#muscle-hunk destruction

[wrestlingarsenal]

I uploaded images of this post-match beating on my old website 20 years ago today. The "Z-Man" Tom Zenk wrestled Arn Anderson many times throughout 1990 into 1991 - they had a good romance going with Zenk endlessly trying to strip Arn of his belt. This particular Zmanderson encounter may have been the most homo-erotic, as two of Arn's buddies join in the mix to punish Z-Man. I went and found the match on YouTube and created this edited video to showcase my favorite moments of Zenk's humiliation.

We see the Z-man tease Arn with a really pretty Ab Stretch early in the match, grinding and humping to contort that hairy Dad-Bod. Zenk pays the price for this arrogance later when Daddy Arn takes control. Both men start to glisten with sweat.

When Zenk tries to top Anderson in a pinning position, Windham and Vicious illegally storm the ring. Barry Windham is especially rough on pretty-boy Zenk, clawing his eyes and then driving knees into his crotch. It's very entertaining if you're into violent triple-teaming and the destruction of muscle-hunks.

[kultofkorii]

— Otherworldly Differences

mark grayson x saiyan! reader

• fic type: oneshot & fluff

• summary: crash landing on such a feeble planet wasn't on your to-do list. although this being whose nearly as strong a you confronts you, so you decide to humor him.

• word count: 5.8k

• warnings: mild canon typical violence, threat of violence, blood

• a/n: As you can see I got really carried away. 🧍‍♀️I like DBZ and I like Invincible, so why not combine the two!! Also I've just started watching invincible so sorry if he's ooc.

A shrill, wailing sound yanks you from unconsciousness, vibrating through your skull like an alarm gone haywire. You groan, forcing your heavy eyelids open, and are immediately greeted by the acrid stench of burning metal and scorched earth.

Smoke billows around you, thick and suffocating, curling from the shattered remains of your ship—a twisted hunk of alien steel embedded deep in the cracked pavement.

Your head pounds in protest, a dull, throbbing ache pulsing behind your temples. You press a hand to your forehead, then glance down at yourself.

Dust clings to your skin, mingling with smudges of soot and dried blood. Your armor, now riddled with scorch marks and gashes, groans as you shift.

Damn. That landing must’ve been rough.

Muffled shouts rise above the ringing in your ears. Blinking away the haze, you finally take in your surroundings.

Small, weak-looking creatures encircle the crash site, clad in identical dark uniforms. They hold strange little metal sticks, aiming them at you like they actually expect them to do something.

“Put your hands where we can see them!”

“Step away from the wreckage!”

“You’re under arrest!”

You arch a brow, a slow smirk tugging at your lips. They think they can arrest me? That’s adorable.

With a groan, you push yourself upright, rolling your shoulders. A shower of debris crumbles from your armor, scattering across the crater floor. Your hair, wild and voluminous as ever, whips around your face as you stretch.

"Where in the name of Vegeta am I?" you mutter, voice thick with irritation.

The humans stiffen. Their fingers tighten around their weapons, eyes flickering between you and the destruction left in your wake.

The boldest of the bunch—a man with gritted teeth and an unfortunate mustache—steps forward, barrel trained directly at your chest.

“I said put your hands up!” he barks.

You tilt your head, gaze flicking over him with mild amusement. “Do you know who you’re speaking to?”

Apparently, he doesn’t. None of them do. Because instead of answering, they just keep shouting, their voices a frantic mess of demands and threats.

You sigh, rubbing your temple. This is exhausting. If they refuse to answer your questions, perhaps a demonstration is in order.

Your eyes scan the wreckage, landing on the nearest object of interest—a large, boxy vehicle with shattered windows and blaring alarms.

Without hesitation, you grab it by the undercarriage, lift it effortlessly over your head, and hurl it toward a nearby building.

Glass explodes outward as the car crashes through the structure, embedding itself halfway into the second floor. The ground trembles from the impact, sending fresh cracks spiderwebbing across the pavement.

That gets their attention.

“Holy Shit!”

“She’s a freaking alien!”

“No shit,” you scoff, crossing your arms. “Now, which one of you is in charge?”

Before anyone can respond, a gust of wind nearly knocks you back. A shadow streaks across the sky, descending at high speed.

You turn just in time to see a figure land in front of you, kicking up dust upon impact.

An array of yellow, blue and back filled your vision, toned muscles flexing between the tight material of a suit.

You recognize the stance immediately. A fighter. Interesting.

“You must be the problem everyone’s freaking out about,” he says, arms crossed. His tone isn’t immediately hostile—more wary than anything.

You grin, rolling your shoulders. “Depends. You here to challenge me?”

The guy blinks, visibly thrown off. “Uh, not exactly.”

You frown. “Shame. I was hoping someone here would be worth my time.”

Despite yourself, you’re intrigued. He’s strong—you can sense it. Not nearly Saiyan strong, of course, but there’s something different about him. Something… familiar.

He studies you just as intently, gaze flicking between your tattered armor, your battle-worn knuckles, and—most notably—the towering mass of thick hair atop your head.

His lips part slightly, like he’s about to say something, but he hesitates.

“I’m Invincible,” he offers instead.

You snort. “Bit cocky, don’t you think?”

He sighs. “Yeah, I get that a lot.”

A beat of silence. Neither of you moves.

Then, cautiously, he gestures toward the chaos surrounding you. “Look, I don’t want to fight you.”

“That makes one of us,” you say, cracking your knuckles.

Mark exhales through his nose, clearly trying to be patient. “Seriously, can we just… talk?” He gestures at the wreckage, the police, the frightened civilians peeking from behind cover.

“You’re obviously not from around here, and you seem kinda… lost?”

You bristle at the implication. You are not lost. Saiyans do not get lost.

But.

Well.

You don’t exactly know where you are, and it’s slightly concerning that your ship is currently a pile of molten scrap metal.

“…Fine.” You roll your eyes, shoving your hands into the tattered remains of your belt. “But if this is a trap, I’m breaking every bone in your body.”

Mark exhales in relief, though the corner of his mouth quirks upward. “Noted,” he mutters. Then, more amused than he probably should be: “You always this dramatic?”

You smirk. “You haven’t seen anything yet.”

His lips twitch, as if suppressing a laugh. Instead, he just shakes his head and gestures for you to follow.

You crack your neck, glance at the still-stunned humans, and grin.

Let’s see where this goes.

••••

You hate this place.

It smells like sterilization and fear, the kind of artificially clean air that makes your skin itch.

The walls are a cold, metallic gray, pulsing with dim overhead lights. The whole facility hums with electricity, the kind that suggests they have restraints for things stronger than humans.

And the way they’re looking at you? Like you’re a specimen in a cage? You really, really don’t like that.

You sit in a metal chair bolted to the floor, arms crossed, one leg bouncing slightly as you stare at the wrinkled man in front of you.

His name is Cecil. You’ve already decided you don’t like him.

For the past ten minutes, he’s been droning on, asking questions about your species, your ship, your intentions—like you owe him answers.

You’ve made a game of not responding, watching his patience wear thin.

“You’re really not gonna talk?” he asks, finally, voice dry as dust.

You smirk. “Why would I answer to someone who can’t even fly?”

Cecil’s face twitches. Across the room, Mark—Invincible, as he insists on being called—snorts.

He tries to smother his laugh, pressing his lips together, but you see the amusement flickering in his eyes.

Cecil doesn’t react beyond a slow exhale through his nose. He’s good at this, you’ll give him that. A lesser man would’ve cracked by now.

“I’ll be honest,” he continues. “You’re not our first alien visitor, and you probably won’t be our last. But if you’re planning to cause problems—”

You lean forward, resting your elbows on the table, flashing him a slow, sharp grin. “I am the problem,” you say, voice dripping with amusement.

“And there’s not a damn thing you can do about it.”

The silence that follows is delicious.

Mark shifts slightly. You don’t need to look at him to feel the tension in his shoulders, the way his body tenses like he’s preparing for you to lash out again.

You’re not going to—yet—but the fact that he thinks you might is amusing.

Cecil just sighs and rubs his temple. “Get her out of my sight.”

You stand, stretching with a dramatic groan.

“Finally. This room smells like weakness.”

One of the armed guards by the door stiffens at that, knuckles whitening on his weapon. You give him a slow, pointed grin before turning away.

Mark steps beside you, shaking his head. “You’re so charming,” he mutters, voice laced with dry amusement.

You flash him a smirk. “I try.”

He gestures toward the exit. “Come on, oh mighty warrior. Let’s get you some fresh air before you pick a fight with the janitor.”

••••

Mark insists you need to learn about Earth.

Assimilate, he says. Blend in.

You think it’s ridiculous. Why should you have to adapt to them? You are superior in every way—stronger, faster, smarter. If anything, they should be learning from you.

But… well. You suppose humoring Mark is preferable to rotting away in that dreadful government facility.

So when he insists on introducing you to “the best thing Earth has to offer,” you allow yourself to be dragged along, arms crossed and skepticism at full capacity.

Which is how you find yourself sitting in a place called Mama Luigi’s Pizza.

The walls are plastered with photographs of grinning humans holding enormous, greasy slices of something that looks like food but definitely doesn’t smell like anything worth eating.

The air is thick with the scent of melted cheese and sizzling dough, mingling with the faint tang of tomato sauce.

Mark places a box in front of you with a dramatic flourish. “Alright, first lesson in being an Earthling, food.”

You narrow your eyes at the offering. The circular dish is sliced into uneven triangles, topped with bubbling golden cheese and a thin layer of something red.

You poke it with a finger. It squishes slightly. “What is this?”

Mark sighs like he was expecting this reaction. “It’s pizza. Just try it.”

You glance at him, then back at the pizza. It doesn’t smell awful, but it looks so… soft.

Your diet consists of meat cooked over an open flame, raw energy rations, and the occasional alien delicacy that most species wouldn’t dare touch.

This? This just looks like melted goo on soggy bread.

“Do humans consume nothing of nutritional value?” you ask, lifting one of the slices and examining it like it might try to escape. “How does this pathetic excuse for sustenance fuel you?”

Mark groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s not always about nutrition. Sometimes it's about taste.”

You snort. “Taste is secondary to power.”

“Okay, Y/n,” Mark deadpans. “Just take a bite.”

You sniff it warily, then, with great reluctance, sink your teeth into the gooey mess.

The moment the flavors hit your tongue, your brain short-circuits.

Salty, savory cheese. Rich, tangy sauce. The warm, crispy-yet-doughy crust. Your taste buds—so accustomed to the harsh, metallic tang of survival rations—practically explode.

You don’t mean to make a noise, but something between a hum and a low growl of approval rumbles in your throat.

Your grip on the slice tightens, fingers flexing instinctively.

Mark watches with interest as your pupils dilate. “...Well?” he prompts, smirking.

You don’t answer. You can’t. Instead, you devour the rest of the slice in two bites, grab another, and tear into it like a starving beast.

Mark blinks. “Oh. Oh wow.”

The next few minutes are a blur. The pizza—this godly, divine creation—is disappearing at an alarming rate.

You don’t pace yourself.

You don’t breathe.

You just consume.

Mark leans back in his chair, watching in a mixture of horror and awe. “Uh, you do know you’re supposed to chew, right?”

You ignore him, grabbing another slice, cheese stretching between your fingers.

Mark’s brows shoot up. “Are you—oh my god, are you actually growling?”

You pause mid-bite, realizing that yes, you are growling—a low, territorial rumble vibrating from your chest. Your muscles are coiled, posture slightly hunched as if guarding your prize.

You force yourself to relax, clearing your throat. “Instinct,” you say, voice muffled around your mouthful. “Saiyan biology.”

Mark stares at you.

Then at the emptying box.

Then back at you.

“That’s terrifying.”

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, completely unbothered. “It is efficient.”

Mark gestures to the now nearly empty pizza box. “That was supposed to be for both of us.”

You glance at the single, lonely slice remaining in the box, then at Mark. Then back at the slice.

You grab it.

“HEY!”

You take an exaggerated bite, chewing slowly, making direct eye contact with him as you do.

Mark groans, slumping back in his seat. “I cannot believe I just witnessed a Saiyan discovering pizza.”

You swallow and grin. “Alright.” You gesture to the crumbs and grease-stained box. “This planet might have some value after all.”

••••

Mark insists you need to learn human customs if you're going to stay on Earth.

You think human customs are stupid.

“Just try to blend in,” Mark says as he leads you down a crowded city street, his voice already laced with exhaustion. “No throwing cars, no threatening people, and for the love of God, no fighting the barista.”

You scoff, ruffling your hair in annoyance. “If this barista dares disrespect me, they’ll have earned the beating.”

Mark sighs. “I’m begging you to be normal for five minutes.”

You don’t dignify that with a response.

The place Mark drags you to is small and cramped, filled with the scent of something bitter and the low hum of human chatter. Coffee shop, he calls it. You call it a waste of time.

The line moves painfully slow. You tap your foot impatiently, arms crossed, eyes scanning the ridiculous menu full of nonsense words like macchiato and venti.

“These names are stupid.”

Mark pinches the bridge of his nose. “You don’t have to understand them. Just order something.”

Finally, you reach the front. A young man stands behind the counter, looking more exhausted than Mark. His uniform is wrinkled, his expression blank.

He sighs. “What can I get you?”

You lift your chin. “Your strongest drink.”

The barista barely reacts. “Do you want that hot or iced?”

You narrow your eyes. “Is there a difference?”

Mark nudges your side. “Just say hot.”

You roll your eyes. “Hot, then.”

The barista punches something into his register. “Name for the order?”

You blink. “Why do you need my name?”

“It’s so we can call it when your drink is ready.”

You frown. “You mean I have to wait?”

The barista, clearly dead inside, just blinks at you. “Yes?”

You lean forward slightly. “Do you know who I am?”

Mark audibly groans.

The barista, now vaguely alarmed, glances at Mark for guidance. Mark shoots him an apologetic look before turning to you, voice dangerously close to pleading. “Just give him your name and be cool.”

You stare at the barista. The barista stares back. Then, slowly, you smirk. “Fine. My name is Y/N the Warmonger.”

Mark visibly deflates.

The barista, now beyond caring, just types something into the register. “That’ll be $4.75.”

You blink. “That will be what?”

“Four dollars and seventy-five cents.”

Mark pulls out a small green rectangle and hands it over before you can start breaking things. “I got it.”

You watch as the barista takes the rectangle, swipes it through a strange machine, and hands it back.

You lean over, voice low. “Did he just steal from you?”

Mark drags a hand down his face. “That’s how money works.”

“Money is a scam.”

Mark gestures for you to step aside as the next customer moves forward. “Welcome to capitalism.”

You huff, tapping your fingers against the counter as you wait. “How long does this process take?”

“Depends.”

“On?”

Mark shrugs. “How busy they are.”

You look around. There are only three other people waiting. “This is pathetic.”

“Do you have to say everything you think out loud?”

“Yes, I do.”

Mark stares at you for a long moment, then sighs. “Just… stand here and don’t start a fight.”

You scoff, crossing your arms. “I won’t start a fight.”

Mark looks at you like he doesn’t believe you at all.

Minutes pass. The baristas move at a snail’s pace, making drinks with far more effort than seems necessary.

Your patience—what little exists—wears thin.

Finally, someone calls, “Y/N the Warmonger?”

You smirk, stepping forward. “Ah, finally.”

The barista places a small cup on the counter.

You eye it. “That’s it?”

Mark claps a hand over his face. “Please don’t—”

You grab the cup and inspect it. It’s small—far smaller than you expected. And it’s hot, heat seeping through the flimsy material. You narrow your eyes at the tiny opening in the lid. “This is ridiculous.”

Mark nudges your arm. “Just take a sip.”

You do.

And immediately gag.

Mark snorts. “Not a fan?”

You shove the cup back at him, wiping your tongue on your sleeve. “It tastes like burnt dirt.”

“That’s coffee.”

“Why do humans drink this?”

Mark shrugs, taking a sip of his own drink. “Some of us like suffering.”

You glare at the cup. “This explains so much.”

Mark is laughing now, shaking his head. “Okay, maybe coffee isn’t your thing.”

You sneer at the cup as if it personally offended you. “I will destroy this establishment.”

Mark grabs your arm. “We are leaving.”

••••

Mark should’ve known better than to mention Halloween in passing.

The moment the words leave his mouth, you stop walking, whip around, and grab his shoulders so fast he barely has time to react.

"Wait, wait, wait—" Your grip tightens, eyes burning with intensity. "So you’re telling me there’s a day—a whole day—where I can wear anything I want, and people just… give me things?"

Mark blinks, looking mildly concerned for his well-being. "Uh… yeah? That’s… basically Halloween."

Your expression is deadly serious. "This is the best planet in the universe."

Mark sighs, prying your fingers off his shoulders. "You really don’t need to be this dramatic."

You scoff, crossing your arms. "I absolutely do. This is groundbreaking information, Mark. Do you understand how insane this sounds? Where I’m from, if you want something, you take it—or you beat someone into the ground until they hand it over."

"Yeah, we call that robbery," Mark mutters.

You ignore him. "But this? This is a sanctioned event?"

He shrugs. "Pretty much. Kids dress up, go door to door, and get candy."

Your head tilts. "Candy?"

Mark pauses, realizing something horrifying. "Wait. You’ve never had candy before?"

You raise a brow. "Should I have?"

Mark grabs you hand, a new found conviction stirring his heart. "Okay, new plan. We are absolutely fixing this."

The next thing you know, you’re standing in the middle of a store filled with costumes.

Mark drags you through the aisles, dodging plastic skeletons, fake cobwebs, and a disturbing number of severed limbs. You pick up a dismembered hand, inspecting it with mild curiosity.

"Humans celebrate death?" you ask, turning it over in your palm.

Mark huffs a laugh. "Kinda. Halloween’s all about spooky stuff. Ghosts, monsters, horror movies—"

"Horror movies?" you echo, dropping the fake hand.

"Yeah, it's filled with things that's supposed to be scary—like, creepy stories, jump scares, murder-y villains—"

Your eyes light up. "You have a murder holiday?"

Mark sighs, rubbing his temple. "That’s not—never mind. Just pick out a costume."

You survey the wall of options, eyes scanning the bizarre selection.

"What’s a ‘sexy nurse’?"

Mark chokes, face growing warmer. "Not that one!"

You grin, baring sharp canines. "Ohhh, so it's not just a murder holiday."

Mark groans, dragging you toward another aisle. "We’re not doing this."

After an obnoxiously long debate (and Mark vetoing several of your more violent ideas), you finally settle on something appropriately intimidating.

A black cape, sleek armor, and a terrifying mask with glowing red eyes.

Mark squints at the tag. "Darth Vader?"

You tilt your head. "This man—he was a warrior, yes?"

"Uh… kinda?" Mark hesitates. "More like an evil space dictator."

You grin. "So, a king."

Mark sighs. "I feel like I should stop you, but… honestly? You’re weirdly perfect for this."

You flick the cape over your shoulder, nodding in approval. "Yes. Lord Vader is ready to conquer this...Halloween."

Mark pinches the bridge of his nose. "Please don’t start referring to yourself in the third person."

You smirk, already deep in character. "Lord Vader does as he pleases."

Mark groans.

Hours later, you’re stalking the streets with a plastic skull bucket (Mark refused to let you carry an actual skull), and your energy is through the roof.

"Look at them, Mark!" You gesture wildly at the groups of costumed children. "They fear me!"

"They don’t," Mark corrects. "They think you’re cosplaying."

You scoff. "They should fear me."

"That's called fear mongering."

You ignore him, marching up to a door and pounding on it like you’re issuing a challenge.

A kindly old woman answers, beaming. "Oh, what a lovely costume! And who are you supposed to be, dear?"

You puff out your chest. "I am Lord Vader! Kneel before me, mortal!"

Mark, standing behind you, mutters, "I can't do this."

The woman chuckles, unbothered, and drops a handful of candy into your bucket. "Well, Lord Vader, enjoy your treats!"

You stare down at the loot. Then at Mark. Then back at the candy.

Your voice drops to a whisper. "It worked."

Mark claps a hand on your shoulder, smiling lightly at the child like wonder in your expression. "Welcome to Halloween."

••••

Mark fascinates you.

You don’t know when it happened, or how, but somewhere between the endless sparring matches, the insufferable Earth lessons, and the way he constantly calls you out on your arrogance, you started… caring.

It’s infuriating.

He’s not a Saiyan. He’s soft. Idealistic.

Sentimental in a way that would get him killed on any real battlefield. Yet, he doesn’t break. No matter how many times he's knocked down, he always gets back up.

He’s stubborn. Stupidly determined. And worse—so much worse—he’s kind.

And every time he smiles at you, your stomach does this weird thing that you refuse to acknowledge.

You blame it on Earth’s atmosphere.

You’re sitting on the edge of a rooftop, the city sprawled out beneath you, golden from the streetlights. It’s late—too late—but neither of you seems particularly eager to leave.

Mark leans back on his hands, staring up at the stars. “Y’know, I used to think I was strong.”

You snort, swinging your legs over the ledge. “Used to?”

He gives you a sideways glance. “Yeah, and then I met you.”

You smirk. “Ah. A humbling experience, I’m sure.”

Mark groans. “I hate that you’re so smug about it.”

“But I earned the right to be smug,” you counter, grinning. “Besides, I’m doing you a favor. You should thank me for showing you how weak you are.”

Mark scoffs. “Oh yeah, thanks so much, Your Highness. I love getting my ass kicked on a regular basis.”

You shrug. “You should. It builds character.”

Mark huffs a laugh and shakes his head. “You love messing with me, don’t you?”

You tilt your head. “Of course.”

“Why?”

You blink. The question catches you off guard.

Mark watches you expectantly, but there’s something different about the way he’s looking at you—less irritated, more curious.

You feel a strange warmth creeping up your neck.

You click your tongue. “Because you react.”

His brows furrow. “What?”

You wave a hand at him. “Most beings—weaklings—would just fear me, but you? You get angry. You argue. You fight back.” You smirk. “It’s entertaining.”

Mark shakes his head, exasperated but smiling. “You are so weird.”

You huff, crossing your arms. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

He leans back again, gaze shifting to the sky. “It’s not.”

