always?”

He breathes out. “How comfortable are you with the holodeck interface?”

“Very,” she says, no hesitation.

“And do you still have those files from a couple of deca-phoebes ago? That user profile thing you tried to instate, the uh—“ he dodges a Seachmallian waving a kebab in his direction.

“Yes, Keith,” Pidge drawls. “What, do you think I burn data when my projects don’t pan out?”

He shrugs, though she can’t see him. “I would.”

“Forgot who I was talking to,” she says flatly. He’s paused at the ice-cold entrance of a shop selling edible soap bubbles, light and iridescent.

“Do you think you could put together a—a simulation, compatible with a more advanced operating system?”

There’s a throb of silence. “What exactly are you asking me to do, here?”

He closes his eyes, still ducked under the awning of the store, feeling the cold move through him. “Don’t make me say it.”

“You want Lance,” she says. “On a fucking USB.”

“I want to find him,” he growls. “Remember when you wanted that too?”

“That’s low,” she says, deadly. “I’m not the one who’s trying to sleep with a hologram of my dead friend so I don’t have to grieve him.”

He cuts off communication. He feels feverish with embarrassment, and completely sick to his stomach. Candy bubbles breeze past him, over the apron of the booth across the way, which is advertising robot fights—both in Seachmallian and blocky common.

He remembers Lance, a lifetime ago, saying, when I go, I want all the stuff in my brain stored in a giant ship.

His comms ding, and he jabs the accept button on his wrist.

“Fuck you,” he says.

“I’m sorry,” Pidge says. “I don’t know why I said that.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” he says fiercely.

“I know.”

“I just need to know if it was premeditated, if he ever had a safe house or a code in case we got separated, something we could look for.”

“It’s not the worst idea,” Pidge says thoughtfully.

“I know.”

“But I do think it’s a pretty terrible idea for you to do it.”

He grits his teeth, upset in a directionless kind of way. “I can handle it.”

“I know you’re on Seachmall,” Pidge says, “and I already thought that was going to get pretty gnarly. All they’ve got is, like, the mythology of us. Can you imagine what the information in the Altean databases could do to that kind of tactile VR experience?”

“Sort of,” Keith says.

“It would be like if all the OG broadway actors showed up to participate in a high school production of Cats, comprende?”

“No,” Keith says, waspish. “Less.”

“It’s the next step for Altean hologram technology for sure. It would probably revolutionize AI. It’s also not real, Keith.”

“I don’t need it to be real,” Keith snaps. “I need a lead.”

“Well,” Pidge says slowly. “You know I can do it. Can you wait a few quintants?”

He sets his jaw, and against the deep blue horizon, a billboard gleams so brilliantly yellow that for a moment, he thinks it’s the sun.

“As long as it takes.”

______

Keith meets Pidge when she touches down on Seachmall, windswept and gaunt, and although he doesn’t really understand what she intends to do, he dutifully distracts security as she futzes with the control panel.

It’s barely fifteen minutes before she beckons him into the alley adjacent to the simulator room, a sample platter of bolts and wires spread out around her knees.

“Alright chief, it should be compatible, now.” She pulls a stray length of cable from where she’s been holding it between her teeth and pockets it. The little nib of her ponytail bobs as she stands.

“So it’ll be him this time?”

“I mean, almost exactly. I programmed his profile into the grooves set into the existing simulation, but I softened the edges a little so he’s not too self aware. I don’t want him realizing he’s a projection, I’m not that cruel.”

“Right,” Keith says, uncomfortable.

“If you don’t find what you’re looking for and you have to go back in, all you’ve gotta do is punch in this code.” She jabs him in the chest with a folded piece of card, as close to paper as they’ve been able to find out here, and twice as durable. She could have sent him the info, but they both know this transaction is better left under the table. “The system should wipe itself automatically when you’re done. And Keith—“ Her hand flattens on his dark chestplate, and her eyes are troubled. “Please don’t forget why you’re doing this.”

He nods, and puts a gloved hand over hers. “I won’t. I’ll figure this out, and I’ll find him.”

She nods back, a wobbly smile rolling over on her face.

“Okay,” she says. “Okay, I gotta go. I can’t—I wish I could see him, but.”

“Yeah,” Keith agrees sadly.

She smiles again, fleeting, and gathers her kit. “We can’t spare another paladin,” she says, quickly, like it doesn’t matter. “Don’t get lost in there.”

He opens his mouth to reply, but she’s already putting her visor down, and walking out into the crowd.

______

This time, he finds himself on a boardwalk during a powder pink sunset. The air smells blisteringly of salt and roasting meat, and faceless people mill over the beach: parents holding hands with kids, couples sharing shaved ice, a galloping golden retriever in a red bandana.

The leftover scorch of the day blows in off the coast to meet him, like the wave from an open oven door.

He walks purposefully onto the sandbar, craning in circles, trying to catch a glimpse of a familiar face. He feels—pre-heartbroken, caught in the final moments of a long walk to an open casket.

“Where’ve you been?”

He whips around, and Lance is pulling one earbud out, squinting into the sun at him.

“Lance?” he asks, through what feels like a mouth full of marbles.

“Uh-huh,” he says, eyebrow quirked. “The one and only.” He settles back into the shade of his umbrella.

Keith shakes his head to clear it. There’s a red and white striped towel set out next to Lance’s, and he sinks down onto it, overcome. Is this Earth? Did Pidge program this specifically? Is it one of the date settings on the simulator? He can’t remember. He can’t see past the illusion at all.

Lance offers him an earbud. “Come on, Red, will you relax? Pretend you’re not the kind of person who sleeps with a knife under your pillow.” He accepts the bud, numb, and tucks it in his ear. He’s expecting synth pop, but it’s an old R&B song, smoky and familiar. “No overthinking on the beach.”

He can’t stop looking at him. It’s uncanny—the dusky chapped lips, the mole next to his mouth, the cowlick over his ear. His eyes are intelligent, laser-focused on Keith. “Where are we?”

“Dear sweet Keith. Senile at age twenty. So sad.”

“Shut up.” He has to look away, to mask the full-colour magazine spread of conflicted feelings on his face. It all feels a bit like a lucid dream that he shouldn’t jostle too hard. “I’m not used to this.”

Lance’s expression softens. “Hey man, I get it. Being home is weird. Sometimes it’s like—I can’t even remember how we got here.” He shakes his head. “But also I’m so happy to be back, I’m like—screw PTSD.”

His chest aches, badly. “I don’t think it works like that.”

“Rich coming from you, Mr. repression,” Lance says, rolling his eyes.

“I’m not doing that any more,” Keith says. “I’m working through my shit.”

“How admirable.” His mouth twitches. He produces a Palm Bay from his slouchy little backpack, tossing it from hand to hand as if testing its heft. “I’m drowning my sorrows in coolers, personally.”

And then he lunges, spritzing the can open in Keith’s face.

“Jesus, Lance,” he sputters, smacking it out of his hand. They scuffle, briefly, and that helpless, ebullient laugh blows past him like candy bubbles.

“Your—face—“

“You’re so immature—“

“Easy, cowboy, don’t you remember what team bonding looks like?” He pinches Keith’s cheek teasingly, and Keith grabs his wrist.

A pulse flutters under his fingertips.

He scrambles backwards, clothes dragging against the sand, a stray sandal popping off. The heat and grit is so real. If he focuses hard enough on the smell of meat coming off the boardwalk, his mouth waters. Lance looks at him incredulously.

“What? That’s too far for you? I barely touched you!”

“You touched me,” Keith repeats. He can still feel that pulse, like a second heart in his own body. He stands up, shedding sand, and Lance looks up at him, mild expression tinted with hurt. Keith sways, sidelined by a wave of vertigo. He can’t be here right now. “End—“

“You’re being so weird. Like Kuron all over again.”

He stops. “You think I’m a clone?”

“Obviously not really,” Lance says, getting up on his knees. “But that is the level of weird we’re dealing with here. You’re looking at me like you’re about to cry.”

“It’s just—home.” He gestures awkwardly. “Tandem bikes. Coconut sunscreen. Seagulls eating fries out of the trash. The ocean. Earth reminds me of you.”

"Birds eating garbage reminds you of me?" Lance quirks a skeptical expression at him. “Maybe you are working through some shit.”

He reaches for his abandoned sandal, dusting sticky sand from the straps. “You can’t even imagine.”

“Try me.”

Keith looks across at Lance’s calm, determined face, and the words rise up in him like a groundswell.

“I know I haven’t earned it, and I know it doesn’t make sense to you, but I miss how things used to be. And the worse everything gets the more I keep wondering what you would say, or do, and I hate that—god,” he breaks off, and presses his palms briefly to his eyes. “I mean, you would’ve had no way of knowing how I felt. I didn’t even know. But I should’ve—I just thought we would have more time after the war, or I would die and it wouldn’t matter. And I guess I assumed you were always going to be there, because you always were, even when I didn’t want you to be, and now—I don’t know, Lance, I don't know how I’m supposed to go to the castle, or pilot Red, or look at the planet I grew up on without remembering how much you loved it, and how much I love you—“

“Keith, what?” Lance says, alarmed. “You’re freaking me out.”

“Where are you?” he frets.

“I’m here.” He crawls closer, but Keith can't look at him. He watches the fussy waves coming in off the shore instead. “I’m right here.” He rests his hands on Keith’s ankles, and he has to steady himself on Lance’s shoulders when his knees go loose. “Man, I shouldn’t have joked about PTSD. I mean, I feel like this sometimes too.”

Keith looks down into his face. “What?”

“You know, like I’m back there. Like—time doesn’t even exist. Being off-planet was such a bitch sometimes. You feel like you can disappear in all that open space. And sometimes you want to.”

“Lance,” Keith whispers. “You wanted to disappear?”

“Yeah, sometimes,” Lance says, serene. “Just for a while. Let someone else defend the universe for a bit, preferably an adult. Hey, don’t look at me like that, I didn’t do it!”

“You would have told us,” Keith says, through bloodless lips.

“Sure,” Lance offers.

“No. No. You would’ve said something.”

Lance takes his hands away uncertainly.

“I wouldn’t have done it,” he says flatly. “I’m just telling you that I understand being pissed off, and I understand wanting to—hit pause.”

“What about hitting stop?” Keith asks. “What about disappearing so thoroughly that whole galaxies full of alien technology can’t find you?”

Lance’s face is a spinning wheel; he cycles through all manner of confusion, impatience, and worry before settling on defensiveness. “What the fuck are you talking about? Are you out of your mind?”

“If I am, it’s your fault,” Keith snaps. “How could you leave us?”

“How could I leave?” There’s no question now, that this is data from his Lance. His tetchy, self-conscious anger is unmistakeable. “You’re the one who ditched us for the Blades right when we were at a tipping point. You’re the one who wadded two years up and threw them in the trash. You didn’t have to care about us but you absolutely should’ve talked to us. We were a team.”

“You think I don’t care about you?” Keith laughs. “That’s fucking hilarious.”

“I’m really laughing,” Lance says sarcastically. “I don’t know what sort of crazy pills you took that made you think that I’m the deserter out of the two of us. I wish I could be that delusional. I may have wanted out once or twice, but I would never, ever leave the people who need me.” He’s fuming, and the wind is blowing through his curls like it’s trying to placate him.

Keith’s anger wobbles. It hurts, to hear Lance talking this way after so long. It’s not the reunion they deserve.

“I know. I know that.”

Lance sits back on Keith’s towel, frowning. He brushes the drained cooler away, and the remnant dribbles out and darkens the sand. “I don’t know why you always have to ruin everything.”

Keith’s throat aches, and he crosses his arms protectively over his chest.

“Me neither.”

Lance glances up, surprised. And then his gaze slides purposefully beyond Keith, considering. After a moment something comes over him, and his whole demeanour changes. “Keith,” he says softly. “Did you say you loved me?”

Keith screws his eyes shut. After a moment he hears Lance moving closer, reaching out, fingertips barely grazing the back of his hand—

“End simulation. Please.”

He crouches in the dark. “Please.”

______

“Oh, fuck you,” Lance crows. He ducks out from under Keith’s staff, and then grabs the end of it, using the momentum to slide through Keith’s wide stance.

He spins around, and Lance is five feet away, holding his own staff up to his eye like a sniper rifle.

“Bang,” he says.

“This is close combat,” Keith reminds him. He throws his weapon like a spear at Lance’s ankle, and he yelps when it makes contact.

“How is that close combat? You javelin wielding motherfucker. You should be disqualified, and jailed for your crimes.”

He watches Lance shake out his foot like it really hurts, testing his weight and pretending to stumble, falling forward—and then whirling around in time to clash staffs with Keith.

“Shit,” Lance laughs, up close, hot with exertion, putting the pressure of his body weight on the cross they’ve made between them. “Thought I had you.”

“Do you want to surrender?”

“Do you want to kiss my ass?” Lance retorts.

Keith steps out of the way, and Lance’s momentum sends him tumbling head-first to the floor.

“Sure,” he says coolly. “Turn over.”

“What the hell,” Lance says, rolling onto his knees, flustered.

“You lost.”

“Yeah, whatever, like six to five.”

“Six to four,” Keith corrects, and offers him his hand. Lance pretends to spit into it, then flops back onto his hands instead.

“If we were duelling with pistols, I would humiliate you. You would have to drop out of Voltron.”

“By that logic, you should be packing your bags right now.”

Lance throws his head back and laughs. “I’m going to fucking kill you, Kogane.”

“Try me.”

Lance shrugs, but just as Keith starts to look away, he throws himself at him. It’s so unexpected that Keith actually goes down, wrists slammed to the mat on either side of his body, wind knocked out of him.

Lance laughs breathlessly, looming messy and sweaty above him. “Wow, that was embarrassing for you. Your arrogance is your downfall.”

“You’re my downfall,” Keith says, a little too flat and sincere across the top, and Lance purses his lips.

“You’re taking this too seriously, dude.” He lets go easily, and rolls out on his back next to him instead. He flexes his wrist in the air above them both, and Keith watches his fingers work. “Why does it feel like it’s been forever since we sparred?”

“It has,” Keith says simply.

“I guess,” Lance yawns. “I can’t even remember the last time.”

His heart is still pounding from the first serious, sustained training he's done in months. When Lance goes to sit up, Keith puts a staying hand on his chest.

“Hey, Lance," he says. Lance hums. "If you got separated from your lion for any reason, would you—what would you do?”

He frowns. “I dunno. Alert you guys. Rescue mish.”

“What if you couldn’t contact us?”

Lance looks sideways at him. “Not loving this thought experiment. Why are you being so weird?”

“Please,” Keith says, taking Lance’s sore wrist, feeling for the artificial thud of his pulse. “Just—answer.”

“Uh. I don’t know, am I captured? Or planet-side?”

Keith swallows. “Planet-side.”

Lance nods, considering. “If the locals are part of the alliance, I would get their intel, and find a way to reach you. If not, I guess I would lie low. Wait for a friendly ship and signal them.”

“That could take years. It might never happen, depending on where you ended up. Like—alien vessels aren’t cruising over Earth very often.”

“Says you,” Lance jokes. “The truth is out there.”

“You could die waiting,” Keith insists, dropping his hand. “What if the atmosphere wasn’t compatible? The flora and fauna? What if your suit was compromised?”

“I would heroically overcome all obstacles, whistle for my trusty lion, and ride off into the cosmos,” he replies sardonically, “what do you want from me?”

“I just think we should have more rescue protocols in place in case something goes south.”

“Right,” Lance says slowly. “Well, I mean—and I’m going to try and get through this without gagging—I have your back, man. And if we get separated, I’m pretty sure you can take care of yourself.” He gestures at their discarded staffs. “Not as well as me, of course,” he sniffs, glancing sidelong at Keith to see if he’s cheered him up.

