#multi part story

[silvereternitywrites]

Superpowers For Sale- Gently Used, Highly Detailed Specifications!

Prompt: You're a used superpower salesman. It's been difficult to sell ever since the dealership for new superpowers was built nearby, but you're determined to make some sales because you have a baby on the way, and it's about that time of year when parents are buying teenagers their first superpower. Prompt Source: user CloverPixels; subreddit “Writing Prompts”

Part of the problem, I know, is that I don't have one.

A superpower, I mean. I have a job, and obviously I have parents!

But a lot of people get leery of me when they realize I don't have a superpower, even though I'm a superpower reseller. I just don't believe it would be moral, that's all- it would be terribly tempting to try and use whatever power I might pick to try and get people to purchase powers they didn't want or need, or more than they needed, to make commission.

Another part of the problem is I'm just not willing to be a jerk or a bully, too, and when people come into a superpower dealership like this they're expecting the oil-slick powered up salesman with the pomade in his hair and 17 different offers to 'make a deal', and I'm just- not.

I'm short, stacked, with a rebel haircut, dyed hair, and all the facts laid out neat and simple.

But people come in expecting me to try and trick them, looking for it, and when there isn't any they get nervy and leave, thinking I'm just too slick and they can't find the catch. Maybe that Honesty power would be worth using--? No, no, the registration on it is clear; it compels other people to be honest, not the user.

At my desk, I was jarred from my musings by the sound of the bell above the door.

"Welcome! I'll be right with you, and feel free to browse," I called, and listened to the shuffle of unsure feet lingering in the front aisles.

Unlike the fancy new powers place down the road, where rows upon rows of boxes stood with little question mark tags separated in general sections, our dealership sorted them alphabetically, with the most popular power types in front- strength, speed, invisibility, stuff like that- and every bottle or jar of power had a detailed description of how the power had developed, it's strengths and weaknesses, and the peculiarities of how it worked clearly delineated.

I found the young teenager and the person I assumed was a parent or guardian lingering over the illusion powers- reading one that shifted the user's perception of things around them, and comparing it to one that changed how other people perceived the user or anything the user interacted with.

"Hello, is there anything I can do to aid your selection process today? We have a greater section of illusion powers further back, if neither of those interest," I suggested gently, trying to get a feel for them. It was nicer on everyone if I worked to facilitate filling their needs- and without any further info I had no better suggestions.

"No, I'm kind of interested in this one," the young person held up the paper for the self-use power, putting the other neatly behind it's bottle again, "but I was actually hoping you had powers relating to actually changing matter, not just making it look changed?"

I considered the relatively androgynous young person and made a guess, keeping my tone light.

"Would you be looking for something more along the line of shape-shifting, then, or being able to turn one type of matter into other types of matter?"

An interested shift at the mention of shape-shifting, a perk of the head quickly hidden. So my original guess might be correct.

"Do you have either of those?"

"I happen to have two in stock- of each, mind- and I can bring them out to examine, if you like. Does one interest you more? In the interest of saving space, my desk is very small," I added apologetically even as we drifted back in the direction of my desk.

"Matter-shifting first, please," the older one said, and ah. This would explain the hesitation.

"As you wish. Naturally, all four are on the higher end of the price bracket, even as used powers," I explained as I pulled the papers out and laid them on the desk, with pictures of the bottles. Ones this valuable lived in the vault underground.

"The most expensive one can change any matter into any other matter on the atomic level. It's biggest drawback is the requirement to have a firm grasp of atomic structure and elemental knowledge- and I mean elemental as in the periodic table, not earth, fire, water, metal, wood, or air. It was sold to us when the previous user stopped being able to remember chemical formulas exactly as well as they could in their youth; they became tired of accidentally transmuting their dinners, toys, computers, et cetera."

"And the other transmutation power?" the parent plowed right on, without giving their child a chance to ask a question. I noted that.

"It's less all-around useful, but more suited to someone artistic. It can change objects the user touches into any other inanimate object the user can visualize. The primary drawback to this one," I tapped the page lightly with a pen to indicate which, "is it will always transmute it into exactly what the user visualized. Which, if the user's attention should waver, or if part of the object isn't solidified in their mind when they use the power, that too will manifest. It came to us after it had been bought second-hand from it's first user by someone whose visualization ability was... unpleasantly incomplete too much of the time," I said delicately, and watched the teenager's eyes brighten. So a creative person, then. Best tell them the rest.

"Both are classified as strictly transmutative powers: they absolutely cannot work on anything alive, not even plants and insects."

The child's expression fell, and while I felt bad to dash their hopes like that, better they knew that now than purchase the power, integrate it, and find out it wasn't anything even close to what they needed.

"I hardly think that matters," the adult drew my attention back, and I blinked.

"Depending on what it's intended use is, it matters very much to you as a buyer. If you were to purchase it with intent to, say, go into veterinary medicine, you can use it to transform something like old timber into hospital equipment, as long as you either know it's chemical makeup and components or can visualize the equipment clearly, but they are, unequivocally, NOT able to function as healing powers in any shape or form. You could not visualize a dog's leg to heal after being broken, for instance, or transmute mangled flesh and bone into healthy flesh and bone. Given the price tag on these powers, this is pertinent information- I don't want to sell you a power that you don't want or need."

The teenager looked at me with respect; their adult stared at me with distrust.

"Shall I move on to the shape-shifting powers?"

"Please," the teenager said, before their adult could interrupt again, and I didn't hesitate to sweep the transmutation powers off the desk and lay down both my shapeshifting abilities.

"The less expensive of these two can only transform into animals, and back to the user's original base shape. The drawback is that the user must, unfortunately, 'touch base' between animal forms- there is no seamlessly going from panther to turtle to elephant, as is preferred for combat and rescue workers. It's original user was fully integrated with it, to a degree she was capable of pushing it to 'hold on' to one animal part, return to her base form with that part, and transform into another animal, holding onto that last fragment of the first animal until she no longer needed it, but several copycats who have purchased the power after she retired have never integrated with it well enough to achieve that result, and it is considered impossible by a new user at this point in time."

The adult scoffed, but I knew the teen knew exactly what Hero I was referencing when they mouthed 'Animal Rescue' with stars in their eyes. She'd been among the first Heroes; her integration with her superpower had been flawless even for her generation, and the fact that my resale shop had her power was a crown jewel of our collection.

"The other is unrestricted," I said, keeping it short and sweet. "The user can shapeshift into anything. Animals, plants, other humanoid shapes, inanimate objects; there will only ever be one single discoloration the size of a thumbprint to indicate they are not what they appear to be. The only known drawback is that if a form is kept too long, the user may forget how to shift out of it, which is the only reason this superpower has been sold at all. The only previous user forgot which form was originally theirs, and the only way to find out was to give their power up. They elected not to take it back afterward, choosing to disappear and live a life away from the limelight."

"The Doppleganger," the teenager breathed, and their parent hardly breathed at all.

"Yes," I replied honestly. "And as you can imagine, the price for this power is one that makes most people pale and curls their hair at the same time. Everyone wants to be the Next Doppleganger. It's from the first generation, and nearly limitless, with a minimal drawback in this day and age since one can take pictures or video of their original shape and record messages to remind themselves they aren't whatever they shapeshifted into. And because of how high the likelihood of theft is, I am not allowed by corporate to offer any finance plans or loans on any first-generation powers. Nor any test drives. We can only do integration measurement tests, which as everyone knows, are only about 75% accurate."

[blankmindsposts]

This is a must-read!

We finally did it. We slipped the surly bonds of Earth to step among the stars. It took over two decades of research, billions of dollars of taxpayers money, and almost every country on the planet working in tandem, but after the International Space Coalition was founded it was almost effortless.

Faster than Light travel was accomplished almost on accident. Just the right ratios of radioactive material and an ‘ever so slight’ gravitational anomaly generator was all it took. To keep the population safe from any possible drawbacks, the first launch of the FTL drive, or Warp, was conducted at Tranquility Base on the moon. Either that was minimum safe distance or there wasn’t any, so it was decided to just roll the dice. The Angel was built there, the ship that would go further than any before it. The drive was set for Alpha Centauri, the big red button was pressed, and off they went, 300 crew members, going faster than anyone else in the history of mankind.

After 4 months, 319 ‘people’ came back. The extra 19 individuals wore special thermal suits to keep their body temperatures stable, and each had scaled skin with varying hues of greens and grays, with elongated prehensile tails. Their eyes were almost solid black, save for some red around the edges. Their hands were like a chameleon’s with only 3 fingers each. If it hadn’t been for a heads up from the Angel’s captain, the first words out of the welcoming party mouth would’ve been “they’re lizards!” Honestly the only thing they had in common with us was that they were bipedal.

Apparently the people of the ‘Alpha System’ as we called it, the Quintins, were just as surprised to see us as we were them. 2 ambassadors, 7 scientists, 10 military escorts, and a partridge in a pear tree came with them back to Earth. They just had to see it, after hearing stories of home from the crew aboard The Angel. They had to see how a world so full of dangers, from predators to the sheer deadly climates, could have allowed such a species as humans to exist let alone thrive and advance far enough to get off the ground.

The surprises didn’t stop there either, as if finding out WE ARE NOT ALONE wasn’t a big enough shock to the human race. The Quintins weren’t the only species out there, they were in fact only one people in a collective, a Grand Assembly of Intelligent Lifeforms (it sounded longer in Quin tongue but they brought auto translators) or The GAIL, and the Human race was immediately eligible for probational membership. Developing the WARP capabilities was what sealed it. Faster than Light travel was the first prerequisite for joining the GAIL. The second was a planetary inspection, and since the Quintins were our first contact, who better? It was time to meet the neighbors for the human race.

That was 50 years ago. Now the Human Race were full fledged members of The GAIL, and the International Space Coalition was renamed into simply the Terran Academy, putting out graduates of every field imaginable. We had an entire fleet of WARP enabled ships, spreading human explorers into the depths of space.

The only problem these days were the rumors. 50 years of interaction with alien species had made one thing clear to the rest of the universe at large:

Their planet is completely unstable

Their bodies are unimaginably fragile while simultaneously unbreakable

They claim not to have a hive mind but nobody believes that for a second

They seem to ‘pack bond’ outside their own species

They’ll eat anything (maybe even you)

The Humans make no sense

THE HUMANS ARE DEATHWORLDERS!

AND HERE THEY COME!

(This will be an account of various humans and their travels through the known universe. Earth, also known as E24, is a terrifying deathworld. This should be fun)

[caffeinewitchcraft]

The Hero and Hope (Part 2/5)

(part 1) (part 3)

The next time you go hunting, the Bahrs go with you.

“It’s really fine,” you protest. It’s early enough in the morning that the air carries a bite. With any luck, they’ll think the redness in your cheeks comes from the chill rather than embarrassment. “I’m not even going far in. It’s Hera’s birthday coming up and she likes squirrel…”

“You’re going to catch a squirrel without a blade?” Mr. Bahr – Ivan – asks. He tightens the strap on Mrs. Bahr’s back, making sure the quiver of arrows is snug along her spine. He pats her shoulder when he finishes and beams at you. “Are you very fast?”

Yes, you are. You’ve noticed that you’re even faster lately as your 15th birthday marches closer and closer. You purse your lips. “I set traps.”

“Don’t mind him, Isla,” Mrs. Bahr -Marie -  says. She fondly shoves Ivan off the porch of the orphanage so she can get down. “He’s always joking.”

“What sort of traps?” Ivan asks. He runs a critical eye over your coat and pack. “Will that be warm enough?”

You’re not sure if your coat is warm enough for the weather or not. Another rising power: you’re nearly impervious to the cold. You shrug. “I’ll be fine. And just simple snares and stuff.”

“We can’t wait to see,” Ivan declares. He gestures towards the road. “Lead the way.”

You bite your lip. It’s clear that they knew you were going hunting today by their garb. Both are in sturdy, worn leather with swords on their hips and bows along their backs. They probably heard from Director Sarah and came specifically to make sure you kept your promise not to hunt alone. But… “The other kids will be sorry they missed you.”

“We’ll see them when we return victorious with birthday squirrels,” Ivan says.

“What a sentence,” Marie says dryly.

You aren’t going to convince them to let you go alone. You silently lead the way towards the orchard. Or, rather, as silently as you can. Ivan talks the whole time, asking questions about the apple trees and pointing to ducks flying overhead. You answer the questions you know the answer to and hum whenever you don’t. You wish you knew more about the vegetation, but the most you can tell Ivan is whether or not something is poisonous.

“Those ones,” you say, nodding to the low, circular leaves Mr. Bahr is pointing to, “are tricky. The real ones taste kind of sweet. The other kind that looks like that makes your stomach cramp for three days straight.”

“How can you tell the difference?” Ivan asks.

You shrug. “You can’t. I just tell the younger kids to bring it to me before eating it. Usually, I trade it for something actually edible.”