Something in your chest tightens.

You don’t like the feeling.

The next time you spar, it’s different.

You’ve fought Mark dozens of times now, and it’s usually predictable. You win. He loses. He gets slightly better each time, but the outcome never really changes.

Except… today, he lasts longer.

His movements are sharper, more controlled. His dodges are precise. His counters actually make you work.

You grin, blood pumping, excitement thrumming under your skin.

“Finally,” you breathe, dodging a punch by a hair. “I was starting to think you’d never improve.”

Mark exhales sharply, rolling his shoulders. “Yeah, well, I’ve had a very aggressive training partner.”

You smirk, throwing a kick that he barely manages to block. “And look at you now! Almost respectable.”

“Almost?”

You grin. “Let’s see if you can prove me wrong.”

He lunges again, and for the first time, you let yourself enjoy it—not just the fight, but him. The way he moves. The way he refuses to back down. The way he looks at you, like he’s actually enjoying himself too.

And then he smiles.

Not a smirk, not a cocky grin, but a real smile. Bright. Genuine.

And something in your stomach flips.

You stumble.

Not much—barely a misstep—but enough. Mark seizes the opportunity, slamming into you with enough force to send you skidding backward.

You catch yourself before you hit the ground, flipping midair and landing in a crouch. Your heart is pounding—not from the fight, but from the fact that you hesitated.

You never hesitate.

Mark grins, slightly out of breath. “Hey, did I actually get you just now?”

Your fingers twitch. You force your expression back to neutral. “No.”

Mark raises a brow. “Are you sure?”

You glare. “Absolutely.”

He smirks. “You totally hesitated.”

You stand up, rolling your shoulders. “You wish.”

Mark chuckles. “Oh, I know I did.”

You hate that he’s right.

You hate that you let him be right.

And most of all…

You hate that your stomach does that thing again.

••••

You don’t care about Earth.

That’s what you’ve told yourself, over and over again, ever since you crash-landed on this ridiculous planet full of weaklings. You don’t care about its people, its customs, or its foolish attachment to peace.

But then someone hurts Mark.

And suddenly, none of that matters.

It happens fast.

One moment, you’re watching him trade blows with some costumed idiot—some third-rate, no-name waste of oxygen who dares to think they can beat him.

And then—

Mark hesitates. Just for a second.

And in that second, the bastard slams a fist straight into his ribs with enough force to send him crashing through a building.

Your vision goes red.

Your usual smugness—your sharp, teasing quips—vanish. There's no room for anything but pure, feral rage.

You don’t think.

You react.

The air around you crackles as you launch yourself forward, faster than the fool can process. One second, they’re standing there, smug over landing a hit on Mark—

The next, you have them by the throat.

Their eyes widen, hands clawing at yours, feet kicking uselessly in the air. You squeeze, just enough to make them panic.

“You think you’re strong?” Your voice is low, almost a growl, vibrating with barely restrained fury. “You think you can just touch him?”

They make a choked noise, eyes bulging. You hate looking at them. This weak, insignificant thing that had the audacity to harm what’s yours.

Your grip tightens. The building behind you trembles from the sheer force of your energy surging outward. Hair flickering between its normal color and golden for a split second.

Mark coughs somewhere in the rubble. "Y/N—"

Your head snaps toward the sound. He’s trying to push himself up, one arm wrapped around his ribs, blood smeared across his cheek.

He’s looking at you now, eyes wide, expression torn between disbelief and something else—something softer.

You don’t like it.

You scowl, then turn back to your prey. You could end this fight right now. Just a little more pressure, and they’d be nothing but a crumpled mess of bone and flesh.

But Mark—damn him—is still watching.

And for some stupid reason, you care about what he sees.

With a growl, you throw the bastard across the street. Their body smashes through a lamppost before skidding to a limp halt. You don’t bother checking if they get up. If they know what’s good for them, they won’t.

The moment they’re gone, you stalk over to Mark, who is still gawking at you.

“Did you just—”

"Shut up," you snap, grabbing his wrist and yanking him to his feet.

He stumbles slightly, and you automatically shift to steady him, one hand gripping his forearm.

He’s warm under your fingers, his breath still uneven from the fight. His eyes lock onto yours, searching.

Your jaw tightens. "If you die, I’ll be very pissed off."

Mark blinks, then—despite the blood on his lip, despite the bruises already blooming across his skin—he grins.

“You care about me,” he says, tone dripping with amusement.

Your eye twitches.

"You care about me," he repeats, sing-song, like he’s delighted about it.

You shove him, hard enough to make him stumble back. "I will end you."

Mark just laughs, wiping blood from his mouth. "Yeah, sure. Right after you finish avenging my honor."

You hate him. You hate that he’s right. You hate that you let yourself care.

And most of all—

You hate the way your stomach flips when he looks at you like that.

••••

It’s late—too late for anyone else to be awake—but you don’t sleep much. Not like humans do.

So you sit alone on the edge of his rooftop, arms resting on your knees, staring up at the sky. The stars above are bright tonight, scattered across the inky black like shattered glass.

They stretch endlessly, far beyond Earth, far beyond this tiny planet with its weak gravity and fragile people.

Somewhere out there, a long time ago, there was a place you should have called home.

But Planet Vegeta is gone.

You don’t remember it. You were too young when it was destroyed, sent away before the blast could reach you. By the time you were old enough to ask questions, there was nothing left to return to—just empty space where your people once stood.

You should be used to it by now.

But some nights—like this one—your chest feels hollow.

The soft thud of footsteps behind you barely registers. You already know who it is.

Mark drops down beside you, not saying anything at first, just watching the sky with you.

The silence stretches between you, comfortable in a way you wouldn’t have expected months ago.

Then, quietly, he asks, “You ever think about going back?”

You exhale slowly, gaze never leaving the stars. “Not really an option.”

Mark tilts his head. “Why not?”

Your fingers clench slightly. “Because there’s nothing to go back to.”

His expression shifts. "Oh."

You don’t like the pity in his voice. You shoot him a sharp glance. “Don’t look at me like that. I didn’t lose my planet—I never had it to begin with.”

Mark studies you, his expression unreadable. "Still. That’s… a lot."

You scoff. "I manage."

Silence.

Then, softly—“Then maybe Earth is your home now.”

Your head snaps toward him, expecting mockery, but there’s none. No teasing, no sarcasm—just sincerity. Just Mark.

He looks at you like it’s an obvious answer, like it doesn’t matter that you’re not human, that you don’t belong here.

For the first time, you don’t scoff.

“…Maybe.”

••••

Mark is fidgeting.

You’ve been watching him shift awkwardly in place for the past two minutes, and you can’t decide whether you’re more entertained or secondhand embarrassed.

His hands keep clenching at his sides, like he can’t decide if he wants to put them in his pockets, cross his arms, or just gesture wildly. He rubs the back of his neck so much that you’re convinced he might actually rub his skin raw. And the way he’s shifting his weight from foot to foot?

Pathetic. Yet...cute.

Your brow arches. “Are you gonna say something, or are you just gonna stand there looking constipated?”

Mark flinches like you just punched him in the gut. “I—I have something I need to tell you.”

You cross your arms, tilting your head, unimpressed. “Clearly.”

He takes a deep breath, like that might somehow help him, then lets it out in a rush of air that makes him seem even more stressed.

His shoulders are too tense, his expression too strained, and his heartbeat—oh, his heartbeat is practically hammering through his chest. Is he nervous?

He’s never like this during fights. Even when he’s getting thrown through buildings, he usually keeps his cool, and pushing through with sheer stubbornness. But right now?

Mark looks like he might actually pass out.

“So, uh…” He drags a hand down his face, sighing. “I think I—no, I know I—uh—”

Your smirk widens. You can’t help it. “Spit it out, Invincible.”

That seems to make it worse. He groans, eyes squeezing shut, head tilting back like he’s begging the universe for patience.

Then, he just blurts it out.

“I like you, okay? A lot. A lot more than normal, And I know you probably think I’m beneath you, but—”

You don’t think.

You act.

Before he can finish whatever self-deprecating nonsense he was about to say, you grab the front of his suit and yank him forward, crashing your lips against his.

It’s instinct. It’s reaction. It’s the only thing you can do when faced with something that makes your chest feel tight.

For a second, he freezes.

Then, he melts into it.

His lips are warm, slightly chapped, and he’s so still. You realize he’s holding his breath, and maybe you are too. The world around you fades into nothing, like the only thing anchoring you to reality is the heat of his mouth against yours.

And then it’s over.

You pull back so fast you nearly trip over your own feet, letting go of his shirt like it just burned you. Your heart is pounding in your chest, your face—damn it, why does your face feel hot?

You clench your fists, resisting the urge to cover your mouth, your brain screaming at you for what you just did.

Mark just… stares.

His mouth is slightly open, his eyebrows raised, his lips still parted like he’s still processing what just happened. There’s a deep flush creeping up his neck, painting his ears red, but—he’s not speaking.

Oh, universe.

Why isn’t he speaking?

Panic creeps up your spine like a slow-burning fire. You shouldn’t have done that. What if you—what if he—

“…You kissed me.” His voice is dazed, barely more than a whisper, and that’s when you snap.

You stiffen, looking anywhere but at him. “You were—talking too much.”

Slowly—too slowly—something shifts in his expression. The stunned silence fades, melting into something smug. His lips curl at the edges, the flush on his cheeks still present but no longer uncertain. It’s a look of pure, unfiltered victory.

His voice is annoyingly triumphant. “You like me.”

Your entire body locks up.

“No,” you say immediately.

Mark steps closer. “You so do.”

“I don’t,” you insist, but the way you’re backing up is not helping your case.

Mark follows, his confidence growing with every second. “You totally do. Oh my god.” He drags a hand down his face, but it’s not exasperation—it’s exhilaration. “I knew it.”

“You don’t know anything,” you mutter, face burning.

He grins. “You are so cute right now.”

Your hands clench into fists. “I will end you.”

“Oh, sure,” he teases. “But not before I kiss you again.”

You whip around so fast your hair nearly smacks him in the face. “I hate you.”

He has the audacity to laugh. A full, bright, obnoxiously victorious laugh.

“No, you don’t.”

Your mouth opens—probably to snap something back—but Mark just leans in, smirking.

“If it makes you feel better,” he muses, “I really enjoyed it.”

You go completely still, face burning impossibly warmer.

Mark grins wider, “And I know you enjoyed it too.”

Your eye twitches.

He laughs again, and you hate how much you don’t hate the sound of it.

[sailorsplatoon]

Chapter 11 time! Posting this a little earlier in the day than usual because I always feel bad when I post it super late.

Trigger warning for some graphic depictions of violence in this chapter

You can also read it on ao3!

First

Previous

Next

(Fanfic under cut)

Neo stood above the final boss kettle. Here fae would find Big Man, likely tied up, and the final octoling fae would have to fight. 

“You ready, Neo?” Captain said through faer headset. 

“Ready.” Neo attempted to sound determined despite the fact that fae was terrified by what fae could face in this kettle. 

Fae spawned in, but there was no sign of Cuttlefish. Instead, as anticipated, Big Man was standing on a platform next to a giant hunk of metal. But he wasn’t tied up for some reason. Why was he still here if he wasn’t tied up? What was even more unnerving was that, instead of entering the arena when Neo did, the octoling was already standing in the center, staring up at faer; she was simply waiting for faer to enter the ring. She wielded a Custom Hydra Splatling; Neo could see her tight grip on it despite being far away. Neo jumped into the arena, ready for another fight.

“Took you long enough,” the octoling began. There was something different about her. The other two sounded scared or determined, but there was a new emotion in her voice that Neo couldn’t quite place. But what fae could see clearly was the thick fuzz on the octoling’s tentacles, which none of the other octolings had. She continued, “I have been waiting here for you for weeks now. One by one, I have received distress signals from my friends as you got to them. And I was starting to believe that maybe you inklings aren’t so bad...” She let out a terse scoff, as if mad at herself. She was yet to actually look at Neo since fae had come down, as her stare turned to fixate on the ground between them. “But I get it now. All you do is bring pain and destruction. Itys had the right idea not wanting to be around people like you.”

Marie heard the sentence over the radio, and it felt like she’d just been stabbed. The octoling continued her speech.

“For what you’ve done to my friends, I, Nell, octarian commander, will end you.” She finally looked at Neo, her cold eyes boring right into faer’s, as if staring into faer soul.

The fight began without another moment’s delay. Ink sprayed from Nell’s splatling, several shots landing right on Neo before fae could dodge, nearly breaking faer armor right at the start of the battle. But as Neo made faer way out of the attack, Nell’s eyes wandered to faer ink tank, noticing Lil’ Buddy sitting on faer pack. 

With a ravenous look behind her eyes, and quicker than Neo could even see, she lunged at the ink tank, snatching Lil’ Buddy and holding him in the air with one hand. He squirmed in her grip, trying to break free. Neo whipped around, staring at where she held the small salmonid. Nell’s gaze darted from him to Neo. 

“He means something to you?” Nell asked. There was a danger in her tone, something that made Neo’s muscles tense.

Neo snarled at her, speaking through faer teeth. “If you hurt him I will—”

“You’ll what?” She interrupted, her voice loud and echoing around the arena. “What else could you possibly take from me? No, I think it's my turn to take something from you.” Nell’s fingers curled, claws suddenly sprouting from them and digging deep into Lil’ Buddy’s skin. The smallfry made a small squeaking sound in pain. Deep red blood seeped from each wound, running down Nell’s fingers and dripping from her elbow. 

Neo drew in a sharp breath, faer shoulders rising a little. Faer grip around faer hero shot tightened and faer breath was so heavy that it ruffled faer clothing. Without thinking, fae moved in fast, gripping the octoling by the collar of her shirt and raising faer hero shot up beneath her chin, pulling the trigger without hesitation and exploding her into a puddle of yellow ink. Neo quickly took Lil’ Buddy in faer hands, holding him gently. 

Nell respawned within seconds, in the center of the stage. She adjusted her posture and glared at Neo, a deranged smirk on her face. “Don’t think this is over already.” Her words came out in a growl, her tone sounding as if she was talking to a persistent horse fly. 

Neo carefully placed Lil’ Buddy in faer backpack, securing him tightly. Fae looked up at Nell and snarled, “Not a fucking chance.” Fae started shooting again, the ink flying in all directions. Nell fired as well, her shots seemingly more erratic than Neo’s. It was strange, almost like she wasn’t even aiming for faer. The realization hit Neo far too late; she was charging up her special. Right as fae figured it out, Nell’s tentacles started to glow. With a sneer, she activated her special; a small bottle-like object appearing in her hand. Nell threw it on the ground right in front of Neo and the Splattercolor Screen burst out. It was too close and too quick for faer to react, and the intoxicating ink hit faer head on. 

Neo had been hit with a Splattercolor Screen in ink battles before, but it was nothing like this. In the past, it had just been mildly disorienting, but this was agony. The color was sucked from Neo’s vision; the world around faer seeming to go into almost total darkness. The static felt like it was digging into faer ears and burrowing inside faer skull. The pain was all Neo could focus on, pulling faer mind away from the fight. Neo dropped faer Hero Shot, as faer hands rushed to faer ears and fae squeezed faer eyes shut in a desperate attempt to make the torment stop. The weapon fell to the floor with a loud CLUNK on the hard ground. A voice came through Neo’s headset, but fae couldn’t hear a word of what was being said with the static overwhelming faer. Fae opened faer eyes for just a moment, long enough to see the ink flying right at faer before being splatted. 

Neo respawned back on the platform outside the arena. The effects of the Splattercolor Screen had worn off, but faer head was still spinning. Captain’s voice suddenly rang through faer headset. “Hey. Take a deep breath. You need to keep it together.” 

Neo breathed in long and slow, then back out. Captain was right, fae couldn’t stop fighting now. Fae carefully removed Lil’ Buddy from faer backpack and placed him on the platform. He’d be safer if he waited outside of the battle. 

“What happened back there?” Callie asked through the headset. 

“There was something weird with that Splattercolor Screen,” Neo explained, staring down at where Nell waited for faer to jump back into the fight. “I think it has something to do with the fuzzy ooze. It’s made all her attacks stronger, even specials.”

“I thought I saw fuzz on her,” Eight mused. “Then she is not in her right mind. That’s likely why she is fighting with such intensity.”

“Neo, I want you to do your best to subdue her. If we can—” Captain was soon interrupted by a loud rustling. Then Shiver’s voice came through the headset.

“I’m on my way, Neo. I’ll be there with Master Mega soon.”

Neo could hear shouts in the background from the New Squidbeak Splatoon, and what sounded like Frye cheering. From the sound of it, Shiver had just run off with the radio. There was a click and faer headset when silent again. Neo rolled faer shoulders back and jumped back into the fight. 

Ink flew across the battlefield. Nell charged her special again, but as she was about to activate it, Neo took faer turn. Faer splashdown engulfed the octoling, the ink splatting her instantly. 

Once more, Nell respawned in the center of the arena. Wordlessly, she tossed her splatling to the side; as she did, razor sharp claws emerged from her fingertips yet again. Neo swallowed faer fear and kept fighting. Images of what those claws had done to Lil’ Buddy just moments prior flashed in Neo’s mind, but fae couldn’t focus on that right now. Fae had a fight to win. 

Nell ran towards Neo with more speed than she had this entire battle. She swung with her hand, scraping along Neo’s abdomen, tearing through faer armor and leaving a blood gash along faer midsection. Neo retaliated by shoving a burst bomb into her side. It exploded on impact, sending Nell reeling back in pain. Neo took this opportunity to cover the arena in faer ink. 

Nell walked slowly around the edge of the battlefield, eyeing Neo. As fae continued to coat the floor in faer ink, fae stared right back at her. And then there was a soft cli-cli-click. Shit. Neo hadn’t been paying attention to how much fae were shooting, and now fae was fresh out of ink. Nell took this opportunity and lunged at Neo once more. Fae took a few steps back, but not quickly enough to avoid Nell tackling faer to the ground. Her claws dug into faer shoulders, blood seeping out from the wounds and pooling around where Neo was pinned to the ground. Neo gasped in pain, trying to break free but quickly growing weaker as the blood loss worsened. 

Nell tore a clawed hand from Neo’s right shoulder, ripping off a chunk of skin as she did. Neo let out another cry of pain, writhing on the ground below her. She held her claw up above the inkling’s neck, ready to finish the fight. 

Then, suddenly, there was a strange motor-like sound coming from her left. As she turned her head, she was met with the massive mouth of a megalodon charging right at her. 

Shiver sat atop Master Mega as he clamped his jaws down on Nell, splatting her in a spray of purple ink. The giant shark landed in the arena as Shiver leapt off, rushing over to where Neo lay on the ground. “Are you okay?” She asked, helping faer sit up. Fae nodded, though faer whole body was trembling. 

Nell respawned again in the center of the arena, her claws still out. She took a weak step towards the two, but was quickly stopped by a set of massive gray fins wrapping around her. 

“Big Man, let go of me!” She growled, struggling against the manta ray’s grip.

“ Ay ay, ay. Ay, ay. (You’re not thinking clearly right now, Nell. I don’t know what happened to you, but you’re not yourself).” Big Man’s voice was calm, yet firm. He kept his hold tight around Nell, not letting her out no matter how much she thrashed. “Ay ay. Ay. (You’re going to wear yourself out if you keep going. You need to rest.)”

Nell didn’t stop trying to break out of his fins, grunting and hissing as she did. Gradually, she started to slow down, her breathing becoming heavier as the exhaustion finally began to set in. “I feel… not good,” she groaned, going limp in Big Man’s hold. He tightened his fins around her a little to try and support her. “Ugh my head hurts so bad.”

“Ay ay (Just take a moment to breathe).”

As soon as Shiver was certain Nell wouldn’t be a threat anymore, she turned her attention back to Neo. “Can you stand?”

“I don’t think so,” fae croaked, still relying on Shiver just to sit up. 

“Okay, that’s alright,” she said, her tone surprisingly soft for someone who claimed to be so cold blooded. “Big Man, do you think you can carry both of them back?”

“Ay, ay ay. Ay. (Yes, Nell isn’t too heavy. I can take Neo too.)” Big Man shifted his grip on the octoling so that she was secure in one fin. He then stretched the other out to where Neo lay on the ground, picking faer up slowly. Once the two were situated, he began making his way out of the arena. Shiver followed behind him, having Master Mega carry the treasure. On their way out, she took care to pick up Lil’ Buddy, placing him back in Neo’s backpack. 

****

“Something is really really wrong.” Phal’s voice was panicked, as he looked over at his companions in the snow globe. “Did you hear all that stuff going on over the radio? I don’t think Nell is okay.”

“I had half expected her to refuse to fight, seeing as she was questioning Octavio’s authority earlier. But instead, she seemed almost bloodthirsty,” Atra observed.

“Wait, Nell did what? When did that happen? Was I there?” Itys was still in their squid form, sitting up against the side of the snow globe.

“Oh yeah, you wouldn’t remember.” Phal shifted around awkwardly. He knew this wasn’t something any of them should be talking about, since they could get in serious trouble. Then again, it wasn’t like Octavio was anywhere nearby.

“What do you mean I wouldn’t remember?” Itys' tone was growing more worried by the second. 

“We should tell them,” Atra said, looking Phal dead in the eyes. “They deserve to know.”

Phal looked down at where Spore rested in his lap, trying to avoid eye contact. “Yeah. Yeah you’re right.”

Atra nodded before saying, their tone gentle yet concerned, “Itys, you were there. But you’re not going to be able to remember. Nell had been talking to Phal, Spore, and me about how she was feeling like maybe us Octarians are the bad guys. During our argument, you and Octavio walked in. You overheard something Nell had said about you being hypnotized, and you didn’t seem to even be aware that you were wearing the hypnoshades. Octavio had to say something to Nell about her questioning his authority, and you were clearly startled from just hearing what Nell said. So he activated a setting on the hypnoshades to make you forget the whole conversation and go partially unconscious for the next few minutes. That way you wouldn’t remember any of it because you were forced not to.”

Itys was silent. They didn’t make eye contact with anyone. They just sat there for a moment, not saying a word.