Keith feels the phantom weight of Lance’s body crushing him to the mat, a window of weakness pried open, broken and entered. He breathes out. “Yeah. You’re too good for that.”

______

He asks Pidge for more scenarios, and more user profiles. For fleshing things out, he tells her. For recreating the circumstances under which Lance was lost, testing his reactions to different situations, and introducing as many variables as possible.

Slowly, inevitably, he starts to lose control of it all.

He’s still a correspondent to the Blade of Marmora, and he’s on call as a paladin, but they haven’t been able to form Voltron in years. He’s perpetually out of sync with the rest of the universe, living more and more like a washed-up casino-goer, existing only for the market stall where he can plug his friends in and relive the past.

He pays off the owner not to ask questions, and gets an apartment on Seachmall, barely the size of a lion cockpit, just a sparse kitchenette and a twin cot. He spends hours in the simulator and crashes on his bare mattress, bathed in the constant, spectacular glow from the street lights.

Every time he staggers away from the market he has to remember that the real Lance is rotting somewhere, and he’s here playing dress up with shadows.

It’s all easier, in the holodeck.

He loads the original paladin line-up into battle, relives their victories and rights their wrongs. He finds himself in the kitchen of the castle of lions, in a ballroom overlooking a fathoms-deep canyon, curled in Lance’s bed so he can finally sleep. He takes his friends to Earth a hundred different ways.

There’s always a fog, a strangeness about them when they think too hard about where they are, but he knows it’s a mercy. He ends each simulation on the verge of spinning out, functionally pulling the trigger on his dearest friends.

Reality sags out of his grip. Pidge and Hunk call sometimes, and often Kolivan or Allura will give him status reports, scattered missions, and lectures that walk the line between morally superior and deeply, uncomfortably worried. When Shiro starts up daily check-ins, he understands that they all know what he’s been doing, lost on Seachmall for so long.

“You’re taking care of yourself, right?” Shiro asks.

“Yes,” Keith tells him. He’s staring at the empty wall across from his bed, absently sharpening his knife. “I’m just killing time.”

“We really miss you around here. It’s too quiet.”

He tests his blade, rolling his shoulder. “I’m not exactly bringing the party when I’m out there.”

Shiro hums. “I don’t know, you certainly keep things interesting.”

Keith snorts.

“I’m serious!” He can hear the smile in his voice. “There’s only so much quantum mechanics and ancient magic I can take before I want to hit something. I want my sparring partner back.”

They lapse into silence, and Keith traces patterns in the air, enjoying the fine metallic sound of a weapon without a target.

“You know we’re still looking, right?” Shiro asks. Keith stops cutting the air, and puts his knife down on the bed beside him.

“Are you?”

“Yes,” Shiro says. “Of course we are. Allura and I are visiting every contact she has, and Hunk and Pidge are working—overtime. We’re picking up a lot of slack here.”

The back of his neck prickles with guilt. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Shiro sighs. “I’m telling you this because you’re my brother.” But he has his diplomat voice on, which Keith has always hated. “And I don’t know if you’re thinking about what it’s going to do to the rest of us if you don’t come back from this.”

“From a simulator?” he asks, incredulous.

“From grieving,” Shiro corrects. “I would never tell you to stop looking, but I think you know you’re not going to find him in those projections.”

“I could,” he says stiffly. “He tells me things—every day he gives me clues and he doesn’t even know it.”

“He doesn’t tell you anything,” Shiro says gently. “Because it’s not him. Do you remember when Allura had to let go of her father? It was so easy for her precious memories to be corrupted, and even easier to get swept away in the illusion. Everything in a simulator is finite, Keith, but you can’t be. You have to grow, and change, and move on.”

He thinks of every different shade of Lance he’s seen, every secret door that gives and leads to another wing. “You don’t get it.”

“Of course I get it. If Adam—“ he cuts himself off, and his breath shudders over the line. “You’re not the only one to be feeling this loss, or to be struggling.”

“But I never even got to love him," Keith argues. “I never got close enough to put any of these feelings anywhere, and now they’re everywhere. No one ever gives me the chance to love them before they—“ he swallows, and when he goes to speak again he finds there’s nothing else to say.

“I know how hard it’s been for you,” Shiro says sadly. “But Keith, understand—we all love you. No matter where we are or what we’re doing. We don’t have to verbalize it to feel it.”

“Okay,” he says, numb.

“We love you,” he reiterates. “Lance did too.”

“Thanks for checking on me Shiro,” he says, and hangs up.

______

“No way, no way, no way,” Lance crows. “This is slander.”

“It can’t be slander if all of us were there to see it,” Hunk says, but he can’t look at Lance without cracking up.

“You’re remembering wrong,” he says. “She asked me to give a speech.”

“She asked you not to,” Pidge says, rolling her eyes. “Begged you, even.”

“Boo,” Lance laughs. “I was just trying to have a good time at alliance banquet number five zillion.”

They’re clustered on blankets between the yellow lion’s hulking paws, in the soft local vegetation of one of the last planets they liberated as a team. They were buzzed, when this conversation actually happened, but Keith hasn’t been able to replicate that particular feeling through the simulator.

“I don’t know why you always have to lie to these people,” Keith says, just as he did on the actual occasion.

“Embellish,” Lance protests. “I live by the principle that everyone wants to hear the best possible version of the story, and you owe it to them to tell it.”

“But the best version is almost never the real version,” Hunk says, exasperated.

“I dunno man, what’s real anyway?” Pidge says, easing back into the blankets. “Our lives are such a clusterfuck as it is. The line of what’s actually impossible gets farther away every day.”

“Yeah,” Lance says. “What squidge said. Lying is cool.”

“Ugh, don’t call me that,” Pidge complains.

“What, I’m agreeing with you,” Lance says, grinning. He leans over to give her a big-brotherly hair-pull that she intercepts with a karate chop.

“People deserve to know the truth,” Keith says mechanically, following the script, but then feeling flushed and hypocritical all at once.

“Okay, here’s a truth, universally acknowledged: Keith sucks,” Lance says.

“Hm. Sounds like another lie to me,” Hunk says, and Lance reaches up to steal his headband in retaliation. Hunk rolls his eyes and lets him have it, like he’s appeasing an overactive puppy.

Something skitters in the dark, beyond the dunes of Yellow’s paws.

“Don’t you have a rebuttal, Keith?” Pidge asks, sitting up on her hands.

“Why are you encouraging them?” Hunk groans.

Keith shrugs and stays silent; Lance’s gaze narrows shrewdly.

“You aren’t one of those weepy drunks, are you?”

Keith picks at a loose thread in their shared blanket. “No, I just changed my mind,” he says, veering off-book. “I don’t know why I was acting like it was ridiculous that you like telling stories, when it obviously makes people feel better to believe them.”

“Oh. Well. Glad you came to your senses,” Lance interrupts, overly loud. He always seems to hate it when Keith gets sincere like this. He begs for attention but recoils when he gets too much.

“Most of these alliance parties happen after a long period of unrest. So… what, you helped grieving people by acting like a superhero? To them, you are a superhero. God, I couldn’t stand that you took so much credit for our victories, but I should’ve given you more.”

Lance blinks at him.

He remembers with fire-bright clarity how this scene actually played out, the way Keith kept needling at Lance’s hero complex, accusing him of making things up so he could pretend he’d been helpful. Lance had dialled his bravado to a screaming pitch so he could hide the soft, spoiled look in his eyes where Keith had lodged a cruel sword that he couldn’t pull out.

Now, Lance purses his lips so he doesn’t have to figure out what to do with his expression.

“Huh,” Pidge says, chewing on a pseudo-protein bar from their rations. “That’s some unexpected character growth.”

“Are you… feeling okay?” Hunk asks.

Keith looks miserably down at his own crossed legs until Lance says, “not that I don’t appreciate it, but you did just do kind of an impressive one-eighty.”

He looks up. “Yeah, sorry. I don’t know what the fuck I’m talking about.”

Lance smiles a little, relieved. He waggles the flask they’ve been sharing in his direction. “You just need to drink more.”

“No,” Keith disagrees, shaking his head. “I want to remember this.”

______

He opens his eyes to the world on its side, gritty endless flatlands sprayed out against a hazy auburn sky.

He rolls, putting his arm over his face, a visor against radiant twin suns.

He doesn’t have to look to remember the architecture at his back, a cubist explosion of edges and colours, each shape squared off and set into the hills. When the paladins liberated Imedemaa, they were offered accommodation in homes that corresponded to their lions: terracotta red, cobalt blue, mustard yellow, foliage green, and a brown so dark it could pass as black.

It’s his favourite place to visit: brilliant views, kind people, warm bed, privacy and proximity bumping shoulders comfortably.

Keith rolls again, sitting up. He feels heat-sick, and if it were real, he knows he would be bruised tan in the coast-to-coast sunshine. He’s spread out on the same outdoor palette where he fell asleep nearly three years ago. His apartment is warm, dull red, nearly orange. The shimmering public baths sparkle with activity just below his balcony.

“Yoo-hoo, neighbour.”

Keith squints over the waist-high wall and finds Lance clambering from his own balcony onto Keith’s.

“You’re going to fall to your death.”

“Nah,” Lance says, swinging a leg down over the railing and sitting contemplatively with one foot dangling over empty space and the other brushing the floor. “There’s a pool down there. Worst case scenario I perform an exceptional and history-making canon-ball.”

Keith watches him climb the rest of the way over, staggering and sitting heavily on Keith’s palette next to him.

“Oof,” he says. Lance's skin is dazzling in this climate, dark and freckled like granite. The simulation reminds him that he smelled like lotus, this day, fresh from the baths, warm shoulder and drizzling wet hair. “Are you ready to absolutely blow this popsicle stand?”

“And do what?” Keith asks, a little breathless from proximity.

“Did you seriously forget? It’s racing day!”

“Oh,” Keith says faintly. “Right.” They used to rent speeders for fun sometimes; the whole team participating at first, and then Keith and Lance alone when they surpassed friendly competition into bet-making and sabotage.

They would sneak back whenever they could swing the time off, careening around dusty corners and ramming one another’s speeders into hysterical tailspins. They would sob with laughter and then spritz their canteens all over each other, tussling in the dirt, so coordinated that it was almost an embrace.

The thought of it had driven him out of bed this morning, but he felt sick and shaky as he typed Pidge’s code into the simulator, setting the modified location of Imedemaa and rolling into a memory so fine and warm that it reminded him of death itself.

“Woah. easy, Red,” Lance says, his voice sharp with concern. Keith comes back to himself to realize that he’s angling into a panic attack, holding his own head in his hands. He can’t spoil this memory. Not this one.

“I—I—“ He can’t speak. Lance makes a dismayed noise, his entire demeanour turning inside out.

“Can I hug you, man?”

Keith jerks his head ‘no’. “I—can’t—you—“

Lance gets to his feet, and Keith grabs at him, hooking fingers in a belt loop, a fistful of shirt, whatever his hands find first.

“Hey, shh, it’s cool, I’m just getting you some water.”

Keith shakes his head again. “Don’t leave me.”

“Will you tell me what’s wrong?” Lance asks softly, sitting back down. “We don’t have to go racing today.”

Keith huffs this weird cartwheel of a laugh, and scrubs a hand over his eyes and nose.

“I think I dreamed you were dead,” he tells him. He doesn’t look up into his face, but Lance’s chest is steady in front of him, rising and falling evenly with each breath.

“Who, me? I’m fine, Keith, look at me.”

“It felt real.”

“Pretty sure it wasn’t,” Lance says, laughter tucked into his worry like a concealed weapon. Keith looks up at him, and Lance beams under his full attention. He wipes the tears from Keith’s cheeks with his thumbs.

Abruptly, he can’t stand it.

“You’re a hologram,” Keith whispers. Lance’s smile falters.

“What?”

“Do you remember how Pidge took our mental blueprints?”

Lance nods quickly. He’s not brushing Keith off, he’s not slow with disbelief. He’s clear and sharp and his face is increasingly overcast with fear.

“I’m using your data in a simulation. This holiday on Imedemaa, it was years ago. You’re not the real Lance.” It hurts, to admit it, but it’s clear that it hurts Lance much, much more.

“No,” he chokes. “No, I feel real.”

“I know you do,” Keith says, reaching for his hand.

But Lance jerks away, standing and reeling backwards, hands splayed out on red paint, which could be gore, really, bleeding out from Lance’s palms like that. “I was so fucking scared of this.“

“I’m sorry,” Keith says, watching this shade of Lance shaking through self-awareness, and feeling the weight of the words that could end it in his mouth.

“Why—where—“

“He’s gone,” Keith whispers.

“Gone as in gone?”

“Gone as in I can’t find him.”

“So why the fuck are you wasting time on this Black Mirror shit, and not out there looking for me?” he demands.

“I’ve looked everywhere.” The agony of his failure slides home all over again. “The search party is a million strong by now. I’ve talked to a hundred versions of you looking for an answer.”

“A hundred,” Lance says. “So what, when I tell you what you want to hear, you delete me?”

“I’m not wiping the data or anything, I—I don’t know how it works,” he admits.

“Jesus. Jesus Keith, this is fucked up.”

Tears start to well up, and he wipes them away furiously. He never used to cry like this. He never used to feel so constantly ravaged by guilt and fear. It used to live in his gut and press at his throat, but he could keep it wrapped and sealed inside his body.

“I miss you,” Keith tries, and Lance’s face twists with despair.

“I really wish it didn’t take this horror show to make you say that.”

Somewhere, something splashes and someone shrieks with laughter. Lance looks at him miserably, hunched in the shade from the terrace, brow damp with terrified perspiration. He absolutely shouldn’t have told him. He remembers Pidge laughing darkly, I’m not that cruel.

“What do you want me to do,” Keith asks quietly.

“What choice do I have?” Lance asks. “I’m a fucking video game character. I’m a dead man walking.”

“Do you want to do anything? Before I end this session.”

Lance swallows, considering. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I do, actually.”

______

They race.

What feels like all day, ripping in circles under arching rocks and through clinging, dragging sand, until the suns are setting, twin flames set into the desert like jewels.

Lance is extra reckless, gorgeous, perched high on his speeder and arched forward to reach the controls. His face, below the goggles, is streaked with mud, and he keeps crying out when he tips over too far or pulls triumphantly ahead of Keith, cathartic, unfiltered.

“One more lap,” he shouts, over the thrum of noise from the speeder.

“I’ll beat your ass,” Keith calls, trying for normalcy, but they’ve both kind of been crying on and off all day, and this is the last thing this Lance will ever do, and really, he’s not that cruel.

“Fucking try,” Lance says, pulling his bandana up over his mouth and taking off.

“Hey!” Keith laughs. “No countdown?”

“I think I deserve a head start,” he calls over his shoulder, but most of his voice is whipped away by the wind.

The speeder rips sideways, sliding over a natural boulder ridge that drops off into nothingness. Strange gravity keeps him on the right side of the cliff, and he hoots with joy, galloping metres and metres ahead as Keith eases through the same turn.

“You’re gonna—“ get yourself killed. He bites his tongue. Lance can’t hear him anyway. He zigzags through natural obstacles, glancing back in disbelief when Keith pulls up behind him. His face is red with the effort of staying upright.

“Can’t you let me win for once,” Lance cries, slamming on the thrusters and stirring up a fog of dust behind him. Keith coughs and dodges, feeling on the very edge of an awareness too big to name, like being able to feel one stage of grief ending and another beginning.

Sometime during Lance’s luxurious lead he’s taken off his helmet, and now the desert wind is whipping his hair straight.

He takes the next corner much too fast, and Keith’s heart is in his throat as he inevitably spins out, in smooth little frictionless circles at first, weightless as a bumper car—and then the rear of the speeder catches on a jutting rock and he’s ejected altogether. He topples out into the sifting dunes, rolling half a dozen times and stopping himself so abruptly that Keith can hear something snap.