Marie, trailing behind you both, makes a noise of interest. “Usually?”

You feel your ears go hot. “Sometimes I’ll try it for them just to see if they can eat it. I’ve had enough of the bad one that it doesn’t affect me so much.”

“You try it?” Marie’s voice is sharp. “Isla, there has to be a better way.”

“Not really,” you say. You scratch the back of your head and quicken your step. You’re almost to the tree line of the woods. “The kids like sweet things. If I didn’t give in occasionally, they’d try it themselves. At least this way they check in with me first.”

“I still don’t think—”

“Sounds like Marie and I’ll be bringing some sweets along with us next time,” Ivan interrupts cheerfully. He points past the last apple tree about a dozen feet ahead. “Looks like the path ends there?”

“There’s an animal track about ten feet into the woods,” you say. You’re uncomfortable with Marie’s reaction. You know it’s not smart to eat poisonous plants, but what else were you supposed to do? Your worst fear is that the kids will one day get hungry enough to eat them without caring about the pain. Your shoulders round. “We’ll need to be quiet once we’re there.”

“I’m the best at being quiet,” Ivan says. He elbows Marie. “Right, Marie?”

“Right,” Marie says. Her voice is still a little strained, but you can tell she’s trying to hide it. “That’s why I married you.”

“That’s a lie,” Ivan says. He stage-whispers to you, “She married me for my amazingly dashing good looks.”

Marie huffs a laugh but doesn’t say anything else. You’ve entered the forest.

You were worried on the way that you’d need to tell Ivan that he needs to be quiet in the forest. You needn’t have been concerned. Both adults are silent and walk with quiet steps, their dark eyes alert on their surroundings. They move through the undergrowth gracefully, their years of experience showing in every step. You try to copy Marie’s soft footfalls as best you can and are pleased when your steps get a little quieter.

The Bahrs watch as you pick places for your traps. Ivan silently points to one of your knots, eyebrow raised. Guessing what he’s asking, you undo the knot and then redo it slowly. He nods in satisfaction and then gestures for you to give him the rope. Curiously, you do. Ivan completes the same knot, fingers steady through each step. When he’s done, he presents it to you proudly as if to say, See? I did it!

It makes you do something you very rarely do in the woods. You smile.

After setting the traps you take the Bahrs to your favorite resting spot. The clearing lies just by the edge of the shallow part of the river. About a mile downstream the banks widen and the North River joins this one, making it a dangerous place of rapids. Here, however, the water moves slowly and is shallow enough to be warmed by the sun.

Finally, you speak. “Shouldn’t be too long. Maybe an hour or two and then we can go check on them.”

“Is this where you found the horned rabbit?” Marie asks. You sit on a large, flat rock by the river, but she stays standing. Her eyes carefully scan the perimeter of the clearing.

“Not quite. That was near the hills.” You point. “Fifteen minutes that way.”

“That’s close,” Ivan says. He frowns, concerned. “Was that the first demon you’ve seen here?”

“No.” When the Bahrs turn to you in alarm, you shrug. “Not all the time, but demons come here. They’re usually not interested in me though.”

“But the horned rabbit was?” Marie asks.

Interested is an understatement. You’re not an idiot. You know that demons are dangerous. That’s why you usually avoid them when you spot them. Normally they’re content to let you pass by, but not the horned rabbit. It followed you nearly all the way back to the orchard before you realized you needed to do something before it attacked you. “Yeah.”

“What other types of demons do you see here?” Ivan asks. His voice is light, but he’s looking at you with a very serious expression. “Maybe howling bats?”

“I hear them sometimes,” you say, “but I don’t stick around after dark.” Ivan and Marie exchange dark looks. You fidget on the rock. “What?”

“This is protected land, Isla,” Marie says. She purses her lips. “No demons should be south of those hills.”

“What other types have you seen?” Ivan asks again. He comes to squat by you so he can look you in the eyes. “And when?”

“Just horned rabbits.”

“Are you sure?” Marie asks. She runs a hand over her hair, slicking back the fly aways. “Horned rabbits aren’t usually sighted alone.”

You hesitate. It’s true that the horned rabbits are the only demons you’ve seen, but… “There have been some signs lately, but I don’t know if they’re demons.”

Ivan’s eyes sharpen. “What?”

“Wolves,” you say. Both Bahrs stiffen, hands going to their swords. You speak quickly. “But I’ve never seen them! They might be regular wolves. I found the tracks at the base of the hill, and some bones, but they were a week old probably.”

“We’ll need to ask the Lord to investigate,” Marie tells Ivan. She looks deeply unhappy. “The patrol doesn’t cover this far south.”

“An oversight,” Ivan says grimly. He reaches out absently and ruffles your hair. It startles you, but it feels nice. Ivan makes an effort to smile at you. “Good eyes, Isla. Is there anything else you’ve noticed changing in the forest lately? Even something not demon related?”

Something funny is happening in your chest. Good eyes, Isla. You wrack your brain for anything else. “I haven’t seen any other tracks or anything and there’s only been four or five horned rabbits this season.”

Marie makes a small noise in her throat. When you turn to look at her, she hides whatever expression she’d been making. “That’s a lot. Did you need to use your sharp stick on all of them?”

Ivan startles. “Sharp stick?”

You rub the back of you neck. “Just two.” You look up at the sky. You only had a sharp stick that day, but there are times when you’ve come out here with a knife. Knife days are for when you’re looking for bigger game.  “I’ve been pretty lucky hunting lately, now that I think about it. There’s been more deer and regular rabbits south of the river.”

“What do you mean ‘lately?’”

“The past month.”

Ivan and Marie exchange another long look. Before you can ask them what’s wrong, Ivan turns to you with another smile.

“Say,” he says, “what do you think about trying to bag something bigger than a squirrel today? You ever fire a bow before?”

Your eyes widen. “No.”

“You can use mine,” Marie says, pulling it from her shoulder. She holds it out to you. “We’re nearly the same height. The draw may be a bit heavy for you—or not.”

Embarrassed by the shock in her voice, you release the string. “I’m, uh, stronger than I look.”

“Good,” Ivan says. “That’ll make it easier to actually catch something today.”

The next few hours are the most fun you’ve ever had in the woods. Marie and Ivan go over every part of the bow with you, explaining the weight of it, the flexibility, the length. Marie and Ivan carry several different types of arrows with different tips, all good for different types of shooting. They let you practice on a tree across the river and each time you’re closer to hitting the center of it, they compliment how fast you’re learning, how accurate your eye, how steady and consistent your draw.

By the time they let you hunt with it, you feel like you’re walking on clouds.

The feeling lasts even after you return to the orphanage, a deer slung over Marie’s shoulders and your hands full of squirrel. There’s a pleasant ache in your back and arms from practicing with the bow. You can’t stop smiling. Everything Ivan says is out of the blue and Marie’s tired responses make it all funny.

At one point you’re walking behind them, watching their shoulders brush when the path gets a little too narrow. They’re smiling at each other and talking softly and for a wild, wonderful, awful moment, you imagine that you can keep this. You aren’t sure what this is. Their attention and their companionship, their gentle guidance and the way they speak to you like you’re an adult?

After Hera’s birthday dinner, the Bahrs stay extra late to help clean up and to spend time with the younger kids. You are still feeling a sort of bone deep happiness you’ve never felt before. Everyone is full and sleepy-eyed from the amount of food you were able to put on the table. The kids gather around their slates in the common area, learning a new type of drawing game from Ivan and Marie.

Hera comes up to where you’re leaning on the doorway. Quietly, she slips her hand into yours. You squeeze it.

“Thanks for the squirrel,” she says quietly.

You lean down and press a kiss to the top of her head. “Happy Birthday.”

She hums and watches the fun in the living room for a long moment. She’s eleven now, three years older than you were that Winter. She’s the second oldest in the orphanage and, for the first time, you wonder if she feels the same sort of responsibility as you.

“I’m happy for you, you know,” Hera says.

You make a low questioning noise in your throat.

“The Bahrs will be good to you,” Hera says. She looks up at you evenly, a small smile tucked into the corner of her mouth. “You deserve that, Isla.”

Every muscle in your chest locks, chasing away the pleasant languidness you’d been feeling. “That’s not—they’re not—”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Hera says. She stands on tiptoe so she can throw her arms around your shoulders, hugging you like she did when she was five. She whispers in your ear, “But I would be happy if they did.”

She lets go of you before you can tell her she’s being ridiculous, skipping into the room to join the drawing game.

You feel out of sorts for the rest of the night.

-----------------------.

(part 1) (part 3)

Thanks for reading! The full story is already posted on my Patreon (X)! If you'd like to support me, please consider checking out my page!

This month will be seeing two main things update on Patreon first: Dandelion (x) and my Cinderella story (masterpost coming soon!) updates for both coming later this week!

[steddiehyperfixation]

don't you forget about me (steddie fic)

saw this post and was inspired to write something angsty <3

The first thing Eddie is aware of when he wakes up, before he even opens his eyes, is the dull, aching pain throbbing through pretty much his entire body. The second thing he’s aware of is that someone is holding his hand. 

“Eddie?” The hand in his tightens its grip as Eddie begins to stir; the voice it presumably belongs to sounds immeasurably relieved, yet only vaguely familiar. 

Eddie groans. His eyelids flutter, blinking awake, and he groggily rolls his head to the side to get a look at whoever had spoken. 

The voice sighs again, “Oh thank god-” 

“Harrington?” Eddie’s eyes fly open wide now as they land on the mystery man sitting beside him on the edge of the bed - a man he most definitely is not close enough with to be holding his hand, and a bed that is most definitely not his own. He snatches his hand away. “What the hell are you doing? Where am I?”

“Ed-” Another man’s voice, this one just as relieved and infinitely more familiar. It fills Eddie with relief too as he looks to his other side to find his uncle Wayne rising from a nearby chair to come up next to him. 

“Wayne, what-?” His surroundings are becoming more clear. “What happened? Why am I in a hospital? And why the fuck is King Steve at my bedside?” Eddie tries to sit up only to gasp and wince in pain as the dull ache in his sides sharpens to near agony at the movement. 

“Take it easy, son.” Wayne’s hand lands on his shoulder, gently but firmly pushing him back down onto the pillows. “You were hurt real bad.” 

“Yeah, I got that,” Eddie grumbles out. He sucks in a deep, intentional breath and exhales slowly, the pain beginning to dull again now that he’s settled. His questions are still largely unanswered, though. Blank mind reaching desperately for any logical piece to this bizarre puzzle, he turns an accusing glare to Harrington. “Did you land me in here? Is that why you’re here, some sort of weird guilt thing?” 

Harrington’s looking at him like a kicked puppy. “What? No, I-” he falters, takes a shaky breath and swallows painfully like he’s trying not to cry. “You don’t remember?” 

“I don’t remember what? Will someone just tell me what happened?” Eddie’s confusion is rising more and more into agitation with every second he remains without an explanation. 

“What’s the last thing you remember?” Harrington asks quietly.

“I was driving home from school, just found out I wasn’t gonna graduate again.” Eddie frowns as he thinks back, still trying to put pieces together. “Did I crash my car? Is that it? I was emotional and not paying attention and got into an accident?” 

Yet again, he receives no answers. 

“Eddie, what month is it?” Wayne asks instead, his tone dangerously measured and serious. “What year?” 

“May…” Eddie says warily, “1985.”

His words hold a weight he doesn’t understand, landing heavy on the others in the room and thickening the air. It sends a chill of dread down his spine, the way his answer etches concern deep into the lines of Wayne’s face, the way Steve Harrington seems to take it like a blow to the chest. 

Harrington exhales sharply as if he’s been punched, standing abruptly and taking a few stumbling steps back. Wayne says, “It’s April of ‘86, Ed.”

Eddie’s blood runs cold. “No. No, it can’t be.” 

“I’m gonna go tell the nurse you’re awake,” Harrington mumbles, his voice strained and his eyes glassy with barely held-back tears. 

“I’ll go,” Wayne offers, pushing himself away from Eddie’s bed. He gives Harrington a meaningful look, though what that meaning is, Eddie can’t decipher. 

Harrington turns his devastated gaze to the older man. “But, Wayne, he doesn’t-” 

“I know, kid.” Wayne gives a sad smile and places a sympathetic hand on Harrington’s shoulder as he passes by. “Just talk to him.” 

Eddie is thrown off by this familiarity between them. Since when were those two close? He feels like he’s entered some sort of parallel universe where everything is just ever so slightly wrong. It leaves an itch beneath his skin, uncomfortable and out of place, like he no longer quite fits in his own body, in his own life. He’s lost 11 months, apparently, and this world is no longer his; he doesn’t know where he fits into it anymore. 