“Did you know that you had been hypnotized?” Phal asked, his tone cautious, knowing that the wrong phrasing would only cause more problems.

“No. Not really. Not when I was wearing hypnoshades. Once they were off, I knew immediately what had happened and that I had been hypnotized. But when they were on me… it’s hard to describe. It was like I knew, but I didn’t want to know, and I didn’t care enough to think about it.” Itys sighed, turning back into their humanoid form. Their knees were tucked into their chest, so there was still quite a bit of space in the snow globe for all the octarians to fit. Itys' posture sank a little as they started talking again. “Fuck. I knew it was messing with my brain. I knew it was bad. But I didn’t know it was that bad.” 

One of Itys' hands drifted up to clutch the top of their tentacles, grabbing so tightly that it looked like they might rip them out. They let out a singular, dry chuckle that sounded more like a sob than a giggle. It was followed by a few more just like it. Itys' volume grew as they burst out into full on laughter. But it wasn’t the kind of joy or merriment. It sounded almost psychotic. 

Phal, Atra and Spore watched in terror as their friend broke right before their eyes. Their laughter had managed to draw the attention of Captain, Eight, Callie, Marie and Frye, who were all looking on with concern. Shiver had already left to go help Neo, and both were yet to return. 

“You know what is so fucking funny to me?” Itys started to speak again as their laughter finally began to die down. Their voice shook a little, just as their whole body seemed to tremble. “Even though I know full coddamn well how horrible those stupid sunglasses are, if I had the chance to, I would put them back on in a heartbeat.”

Before anyone else had even registered what Itys said, Phal had wrapped his arms around them and pulled them into a hug. They froze the moment he did, their expression softening just a little.

“I like it more when you’re you,” was all Phal said. He whispered it just loud enough to be audible.

Itys didn’t say anything for a moment. They didn’t know what to say. So instead, they just hugged Phal back, the anger and pain melting from their face and being replaced with compassion, relief and a little bit of fear. Atra quickly moved into the hug as well, pulling Spore alone with them. The four of them just sat there for a while, hugging each other. The New Squidbeak Splatoon looked on with their mouths hanging open in shock and disbelief. 

Suddenly, there was a loud sound coming from the pipe that connected the first site to the next. Within a few seconds, Shiver and Big Man popped out, with Big Man carrying Nell and Neo 3 in his fins. 

Atra tapped Itys and Phal on the shoulders to get their attention and bring them out of the hug. “She’s back.”

[medicinenotmanners]

CALLSIGN: BERTHA

LEGAL NAME: Michaela Schneider NICKNAME(S): BERTHA BIRTH DATE: December 2, 1964 ( 12/2/64 ) AGE: SIXTY ( 60 ) GENDER/PRONOUNS: female she/her ORIENTATION: ????? ETHNICITY: German ZODIAC SIGN: Sagittarius

CURRENT RESIDENCE: mobile. EDUCATION: Umbrella Security Service Delta Team Member - Field Medic. OCCUPATION: former German Army Medic, torturer-for-hire

EYE COLOR: Hazel, typically hidden behind blue-tinted goggles HAIR COLOR: Blonde HEIGHT: 5’5”. BLOOD TYPE: B+ BUILD: Short stocky stature. Lean muscles SKIN: Caucasian, pale due to being heavily covered in armor. SKIN MARKINGS: Multiple scars dotting various locations all over her body from injuries acquired while she was in the German military. She has a beauty mark under her left eye.

ADDITIONAL INFORMATION: Has a soft spot for dogs.

BIOGRAPHY.

Prior to her service under the Umbrella Corporation, Michaela Schneider developed exceptional skills as a German medic, becoming an excellent healer with a keen interest in making the human body operate at maximum capacity. However, her extreme aptitude for medicine contrasts with her disregard for human life. Rather than placating her patients, she enjoyed causing them terror by detailing the exact amount of pain that they could expect to endure under her care. Her personal delight in a person's agony is further evident in the fact that she rarely ever resorts to using anesthetics on her subjects.

Following Schneider's discharge, the retired soldier made an unsuccessful attempt at reintegrating into society; her lack of concern for other people's well-being made her completely unsuitable to continue practicing medicine in a civilian role. However, Schneider's skills as a medic, combined with her lack of ethics or sentimentality, ultimately qualified her for employment in Umbrella's Security Service unit, under which she gained the codename "BERTHA." In addition to her new affiliation with the Umbrella Corporation, BERTHA also sold her services to the private contractors, utilizing her expertise as a professional torturer-for-hire. As effective as she is as a healer, she is just as efficient at causing pain. Through her extensive knowledge of the human anatomy, BERTHA has developed certain interrogation techniques that enable her to cause immense agony in her subjects, but without killing them. Hence, she can repeat the process multiple times. Her personal work is also a vast source of top secret and back-channel information.

By 1998, BERTHA was assigned to "Wolfpack," Umbrella's new U.S.S. Delta Team, which was reconstituted after the previous unit's destruction. Her unit assisted fellow operator HUNK's U.S.S. Alpha Team in their mission to retrieve the G-Virus and was later deployed to Raccoon City after Umbrella's t-Virus contaminated the area and infected most of the population.

[syoddeye]

down the hatch 4 / badgering

141 x f!reader | ~1.9k | series page tags: p in v sex, vaginal fingering, cunnilingus, bad jokes, manipulation, spanking, manhandling a/n: you know that tunnel scene in willy wonka and the chocolate factory? that's how it feels when i write this. a hoot and a half. banner by @/cafekitsune.

it’s an adjustment. living with roommates again. roommates who refuse to leave, thanks to all the death and destruction outside. convenient excuse, really.

no more naked mornings. you could go tits out—they fucking do—but you’re not entirely without reason. as salivating as they are, the hunks are your enemies.

even if they’ve showered, trimmed, and got some of the bloodstains out of their clothes. 

even if soap makes canned meat and powdered eggs palatable, whipping up a spam and rice bowl for you without asking.

even if gaz finds a five-hundred-piece puzzle on a scavenging trip and bites his tongue when you bat his hand away when he tries to help sort the pieces.

even if ghost slips a game of hangman under your door at lights out, and lets you guess a couple of letters each night. (first word? ‘wanker’. second? ‘larynx.’)

even if john—well, wait, no. the asshole hasn’t made a peace offering. probably because he knows you won’t honor them or because he’s sore about the whole ‘no cool nickname’ thing. whatever.

at night, alone in your room, you plot. how does one evict four man-roaches? make living with you worse than living outside.

in a weird way, your austrian neighbor and his aspirations for a fucking von trapp family: the squeakuel comes in handy. he hoarded all types of junk.

soap’s your guinea pig. he’s moody. something’s always itching under his skin. he snaps at the other men too easily and watches you like a dog admiring meat hanging off a bone. opportunity arrives one morning when john and gaz head topside and ghost settles in the living room. you corner the scotsman in the bunker’s tiny gym.

you linger in the doorway, fixated on the dark shapes under soap’s armpits. his mohawk sags, beads of sweat streaking over the freshly shorn hair. down his flexing muscles. and the grunting, christ. it’s a peek into heaven, which makes ruining it difficult.

without a word, you plop onto the other bench and take up the clarinet you found in your room. channeling the gusto of gus polinski, you wet your lips. how hard can it be? you don’t know polka, but you know rossini.

soap’s head snaps at the opening notes, nearly fumbling a pair of dumbbells, his face a flurry of anger, amusement, and annoyance. it’s a valiant effort, his ignoring you, but in the end, you only make it halfway through your best attempt at the william tell overture before he cracks. he rips the instrument from your hands and tosses it aside. he stands over you, smelly and slick, breathing heavily through his nose. 

you end up dragging him to your room.

soap is the definition of a romp in the sheets. a no-holds-barred deathmatch. it’s the first dick you’ve caught in months, and what a reintroduction. a miracle the bed survives. he starts with his mouth sealed to your clit, tongue working like it’s making up for lost time, as if your cunt and his face go way back. it’s refreshing, but you saw how fast he dropped to his knees for gaz.

two orgasms slip out by the time he wrenches off his damp clothes, chin glistening and eyes glittering. he goes cross-eyed the second his dick slaps against your folds, and you laugh at his desperate groaning when he sinks in. though, your laughs are choked off by his sudden, furious thumbing of your clit. (you punch him in the stomach—ignoring the filthy moan that elicits—and hiss out, “a genie isn’t gonna come out, stop fucking rubbing so hard!”) he ends up coming on your stomach and contorts to lick it off, muttering little gratitudes into your skin. it’s…cute. kind of gross, but cute. you kick him out after a power nap.

soap’s a wash. ba-dum tish. try, try again.

you set your sights on gaz. he’s tricky.

it quickly becomes apparent he’s the best at scavenging. smug about it, too, which you leverage. his ego’s easy enough to feed despite his unease. all it takes is batting your lashes and complimenting his hauls.

amazing. this must be the last jar of berbere ever.

pads? for me? so considerate, i’m stunned.

a mostly intact game of monopoly? wow, here, i thought we were done with landlords and taxes.

it’s simple. you begin with small requests. toothpicks. socks. lip balm. when he returns, he drops the goods in your lap like a cat with a mouse. stares at you with those pretty eyes while you lay it on thick. 

you escalate. either he’ll die on your absurd fetch quests or go crazy trying to fulfill them. brand new period panties. a specific type of hair dye. unopened baby lotion. naturally, he can’t find any of them. he still delivers approximations—granny pants, food coloring, and half a bottle of moisturizer—with a hopeful smile you crush under feigned hums of disappointment. ah, well, if this is the best you can do. it chips away at him. his smiles tighten.

you figure he’ll make a dumb mistake on his next outing out of some fucked desperation, and you’ll be down a roach. but after you tell him to keep an unopened pack of nail varnish because they aren’t your colors, he loses it. this time, you’re dragged to bed.

gaz pins you to the mattress, one hand on your throat and the other shoved into your leggings. pupils blown to the point where they’re shark-like. you’d spare a thought for all the poor creatures dead in aquarium tanks across the globe if he wasn’t hellbent on shoving a third finger in.

“so bloody irritating,” gaz seethes. “spoiled and greedy. have you always been a brat, or am i special?”

you spend your ration of oxygen wisely. “i think you think you’re special.”

for that, your knees meet your chest, and your pussy nearly chokes his dick. or so he tells you, pure filth spewing from his mouth. you giggle madly through the slight pinch of pain, mirroring the feral grin on his face. he’s big, and you could be wetter, but you’re not on your back for good behavior. he’s happy to tell you about that, too. how awful you are.

disappointingly, it doesn’t take long for him to lose his grasp on language. a shame, given his shit talk. 

he bats your hand away from your clit when you try to coax your orgasm along. clicks his tongue, eyes half-mast, and smirks. “gonna be good? gonna thank me?” 

in another world, you’d nod. whatever you say, beautiful. in this world, however, you flip the bird, and he flips you.

gaz pants like a bull, pulling you back onto his cock with an iron grip on your hips. his hand comes down across your ass, but there’s this je ne sais quoi missing. it’s the thought that counts, you guess.

after he makes a mess, you fully expect gaz to continue his tirade. instead, he finds a towel. he rolls you over and tucks you in. thanks you. it’s a shame memoirs are meaningless now as the perfect title comes to mind: ‘bunker bumping: backshots in the apocalypse’.

okay. zero for two. historically, settling for 50% isn’t unlike you. 

back at the drawing board, you reevaluate. annoying the men to death hasn’t worked, and they’re exceptionally durable in dogshit conditions. each day, they get closer to rigging the equipment necessary to contact their ‘friends’, seemingly unperturbed by your efforts. in fact, they seem more comfortable. at home. they poke around the utility room to assess what needs maintenance or improvement. the nerve.

it’s untenable. no matter what that dumb voice in your head insists, you miss solitude. miss not having an audience. you want to watch leon and the silence of the lambs without commentary. dance naked. leave the toilet door open. 

you withdraw.

the bedroom becomes your bunker within the bunker. you take meals alone. painstakingly move your puzzles and hoard books. shower at night after they go to bed. ignore them in the halls. keep your mouth shut when someone addresses you. it’s a fruitless endeavor, keeping your head in the sand, but a part of you hopes if you become as unobtrusive as possible, they’ll forget you exist. after all, they have each other. they put those squeaky single beds through the wringer.

problem is, you don’t account for scragglebeard himself. nosy fucker. 

it happens on shower night. towel-clad and testy, you trudge from the bathrooms and find your door open. you freeze in the hall, hearing clinking sounds and lowered voices. gaz and soap emerge, ferrying dishes and dirty clothes, not sparing so much as a glance. your stomach twists, immediately jumping to the worst-case scenario. they’re reclaiming the space, and they’re finally going to kill you.

unfortunately, it’s not so simple.

“whatever this is,” john sternly says the second you enter the room, “we’re going to fix it.”

ghost traipses past, arms full of unopened cans and more dishware. you glare at his back, then turn to john.

“get the fuck out.”

he chuckles. “sweetheart, what’s not clickin’? this isn’t just your shelter anymore.”

“got it,” ghost reenters, a roll of duct tape held aloft. 

well. you had a nice run. sure, the calamity was a setback, but considering you probably lasted longer than everyone you ever hated, present company aside, that’s a tick in the win column. 

however, ghost doesn’t bind your limbs or cover your mouth. he crouches at the ventilation shaft connecting our rooms, rips off several pieces of tape, and covers most of the grid. “you fuckin’ talk in your sleep.” he points at the small hole he left uncovered and stands. “my bed’s right through ‘ere. it’s fuckin’ unsettlin’.” grumbling, he shuffles out once more.

john’s not shy about scanning you from top to bottom, but apparently, he doesn’t like what he sees. he turns away. “what are we missing?”

you pick through what’s left of your clean clothes. “loaded question.” poking your head through a shirt, you shimmy the towel to your hips.

“where else would you find a clarinet?”

“up your–” he glares over his shoulder, and you smile sweetly. “there’s a small storage space in the closet here. it’s empty now.”

“we found the surveillance room and utilities. it stands to reason that there are others.” john scratches his chin, watching you like a hawk as you pull on shorts. 

“oh. you think?”

“i do.”

“well, think outside of my room. i’m going to bed.” you move to the bed and listen to john close the distance. he hovers, his breath hitting your neck in an exasperated huff. it sends a shiver down your spine. you bet he’s got what gaz was missing—experience behind the swing of his palm.

“like it or not, sweetheart, we’re sticking around. now, i’d prefer it if we kept things civil. based on what the boys told me, i know you’re capable of being friendly.”

it’s not the smartest decision in the world, wheeling on a man trained to kill. he catches your wrist as it winds up and twists it sharply behind your back. with one solid push, you get a mouthful of linen as your body promptly hinges at the waist. an angry string of obscenities gets lost in the sheets. you’ve never been so humiliated. or breathtakingly aroused.

john tuts.

“bad call, badger.”

[daydreaming-jessi]

Hey! Here’s a lil continuation of the alien ocs I finally finished! And here’s a lil ending thing I wrote up, cause I didn’t wanna draw more.

It was weird to be so easily scooped up by someone other than Raph after so long. Unfortunately, Leo’s harness dug uncomfortably into his neck, forcing his moment of frozen shock short as he instinctively tried to wriggle away, and free up his air passage. The struggle was useless, of course, he could see the muscle this strange creature possessed flexing as they carried Donnie like a sack of green potatoes. However, it didn’t seem to go unnoticed, as Leo found himself being tossed up slightly and settled into a better position, this time enclosed by a wicked pincer that replaced the arm that once held him. He instinctively yelped, and the creature gave an amused huff. He glanced up to see the creature eying him bemusedly, and they gave him a wide grin in return. The back of his neck tingled as his mind noted just how eerily familiar that grin was, he’d seen those teeth before, but where? It was going to bug him endlessly if he didn’t figure this out, like a stuck scute in the center of his shell, impossible to reach and scratch at.

“Alright, alright, you’ve caught us, we broke in and disturbed your peace and all that, but listen, uh…. Thing. There’s something else incredibly dangerous living in this building, and me and my brothers are gonna be the only things standing between you and a world of misery, so set me and my dear Donathon down, and we’ll real quick take care of that pest for you, m’kay? We won’t even charge you, which is a steal considering how good we are at pest control!” He gave the creature his winning thousand watt smile that no one could resist, and the creature gave him a, still bemused, but ultimately unimpressed look. An unfortunately recurring reaction Leo kept getting from everyone he flashed his winning smile to.

“I think I can take care of myself. Thank you for the generous offer, though, buddo, really appreciate it.” Their voice didn’t sound that deep, it was higher like April’s in fact, and yet it somehow rumbled through Leo’s chest like a thousand bass solos, farther than even Raph’s churrs could ever dream of reaching. It was like multiple voices were laced together, but only one was audible to Leo’s ears, the others too low to be caught by his cochlea.

Donnie began to struggle, seeming to have finally come to his own senses as well. “No, no, no, you wanna listen to him. I dunno if you remember a few months ago, New York laying in ruins, ring a bell? Planet almost completely decimated by a moon sized hunk of flesh that exploded in the sky? One of the things that caused all that is running around here unchecked, and the longer it’s free, the more destruction it can-“ The creature suddenly came to a halt that jostled the boys, interrupting Donnie’s growing rant with a slightly pained wheeze as his middle rammed into the arm currently keeping him locked in place.

“Looks like this is your stop!” The creature nudged the door open with a foot, revealing the trash cans and dumpsters of the alley running by the side of the building, lit only by the distant street lamps running out front and the rapidly disappearing dusk. There, Raph and Mikey were struggling to dig themselves out of the masses of black plastic bags threatening to bury them. “Now then, out you go!” Leo watched as Donnie was flung out into the alley, right into Mikey and toppling more garbage bags onto Raph.

He only had a moment to assess the state of his brothers, though, before Leo was face to face with the strange creature again. It was bizarre, he’d never seen a mutant or yokai like them before, nothing on earth could really come close to describing them, and yet, he knew their face. He’d seen the shape of their jaw square, the strange triceratops-like frill crowning their head, he just had to remember where. He couldn’t really think though when he was brought closer to their face, their yellow and orange eyes drilling holes into his own. Their bemusement faded into a serious look, and Leo subconsciously leaned back as his instincts kicked into hyperdrive. This thing was dangerous, and could very easily hurt him, and he was rapidly realizing that as the ease that had softened their features left, revealing sharp, intelligent life that studied him like a specimen, dissecting him right there for all his strengths and weaknesses. Whatever this thing was, it was also a warrior, and one Leo couldn’t really see himself winning against easily.

Then, just as quickly as the fearful look came over their face, it passed, replaced by a more calm demeanor. “Alright, now look. I don’t know what you lot know about Krang, but I understand your concern. Krang are dangerous. But this one you’ve met is different, and maybe you don’t believe me. But I will not let you hurt him.” Their brow furrowed with a klink, and for some ungodly reason Leo’s brain had to note that the gray dots must be piercings.

Still, the rest of his brain was fully intimidated by the look the creature gave him. He knew that intense ferocity furrowing their brow and trying to pull their mouth into a snarl, the contained but raging inferno of protectiveness blazing in their eyes. It was like looking into a mirror.

Then the creature smiled once more, and the serious air about them vanished, as if it never existed in the first place.

“Now, don’t break into our house ever again, m’kay? Bye-ee!”

Before he could respond, Leo felt himself be tossed backwards, and found himself surrounded by odorous plastic bags. He struggled to breach the black pit, arms flailing for any kind of purchase.

The door to the abandoned building slammed shut just as he reached fresh air, and he saw Mikey pop out of the garbage pit onto solid ground before the rest of them.

“Wait! My nunchaku! No!”

The doorknob rattled uselessly under Mikey’s hands, and he stared in despair at the now locked door.

Donnie emerged from the trash next and shot their youngest brother a frown as he tried to help Raph sit up straight. “Tough luck, Angelo. No way are we breaching this castle again for a while.”

“Man, Dad’s gonna kill us! We promised him we’d be careful, now when we show up covered in garbage and missing half our weapons, he’s never gonna let us go out again, especially when he knows why!”

The other turtles exchanged an uneasy look. Mikey was right, Splinter was gonna lose his mind when he found out about what they’d just been through, harmless as it was.

Upon hearing no reassurances from the three behind him, only uncertain silence, Mikey pressed the palms of his hands into his eye sockets and groaned. How could he be so careless? Yes it’d been a minute since they’d done this, but that wasn’t a good enough excuse. They were heroes, and heroes didn’t lose track of their weapons, or fall into traps, or get kicked out of the house they were scouting. This was a disaster.

Mikey uncovered his eyes as his hands slid up over his mask to his forehead miserably, and nearly screamed when he saw a pair of neon yellow, luminescent eyes staring right back at him.

The Krang that’d been tormenting them for the past half hour wriggled a tentacle at them, delicately balanced on the metal poles of the fire escape high above them. He seemed to be carrying something, but the light was rapidly disappearing into a gray twilight, making it all the harder to see.

“Hi. You dropped this.” It revealed another of its tentacles, clutching a familiar crosscut saw, before releasing its grip.

Mikey jumped and rushed to catch his weapon, gasping with relief as his beloved nunchaku appeared in his grip once more with a fiery blaze. “My baby! Don’t you ever leave my sight again!” He cradled the nunchaku delicately as he squished them to his cheek, like he would his first child.

“Don’t forget these, either.”

A hoe and hand rake joined the party, dropping safely onto the plushy garbage bags, rather than the ungiving asphalt. The turtles stared in awe at their returned weapons, before looking back up to the Krang, their eyes widening to the size of saucer plates. It watched them back, and if one were generous, they’d describe the krang’s slit pupiled eyes as thoughtful.

Then it smiled, and gave a child like giggle. “It was fun testing my home defense on you guys, glad to know they work. But next time you want tech, just ask. Lew and I don’t like uninvited guests.”

It finally revealed one last tentacle, clutching something, which it uncurled to let the strange item drop into Donnie’s lap. He jumped, and Raph and Leo both ducked back as his titanium shell claw snatched up the device. There it was revealed to be a strange black and gray metal orb, the size of a bouncy ball, with a couple small blinking lights and a single screw keeping it all intact.