He pulls up hard, tumbling off the speeder and throwing his helmet out into the sand, running as best he can to where Lance landed.

When he reaches him he’s cradling a severely broken arm to his chest, and the bone is piercing through the skin. There’s blood everywhere, weeping through his fingers, streaked high on his hairline, staining his shirt and the tawny sand beneath him.

“Would’ve been great if you could have programmed me not to hurt,” Lance wobbles. Stiff upper lip, terribly pale.

“Didn’t know you were going to throw yourself off a speeder.”

“Yeah, well. Me neither.” He hisses as Keith takes his wrist in his hand, unfathomably gentle, turning it this way and that.

“This looks terrible.”

Lance snorts. “Thank you doctor Keith.”

“I don’t think we brought any first aid,” he mutters, frowning, digging through the pack at his hip.

“I don’t need it.”

“Are you kidding me? You’re—“

“Keith.” He looks up at him, smudgy and sweaty and splashed with five kinds of red in the fading light. “I don’t need it.”

Keith trembles, still searching for a bandage or a stopper or an answer of any kind. “No. I hate this.”

Lance smiles grimly. “I don’t love it that much either. But hey, maybe there’s a way to bring me back. This exact version of me. From the ether somewhere. Doesn’t feel quite as permanent as capital D Death.” His eyes narrow. “As long as you don’t lose me, Red.”

“I won’t,” he whispers, parched and grief-torn. “Never again.”

“Okay. Okay.” He makes himself comfortable, stretched out on the sand, arm folded over his chest. “Hey, Keith?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you not—raise me from the dead again? I don’t think—I mean. A hundred versions of me and you haven’t found what you’re looking for.”

“But I have,” Keith says fiercely. “I always find what I’m looking for, because I’m looking for you.”

Lance laughs, coughs, squeezes his eyes shut. “That’s real romantic.”

Keith’s mouth twitches. “I’m glad you think so.”

Lance cracks an eye open. “Just find me the old fashioned way, will you? No more beautiful Lance casualties.”

“I—don’t know if I can promise that,” he says. “I miss you,” he reiterates.

“Yeah. More, I bet, when you’re looking right at me. Ever wonder why that is?”

Keith shakes his head fast.

“Dumbass,” Lance says fondly. “It’s literally always gonna hurt, trying to live in the past. Makes you feel like you don’t have a future.”

“Maybe I don’t.”

“That’s a pretty insensitive thing to say to a dying guy.”

Keith laughs wetly. “You’re being melodramatic.”

“When can you be melodramatic if not on your deathbed?”

Keith brushes the sticky hair from Lance’s forehead. He turns his face and Keith’s hand softens and cups his cheek comfortably.

“Pidge can do anything,” Keith tells him. “All your ones and zeroes will be safe somewhere until she can figure out somewhere for you to go.”

“Yeah, okay,” Lance says, like he barely heard him. He’s determined, heroic. Fucking heartbreaking. “I hope the real me gives you hell.”

Keith nods jerkily. “He always does.”

“I hope he—I hope he’s good to you, too.”

Keith’s face crumples, and he puts his forehead to Lance’s, feeling him wince when his chest grazes his broken arm.

“Sorry, sorry,” he sniffs, holding his face, wiping the blood and muck and tears back.

“It’s okay,” Lance says, starting to slur. “It’s okay, Red, just end it, quick.”

“You’re the last one,” Keith promises.

“Good,” Lance says, “because you’re not gonna do better than me.”

Keith laughs, putting their foreheads together again, and then kissing the place where a tear has rolled down into his hairline.

“See you soon,” he whispers. Lance leans up, golden, bloody.

Keith shudders, and says “end simulation” into his mouth.

Imedemaa winks out, and his whole world narrows instantly to a pinhead. He’s huddled on the floor over nothing at all, caught in the throws of fantasy, like a sleepwalker. When he licks his lips though, he swears he can still taste salt.

______

He leaves the simulator into the whiz and pop of another Seachmall night. The owner nods at him, looking vaguely troubled, possibly by the amount of time that Keith has been locked in his simulator today, and by the look on his face now, which he can only imagine is ripped in half by loss.

The market is busier than usual, stranger, overfull with alien tourists, so much so that the paladin simulator has accumulated a long line-up.

He sidesteps their stares, slipping soundlessly into the alley, already dialling Pidge on his communicator. She said the system would automatically wipe after each use, but he’s certain she can retrieve whatever information would be inaccessible to the public. She said herself that she doesn’t burn data.

He waits through the suck of the empty line, feeling antsy and keyed up, aching from a day of racing but incongruously clean and dry.

“Come on, Pidge,” he mutters.

Somewhere in the market, there’s a great clamour of voices. Something clatters to the ground, and someone apologizes profusely in common. Keith chews his lip distractedly, waiting for a thief to run by, a sheepish tourist, or scuffling rival business owners.

The line connects and disconnects in quick succession, and Keith kicks a trash disposal chute so hard that it dents.

He frets, thinking of Lance’s final moments, the wilting fear on his face, his mouth split open like fruit.

A hoverbike rounds the corner, and Keith only steps barely out of the way, nearly clipped by a wide fender. It crashes to a stop, making a thin, rumbling sound, and then its rider has whipped all the way around to stare at Keith. Achingly humanoid. Cobalt blue Motorcycle helmet. Rippling with motion even while sitting still.

They swing a leg over the seat of the bike, staggering closer, and Keith knows. He knows when a slender, gloved hand reaches for the visor, and when twin pistols clink and gleam from their holsters. The helmet falls, rolling into the dirt.

“Keith,” Lance breathes.

[hi-epervier]

I’m in a writing funk. Have a Naruto/Sasuke + make-up thingy while I wrestle with my muse. 

There was a washroom, at the end of a corridor on the third floor of the school's science building, that went up in flames back in the 80's. They had renovated it since, but it retained a certain je-ne-sais-quoi that made one instantly ill at ease the moment they stepped past its treshold. Word had it between students that it was haunted, by Bloody Mary, or kids who hadn't managed to escape the fire, or something else entirely, depending of the version of the story you listened to. And, it was a boys washroom. One that smelled.

That washroom's entrance door creaked open.

'I'M TAKING A SHIT!' Naruto bellowed, hoping the interloper would hurry up and scram already, like the previous ones did.

He'd holed himself up in there specifically so that no one would bother him. So why the hell did it have so much trafic?!

Naruto listened for clues of what was going on, sagging in relief when he heard the door close.

Yet, just as he was bringing the brush to his face again, footsteps made themselves heard in the heavy silence.

Naruto bit back a groan. Great. Just his luck. They hadn't left.

And they were approaching, rather than retreating.

Whoever it was (one person, light steps, the presumed dude taking his sweet fucking time, like this was a stroll through the gardens or something) strode forward and past the first stalls, pushing doors open as he went.

Slowly, a pair of checkered sneakers came into view in the space visible under the locked door of Naruto's stall, and lingered there. Naruto glowered at them, trying to make them go away with the force of his mind alone. He slav squatted on the toilet seat, feet up high, so that shouldn't be a problem unless the asshat bent down and peeped under the door, but, still.

The sneakers and black jeans connected to them shifted, slightly to the right, (no!), then away, towards the urinals on the far wall of the room. Yes! Naruto thought frantically. Fuck off! Get lost!

Then, the sneackers angled themselves toward him again, the door handle gave, shitfing down, leaving Naruto plenty of time to feel a brick drop in his stomach when he realized that the lock was at the horizontal. He'd forgotten to turn it up!

Whatever protest he might have conjured stayed stuck in his throat as the door opened a few inches.

The dude (because it was a dude) looked every bit as much of a shithead as every other time they'd met, and was glaring down his stuck-up nose at Naruto.

Naruto gave him the finger.

'What.' Sniffle. 'Come to watch, creep?' He shoved his forearm under his runny nose, leaving a streak of snot on the sleeve of his lucky jacket, but who even cared at this point. That other shit had gotten into the corner of his eye, and it stung like a bitch.

The boy didn't react. He just hovered there, watching Naruto like a fucking statue, so, never breaking eye contact, Naruto lifted a buttcheek from where it rested on the closed toilet seat, and gave a big old fart.

Fraganced, too. One of his better ones, if he said so himself, and Naruto was a connoisseur.

The boy grimaced, but didn't run for the hills.

Why wasn't he leaving?

'Like to watch little boys on the toilet, eh, Uchiha freak-o? Does your mommy know?'

The boy finally moved, only to step inside the stall and lock himself up with Naruto in it.

Suddenly, Naruto wasn't so sure about this anymore.

'What the hell?!'

'Give that here,' Uchiha said, his voice gravelly. Whether from disuse or smoking or puberty was anyone's guess. Though perhaps not the smoking: Uchiha's teeth were all freakily white and clean, like the photoshopped models in the magazines he'd spied Sakura's bossy friend reading.

His stupid hair was always so perfectly styled and soft-looking, and his skin so clear, and his make-up thingy so sharp. Meanwhile, no god nor gel bottle could make Naruto's hair do anything else than stick up every which way, and girl stuff like hair pins made him look like a clown. It wasn't fair.

Uchiha held out a hand, palm up. Following his gaze, Naruto looked to himself, pausing on the small rectangular box he was craddling to his chest.

'Like hell!' he snarled. 'This is mine, go find your own!'

'I don't want to steal your stupid palette, you idiot.'

'Then what the fuck do you want?!'

'Give me that and find out.'

That! That right here! That's why Naruto couldn't stand the guy! (Well, one of the many reasons, anyway). The nerve of that guy, like he thought he was better than the rest of them or something! Like, like he couldn't be assed to make friends, like they were wasting his time! Well, though luck. Naruto had seen past his bullshit, he was nothing special!

'Sometime this year.'

'Fuck you!' Naruto hissed. 'Why the fuck would I do that? So you can laugh at me?!' Something dawned on him. 'You can't tell people about this! Not anyone! I'll kill you if you do! I-I-It isn't mine! Well, it is, but it's not for me! I-I'm not a girl!'

'Naruto.'

'It's for my cousin!'

'Idiot. Does it look like I'm laughing?'

Uh.

Naruto lifted a hand to his painted face. That's right. Somehow the fact that he looked like a fucking raccoon had managed to slip his mind for a hot minute.

'Well... no. B-But that doesn't mean anything, with a freak like you! I bet you don't even know how to smile, you... you... vampire!'

'Original,' Uchiha drawled, 'and inaccurate as ever. I assume you're referring to the iteration of the mytho dating back to the nineteenth century, which matches my skin tone, and let me guess, you're saying my eyes look lifeless? Internalized racism isn't a becoming look on you, you know that? Especially given your own heritage, but I guess what they say about blonds really is right after all, don't you agree?'

'Err...' said Naruto, who had switched off at 'inaccurate' and hadn't recovered since. 'W-whatever! It's true! And your big words don't scare me!'

Sure, Konoha High's dress code was lax, but Uchiha made it look like it was nonexistent, with his strange emo getup. It was unfair how he always got away with it. And people kept riding Naruto's ass about orange! Orange was a great color! The best color!

'Whatever,' Uchiha said, unlocking the door.

Naruto gaped at him, aghast.

'What are you doing?!'

'You're wasting my time.'

'You can't do that!' Naruto squacked, waggling a scandalized finger at the other boy. 'You can't barge in on people, and just... just... leave!'

Uchiha turned back to face him. 'No?'

'No!'

'Hm.' Uchiha held out his hand again.

Naruto stared at it, suspicion warring with curiosity for first place at the forefront of his mind.

'...Fine!' he decided at last. 'Fine. Whatever. Fine.' He shoved the palette into Uchiha's hand.

Uchiha inspected it, and snorted.

'What? You said you wouldn't laugh! What is it? Why are you laughing?!'

'Nothing. Brush.'

Oh. Right.

Naruto handed over the brush.

'Remover?'

Uh?

'Figures,' Uchiha grumbled, stuffing the make-up in his pocket.

And just like that, he left.

'Hey!'

Oh God, he'd just offered his mom's favorite palette on a silver plater to a fucking thief! He knew he couldn't trust this guy, he should have listened to his instincts! Kushina was going to skin him alive!

Wait.

Running water?

Naruto poked his head through the door. Sure enough, there Uchiha was near the single sink, picking up paper towels and putting them under the trickling water. Their gazes met in the mirror. It had a long gash near the lower corner.

'What are you doing?'

Uchiha ignored him. Several seconds later, the bastard walked back into the stall, pushing past a flabbergasted Naruto and telling him to 'sit'. In his confusion, Naruto obeyed, plopping down his ass on the toilet seat.

'Buy remover,' Uchiha ordered. Then, he set to work.

He started with the eyes, dabbing water against the corners of each of Naruto's irritated eyes, cleaning up the lashes with care once Naruto caught up and closed his eyelids. Next, he moved on to the area right over them, soaking up rivulets of soiled water with the paper before they had a chance of falling in Naruto's eyes. Sheet after sheet of paper got discarded as he worked his way around Naruto's mess, each coming off as brightly orange as the last, and with every bit of powder he removed, Naruto felt himself relax. It was... soft.

Weird, and soft. And wet. But soft. But weird.

And then the other boy used yet another paper towel to dry him up, and all at once it was over.

'Thanks,' Naruto mumbled in the silence.

Uchiha gave a short shrug.

'So,' Naruto spoke up, 'Er, so, I'll just... go!' He jumped to his feet. '...Thank you. I guess.'

Man, two thank yous. Kushina would be marking the day on the calendar if she could see this.

'Where are you going?'

Naruto stopped dead in his tracks.

'I. Somewhere?'

Uchiha looked at him as though Naruto had just grown a second head.

'Didn't you want some make-up?'

It felt a bit dumb lying about it now, so: 'I guess? But it can wait, so, um.' He could pester Uchiha into giving him back his palette later. Probably.

But as the boy peered at him with the first thing approaching hesitation to grace his face in all the time Naruto had had the displeasure of knowing him, it dawned on Naruto that perhaps Uchiha had meant to put it on him himself.

'Did you...?'

'Shut up,' Uchiha snapped, color tinting his cheeks. 'Get your ass back here!'

This time, when Uchiha grabbed his chin to manhandle him into position, there was nothing soft about his grip. Naruto must have hallucinated things earlier. He was fucking brutal!

'Hey, watch it!'

'Hold that,' Uchiha sniped back, fishing out the palette with his free hand and waiting impatiently until Naruto opened his fist to accept it. Uchiha worked open the latch, a frown creasing his brow while he considered the small array of orange-adjacent hues. Finally, he settled on a less saturated shade, swatching some of it on the back of Naruto's hand, ignoring the protest that 'that's the shittiest one!', and, seemingly satisfied, gathered more on the brush to put on Naruto's face.

'Close your eye.'

He worked in quick, light vertical strokes that tickled, squeezing on Naruto's cheeks when the later shifted; flitting from one eye to the other, back and forth again.

At some point, the washroom door swinged on its hinges.

'FUCK OFF!' Uchiha snarled, utterly vicious, his voice breaking near the end. The intruders hadn't finished scampering away like the devil was on their tail that Uchiha was already moving on to a vibrant copper, Naruto's sniggers drowned out by the door banging shut.

Uchiha ducked his head, the tiniest hint of a smile ghosting over his profile.

From there on, the atmosphere shifted to an amicable silence. The grip on Naruto's chin relaxed, and no more words were uttered.

He was starting to get drowsy when all movement of the brush stopped. Uchiha took a step back, frowning at his handiwork.

'Is it all gross?' Naruto joked. By now he'd started suspecting that Uchiha was one of those people with a perpetual case of resting bitch face.

'You're gross,' the boy replied, picking up the eyeshadow palette and letting Naruto see for himself in its pocket mirror. 'I guess it's not totally horrible on you.'

Naruto squinted at his reflection.

'Wow,' was all he could say.