Wayne leaves the room, and Eddie wants to protest: Don’t leave me here with this guy I don’t know in this time I don’t know, please, you’re the only thing that feels safe and familiar! Anxiety is crawling through him like a thousand tiny bugs in his veins. He wants to scream, he wants to cry, he wants to run. Anything to shake this feeling loose. But he’s confined to this bed, trapped both by his pain and by all these machines he’s hooked up to, and he sure as shit isn’t going to have a breakdown in front of Steve goddamn Harrington. 

Instead, Eddie resigns himself to this situation and casts a sideways glance at Harrington who very much looks like he’s also trying not to have a breakdown. “I’m freaking out, man,” Eddie says finally, hating how shaky and pathetic his voice sounds. “I swear to god, Harrington, if you don’t tell me what the hell is going on…” 

Harrington worries his lip between his teeth as he hesitates. “It’s a lot to explain.” 

“Yeah, I bet,” Eddie scoffs out a humorless laugh. “I’m missing nearly an entire year, of course it’s a lot to fill in. Unless I’ve been here this whole time?” 

“No.” Harrington shakes his head. “No, you’ve only been here about a week. I- I don’t know why you’re missing so much time, the whole Vecna thing only started like a week before that-” 

“Vecna?” Eddie interrupts to question. “What does any of this have to do with the D&D campaign I was planning? And, also, how the fuck do you know about that?” 

Harrington closes his eyes for a second and takes a breath, like having this conversation is the most painful thing he’s ever had to do. “I’m not talking about D&D, Ed. Vecna was a real-life monster from a real-life alternate dimension we called the Upside-Down. The kids only called him Vecna because we didn’t know who he was at the time and he, like, cursed people before he killed them, but he was actually Henry Creel, which is a whole other fucked up story.”

“Okay…” Eddie doesn’t know who ‘the kids’ are and he’s skeptical of the way Harrington talks so factually about monsters and dimensions and curses existing in the real world, but he does remember his uncle telling him stories about the demonic tragedy of the Creel family, which is the only thing that makes any of this even halfway believable. It still doesn’t explain how Eddie wound up in the hospital with his entire body feeling like it’d been run through a blender, though, or why the former king of Hawkin’s High was hovering over his sickbed. He gestures for Harrington to continue. 

“I never wanted you to get involved in all this Upside-Down shit,” Harrington’s voice breaks. He steps closer to Eddie’s bed again, and he looks so so sad as he stares down at him that it makes Eddie’s own heart ache, just a little bit. Harrington’s hand twitches at his side as if he means to reach out for Eddie but then thinks better of it, running the hand through his hair instead as he continues, “I tried to keep you from it for so long, I really did, but then Vecna killed Chrissy in your trailer and the whole town blamed you and you were just a part of things then, there was no getting around it. You helped us fight him - Vecna. You kept his army of bats off our ass while we weakened his body and El weakened his mind. If it weren’t for you we never would’ve defeated him and we certainly wouldn’t have all made it out alive.” Harrington’s gaze softens, as does his voice, his next words almost a whisper, “You were a hero, Eddie.” 

“That doesn’t sound like me,” Eddie says, like that’s the least plausible part of Harrington’s story. And, really, it is. He can wrap his mind around a lot of things: a murder in his trailer - sure, Forest Hills always was a shady place; the whole town accusing him of being a killer - yeah, of course, that tracks; even an evil wizard from another dimension with an army of bats - fine, okay, why the hell not. But Eddie Munson is no hero, and he’s definitely not any sort of fighter either.

“No, you never did think so, did you?” Harrington mutters with a sad sort of fondness and the barest trace of a wistful smile. “But it’s true. Dustin was in danger and you didn’t even think twice. You ran right into the fray without a second thought, sacrificed yourself so that the rest of us might survive. Those bats nearly killed you, b-” he breaks, choking on whatever word he was going to say. His eyes swim with yet more unshed tears. “I almost thought they had killed you, you know. I thought you were dead when I carried you out of the Upside-Down,” he admits shakily, choked up and barely managed, “and even when I brought you here and you were stable, I was still so scared you wouldn’t wake up…” 

Eddie doesn’t know how to react to any of that information or to such a display of emotion. His own hands twitch now with the urge to reach out and comfort him, but he too denies that instinct. He tries for humor instead, something lighter, cracking a grin and teasing, “Aw, Stevie, I didn’t know you cared.” 

Harrington makes a sound halfway between a sob and a laugh. “Oh, Ed, you have no idea.” 

“We were friends then, weren’t we?” Eddie guesses now, carefully. It’s rapidly becoming the only possible explanation for the guy’s behavior around him. “Before all the Vecna stuff?”

“Yeah,” Harrington manages, forcing a small, sad smile as his eyes finally overflow and streak his cheeks with tears. “Yeah, we were good friends.” 

~

Wayne reenters the room then with a nurse in tow, and Steve quickly turns away and rubs his hands over his face. He needs to pull himself together; he can’t break down right now, not yet, not here. 

He listens, distantly, as the nurse asks Eddie a bunch of questions and then tells the rest of them that she needs to take him in for some tests to determine the cause and prognosis of Eddie’s amnesia. He watches, numbly, as she wheels Eddie’s entire bed out of the room. 

Steve can barely hear, barely see, his emotion clouding his eyes and roaring in his ears. He stares blankly through the open doorway and struggles to swallow down the ever-rising lump in his throat. 

Wayne’s voice rumbles from somewhere beside him, but he can’t quite make out the words. “What?” 

“I’ll take that as a no, then,” Wayne says, the sound reaching Steve’s ears a little clearer now. “I asked if you were alright.” 

Steve shakes his head. His voice comes out coarse and raw, “‘Course I’m not alright.” 

“Right, ‘course you’re not,” Wayne echoes. He follows Steve’s mournful gaze to the door Eddie had disappeared through. “What did you tell him?” 

“Told him he was a hero,” Steve croaks, “...and that we were good friends.”

“Ah…” Steve’s vision is so blurred behind a thick layer of tears he can’t see the sympathetic frown on the old man’s face, but he knows it’s there. “At least he’s alive, kid,” Wayne tries to be comforting. “You can always start over.” 

“Yeah, I know, but I don’t- I don’t want to start over, I just want-” Steve chokes back a sob. He just wants Eddie.

It’s a horrible thought, but Steve almost thinks that this just might be worse than if Eddie really had died… Because how is Steve supposed to handle the fact that his boyfriend of 9 months no longer knows him? How is he supposed to cope now that the love of his life looks right at him and no longer sees him?

He closes his eyes, presses the heels of his palms into his eyelids, inhaling a shaky breath and exhaling an even shakier sigh. Steve whispers, “It feels like I’m losing him all over again.” 

(part two is here!)

(also on ao3)

[a-writing-otter]

WIP Wednesday

“I can’t believe you fucked that old man.”

Bill’s head snaps up so quickly from where it was inside of the air duct that he smacks it on the metal internals. When he reappears cursing and rubbing at his head, there’s dust bunnies in his hair and clinging to his eyelashes.

“You can’t believe I what?”

“You fucked that old man,” Red repeats, feet up on the counter as she lazily reads something called “Lumberjack Layabouts Weekly.”

“I—“ And Bill lets out a grunt as he comes down from the ladder to slam his hands on the counter and lean into her space. The action does little to phase her other than make her look up.

“Neither of those things are right!”

Red takes a second to turn the page of her magazine, but doesn’t look away from Bill.

“That’s not what I heard.”

Bill’s eyes roll back into his skull for a second. He thinks of what he was told to do both by the therapium and Question Mark’s fiancée: deep breaths in and deep breaths out, count to ten, don’t visualize throttling them no matter how fucking annoying these fleshbags are.

“First of all, I’m older than him,” he begins, like that’s the important part.

“You don’t look it.”

“That’s because I take good care of myself.” Which is only partially true.

When the Axolotl and the entire therapism decided Bill’s methods of rehabilitation weren’t working, they’d sent him here. To hell.

…to earth.

Stripped of his powers, they’d shoved him into a meat suit that was an “appropriate approximation of his natural form” (Bill resents that statement entirely, but the appearance has grow on him). The dark skin and golden eyes are quite a contrast coupled with the golden hair offset by strays strands of grey or white hair. Melody has helped him figure out how to wash and maintain it, which is far more maintenance than he was expecting after watching Ford for years barely do anything more than occasionally wash it and wake up. Bill’s currently picking dust bunnies out of an individual lock, throwing them into the trashcan by the counter (like hell is he sweeping up in this damned place more than he has to).

He has it on good authority that this is a desirable fleshbag form, both from the open way that people compliment him and the way people stared. …he’s getting used to the staring and has stopped threatening to flay people alive who let their eyes linger too long.

Question Mark calls it progress; Bill calls it not wanting to see that haunted, barely contained disappointment on Melody’s face again. She is simultaneously the kindest and cruelest person he’s met on this plane. In spite of literally everyone’s reservations about Bill being on the same plane as the rest of these humans, she’d been willing to hear him out, offer him accommodations here at the Mystery Shack, and even provide a job if he could behave.

She also detailed to him with a sunshiney smile and no insignificant amount of knife waving that if Bill started anything, anything looking like world domination under her roof, not even the Axolotl would be able to save him.

If nothing else, she’s done more than a little to earn his respect and compliance than anyone else in this entire reality.

So, he’d gotten used to people staring and it doesn’t bother him.

At least, until one particular person started staring.

“Second of all, I didn’t—“ And he looks around, makes sure no hide or hair of thirteen year-old menace can be seen before he continues, “—fuck Sixer.”

Red closes the magazine entirely and shifts to take her feet off the counter and lean on it with her arms folded—this is what she’d wanted to hear.

“I heard Stan caught you two in the bathroom.”

Bill clears his throat and starts back up the ladder to avoid having to look at Red even as he feels something warm in his face.

“Stan doesn’t know what he saw.”

Red lets out a raucous laugh that makes Bill wince and wrinkle his nose as he sticks his head back in the vent to continue clearing it out.

“I heard that you two also got into a fistfight at dinner before that. Weird foreplay, but I can respect it.”

Everyone, mostly Question Mark and Shooting Star, have insisted on family dinners since both sets of Pines twins returned to Gravity Falls. And, somehow, Bill gets lumped into that because he sleeps in the Shack (specifically, the sofa in the living room because everywhere else is off-limits). It’s been three weeks and most everything has been simpatico, Shooting Star was the fastest to warm up after her initial talk too of “unspeakable horrors” she’ll unleash on him if he steps a toe out of line. The fact that he’s powerless seems to make her willing to humor him.

…also something about him looking like a wet rat? And it was a good thing? Bill didn’t ask. Or, rather, he had asked and she brushed him off and because he knew Stanley will flay him alive if he lays a finger on either niece or nephew, he let it go.

Pine Tree has been a lot more hesitant in his behavior, sure, but he’s recently started being in the same room with Bill and musing aloud in ways that Bill knows are directed at him without talking to him. Pine Tree will state something stupid about the state of the town and when Bill corrects him, he’ll scribble it down, go silent, then rinse and repeat.

Stan has been… well, they were avoiding each other without problem. The closest they get to a conversation is when they’re both sitting in the living room after everyone else has gone to bed and before Stan goes to his bed and Bill passes out on the sofa. Their talk is a roundabout back and forth about complaining about what’s on the television and saying there’s “never anything good on”. Occasionally Bill will liken something on the screen to something he’s seen on television in other dimensions, Stan will grunted, and then they go back to silence.

They’ve also worked out a system where they’re allies in their silent agreement to watch The Duchess Approves as long as no one else finds out about it.

…and then there’s Ford.

They haven’t been in the same room as each other outside of dinner even remotely. Bill doesn’t look at him, Ford doesn’t acknowledge him, and it’s fine.

It’s fine.

It doesn’t bother him even a little that Ford won’t even look at him, won’t talk to him. Doesn’t bother him that when Bill does talk, he rolls his eyes. It doesn’t bother him either that Ford gets up every time Bill enters the room even for a moment. It’s not like he cares about the asshole or wants to see him. It’s fine for Bill.

Fine, fine, fine, fine, fine.

And because it is so fine, he’s not sure what exactly caused him to get mouthy with Sixer the night before.

Ford had made some inane comment and Bill couldn’t help but correct him. Over a trillion years in the multiverse, he knows when he’s right about something.

Ford bit back.

And Bill argued against.

It’d devolved into a petty back-and-forth, both of them digging their claws in places it shouldn’t go without caring for the carnage it spread.

It ended when Bill called Ford “my shining star” like this was just a philosophical disagreement thirty-one years prior.

He shouldn’t have done that.

The next thing Bill knew, he and Ford were rolling on the ground, fists flying and snarling at one another. Ford caught him in the nose, Bill punched him in the mouth, both of them scratching and pulling hair like a pair of animals.

It took Stanley and Soos both to pull them apart, both of them still swinging until they were forced to calm down.