“Okay, bye now earthlings!” The Krang wriggled its tentacle at the turtles again, and skittered off the fire escape back inside the adjacent open window.

For a long moment, no one spoke, instead staring at the now empty window, each individual turtle working through his own tangled series of questions and thoughts, dread filling the air like a noxious gas. Or maybe it was the clinging garbage smell on their shells.

Eventually, Leo managed to work words past the bitter taste on his tongue, and broke the silence, as he was skilled in. “So, not the worst first mission after our little mini vacation. I mean, not the best, but hey, it could’ve been way worse!!”

The three withering looks he got from his brothers were worse than the last foam dart that was distantly fired off and stuck squarely to his forehead. He glowered and flicked off the offending ammunition.

“Guys, was that really a krang?” Mikey asked, looking back up to the window with a strange emotion.

“I’m not sure what else it could be, not like we know a lot of other pink tentacle alien things with an affinity for giving us a run for our money,” Donnie replied, scooping his staff up with a purple flare while lowering his goggles to get a better look at the piece of tech they’d ‘liberated’ on their mission.

Mikey shook his head, looking back down to his reunited nunchaku. “But it was so small, and less spiky, and veiny.” And not that take over the world-y, his mind quietly supplied.

“And what about that big guy? I never seen anything like that before,” Raph noted, heaving himself up properly and brushing off scraps of paper stuck to his spikes. He grabbed his own lost weapon, returning it to its sai form before reaching down and helping Leo out of the trash pile.

“Speaking of that behemoth, call me crazy, but that thing was familiar right?! It’s been driving me crazy, I swear we saw it before!” Leo exploded, pointing back at the building.

“If I remember correctly, which I do because I took several dozen pictures and videos to study, that creature we just encountered seemed to be a more flesh-covered version of the titan armors the Krang leader had. It seems like the armor were designed after its skeletal structure, though I can’t say for sure until I perform some radiographs of my own,” Donnie pulled up some screens on his wrist-pad showing the old brute, fortunately covered in clinical notes and arrows pointing to certain parts of the armor Donnie had taken interest in, especially around the middle part which seemed to have a more vengeful scribble over it, covering its squishier control center.

“I knew it! Yes! Finally Donnie’s creepy habit of recording everything comes through!” Leo victoriously posed, while Donnie squawked at the backhanded insult, quick to point out the multiple other times his ‘creepy habit’ had dug them out of their own holes.

Mikey ignored them, though, still staring at the window as his mind brewed, thoughts of Krang and aliens flitting through.

Then he felt a hand on his shoulder, making him look up to Raph, giving him a reassuring smile. He turned his head back to the still bickering Donnie and Leo, and put an end to their argument.

“Alright guys, I think that’s enough for tonight. Let’s head home and come up with a new game plan. And, uh, maybe shower while we’re at it before Dad asks.”

“Agreed. Ugh, I did not miss the after mission odor,” Donnie grimaced and Leo playfully nudged him.

“Aw, come on! It’s a little nostalgic this time, after so long without it.”

The four headed out, but Mikey still lingered, looking back one last time. He didn’t have incredible night vision, but he could’ve sworn he saw two figures looking back.

Hesitantly, he raised a hand in farewell. He was a polite turtle.

“Mikey, if you don’t hurry up you’ll end up last in line for the bathroom.”

He turned and hurried after his brothers. He so did not want to shower in the gross stink his brothers would leave behind.

[stevelastnamespecs]

Steve x Reader

You are a healer’s apprentice in the emperor’s coven. One night, a coven scout you recognize knocks on your door, injured.

—

You’re almost asleep when a knock comes at the door. You sit upright. The rooms set aside in the emperor’s castle for healer’s apprentices like you aren’t big enough for two people so it can’t be a roomate, and you’ve never had anyone come looking for you before, especially not this late at night.

The knock comes again.

This time you get up and nervously open the door.

Standing on the other side is one of the coven scout trainees. Steve, his name was; you were talking to him the other day. He’s clutching his side, and you realize he’s bleeding.

“Hey,” he says, his voice strained, “can I came in?”

You automatically step aside and he stumbles past you to the single chair you have against the wall. His face is streaked with sweat.

“What are you doing here?” You ask, airless helplessly. It seems a bit obvious but you aren’t sure what else to do.

“”Got hurt, he grunts. “Didn’t want to go to the healers for… reasons.”

“Right.” You pull a spare healing kit out from under your bed. As you do you reflect that you must be more tired than you thought if you’re going along with some guy stumbling into your room this easily. “You’re hurt on your side?”

“Yeah. A cut.”

You nod. Healing training is taking over now. “Take off your shirt.”

“What?”

You blush. “I need to see the wound, idiot.”

“Oh, yeah.”

Steve pulls off his shirt. Underneath, he’s soaked in sweat. He must’ve been doing something really active when he got hurt. You wouldn’t be surprised, you’ve heard stories about the training scouts go through.

Before you can check his wound though, your eyes are trapped by his muscles.

Steve’s chest is magnetic, or perhaps gravitational in its pull. His pecs are muscled globes—atlases on which beads of sweat are glistening continents. Your eyes can’t pull away.

“Are those real?” You blurt out. You realize instantly it’s a stupid question but something about those glistening hunks of flesh turns your brain off.

Steve just snorts. “Oh yeah babe, no illusions here.”

He flexes his pecs; a cataclysmic earthquake for those awesome globes. The continental sweat droplets bounce off in a mass extinction event, but somehow, the destruction is almost seductive in the way it sucks in your gaze.

A pained wince from the bearer of those twin beefy worlds snaps your gaze back up to his face. “I, uh… am still bleeding though.”

“Right!” Your face heats up and you pick up bandages from the box at your feet.

Your well-practiced healer’s hands make quick work of wrapping up the wound in his side. As you place the healing patch over the site of the cut and begin pouring magic into it, your eyes drift to his abs.

You keep one hand on the healing patch and run the other over the sharp ridges of his stomach muscles poking out from above the bandages. It reminds you of the pattern on the washboard you use to scrub the blood out of old wrappings. He has them clenched tight against the pain, you realize.

“Wondering if those are real too?” Steve jokes.

“Eh— I, no, you, you’re clenching your muscles,” you sputter. “You need to relax or they won’t heal as well.”

“Oh, sure.” He winces again, but you feel his stomach soften under your hand.

You try to put a little extra magic into the healing patch to soothe more of the pain.

“You know, you remind me of my brother,” Steve says absently. “He was always hanging off of me, admiring my muscles and talking about how he wanted to be like me when he grew up…”

“Oh,” you take your hand back from his abs, “I didn’t know you had a brother.”

“Actually, he was the one I was sneaking out to try and see tonight.”

“That’s how you got hurt? You know you’re not supposed to see anyone on the outside!”

“Yeah, true.” He smiles fondly, looking off past you. “But I could never leave that kid alone for long. He looks up to me too much, I couldn’t do that to him.”

“Oh…”

You take back your other hand, hesitate a moment.

Then you pull Steve into a hug.

He stiffens, then awkwardly puts one arm around you.

“I’ll help you,” you say. “I can’t have you getting hurt again if you’ve got someone waiting for you.”

“Oh.” He softens into the hug. “Thank you. Really.”

[riftofthestars]

2 AM Facts with Silver

Jailer has a squad of his own! And I have just realized that 3 out of the 5 people in this squad are basically another muse of mine. I have to make bios for them, but here is a short rundown:

- "Vamp": Literally started (and still partially is) a modern AU for Blackwood. Lived as a nomad for most of his life until joining the army from a lack of sense of direction and becoming one of the best snipers. After a bad mission when he discovered some funky powers, he got out of the army and became an assassin. He was the one to kill The Bastard before being permanently hired by the Jailer.

-"Viper": A half-snake person that is a lover of love and profits. Much like "Vamp", he's worked as a hired assassin, but rather than using a gun he uses a pair of swords that he coats with venom his body produces. He dresses like a gentleman and acts like Johnny Bravo "if Johnny Brave was more chill" (Credit to @cosmicnexus for that phrase)

-"Broly": A former bouncer at an unspecified nightclub, this hunk of muscle is as terrifying as a bear while being as gentle as its teddy variant, similar to how Paladin would act in a crack!thread. He loves cooking and chokers. Raging like a barbarian, he often breaks said chokers. And if his sudden growth doesn't, the fact that he comes back from death like a pheonix assures their destruction.

-"Delta": the hacker of the group, he's good with computers and media. If Larry from G/T/A/5 was much healthier and way more into tattoos, you get the general vibe of this character, except that the two look nothing alike. He also jokes about having caffeine addiction, but he just takes the coffee flavour food whenever possible.

-Jamie: Jailer's secretary, they let themselves get hired out of desperation. They are scared shitless by Jailer, but the job pays and they aren't in any danger, so they make do. Jailer even offered them one of their expensive suits and let them cut out holes for their extera pair of arms since they didn't have anything that looked fit for this job. They are still saving for a custom made suit and maybe even a nice dress.

Edit: Vamp, Delta and Broly are parallels to Blackwood, Mechanist and Paladin respectively. Jailer is looking to increase his squad by hiring more people. At the moment his eyes are on the-mourning-dove's Roxxy

[antoine-roquentin]

When a nation feels threatened, it gets swole. Germans and Norwegians became obsessed with individual self-improvement through physical fitness around the end of the Napoleonic Era. British citizens took up this Physical Culture as the 19th century—and their empire—began to wane. And yoga, in its current practice as a form of meditative strength training, came out of the Indian Independence movement of the 1920s and 30s.

The impetus of these movements isn’t fitness for the sake of pleasure, for the pure joys of strength and physical beauty. It’s competitive. It’s about getting strong enough to fight The Enemy, whoever that may be.

The United States is, of course, not immune to this. The Presidential Fitness Test sprang up in the mid-20th century after studies found that American children lagged behind Europeans in certain tests of flexibility and calisthenic ability. Cold War paranoia only amped up this anxiety, particularly as we entered the 1980s. What if our kids were too fat to defeat communism? This obsession meshed beautifully with boomer yuppie narcissism and birthed the aerobics fad.

Then the Nineties hit, the Berlin Wall fell, and spandex and sweatbands became hilariously passe. While America still obsessed over thinness, it was not for the sake of strength. Two things happened at the dawn of the new millennium to bring back physical culture.

The first occurred in 1998, when BMI standards shifted a few points. Formerly, one needed a BMI of 27 (for women) or 28 (for men) to be classified as overweight, but the new standard lowered the cutoff to 25 points. Twenty-nine million Americans instantly became overweight without gaining an ounce. Under the new guidelines, doctors could prescribe them diet drugs or recommend weight loss surgery.

A nationwide panic rose; headlines screamed about a new plague of fat people whose bodies were ticking time bombs destined to deliver death and destruction at any moment. Stock footage of fat people ambling about in public, filmed from the neck down to protect their identities (and more effectively dehumanize them), became a common sight on television news as bony broadcasters droned about the horrors of the Obesity Epidemic. Curiously, hardly any of the reports on this sudden increase in overweight/obese Americans bothered to mention the BMI standard shift.

The second event was, of course, 9/11.

The attack on the World Trade Center and the Pentagon sparked a new War on Terror, and America needed to get in shape so we could win that war. The USA’s hyper-militaristic troop-worshipping post-9/11 culture seeped into the panic over obesity and gave birth to a terrifying, swole baby. Public school gym classes featured special military fitness days in which students practiced throwing mock grenades. George W. Bush added an Adult Fitness Challenge to the Presidential Fitness program. On American and British television, a new wave of documentaries and reality shows sprang up to bellow at us for being too fat to defeat al Qaeda: Honey, We’re Killing the Kids; Supersize Me; You Are What You Eat, in which a bony harridan screeched at Britons whose feces did not meet her exacting standards; The Biggest Loser, where lean coaches bellowed at fat contestants in a manner strikingly similar to that of a stereotypical drill instructor.

And muscles—giant, pulsating, steroid-enhanced muscles—returned to screens. But the new muscle era lacks the eroticism of Eighties action cinema. Arnold Schwarzenegger showed his glutes in Terminator; Sylvester Stallone stripped for First Blood and Tango & Cash; Bloodsport shows more of Jean Claude Van Damme’s body than that of his love interest.

For the most part, though, today’s cinema hunks are nevernudes. The Marvel Cinematic Universe is strictly PG-13, as one expects from a Disney product. And even in the DC universe, there’s very little of human sexuality. Capefans’ demands for more “mature” superhero movies always mean more graphic violence, not more sex. They panicked over Dr. Manhattan’s glowing blue penis in Watchmen, and they still haven’t forgiven Joel Schumacher for putting nipples on the batsuit.

Today’s stars are action figures, not action heroes. Those perfect bodies exist only for the purpose of inflicting violence upon others. To have fun is to become weak, to let your team down, and to give the enemy a chance to win, like Thor did when he got fat in Endgame.

This cinematic trend reflects the culture around it. Even before the pandemic hit, Millennials and Zoomers were less sexually active than the generation before them. Maybe we’re too anxious about the Apocalypse; maybe we’re too broke to go out; maybe having to live with roommates or our parents makes it a little awkward to bring a partner home; maybe there are chemicals in the environment screwing up our hormones; maybe we don’t know how to navigate human sexuality outside of rape culture; maybe being raised on the message that our bodies are a nation-ending menace has dampened our enthusiasm for physical pleasure.

Eating disorders have steadily increased, though. We are still getting our bodies ready to fight The Enemy, and since we are at war with an abstract concept, the enemy is invisible and ethereal. To defeat it, our bodies must lose solidity as well.

[drainthehero]

Ultraboy, Chapter 3

Ultraboy, still feeling horny after leaving Chip’s apartment, flew directly toward the docks where he could make out flashes of light and sounds of conflict. As he flew he adjusted his semi hard cock through his speedo to make it less obvious. The wind brushed over his smooth muscled physique and caused his cape to flick at his muscled calves, thighs and buttocks as he sped quickly over the city.

When he got closer he saw a large metal… thing, which he presumed must be the robot. It was big, around 9 feet tall, with a shiny silver outer casing. It was also humanoid in shape walking slowly on its shiny legs, so Ultraboy presumed it was human made. It was currently firing some kind of energy weapon from the end of one arm and it had a gun-like device attached to it’s shoulder which was also firing.

It looked as though the police forces had tried and failed to contain the construct, as there were vehicle wrecks in a trail behind the machine. The remaining police had fallen back out of its range and were trying to draw it toward them and away from populated pockets.

Ultraboy quickly scanned the area and spotted a number of people unable to flee. Making them his priority, he swooped down to grab the first two, wrapping a strong muscular bicep around each, before lifting them away from danger, keeping his body between them and the machine. He felt a few impacts hit his back.

After moving them to safety he returned for the third person, crouched behind a wrecked vehicle. He landed in front the man in his classic hero pose – legs apart, bulge smooth and large, chest out and proud – with his hand outstretched. “Take my hand, sir.” The man looked up at the bulge and muscles in clear lust and took the offered hand. The young hero pulled him close against his hard muscles to fly him to safety.

“Thank you for saving me, Ultraboy,” the man said in a shaky, but husky voice. One hand trailed from his massive pectorals down to his purple clad bulge and cupped his manhood while the other grabbed a meaty cheek of his ass. “I would only be too happy to find a way to thank you.”

Ultraboy gulped in shocked surprise, by both the boldness and the response from his super rod. The young heroic hunk had never had a member of the public be so brazen in their appreciation of his hunky physique. “Umm.. err, sir?” he coughed awkwardly and blushed, not sure what to say. He continued to massage his cock and ass cheek, eliciting a soft moan from the lips of Ultraboy, who could feel the stiffening shaft under the shiny purple fabric.

Finally he arrived at a safe location and set the man down. “Um… stay safe” he didn’t know where to look but could feel the semi poking a tent in his purple bulge so he flew away to deal with the robot. I guess I’m still horny from my time with Chip. Need to get back to him soon!

As he approached the robot, he contemplated the best approach. He usually tried to reason with criminals, as he hoped they would realise the futility of fighting the superpowered young hunk, but he wasn’t certain that would work here. He wasn’t even sure if this thing could hear or communicate. Still, it seemed the best place to start.

He landed about 20 feet in front of it and took up his heroic pose with a held hand up toward the machine in a motion to get it to stop. “What,” he paused, “or who are you? You need to end this destruction or I will be forced to stop you.”

The machine swivelled its attention toward the teen muscled superhero and paused for a moment. Script flashed up on an internal display within the machine as inputs were received and commands calculated and issued. As the image of Ultraboy filled a sensor array a set of commands – in bold, caps and red – flashed up on the screen:

OBJECTIVE 1 – COMPLETED

OBJECTIVE 2 – OBTAIN SEED OF ULTRABOY – DETECTED

OBJECTIVE 3 – CAPTURE ULTRABOY – DETECTED

NEW OBJECTIVE 2.1  – SUBDUE ULTRABOY

Ultraboy watched the machine while it processed commands and thought maybe he had made an impression. While he stood there holding his pose, muscles bulging across his body thought to himself, I could have used a fight though, after the humiliation of being defeated and milked by the Cleaners. The memory of that defeat, and the ease with which they had manhandled his huge muscled body still burned him with shame and humiliation.

As he finished his thought, Ultraboy moved to try further communication with the machine. At the same moment it executed its own command. In one swift and smooth motion, the energy weapon swivelled toward the super powered teen and released a blast at him.

Ultraboy was taken by surprise and the blast hit him directly in his washboard abs. “Ooof”, uttered the teen hero as the force of the blast propelled him backwards in a U shape, with arms and legs trailing behind his body. He slammed into the wall of a building, bringing it down on him in a flash of brick, dust and rubble. Ultraboy could be seen lying under the debris with a muscled leg and bicep sticking out.

Ultraboy sprang up from the rubble, unhurt physically thanks to his super powered impervious skin. “Fine,” said the young hero. “You want a fight, you’ll get the big guns.” He could not help but lift his arms and flex his big biceps in a display of strength and control. Looks like I’m going to get a fight after all, he thought to himself with satisfaction.

He flew directly at the machine and – slipping under its guard – landed a solid blow to the body casing. His effort was rewarded with a sore hand, a small dent on the machine, and the pleasing sight of it being lifted off the ground and carried back roughly 20 feet to land on its back on the road. He moved in to take advantage of the prone position, but the machine quickly propelled itself up from the road to resume a standing position.

For a second time, it swivelled the energy weapon toward Ultraboy and fired. The teen hero was more prepared this time and braced himself, flexing muscles and using his power of flight to steady his position. The blast hit him again in the abdomen and knocked him back, but he was able to correct his own course and, using the momentum of the blast, flew around to the side of the machine and aimed directly for the energy weapon arm.

Ultraboy grabbed the end of the arm with both hands, planted his feet on the body pulled, flexing all the muscle groups up and down his legs and arms. He felt little give from the machine as he strained and flexed his big muscles, beginning to worry that he may not be able to tear the arm off. However, assistance came from an unexpected source. The robot discharged the energy weapon again, hitting Ultraboy at the base of his pectoral slabs.

Ultraboy was again thrown backward from the huge force. But he was rewarded by the feeling of metal still in his hands. He looked over and, sure enough, the force had been enough to pull part of the weapon free of the arm. It was sparking enough that Ultraboy assumed it was now out of action.

Back inside the machine a few alarms were flashing as self-repair systems initiated. The screen flashed up revised instructions in bold, red and caps:

THREAT REASSESSMENT COMPLETED

THREAT UPGRADED

ACTIVATE OTT MODE – OBJECTIVE 2.1

Suddenly the robot flashed itself over to Ultraboy as the muscled teen was finding his feet. Ultraboy sensed the threat, but the robot delivered a powerful punch to the gut of the superhero. “Urgghhh,” exclaimed Ultraboy, clutching his stomach in surprised pain. “Aghhh”, he exclaimed. While he was clutching his stomach the robot delivered another punch to the chiseled jaw of the heroic teen.

The force of the blow smashed to the young hero to the ground, where he lay face down. His cape was flung to the side and his muscled arms and legs lay limp while he was momentarily out cold. His back was exposed and the delicious bubble butt was sticking out, encased within the shiny purple speedo.

The robot ripped the cape off the hunk and picked him up by one leg to drag him back to the road. The muscled stud was still out cold and so his arms dangled loosely behind him, as his speedo clad shaft and balls were also dragged along the ground.

While being dragged, Ultraboy awoke with a start and realised his predicament. This thing is stronger than I expected, better take more care. He bided his time at first and waited until the machine flipped him over onto his back, arms and legs outspread and purple package exposed. However, before the machine could do whatever it had planned, Ultraboy rolled to the side and sprang up into a defensive stance.

He stood there, partially crouched, waiting for the robot to make the next move. His jaw hurt like hell and he could feel bruises on his chest and stomach. Wow this thing is tough. What the hell is it made from?! Thought the young hero. “What do you want!?” he yelled at the thing.

The robot processed and calculated before engaging the projectile gun at its shoulder. It swivelled to the rear and fired behind itself.

As calculated, the young hero leapt into action and flew off in the direction of fire to see if anyone needed assistance. But as the muscled youth flew past the robot it latched onto a purple boot and swung the hero around and smashed him down on the surface of the road. “Oooof. Urgghh!” said Ultraboy, feeling some pain from the impact. For good measure it flung him overhead and smashed him onto the ground on either side multiple times. Ultraboy could only groan weakly as his body was smashed repeatedly into and through the bitumen surface.

The robot then took full control. Leaving Ultraboy laying prone on the ground, it launched a series of physical attacks all over the muscled body of the superpowered teen. Punches landed on his arms, face, legs and chest. Finally he lay still feeling tired and defeated. Ultraboy could only mutter a pained grown, “ooohhh, urrrgggghh…”

The robot stood over him as if to deliver some kind of final blow. But the young hero was not finished yet. He took all his strength and delivered a powerful kick to a leg of the robot, feeling a rewarding crack as his blow landed.

Ultraboy was exhausted but the blow to the leg of the machine had lifted his spirits. The teen hero started to get up slowly, ready for another round. As he stood his ground, recovering his breath and strength, the robot snaked out with its good arm and latched the hand-like end to the purple pouch of the superhero. Once in position it separated the orbs of Ultraboy and squeezed them.