'Calm down, Narcissus.'

Naruto knew that one. 'Yeah, well, that guy was super hot, and so am I! Thanks, dude.'

He accepted the palette Uchiha was handing him back.

'It won't stay on long.' Uchiha warned. 'Normally you should at least put on a proper base first.'

'Er, yeah.'

'...Just google it, dumbass.'

With that, he was gone.

Naruto shook his head at the boy's retreating back. What a weirdo.

[freewheelshippin]

Ranmaru is a musician down on his luck and out of inspiration who got taken in by a sweet old couple running a gardening/flower shop, so while he pulls himself together, he’s grouchily helping out and making bouquets and doling out plant care advice. M is a tattoo artist with not enough clients, confidence in her art, or skills in keeping succulents alive, but maybe the toughie at the store across the street can help her with all three!

and because I’m Like That I got tied up and uh....wrote a little (a lot) of something, focusing on the artistic funk part of the equation. But if you’ll let me have one more indulgence, the headcanon I have is that it eventually Happy Endings into becoming roommates and business partners, starting an indie label to support other artists!!!  

anyways here’s this excessively indulgent/serious fic that came outta this LOL

He was here, folded among big green leaves for much longer than he’d intended. The owners heard he was down on hard times and didn’t have a safe place to call home, so he holed up in their guest room. Before he knew it he was stepping in for them at every heavy mulch bag, every wheelbarrow piled high, every crouch that was too much for their aging bodies.

It wasn’t a bad life. It was an improvement, sure. He was alive and fed every day, and he’d never known a home so warm. But it still wasn’t his. He felt like a houseplant, tended to and placed in warm sun, but just as easily fading into the stillness of quiet moments and the background of everyday. He’d never wanted a life like a plant. He hungered deeply even though he was eating regularly again, and he felt more like a bored tiger, pacing in its cage but nowhere to go.

******

He’d been there long enough to start noticing the regulars. The first was that friendly guy who always got idioms wrong and bought the store out of all their cat grass. The second someone was even friendlier, and he’d bug him for what kind of flowers to get a florist. He kept asking even if Ranmaru never gave him an answer past ‘I don’t fucking know’ as he arranged bouquets that used as many herbs and broad, bold leaves as traditional flowers.

The third was someone who looked like she walked in from his past life (or the one he wanted back, anyway). The shaved head, the denim and patches, the ink peeking out from under her sleeves. She was friendly enough but nowhere near as ready to ask for things or will information about herself as the other two regulars, so he only knew her from her purchases and the name on her card.

It wouldn’t have been remarkable in itself if he weren’t so hungry. He’d burned bridges he shouldn’t have while he was ablaze, and now the only people who thought of him kindly were through this stupidly quaint little shop. He was too ashamed of his bullshit to be ready to show his face in those places right now, but he also craved chasing the stage and the dream he’d stayed alive for.

It was just a made-up story he was attaching to someone, he knew this. Maybe she went home and did everything she could to fade into pleasant background like a houseplant. But he’d rather pretend she went to the shows he wished he were going to, that her fingertips were callused in the places his were going soft, and pretend like he still could smell that stuffy, stale sweat from a venue. Maybe he hadn’t burned it away completely from his life and future.

Occasionally, he still wished he was starving, but he’d bury his hands in mulch and dig space for a new plant before he gave in to dumb thoughts like that.

*****

The first time they had a conversation, it was because she forgot something. A big something, big enough that Ranmaru wondered how someone could have a head on their shoulders but forget this.

It was a long, flat portfolio bag. He flipped through it to figure out what it was and tried to not look past that. It was tempting, though, because the contents made him feel the tiniest bit sated for the first time since he’d started working here.

They were flash sheets for tattoos. It had to be hers, right? There was energy to them that he’d ached for but turned his back from. So when she came back, he brought it up very plainly.

“You forgot something here,” he said when she came up to the counter. He produced the portfolio bag.

“.......Oh.”

“What, is it not yours?”

“No, no, it is! I just didn’t realize I’d even lost it!”

“How the hell did you manage that?!”

“A swiss cheese brain full of holes,” she laughed. “...Also, I’ve been really busy.”

“What would make you so busy you forget a giant stack of art like that?”

“Uh…”

“....Whatever. It’s none of my business.” He started to properly ring her up before something occurred to him. “You bought the same succulent last week,” he commented, furrowing his brow. “And a few other times before. What’s so great about it, anyways?”

She made a face of discomfort and surprise, and he felt the same distant shame that he messed this last (even if imagined) connection to that life, too.

“...maybe you can help me, because I keep killing it.”

“You killed a succulent in a week?!”

“No! I mean. I don’t know, is that even possible?”

“First time for anything,” Ranmaru snorted.

“Okay,” she said, putting hands on the counter challengingly. “Don’t get the wrong idea. I’m not one of those serial plant killers.”

Ranmaru just looked back at her incredulously. “You sure about that?”

“If it’s not a succulent, I know what I’m doing! I got a whole brood of chili plants and herbs and spiderplants…”

“You’re overwatering it.”

“You haven’t even seen the plant.”

“Yeah, I don’t have to. Everything else you mentioned doesn’t shit the bed if you water them too much, and succulents are stupidly sensitive to that kind of stuff. Are the leaves falling off if you barely even poke them?”

“......Yeah…” She looked apprehensive, almost resentful for a moment.

Ranmaru knew he shouldn’t, but he just kept talking. “I can’t tell you what you wanna do with your plants, but it sounds overwatered.  Don’t water it at all for a couple weeks. Make sure the drainage is good, repot it if it isn’t. Bring it in if you’re still fucking it up.”

“You sure are rude as shit when a plant buddy’s life is on the line, huh?”

“What’s the point of buying a plant if you’re just going to kill it?! You’re just throwing away your money that way,” he grumbled, embarrassed. Him, caring about plants passionately. That didn’t feel right for his image, but it felt more wrong to just let people uselessly throw away their time and money just to give a living thing no future.

“I mean, I’m also buying dupes right now to spruce up my workspace, it’s not like I just have a graveyard for my cash and failed succulents.”  

Ranmaru grunted. “Just bring ‘em in if they’re still giving you trouble. I can give you some cartons to make carrying ‘em easier.”

“Ahhhh, nah, don’t worry about it. I work across the street. It’s no problem.”

“Where?” He had a feeling he knew already.

“Oh, the tattoo parlor. I’m actually headed back there right now.”

“....Guess I could just as easily go over there.”

“Hey, and you could get a tattoo from me while you’re at it!” she laughed. “Here, hold on.” She fumbled a little before handing over her business card. Ranmaru studied it briefly before pocketing it gratefully.

When she tried to hand him money, he held a hand up.

“...Pay when you stop killing ‘em. I should’ve checked in sooner, and you get so much from here already, anyways.”

“...You’re sure.”

“If you feel guilty, then take my advice seriously.”

“....Weird business model, but I like it. I can’t give you a discount on ink, if that’s what you’re after.”

“Hell no. Go back to work. Come back when you stop watering them so much.”

“Alright, fine, fine. You drive a hard bargain,” she said with a laugh, scooping the plant into her hand. “I’ll see you next time I fuck ‘em up some other way.”

She left, and Ranmaru realized she forgot her portfolio bag again.

******

He didn’t do much of anything except sleep, eat, take care of the neighborhood strays, and work anymore, but he thought about practicing bass again. He didn’t have amps, pedals, or much of anything anymore, either sold in desperation or lifted by former bandmembers in spite, but his actual basses he couldn’t let go of. Sentimentality or some promise to himself this arrangement was temporary, he guessed.

He studied the business card a lot. Something about the style of the art on it felt right, beyond it being the dose of the studs, sweat, and tears he missed. He didn’t bother trying to describe it to himself further than that; it just felt right, and that’s all he needed to know, but it didn’t stop him from lying awake in bed, staring at it as he struggled to sleep or get out.

Eventually that led to the temptation of looking through the portfolio more thoroughly. He gave in after washing his hands so thoroughly he wouldn’t get the dirt of potting soil or the grease of human hands on it. Not out of secrecy, more out of respect.

Not all of them were things he’d say he was interested in -- science fiction, cartoons, dinosaurs, other stuff he didn’t recognize -- but so much was riffing on images, bands, lyrics, album covers that built his tastes in rock. Even models of bass guitars he’d tried to save up for, once upon a time. It didn’t match the tattoowork he was used to seeing, the lines and compositions feeling more like they belonged in a comic book or a gig poster.

It felt good. It was a small vision of the kind of future he’d wanted. Art and energy like that, paired with his music. He’d forgotten how the excitement of chasing a good future felt, much less feeling like it was even vaguely within grasping distance.

His eyes fell on an image that wouldn’t leave him. A severed, snarling wolf head, out of which winding leaves and vines and stems grew, blooming into orchids.

*****

She didn’t come back for weeks. He went about this life as usual, but some days he’d find his fingers sliding over the smooth neck of one of his basses, missing their calluses as the strings dug into them. But the motions never left him, at least, and they hit notes like barely any time had passed.

He should give that portfolio back to her already. But he’d found himself looking at its contents more and more when he missed the stage so much he physically ached. He couldn’t be imagining this feeling this art made him have, not after this long.

At one point he made a copy of the wolf with orchids growing out of it. He cut it out, unbuttoned his shirt, taped it over his heart, and looked at himself in the mirror, and for the first time since the old couple took him in, he didn’t feel like a houseplant.

*****

He came to the parlor with the portfolio in hand on a lunch break soon after that. She looked uncomfortably unoccupied, her area empty of clients while the other tattoo beds were occupied. He didn’t bother with the receptionist before calling her name. She practically jumped out of her skin from surprise.

He just presented the portfolio bag.

“...Whoops.”

“Do you just not want your art back?”

“...It just slipped my mind.”

Because you’ve been busy, Ranmaru thought to himself as he looked at the empty tattoo bed.

“Did you kill your new plants yet?”

She straightened up and her whole demeanor changed, from the moon to the sun. “Now that I can rub in your face. Look, look, come see.”

She had a small planter of succulents, nestled among spideplants and a red prayer he remembered selling her. The spiderplant and red prayer looked healthy. The succulents didn’t look amazing, but they certainly weren’t on their way to meet their maker.

“Not bad. I’ll rec you some better succulent soil next time you come in. Whenever that is.”

“I figured I’d wait more than one watering cycle before I came in parading like a pageant queen.”

“Too many and I bet you’d be holding another plant funeral,” he said with a wry smile. “But take your shit back already. I’m tired of all your art being at my place where I’m the only one looking at it.”

“...Wait, hold on. Did you look through it?”

“....Sorry. It’s been weeks. I liked your business card and curiosity got the better of me.”

“Oh…” She looked not disappointed, just surprised. “So...you mean, like. Thumbing through the pages looking at it, not just staring at the bag look at it.”

“Is it a secret project or something?”

“No, no. Just…” She hesitated. “Some flash sheets that didn’t do well is all.”

“Really?” Ranmaru was surprised. “These?”

“...Yes? Did I forget something else in there?”

“No. Just. Surprised they didn’t do well. I like ‘em. There’s a good energy to them.”

“Well, that makes you the first,” she said with a hollow laugh.

Ranmaru barely considered with his head what he was about to ask. He’d already chewed it over so much and knew in his heart his answer that he didn’t need to hesitate.

“If nobody else claimed it, I want one of them,” he said resolutely. “The wolf with the orchids.”

“...What, like, now?”

“I’m on lunch, I can’t do now. But….when’s the earliest you got?”

She laughed grimly. “When do you get off work?”

“Six.”

“Then I’m available at six.”

“Then I’ll be here.”

She looked at him in disbelief.

“...You really want it that bad?”

“Don’t tell me what I want,” he growled. “I saw it and it felt right, thinking about it on me. Orchids are a part of my name, anyway.”

“....Okay, you know what? Let’s do this properly. We’ll do a consult at six. I’ll edit the design so it’s more personalized to you, then we’ll schedule an actual appointment you’re actually prepped for so you don’t pass out on the table. And don’t -- “ She caught him about to insist before the words could come out of his mouth. “-- I’m sure you think you’re real tough, but you can’t just tough guy your nervous system into taking more pain unprepared.”

“Fine. See you at six.”

Ranmaru wanted to tell her the hurry was less because he thought he could take it, and more because he was so ready to have it on him. He didn’t, though, and just left, head buzzing with hazy, overwhelming excitement he didn’t know how to express.

*************

Consulting with her on the drawing was more fun than Ranmaru had had in weeks, maybe months. She stayed past her coworkers to do the consult, so they had the parlor to themselves to discuss edits. She played doom metal in the background, sludgy and slow enough that they could properly have a conversation, but the energy as she discussed the drawing with him, drew in edits, and made conversation was exhilarating like a concert.

It was so easy to talk. Even if he was short or blunt, it didn’t seem to stop her from continuing the conversation, and every development they pushed it in just felt good. He didn’t feel invaded, but he didn’t feel insignificant, either, and the way the drawing was going, he felt a kind of known he had lacked.

“I still can’t believe you want your first ink on your pec like that,” she remarked as she refined linework. Ranmaru enjoyed watching how her pen moved.

“It’s over my heart. Not just my chest.”

“That’s, uh.” She hesitated before capping the pen. “.......Are you really sure about this?”

“...” Ranmaru felt himself recoil at the thought of telling her the depth of what this drawing made him feel, but he wanted to communicate, somehow, that he couldn’t imagine regretting this. “I’m absolutely sure.”

“.......” She hesitated again. “This isn’t….a pity thing, right?”

The thought to hold his tongue actually managed to occur to him in time. The doubt she expressed pissed him off in so many different ways. That she was unsure enough to tell him, and that it was there to begin with. The thought of throwing away this connection just to be pissed made his stomach twist, and he thought of the person he saw in the mirror with the drawing taped to his chest that first time.

“This isn’t a pity thing,” he said stiffly as he forced his voice down. “....I saw that drawing and imagined myself with it. And I liked that vision of myself more than the current me.”

“Oh god,” she said, her face bright red. “That’s so goddamn deep. My dumb fuckin’ wolf really made you feel that?”

“It’s not dumb!” he barked. “Why’re you calling it dumb to me? I’m about to get it tattooed on me, aren’t I? Be prouder of your work!”

She took a deep breath after a moment of being totally taken aback. “....You’re right. Thanks. I should be more professional about this. So….my absolutely majestic, heaven-sent fuckin’ wolf really made you feel all that?”

Ranmaru felt his mouth crook into a smile. “Yeah. I want it to be mine, and I want that better me to be mine, too.”

She smiled back widely. “I’ll do your tit justice, then.”

***************

The appointment was that weekend. When she pressed the stencil against his bare chest, he felt the hunger in him sated for just a moment. Not in a carnal urge sort of way, but more like the path forward felt brighter. Possible. Changes and connection and a future was possible again. He wanted more ink from her already, but he also wanted it to not just be that. He wanted a friendship.

“Okay,” she said as he laid on the table in front of her. “Ready?”

The whir of the machine and needles started and stirred a nervousness in his gut that he hadn’t expected, and he hesitated and gasped for a sec.

“...You OK?”

“Yeah,” he grunted. “Just…nervous.”

“Take a deep breath. It’s not too late to rethink or reschedule if you need more time.”

“No.” He was resolute. “I want this.”

She paused. “....I can’t do this the whole time. But just to get you comfortable.”

She offered her left hand to him to squeeze. He hesitated for a moment before taking it, folding each finger over hers. He can’t remember the last time he touched someone like this.

“...Okay. Deep breath. Let out out slowly…there we go. Ready?”

“Ready.”

The needle plunged into him, and while it hurt, he felt excitement and renewal spreading through to his fingertips.

[lairofsentinel]

I’ve finished this terrible game called Greed_fall. Really...

Spoilers ahead, and really a big amount of “negativity” [aka criticism] about this game.