After that, Bill had left his unfinished dinner to sit on the roof and wait out everyone else’s dinner. It was only because the blood wouldn’t stop flowing from his nose while the blood on his knuckles had dried uncomfortably to the point he kept accidentally ripping it when he flexed his hand that convinced him to go downstairs.

He’s still figuring out this whole human thing and, yeah, he was fumbling with the tape and his nose was dripping all over everything and he was fighting not to get it on the stupid sweater he got from Shooting Star and—

That’s how Ford found him.

There were no words as he crowded into the small bathroom with him, took off his gloves, and started to doctor Bill.

Neither of them say that there’s something familiar about this, them being together while cleaning up blood and puss and setting bones, usually injuries inflicted on Ford by Bill. There’s probably something funny about the idea of it being the other way around now.

They’re both too tired or embarrassed to say anything for awhile, but then Ford makes an innocuous statement that raises Bill’s hackles and there goes the peace. Then they’re shoving and pushing into a wall, Bill effectively having Ford cornered against it, chest-to-chest, spitting in each other’s faces, and then—

Then they were decidedly not fighting.

“Yeah, well, Fordsy is a know-it-all prick who doesn’t actually know everything,” Bill defends. “He started the fight.”

“That’s not what I heard,” Red replies in a singsong voice.

“And who’s telling you this?!”

“Don’t worry about it.” Red goes quiet for a moment, but he knows she’s still staring at him. “Did you two really make out though?”

Bill is quiet, can’t quite find the words he wants to say about this. Was his tongue in Ford’s mouth? Yes. Were Ford’s hands in his hair? Also yes. Did Stan walk in while Bill’s hand was halfway down the front of Ford’s pants? Regrettably.

“It was a… heat of the moment thing.”

“Wow. I mean, I knew you two were something back then, but I figured you two had, you know, moved past that.”

Bill doesn’t respond for awhile, leaning back to sweep the dust into the garbage bag he’s holding.

“So did I.”

[psychotic-nonsense]

< || >

"Eddie...?"

"I'm sorry. No. Not quite."

"The hell does that mean-" Steve doesn't get to finish. His body reacts on its own again, wanting to surge and face the evil head on. All it does is strain everything in him again, makes him hiss in pain and struggle to remain upright.

The hand that he didn't even realize left returns, and the other holds a wet cloth. It dabs at his forehead, lukewarm and comforting. Everything is as cold as the Upside Down, these days.

"Not important. It really is best that you stay in place." That tone is monotone again, the brief moment of clarity gone. It's back, the... thing using Eddie's voice, his body, his face like an amateur puppeteer. How brutally ironic. "You must heal."

Steve, ever stubborn, bats the hand above him away. It's just a limp wave in his state, but the thing backs off. The hand behind him remains though, surrendering to help Steve find his way up. It's tough, considering how swollen one hand feels and the lingering phantom pains that Steve's body endured but Eddie's did not, but Steve gets himself into a sitting position.

"'Not important,' my ass." Probably not the best threat when Steve hacks up a lung immediately after. The thing doesn't respond, and when Steve faces it again, it's face is painfully blank. Wide, yellow glowing eyes stare at him, a bare hint of white at its center, so utterly familiar yet simultaneously foreign.

"If you're not Eddie, then what are you?" Steve spits, full of emotion compared to the husk beside him. He brings his left hand up to his chest, rubbing softly along the wrist with his other and wincing at the feeling.

The thing takes in a breath, eyes flitting off to the side briefly before returning. Still with that infuriating lack of emotion. "You are not in a good state to have this conversation."

It reaches for Steve's hands with the rag, and he pulls them out of reach. Too quickly, as well, his jaw instinctively clenching with the motion, resulting in an even more embarrassing groan of pain. "You don't know that," Steve forces out.

"I do."

"How so?"

"You are injured, weak. And this is a complicated matter."

"You just don't want to tell me."

"Because it will be too hard for you to hear."

Damn, it's got him there. As much as Steve wants to know, he's not sure he could bear the answer. Everything rubs so raw, everything having happened in such quick succession to him, and he feels like a live wire.

It reaches for his hands again, now frozen on his lap. Steve doesn't fight it, lets it carefully take his hands in its own. "Rest, let yourself calm." The thing says. "Then I will tell you."

Steve, begrudgingly, welcomes the still damp rag it wraps around his swollen hand. Doesn't do more than flinch when it's warm hands begin carefully massaging his through the cloth, thumbs circling around the wrist in a barely there pressure Steve feels in pulsing waves.

He takes the time to study the thing beside him. Human, definitely, an exact replica of Eddie at its core. Same clothes, same hair, all the same from the last time Steve saw Eddie alive. Except this thing glows like a faint light bulb, the light seeming to come from its entire being rather than one place. Steve already knows it's eyes, wide and unfeeling, pure gold but for a pale shape at the center.

Then there's the scars. When Steve last saw Eddie's body, there was a huge gash along it's left cheek, deep and bloody. Now the mark remains, but it glows the same damn bright gold as everything else. No blood, no tears, and this thing seems to have no problem talking with it. He wonders what that means for the wounds that took Eddie.

A slightly stronger pressure is applied to his wrists, and Steve groans again. The hands stop, let him breathe through the pain. Sprained, at best, and the doctors lingering around Hawkins have more to deal with than one possibly broken bone.

They've been sitting in silence for who knows how long now, the rag in their shared hands already cooling. The massage and quiet have done their job for Steve's brain, allowing him to come down from the panic. He's still pretty raw, but he no longer feels so in danger.

"Can I ask you something else then?" he asks carefully, voice raspy and soft.

The thing doesn't respond right away, and doesn't look up when it answers. "Yes."

"Where'd you get hot water from?"

It almost seems to relax at the question, as if it was expecting a different one. It still hasn't moved, still cradling Steve's hand. "Your bags had water and matches. This place had pots, and we are in the woods."

Fair enough, Steve supposes. "Why bother? Water is water."

"It is cold, and you are weak. We assumed the heat would help."

There it goes with the 'we' thing. It referred to itself that way earlier too. But Steve knows he should be wary with what he asks, so he ignores it for now, in place of something far more important.

"Is Robin okay?" His voice cracks a little there. Neither of them talk much louder than a whisper, but Steve still glances over at his best friend. She remains asleep, unmoving in every place but the one that matters.

"You both have similar injuries. You have woken, so she will too. She will be okay."

Steve sighs, put more at ease by that than he thought he'd be. Yet the response only creates more questions. He gently pulls his hand away, turning back to face the thing beside him. It does the same. Confusion to blankness.

"How'd you find us?" Steve asks slowly.

It blinks in response, pausing. "I found you in the Other woods." It says 'other' like it's a title. "I don't know what happened to you."

"Why did you bring us here?"

"It was empty. Close to the Gates."

Steve's coming up on the point of no return. He can feel it. He doesn't ask the more obvious, important question, but he can't stop himself from toeing that invisible line. "Why take us in at all?"

The thing finally shows its first sign of emotion in a while, eyebrows furrowing just slightly. Guilty again. "This is your home. You weren't safe there."

They stare at each other for a while after that. Steve holds back every impossible question he has. It watches him, face falling just a tiny bit more, waiting for him to break.

Steve cracks. His voice shakes, fighting to keep himself in control. To stay calm enough so he can finally get answers. "You apologized for bringing us... here earlier. How did you even know about that- about any of this? The boathouse, the medical supplies, how to start a fire. What-" He stops himself before he goes too far.

Its eyes search his expression, flitting between the injuries across his face. Still just the barest hint of guilt in the slight furrow of his eyebrows. Eyes still wide and inhuman. "I was told."

Steve doesn't ask, 'By who?' Doesn't let it come out in the desperate wail it wants to. Because he already knows. So he gives that plea to another question, puts as much emotion into the pathetic whisper that slips past his injured jaw.

And he breaks. "What are you?"

[shady-tavern]

Preview for "Paint the Town"

(warnings ahead for semi-graphic violence, mentioned and implied death, as well as implied suicidal ideation of a side character, please be sure to take care of yourselves)

*.*.*

Part One: Woe to the People of Order

Cameras flashed to a blinding degree, journalists cramped together in numerous seats, leaning forward like a hungry sea, wanting to drag all the heroes within sight under the surface. To peel back every layer until they could unearth secrets and unspoken thoughts, all the things they could use for their next headline, their next big hit to sell millions of papers to impressionable people. 

To people who wanted to see heroes fall as much as they wanted to see them rise.

'The press is not your friend', Olivia's mentor had told her on her first day as a sidekick, the two of them getting ready for their first patrol. She remembered that she had been so nervous her mentor had to help her into her gear. 'Never make the mistake of thinking otherwise. Failure is more delicious to them than success.'

It was one of three lessons that had saved Olivia's hide more times than she could count. Journalists and paparazzi could be quite charming, quite friendly, they had different tactics for different heroes, trying to weasel statements or just a wayward word out of them. Even a hero's silence was something to be used.

They wanted anything and everything they could use in an article, even if they took things fully out of context. Even if they hounded tired and exhausted and often hurt heroes into having outbursts that later made them look unstable and aggressive to the public eye.

Inevitably, there would always be an official apology issued by the hero and their PR manager. Promises to be better and apologies that were not always necessary, gifted to a public that was as mercurial as a bored god looking for entertainment. Or like a hungry, petty little beast that delighted in seeing people struggle in order to make their own, messy lives look prettier.

'I would never make that mistake', they'd say, like they were better, like they didn't have bad days. Mean days. Terrible days. 'You'd really think someone in the public eye had thicker skin.'

Olivia was a little slumped back in her chair, knowing she was only here to show her face since PR was going to do their level best to ensure she would not have to open her mouth. She had made them regret signing her up for interviews until they had stopped, but they couldn't keep her out of the public either.

Not when she was the Number One of the heroes.

One of the younger, rising heroes beside her was downright shining with the attention of the press and his eagerness to do well, to inspire others and promise that he was going to do his best to keep everyone safe.

The press was eating it up. They loved a shiny new star they could polish up, only to later decide just what to do with that shine. Tarnish it? Put pressure on it until it dimmed and vanished? Or were they going to watch it crack under the pressure, shattering into so many pieces not even a champion puzzler could put it back together?

Another journalist was called on for a question and considering the way the guy turned to Olivia, she could tell immediately that he was going to direct his question at her. 

Journalists did that sometimes, going against previous agreements about sticking to certain questions and scripts, to certain heroes, just to speak to her and while asking her anything got them kicked out, they usually left with a new headline in their pocket.

She lived to serve the people, after all, didn't she?

"Rescue," the man said and Olivia saw the PR agent downright lunge for one of the microphones in front of the group of heroes to interrupt, but she was a tad too slow. "Do you have any advice for young and aspiring heroes?"

A rather innocent question and Olivia saw the agent pause, thinking it harmless enough. Olivia was more than aware of the other heroes glancing at her, the older ones with quelling glances and the young and energetic ones eager and hopeful.

The young heroes wanted tips on how to rise, on how to be better. They wanted to soak up the shine they thought she had, as if it hadn't dimmed and cracked and grown ugly and tarnished along the edges over the years. They wanted to be like her.

She had been like that once and while a part of her hesitated, years old but child-young at its heart, she had long since stopped being soft. Had stopped being...kind.

"Get ready to bury your friends," she answered, calm and hard and true and the PR agent reached for her microphone again with a subtle motion for her to stop, but Olivia continued, "Don't let the glam fool you, villains will do their best to break you."

"I'm afraid that's all the time we have today," the agent spoke up, gripping the microphone tighter. "Please turn to Sunshine for a parting bit of wisdom!"

Sunshine was one of the oldest heroes in the business and Olivia knew of the pills he had to swallow on a daily basis to combat his chronic pain from countless injuries sustained in his career and the anxiety attacks he had. 

The agency refused to let him retire, he was still one of their best ones and a great motivator for all the older folk to pursue their dreams – and spend money on the agency. He brought in a generous amount of cash with his hero merch and meet-n-greets.

"To add to what my colleague Rescue mentioned, you never know how long life truly lasts, so live it to your fullest. Pursue your dreams, hug your loved ones and don't forget, no matter the storm and darkness, no matter the strive and pain and fear, the sun will always shine again!"

'Nice save', Olivia couldn't help but think, not bitter or mean, because she liked Sunshine. He was genuinely good, from the tips of his curly hair down to the point of his crooked toes. His very soul was good. He was bright and a little cracked, yes, but shining still. Determined and strong. 

He was made of stronger stuff than she, she thought as she watched him light up the room, the way even the most displeased looking journalists couldn't help but smile at him.

When it came to personality, Sunshine would have long since ousted her from her spot as Number One – he and two others would be great contenders for the position.

Cheers and claps erupted and Olivia didn't bother with the bowing and waving the other heroes did as they rose from their seats. She was a walking PR nightmare and she was determined to remain that way.

For just as much as Sunshine wasn't allowed to retire, neither was she allowed to quit. If the agency didn't let her go and she had to continue to make money for them, fighting battles for them, she was going to make sure they'd regret keeping her on board as much as possible.