“Ooof, urrghhh, argghhh!” Ultraboy writhed in pain as the metal hand of the robot sent shooting pain through his normally invulnerable nuts. His biceps flexed as he put his hands down to try and wrench the arm away but his massive muscles were too weak from his ordeals. “Ohhh, god. The pain. Please stop! Please…” Ultraboy whimpered weakly.

Unseen – but definitely felt – by the teen hero, the robot then slid open a compartment in the hand to release a dense mallet like object. This then assaulted his orbs like a battering ram. Ultraboy felt it smack, smack, smack, smack repeatedly into his testicles and thought he was going to die from the pain.

Ultraboy could only whimper and shriek. It felt like his balls were being repeatedly smashed between huge steel anvils. His head was lolling around loosely and his arms had gone limp at his side. Tears trickled down his mask and beautiful face. Still the machine pounded the precious and sensitive orbs of the young hero. The pain was simply overwhelming and Ultraboy just wanted to curl up and cry.

The robot then released the abused shaft and balls, leaving the young hero to slump down onto his knees. Ultraboy, the most powerful superhero the city had ever known, slumped in defeat. His huge muscles weak from exertion and bulging arms hanging limply by his sides. His head was pressed up against the groin of the robot as it stood there, seemingly contemplating its victory.

Back inside the machine alarms were still flashing and many systems were showing failure. The screen however was still operating and it flashed up new instructions in bold, red and caps:

THREAT REASSESSMENT COMPLETED

THREAT DOWNGRADED

OBJECTIVE 2.1 – COMPLETED

OBJECTIVE 2 – COMMENCING

After a few moments Ultraboy started to regain his senses. He stood up in front of the robot. He was weak and dizzy, having been tossed around like a rag doll. His body felt on fire everywhere. Muscles screamed in pain and his poor balls were so badly beaten that he feared they may cracked. As the young hero could barely stand, he swayed on the spot as weakness and defeat overtook him.

He contemplated flying off to lick his wounds, but that was not the way of the hero – he also was not certain he even could fly at this point. He looked up at the robot, which now felt like it towered over him and tried to devise a plan.

While Ultraboy was thinking, the robot swept the muscle hunk up in a tight bear hug, the robotic arms wrapped around the muscled chest of the teen superhero. It applied pressure to the hug and started to restrict both blood and oxygen to Ultraboy.

“Urgghhh!” Ultraboy groaned from the pain caused by the intense pressure as he struggled to fill his lungs. He lifted his mighty muscled arms above his head and brought them crashing down on the head of the robot. “Let. Me. Go!” he bellowed defiantly. The teen superhero felt the thing shudder under his blow, but it had come at a great cost to Ultraboy.

Still the robot squeezed. The heroic teen lifted his muscled arms for another blow. The blow landed in the same place but it delivered far less power this time. Ultraboy was weakening further and his once mighty muscles were almost spent. Ultraboy writhed in the arms of the robot as the pressure threatened to overwhelm his consciousness.

“Urgghh…. Please… letttt,” Ultraboy trailed off, sounding groggy as he started to black out. “Pleeeasse…”

He started to lift his huge arms for one more blow. But as he lifted them high, blackness took him and he hung limply in the arms of the robot, the superpowered muscle teen having finally succumbed to the robot. The arms and legs dangling weakly and loosely from the muscular body. The robot jiggled him about to ensure he was out cold. The huge muscles were completely slack and there was no flexing left in the boy. They just sloshed around like slabs of meat at the market.

Finally convinced, the robot dropped Ultraboy onto the ground, and spread out the muscle bound arms and legs. To ensure there was no further disruption, the robot retrieved huge slabs of steel from the wreckage and pinned the hands and feet of the teen hero. At full strength the young muscle hunk could have easily moved them, but in his current predicament they would keep him bound and immobile.

The hero was now lying on his back – head tilted and eyes closed – oblivious to the actions going on around him. His massive chest moved slightly up and down as small amounts of precious oxygen started to reenter his blood stream. His huge biceps and thighs were helplessly spread eagled. The purple pouch which housed the super cock and balls of Ultraboy was sitting exposed and vulnerable.

A compartment opened in groin cavity of the robot and a series of implements issued forth toward the prone hero. A tube was deployed between his lips, pouring a liquid down the throat of Ultraboy. A knife shot forward and swiftly cut open the speedo, exposing the thick shaft and balls to the evening air.

The smooth balls of Ultraboy were bruised and misshapen, having taken a beating from the relentless pounding by the battering ram of the robot. The testicles of any mortal would have been smashed into a creamy paste by the force of the repeated and relentless beating, but the ultrapowered body of the young hero had at least prevented his testicles from caving in under the pressure.

The liquid was clearly taking effect, as the cock of Ultraboy started to stretch and grow in the cool night air. It slowly filled like a balloon as precious blood and oxygen was diverted to his manhood. As the cock filled up, it started to harden and moved its position. By the time the super cock fully erect at the proud 8 inches, it was pointing directly at the face and chest of the beautiful sleeping hero.

Once the robot detected the erection, a much larger tube was deployed to cover the shaft of Ultraboy and commence suction and stimulation. The robot had detailed software for stimulating the male penis and did not suffer any human desire to rush or hurry. Additional snake like appendages sprang forth to caress and fondle the muscled body of the young hero.

They would land on a nipple, testicle or muscle and apply tender pressure while excreting a drug designed to enter the blood stream, increasing arousal and enhancing sperm production. They notably avoided the tight ass and hole of the young hero.

The various implements were doing their job with the hard shaft of the young hero being jerked efficiently.

It was at this moment that Ultraboy roused and saw the situation that he was in. “Ughh. Owww,” he muttered as he slowly regained consciousness. He tried and failed to move his arms and legs. He noticed the weights pinning him down and realised he had no hope of moving them in his currently weakened state. His huge muscles were groaning from the abuse he had suffered and to make matters worse he was hard yet again and it felt as though an expert cocksucker were going to work on his shaft and glans.

“Fuck!” he exclaimed weakly when he saw the pump working his cock. “What is the obsession with my cock lately?” Although he complained, he could not help but feel the positive glow as the drugs were spread throughout his system and his still sore balls were sucked and lashed.

At that point he felt a rising pressure in his balls and shaft and knew he was close. No matter how much the young hero tried to fight it off, the inevitable was about to occur. The robot increased and switched up the drugs so when the orgasm blossomed across his muscular body, Ultraboy convulsed in a feeling of ecstasy and joy. “Ahhhh! Fuuucckkk. I’m coming. God that feels good,” he confessed inspite of himself. “Ohhhh, fuuuuckk!”

The power of the gem gave Ultraboy the ability to rapidly create sperm and so the robot kept jerking, sucking and massaging the balls and shaft to get a very large sample.

After roughly three minutes, even the might superpowered balls of Ultraboy stopped churning and he writhed, wriggled and begged as the sensations drove him wild. “No! Please! Stop. The pain is unbearable. Pleeeassse. Please!”

When it had finished, the robot retracted the implements to its groin cavity and stored the sample safely within an internal mini cryo vault.

Back inside the machine the screen flashed a further update:

OBJECTIVE 1 – COMPLETED

OBJECTIVE 2 – COMPLETED

OBJECTIVE 3 – CAPTURE ULTRABOY – COMMENCING

Ultraboy lay on the ground, his still raging hard on snaking up his abdomen and his mighty limbs splayed out helplessly, restrained by the heavy weights. The young hero had regained some of his strength but he honestly did not see how he could escape this predicament. He also had no idea what the robot was going to with him now it appeared to have what it wanted.

The robot then removed the weights, finally freeing the arms and legs of Ultraboy, then lifted him upright. It was a shortlived freedom as shiny silver bands snaked out from within the body of the robot and encased him tightly, binding his arms, chest and legs. He stood there in his new bondage. His arms were pinned by his side and his legs trapped and unable to move. He could barely keep his balance.

His cock was still up and proud and was now bouncing along with the movement pointing out and slightly up. He contemplated flying off, but just then a device lashed out from the robot and encircled the base of his cock behind the balls and tethered him to the robot.

As the robot started to walk back in the direction it had come the tether tightened and pulled at Ultraboy. The pain was severe and so the young hero had to follow like a sex slave or risk his balls being crushed by the silvery metal ring.

Ultraboy felt defeated and hopeless. He had been defeated while fully powered by the gem. Not just beaten actually, but soundly thrashed, ball bashed and milked of his cum. To top it off, he was now going to be paraded across half the city looking like a sex toy being taken to its master. All his muscles and strength had not been enough to save him from this fate.

From the corner of his eye he saw a flash of light speeding in his direction and he tensed his muscles, bracing for an impact.

The flash of light was intended for the robot. It struck the robot at base of the tether, which freed Ultraboy from his slavery and sent the robot careening off to the side. Ultraboy felt a flash of hope and flexed his muscles for all he was worth. He drew on the power of the gem and was rewarded with a fresh surge of energy and strength.

He flexed his massive muscles again. This time the bands surrounding his body broke under the immense pressure of his powerful body. He reached down and ripped the remaining bonds and tether from his body. Ultraboy stood free again, his glorious muscled physique once again flowing with strength.

To his right a quick scuffle ensued between the flash of light – which Ultraboy could now see was a young male – and the robot. The robot flung the young male into a wall before initiating thrusters from its legs and flying away at great speed.

Ultraboy moved over to see if the young man needed help as he had hit that wall with great force. When he got closer he saw a superhero in his early 20s standing up from the rubble, dusty but unhurt.

The hero wore a white spandex suit, purple speedo and purple cape, which Ultraboy found strangely similar to his own. He also had a white mask to protect his identity and blonde hair. He was extremely handsome with a lean, muscled body like that of a swimmer. Ultraboy felt a moment of guilt as he felt attraction and heat toward the new sexy hero. This was confusing for him as he had already started to feel a strong connection with Chip and was looking forward to returning to Chip’s apartment.

“Thank you for the help back there,” Ultraboy started politely. He followed up with, “uhh, who… are you?”

The young hero motioned towards the groin of Ultraboy and the raging erection on display, which is when he remembered he was completely naked. Blushing in furious embarrassment he muttered, “oh my god. I’m sorry”. He removed and replaced the gem quickly enough that his identity was hidden by the purple field with his costume being replaced.

“I… uhh,” he started nervously. “That… er, thing decided to milk me dry.” As he said the words he blushed an even deeper shade.

The young hero then indicated that Ultraboy should follow him. Ultraboy didn’t even think about it. This hero had just clearly saved his life so he agreed and they flew off, Ultraboy following the unknown masked superhero.

The robot landed at the remote location and was met by the Coordinator. The robot merely issued the words, “Objective 1 and 2 complete. Objective 3 failed.” The Coordinator looked at his creation, lip curving in disdain and marring his otherwise beautiful face. The Director would definitely be pleased about 1 and 2, but would likely fly into a rage at the last piece of information.

Still, a relatively successful – if extremely costly – outing. The Coordinator retrieved the two compartments from his creation and issued the self-destruct command. Nobody could be allowed to discover their plans yet and so all evidence must be erased.

As he walked back to the camouflaged compound, the robot launched itself directly up and curved around the globe toward the sun. It would never make it that far of course, but it didn’t really need to.

[raeynbowboi]

BnHA Crossover Class 1-A

I saw a post this morning about the Teen Titans in UA, and it got me thinking about the quirks that would be found with other characters, so I cobbled together a class of 20 students from popular media, and tried to either turn their existing powers into quirks, or gave them quirks. It was a lot of fun, and I’m thinking of doing a class 1-B as well.

Name: Dick Grayson Hero Alias: Robin Quirk: Deductive Reasoning When Dick touches things, he can deduce their origins. He can tell the sort of gun that made bullet holes, whether something was written with the right or left hand, the way a knife was held while attacking a victim, or the height and weight of a culprit by finding their footprint. This makes Dick an expert in criminal profiling.

Name: Koriand’r (Corey Anders) Hero Alias: Starfire Quirk: Heartfelt Koriand’r’s quirk relies heavily on her emotions. She must be feeling a certain way to make use of her quirk, and cannot summon her powers unless she feels that way. To fly, she must think happy thoughts. For super strength, she needs boundless confidence. And for her starbolts, she must have a righteous fury.

Name: Garfield Logan Hero Name: Beast Boy Quirk: Animal Kingdom Garfield can turn into any animal he has seen before, but he can only copy the features of the animal that he knows about. This can include extinct and fictitious animals, but in order to become those, he must understand their biology and genetic make-up. Creating wings is pointless if he doesn’t know how to make them aerodynamic. This also means he can’t produce a dragon’s fire breath unless he can figure out a biological process to achieve this. Due to a mutation quirk he inherited, Garfield and any animal he becomes are permanently green.

Name: Rachel Roth Hero Alias: Raven Quirk: Psychic Soul Rachel’s soul is a semi-conscious entity within her. It is highly sensitive to the presence and emotions of others, and due to its link to Rachel, allows her to feel these sensations through her soul. This means she can tell how many people are in an area, and what they’re feeling. She can send pieces of her soul out into objects, allowing her to lift them with her mind, giving her telekinetic powers, or she can project the soul itself to create platforms, forcefields, or a bird-shaped battering ram. She can even use her telekinesis to lift herself, floating through the air, or envelop herself in her own soul and pass through solid objects. She requires daily meditation to focus and sharpen her mind, or risk letting her psychic powers become destructive and untamed.

Name: Victor Stone Hero Alias: Cyborg Quirk: Mechanical Infusion Vic has the ability to fuse technology into his body, a quirk which saved his life after his sports team bus had an accident and he was almost a casualty. The hospital technology infused with his body, and kept him alive. Since then, he’s focused on upgrading and improving his cybernetic enhancements, with a wide variety of technological detachments and gadgets built into his body. But his pride and joy is the sonic cannon he designed himself. While he can infuse any machine into his body, he’d be a horrible mechanical blob if he didn’t know how to compartmentalize. He maintains his humanoid appearance by understanding how to fold and store things inside of himself to fit as much in without overstuffing himself.

Name: Ruby Rose Hero Alias: Black Rose Quirk: Petal Storm Ruby’s quirk allows her to turn her body into a scattering of rose petals that move at a windswept speed. The petals can separate to move around objects, but must come back together for her to take human form again.

Name: Weiss Schnee Hero Alias: Ice Queen Quirk: Fairydust Weiss’ body naturally produces Dust, primarily in the form of powder. She has outfitted her revolver rapier to turn this dust into a variety of magical attacks. With enough dust, she can even create glyphs, a stationary magical property whose effect varries by the kind of dust she uses.

Blake Belladonna Hero Alias: Noir Quirk: Copycat Blake can leave a shadow duplicate of herself to take a hit for her. She can launch herself off the clones as well. However, the clones are not solid and cannot hit enemies for her. Instead they disappear after being hit by anything.

Yang Xiao Long Hero Alias: Dragonfire Quirk: Burn When Yang takes damage, it builds up in her muscles, allowing her to retaliate with tremendous strength. Her quirk causes her body to produce flames when angry, and she can shoot these flames with her punches, but not her kicks.

Name: Steven Universe Hero Alias: Pink Diamond Quirk: Gemstone Steven has a gemstone in his belly, which allows him to summon a shield made of hard light, and lets him give sentience to plants, as well as heal injuries and repair inorganic material. He can even merge himself with another person, creating a hybrid that shares a combination of their quirks.

Name: Aang Hero Alias: Avatar Aang Quirk: Force of Nature Aang has the ability to manipulate air, water, fire, or rocks within his vascinity. He has the greatest control over Air, but can manipulate the others as well. When he bends all four at once, Aang becomes able to tap into the raw power of nature itself, and awakens his full power, but becomes destructive and uncontrollable when he does so.

Name: Katara Hero Alias: Arctic Fox Quirk: Waterbending Katara can manipulate water, snow, and ice near her. Her body is highly acclimated to the cold, and with practice she can even create water by drawing moisture from the air and plants. She can even control the water inside of living things, but she doesn’t like using this unless she feels she has to.

Name: Sokka Hero Alias: White Wolf Quirk: Pack Tactics Sokka’s natural senses are hightened to the skill of a wolf’s, especially his hearing and smelling. This natural mutation quirk he inherited from his father makes him a master tracker. Sokka’s physical abilities improve when he’s around other people. As such, Sokka tends to avoid one-on-one fights if he can help it.

Name: Toph Beifong Hero Alias: Blind Bandit Quirk: Earthbending Toph can manipulate the earth underfoot, and bend it to her will. Her connection to Earth has become so finetuned that Toph can feel the vibrations of things in the ground and relay those signals to the entirety of her body. Because of this, she can see in 360 degrees, and detect small details others easily overlook.

Name: Zuko Hero Alias: Blue Spirit Quirk: Firebending Zuko can produce flames from his body when he uses proper martial arts form. However, he is highly disciplined in combat that doesn’t use his quirk, being a master in stealth and infiltration tactics. He is trained in the use of twin dao swords. His family is a prominent superpowered mafia, with his father being a notorious crime lord kingpin. Zuko applied to UA in secret, and covers for his absence by claiming to be undercover.

Name: Lance McClain Hero Name: Sharpshooter Quirk: Eagle Eye Lance’s quirk gives him extremely focused ocular perception, which makes his use of a stun gun highly effective. Lance’s gun has a built in freeze ray that turns his bullets into ice pellets. He has some skill with a sword and carries one in case he needs it, but due to his focus on ranged combat, he’s at a disadvantage once melee combatants get within close range of him.

Name: Keith Kogane Hero Alias: Yurak Quirk: Galran Keith’s appearance becomes more animalistic as he becoems angry, turning purple and developing feline-like traits. This includes the growth of fangs, claws, and animalistic eyes. This form is faster and stronger than his base human form. Keith is also very adept with a sword, carrying one into battle.

Name: Katie Holt Hero Alias: Pidge Quirk: Hacker Any technology Katie comes into contact with, she can rewire and reprogram. Because of this, Katie always has a stash of robotic drones to aid her in her field work. She had a promising future in the Support course, but she insisted on pursuing the hero course at UA.

Name: Hunk Garrett Alias: Gourmand Quirk: Iron Stomach Hunk is a walking tank whose body can dampen the damage he takes. This natural defense is increased when he eats. Especially when he eats good food. Certain spices and flavors also give him other temporary bonus features, such as spicy food dampening heat and fire damage, or mixed drinks letting him breathe underwater for a short time. He can even store energy in his stomach and fire it like a projectile, but this tires him out and makes him hungry.

Name: Allura Hero Name: Supernova Quirk: Alchemy Allura has a number of magical abilities she can perform, such as healing, creating blasts of magic, and other such magical things. Allura is skilled with a bo staff and primarily uses a segmented whip-sword. Her father was killed by a supervillain, and Allura swore she would become a hero in order to avenge his death.

[pastelsandpining]

The Master Sword

Summary: This is my take on memory 18, because the game’s version was far too happy for me. Zelda’s trip to Korok Forest was no easy feat, but she knew the sacred blade needed to return lest they lose it too.

Words: 2671 Warnings: this is Zelda after her entire kingdom was destroyed and all of her friends were slaughtered. it’s gonna deal with grief, survivor’s guilt, and other heavy themes.