I can’t believe it’s the same company that did The Technomancer. I mean, sure, no game is perfect. But, to begin with, this one is sold as RPG when you have no fucking way to decide if you want to massacre natives or colonialists, or like, for example, spit and punch the man who never told you that you were a kidnapped child of natives that European colonialists took and raised as their own.  That’s a terrible wound in History. It even had contemporaneous versions not long ago [for example, the Condor plan], and this game did not even give you the option to punch the man or simply not forgive him?. Because without being able to choose anything, your char not only is not angry with that fucker, but they THANK him for telling them the truth 25 years later. Ah. But the man “loved your mother”. A fucking asshole kept the identity of a native child for 25 years simply because... he loved her. Ugh. 

I'll try to be short, and concise. I truly don't want to waste more time in this fucked up game:

The Natives:

The first ones you meet during the first 10 hours are basically depicted as childish creatures that know nothing, and they need of the colonialists to “learn”. Somehow, that was getting a bit more complex along the game, and you see few tribes that are angry at the ravishing of their lands. But still yet, they are depicted as “too aggressive” most of the time. As if they had not enough causes to want to attack the colonialists.

Suddenly, by the second half of the game, the natives realise they have power and knowledge by their own which is even more valuable that all the bullshit that Europeans bring. So, they have this stupid revelation that they know a lot that colonialists don't. You feel the natives so vague and lack of self sense.

Some other natives seems to me like CEOs, that suddenly, are too worried about market and commerce with the colonialists. Like... seriously?. Capitalist Natives just right there, after 15 years of colonialism fucking their lands?? Meh.

As a personal opinion, I hate the repetition of the concept of natives as “tribes” that live in a “small rudimentary village”, in comparison with the complexity that “European architecture/society” shows. Like... they only keep using the concept of the most nomad natives, they don't fucking show a complex society with science and art development beyond the European, when you have a super close example with the Aztec Imperium. They had advanced and successful surgical interventions of the brain and deep understanding of Astronomy while Europe was dying because they didn't want to bath daily and kept burning their astronomers. But ok, that's my personal annoyance toward every game where natives are shown.

European architecture, is the only one.

This comes long the same mood that Spider showed with the natives: “I don't give a fuck”-mood. You have the Bridge Alliance, who are basically the “Muslims” in the old Europe, the ones with true knowledge and “turbans”. I was expecting to see “Muslim” architecture. You know, mosque-like? [I'm not even asking them to have extreme History accuracy, but hell, give me something that make me believe it's true that there are 2 factions here] But no. You see some fences and some random arithmetical design here and there, 3 big carpets in the palace, but the rest of the houses and the palace itself are all European-like. I mean... if you are doing a game which scenery is so elaborated, you can't be lazy about designing 3 types of architecture, since you are basing your fuckign game on Europeans, Muslims, and Natives. Natives have the most rudimentary design because “natives”. They are all about big houses with just a bonfire in the middle. Sure, I know, native groups in the old Europe and Britain used to have that kind of architecture. Celtic-like. I'm complaining because I would like to see, for once in my life, a native culture which is shown as an imperium. But whatever. The Muslim architecture is such a lazy development here.

Petrus:

This is probably the highest point of fuckery. The man [a religious one] “took care” of the main character's mother, a kidnapped pregnant woman, because “she was the only woman he loved” [this game is ALWAYS about the colonialists and their feelings and their problems. European problems= MAIN quest, native problems= side quests]. Her husband was killed trying to rescue her [aka colonialists killed him], and she was sent to the continent, because she was... “marvellous” [this game has the most sickly arguments I've seen in a long while]. She gave birth to the protagonist of the game in one of the Naut's ships. She remained in captivity, and asked Petrus [ the man who was supposed to love her] to kill her, because she could not resist that life. He didn't do it, because “love”. And now, the whole quest is about how guilty Petrus is about that, and about the slight tiny detail of having kept secret that the protagonist's origin is native.

And as if all this was not sufficient, this “RPG” game doesn't allow you to NOT forgive him, to spit him, to do something out of anger. No. The whole quest continues with the protagonist thanking Petrus for “telling him the truth 25 years later”. This is terrible. The problem here is not Petrus being an asshole, is the game giving you no options to have another reaction but thanking him.

Romance:

Yeah, yeah, we have crappy romances. For a game which claimed to be based on DAO, didn't learn a shit about development of chars and their relationship with the protagonist. You have 5 characters that interact very little with the protagonist or among them [banter? What's that?. DOS2 has no banter, but at least you have a lot of personal conversation with the chars, and they intervene in the quests and give their opinions], and the peak of laziness was when I saw the “romantic” scene of all of them. ALL, ALL romantic scene are a copy-paste of the ones in Technomancer. The worst is Vasco/Siora. They are in the place of Andrew, from Technomancer. They did not even change the angle of the camera. I dislike this so much because that scene was meant to be related to Andrew. The man had a prosthetic arm, so that's why the main char looks at his hand, as a gesture of acceptance. In Vasco/Siora's case is so out of sense. Looking at that hand like “did you wash them? I don't want fish/soil in my thingie”.

And again... beyond the stupid romance, the development of relationships is so weak. I would not complain if they were not claiming they based this game in DAO. Lol. You can't even speak about the main quests with them. They have nothing to say. Nothing.

Pace:

This is probably a result of the whole mess of the many irritating things I've been seeing in the game, but it was incredible boring and slow. The dialogues are wrongly done. Every time you meet a new char, the protagonist explains everything. Again. It's not needed. The player already knows that, since you repeated that 53 times!.

The endings And the endings... hell. I can’t even know where to start. Basically... you can destroy the whole natives and the isle included, just because you want to save your cousin—son of an European colonialist, with a lot of daddy issues—. Again, the whole game is highly focused on European pain and feelings. It seems we should feel pity for his useless ass, and understand him when he decided he wants to be a new god, consume the native god, and decide “what’s better for the rest of the world”. Most colonialist ending you can't have.

Thankfully, our fave “RPG” game gives us a loooot of options to end the game: 2. Kill him or join him.

If you kill him, you have four “branches” of endings. In two, you are trying to find “balance” between colonialist and natives, and one ending about natives tired as fuck of the European shit repel the colonialists from their isle and let them fuck off with the Malinchor, since the only thing they can do is drain and consume everything.

Of course, this ending is “bad” too. You can't let the native decide by themselves. That's “bad”.

In fact, to end the game, you need to meddle in native politics. Like, you have to choose who will be High King of the natives. Look at that!. Your parents must be native, but you were raised as another colonist.... who has the power to intervene in native decision. The imbalance of power and fuckery here is... big. And I'm not counting on all the killing and destruction of native “sacred” places you had to do to reach this [the amount of guardians killed without other option to evade them annoyed me as hell, what kind of balance you speak of if you destroy everything at your wake?].

The “better” world ending, is a world of “balance”, in which colonialist and natives “learn from each other”. Which seems more or less ok... but again, colonialists owning their own shit? Never. And again... why our protagonist should speak about balance when they did disasters to reach the end of the game?. 

This is a game where you truly can play and let free your “white saviour complex”, because you can tell me all what you want about the protagonist being a “native”, but they only knows about that by the end of the game... their mind and behaviour and purposes has always been super colonialists, without chances to choose to fuck off Theleme and all the other factions out of rage. This is the most gratuitous plot you get from Spider to “cover” their asses about any critic of “but a colonialist had been deciding over natives all the fucking game”. And you know what, you did. It doesn’t matter if the char has native parents. They are the embodiment of colonialism to the end of the game. 

The only “bad” ending in which Colonialists are repeled, you have to feel sorry, because “bad natives allowed the continent to be decimated by the Malinchor”. Sure, because colonialist presence in the Isle was not like a “Malinchor”?.Ugh. Honestly, super infuriating game. 

But, by far, the ending of the Cousin becoming, alongside with you, “new gods”, destroying the native root.... was so fucked up....but well, at least it's an option. Probably the only relevant option this “RPG” gave us.

I was so sick about all this game, that I just wanted to have an ending of becoming a Naut [after all, the protagonist is a sea-born] and go fuck the old world and these terrible depicted natives. Of course, this “wonderful RPG” never gives you a relevant option like that.

Less troublesome things: “open world” that  only allows paths.

This is something inherited by Technomancer. You waste HOURS running from a point to another because this apparent “open world”, is  just a bunch of mazes/tunnels, and you can't jump or descend by places that look like accessible just because they decided their “RPG open world” has to be a lineal game with a clear path to follow. The teleportation points are not enough, since you always need to run minutes and minutes to reach ones of these. This is of big importance since the game is full of stupid Quests of “go speak with A, bring me their answers. Go back again, etc, etc”. This had been a big criticism in Technomancer. They did not learn about it.

Less troublesome things: combat

Another issue inherited by Technomancer. It's quite common to get stuck in some texture in middle of a big boss, or the dodge has a weird lag, or chars are too slow in general. This exact problem was a big issue during the first encounter of Technomancer, turning it into a nightmare. It keeps being the same more or less.

Honestly, this game has several levels of wrongness in terms of plot [I dont even care about the bugs, about the waste of time running, or the stupid quests of being a silly errand boy, or the combat—though, more often than not it enrages you--. But the plot was a big pain. Like... really... guys, you did Technomancer! Bound by Flame, Of Orc and men, Styx, even Grey Matter [I didn’t play it, but I was told it was interesting and with a lot of progressive stuff]... what the fuck happened here?. Sure, none of all those games are spotless, but at least they felt more RPG than this one!. You could be a bit asshole, a diplomat, or an evil char.  

I think they put all their resources in scenery in Greedfall. Because, yeah, it’s beautiful. Probably the only good thing in this game [even though it has this shit about paths that make you waste a lot of time].

A lot of people also highlight about the presence of poc chars everywhere. I didn’t notice this “everywhere”. You have white natives and black people among the colonialists, true. Which seems a bit ok, but to me it felts as the free pass for Spider to do all the fuckery in the game XD “hey, we all have colonialist mindsets, but hey... black people fucking native ones! no side is right! yay, we are mind-blowing you! XD”. 

Probably I have to mention that one of the few things that are good in the game is Aphra. Because you never see black/brown scholars in games, and she gave me, for few seconds, some relief of all this mess in this game.  However, the way she forces others to teach her... is quite questionable. As I said before, “yay, black people on the colonialist side, they can fuck natives like History white people did! We are progressive! this game is so gray-mind-blowing :D yay”.

Truth be told, not a recommendable game. If you want a more decent RPG compared with this one, of the same company, go get Technomancer.

[trampledcactusboy]

Opposites Attract (Joker X Gender Neutral Reader)

READER’S POV

Cold

Is what his skin felt like on mine. 

Sour

Is what his breath smelt like in my face. 

Dark

Are what his eyes shaded into once trained on me. 

Loud

Were the warning thoughts swarming through my head. 

His hand was wrapped firmly around my neck, his bulky rings digging indents into my delicate skin I was sure would be seen in the form of bruises come morning.

My back was pushed up against the brick wall, almost painfully so.

I arrived here in strides of pride.

My aura had a nasty stench of confidence he quickly sniffed out amongst my team.

The second I stepped through the doors of this warehouse… I didn’t stand a chance.

My eyes shifted to my left to see Bruce knocked unconscious, thick ropes tied around his sloping figure on the concrete floor. 

Next to him was Barry, who’s pupils were dilating and shrinking over and over in a desperate attempt to take control, his mouth dropped open and hands shaking- no, jolting -like crazy as the “shock syndrome” drug took easy effect throughout his system. 

I glanced to my right.

Diana was asleep, the drug taking an alternative effect on her supernaturally strong body. 

Not to far away from her sprawled out self was Arthur who was ruthlessly shoved into what could only be described as a human cage due to his brutal restraint against the unwanted injections. 

I swallowed at the realization I was now alone, a small gasp for air occurring from the slight choking sensation Joker was causing. 

I focused myself, forcing my sight to go back to the green haired man before me, our eyes locking instantly. 

“Yeah, train those pretty e/c eyes on me. I love the attention.” He drawled out sinisterly, that sickly smile permanent on his whitened face. 

“Why don’t you just get it over with? You’ve won.” I rasp out, feeling defeated on all fronts from this turn of events. We hadn’t expected an ambush, thus us charging in thoroughly unprepared. 

“Oh no no no, pet. I’m not going to stick you. You’re too precious for that, aren’t you?” He mused, his unoccupied hand reaching up to gently stroke my cheek with the back of his hand.

I cringed, nose scrunching up at the touch. 

“You’ll make a fine addition to my collection.” He growled, tone suddenly much lower than previous. 

“Collection of what?” I spat out at him, his smile only widening from the cruelty of it. 

“Broken hearts, of coarse.”

===================================

I huffed in annoyance, the loud shouts from Joker downstairs being heard over my own thoughts.

I felt like I was drowning. 

It’s been two weeks now. 

A full fourteen days at the Joker’s estate. 

And I can’t lie…

I’m enjoying every second of this. 

I want to say I miss my friends, my teammates.

But I’d be lying. 

I want to say I despise not being able to fight crime as I often do.

But I’d be spinning a tale.

And worst of all the confessions…

I want to say I hate the Joker. 

Which I have always been able to do without regret. 

But now… not so much. 

I’ve been able to view an entirely hidden side to Gotham’s most renown criminal. 

I’ve been given forbidden access into the mind of a psychopath and what I have found… didn’t frighten me but…

aroused me. 

The Joker is only a facade he has created, a mask he has worn for all the world to see but inside he’s just a human being like the rest of us. 

Fighting him for so long… I have forgotten that disturbing fact. 

The Joker isn’t just someone who blows up buildings and reeks havoc amongst the living.

He’s someone who makes himself a cup of coffee every morning with four spoonfuls of sugar to make it taste extra sweet. 

He’s someone who slow dances by himself as he cooks dinner, humming along to whatever classical piece is playing that evening. 

He’s someone who knows how to play piano as well as any professional, only taking the time to pursue the craft when he has a mental block in need of removal. 

He’s someone who prefers hot bubble bathes to steamy showers. 

He’s someone who says what he means but doesn’t entirely mean what he says. 

Like when he told me I’d be just another long lost broken heart left upon his dusty shelf.

Instead, he’s done the opposite- giving me more and more reasons to fall into a full blown infatuation with the damaged man. 

And somehow, he’s fallen for me too. Even if he won’t confess to it just yet. 

I can tell in the ways he beckons me to his side when failing to fall asleep at night. 

I can tell by the way my name rolls off his normally sharp tongue like his favorite song. 

I can tell in the way he unintentionally will grab ahold of my thigh whenever someone gets too close to me. 

I can tell by the way he smiles at me when we’re alone.

Not that crazed smile, but a secret one only known to the two of us. 

The one that’s not as big but just as evident. 

The one that’s soft and genuine and inviting. 

The one that whispers “tell me more” during conversations and “goodnight” before bed. 

And now it’s an uncomfortable stand-off between us. 

We both have come to notice each other’s feelings for the other, but neither want to confront them. 

I was meant to become his hostage. 

Maybe his science experiment if held captive long enough. 

But something within him begged him not to, screamed for him to keep me safe from the world instead.

And now there’s tension constantly swirling the air around us. 

We don’t want to give up our own personal morals, promises and lifestyles for the temporary pleasure of each other’s company. 

So we are left in a sea of unknowing and waiting. 

I heard a piercing shatter sound throughout the house.

I shot up on instinct, my guard never dropping. 

I made my way downstairs to investigate the commotion that kept interfering with my simple plans of relaxion.

“YOUR INCOMPETENCE HAS SOILED MY PLANS FOR THE LAST TIME!”

I turned the corner into the kitchen to see Joker, fuming mad, standing dangerously over an anxious crony. 

I walked inside slowly, treading lightly over to J.