The PR agent threw her a viciously displeased look once everyone had gone backstage and Olivia rolled her eyes with as much disdain as she could fit into the motion. 

If the agency didn't want her to say things they didn't agree with, they shouldn't let her attend any public events. Easy as pie. 

They had to occasionally sign her up for interviews though, of course, or there was going to be talk and online spaces in particular had really ramped up the conspiracy theories in recent years. 

People who ran fan pages for heroes had already noticed that she barely said anything anymore, especially compared to when she had first started making a name for herself. 

Rescue used to be a name many people connected with an upbeat, bright hero who had an encouraging word for everyone. Who made people believe in their dreams and a brighter tomorrow.

Olivia had believed the same, before staring down at her best friend's broken body, the spilled blood, the cracked open chest with ribs poking out of skin like a grotesque scene from an over-the-top halloween movie full of gore.

She had believed it, still, right up until her other best friend had died clutching to her hand, panicked and desperate, getting crushed by the building on top of him, begging her in breathless wheezes to help him. To save him.

She dreamed of them and of Owl, her one and only sidekick, who had brought so much light back into her life, only to dangle from a villain's grasp, neck at an odd angle. He hadn't even graduated high school, he had come to work with her for the summer, hoping to become a hero once he was done with school the next year.

They had all been good and kind. Had all wanted to make the world better. But villains were relentless monsters who hunted anything bright and glowing until they could destroy it.

Olivia was about to leave with the other heroes when an alarm blared from her special watch, the little screen at her wrist lighting up with a location, the color behind the black text a bright red.

Only Sunshine's wristwatch lit up too, which let her know that a rather dangerous villain was causing trouble and they were the only two nearby who were qualified enough to deal with that person swiftly. They exchanged a quick glance and Olivia motioned that she'd take over.

Sunshine hesitated, then inclined his head. He was more than capable of going on his own, but Olivia knew that his granddaughter was visiting today. He had promised to look after the little girl for the weekend so his son and daughter-in-law could go on a little holiday. 

He had been looking forward to that for weeks now, a soft smile on his face that she hadn't seen in years.

She knew he'd have to force his family to wait if he went to battle now. He'd have to delay their plans while he wanted nothing more than to be there for his loved ones. To not disappoint them.

Olivia on the other hand had no such obligations. No pets or partners or children and her parents lived on the other side of the country, so she only saw them once or twice a year when she got her mandated time off.

She rushed to the address displayed on the wristwatch, to the location of the hero who had requested help. When she arrived she saw injured civilians dragged off to the side and trying to crawl further away, blood splattered across cracked pavement.

Alarms blared overhead, an automated and crisply pronounced voice, telling everyone to evacuate in a calm and orderly manner.

The entire street looked as though it had gotten hit by a very localized earthquake. Parts of the ground jutted up in sharp shards and broken chunks, all the windows in the surrounding houses were shattered and one smaller building stood visibly crooked, like it might collapse at any moment. 

Her surroundings looked like an unrealistic movie scene from an action flick.

There were only a handful of villains with ground-based powers and even fewer dangerous enough that she got an alert. People around her sagged with relief as she showed up, slumping as though they knew that they were safe now.

Back before she had buried her friends and sidekick, before she had clawed her way through battle after battle, crying and desperate and hurting because the villains just wouldn't stop, she would have arrived with a big smile. She would have told everyone that she was here now and that they were safe. To leave it up to her.

"Call an ambulance and try to get out of here if you can move," she instructed sharply, raising her voice to be heard over the blaring sirens. "Help others if you can."

That was the moment her colleague flew across the street, slamming into a car with enough force it dented metal and shattered glass and she knew immediately they weren't getting back up. Insignia did not have an enhanced metabolism and if their spine wasn't broken from this, Olivia would eat an entire broom.

Her powers prickled under her skin as she stepped forward, reaching over to briefly press the other button on Insignia's wristwatch, requesting immediate extraction and medical help.

"Don't move," she instructed and looked up just in time to see Colossus appear, the hulking, rather new and powerful villain stopping in his tracks upon spotting her. She gave Insignia's wrist a tiny, hopefully comforting pat. "Be right back."

Colossus moved to drag up a chunk of the earth and asphalt to shield himself, but he wasn't fast enough. 

Olivia's abilities were deemed one of the best among the heroes – and one of the hardest to train. Whatever powers her opponent had, hers changed to be their perfect opposition. 

It also meant, however, that she had to improvise on the spot when she met a villain for the first time. Figuring out how to use what abilities she had been saddled with to win often ended in extremely sloppy fights that made people question regularly why she was even considered Number One.

If her enemy had no powers to speak of, if they used technology or sheer combat skills and smarts, she could only hope that she had enough hand-to-hand training to make it.

Olivia was a trained hero, heroes were meant to protect life first and foremost, even those of villains. Heroes were meant to be the good guys after all. They were supposed to represent kindness and integrity and second chances and hope.

But Olivia had buried her friends one time too many, had once stood surrounded by dead civilians, the villain responsible taunting her while the air had been thick with the stench of blood and feces and death.

She had been told she could not leave the industry if she didn't want to be saddled with a massive amount of debt when she decided that she was done with it all. That she wanted to go home for good.

Funny how the agency never told heroes and sidekicks that any and all property damage they caused in fights, fights they could not avoid, would only be taken care of by said agency as long as they kept working for them. If she left, they'd hand her the bills.

Olivia had gotten hurt over and over by villains, had watched others get hurt over and over and she was just done with everything. If people wanted a hero like they existed in storybooks and bright, sparkly ads, she was not the person to look to for that. Not anymore.

She had a street of injured civilians to defend and a colleague unable to move, badly injured and most likely in need of immediate emergency surgery. This villain was not getting back up once she was done with him, no matter how much she'd look like a villain herself later on the news.

Colossus clearly had had a grand old time tossing an under-qualified hero around, as well as injuring helpless civilians. Nothing new here and Olivia didn't bother to hold back.

She had, once upon a time, done her best to avoid injuring villains beyond knocking them out, but when ground-pulverizing powers rose to her fingertips now, she focused on packing as much as she could into every hit.

Colossus and she had clashed once before and he had gotten away only because she hadn't quite figured out the full scope of the powers she had gotten saddled with when facing him and because he had swiftly collapsed a house on a group of terrified civilians.

Villains were nothing but a scourge of the earth.

This time, Olivia knew what she was working with and most importantly, who she was dealing with and the lengths he was willing to go to in order to win or escape.

It was clear he had expected the same slap-dash, somewhat sloppy fight from last time.

It took two hits before he was on the ground, visibly reeling, struggling and failing to sit up again. Other heroes would stop here. They were, in fact, instructed and trained to. To stop when the enemy was down and apprehend them instead. To be better than villains.

But Olivia knew how much the prison facilities struggled to contain people with superpowers, how often they escaped, especially when other villains attacked the place.

There had once been a time when Olivia had thought it didn't matter, that second chances were all the rage. She was done with that, just like she was done with fighting people over and over again because they kept escaping.

She was done with arriving at ongoing fights to find weeping and bleeding and at times dead civilians and even heroes.

Olivia raised her leg just as Colossus turned over on his hands and knees to try and get up, bringing her foot down on his back with a flare of her powers. There was no noise from his throat, not when she heard the sound his spine and ribs made and he fell still, only his chest moving in little gasping breaths. 

He would never again get back up, not after that hit and that was all that mattered at the end of the day. No more hurt civilians, no more broken colleagues. One less evil, permanently removed.

A sudden tingle raced across her skin and she flared her powers slightly, the ground-crushing sensation from before shifting to make her feel like gravity changed its course. Her gaze snapped up, just as the sky grew a deep, dark red, lightning flashing across it.

Floating above her, having managed to sneak up on her, was The End. A villain only three heroes were capable of fighting, herself included. Fuck.

Olivia didn't waste a second, letting the new power coursing under her skin flare out. She could never waste so much as a split second when faced with The End. The grip of gravity shifted within a heartbeat, like the snap of massive fingers, the noise of it cracking through the air. Just in time to slow the descend of The End's meteors and forcing them to a glowing stop right above the skyscrapers of the city.

It felt like her bones were made of metal and at the same time, as though she weighed nothing at all. She felt as though she was as liable to find herself crushed to the ground by the entire universe as she was to float away like a speck of dust on the wind.

"Little Rescue, ruiner of lives," The End shouted, fury making his voice sound like a guttural snarl as he pushed back against her powers, the sky growing darker still. 

Olivia was faintly aware of people screaming in panic behind her, ahead of her, as civilians ran for their lives. Others crawled for their lives, legs broken or bleeding from wounds inflicted by Colossus that needed immediate treatment. 

Treatment they wouldn't get, for ambulances were not allowed near active fight zones and the specialized removal teams were only sent out for severely injured heroes, not civilians. Too many paramedics had lost their lives or use of their limbs when they had gotten caught in battles.

Not that The End cared, of course. Villains never did.

Colossus at her feet was breathing in high-pitched, panting little wheezes, his body utterly unmoving.

The End had always kept his distance, but today he descended when he couldn't force his meteors further, slamming into the ground before her, his meteors crumbling to nothing and lightning started to flash like a thousand storms were getting unloading at once. 

Olivia hurriedly dodged his fist, the air around her heavy and vibrating all at once as Gravity and Space started to clash.

"What a joke this world is," The End growled. "For a monster like you to be seen as good."

"And what a joke," Olivia growled right back, dark anger and fury beating in her veins in tandem with her heart. If she could take down The End, the city would be safer for it. "That you were born."

The End's next punch was heavy with the power of impacting meteors and the empty coldness of space, lightning crackling between like a hungry beast. He laughed, brief and hard and hateful and he snarled, "Well, if you want to act like a hero, then die like one."

He unleashed his powers, nearly forcing her to her knees and she felt the pain of something cracking within her left arm.

The End was ruthless, but so was Olivia, she was sure their faces looked the same under their masks, teeth bared and sweat sliding down brows as they traded blows, booms making the ground shake. The already crooked building toppled entirely and cars got crushed against walls, street lights bending and twisting like they were made of cheap plastic.

Only when Portalia showed up did Olivia realize what The End was doing. Getting her away from his colleague Colossus so someone could save him, while doing his level best to take her out for good. 

She had no idea if he would actually murder her, the deaths he caused had always been indirect, a consequence of his powers laying waste, but that didn't mean much. Not when she knew how badly he could and would hurt her if she was just a split second too slow.

He had been training, however, moving just that tiny fraction of a moment faster than she did. For the first time, as his fingertips grazed the side of her mask, half of it shattered and she jerked back in startled alarm.

"Shit, End!" Portalia shouted in that second. "He's dead weight, get over here!"

Olivia lunged just as The End stepped back, but he had counted on that, ducking and shifting his weight and the next second his foot hit her chest with the power of a truck, sending her flying. She managed to use the powers his presence granted just in time to avoid an impact that would have left her in the ICU.

The next second, with a soundless snap, the powers were gone, as were the villains, leaving behind a thoroughly ruined street, weeping civilians and an unmoving hero. Olivia caught herself against a wall, pain crackling through her like fireworks, but she bit back a whimper and straightened to dig out a backup mask before she helped the civilians.

At least no one had died and Colossus might be out of the business for good.

*.*.*

Full story will be out on Friday the 16th of August. For all those impatient, you can find the full story on my patreon.

[stxrrynxghts]

Ever since he was a child, Abhimanyu has seen the way his uncle looks at his wives. And he has never understood that look. Ever.

Krishna looks at his wives as if they are his entire world. As if they are the light in his eyes, the blood flowing in his veins, the air he was breathing.

As if their existence kept him alive.

Once, he does ask Mama Krishna about it. Abhimanyu remembers Krishna staring down at him, a smile spreading across his features, as he ruffles his hair.

"Why, Abhi, you will understand when you get older." Is the cheeky answer he gets in return.

Now, Abhimanyu has turned nineteen, almost a man, yet he doesn't understand. He doesn't understand how someone can treat their wife as if she is their goddess, the source of their being. Honestly, it is beyond his comprehension.

And the women are no less either. They treat their husbands with affection and love that is beyond Abhimanyu's comprehension. He hasn't understood any of this ever, and he doesn't think he will.

He meets Uttara, and finally, Krishna Mama's words uttered a decade ago finally start making sense.