CEO of posting works at midnight then being sad about the lack of notes

Masterlist

~~~~

Exhaustion was heavier than the sword strapped to her back.

Her legs screamed for her to slow down and her lungs burned from the ash in the air, inhaled in gulps as she wrestled with the grief in her chest. 

This morning, a beautiful sunrise greeted her from her window. Birds sang a song of love from their perch, and people bustled along the streets of Castle Town. She had a piece of her favorite dessert brought to her by her knight as a gift, and she walked through her lively, wonderous kingdom covered by green grass and wildlife beyond compare, to meet with her friends and conduct a day of prayer at the Spring of Wisdom.

It was a day just like any other, birthday or not. 

And now, that green grass was burning. That cerulean blue sky was painted red with clouds of ash raining down from every last bit of civilization she could see. The wildlife scattered, if there were any left at all. The fields of flowers were trampled by ancient technology that had gone from astonishing to terrifying—and out of their control.

She did not need Nayru’s wisdom to know that everyone from the castle, her home, to the outskirts of Central Hyrule had perished. She knew nothing of her friends, trapped within their once loyal machines, but she could not imagine they’d met a better fate.

And Link.

Zelda took a deep, shuddering breath and held tighter to the Champion’s Tunic that once matched his eyes. Now, it was covered in dirt and grime and stained with his blood. She wasn’t aware of the exact time, but she figured it couldn’t have been more than ten minutes since Hyrule’s hero had died in her arms. She didn’t allow herself any time to grieve—she couldn’t. 

Her despair reached far beyond the point of tears anyway.

She wiped at her eyes with her wrists, which managed hardly anything more than smearing the dirt on her face, and tried to even out her breathing as she reached Kakariko. Only then did she lower her pace and she didn’t have to search far for Impa, who was giving orders to her warriors. 

“Princess?”

Zelda pushed the tunic towards her dear friend and trusted it would say what her voice couldn’t. Some naive, stupid part of her hoped that if she didn’t speak it aloud, then it wasn’t set in stone.

“I can’t stay for much longer,” she explained, forcing her voice steady. “Two Sheikah have taken Link to the Shrine of Resurrection. When he returns, please, give him this.”

“How long-“

“As long as it takes.” 

In truth, she had no real reason to believe the shrine would work. Every last piece of Sheikah technology they’d entrusted was corrupted and turned against them. If the Calamity had that sort of power, then it was probable it could do the same to their last piece of hope. She prayed that wouldn’t be the case, because she didn’t want to think about what would become of Link, or his body, if something went wrong. 

“The sword,” Impa said, her eyes locked where the hilt peaked out from her shoulder. 

“I hope to return it to the forest, so that when he is ready, he can retrieve it,” Zelda explained, fidgeting with the strap. 

“And then..? What will you do, Princess?”

“Tell him that he must free the Divine Beasts if there is any hope of winning this.”

Impa’s face betrayed that she knew and Zelda turned away so she did not have to see the desperation on her loyal friend’s face.

“You can’t,” the Sheikah whispered. “We have no way of knowing— If the shrine does work, it could be years before Link is ready to face the Calamity again! No one can fight for that long, much less alone!”

“Stop,” commanded the princess. Her eyes traced the three golden triangles burned into the back of her hand and she closed it into a fist. “My entire purpose is to fight this Calamity. I refuse to do nothing when finally this power obeys me. Enough have died tonight.”

Her tone made it clear there was no hope in arguing. Her decision was final.

“Do you think.. Can we win this?” Impa asked instead with an awkward shift. She’d asked herself that same question many times within the last few hours and she wished that she could provide a complete answer. 

“I believe in Link,” she replied firmly, as if daring him to truly die on her. “Tell him that as well.”

Zelda had taken perhaps three steps forwards when Impa spoke again.

“Will you come back?”

“...you must do everything you can to aid him, Impa. Promise me that.”

“I promise.”

She couldn’t stand to waste more time, so she didn’t allow for any more questions. With a nod of appreciation to her friend, one that also served as a silent thank you and goodbye, Zelda broke into a sprint and didn’t stop until she was out of the village borders. Extreme physical activity was not of her forte and she’d done plenty of running already. Every bit of muscle in her legs protested against it. With an unspoken apology to everyone she had failed, she stopped trying to push herself.

She would need all of her strength. 

The strap was digging into her shoulder. Zelda slung the scabbard off of her back and chose to hold it in her hands instead. 

How many times had she looked up, seen him with this very sword on his back, and loathed it? How many times had she seen the blue metal glinting in the sun, the golden triangles crafted with such precious precision, and felt defeated?

Zelda could laugh. Defeat surrounded her and it was far heavier than her tantrums. It was even heavier than the steel in her grasp. She found it ironic, yet heavily fitting, that she would be the one to carry the blade she once detested to its resting place, that she would be the one to hold its wielder as he died, when she once loathed him so, that she, the one who could not fulfill her role, would be the sole survivor left to fight the Calamity. 

She wondered briefly, stumbling over a rock, or maybe her own exhaustion, whether or not they had made it to the Shrine. Did they lay his body to rest? Could they see his wounds healing? Was it slower than that, or was it just a futile attempt of grasping at straws?

A nearby screech startled her. Without much thought for what she was doing, she’d unsheathed the Master Sword and, with both hands on the blade, swung with all the might she had left. The Bokoblin fell before her without another sound, but the momentum of the swing kept her moving until she, too, was doubled over. The sword, with its tip driven into the dirt, was her only crutch. 

How Link was ever able to swing something so heavy with such ease baffled her. Or perhaps it was just because her hands were clumsy with weapons of any sort.

Zelda pushed herself upright and picked the scabbard up from the ground. With a little difficulty, she slid the sword back into its holder and continued her trek towards the forest.

It was hard to ignore the burning fields all around her. It was hard to ignore the guardians soaring overhead. She was careful to avoid their search beams because she didn’t think she could spare any of the sealing power for them. 

Part of her felt for them. She knew they were machines—no more than hunks of metal on legs, but there was tragedy surrounding them. Pieces of technology that were so advanced, that she loved, that were created with the sole purpose of helping Hyrule, were abandoned as soon as the Calamity was sealed. Their creators were exiled, their kind were banned, and they, too, were lost to the sea of time. Buried and forgotten, until they were needed again. And as fate would so cruelly have it, they were twisted and corrupted and now knew nothing but destruction.

Her thoughts flickered back to her loyal knight and she realized with a stroke of horror that he, too, would be buried and forgotten, lost to a sea of time. But then again, so would she. That’s how it went, wasn’t it? A hero and a goddess, set to revive only when the Calamity would. With tens of thousands of years passing between them, all they would truly become were stories. Except, there would be no grand legend following them. For a story to exist, there had to be people to tell it. Her kingdom, as far as the eye could see, had very little left.

She wanted to be upset. She wanted to be angry at this cursed fate, but if she refused to play her part in this elaborate game of chess, then there would be no hope for a future Hyrule to recall stories to.

Zelda gripped the scabbard tighter and pushed onwards. She never knew how much she would come to miss having his eyes on her back—having him three paces behind her at all times. She felt incredibly, strangely alone, and there was no comforting thought that one day she would feel his presence again. Wisdom did not grant knowledge of the future, so she was not naive enough to try manifesting her desire.

There was no bringing him back, not yet, and all the other lives lost tonight, all of their friends who’d stood bravely together only to die alone, had no chance of returning whatsoever.

All she could really do was hope that she could give the remaining populations in every last corner of Hyrule a chance to evacuate while she held the Calamity back. Should it devour her, her entire kingdom, at least her people would be safe. 

Goddesses, every step felt more difficult. Every step she took forward was a missing step behind her. And she couldn’t help wondering,

could she have saved him?

Part of her wanted to believe it would have been possible. The other part of her knew better than to tempt fate. They could not change it, but fate itself could play with whatever rules it desired. 

This, she realized with a deep chill, was how it’d always been meant to go. All of the time she spent in the springs, crying for a silent goddess to answer, wouldn’t have changed a thing. Fate was cruel.

Yet she couldn’t bring herself to be angry with the goddesses. The realization, the clarity that fell upon her, washed her through with a sudden calm. 

Or perhaps that feeling stemmed from the Lost Woods, whose fog seemed to be parting for her. With the sacred blade in her hands and the goddess in her blood, she supposed it had no reason to disorient and disable her. Even the trees were silent as she passed, their eyes following her as if they were waiting for a cue. 

Korok Forest looked as if it were from an alien world. The bright and lively green of the trees and pigment of the flowers did not match the decay outside of them. But even here, in the most sacred grove in all of Hyrule, the Calamity had a reach. She could see the dark, crimson sky behind the leaves of cherry blossoms where it did not belong. 

Zelda mistepped, her foot hitting the raised platform, and she didn’t try to catch her fall. The sword’s clang was loud as it hit the stone and her arms trembled under her weight. Her knees were scraped through the dress but it was already stained with blood, what was a little more? The sting was nothing compared to the loss of her kingdom. 

“All hope is not lost.”

She lifted her head, but it was hard to see the Great Deku Tree through the blur of tears in her vision. She blinked hard, but it did little to help. 

“With all due respect, I don’t think I can handle much positivity,” she replied, ducking her head again so she didn’t have to look at him. 

“There is no fault in that. However, telling you that there is nothing left would be false.”

“They’re dead,” she said and shook her head. How did she still have tears to cry? “All of them.”

“Not all of them. But you already know that.”

Zelda wiped at her eyes with her fist and dug her nails into her palms to keep from slamming them on the pedestal. 

“It hurts,” was all she could manage. 

“Yes,” replied the Deku Tree with a gentle hum. “But what is grief, if not love persevering?”

She did not want to reply. Instead, she turned her focus to steadying her breathing and putting an end to the ever flowing tears. The Calamity had laid waste to her kingdom, what good would crying do? Her clumsy hands found the hilt of the sacred blade and she pulled it closer. 

“You master will come for you,” she promised quietly. “Until then you shall rest safely here.”

But what good was her promise when she didn’t know if the shrine would work, or if Link would still be Link if it did? Could the soul of a hero strong enough to surpass lifetimes be altered, shaped into something unrecognizable? If such were the case..,

“Please,” she begged, holding her hands tighter, though she didn’t know if she was saying it to Link or to the sword. “Trust me when I say that I know he will arrive before you yet again.”

Zelda gripped the sword again and struggled back onto shaky legs. When she was steady, she slid the sword back into the pedestal and pressed down firmly until she felt it stick. There was a rush of something too, an odd sort of warmth that hit her fingers and spread throughout her chest as if it was trying to say something. This, she thought, must be what courage feels like.

“If I may be so bold,” the Deku Tree began again, “what is it that you are planning to do next, Princess?”

“It seems that my role is unfinished,” she replied, giving her eyes a final wipe. “There is still something I must do.”

“I sense there is great strength in your dedication.”

Yes, perhaps there was. She wondered if this is how Link had felt nearly every day—ready to act upon a moment’s notice. Even in his absence, she could feel a piece of him resonating within her heart. 

“Great Deku Tree, I ask of you,” she spoke in the comfort and confines of the forest, where no one could repeat her words, “when he returns, can you please relay this message..? Tell him I-“

“Now then… words for him would sound much better in the tones of your voice, don’t you think?”

The guardian spirit, old and wise as the sacred blade itself, gazed down at her with a warm look of faith. There was a gentle breeze that ruffled her hair and a ray of sunshine peaked through the grotesque sky for only a moment, but it was enough to bring a tiny smile to her lips despite it all. 

“Yes,” she decided simply.

This was courage.

The heavy fog of the forest parted for her just as it had done before and the gloomy, burning world she’d escaped welcomed her back as if she���d never left. The exhaustion was gone and in its absence remained a hostile anger that she was ready to let go of. Years upon years of neglect, of training, of hardships, led her to this exact moment—walking into an impossible fight alone. It wasn’t fair, goddesses knew that. This thing had taken everything from her.

But if her kingdom had fallen and she was destined to follow, she would make certain that she took the Calamity with her.

[subtlereferencetomyinterests]

Sharp Spikes and Glamour - Fusion AU

Ao3,   MasterPost,   More of This AU

Relationships: Romantic Dukeceit, mentioned Romantic Royality and Analogical. 

Warnings: Swearing, mentions of sex/sexual innuendo, violence against inanimate objects, mentions of injury- for perspective this is Remus-centric, and he’s just like that. Also mild arguing, some self-deprecating thoughts. The Dukeceit fusion uses it/its pronouns (as do I, so no clowning). 

Word Count: 3,992

Remus let himself fall backwards onto the hardwood floor, huffing. A satisfying thump echoed through the empty room, but the dull pain at the base of his skull stopped him from slamming his head down again. If Remus kept tripping over himself when his body was in top condition, he probably wouldn’t do any better with a cracked open skull and shattered vertebrae all the way down his back (however fun that might be).

Schmaltzy music lingered in the room still, and with a snap Remus willed it into silence. Now, Remus hated silence, but in that moment it felt like a blessed mercy in the wake of fucking classical fucking ‘music’. He laid flat on the floor, enjoying the quiet and wallowing in his aching muscles. As disgusted as he was by the orchestral garbage, he liked the dancing that went along with it even less- maybe for the simple fact that he was so very bad at it. 

So, the big question was why he was doing this to himself. Why had he gone through the trouble of making a dance studio in his side of the Mindpalace? Why the hell was he using it to learn waltzes, rather than his usual style of fast-paced and very suggestive movement? 

The answer was simple enough: Janus.

Now, just a month ago, Remus could very confidently say that his and Janus’ relationship was perfect. And it still was, really, but back then he’d been safe in the knowledge that they were also as affectionate and intimate as they could be! Which is to say, very very intimate. Wink, wink, if you catch his meaning. That was the way he liked it; Remus didn’t want there to be a step he hadn’t taken in any situation, but especially a relationship like that!

But then, that month or so prior, a very weird and crazy and impossible and fucking awesome thing happened right in the middle of the goddamn living room, proving Remus unfortunately and/or fortunately wrong about his boyfriend. His brother and his best friend had fused. Like, actually, Roman and Patton had pulled some cartoon bullshit that none of them had ever known they could even do before!

Obviously Remus was floored; everything there was to know about his (and other people’s) physical forms, he knew it and he’d pushed it to the limit before! Except for now, with something he had somehow never found out about that his brother got to first. That was the kicker, that was what made it both shocking and anger-inducing. 

There was no question. Remus was going to learn to do that. 

So, here he was, trying to learn, but he was not good at like, actually dancing. Which would’ve been fine, if he was dating anyone other than Janus- the most elegant, classy, coordinated side of them all! And Remus knew, somewhere in his sick-and-twisted guts, that Janus deserved to have something special, something that wasn’t more fitting in a sleazy nightclub. He wanted to give him that, no matter how hard it was.

Which was much harder than he’d originally assumed, actually. Before Remus knew it, Virgil and Logan had also managed to form a fusion before he had even gotten the hang of a waltz. And those two hadn’t even danced to get it! Wasn’t that just cementing his confidence?

Remus shook his thoughts away with a frustrated growl. He sat up on his knees braced against the ground, scraping his talons down the shiny wooden floor of his horrible, horrible dance studio. He was gonna get this right, because if there was one thing he wasn’t, it was a fucking quitter.

Swinging up to his feet, Remus pushed his hair back from his face and fixed it into a tangled mass of ponytail. He brought his arms down, and then back up again, shaking them wildly. When he deemed that job done, he kicked his legs out in much the same way. Seeing as he was the embodiment of energy, he never managed to get rid of all of it, but the wiggling definitely helped his focus. With a huff of finality, Remus settled, stared at nothing, and snapped his fingers. Shitty ballroom music filled the room again, and it took all of Remus’ effort to count his steps instead of willfully vomiting onto the floor.

But he did restrain himself, he kept his focus for once and propped his arms up on the empty air. Under his hold, the very absence of material wavered, shaping itself into something like a person. And so he laid his hands on that, in relatively respectful places, and began to lead the mannequin around the room in choppy movements. It matched him beat for beat, but it could not offer its own, organic responses like an actual dancing partner might- and that was by design.

It was boring, that was the real problem. How was he supposed to get invested if it was the same four movements, over and over! Each new attempt, he got maybe five minutes in before the fatigue hit, the need to do anything more interesting. What was just a couple of twirls, maybe a dip? Janus would still probably appreciate those additions anyway!

None of the flair attempts went well. He stumbled, hit the wall, tripped, all of it. By the end of twenty minutes Remus was waving the mannequin out of existence, feeling frustration pricking the corners of his eyes. What was he thinking, he wasn’t Roman, this was so stupid!

Remus straightened up (ha, ha) and spun around. He made his way to the corner of the room, fell into a crouch, and sunk his claws into the edges of the glossy wooden floor. Splinters bit his fingers, but he barely noticed them as he began to peel back the panels. They came free in a series of crunches and snaps, spitting shards of wood out and revealing the void beneath the ground. Remus held the chunks of flooring, feeling sharp edges digging into his palms, and he shredded them to pieces. When they weren’t much bigger than pencils, he let them fall into the newly made hole. Once done, Remus set his hands on the new edge, and he did it again. 

But, like almost everything he did, the destruction was loud. Shrieking, splitting, crunching kinds of loud. The kind of loud that didn’t go unnoticed. 

And the mindscape was as infinitely big as it was claustrophobically small.

Within minutes there was a sharp knock against the doorframe. Remus jolted upright, spitting out the hunks of plank that had one way or another found their way to his mouth. As he turned, he grinned manically, tucking his hands behind his back. 

Janus lifted a brow at him from across the room. The side stood with one hand propped on his hip, the other raised above his head so that he leaned on the doorway. His mouth was a thin, quietly concerned line, his eyes flicking around in tiny movements as he assessed the situation. 

“This is quite unlike the other rooms you've created,” He observed, clicking the back of his heel on the floor. Remus turned his gaze to the wall just above Janus’ shoulder, discreetly picking the splinters from his hands. In all honesty, this situation wasn’t unexpected- Janus was known to wander around in Remus’ new creations, whenever he wanted to catch his attention- but Remus had been under the impression that when that happened, he wouldn’t be right in the middle of tearing it all down. 

Which had clearly been a stupid assumption from the start, because he was. Himself.

“Hey, J.D.!” he chirped, scraping the last of the rubble from his fingertips, “Thought I might try out something new!”

Janus’ eyebrows arched up, a bemused smirk gracing his lips.

“An empty room?”

“Yeah, but obviously it got boring, so-” he gestured at the corner he’d torn into non-existence. “Time to get rid of it! It was probably a dumb idea, anyway.”

Even to his own ears, his cheery tone sounded forced. He threw in a gargled giggle to make up for it, but that came out even worse. Janus narrowed his eyes in that knowing way of his, then, and Remus knew he’d have to explain himself properly.

“Darling,” Janus slipped into the room with long strides, “What is so wrong that you’re using half-truths to talk to me?”

He wasn’t embarrassed that he’d been learning to dance- he was 99% sure he wasn’t able to feel shame (which was very sexy of him, in his opinion)- but he was upset that he was so disappointed at it. 

He didn’t need anyone’s approval… but he certainly wanted Janus’. 

“It doesn’t really matter,” Remus’ statement rang with honesty. He met Deceit in the middle of the room, his smile challenging, only to be met with calm and patience. 

“I don’t care if it doesn’t ‘really’ matter. I just want to know why my partner was angrily devouring housing material in a brand-new corner of the mindscape.” 

“It’s not that weird, I’ve eaten a lot worse than plywood!” 

Janus huffed, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“You’re clearly frustrated.”

“I’m frustrated all the time,” Remus argued, “There are so many stupid things to be frustrated about, you know that. It’s a very easy feeling to have, you get it without even noticing! Like, if it were an injury, it’d be a papercut; everyone has a papercut somewhere on their body most of the time.”

“What?”

“It’s an analogy, I think!”

Janus gave a long-suffering sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. Remus felt a small bit of pride at how annoyed he looked, despite the uncomfortable situation he’d gotten himself into. 

“Whatever, if you’re really doing so well I suppose I should spare my worry and save us both the headache.”

“Exactly! See, just because I’m feeling a bit manic-panic doesn’t mean it has anything to do with you, scaleface.”

And that was his mistake. 

Janus stopped turning away as soon as he’d started, his mouth curving into a deep frown. He crossed his arms over his chest, and he almost seemed to be offended.

“You just lied.”

Remus, internally, screamed. He hadn’t even fuckin’ lied on purpose! That couldn’t be fair!

“So it is about me, then,” Janus went on slowly. “Are you angry with me?”

Remus blinked, falling untense oh-so quickly at what he now saw was Janus’ nervous face. 

“Wha- no! That’s not what this is about!” 

Janus only narrowed his eyes suspiciously. Remus grabbed the snake’s hands with his own scarred ones, pulling him near. He felt his hesitation leave as soon as it had arrived, replaced by his usual affinity for just spitting out whatever he had to say. It wouldn’t turn out any worse than having to see his baby hurt or worried. 

“It was supposed to be a surprise. For you.” 

The suspicion melted off of Janus' face in increments, leaving him with a confused little half-smile.

“For me?” He echoed, “What was it?’

Remus huffed, snapping his fingers. The lyricless music returned to the desecrated room, and he gestured around with both hands. 

“It didn’t really work out the way I planned, so,” he rolled his eyes and huffed. “I was teaching myself to dance all proper.”

Remus could basically see Janus’ thinking, and for some reason it was grating him. 

“You want to dance with me? Dear, you know you don’t need to give me traditional romantic gestures like that-”

“It was to fuse!” Remus blurted, “I wanted to fuse with you. Like, properly.”

Janus made a soft sound of realization, his eyes going wide. He was silent for a long moment, holding too-tight onto Remus’ hands. But he had yet to let go, which the creative trait counted as a good sign.

“Oh, Love,” he whispered at last, “You’re really serious.”

Remus would’ve winced, if not for the fact that Janus' face was split in a smile, open and sincere in a way that showed he'd really been caught off-guard. His face was warm, and he looked pleased for all the world. He wasn’t judgmental, then, only surprised.

“Um… yes? I wanna fuse with you?”

Janus shook his head musingly, laughing almost exasperatedly.

“No, no, I understood that bit, but-” he waved a hand at the barren room, smirk growing wider, “Ballroom dancing? You? Really?”

He had a point. The walls were a pristine white, shot through with neat marbled patterns. There were mirrors stretching the surface of either wall, reflecting onto each other with clean clarity. There was no clutter, no objects, nothing but the little box itself. And Remus felt no more frustration as he burst out laughing. He tipped his head back and cackled, tugging Janus’ arms until they were pressed together.

“I don’t know why I thought this would work!” He cackled.

“I never know why you think anything that you do,” Janus’s nose wrinkled as his own resolve cracked, leaving shrill giggling behind. Remus snorted, holding onto his partner just to keep himself upright.

“Sorry, Jay,” he almost wheezed, “There’s no way we’re gonna be able to fuse like this, I’m horrible at it.”

Janus’ giggles tapered to a stop sharply, turning to trills of confusion before cutting off completely. Remus met his eyes, and was surprised to find renewed concern. 