I placed my hands on the backs of his shoulders as I listened to his heavy and rapid breathes of anger. 

He spun around to face me, my hands now on the tops of his shoulders.

“It’s okay. It’s gonna be okay. You are in control. You have everything under control.” I soothe, his eyes never leaving mine as if in a hypnotoc state. 

“Tell me how you always manage to show up at the right places at the right times.” He grumbles, hands visibly itching to grasp onto me. 

“It’s a gift.” I shrug with a playful smirk.

“You’re a gift.” He licks his lips hungrily, eyes trailing down my body and back up again. 

As he does this I lean a bit to the side to look at the young crony who seemed like he was about to piss himself, nodding my head toward the door as a signal for him to make his leave. He did as I ordered with a grateful expression adorning his face. 

“You can’t always distract me like this. It’s not playing fair.” He sings out teasingly, a sinful smile growing upon him. 

“I don’t know what you mean.” I whisper, arms slipping around his neck to hang loosely. 

“Mmmm, I think you know exactly what I mean. I have business to do, Y/n. And you’re preventing me from doing it.” He says lowly almost as a warning to me. 

Yet he still snakes his arms around me, pulling me tight to him while his fingertips drum against my lower back- right above my ass.

“Yelling at people isn’t business.” 

“Someone has to do it.”

“Fine. I’ll be ‘someone’, you’ll be ‘it’. How’s about that?”

“Don’t start something you can’t finish, sweetheart.” He growls, hands now squeezing the backs of my thighs roughly. 

“Oh I’ll finish alright. But I won’t finish first. I tend to last long.” I wink, running my hands into his untamed hair. 

“I know how to keep up, baby.”

He leans in and for the first time ever

I let him.

He’s less than an inch away from my lips now and I’m anticipating the feeling to come. 

But it doesn’t greet me as sweetly as I thought it would, because he pulls away as quick as he came in, leaving my desires unfulfilled. 

“Why now?” He asked suspiciously. 

“What?”

“Why have you decided to randomly flirt with me. To finally be with me like this. What’s your game plan?”

I just raised a brow, confused.

“Your goal? What do you want from me?” He questioned on accusingly. 

“Nothing.” I breathed out.

“Don’t you dare fucking lie to me, Y/n.” He growls maliciously, grip tightening on me to inflict a small stinging.

“I don’t lie.”

“You’re trying to tell me that you, of all people, want to be with a monster like me?” He laughs sadistically at his own words, but a dry, sad undertone was obvious in the reaction.

“Yeah. I am.” I confirm seriously, standing my ground.

He’s taken aback at this response, his grip softening once again as his laughter fades.

“You’re not going to try to tell me how I’m not a monster? That I’m just misunderstood? That I’m a good person deep down?”

“No. I told you, I don’t lie. You are a monster. There’s no denying that. But you’re also so much more than that. The side of you that I love is so much bigger than the side I hate. You have a habit of only showing 10% of yourself to people and for some reason you’ve let me see the other 90 and if your ‘goal’ from doing that wasn’t to wrap me around your finger than I don’t understand you anymore than I do this situation right now because that was the only possible outcome, J.”

A short moment goes by of him staring at me wide-eyed, not moving a muscle. 

“Do you love me?” He asks, voice barely above a whisper as if we are gossiping. 

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“Do you want me to?”

He gulps, his pupils blowing up in size but wide eyes returning to their normal state. 

He pushes me up against the island behind me and moves in as close as possible.

“Oh, I want you to. I really want you to. I want to have you. I want to claim you as mine. I want to keep you on my arm at all times and have everyone see that you belong to me and only me. I want to make you feel things and experience things beyond your imagination. I want to learn every part of you until I’m able to play you like piano keys. I want you to fucking want me as bad as I want you. I want you to want this.” He whispers in my ear huskily, his lips brushing against my skin. 

I let out a shaky breath and move his head to be directly in front of me but still at a very close distance. 

“Is this you saying you love me back?”

“Is this you admitting you love me?”

“Let’s agree to disagree.”

“On what?”

“Everything.”

“It’s what we do best, doll.”

And that’s when I smashed my lips against his, him immediately pulling me to him and dipping me in his arms as we made out for the next few minutes. 

He pulled me back up once we concluded with our entanglement, still keeping me flushed against him. 

“Stay with me.” He glided his fingers across my bottom lip as we spoke, parting them for me. 

“Isn’t this the part where I disagree?”

“This is the part where you stop being a smart ass and start putting those tempting lips to good use again.”

I giggled, him flashing me that soft and genuine smile from the sound.

He pushed the back of my head toward him and caught my lips with his own, them moving in synch- just like we do. 

Well, you know what they say…

opposites attract.

[gold-from-straw]

Frozen Heart - ch2

Tony makes an appearance! I’m going to tag anyone who liked/reblogged last time, if you’d rather I stopped, please lmk! And if you’d like me to tag you in the next chapter, please leave a <3 or a reblog!

And if you’d prefer to read on AO3 from the beginning, here you go!

Tony threw a handful of dried blueberries in his mouth and spun around on his chair, trying not to stave off the impending depression for just a little longer. Finishing a project was fantastic. Best feeling in the world. For like, five minutes? And then the boredom set in, and when the boredom set in, the depression was only a heartbeat behind. If Tony wasn’t actively doing something, he was not a happy bunny.

Then again, when he was actively doing something, he got super anxious, because he hadn’t finished yet, and it didn’t count as an achievement unless he’d finished it. Fucking goblin brain.

“JARVIS, bring up the list of unfinished projects, would you?”

“Of course Sir,” said JARVIS briskly, a file opening on the holo-viewer. “There’s a set of body armour you started for SHIELD.”

“Eh, archive that. In fact, archive anything I started for those bastards, they lost their TV privileges when they injected me with chemicals without my consent and tasered a man with a heart condition.”

“Thank you, Sir.” JARVIS made several files disappear with an obnoxious trashing noise. Tony smirked. JARVIS pulled up another file. “There’s also a prosthesis for--”

Tony was already shaking his head. “Nah, I replaced it with something better, remember? That neural transmitter implant which connects to a prosthesis so the kid doesn’t have to get used to a new one every time they grow out of a leg? Archive that as well.”

There were only three projects left. Tony felt a hollow fear start up under his arc reactor and rubbed his solar plexus, biting his lip. How had he let it get this bad? Was he losing his creativity? Was he going to have to… god forbid, be idle?

Something bleeped and Tony jumped, springing to the readout in the corner of the room. Behind him, JARVIS closed the holo-viewer and brought up a map in response to Tony’s touch. “What’s going on here? Solar flares?”

“NASA hasn’t got any solar flares of this significance predicted for the next four weeks, sir.”

Tony frowned at the map, replaying the readings of the last five minutes, but his heart was jumping with glee. The endorphins played a refrain of something new something new on his pulse and he grinned as he localised the readings to the New Mexico desert, not far from a little town called Puente Antigo. “Hey, JARV? Ready the mark XII, would you? I think we need a little break from the city.”

As the repulsors whined to slow his descent, Tony turned his head in all directions, gathering as much data as he could. It was obvious where the anomaly had been centred; a vast circle spread across the dirt, a little bit streaked to the south, as if a meteor had crashed at a steep angle. But the crater itself was like nothing he’d ever seen, a complex runic pattern burned into the ground and then overlayed with… “JARVIS, are those frost patterns?”

“Yes, Sir, the frost appears to have originated from the centre of the crater.” JARVIS marked the point on the heads-up display. “Perhaps you should talk to the people to the left of the crater, judging by the equipment they’re getting out of their van they seem to be conducting some sort of research on the crater.”

Tony’s eyebrows raised. “I’m always ready to talk science to new people,” he said, wheeling low and banking hard. “Except anti-vaxxers, if I wanted to be burned as a witch I’d have invented time travel by now.”

He landed gently and flipped his faceplate up. One of the women already had her phone out to video him, quietly muttering “holy shit, holy shit, it’s Tony freaking Stark,” under her breath. The other woman was tugging at her hair and having a nerdgasm at the patterns branded into the earth, and Tony knew immediately he was going to get along great with these girls. The older guy, maybe not. He looked at Tony as if he was a direct threat to the safety and wellbeing of all of them, which, while probably true, he didn’t need to be quite so obvious about it. Rude.

“Room for a little one?” Tony asked with his favourite media smile.

“Holy shit holy shit it’s Tony freaking Stark!”

“Yeah, hi,” he said, stepping out of the suit and waving at the girl in the glasses.

The other girl looked up at last, big brown eyes wide, as if she’d genuinely missed the noise of his approach. “Huh? Where did you come from?”

He jerked his thumb behind himself at the suit. “New York.”

She stared. “Holy shit, Tony Stark.”

“Yeah. Hope you don’t mind me butting in.”

She looked slightly pained. “Uh. Yeah, sure.”

“I mean, you’re on lead, of course,” he added quickly and watched her face light up again. “First come, first served.”

“Oh my God, really? I mean, you’re not gonna just… call seniority?” she said.

“I can’t call seniority, I don’t know you,” he shrugged.

“Oh, Dr Jane Foster, astrophysicist. This is Dr Erik Selvig, also astrophysics, and my assistant Darcy Lewis.”

“‘Sup,” said Darcy, apparently over her star-struck moment.

“Tony Stark,” he said again, pointing to himself. “No Doctor, so you definitely take seniority. What are we looking at?”

She turned back to the crater, her focus sharpening instantly. “I’ve been working on the spontaneous formation of Einstein-Rosen bridges for the last three years of my life - to the detriment of my entire career. The readings we picked up from here were literally off the chart, the frequencies alone were exactly the same as those the Fermi picks up from distant pulsars! But then we got here fifteen minutes ago, and it got weird.”

Tony followed her over to a rickety machine and looked at the readout over her shoulder. The screen flickered and she smacked it, hard. Tony winced and put his twitchy fingers behind his back. Not my machine, not my machine, no touchy!

Jane made a triumphant noise and pointed to the values as she scrolled up. “My array system here is picking up trace gamma radiation congruent with the kind of energy output of an atomic bomb, but it seems to have been entirely concentrated in this one small area, with no ill effects beyond the scorching of the soil here. And these symbols!” She turned, her hair flaring out and hitting herself in the face. “I mean, I’m loath to call them symbols, because that implies some sort of meaning, and obviously we have to be careful not to anthropomorphise, but it’s hard to deny, they look a hell of a lot like writing, don’t they?”

Darcy rolled her eyes. “Yeah, and there was the actual alien, too?”

Tony turned towards her. “There was an alien?”

“Supposed alien,” Erik said, helping Jane with another machine that looked like it’d fall apart in a stiff breeze. These guys needed some engineering lessons, that was for sure. “I’d wager he was one of those crop circle guys, just… diversifying or something.”

“He was blue, Erik,” Darcy insisted. “And he had horns!”

“Amazing what they can do with prosthetics and makeup these days,” Erik shrugged.

“Yeah, but Erik,” Darcy whined. “He froze the ground!”

Erik shook his head, but the machine slipped and Jane yelped, and his attention shifted off them. “He froze the ground?” Tony asked, turning towards Darcy.

“Yeah, dude, like he was in the middle of the crater, having some sort of a panic attack or something. Jane ran towards him asking if he’d seen what caused the anomaly, because she’s a total dumbass and didn’t, like, notice he was blue or something? I dunno. Anyway, he looked at her like she was some sort of dangerous creature, held his hand out and frosted up half the crater, and then disappeared.” She shrugged. “I got a photo, but it’s really blurry, I won’t even bother putting it on Facebook.”

“Do you mind sending it to me anyway?” he asked. “I can see if JARVIS can clear it up a bit.”

“Yeah, let’s do that CSI bullshit,” she said, holding out her phone to him.

He came around beside her instead of taking it, putting his shades on and activating JARVIS in the lenses. “Oh, yeah, that’s a shitty photo.”

“I know, right?” she said cheerfully.

The snap was shaky and grainy, like she’d pressed the button before she’d got the phone in place. JARVIS reduced the noise and adjusted for motion, and slowly a clearer version began to resolve itself in Tony’s display. “Woah,” he muttered.

“What? What?”

“JARVIS, bluetooth it to her.”

“Holy shit, I’m gonna need your image software,” she yelped as the photo appeared on her screen.

The man - or whatever he was - had his hands thrown out in front of him. He was crouched over, like he’d just picked himself up off the ground, or like he’d been startled, and silvery threads poured from his blue fingers. His face was mostly hidden, but Tony could make out a snarl.

“He was just standing up when we arrived,” Darcy said, zooming into the cleaned-up photo. “Jane started yelling at him, saying he should get out of there, he was messing up the data, and he turned around - that’s when we saw he was all blue, with those horns. He freaked out, iced the place up and disappeared. Pooff! Just like that.”

Tony frowned down at the phone, and then looked out at the markings on the desert floor. “JARVIS, can you send the footage we got from the air off to Dr Foster here? And maybe shift the markings to account for the trajectory, if we get rid of the parallax error we might be able to get some information from the markings.”

“Do you think he’s really an alien?” Darcy asked, pushing her glasses up her nose. “Damn, that would be so fucking funny, you know, go work for a serious scientist and end up caught up in some conspiracy theory.”

“Could be,” Tony hedged. “I mean, just because we haven’t seen any evidence of aliens yet doesn’t mean they don’t exist. But it’s a long shot, so yeah. We should probably wait until we have more information.”

“Boring,” she said, scrunching her nose up and poking at the screen again. “I’m calling aliens.”

A cold wind blew across both of them suddenly, and Tony shivered. “What the hell?” Tony murmured. “JARVIS, is there a storm forecast?”

“All meteorological data up until the last hour have shown between an eighty to ninety percent chance of clear skies, no disrupted weather at all. However approximately fifteen minutes ago a low pressure area appeared localised to Mount Nahokos, eight miles north of here.”

Tony frowned as the satellite imagery appeared on his sunglasses display. “Is that snow?”

“Yes, Sir. The meteorological anomaly appears to be growing, causing exponentially increasing snowfall. The intensity appears to be decreasing in the inverse square law with the distance from the epicentre.”

“You had me at inverse square law,” Tony said. “Hey, Doctors, I’m gonna go find out what’s causing snow in a New Mexico summer, I’ve sent you my phone number, come play science with me, yeah?”

Jane stood up and tucked some hair behind her ear as he stepped into the suit. “Wait, are you serious?”

“As a heart attack,” he said, tapping his arc reactor. “And I know a bit about those bitches. I’ll send a jet for you, we’ll have fun.”

The face plate closed on him and he sighed, closing his eyes. “Too clingy?” he asked.

“They should be honoured, Sir.”

“Yeah,” he said, straightening up a little. “Yeah, damn straight. Or something. OK, let’s go find the abominable snowman.”

***

Tagging!: @red--thedragon @shoot-the-smiles @tkillustration @yohanzen

@senpaiweird @fallenlux @superwhojohnlocked @saturnjuice @individual900 @schmadfoot @mikeystealth01 @timekeeper31289 @tomlinchanel @angrysockpuppetnoises @unistudentinperpetualsuffering @rabentochter @oolaan @victoriagreenleaf - again if you want me to untag you just let me know! Or just don’t like the post and I’ll leave you alone lol! <3

[redvelvetreel]

Red Velvet Reel 9.2: Blue Ain’t (Usually) My Color

            [Fic Directory]

Pairing: [Married] Spicyhoney (Underfell Papyrus x Underswap Papyrus)

Summary: Stretch learns a little bit more about everything: parentMOOD, funeral traditions, *what Edge is probably thinking.* But at least he knows how to move forward now!

Characters: Stretch (Underswap Papyrus) & Red (Underfell Sans)& Blue (Underswap Sans)

Contains: Mpreg/Skelepreg! Candid discussions of monster funerary traditions! Different monster cultural traditions between universes!  

Rating: Teen and up! (I guess?)