[psychomusic]

here is tar'x laran!!

he is a cipher agent, husband of suri sauthon, and father of vegoia. (he's technically my swtor character but I've decided to use him as a fully mine oc, giving him a completely different story and even biology soo he's not cipher nine)

backstory under the cut! + more of his biology and culture in the notes of the ugly second pic

tar'x laran was born on the harsh planet of iritran, one of the earliest colony world of iridonia. as the little world (almost as big as a moon) didn't have much to offer, and had a pretty rough environment, those first colonizers were left stranded, they then evolved into a subspecies, and then were found again thousands of years later by some falleens, member of the black sun. they quickly made an outpost there, to better disguise their illegal trades on ord mantell, but with their growing arrogance and power, and the diminishing of their need to hide, iritran officially became colony of the falleens.

his parents belonged to the mercenary class. even if it paid well, and was generally considered an upper class under the black sun's rule, the life of a mercenary was obviously dangerous, and his mother died on the job when he was about 13. his father, instead, had lost the lower half of his legs for the same reason some years prior.

the amounts of credits the couple had earned thanks to their job, though, gave tar'x some time to train before he had to start working to help his family. his father trained him very harshly for a few years, so that he could become an expert mercenary able to provide for his family - now consisting of the two and a younger brother, ram'tha, aged 3.

that was the plan: he'd become a mercenary like his parents, and he would provide for his father and his brother, whom he loved very dearly. it was mainly tar'x who took care of him. ram'tha was a strange kid, too - it's not that their parents didn't love him, or had other business to do, they just weren't naturally as good with him as tar'x was.

ram'tha was a silent kid, he didn't speak a word before age 4 and in a few weeks he started speaking with full, comprehensible sentences, as if he hadn't been completely silent for years before that. he would spend a lot of time going around - or wanting to go around - and for some time, his favorite hobby was "touching new things". tar'x didn't question it and just took him around and watched over him. sometimes he would bring home stuff for him to contemplate. he didn't know what a force sensitive was, yet, and he wouldn't have recognize the force even if it had shown itself through more blatant ways like telekinesis. ram'tha was very good with sensing abilities and was particularly well versed in psychometry, for his age. it was obviously a rougher and raw version of what trained force-users could develop, but it was enough to keep him entertained as a child. tar'x would've understood that a long time later.

the gentless of taking care of him made tar'x life bearable, after his mother's passing and during the harsh training. when the sith came to his town and took him away when he was just 6 years old, he immediately joined the imperial army. his skills as a mercenary made him stand out among the others and he quickly drew the attention of intelligence agents, who recruited him. he began as an informer, spying on criminal syndicates that would hire him as mercenary thanks to his family's reputation.

as he gained experience, his superiors decided to promote him to cipher, and he abandoned his name to become cipher thirteen. he thought that such a position would help him find his brother: without a name that could give away his reasons, and with more intel within hand's reach that any other department in the sith empire.

I'll slowly post some of his most important missions, i already have the one where he met suri in the drafts. i just wanna find some time to quickly sketch something to go with it. I'll link the rest of his story down here after they're posted! (if it doesn't work, he has his own tag)

also! ram'tha is my brother's oc (u can find him at @utskushii-hito), and he made a post about him! go read it!! <3

[labselkie]

why wouldn’t she just have them edit out her tripping is she stupid

[multi-fandom-freaks]

We're in the sky || Remus lupin x reader Pt. 1

Summary- you meet the new DADA teacher..

Warnings- none

It was breezy spring day, you're the astronomy teacher in Hogwarts. you've been working there for 6 years now, it was the most wonderful place to work, you were also head of the ravenclaw house and had been for two years now.

------

You're sitting at the great hall in between Hagrid and Minerva. Dumbledore steps up to the pedestal. He drones on for a bit with his nonsense, talking about the dementors, extra safety precautions and the new defense against the dark arts teacher, you eat your food, casually talking to Minerva about the dementors.

"they won't effect anything will they?" You ask while taking a sip of your drink.

"no no, Dumbledore would have the ministries head if they did" she says.

"they're scary creatures" you say, trying to keep the conversation going.

"real nasty things" you hear a voice you had never heard before behind you, you turn your head to see the new teacher standing behind you. "Sorry for interrupting" he passes by and walks over to Dumbledore.

"odd" you mumble.

------

The next day while all the kids were out in hogsmade you went on a little walk on the bridge, you were looking down at your book so you didn't notice when there was a man in front of you who was looking off in the distance, you walk right into him, the smell of old books filling your nose.

"I'm so sorry!!" You start, then you look up and it's the new teacher, professor Lupin.

"oh, no it's alright" he reaches his hand out and you take it, letting him help you up. "May help to watch your surroundings when you walk though, darling" he smiles.

"sorry, I was distracted" you apologize again, looking up at him.

"no need to apologize" he reassures, his voice soothing your nerves. You close your book and put it in your messenger bag. "A beautiful view huh?" He muses, looking out at the view of the water.

"yeah, it's very peaceful" you reply softly.

"what's your name darling? I don't think we've properly met." He smiles a little

"Y/n, I teach astronomy" you smile

"that subject always had fascinated me you know" he says, still looking at the view.

"The solar system is quite beautiful" you agree

You both stand there in silence for a little while, just basking in the breeze, the sun and each other's presence.

A/N: sorry this part is short, pt. 2 will be longer, I promise, I'll work on it when I can<3

[moyazaika]

will you appear again before Christmas?🥲

YES HI!!!! WOWEE sorry for being away longer than i intended! estranged family member showed up on my front door after 18 yeARS of no contact?!?!? went to bali and lost my pasSPORT?!?!?! failed my driver's TEST!?!?!?!

#life

[pernesophe]

Arranged Marriage to the Demon Sakuragi

Chapter 1: Move

WC: 6090 Synopsis: You are an American who moved back to Japan to live with your father - Kenzo Asano - after your grandmother passed away. Truthfully, you had started receiving cryptic letters, small messages, and flowers left in places you’d typically be. One thing that remained constant was the signature: “It’s a beautiful day for flowers, isn’t it?” After a few months being back home, your father proposes you marry The Demon of Sakuragi to ease tensions between the two rival clans. You agree, hoping your marriage can create a lasting alliance and peace. How will you manage being wife of The Demon turned babysitter? Can he love you? Can you love him? Will the letters and flowers stop now that you’re in Japan, with a husband who is Yakuza to boot?

MDNI TW: angst, stalking, general fear / paranoia, multiple character deaths mentioned / grief, slow burn, fluff, eventual smut Ch.1, Ch.2, Ch.3, Ch.4, Ch.5

Life is wonderful, beautiful, and at times perhaps a little grotesque. This is what you have intimately learned over the years, between moving back to America with your mother to help your grandmother care for your ailing grandfather. Days were spent watching TV and listening to his whimsical stories about when he was a boy and how everything was so different now - all the while the room reeked of antiseptic to keep the deadly germs at bay. To the day that your mother’s head cold turned lethal, and a short 24 hours later you were helping your grandmother choose floral arrangements for the wake. You were grateful for your grandmother just as much as she was for you as the two of you poured over the arrangements, and finally decided on Stark White Lilies. Your mother’s favorite. 

This fact was drilled in when you decided to volunteer at the hospital, specifically in the burn ward. It was gruesome, even turned your stomach the way heat and flame could crisp a person like they were flambe. The stench permeated your hair, clothes, and when it wasn’t burnt skin it was the antiseptic that burned your nose - the rubber glove smell that clung to your fingertips. Still, you couldn’t help the wealth of beauty in watching a person burn to almost a husk, and then be put back together again. It was like watching a forest regrow after an inferno tore through the mountainside. 

For some reason you didn’t mind the smell, the sight, or the way some patients would direct their anger at you - all of it felt cleansing to the losses you’d felt up to that point. Because at least they were going home, and you got to facilitate that, like a gardener diligently watering, fertilizing and pruning a dying plant until it could flourish once more.

It took your mind off the fact that your grandfather’s chair has sat empty for years now, since he passed only one short year after your mother, and yet the living room still reeked of antiseptic somehow. Or how you haven’t been able to replace the white lilies on your mother’s grave stone in months, and you weren’t sure when or if you would visit her again. It especially distracted you from the fact that your grandmother was growing older and weaker with each passing day, or how you could almost feel the grief and ensuing loneliness clawing at your ankles with each step you took.

Still, as you looked yourself over in the L hall bathroom mirror just outside the NICU, a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes cut across your face. Twisting the silver band around your thumb that belonged to your grandfather, then you smoothed down your marigold scrubs and exited the bathroom. As you stepped under the fluorescent lights reflected by the shiny bleached floor under your bright, white tennis shoes - one of the nurses called out to you.

“Hey Y/N, look what someone left for you!” Lynn, the brunette nurse with kind mocha eyes, said as she held up an ornate vase filled with stark white lilies, a knowing grin on her face. “Someone has a secret admirer,” she added in a teasing tone with a wiggle of her brow.

A curious expression twisted your face as you crossed to the nursing station, taking the flowers from her. On the tallest one hung a small handwritten card on a string. Without any hesitation, you opened the card to reveal a short message:

“It’s a beautiful day for flowers.”

It was odd to say the least, but you just assumed whoever sent them was maybe a little awkward. Simpering down at the note as a blush crept over your cheeks, you looked back at the nurse with excitement in your eyes.

“Did you see who left them?” You asked her, barely containing your giddiness, while she put on a dramatic scowl before responding. 

“Ugh, I wish! I came back from the bathroom and they were just on the counter. I even asked around if anyone saw who left them, but nobody did.” She said, the disappointment evident in her tone. 

Humming curiously, but you smiled nonetheless, wondering who would think to send you flowers. That night you showed them to your grandmother, to which she was overjoyed for you, but then she asked if white lilies were your favorite. Like your mom. After some thought you disclosed that no, they weren’t your favorite. She had also mentioned that it was odd for a secret admirer to send you lilies, even going as far to ask, “why not roses?”

Of course you had to admit that it was a little odd, not to mention a weird coincidence that they’re the same type of flowers from your mother’s wake and funeral. But you just chocked it up to that - a weird coincidence, and that  maybe your admirer was just socially awkward.

Little did you know that this wouldn’t be the last of the flowers and notes - far from it actually. 

After that day at the hospital, you started receiving flowers with the same message everywhere you went. Some days you’d arrive at your one class at Uni to find an intricate vase housing a plumage of blindingly white lilies. Of course, the girls in your class would ooh and aah over them, how lucky you were, and you would thank them with a smile despite the mounting unease at the sight of them. It became a common occurrence for your volunteer manager to pull you aside at the start of your shift to deliver yet another decadent display of florals, and though she would compliment them it was becoming increasingly apparent that she was growing tired of it. 

One day when you were walking home from your shift at the hospital, you passed the phone booth on the corner, and what was left inside like some ornate piece of jewelry in a display case? Stark. White. Lilies. 

Panic climbed up your spine and constricted your lungs as you whipped your head to and fro for any glimpse of your secret “admirer”. Despite every primal urge screaming at you not to, you opened the booth and gingerly picked up the flowers to find the signature card:

“It’s a beautiful day for flowers.”

Stumbling out of the booth, your rubber soles scuffed on the pavement - the glass vase slipping from your grasp to where it shattered in front of the bi-fold door. Your lungs burned and your muscles ached as you sprinted the whole way home. The moment you burst through the apartment door, you slammed it shut and bolted the lock before collapsing in your bewildered grandmother’s arms. All you told her was that you had a bad day at the hospital as she soothingly stroked your hair and shushed your sobs, still not quite sure how to explain what was going on. 

What even was going on?

That question plagued your mind all through the night and into the next day. The following weeks felt like you were just floating through them as you waited for the next flower delivery, but to your surprise they stopped. Weeks turned into months, and after a while you began to relax - believing that whoever was messing with you found something, or someone, of more interest.

Until your mother’s death anniversary rolled around. It was still tender even though it had happened years ago, so you and your grandmother would typically hole up in the apartment and watch “Beaches”. Your mom’s favorite movie. 

The day had passed much the same as the years prior - both of you woke up, made breakfast, cleaned a bit, and lit an incense on your mother’s shrine. The two of you went about your separate activities until the evening came, where you cooked dinner together before settling in for the movie. 

As the opening credits began, the doorbell rang, and you looked at each other curiously while shaking your heads. Neither of you were expecting company tonight. So, you told your grandmother to stay on the couch while you went to see who it was. Peering through the peephole first, but all you saw was the empty corridor. Cautiously, you opened the door a crack to see no one there, but as you went to shut it a flash of white caught your eye. As your gaze focused downward, air caught in your throat, heart pounding against your ribs.

Carefully placed on the doormat, directly in the center as if to frame it, was the fanciest vase yet housing none other than a stunning bouquet of white lilies. After a long moment, you swallowed thickly, and then stooped to pick up the vase. Opening the card tied delicately to the largest lily, you felt your blood run cold as your eyes scanned the cryptic message:

“It’s a beautiful day for flowers, isn’t it?”

It had changed, albeit slightly, but why? Immediately, you stepped out of the apartment and walked the flowers straight to the dumpsters at the bottom of the stairs. They made a satisfying crashing sound as the glass exploded against the side of the metal basin, and as you climbed back up the stairs you tried to not think about the fact that whoever it was knew where you lived.