“Now, that’s entirely what I meant by that remark, you aren’t misinterpreting at all.”

Remus squinted at him, at the sudden spout of backwards talk.

“...What?” 

Janus scoffed.

“Of course I don’t want to fuse with you, it’s not like we’re in a committed relationship, or anything.”

Janus got very lie-ey when he was heated; the ferocity had Remus taken aback. 

“Soooo, you… do want to try it with me?”

Janus glared in a very duh-obviously--you-idiot kind of way. Remus might have been annoyed with his little tsundere, but the snake’s grumpy face edged just too much on the endearing side for it to spark any of that. It wasn’t too much of a shocking revelation, he supposed, but when he admitted to failing before it felt pretty final, in his opinion. 

“Uh, Okay! You have to lead, though, and I’m at least 60% sure it won’t work, because like I said I have no idea what I’m doing.”

Janus hummed in satisfaction, his grimace curving up into a smirk. 

“To start, we’ll need a change of scenery.”

Remus nodded agreeably. They couldn’t risk falling into the nothingness pit he’d made, after all- those were very difficult to get back out of and not a whole lot of fun in general. So when Janus held his hand out invitingly, Remus took it, letting the trait transport them to wherever he had in mind. 

But that place was no better than the destroyed dance studio at all. The room they ended up in was also very much destroyed, and cluttered, and generally very slimy. 

Remus’ room. From the corner of his eye, he saw Janus’ lips twitch in amusement. 

“Dear, let me explain,” he tilted his head back just so, making eye-contact with his boyfriend. “We’re going to fuse. It could be in here, for all I care, or somewhere bigger for our needs, but whatever it is most certainly will be a dancefloor. Because we’re not doing this your way.”

Remus made a startled chuckling noise, almost convincing himself that the doublespeak was somehow triplespeak- which just looped back around to ‘speak’, come to think of it. 

“You- that’s a really bad idea.”

Something teasing glinted in Janus’ eyes.

“Aren’t bad ideas your specialty?”

“Yes,” Remus ground his teeth together, “But not yours!”

“Your point?”

Remus breathed exhaled, loud and puffing, as he tried to explain. He wasn’t going to deny the excitement this was all bringing him, but it was hysterical, an almost negative side to enthusiasm. There were so many things that felt needed to be said. To be warned, before Janus made a horribly bad decision for himself.

“My point,” he managed, words heavy in his throat, “Is I don’t think about things, so one of us has to. I want to do this the right way, Jan, this is like the one thing I don’t want to fuck up.”

Janus narrowed his eyes, the corners of his lips twitching down.

“You think it won’t work this way.”

“You like doing things so fancy and dramatically!”

“You called it the ‘right way’,” it was hardly above a whisper, he looked surprised at his own words as he said them. Remus could only scoff.

“Well, yeah! If we do it how I would, then you probably won’t wanna be part of the creature that comes out of that!”

Janus’ pupils went from circles to slivers in no time at all, pain washing over his expression. Remus held his hands tighter and leaned in, ready to apologize for whatever he’d said to hurt him, but he couldn’t get a word in. 

“It’s going to end up more of you than me. That’s what you’re worried about.”

It wasn’t a question. Remus felt some of his usually infinite energy slip away from him. It left a hole behind. 

“I know you, baby,” he was tired, maybe desperate, “You won’t want that.”

“Why shouldn’t I want it?” Janus snapped suddenly, “I’ve already made it clear that I want you. Clearly I must find some of your qualities desirable, why else would I spend nearly all my time with you, around you, thinking of you?”

There was a fragile kind of quietness, broken only by Janus’ hitching breath. Remus found himself blinking and blinking, his eyes stinging like someone was pushing needles into his tear ducts, agonizingly slow. He pulled Janus to his chest, propping his chin on the side’s hat and shivering.

And Remus, to his own shock, had no words. He didn’t have much on his mind at all, knowing only that he felt so much in the moment, so much and so powerful and all serving to remind him why he loved Janus as much as he did.

He wanted to ask more questions, to make sure that Janus was as sure as he said he was, but he couldn’t. His snake was stubborn, would stick to his words no matter how much Remus badgered him, and he wouldn’t have had it any other way. He pressed a kiss to the top of Janus head, closed his eyes, and let the emotions wash over him. 

He breathed in, out, and suddenly the second wave hit him in the chest, his eyes forced open.

Or…

It. Its eyes were forced open. Yes, that sounded right.

It stood in the middle of a room- a familiar room, but certainly not Remus’. It was much bigger, the ceiling higher to accommodate the inhabitants height, and much more organized. There was still plenty of clutter, plenty of skulls and bones and preserved creatures, but all in neat little rows on pretty rustic shelves. The place had the distinct vibe of a house belonging to a very ominous, eccentric, wealthy old murderer. Perfect.

The new creature turned its attention to itself, stretching out its limbs curiously. All nine of them, it turned out; seven arms stacked on their torso, four on the left and three on the right, all of which ending in sharp talons covered by gloves. A wicked grin split its face, and it wasted barely a moment before dashing out of the new room and down the hall. It came to the bathroom door, threw it open, and leapt inside. Two hands gripping the basin, it peered at its reflection. Two piercing, yellow eyes peered back, the pupils mismatched in shape and size. Lime-green scales covered its face and neck in splotches, smooth and diamond-shaped.

As its gaze traveled downwards, it appreciated the too-wide mouth filled with dangerous fangs, those snake-like slits up both sides of the face. Its hair was kept pinned back from its face, partially hidden beneath a black, metal crown. It was clearly messy- probably greasy- colored very dark with shocks of silver running through.

The collar of its shirt rose to nearly past its jaw, then plunged down to reveal a lot more of its chest than necessary. Its clothes were almost entirely black, broken up by the lemon/lime embellishments travelling up its arms and around the clasps in the front. The overcoat had long coattails and striped sleeves, ending in cuffs of fabric about the wrists. Moving lower it had very tight pants that did not leave much to the imagination, and boots that were more than a little over-the-top. Finally, there was the cape, hung around its shoulders and reaching floor length. It billowed when it moved even as much as an inch, looking at first like more black. Then the material caught the light, showing a dazzling display of green and yellow, glittering like a perfectly formed geode. 

A laugh sprouted from it, giddy and exuberant. It twirled in the small space, its many hands twisting and toying with its outfit, hair, anything it could reach. From its hazy mind came then came its first intelligible thought, just from its appearance: it was called Rennet.

It stilled, hands hovering in scattered positions. The sharp laughs were quieting, but it still shook like it was laughing. Just shaking in general, probably. The worries of its more excitable half weren’t all gone, not that easily, and it knew it wasn’t yet stable. 

Rennet took a breath, but its head didn’t clear, if anything it grew fuzzier. It was two creatures, two creatures that spent hours and hours inside their own heads as it was, and now both of those over-stuffed brains were in one too-small skull. It could almost feel the weight, leaning heavily on the wall just to keep upright. 

“Should we stop?” Rennet verbalized the question in a thickly accented voice, knowing that otherwise it would never be able to understand the words through the mess of its mind. 

“I don’t know,” it’s tone dropped in pitch, the sharp edges smoother, “Is that what you want?”

But it had barely gotten a chance to be. It couldn’t give up already. 

So what was wrong with it?

“Oh, I don’t know. Everything?” Rennet threw its head back, because of course the worst thought was the only one that ended up audible. It sighed, dragged a hand down its face, shook its head. “Just remember the saying- two wrongs don’t make a right!”

Rennet’s mouth shut with a snap, and it felt quite angry with itself. On behalf of itself. It wasn’t sure, really- the indignation was much like something felt when a loved one was insulted, not when one’s self was insulted. That somehow made the sting worse. 

“You think you’re wrong?” It said in a whisper, clutching its own wrists tight. Rennet knew the answer, though, knew it as it was ingrained into them.

And with that, its resolve sharpened. It was not going to come apart so easily, it would not accept either bits of it thinking anything so bad about himself, and…

Rennet was going to be the sexiest, baddest bitch the Mindpalace had ever seen. That was for damn certain. 

It stood straight up, clapping three pairs of hands together and snapping its fingers with the seventh. It had to bear in mind that it was, for the time being, a giant sparkly monster babe. Now, being sad under those conditions just wouldn’t make any sense, and it intended to keep that thought at the forefront of its newly formed mind. Because Rennet was smart, it’d certainly retained that part of Janus, and it was peppy, if Remus had any part in it at all. 

And, it mused, as it walked through the hall and down into the living room- it was undoubtedly very mischievous.

Taglist: @glitter-skeleton-uwu @donnieluvsthings @intruxiety @thefivecalls @did-he-just-hiss-at-me @gayformlessblob 

[thatsadorbsyo]

Lucas - Threads

((this post references the events of the fall, a mission in the heartless ffxiv roleplay campaign. quoted sections were written by @way-to-the-future. cw: character death. art credit: papa ibra tall, seamstress of the stars, wool tapestry, 1970s.))

“I admire how much warmth you give. Like a furnace. Like you've got a blaze rolling at your heart, and you let it all out through your skin. I see it in your eyes, the way they glow when the lamplight hits it just right.”

I’ve got nothing but white static in my head when I try to remember the Rovers’ faces, and if that isn’t creepy as fuck, I don’t know what is. I can’t recall a single thing about them. No noses, no mouths, not a sliver of kohl smudged under an eye or a lock of hair curling out from under a helmet. It’s easier to hate them when I can’t see any facets of their identity, but I don’t wanna fall prey to this lazy fallacy, either. There must have been real men under all that armor. One of many, sure, but individuals all -- just like I had been, once upon a time. So why don’t I remember?

My memory is unfortunately selfish and selective. It picks up the threads of the things closest to my heart and weaves the best story it can with the loose ends. So here’s the stupid little details that stuck with me, where more pertinent information might have been written instead:

I can still tell you with absolute clarity the exact gem tones of the light reflecting off of Cheche’s upturned face, when the Allagan facility erupted in spells and gunfire all around us. Sapphire blues, emerald greens, and amethyst purples against her shining black scales at every obsidian facet, like a raven feather catching the light.

I can map with exacting precision the arc of Castor’s white braid when he whipped his head around at the commotion, taking the tactical measure of our situation the way only a forged-in-the-blood knight like him can. Even after turning away from him, I could still feel the bulwark of Castor behind me, a solid presence that I didn’t need to see to be able to sense, like an extension of my arm, a phantom limb.

To turn around and suddenly find them both gone, ushered down a different corridor in all the clusterfuck of our allies splintering when the Rovers betrayed us?

It felt like amputation.

If I could, I would keep them both in my heart, keep them like puppets suspended by vermilion strings that extend from their every joint to the cavernous arches of my beating muscle. With threads that absorb the shock of my mortal body and every twin hammer of blood, so that all my loves can feel is the gentle warmth of my fire, the spark of creation that burns in me to keep them, cradle them, shelter them close and alive.

Keep them, and I guess, in so doing, preserve them exactly as I want them to be. Is that fair? It doesn’t seem so, does it? I may love them, but they aren’t mine. They aren’t toys or dolls; not mine to keep. See, Castor has taught me that to love someone is to swap my puppeteer’s strings for the Spinner’s threads, and let them weave their own way through my story. Cheche has shown me that the beauty in anything -- in anyone -- is that they might evaporate at any moment. But if I let them, they both might even decide, all on their own, to stay with me for as long as they can. A stronger path, freely chosen and written in royal blue and bright fern green, threading in a perfect braid around my brilliant gold.

No, I couldn’t keep them -- and in the moment of amputation, it didn’t fucking matter anyway, because they’d already gone beyond my reach. My heart was alone, but still it burned for them; burned fit to melt straight through the iced Malbolge of all the hells, a judgement which I still believed must have been waiting for me just beyond the next door of this Allagan tomb, to welcome me to the justice that I'm owed for my crimes. This door, or the next door. The next one.

Amputation wouldn’t stop me. Hell wouldn’t stop me. I would have burned through that whole building like a live coal, if that was what it had taken to find the exit and bring us all back home.

“It's hardly poetic, love. I'm just telling you exactly how you are. How anyone could see you. Even if they weren't a poet. Maybe even if they didn't care for you like I do. Just, if they - stopped to watch you.”

I don’t think I’ve mentioned it, but I had a brother once, before I torched the evidence of the life I used to live. Augustin looked so much like me even when we were young, but moreso now than ever before. We have the same bronze eyes, the same nose; I’ve grown into the size of our chin with time. He’s a beefier motherfucker than I am, and he’d always preferred braids, but even still you’d be hard pressed to tell us apart if you stood us back to back. Where do you think is he now?

Does he wonder what’s become of my punk ass? Surely the reports tell the truth about how I left. They wouldn’t keep secrets, not from a... fuck, he’s probably a Centurio now, isn’t he?

Shit... I bet he is. He always wanted to follow Mom’s path, even though every day that passes causes me to doubt her just a little bit more. I’ve learned too much about family not to begin questioning her motives for doing what she did, but I guess that’s neither here nor there.

But it was Augustin who first taught me how to shoot, you know? He took me behind our home and put a gunblade in my hands, adjusting my twiggy little twelve-turn limbs into the approximate shape of proper posture even when the weight of it threatened to topple me over like a top-heavy weed. He drilled firearm etiquette into me until I could recite its tenets by memory. For such a little bitch, he molded me into a decent shot.

I haven’t felt that kind of brotherly guidance in a long time, but I think I felt Augustin’s ghost behind me when I stood shoulder to shoulder with Sister Lux in that facility, fighting our way out.

Do you remember that door, the one I had thought stood between me and the hells? It was really just another hungry bulkhead between us and freedom; a sun and moon puzzle that should have been, might have been harder to solve if I couldn’t feel the juxtaposition of her fire right next to me. Sun and moon. Astral and umbral. It was so simple; this was a test. I had let my aether lay fallow, and in order to progress I had to reach inside and drag all the burning potential straight out of my mouth. Furious, destructive, so obscenely fucking alive.

Hungry, that’s the key word. The door had to feed -- on us. I don’t know how, or why, but somehow she and I put our hands to the door at the same time and knew exactly what to do. It was time for me to shit or get off the proverbial pot, and all she had to do was correct my posture a little bit, just like old times in the backyard with my brother and a weapon I didn’t know how to hold.

I picked up my brass and ruby cudgel, and she told me how to feel the fire of my aether and let it simmer in controlled brilliance, and how to sit back and watch, patient and observant, as an umbral reckoning blazed all the way up into my nose, through my nostrils, eventually bubbling out in an oozing black ichor like tar. Until we were both painted with blood and the door finally gave way after growing fat on our offerings. Freedom, and not a moment too soon.

It’s funny. It’s funny in that way where I have to laugh to keep from considering all of the circumstantial leaps that had to happen to get me there, in that moment, with that exact mentor and the tools available to me. Did you know that I bought my thaumaturge focus the same day -- at the same damn merchant stall -- that I bought the bracelet that Lux still wears? The cudgel was a leap of faith (I thought maybe, someday, I would use it), and the bracelet was a tithe for her attention, but I gotta fucking wonder if that wasn’t the Spinner herself cinching an amethyst purple thread, until two distant ends of a rich black fabric pleated and bunched together, suddenly close, in a moment of coordinated function.

Like this had been the plan all along.

“They treat you differently because of it. Everyone on this ship - they know they can talk to you, Lucas. That you'll hear them.”

I started this mission as an empty vessel, asking everyone I came across to pour their faith into me so that I might taste it and gradually build a competence in teasing apart the flavors of the gods. The truth is that I was searching for the one most likely to offer me forgiveness, or at the very least the god who might hand me a penitence that I felt like I could swallow. I thought I deserved it, you see. That’s how all this started. On bad days, I still do.

Asking about faith isn’t just a window to the spiritual soul -- it’s also a mainline straight into the source of everyone’s irreconcilable fucking damage. Picking your god is a perilous choice, but mostly because it ultimately determines what kind of personality malfunction you’re going to have down the road. I already know why I’m awful: Delusions of grandeur and megalomania, with a curious tendency to self-flagellate. I’m the smartest, most impressive architect you’ll ever meet. I’m the greasiest, grimiest hunk of motor oil in the gutter.

The only way to reach the middle road between glorifying and hating myself, I’ve found, is to count the threads that wrap themselves around my ribs when I recount the conversations that I’ve had on the Salemtaza’s Voyage.

Here’s a taste: I’ve got Caelrin in deep ochre around my midriff where my abs are just starting to take shape. Ignera sits in flaming orange around the hollow of my throat, slapping my hand away every time I try to choke on my own self-loathing. Captain Kharn wraps in garnet around my face, shielding me from unwanted eyes when I don’t feel quite how I should in my skin. W'kana and W'buki in yellow and black, swaddling me so tight around the chest I fear for my next fucking breath. Reinette, a gentle evening blue curling in petals around my fingertips. Rizzo, a shining onyx black stitching up my lungs telling me to breathe, just breathe, don’t stop breathing until it gets easier.

More even than that. Staelufre in neon magenta, Fugetsu in an unknowable shade of grey, Killian in sunset orange, Strelec in obscuring maroon, Hikari in daisy yellow, Camille in cloudy crimson, Jancis in healing olive, Lune in jumpsuit orange, Jeanne in oil-slick purple, Hanako in fresh lavender, even Kat, yeah, even her, in that same royal blue as Castor.

Nathaniel threading in loops around every one of my fingers in a dazzling gold that fades into the electric yellow of potent aethersand.

I could go on. I could list twice as many names and colors as I already have, and I must ask myself: How do I carry them all? How could I possibly hold them all, without attaching them directly to my meat, my bones, this hideous and imprecise flesh that rightly should be cogs and metal? All that thread would just gum up the whole works, wouldn’t it? Maybe it’s better that I am man, then, and not machine.

For all my flaws, I can still stretch my arms and accommodate all these dangling ends.

“They see it in you, in the way you carry yourself. You're curious. Empathetic. You want to understand people, not just love them or hate them or think nothing of them at all.”

Sui tried to warn me about all this, back at the pumpkin patch at Cloudtop. It was raining, weighing down all my sashes on my brand new armor, and Sui had laughed when the skies parted to reveal the sun setting in a field of rose gold and the softest lavender. It seems like she and I can never properly talk if we aren’t both looking at the sky, like this is the only way we can perceive each other. Never head on -- only in the periphery. Or maybe it’s just easier to talk about certain things when you aren’t looking someone in the eye. Maybe it’s that.

She was so startled by the questions I needed to ask her, like she hadn’t thought it was possible that anyone had been watching her reaction to Nathaniel’s speech, like she didn’t think anyone would have noticed that she was upset. Is she so used to passing under the radar?

But I’ll give her credit. Sui tried to warn me that my friends would die. I watched the sunset fizzle out on the horizon from its soft pastels into a creeping ceruleum and a deeper indigo while she told me every horror that had befallen her family before, and what she knew would happen to us again. Sui could feel the same threads of fate starting to twine around our edges, and she wanted me to be prepared. I listened. I let those fibers stitch themselves into my lungs in the golden rose of a cloudless twilight sky.

I just never thought it would come down on us so quickly, and with such brutal force. I’ve never had to pray for another person before, and out of nowhere I found it necessary to summon the script to beg for twelve of my friends’ lives.

The truth is that I never learned how, and I’ve been too afraid to seek the answer. I know how to make wishes; I know how to toss gold coins into a running fountain and watch the sunlight flicker off the scattered mess of them along the bottom of the pool. But I don’t know how to pray.

I know who I would ask. It was Tieve who introduced me to Gridania, and if Sui and I speak most openly under a yawning sky, you might say that Tieve and I communicate best among the trees, under a cathedral of roots. The memory of the hearer’s chapel is stitched in bark brown and moss green bracelets around my wrists, reminding me that while I may have been invited to someone’s sacred space, I have to mind my boundaries, too. I am not the infallible creator of my own conceit, but nor am I outcast from Spoken kindness and community. To know temperance is to know yourself, to dig into the well of your Spoken dignity and grant the same to others.

I still have this embroidered Gridanian sachet of wood chips and herbs that she gave me, telling me it was for luck, and I didn’t know back then how much I would come to rely on Nymeia for hope. That I would need to believe that she’s writing me into a greater tapestry, that I need that grandeur to feel like my dumbass mistakes have meaning and purpose. And even with Tieve beyond my reach, it occurred to me that she might have already given me everything I needed to weave my own prayer. A level head. A god. A talisman.

I’m just fumbling through this. We all are, but I made my own prayer by pulling that sachet out of my pocket and spinning it over and over in my hands as I remembered the names of those our enemies had taken from us. Who better to beg than the god of fate? Keep their lines anchored to me. Keep them in the tapestry. Keep them safe.

“It's the most noble thing about you. It's - It's more than just what you do, it's who you are. It's what I love about you.”

I recite their names:

Aidan, the hound with apologetic eyes who slinks around the edges the crowd until someone notices him, at which point he deflects attention from himself with a self-deprecating joke straight out of my own fucking toolbox. He could be a brother to me, if he let himself be; if he told me the truth about who he is and where he’s been. I can smell it on him. The stench of ceruleum doesn’t fade as quickly as any of us would like, but I wait for him to tell me on his own terms. Aidan weaves around the periphery of my eyelids in a shadowy kohl black.

Izar, the mercurial seer who obscures themselves in riddles like a smug sphinx playing at being a whimsical faerie. They have never passed up the opportunity to toy with me like a blind white kitten with an oversized brown moth, but the teeth of their humor has never once felt like a cage to me. They are kind, and curious, and helpful even as they delight in your confusion. They dangle at my elbow in marble white, furiously tickling my arm like a loose hair caught in a sleeve.

Adhi, the wandering sage of Dalmasca who the gods had to gift with such big fuzzy ears so that she could better capture every single story that ever came her way. I don’t know how to even begin to thank her for what she’s done for me; she’s returned things to me that by all means should have been my birthright but were taken from me before I was even aware that they were being stolen. Her thread spirals in a shell around my ear in an entire spectrum of colors, one for every tale she carries with her.

Still, there’s more: Tieve, the witch of the wolves (mossy green); Percy, the son of a shadow (cobalt blue); Bride, the bashful goldsmith (periwinkle blue); Swozbhar, the towering cook (mint green); Valeriaux, the scarred philanthropist (leather brown); Silya and Livia, the sunniest Fists I’ve ever met (pale pink and soft teal); Farid, the most visibly haunted man I know (muted purple); and Iron Deer, the entrepreneurial engineer (metallic steel) -- all of them familiar faces, all of them colleagues, all of them threaded through the chambers of the same priceless Heart that gives our mission purpose.

The same Heart that we traded away just to get them back.

You know what? Fuck it. I’ll string them all to my own heart. I’ll suspend them all in cocoons deep in the burning hearth of me -- I will fight my way out of this facility that wants desperately to become our tomb -- until those that still live can crawl back out, fragile but alive and free to keep fighting for whatever comes next.

But one of them is gone, beyond the veil and permanently out of my reach. Just like Sui tried to warn me about, and all of Tieve’s lucky charms were not enough to protect me from this single ungentle truth. The Spinner does not stop the march of destruction -- she merely directs it. She cuts the threads of our fallen friends when they begin to fray and weaves new ones in their place; a different color, a fresh fate.