Note: Additional cultural notes/elaborations available at the bottom so as to avoid spoilers! :)

“Me?!” Stretch gaped, unable to keep the surprised indignation out of his tone, “Me?!”

Before Red could say anything else, Blue kicked him under the table again, “Thank you for all that, Red!” Blue put his mouth literally against the side of his brother’s skull, saying as quietly as possible, “He’s an asshole but he’s right.”

Somehow, Red still heard him.  Still stuck his tongue out petulantly, but he was obviously flattered. Even if he kicked Blue under the table and steal his last biscotti. It was kinda cute.

Stretch shook his head free of that weird thought, focusing on his confused outrage, “What do you mean I’m freaking him out?!” Wait, he was the master of his emotions, he could ask this quietly and civilly! Think soothing thoughts, like clouds and kittens and successful science projects- “I mean, how am I putting Edge on... edge?” Hehe. “I’m doing my best to not do that?”

“Well,” Blue folded his hands under his chin, looking thoughtful, “Edge still has his intent sensitivity-“

“Parent sense!” Red chimed in helpfully, chewing noisily as he dunked his biscotti in the remaining half of Stretch’s coffee. He felt a deep pang of sadness, one that he couldn’t blame entirely on Pancake. He downed the rest of it before his brother-in-law could double-dunk.

“So, even if you tried to act like everything was fine, he would still be able to detect your intent.” Blue, trying so hard to be careful, was endearing and annoying, and it was a struggle to try and push those conflicting feelings away.

“‘N ya ain’t too good an actor!” Red swiped Blue’s mug, using the last sliver of biscotti to scrape whipped cream off the inside.

“You’re a great actor!” Blue assured him firmly, pointedly ignoring his obnoxious counterpart. “But the parentMOOD heightens your emotions, and makes it more... obvious when you are... troubled.”

“Saw ya lookin’ sad way aways.” Red had gotten a spoon from somewhere, and was using it to scrape up the dregs from his coffee cup,”‘N ya get lil’ poofs ‘a intent when yer moods swingin’.”

“Do- Do I really?!” Stretch couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “So my stupid mood swings are undermining my best attempts to play it cool? And are straining my marriage?”

“Papy.” Blue was a very patient monster, but even he looked like he might be nearing his limit, “Your marriage is fine. Edge isn’t going to divorce you over being a little moody. He’s moody!”

“Yep.” Red was playing with the spoon now, trying to balance it on the tips of his claws, “S’not his style, ‘n Fell ain’t real big on ‘divorce. ‘Fore it got bad, Boss’d prolly kill ya ‘n put ya in an osario.”

“Oh.” Stretch wasn’t sure if he was comforted or alarmed by that tidbit. Blue looked horrified, so he probably should feel more like that. Weird. “What’s that?”

“Osario’s lotsa stuff- s’box thing. Glass ‘n shit. For ya? Mm... ‘Prolly a collar.” Red’s smile stretched wider at that reaction, voice nonchalant even as he watched Blue carefully. Out of the corner of his eye. “Touchy-feely bastard’ prolly carry ya around whole damn time, too. No inventori for ya, Honey.”

“WHAT?!” Blue was aghast, looking pale, so Stretch absolutely shouldn’t have felt a little flattered at that. And certainly not pleased. “Edge regularly carries...” Blue fidgeted, lowering his voice to a strained whisper, “Monster dust?”

“Before, yeah?” Red didn’t look like he quite understood the question, “Not now. Didn’t bring none here, don’t think.”

“WhY?!” Blue rubbed at his face, “Underfell is a terrible, vicious place, I know-“ Stretch winced at that, remembering Edge’s bitter sulk after the whole bar incident. Had his little meltdown over that whole will-death talk make his husband’s insecurities worse? “But what reason could any monster possibly have to carry that around?!”

“Sos ya can honor the dead, Baby Blue.” Red gave the other skeleton a sharp look, “What else ya gonna do? Stick ‘em up like a goddamn decoration? Psh. Ain’t nothin’ sadder than being goddamn forgotten.”

Oh nooooo, this was just a huge cultural misunderstanding. Edge wasn’t being macabre! He totally hurt his hubby’s feelings! On something Edge was already sensitive about! 

“I told you like a hundred times- that’s Undertale! In Underswap, everyone who knew them puts some of monster’s dust in a pot of soil!” Red and Blue were still going at it. “Then, you plant an echo flower seed and care for it until it blooms. Then, it will have your loved one’s voice, and it feels like you can talk to them! That’s the opposite of forgotten!”

“That’s fuckin’ creepy, man.” Red shuddered, making that peace-bless hand signal over all three of them. “Dust’s dust! It havin’ a Dusted’s magic color ‘n voice just ain’t right.”

“How is carrying your friend’s dust everywhere you go any less creepy?!” Blue threw his arms up. “At least you don’t actually see the dust on an echo flower, and it’s quietly tended to! At home!”

“‘Cause we ain’t pretendin’ they ain’t dusted! Fine, look, s’diff for diff monsters ‘n shit, but here’s how Edge’d do it-“ Oh noooo, it was cultural AND something personally important to Edge! Stretch put his head in his hands. Oh, he fucked up so bad. 

“Lil’ bit of dust s’given to whatever bastard wants it, yeah? Crown takes s lil’ dusted RG go in this lil’ medal thing, ‘n their put in...” Red made a face, struggling with the phrasing, “Patria... temple...? Some bullshit place, lotsa flowers ‘n ribbon ‘n shit, s’like ‘rememberin’ the fallen’ whatever.”

Red rubbed at his face like he was getting a headache, “S’long story, but as Cap’n he was wearin’ a diff osario a day. Come in Grillby’s, pour a lil’ rum out fer the Angel ‘n the Dusted ‘n down rest. ‘Everybody’d do it, too. ‘N we’d chat about ‘em, laugh ‘n just... remember.”

He sighed deeply, tone soft and melancholic, “Ain’t nothin’ scarier for Fell than thinkin’ yer life ain’t matter. That y’ain’t make no kind of mark on no one at all.”

Blue didn’t say anything at that, watching Red carefully with veiled pity. Or was that understanding? “I guess that doesn’t sound so terrible. It’s the same principle as our Memorial Echo tradition.” He smiled, “Knowing that your loved ones will keep you alive in their memories, even as they make new ones with a piece of you at their side. It seems like it would give some monsters peace of mind.”

Damn. Stretch hadn’t mentioned what he and Edge had actually ‘fought’ about! How did Red and Blue know?! There was no way this conversation hadn’t been orchestrated- it was way too creepily relevant! At the same time, Edge probably hadn’t told them. He was always saying ‘dirty laundry is done at home,’ so how...?

“Are you ok, Papy?” Blue looked concerned, reaching out to turn his face toward the light, “You’re looking a little pale-“

He pulled away, putting his brother’s hand back on the table. “I don’t know how you both know what you know,” Stretch started warily, eyeing them both suspiciously, “And it’s still creepy- but ok. I got your message. Loud and clear.”

              [Part 1] [Part 2 - Here!] [ Part 3 ]  

Notes/Clarification:

-Osario in English is "Ossuary," but for the purposes of Underfell culture, think of it more as a "reliquary." Those are these ornate containers for venerated objects in Catholicism, and come in a variety of shapes and sizes.

-Collar is a double entendre: it's like the dog collar kind in English, but in Spanish it's just a necklace.

- The saying in spanish is, "La ropa sucia se lava en casa," or "Dirty laundry is washed at home." Meaning you don't air dirty laundry/family issues and stuff in front of people. 

-Underswap monster funerals: Echo flowers are a memorial flower, and because they're magical flowers, soil infused with monster dust gives them that monster's voice! They'll echo back whatever you tell them in the voice of the deceased, so it's customary to keep them at home and just... talk to them, hear the things you miss the most. "I love you" is the usual phrase of choice. They're pretty hardy flowers, so they live for as long as they're cared for.

[necrokittytales]

Necrokitty Tales: Trouble in Inkwell Isle (Chapter 6)

Authors’ note: Remember, Necrida’s writing will be in italics and SPKC’s writing with be regular font.If you have no idea what this roleplaying thing is, you can start from the beginning here.

Amber made a turn in the vents and swore as she came to a dead end. She was absolutely lost. The vents all looked the same and she was getting really confused on where she was. She started scampering back only to all down a sharp drop. She stifled the gasp of surprise and landed on her feet. She tried to climb back up but the vent was too smooth for her to climb back up.

She froze at the sound of voices and turned around. Straight ahead was the opening to the other room. She crept silently until she could press her little nose against the grate to see what was inside. She spotted the meteorologist and that grumpy flower. Huh, she didn’t think those two would be hanging out.

She swore to herself again. She couldn’t go back out the way she came which meant she had to go forward. She looked up at the now partially open dome and noticed a couple rafters. If she could just climb up there, she could sneak out through the hole between the glass and the dome shield. Then she’d be scott free.

She got to work on unscrewing the vent, as silent as a mouse.

–

Hilda admired the look on his face, her plan worked perfectly! He wasn’t angry anymore and now their friendship was strengthened thanks to her little pot-cup-thingy. “ Yeah, you’re a big grumpy dandelion now.” Her eyes passed to his hands who were carefully handling the present. Her thoughts were starting to mix again… the distant giggle of Gemini reverberated in her head. She stopped staring at Cagney and tried to focus on the stars. Venus was starting to be more visible shining with a golden light. “Hey, we can almost see Venus.”

She laid down comfortably between some pillows.

He watched  Hilda adjust herself on the blankets and pillows before realizing he had been insulted. “Hey,” he protested. “Well, I might be a big grumpy dandelion but you’re a…”

A determined sky witch.

A fiercely intelligent woman.

A beautiful sylph of the sky.

None-none of those were insults. Shit. He yawned instead, thankfully for real, allowing him to leave the rest of that insult to disappear into the air.

He cleared his throat. He should really ask about sleeping arrangements. Would it be weird if he asked about sleeping arrangements? It would probably be weird. Why was this weird now? Was it weird because she had given him some very thoughtful gifts without too much sass? That she set up this whole room as an apology? That they were under the stars? They had fallen asleep under the stars in the field before but never inside. With a bed. And privacy.

Maybe he should just try to lie down near her. Not next to her. Just near her. The thought of lying down next to her made his petals curl slightly. But then again, what if he lied down and she gave him a weird look. Oh, that would be even worse. Maybe he should just bite the bullet and ask.

“Uh, so, uh, there’s no dirt in the pot, so did you want me to uh…you know?”

Hilda chuckled when Cagney finished his insult with a yawn. After his question she blushed and looked at him confused.  “Did I wanted you to what?… Oh!” She finally understood that Cagney was asking for a sleepover and not for what she was imagining “You can totally stay here tonight, I mean, bed is pretty much made” She laughed nervously. What was wrong with her today?

Crap. It didn’t look Hilda had actually planned for him to sleep here at all. But…she did just say he could. That was good, right? “I don’t have to if you don’t want.” He tried to phrase it differently, “Don’t get me wrong, I want to sleep with you, but if you weren’t planning on it-” He stopped midspeech. “I mean, not sleep with you like that, not saying you’re not attractive or whatever and I wouldn’t not do it, just, I. Wouldn’t. Mind. Sleeping. Next. To. You,” he punctuated those last words, hoping it would make sense.

The constellations in her head got all riled up at the prospect of sleeping with Cagney in a ‘mature’ way. Hilda kept them under control and decided it was time to cut down the weird tension that was obviously building up for some reason. She seriously started to consider she might have gone a bit overboard with her surprise.

She frowned at the plant with a smirk in her face.

“Jeez Cags… How about you shut your fly trap and lay down already!” She patted the floor next to her. “We’re gonna miss Venus.”

–

They didn’t make vent grates like they used to. Amber finally managed to finish unscrewing the last panel before she quietly removed the cover and tucked it behind her. It looked like there was cloth on the walls. She could climb that easy. She started to sharpen her claws and readjust the two stolen goods in her bag that threatened to spill out.

–

“Alright, alright. I’m lying down already, ya stubborn blimp,” he managed. Cagney carefully laid down next to her, initially making sure his foliage wasn’t touching her. But he had to adjust himself quite a few times and by the time he got comfortable, he was definitely touching her. Not too much, but he was aware that his leaves were definitely against several parts of her body.

He gave up trying to readjust himself further. He was the only one making this weird. He relaxed as he looked up at the stars. It really was quite nice here.  “So, Venus. Goddess of love. Big yellow planet? Tell me science stuff about it.”

Hilda’s smile widened while the giant flower tried over and over to accommodate next to her.

“Well…Venus is also known as the Earth’s sister planet. They have almost the same diameter and Venus  mass is—OH MY FUCKING GOD!” She stood up and stumbled over Cagney when she wanted to reach the door.

He was just thinking about how nice she would feel if he was able to press into her a little bit more but at the sound of her explanation suddenly turning into a shriek, his heart stopped in his chest.

Cagney’s eyes widened. “What?! What did I do?!” He called after her.

–

Amber nearly lost her grip at the woman suddenly screaming and only the fact that she had the rest of her paws latched onto the canvas along the walls prevented her from falling and exposing herself. This was getting risky.

–

Hilda run through the door cursing loudly and made her way to the kitchen.

A black cloud greeted her when she opened the door.

“Oh! Shitshitshit!” She turned off the oven and opened a window. She grabbed a piece of cloth and took out her coal looking cupcakes. She stared at them sadly “Fuck.”

–

Cagney watched Hilda leave the room before he buried his face in his hands. “Get it together, ya dumb weed,” he argued with himself. “This is literally something you’ve been wanting to do your whole life. Don’t blow it.” He pulled his fingers off his face and stared up at the sky only to blink in confusion. It looked like there was something hanging from the wall. He peered at it closer. “What the hell is that? Is that a person?” He cupped his hands. “Hey!”

The shout startled Amber enough for that she missed the next notch to cling to it and slipped from her canvas perch. She fell but quickly readjusted herself so she could land on all fours and landed nimbly. She looked up to see herself face to face with a very confused large flower. Her satchel popped open with the impact and out fell the weird spaceman thing she had picked up. It skidded across the ground until it landed near a large flower pot. “Oh shit.”

Cagney’s eyes followed the object and he recognized it as one of Hilda’s displays. His eyes narrowed as they went back to the cat. “Thought you could just come in and steal from Hilda, huh?”

The cat hesitated. “Yes?” She squeaked and darted to the side, barely dodging a large swing of his limbs. Cagney attempted to dig his roots into the ground to grab her only to wince as the roots collided with the wood floor. Right. He was indoors. No access to the soil here.

Didn’t mean he didn’t have a trick up his stem. And by trick, he meant acorn seeds.

Amber breathed a sigh of relief from behind her cover of the big pot. She spotted the heavy metal thing near something equally small and tried to go around to grab it, only for her to dart back to her hiding spot - barely missed by a rocketing acorn seed. She felt the pot shake with the force of wind of the projectile and realized if that hit her, it would be game over. She stuck a paw out blindly and grabbed the item and shoved it in her satchel without another look. She eyed the wall. If she made a mad dash for the wall.

But there’s no way she’d make it to the wall. She could hear the flower approaching and suddenly decided on a distraction. Before he could nab her, she pushed the pot roughly, sending it shaking back and forth dangerously.

Cagney’s eyes widened as the big pot nearly tipped over and quickly reached out to cushion its fall before it could hit the hard floor. He breathed a sigh of relief but looked up, furious and another acorn in hand.

Amber was so close to the gap between the glass and the dome. She spotted the carnation taking aim and realized her treasures weren’t going to be much if she was in jail. And one treasure was better than none! She reached into her satchel and chucked the telescope at him. He dropped the acorn and managed to catch the relic before it could smash to the ground. She just reached the edge when her back paw became tangled within the canvas cloth, leaving her dangling right below the dome’s glass lens. Amber struggled with a desperate whine, like a fly caught in a spider’s web.