Several months passed before you received another bouquet. During that time, you mulled over the flowers, notes, and specifically your mother’s death date. The more you thought it over the more you were convinced that maybe it wasn’t intended to be cruel? Though the note sounded almost congratulatory, it could have been meant to be a condolence. Anxiety held you by the nape through every waking moment as you ping ponged between analyzing the messages, and trying not to think about them at all.

That is until your grandmother fell and broke her elbow.

It had just started getting icy outside, and you had been nagging her about the stairs being slippery, so you already knew when you received the call. Luckily she was taken to the hospital where you volunteer so you went straight to her room, but on the way one of the nurses flagged you down.

“Y/N! Someone left these for you,” she said as she held up a vase of white lilies. A notch formed in your brow just from the sight, but you quickly told her that you would come back after checking on your grandmother. Luckily, despite the break, it wasn’t too bad.

After checking on her, you returned to the nurses station for the flowers. As expected, a note was delicately tied to the top of the flowers. It was the same message as the one from your mother’s death anniversary:

“It’s a beautiful day for flowers, isn’t it?”

A deep sense of unease that you just couldn’t shake seeped into your bones. Still, you never mentioned it to your grandmother, especially with her recent injury - she already had enough on her plate. So, the following months passed looking over your shoulder, because you constantly felt like you were being watched.

Unfortunately, after your grandmother was released from the hospital, she came down with the flu and it wasn’t long before she was back in the hospital. Though you knew the years were adding up for her, it was difficult to watch the strong woman who raised you deteriorate in a hospital bed. Even the burn ward brought you little comfort during this time, because whereas you knew they were going home, in your heart of hearts you knew your grandmother wasn’t.

It had been months since the last time you received flowers, but when you saw the stark white lilies on the doormat of your apartment you knew right then and there that your grandmother died. They arrived before the call came a few moments later, and the sympathetic “I’m so sorry, she’s gone…” was uttered through the phone. Anger, sadness, dread - none of it could penetrate the thick numbness that settled over you as you made your way to the hospital.

That night after you picked up a volunteer shift, a male volunteer - Cyrus - who just started at the hospital offered to walk you home since he lived nearby, because you were obviously having a day. The two of you weren’t close, but had had enough amicable conversations that you agreed. He was kind enough to let you vent to him, and for some reason you spilled everything.

From the first flowers with the message you received, to the ones that were left for you this morning. Cyrus was shaken by your story, and convinced you to report everything to the police, and promised to come back the next morning to go with you to the police and make a report. For the first time in a long while, you felt relief mingled with a sense of hope that maybe things would be okay.

As the sun rose the next morning, and you waited to hear from your newfound friend, your phone stayed silent. No knocks were tapped on your door - he never came or called. But what did arrive were more flowers with another note. You weren’t sure when they were left on your doormat, but they were waiting for you when you decided to just head to the hospital and stop waiting around.

Dread crept over your skin like the cold after you step out of the shower and don’t dry off right away. Though you tried not to think about it - to not consider the possibilities - later that day, you heard that your coworker’s apartment burned down and that he was in the ICU.

Only then did you start to believe that it was more than a prank or mean joke. You had a stalker, and they were dangerous.

You were steeped in a tingly numbness for the rest of the day. Even as you walked home, you couldn’t bring yourself to look over your shoulder or search for any signs that your secret “admirer” was around. Walking through the door of your empty apartment while you tried not to analyze the new definition behind that phrase as you sank into the couch. Without much thought you pulled out your phone, staring at the numbers, as you dialed one you still knew by heart. Even if you hadn’t called it in quite some time. The shadows in your apartment shifted with passing headlights below as the line rang.

“Asano residence,” a gruff voice answered. One you recognized, but it wasn’t the person you were trying to reach. 

“Um. Hello… I’m sorry to call so late, or early… sorry I’m not sure what time it is there.” Nervously rambling as you tried to find the words. Why were you calling anyway? It’s been so long since the two of you talked, so maybe he wouldn’t want to hear from you anyway. The voice on the other end remained silent through your rambling, until finally you asked.

“I-it’s Y/N. Could I speak to my dad… please?” Stumbling over your words as you choked out what you wanted to say. After a long pause, the gruff voice answered, but brighter this time.

“Y/N!! I haven’t heard from you in awhile! It’s me - Kenji! How are you?!” He inquired excitedly. Kenji had always been like an older brother to you, and was often saddled with babysitting you when you lived in Japan.

A part of you felt overjoyed to hear his excitement, but it was also the first time you’ve been asked how you are in so long. A lump formed in your throat as hot, wet tears fell down your face and sniffles echoed through the receiver. 

“Y/N? Are you still there?” Concern laced Kenji’s voice at the sound of soft sniffling on the other side of the phone. Which only mounted into anxiety when you failed to choke back a sob as the damn broke.

“K-Kenji,” you cried wetly, “e-everything is s-so messed u-up… I j-just want to come h-home.” Voice cracking over your words - barely getting out what you needed to say before you were racked with body shaking sobs. 

“Y/N…” Kenji’s own voice cracked when he heard you sobbing on the other end, and you could hear muffled voices in the background. Some words came through like, “is she alright?”, “what’s going on?” But Kenji was too busy floundering over what he could say to you to answer them. Finally, Kenji figured out what to say as his soothing voice came through the phone again.

“Hey, hey, hey - it’s okay Y/N. Everything will be okay. We’re coming to get you. Soma and Hanzo are already on their way - how does that sound?” He sounded more like a mother comforting her crying child, then the intimidating man you knew him to be.

“G-good, t-thank you…” you whispered back as your sobs subsided a little bit. 

“You still live in the same apartment?” He asked, and you hummed out an affirmative. “They won’t get there until the day after tomorrow - will you be okay until then?” He questioned softly.

“Mhm, I’ll be okay. Thank you Kenji…” warbling out between sniffles. “Sorry I haven’t been keeping in touch,” you whispered pathetically afterwards.

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll call to check on you tomorrow, okay?” His tone was still calming to the point that you could almost be convinced he wasn't Yakuza.

“Okay. Goodnight.” You whispered before hanging up, and then you curled into the cushion of your sofa as you watched the night pass through the sliding glass door. You realized you didn’t sleep at all when the first rays of light touched the balcony and filtered in through the foggy glass.

Two Days Later:

Barely leaving your apartment over the past couple of days, you anxiously packed and fidgeted around between boxing things and peering out the window. You didn’t bother wrapping up with the leasing office or your job, since Kenji promised to take care of everything. Somehow he did too - from the other side of the world. 

No flowers came in the time you waited. Maybe because whoever was sending them didn’t think you leaving the country warranted “a beautiful day for flowers.”

The morning after you called Kenji, you called him back to explain the sudden death in your family, so you didn’t have to when Hanzo and Soma arrived. Conveniently, you left out the stalker with the hopes that moving across an ocean would deter them.

When Hanzo and Soma made their way up the stairs to your apartment, they discussed what to get for lunch while they helped you pack. So when they knocked and you met them at the door with 3 pieces of luggage and a purse slung over your shoulder, they were taken aback.

“Need help… packing?” Hanzo started to ask, but trailed off as he peered around you to see a completely empty apartment. Since they took care of everything else, you spent the past two days selling all the furniture in your apartment.

“Oh no thank you, everything’s packed already. Are y’all ready to go?” Punctuating your question with a tilt of your head, as you smiled brightly at them. Though your eyes weren’t able to hide the fact that you were itching to get out of there while you nervously fidgeted with the silver band around your thumb.

“No problem, let’s go.” Soma said curtly, not bothering with Hanzo’s concerned look thrown his way. Gesturing towards the stairs, he lets you lead the way to the sleek black car parked outside of the leasing office. After everything is loaded and you’ve settled into the leather backseat, the three of you began the long journey home.

Back Home in Japan

Kenzo Asano, your father, and head of the Asano clan cut his trip short when he received a call from his second in command, Kenji, about you coming home. His tentative partners, at one time rivals with the Asanos, the Sakuragi Clan were actually pretty understanding. Thankfully.

Though you insisted that he stay and finish up his business, since between Kenji, Hanzo and Soma the move, funeral and burial were all covered. Still, he arrived at the Asano estate mere hours after you and pulled you into a big bear hug. It had been years since anyone had hugged you like that, so you couldn’t stop the flood of tears as you sobbed into your dad’s chest. 

After you had calmed down, he took you to the conference room, where you told him about your grandma’s injury, her hospital stay, and her eventual passing. Though you deliberately left out the flowers, notes, and stalker. He poured green tea into two matching cups while he listened intently. 

“I’m so sorry Y/N,” he spoke softly after you finished regaling the past several months to him. “I had no idea you’ve been shouldering all of that by yourself.” He said as he patted your hand soothingly. Fresh tears spilled down your cheeks from his words, but you couldn’t think of what to say in response. The validation was cathartic though. 

After you two finished your tea, your dad showed you to your room. It was almost exactly how you left it when you moved away, barring a bigger bed and some updated decorations. Your dad told you that Kenji could help if you wanted to change anything, but just told him it was perfect. That night, for the first time since you were maybe 10, your dad tucked you in. It felt incredibly nostalgic as he bid you a goodnight from the door before switching out the light.

After about a week of milling about the estate and catching up with old faces, you fell into a routine pretty easily. It was a little awkward to be around your father again at some points, especially when conversation would steer towards the past or your mother. But he was as doting as he had always been, so it wasn’t a huge deal. After about a month, he was able to find you a good therapist to process grief, and helped you get a job at the local art museum. Your dad said it would be a good change of pace from the hospital, and your therapist agreed. At the end of the day, he knew you just needed something to keep you distracted and busy.

Though you weren’t convinced about the museum job at first, missing the hustle and bustle of the hospital, you eventually grew to love it. It was wonderful, beautiful, and grotesque in a completely different way. There was no smell of burnt skin or antiseptic, just lemon scented cleaning products and moth balls. Everyone you worked with had their favorite exhibits, but they were intrigued when they found out yours wasn’t a specific exhibit, but very specific pieces of grotesque art.

“The Bad Doctors” by James Ensor that toured through the museum at one point. Your interest was absolutely piqued after you read its description: 

“The theme of Ensor's satirical print goes back to an old visual tradition, in which doctors are reduced to money-making caricatures and characterised as quacks and charlatans. Not infrequently, the supposed link between the practice of the doctor and death is emphasised. All these elements are also present in Ensor's print, including the doctors ordering each other around and the man with the scythe sneaking into the room. The doctors depicted were all professors at the medical faculty of the Université Libre de Bruxelles. From left to right they are represented: Jules-Adrien Thiriar, Emile Yseux, Guillaume Rommelaere, Jean-Joseph Crocq and Joseph Sacré. The unfortunate patient has not been identified.”

This piece in particular reminded you of the hustle and bustle of the hospital for obvious reasons, but more specifically when someone coded. It was like every person on the floor would jump into action while you stood back against the wall. Sometimes, when the person didn’t make it, just before the frantic life saving efforts were halted, you could feel a stillness fall over the person. Then, the room, and slowly that stillness would spread throughout the hospital. You never saw it, but it truly felt as if death walked past every panicked body in the room just to pluck the patient’s soul and carry them down the quieting corridor.

Next, you favored “The Cave of Spleen” by Aubrey Beardsley which illustrates the poem “The Rape of the Lock, Canto IV” written by Alexander Pope. The drawing itself was quite endearing - filled with thin ink lines to create fantastical women with animal legs, florals here and there, all swirled in the dark lines of the main woman’s hair. The section of the poem that the drawing was based on had to do with a man who stole a lock of a woman's hair and how the world around him became strange and distorted after that. If you had to guess by the look of the drawing, it seemed as if the man lost his sanity all together.

Finally, “The Intrigue” by James Ensor that toured through shortly after “The Bad Doctors”. Though the description was shorter, again you were thoroughly interested: “The story behind the painting is autobiographical and inspired by an actual event during Ensor's life. It depicts his sister's marriage with a Chinese art dealer from Berlin that caused a scandal in Ensor's hometown.” The painting itself was so expressive, that you didn’t feel the description required more than that. The art dealer’s face was stoic and unexpressive, while the people around him wore wide grins - some throwing their heads back in laughter. It was one of those paintings that was difficult to deep-dive into an analysis about, but it did often leave you with a sense of second-hand embarrassment tinged with melancholy. 

Each of the pieces encompassed all of those things you ached for that the hospital had satiated. They were masterfully done, and conveyed a rawness that you rarely saw outside of that gruesome building. A form of dark humor that you hadn’t heard muttered outside of those blindingly white walls before. Sometimes you would hear, “I could’ve done that,” spat through the exhibit. But it always brought a knowing smile to your lips, because truly they couldn’t. Just like they shy away from rag filled bins in the corner of hospital rooms - they shied away from these pieces as well, making it simply impossible for them to wade through such dark emotions, let alone recreate them.