One of them is gone, their thread knotted off in a sudden stop on the tapestry of our story. But who?

Who did we lose?

“I've seen it. I've heard it. I've bloody felt it. Everyone I speak to says the same. Every one of them knows what a great heart you have.”

Percy and I first met at that bonfire by the chocobo stables. I was shivering, fresh off the fucking ship and completely unprepared for the weather, and he stood next to me and promised me everything I could ever possibly want, if only I made a promise in return to be a loyal friend to the Family. I was so desperate for a place to belong, I would have signed anything, done anything -- what had mattered was that he would have me. In this brave new world, I had people looking out for me. A place to call home. Structure. An institutionalized, freshly liberated fuckhead like me desperately needed structure.

So what if it came with a little price? The list of my sins is long, and breaking and entering is pretty far down at the bottom. Bar brawls are inconsequential, when you’ve already essentially aided and abetted war crimes. So, I’m wanted by both House Desrosiers and House Beaumarchais for stealing a thing or two from their daughters’ manse. So fucking what. Percy and I -- There are bonds that can only be forged at three in the morning, sitting on a crows’ perch halfway across the city under the moonlight, doing pre-job surveillance on some fart-sniffing nobles through their window. I’m not saying we kissed. I’m not saying we didn’t, either.

This is what I’m thinking about, when I look down at Percy’s lifeless face, drained of the rosy pink that always sat on his cheeks during those cold-ass stakeouts, huddled together at the shoulders for warmth. If I touched him now, he would be so cold, so unnaturally fucking cold, so I don’t. I can’t bring myself to touch him; to do anything but stare with my mouth half-open and a sob dying somewhere between my sternum and my throat, turning into just another burning pit to fizzle and die in my stomach.

Except it doesn’t have the good sense to die. It turns to steam, turns to pressure, backs up the entire clockwork machine that keeps me chugging along, and it must be vented or else I’m going to fucking explode, but I can’t. I can’t. I can’t. It stutters inside me like a hitched gear. The whine seems to come from my chest, high-pitched, like a kettle about to scream. Is that me? Am I screaming? I don’t know myself. I am not me, in this moment. I don’t know who I am. I don’t know who is on the cot below me, whose silver close-cropped hair sits on this head, whose too-round spectacles reflect the light in the room too thoroughly for me to be able to see if their dead fucking eyes are open or closed. I don’t know which is more terrifying.

I leave. I run. My boots scream against the floor of the ship, clap against the dirt outside, and I don’t stop running until I can drop to my knees and bellow to the impassive clouds. This is my fault. Judgement rings in my head in a cacophony of voices. My fault. My fault he’s dead.

What am I doing here? What have I done?

Percy’s line, cobalt blue, is so cleanly snipped from my fabric that all I can do is finger the empty spot where it might have kept going. Maybe one day we could have found compromise; a future where the three of us could get along without jealousy, without miscommunication or hurt feelings. I’ll never fucking know.

I have always thought of myself in big terms. I am man, I am machine, I am god. I’m the architect of my own form, and I have crafted myself in my own image. Nothing makes me feel more powerful than looking in the mirror and seeing my face look back at me; the face that I sculpted, the body that I shaped. The people that I’ve been in the past are not dead, but rather they have been stitched into my organs. The girl that I was lives in my marrow and feeds my blood, and I am never alone in the cathedral of my body. I am holy. I am enduring. I will move beyond the ghosts at my heels and continue forging a forward path, with those I love woven into the never-ending project that I call my self.

But even a god looks puny as shit, crying into the dirt over a fallen friend. I need to feel this. I need how small this makes me, how insignificant I am in this moment. I gotta remember how crippled it makes me feel. This humility -- it needs to be sown into me, too. So I don’t make the same mistake again. It’s the least I can do.

I can’t forget. I won’t forget his face.

“What a precious, precious thing we've gained.”

[aforrestofstuff]

What do you think the OPM characters' guilty pleasures would be? I feel like Tatsu loves soap operas and Atomic Samurai secretly loves a really popular boy band, like SMAP

Thanks for your request, anon! Sorry this took me so long to get to, you were buried in my inbox lol. But I hope this was worth the wait because oh boy this required all 3 of my brain cells.

Tornado of Terror: As you said, soap operas. She also loves candy apples in canon. But...she also is a HUGE fan of those really cheesy Cosmopolitan magazines that have all of the personality quizzes and the “which hot male celeb would date you” scenarios. She doesn’t fall for it one bit. In fact, she hate reads those fuckers in the same way that people pay to go see bad movies. It’s fun.

Silverfang: Yoga and following along to some cheesy-ass 80s workout videos. I’ve said he likes yoga in a previous headcanon, but he also likes to exercise along to some obnoxious 80s pop while some dude in a leotard instructs him on what to do from a TV screen. He wears sweatbands and legwarmers, too. The whole shebang. He only does it when he’s alone, though. Sometimes he’ll try to teach yoga to his disciples as a way to help them decompress after a long training session, but his workout tapes are his best-kept secret.

Atomic Samurai: I don’t know what a SMAP is, but he’s definitely got some questionable music choices going on considering he’s... well, the way that he is. I’d say he likes to listen to old country, like Marty Robbins and Glen Campbell. It’s really funny because you’ve got this intimidating man from Japan (or a fictional universe basically set in Japan) with a badass katana and shit but inside that empty head of his, there’s just a faint “out in the west Texas town of El Paso....”

Child Emperor: Picking at scabs. He’s often on his knees fixing shit in his lab, and he probably gets burned all the damn time from playing around with lasers so he’s undoubtedly always has a wound healing somewhere. Whenever he’s working on something, he’ll just absentmindedly pick at his scabs. It’s a bad habit and he knows it, but nothing beats the feeling of peeling off an entire patch of that shit. So satisfying.

Metal Knight: Buying books. He doesn’t even read them. He just buys bigass novels with smart-sounding names to fill up his library because he thinks it’ll make his dick grow another three inches or some shit. One of the few things he likes in this world (besides homicide) is the smell of a new book. If he’s feeling particularly pissy, he’ll go into his library and just ssssssnnnnnnnnnniififfffffffffff. He spends an outrageous amount of money on it. If he has anyone over (which is unlikely, but hypothetically speaking) and they mention his library by asking something like “have you read all of these?” It’ll be one of the few times in his life that he’ll feel shame.

King: Reading and writing fanfiction based on his favorite video game/anime series. Nobody knows he does this except his small following online, of course. And even more so, nobody online knows he’s an ultra-popular S-Class hero who’s friends with the most powerful man on earth. He’s actually a pretty decent writer, he just doesn’t take himself too seriously so the plotline to his stories tend to get a little haywire and overly self-indulgent. Let him have his fun. He just wants to be a Sailor Scout.

Zombieman: Singing. He actually used to be a good singer (he sounded like a discount Steve Perry back in the day), but constant smoking really fucked up his voice. He might as well have lungs the size of grapes because he can’t carry a note for more than 2 seconds without wheezing like an accordion with asthma. He’s never sang in front of anyone before because he thinks it’s silly thing that isn’t worth showing off. Play anything from The Eagles though, and he’ll have a hard time resisting.

Drive Knight: He likes to open up panels in his arms and legs to play with the wires (basically a robot’s version of nerve endings, I’m assuming) just so he can feel something. It’s kind of sad because he doesn’t experience pain or the cold or being tickled... (I know what y’all are thinking and you’d better STOP). So he sometimes takes it upon himself to dick around with his insides and dip his toe into what it feels like to be human, even if it’s just for a little bit. He’s super secretive about it (he’s just secretive about everything, really) because he doesn’t want anyone to know that he desires something outside of being a weapon of mass destruction justice.

Pig God: His whole schtick is basically indulging in a guilty pleasure — pigging out on delicious food with no regard whatsoever for one’s overall health. Other than that, however, he does like to collect body pillows. There, I said it. All he fucking does is eat and he’s too much of a big boi to be going out 24/7, so he’s gotta be on the internet/watching anime/playing video games/reading manga during all of that downtime between his stints of doing hero work. His bed is fucking ginormous to handle all of that big boy-ness and on it, he has his body pillow nest. He rests on a throne made for kings. A true icon.

Superalloy Darkshine: Also working out along to some cheesy 80s exercise videos. His hero outfit was inspired from what those ravishing instructors would wear on the television. Well, it was supposed to be a full leotard but it ripped every time he flexed just a tiny bit so the speedo is the only thing that’s left. He’s gotta hella rhythm and keeps up with the music using little to no effort. Although, he can’t go too hard because he’s also a big boi and he’ll literally shake the entire building if he gets too turnt up. Dance muscle boy, dance.

Watchdog Man: Eating too many dog treats lol. Sometimes while he’s stationed on his little podium thing, visitors will leave him little offerings like dog treats and other miscellaneous food items/toys. He never takes them or eats them in front of people, but he often brings everything home with him after a long day just to gobble that shit up. He’s gained a little weight since he started doing it but you can’t even notice it because his suit is hella bulky. Some of it is due in part to stress-eating because being a dog and dude at the same time is hectic, but it’s honest work.

Flashy Flash: Racing shit. Whenever he’s on his travels during, say, assassination missions or hero work, he gets hella bored really quickly. So, to help with this, he’ll often race birds or planes flying in the sky on his way to his destination to see who’s quicker (it’s always him). Sometimes he’ll even play catch with himself by throwing a pine cone or something and running to the place he guesses it’ll land before it even touches the ground. He just does a ton of weird speedster shit whenever he’s bored and he’ll deny it if anyone asks.

Genos: Purposefully putting a little bit too much oil on his joints after each upgrade so he’ll be as slick as a salamander. It’s a really funny feeling to be able to move your limbs with little to no resistance without having to worry about popping or breaking anything. It just makes him feel so agile despite being like, a hunk of actual metal. If he wasn’t so uptight, he would loosen the screws in his fingers to he can bend them almost all the way back (he’s actually thought about it a few times), but both Dr. Kuseno and his 3 remaining braincells attested to that. He just likes to tinker around with his body and see what weird shit he can do. It’s a bad habit because it’s led to a few things being broken on multiple occasions.

Metal Bat: Zenko’s shitty pop music. Whenever he drops her off at school or piano practice, he’ll immediately go home and blast that shit on full volume (because he’s practically deaf from always jumping out of falling buildings and continuously blasting music in his earbuds) while doing chores and the like. He’s one of those people that HAVE to have something going on in the background as they’re getting shit done. He’d rather be caught dead than listening to the OPM equivalent of Taylor Swift because he knows Zenko would never let him live it down.

Tanktop Master: Wearing suits around the house when he’s not even going anywhere. He’s got to wear his tanktop 24/7 whenever he’s in public to keep up The Image (which he has no problem with, he genuinely loves the tanktop ideology) but he also needs to feel fancy every once and a while. So, if he happens to have the time while in between appearances, he’ll prance around in a suit tailored just for him. Because he’s so fucking huge that he had to pay someone a large sum to custom make an outfit that actually fits. He is 7-motherfucking-feet tall. 7.

Puri-Puri Prisoner: Making Valentine’s Day cards all times of the year. Listen, it gets boring as hell in prison. Sometimes the guards will let all of the inmates have a little glitter and glue to keep themselves busy because no harm can come of a little arts and crafts, right? He likes to make cards on the daily just to let all of his lovers know how much he appreciates them. If they express even the slightest amount of disdain for his creations, he’ll spent the next week crying in the darkest corner of his cell block. He also likes origami. Origami is huge in prison because it’s hella time-consuming and guaranteed to calm a busy mind. His favorite things to make are little unicorns.

Amai Mask: Bath bombs. There have been several mishaps in which he’s used a poorly-made bath bomb and came out of the tub looking like Shrek but he’s grown and lot since then, okay? After a long day or a particularly stressful concert, he’ll sink into some hot water and drop a ball of lavender-scented goodness in there. It’s become a bit of an addiction because he’s got multiple cabinets dedicated solely to his collection, but at least he always smells divine.

Iaian: Shakespearean dramas. Kama got him hooked on theater shit and he’s since ripped through all of the most well-known plays. He thinks in iambic pentameter. It wasn’t always noticeable since he’s a quiet, well-reserved guy but his fellow disciples and Kami have recently noticed that he’s developed a bit of a dramatic flair. Even worse, he’s started calling himself a knight whenever he puts on his armor. Everyone prays it’s just a phase but seeing as how stubborn Iaian is, that seeks highly unlikely. Kami is dying inside because he can’t handle another drama nerd.

Okamaitachi: Soap operas, like Tatsumaki. Kama is the most dramatic out of all of the disciples so it’s only natural that she’d like the most dramatic genre of any show out there. She doesn’t exactly watch them religiously though. She’s the type of viewer to drop off the face of the earth for three seasons and come back without knowing what the fuck is going on (because the disciples have limited access to cable due to Kami’s dumbassery and ignorance to anything technology-related), but still cry during the finale anyway because oh no these people are so hot and one of them is deaaaaaad and the other one is that person’s long-lost sister....

Bushidrill: Taking alcohol from Atomic Samurai’s stash every so often. Bushidrill knows what the good shit is and he could buy it himself if he wanted to, but why would he when there’s a perfectly good alcoholic to steal from living right down the hall? He only takes in small doses because, believe it or not—he’s smart, but Kami isn’t gonna notice regardless of whether or not Bushi takes 1 or 5 bottles at a time because the old shit couldn’t spot a purple raccoon if it was 3 feet in front of him. There have been times where Bushi has opened bottles of Kami’s alcohol right in front of him just to play God and he always, without missing a beat, says “Oh, we have the same taste. How neat.”

Fubuki: I’ve said this before in a previous headcanon, but she has a mild obsession with Victorian aesthetic. She’s got a small collection of semi-authentic ballgowns that cost upwards of a-fuckton-of-money each, but anything’s worth it to be able to play dress-up with Lily. Fubuki’s favorite thing is making Lily feel beautiful because everyone has been an insecure teenager at one point and she knows how it feels to not be comfortable in one’s own skin. This isn’t exactly a guilty pleasure because she’s not guilty about it, but it’s almost gotten to a point where an intervention is needed. She’s got so many damn dresses and sooooo much fine china....

Saitama: Retail therapy, lol. Saitama is only good at budgeting because he has no choice given how fucking poor he is, but give this boy even a little bit of leeway and he’ll buy the ugliest clothes (to which he thinks look poppin’) and the best meats without even batting an eye. His entire manga collection is the product of him having little to no self control the moment he realizes he’s got a bit of money to spend on himself. This is also the only time he’ll experiment with cooking because now he can actually afford to fuck up, literally.

Mumen Rider: Sweets! I’ve said this in a previous hc but he has a major sweet tooth. You can substitute salt for sugar in any given recipe and he’ll see it as a major improvement because he just goes absolutely buckwild for anything sweet. His pancreas is suffering, but he believes nothing feels better than curling up under the covers on a rainy day with a heaping helping of milk chocolate. The only thing that makes him feel better after getting beat to shit is a kiss on the cheek and box of his favorite cookies (and some bananas, lol).

Sonic: Like Flash, he also likes racing things. But, in addition to that, his guilty pleasure is doing his own hair in elaborate hairstyles (when it was longer). He’s pretty much homeless so he’s got a lot of time to himself in between murders. This is when you can find him sitting in the woods somewhere braiding flowers into his hair and tying it off with a moss ribbon. He’d never admit he does this because he’s a big macho man and he’d probably cry.

Garou: Spicy chips. I’ve said this before in a previous hc, but he absolutely inhales his food without even tasting it half the time so it’s not even like he gets to enjoy the flavor that much. He just likes the burn because he’s a shithead. He also doesn’t fear death or a torn-up asshole, so he’ll eat an entire family-sized bag of the OPM-universe equivalent to Takis without even batting an eye. He’s been beat to shit so many times that the agony that comes with downing so much spice is lost on him. He doesn’t even need water. It’s insane. Someone stop this madman at once.

[mybunnyparadenme]

Errr for the ship meme,,,,can we have 2 with bunny??? sry if i bother u i love your works!!

It’s no bother at all! Thank you for enjoying my works hehe, hope you’re ready for some angst!

2. things you said through your teeth

Everything was bathed in an unearthly neon glow, threads of blue-white electricity pulsing in the air sporadically. This was it, the heart of Professor Chaos' evil lair. Mysterion limped forward, his eyes locked on the only other person in the room with him. Chaos was standing with his back towards Mysterion, gazing up at a twenty foot tall super weapon that was almost ready to fire.

"Chaos, stop!" Mysterion shouted at him. His legs felt like they were going to collapse underneath him, but he willed himself to stay upright. He'd already come this far, fought too hard, to pass out now.

Chaos turned away from the machine, a wicked smile on his face. "I knew you wouldn't disappoint me. So glad you could make it to the end of the world, Mysterion!"

Mysterion shook his head, forcing himself to keep walking. "Turn off the weapon, Chaos. Thousands of people will die if you let that thing go off."

"That's exactly the point." Chaos said, looking at Mysterion like he was a child who needed everything explained to him. "It's a weapon of mass destruction, after all. You're in no shape to stop me, so just stand back and watch, okay?"

That wasn't going to happen. Yes, Mysterion was covered in injuries. And yes was struggling to keep standing. But he didn't need to fight with his fists. He had to appeal to the humanity that was still in side of him, buried underneath all the hate and anger.

"You're not a murderer, Chaos." He said, reaching up to pull his hood down. The smile on Chaos' face faltered for a moment, and Mysterion felt a spark of hope rise inside of him. "I know you. The thought of hurting others used to make you sick, remember? Shut the weapon down, you don't have to do this!"

Chaos scowled at him, balling his hands into fists at his sides. "You say you know me, but you're refusing to acknowledge that I want to do this! Working with Mitch Connors showed me that the world is full of monsters, and no amount of do-gooder bullshit is going to change that. This weapon is a mercy, Mysterion. I'm going to cleanse the world of its corruption, starting with that stupid little mountain town."

"Think about all the people who don't deserve to die like that, Chaos!" Mysterion said, desperation stealing away the deeper tone his voice took on when he was in costume. Panic clawed up his throat. His family was still in South Park, and half of the Freedom Pals had stayed behind to fight the Chaos Underlings that swarmed the town. Mysterion was their last chance, and he needed to get through to Chaos no matter what. "Those people deserve to have a chance to make the world better. Let them have a choice, please."

"It's kinder to let them die before the world ruins them." Chaos said, his voice devoid of emotion as he stared at Mysterion. "The weapon's almost ready to fire. You won't be able to get to me before I pull the switch."

No, no, NO. Chaos was turning away from him and Mysterion wouldn't be able to stop him in time. He ripped his mask off, letting his fear and sadness show openly in his eyes. "Don't do it Leo, I'm begging you!"

Chaos froze, electric sparks sizzling in the air around him as he slowly turned to face him again. His expression was full of rage, but there was something just underneath the surface there too, something that ached. His voice was shaky when he spoke, "I thought I told you never to call me that again."

"It's your name." Mysterion, no Kenny said as he took another step forward. He was almost halfway across the room. "Before you were Chaos you were Leo Stotch. You still are. And my Leo wouldn't fire that weapon, I know it."

"I'm Professor Chaos!" Chaos shouted, streaks of wild lightning shooting out in every direction, uncontrolled and deadly. Thankfully none of them managed to land a direct hit on Kenny. Chaos was glaring at him with raw hatred burning in his eyes. "Your ex-boyfriend doesn't exist anymore! There's only your enemy now, and it's high time I got rid of you!"

Kenny barely had time to dodge the arc of lightning that raced toward him, a black scorch mark burned into the space he had been in only a moment ago. He grit his teeth and forced his muscles to move despite the pain, to get him across the room and in front of Chaos as fast as possible. By some miracle he managed to make it a few feet away from the weapon without getting charred to a crisp, but Chaos was holding a crackling ball of white-hot electricity in his hands, aimed right at him. From this close there was no chance he would miss again.

"It's not too late for you to come back from this!" Kenny said, holding his hands out helplessly in front of him. Even if he couldn't block this, he wasn't going to give up yet. "You are not too far gone, do you here me? Come back to me, Leo. I love you!"

"No..." Chaos breathed, his hands trembling as he stared at Kenny. He shook his head, anger and disbelief warring on his face. "You're just saying that. You're... You're trying to trick me!"

"I'm not." Kenny said, hoping Leo could hear it in his voice how sincere he was as he took another step closer, now coming within arm's reach of him. "I swear I never stopped loving you, not even a little bit."

"What about all the times I tried to kill you, huh?" Chaos growled at him, the words coming out harsh through his teeth. "You're a liar, you hate me!"

Kenny remembered all the times Leo hadn't just tried to kill him, but succeeded. There wasn't any pain worse than being killed by the one you loved but still, he shook his head vehemently. "I could never hate you, Leo. Never."

"Shut up!" Chaos screamed. The electricity in his hands intensified for a heart stopping moment, then fizzled out into the air around them. He reached up and grabbed a large red handle, the switch that would fire all the energy gathered inside the weapon. "This is what's best for the world! I have to do this ! I... I have to..."

"Please." Kenny whispered as he reached up slowly, carefully, never taking his eyes off of Leo's. Their fingers touched, and the tension in his white-knuckle grip softened just a fraction. "There's always another way. Let it go."

What felt like an eternity of silence passed between them. This was it. This was the moment that everything would change, one way or another. Kenny swallowed hard, hoping that he'd done enough to save all the people he cared about, including Leo. There was no coming back if he pulled the switch, so he held his breath and prayed he'd done enough to save him.

Finally Leo's grip on the handle loosened, tears filling his eyes as he whispered, "Okay. I'll turn it off."

Relief flooded through Kenny's body, so strong he nearly collapsed. "Thank you."

Leo let go of the handle and pushed a button just underneath the switch. The weapon clicked and sputtered as all the energy gathered inside of it began to fade away. And just like that, the danger had passed, leaving only a harmless hunk of meta behind.

"I..." Leo murmured, starting at the once deadly machine in front of them. He backed away a few steps, his whole body shivering as tears began to roll down his cheeks. "What w-was I thinking? How'd I let everything get this far? M-Mysterion-"

Kenny closed the distance between them, wrapping his arms tight around Leo's shaking frame. Tears of his own started sliding down his face, and he had to bite back a sob when he felt a pair of arms wrap around him too. The two of them clung to each other tightly, crying so hard it was difficult to breath. They held each other like...

Well, like the world had almost ended.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry!" Leo was crying, sounding small and scared and helpless. There weren't any traces of Chaos left in his voice, and it hurt to hear him sound so broken. He hadn't sounded like this for a very, very long time.

Kenny started to rub soothing circles on his back, his voice soft and reassuring. "Let it out, sweetheart I'm here. You're going to be okay, I promise. No matter what happens, I'll always be here for you."

"You should h-hate me." Leo said, his voice muffled against Kenny's shoulder. "Wh-Why don't you hate me?"

"Because you did the right thing in the end." Kenny pulled back just enough to look into his eyes. He reached up to take the helmet off Leo's head, revealing his beautiful, tear-stained face. Kenny leaned in and kissed the ragged scar over his eyelid, smiling when he heard Leo gasp softly. "Because even after all this time, you never stopped being my Leo."