–

Hilda decided to improvise. She made a cake-like sandwich with a layers of bread and raspberry jam and lit a used birthday candle before walking back to the projection room.

“Haaappy biirthdaaay tooo–” she stopped at the door of the room at the sight of Cagney aiming at her glass dome.

“What the…?” Her eyes widened.

Cagney grinned evilly and placed the telescope down. “Looks like you ran out of lives, cat,” he chuckled quietly. And with that he chucked the acorn as hard as he could at the cat. However, with one last panicked pull, the cat pulled free and slipped through the crack and out of the observatory. Cagney’s eyes widened as his acorn now shot toward the glass. “No, no no no no! SHIT!” He gasped, staring up at the glass.

The acorn slammed into the glass and fell to the ground. For a moment, nothing happened and Cagney breathed a sigh of relief. “Oh man, that was cl-.” A loud crack spread out from the impact spot of the acorn. Cagney cringed but when nothing more happened, he relaxed and looked up. “Well at least the glass is still up there.”

The glass fully schismed and shattered, sending large pieces thundering down toward him. He managed a leap to safety just as the large chunks of glass came crashing down, obliterating the large pot with one final, horrifying smash.

Hilda couldn’t believe her eyes. Did Cagney just destroy her glass dome? She stood there with wide eyes and her jaw dropped holding the sandwich-cake like an idiot.

“What. The. FUCK!?” That last word sounded like a thunder. The woman’s eyes lightly starting to glow.

Cagney didn’t even have to look to know how angry Hilda suddenly was. He could feel it. He turned toward her frantically. There was a legitimate chance of her murdering him. “Hilda! I know this looks bad but I can explain!!!”

He pointed up. “There was this cat and it had some of your stuff and it was running away and I tried to hit it but it moved last second and…I…” He looked up. The cat was not there. He paled.

Hilda closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She looked at him very serious.

“Get out.” She said controlling the urge of turning into Taurus and run him over.

Cagney gaped at her before narrowing his eyes. “Are you serious right now?”

Taurus was getting stronger in her mind.

“GET OUT!” She shouted with another thunder sound.

Cagney realized she was serious. Deadly serious. He bristled angrily and stomped toward the entrance. If she said one more word, he was going to say exactly what he thought of all of this.

As the carnation passed by her Hilda looked at her plate, still frowning. All the work she put on this… ruined at a catastrophic level! How she was going to pay for a new dome? She grinded her teeth blinded by rage.

“ Hey Cagney!” She called him out.

That did it. He turned around, teeth sharp. “What?!”

Hilda threw the sandwich-cake right to his face.

“Happy birthday! ” She yelled, eyes glowing vividly.

Cagney saw red and it wasn’t from Hilda. He wiped the cake from his face and decided this was it. His roots desperately sought soil now and he had just barely touched them to the dirt at the front door when they practically drilled down into the Earth.

He turned around, sharp thorns covering his entire stem and arms, and loomed over Hilda. His manic eyes looked down at her with such loathing and contempt that it was almost poisonous.

“Happy Birthday, huh?” He snarled, his voice deep and warped, “You stupid, selfish husk of weather balloon. I should crush your traitorous little body in my coils.”

He emphasized that point by wrapping around  nearby tree and splitting it in half with a fierce squeeze. But that didn’t make him feel any better. It just made him feel angrier. “I can’t believe I even considered you a friend, much less anything more, you psychotic witch.”

The hateful language flowed freely now. There was no censor in this form. “If you didn’t believe me about the burglary, then believe this.” He leaned down so he could look her dead in the eyes. “I never want to see you again.”

Even full of rage, she stepped back at the view of Cagney turning into his monstrous form. Her rage immediately vanished as he crushed a tree with his vines. ´Holy shit´ said all the voices in her head -including hers-. She´ve never seen Cagney this angry before. Maybe she overreacted a little.

Cagney was getting closer and closer to her, she kept backing up until she felt the a wall on her back. That stare he gave to her, accompanied by those words make her freeze. Did he really just say that? The pain she felt was way too strong to bear it. So she turned it into hate.

Was he seriously giving her shit after breaking her dome? Inventing a stupid excuse for his clumsiness. After the lovely night she organised just for him!? ´Fuck this´ Taurus took over her mind… and body. Her eyes lighted strongly turning into stars, her body changed to a cloudy mist and in a few seconds she was Taurus.

“Then let me poke your eyes out!” She thrust angry towards him lowering her head and aiming for his stem.

Cagney knew two things about Taurus. One, the constellation was incredibly powerful and you had to be exceedingly careful about how you approached it. And two, its blind rage could make it a very easy target.

As soon as the bull was in striking range, a flurry of vines broke from the ground and wrapped around the charging constellation, suspending it in air. Cagney grit his teeth and smiled maliciously as he began to squeeze, feeling the air forced out of the creature of the sky. He almost continued but stop at the pained cry.

He remembered Hilda, and all the nice things she had ever done. How much it meant that she smiled and talked with him. That he enjoyed their time together even after gambling his soul. Is this how it really was going to end?

He sighed, despite every monstrous plant fiber urging him to finish the job, and released her, letting the semi conscious constellation drop to the ground with a thud.

“Bye, Hilda,” he managed to grit through his teeth before submerging underground.

Taurus turned back to a coughing Hilda trying to recover some air. She stared at the hole on the ground for a few seconds and rolled on her back. Softly, she lifted a shaky hand and rubbed her aching ribs.

Venus was shining beautifully, it felt like it was mocking her.  After seeing her friend like this, the broken dome didn’t seem like a big deal at all. Her eyes filled with tears but she was to stubborn to let them go. She gulp like trying to swallow her guilt and wiped her eyes.

She laid there a few minutes before painfully standing up and  and going home. She will have to think something very big for her friend to forgive her.

–

Cagney resubmerged in his field and collapsed to the ground with a bitter, pained howl. He gnashed his teeth, angry regret hitting him instantly. He wanted nothing more to go back, to check on her but there was no going back from that.

He broke the dome. The DOME. To stop some two bit criminal from taking things that yeah Hilda would have liked to keep, but ultimately would have rather lost. Anything but the dome. To even get it built had been a massive undertaking, having to carefully plan with Djimmi and Grim to even get the specs, heat and sand together. She stayed up for weeks to get it so she could share her love of space.

But to then turn on her. Because she kicked him out and threw cake at him? Because she didn’t believe him which he had to admit would sound like a rather flimsy reason if he hadn’t been there himself? Turning on her was unforgivable. There was absolutely no going back from that. He looked up and saw Venus. He sniffled. “That really is pretty,” his warped voice admitted. He clung to his tree for support, feeling wretched and now, truly alone. He swallowed the bile in his throat and continued to watch the sky until exhaustion mercifully took him.

–

Amber didn’t stop running until she was safely within the reaches of her own home. She panted heavily. She needed a shower and a drink after all of this. She placed her satchel on the table and stopped as it made an odd clunking noise. She turned around and open the satchel before reaching in to pull out her spaceman.

Except it wasn’t a spaceman. Instead she was holding a small clay pot. Crap. She must have grabbed this by mistake. It was definitely homemade judging by the imperfections and lack of holes. And it was worth literally nothing. Amber considered tossing it but decided against it, instead putting it in her kitchen and putting some apples in it. She wasn’t quite sure what she was going to do with it, but for now, it looked like it was happy enough to hold the apples.

She quickly groomed and settled in for the night. She could have sworn she heard glass breaking when she jumped off the observatory. She wondered what broke. Probably a mirror or something. That’s like 7 years bad luck. But still could be worse. He could have hit something really important.

[lacrimula-falsa]

Red - Cap/Iron Man Tiny Bang Submission

Inspired by: this gorgeous picture by @winterstar95 Code Name: Confession Title: Red Universe: MCU-based AU Rating: T Warnings: mentions of alcohol abuse/alcoholism, (fully consensual) BDSM, safewording Summary: "My Tony used to taste like metal and coconut and smell like that cloyingly sweet aftershave he liked. But you're not him any more." Disclaimer: I do not own any part of the Marvel Cinematic Universe and/or any other Marvel franchise. I don't own any of the TV series mentioned in this fic. I write for fun, not for profit. AO3 post: click here

[ @capim-tinybang ]

---

The scene had gone badly from the start.

Usually when Tony got out the cuffs and put them around Steve's wrists, Steve instantly felt calmer, more collected.

This time he'd just felt nervous and jittery and if he's honest with himself that should have been the moment he gracefully bowed out.

Tony would have understood. Sometimes you weren't in the mood. It happened. It happened for Tony too.

But he hadn't and now he feels like he was falling apart. And like an idiot. This isn't the first time they've done this and he should have known better.

Steve's back stings where Tony's hit him. That should have been his second clue that this scene wasn't working. The pain had just been pain, like on the battlefield. No pleasure in it whatsoever.

The belt comes down again, a sharp ripping pain down his back, and Steve finally rallies his wits and chokes out

"Red.".

Behind him Tony freezes.

There's a moment of absolute stillness before --

"Okay. Can it touch you? I'm gonna take the restraints off, alright?"

Steve nods. Twice. Scrambles for his voice.

"You can take them off."

Mere moments later the cuffs fall from his wrists.

When they unlock, it's like something in Steve's throat does too, and all the words he's been trying desperately not to say spill out onto crimson sheets.

"Why can't we ever talk about it? It's all I ever think about when I see you now and I don't know how to stop."

Tony's hands still where they've been taking off Steve's collar, like they're suddenly cradling something fragile and precious.

He hears Tony draw in a shaky breath. The hands holding the collar fall away from his neck.

Steve desperately wants to grab them, but he doesn't dare. He makes himself speak again instead.

"It's like you're so far away from me. When I see the colour your eyes are now it makes me want to scream."

There's a terrible choked sound from behind him, but Steve doesn't turn around. He can't look at Tony now. If he does he's never going to say this and then he'll just fall apart all over again.

"Steve --"

He's not done. He's not. He's kept his silence this long and he just can't do it any more.

"No. No, you listen to me. I've been trying to be respectful of your wishes. Not to talk about it. But no one ever asked me what I want. And I can't do this thing where we never talk. We don't talk about anything any more. Nothing. Not your work at Stark Industries. Not about what the team does on missions. We don't even talk about CSI any more."

Steve finally twists to look at Tony, his resolve broken. He has to see Tony's face when he says this. He has to know. He already knows its going to shred his heart. Better to be sure.

"That used to be my favourite part, you know? Watching CSI with you. How after the episode you'd dissect all the inaccurate science and you'd get so mad. But when I told you we could find another series to watch you always said that you watched it for the characters."

"And that the science on Scorpion is so much worse."

Tony's voice is barely more than a whisper. There are tears running down his face. They look like quicksilver in the low light, alien. They don't run down to Tony's chin, sinking into his cheeks instead like rain into dry soil. It's horrifying. Steve wants to look away but he can't.

"Your kisses taste like plastic now, did you know that? I though it was all in my head but Bruce says the serum makes me able to actually taste the synthetics. And you always smell like disinfectant now." Steve taps his nose with a finger. "Alcohol. And I know you say that it doesn't affect you any more but I'm so scared every time that you've started drinking again."

He wipes a hand over his eyes, annoyed that he's crying again. He's cried enough. Tony looks pale now. Ghost-white. It's the first time since That Day that he's looked in any way unhealthy and it makes Steve want to hurl his shield at something. (Someone. Doesn't matter.)

"My Tony used to taste like metal and coconut and smell like that cloyingly sweet aftershave he likes. And he had crow's feet and grey hair that he let a stylist die because he was vainer than a peacock and scars all over his chest and hands like a dock-worker. But you're not him any more."

He can't tell what the expression on Tony's face is. Sadness? Anger? He doesn't know. Ever since it started looking ten years younger, he hasn't been able to read Tony's face at all. Steve drops his gaze to the sheets, noticing only now that he's unconsciously been tearing the dark-red fabric into shreds.

"You're different, Tony, and I'm scared." He draws in a shuddery breath that feels like it gains him no air at all. "I'm so fucking scared all the time now. I don't even know who you are any more."

He raises his eyes to Tony's face again, blinking away the tears that stubbornly keep gathering at their corners.

"And I know I'm hurting you, but I can't keep lying about it. I don't want to lie to you. But not talking about it is a lie. Avoiding the subject is a lie. Pretending everything is fine. Is. A. Damned. Lie. Because I want to, Tony. I want to talk about it and scream about it and raise a damned racket and to ask so many questions. But you won't let me. You won't. Let. Anyone. Talk. About. It."

His words have gone sharp and bitter and angry by the end and Steve forces his mouth shut before they get loud as well and he says something he'll regret.

Tony looks stricken. But there's anger too, written in the harsh line of his mouth.

"Would you rather I'd just lain down and died? Because that was the alternative, Steven, I feel like you forget that."

It's such an unexpected question that Steve's brain doesn't quite catch up with his mouth, and the word falls out between his lips before he can think about what it will mean.

"Sometimes."

Steve only registers what he's just said when Tony actually physically recoils from him.

(Like he's been struck.)

Right in the heart, Steve thinks, feeling numb.

Steve scrambles to explain before Tony can get up to run away. The intention is written all over his face. But Steve can't let him. If Tony runs now, they're over.

"I don't want you dead!" He holds a hand out, imploring. "Never. I... never. But you know how I hate the future sometimes and now you're part of that. Because I don't... there are parts of the future I don't understand. That I think I'll never understand. And now you're one of these parts and I hate that."

Steve's hand falls uselessly to his side. He just wants to curl up under a blanket and shut out the world. He wishes Tony would stop looking at him like that, like Tony's hurt. Steve knows Tony is, but he's also selfish and he wants Tony to focus on his pain now, not his own.

"I hate that so much, do you understand that? You've always made sense to me, even with all your newfangled contraptions. But now you are one of these contraptions and I can't deal with it, alright? This is the thing I can't adapt to, where the serum fails me. I can't be married to some... to someone--"

That's where his voice breaks, because this is an ugly thing to say. But if he doesn't, it will freeze him from the inside out. He can already feel the cold settling in, numbing his fingers and crawling into his throat.

"I can't be married to someone who's... whatever you are, now."

The stricken look hasn't faded from Tony's face. He still looks poised to run, fight-or-flight at its finest. Brown eyes looking into Steve's own, the irises shot through with silver in a way Steve's never seen in any human. He wonders if Tony still qualifies as one.

"Are you breaking up with me?"

It's such a mundane question but it still shocks Steve to actually hear Tony say the words.

Break up. Like it's simple. Like there're not a marriage and a superhero team and years of love tied up in it.

Tony's waiting for an answer, Steve realises.

The problem is, Steve doesn't have one. He just feels sick, like someone hollowed out his stomach.

"I don't want to break up."

"Then what do you want, Steve? Because I'm getting a feeling it's not me."

You're right, Steve thinks, I want my Tony back.

"I want you. But not like this."

Not when it feels like we're strangers. Not when I don't know you any more.

It's the only answer he has.

Tony stands up in a sudden jerky motion. Whatever his expression was before, it's firmly settled onto anger now. He yanks a robe on and it takes Steve a long moment to process that Tony is leaving.

"Then I guess we're over. You have three days to move your stuff out of the penthouse."

"You're throwing me out?"

It's such an idiotic thing to worry about when his marriage is falling apart, but it's the only thing Steve can think to say.

"You broke up with me, Steve, you can sleep on the fucking couch."

Tony leaves without even slamming the door. Somehow that's even worse.

Steve feels like he's frozen, again. Ironic. He tried to keep the ice in his chest from spreading and now here he is. Frozen, with his hand outstretched as if he could hold onto someone who's already walked out the door.

The man out of time indeed.

His head feels like it's filled with static, one thought running on repeat.

But you broke up with me, what did I do wrong?