Outside of working at the museum, you also found that you had a penchant for karaoke. You only discovered this after meeting a curious fellow wearing bright red heels, Rei Hojo. It was raining terribly on your way home from work, and while rounding a corner you ran face first into a broad chest that emitted a high pitched, ‘oof!’ Stumbling over yourself with apologies, but the kind man just waved you off and offered to buy you a cup of coffee while the rain died down. While the two of you sat in the cafe, talking and giggling like old friends, you learned that Rei was in the area because he was doing karaoke today. Never having done something like that before, he offered to bring you along which you happily agreed. Turns out you're a pretty good singer, and Rei made sure to let you know through squealing compliments. Safe to say the two of you became fast friends. So a lot of your friday or saturday evenings were spent telling your father that you were working a late shift at the museum while you belted duets with Rei.

Despite how kind everyone had been, you still couldn’t bring up your stalker to your family or therapist. Every time you considered telling your dad or Kenji, some voice in your head would tell you that you left all of that behind you. The Secret “Admirer” was in America, and you were in Japan now. Safe and sound. Even though you froze everytime you got mail, and physically flinched when flowers were brought into the house. 

It’s not like everyone around the estate didn’t notice - it’s kind of their line of work to notice things that are out of place, especially when it comes to their own family. But none of them knew what was wrong, or how to ask you about it. They all assumed you were working it out in therapy.

Since you had fallen into a routine and found some things to keep you busy, you didn’t really notice that the things they did ask you about pertained to relationships. Dating. Who you were currently dating, or if you wanted to date. What your thoughts are on marriage. Though the questions put a notch in your brow at times, you just chocked it up to them being protective or something. 

The only other thing of note was how they consistently talked about “The Demon of Sakuragi” or “Yakuza Crusher” Kirishima. It’s not like anyone spoke to you directly about him, but the stories you heard were certainly daunting to say the least. But you just assumed it wasn’t any of your business, so you didn’t dwell on it too much.

2-3 months later:

No flowers or notes have been delivered or left for you anywhere, but still you couldn’t shake this dreadful feeling that you were being watched again. When you were walking alone you fell back into the habit of looking over your shoulder, and sometimes you would catch yourself doing a double take because you thought you saw stark white lilies.

One day after your shift at the museum, you were called into a meeting with multiple members of the family - something that you’ve never really experienced before. Your father informed you that the Asano clan was working towards an alliance with the Sakuragi clan. Of course you were aware that the two families have been at odds for decades, but you weren’t sure what that had to do with you. Kenzo finished by saying that he hoped to achieve a “lasting peace” between the two clans.

“That’s great, right?” You quietly offered, despite the tension in the room.

“Ahem yes, but we need something more concrete than a verbal agreement…” Kenzo cleared his throat before speaking, and then trailed off. A notch formed in your brow as you cocked your head at the uncertainty in his tone. 

“Typically, by tradition, the two families would seal an alliance with a marriage contract…” elaborating slowly as he tilted his head forward, hoping the gears would turn. As you just stared at him, he added, “that’s where you would come in, if you are willing.” 

The gears have only just started turning as the word ‘marriage contract’ solidifies in your mind. When you continued silently staring at him, Kenzo offered lightly, “I know you’re only 23, and you’ve been through a lot lately. But I’m hoping this could be a new chapter for you. Also the person you would marry, if you agree, is only 28. So he’s not too much older than you, nor has he ever been married before.”

“Who would I be marrying?” Inquiring curiously as you leaned a little closer over the table to grip your cup of tea.

“Toru Kirishima…” your father hesitated before continuing as he mulled over to divulge the next piece of information.

“He’s called the ‘Demon of Sakuragi’, but he’s mellowed out a lot since he was given that title. Kazuhiko has also assured me that Kirishima is respectable, and the Sakuragi clan does not abide mistreatment of their female family members.” He rushed to get the details out. Of course, you were aware that the bitter feud has caused a few issues to their tentative alliance. Honestly, even in the few short months since arriving you’ve gotten really good at patching knife wounds because of it. 

‘The Demon of Sakuragi… Intimidating. I think even my stalker would think twice…’, musing silently, and then you swiftly chastised yourself - hating the fact that this faceless person still occupied your mind. Peering into the now cold cup grasped in your palms as you mulled over the decision wordlessly.

“Okay. I agree.” Finally you broke the silence with your words, devoid of any doubt.

“Well, if you would just give it some thought…” Kenzo began reflexively, before your words registered, “wait. You agree?!” His head snapped up from where he was staring at his hands as the shocked words bounced off the bamboo floors. 

“Yes, I agree. Am I allowed to make my own requests about the contract though?” Querying apprehensively before you straightened up and squared your shoulders to look at your father officially, attempting to be assertive.

“Uh, well. It depends on what they are…” Kenzo responded slowly as a crease formed in his brow. It had been so long since the two of you lived together, so he couldn’t really predict what your demands would be.

“Well, I guess I don’t know what the marriage contract entails… or if there’ll be a wedding…” beginning cautiously as your nerves started to get the better of you, but Kenzo just nodded for you to continue. 

“If there is a wedding, then I left mom’s dress and hairpin with a good friend back in the States…” you inhaled a slow breath to steady yourself before making the request, “the letter she left with them said she wanted me to wear them when I get married. So I don't know if it’s possible, but if there is a wedding, then I’d like to have those shipped here.” Despite your attempts to be assertive, your voice shook, and you felt yourself shrinking inward the longer you spoke. Though your father just threw you a gentle smile at the simple request.

“There will certainly be a wedding, probably the biggest we’ve seen in a long time.” He reassured you with an airy laugh as he room filled with soft chuckles, and the tension in the room finally dissipated. “I will ensure your mother’s effects are shipped here well before the date. We’ll be sure to find a planner who can merge some Eastern and Western themes for you as well.” Kenzo promised as a wide grin spread over his face, obviously grateful that you agreed at all.

“Thank you very much.” Bowing your head respectfully as relief washed over you, and a small smile graced your features. 

“Did you have any other requests?” Kenzo urged gently, as he seemed to already know that, in your usual manner, the requests were incredibly small and doable, yet extremely important to you. 

“Uh, well… Will I still be allowed to work at the museum? Like, will I be expected to be a stay at home wife or anything like that?” Murmuring nervously as your face began to burn from the embarrassment of asking at all. The unspoken questions floated in the air between you and your father as you peered at him expectantly, anxiously sliding the silver ring up and down your thumb.

Will I still be allowed to be me? Can I still do the things I enjoy?

This time a chorus of laughter broke out in the room as your father threw his head back with laughter too. Though he quickly shushed them, and the room fell quiet again as he regarded you warmly.

“Yes you will be allowed to continue to work at the museum, volunteer, and sing at those late night karaoke hangouts you try to hide from us. Though I recommend not hiding things from your future husband - just as a general rule of marriage.” Kenzo teased with a reassuring smile, hoping you finally felt at ease with the situation.

“And here I thought I was doing a good job of keeping it a secret,” you said sheepishly before bursting out laughing, as you hid your face in your hands. Cackles and guffaws filled the room, and even shushing from the boss couldn’t quiet them for several minutes. 

That night, after your father and Kenji made their calls to the Sakuragi clan, you all drank sake and celebrated the good news. For the first time in a long, long while you felt really happy and carefree, so much so that you didn’t even feel like you were being watched. Not once did you look over your shoulder, or hesitate before walking into a darkened room the whole night. 

Of course that meant that you didn’t turn to look outside when passing by the window that overlooked the courtyard. Nor did you notice the accidental flash coming from behind the tea house located on the far edge of the garden.

References: The Bad Doctors from the Museum of Fine Arts Ghent Website The Cave of Spleen by Audrey Beardsley from The Art History Project Website The Intrigue from Wikipedia

Master List (I have no rights to these characters, the works they come from, or the art/screenshots/manga panels used in this post. Screenshots taken from pinterest, so if you know the creator please lmk! Divider is from @sweetmelodygraphics)

Tag List: lmk if you want to be added

Ch.1, Ch.2, Ch.3, Ch.4, Ch.5

[kyofsonder]

Brain in Daylight Hours: There is no mental or emotional space for writing. There are no new ideas, and no structure for old ideas.

Brain after Dark: Here's 38 new ideas, 3/4 of a structure, official permission to write, and -- oh. The only place to write in the dark is your phone? ... Never mind.

[botanicallyinclinednerd]

Legends of Tomorrow is so fucking mean for the season 3 plot line of Jax and Stein working to separate Firestorm so Stein can go home to be a grampa and Jaz can stay on the team with his powers. They are fucking assholes for this, for how the plotline ends

[shady-tavern]

Sneak Peek

A little sneak peek for "Paint the Town" a, most likely 2 (perhaps 3) part story. Warnings ahead for mentioned death and injury, as well as semi-graphic violence. Please take care of yourselves.

*.*.*

Colossus clearly had had a grand old time tossing an under-qualified hero around, as well as injuring helpless civilians. Nothing new here and Olivia didn't bother to hold back.

She had, once upon a time, done her best to avoid injuring villains beyond knocking them out, but when ground-pulverizing powers rose to her fingertips now, she focused on packing as much as she could into every hit.

Colossus and she had clashed once before and he had gotten away only because she hadn't quite figured out the full scope of the powers she had gotten saddled with when facing him and because he had swiftly collapsed a house on a group of terrified civilians.

Villains were nothing but a scourge of the earth.

This time, Olivia knew what she was working with and most importantly, who she was dealing with and the lengths he was willing to go to in order to win or escape.

It was clear he had expected the same slap-dash, somewhat sloppy fight from last time, back when Olivia had been scrambling to figure out how to use her powers most effectively.

It took two hits before he was on the ground, visibly reeling, struggling and failing to sit up again. It was clear he wasn't getting up anytime soon, that the second hit to his face had fucked with his head plenty.

Other heroes would stop here. They were, in fact, instructed and trained to. To stop when the enemy was down and apprehend them instead. To be better than villains.

But Olivia knew how much the prison facilities struggled to contain people with superpowers, how often they escaped, especially when other villains attacked the place.

There had once been a time when Olivia had thought it didn't matter, that second chances were all the rage. She was done with that, just like she was done with fighting people over and over again because they kept escaping, arriving to ongoing fights to find weeping and bleeding and at times dead civilians and even heroes.

Olivia raised her leg just as Colossus turned over to try and get up, bringing her foot down on his back with a flare of her powers. There was no noise from his throat, not when she heard the sound his spine and ribs made and he fell still, only his chest moving in little gasping breaths as his brain got overloaded with pain. 

He would never again get back up, not after that hit and that was all that mattered at the end of the day. No more hurt civilians, no more broken colleagues. One less evil, permanently removed.

A sudden tingle raced across her skin, making her feel like gravity changed its course and her gaze snapped up, just as the sky grew a deep, dark red, lightning flashing across it.

Floating above her, having managed to sneak up on her, was The End. A villain only three heroes were capable of fighting, herself included. Fuck.

Olivia didn't waste a second to let the changed, new power coursing under her skin out. She could never waste so much as a split second when faced with The End. The grip of gravity shifted within a heartbeat, like the snap of massive fingers, the noise of it cracking through the air. Just in time to slow the descend of The End's meteors and forcing them to a glowing stop right above the skyscrapers of the city.

It felt like her bones were made of metal and at the same time, as though she weighed nothing at all. She felt as though she was as liable to find herself crushed to the ground by the entire universe as she was to float away like a speck of dust on the wind.

"Little Rescue, ruiner of lives," The End shouted, fury making his voice sound like a guttural snarl as he pushed back against her powers, the sky growing darker still. 

Olivia was faintly aware of people screaming in panic behind her, ahead of her, as civilians ran for their lives. Others crawled for their lives, legs broken or bleeding from wounds inflicted by Colossus that needed immediate treatment. 

Treatment they wouldn't get, for ambulances were not allowed near active fight zones and the specialized removal teams were only sent out for severely injured heroes, not civilians. Too many paramedics had lost their lives or use of their limbs when they had gotten caught in battles.

Not that The End cared, of course. Villains never did.

Colossus at her feet was breathing in high-pitched, panting little wheezes, his body utterly unmoving.

The End had always kept his distance, but today he descended when he couldn't force his meteors further, slamming into the ground before her, his meteors crumbling to nothing and lightning started to flash like a thousand storms were getting unloading at once. 

Olivia hurriedly dodged his fist, the air around her heavy and vibrating all at once as Gravity and Space started to clash.

"What a joke this world is," The End growled. "For a monster like you to be seen as good."

"And what a joke," Olivia growled right back, dark anger and fury beating in her veins in tandem with her heart. If she could take down The End, the city would be safer for it. "That you were born."

The End's next punch was heavy with the power of impacting meteors and the empty coldness of space, lightning crackling between like a hungry beast. He laughed, brief and hard and hateful and he snarled, "Well, if you want to act like a hero, then die like one."