#no cape sling this time unfortunately :(

[astroboots]

EVERY YOU EVERY ME #11.5 SPECIAL

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x female reader

Summary: Let’s start from the beginning one last time.

Word count: 5,800

Warning: Heavy angst and character death. Dead Dove do not eat.

Series Masterlist | Spiderverse Masterlist | Astroboot’s Masterlist | thirstworldproblemss’ Masterlist

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Let’s start from the beginning one last time. 

My name is Miguel O’Hara, and in an experiment gone wrong, my genetic code was partially rewritten with Spider DNA, giving me superpowers.

My home is Earth 928-C where I was the one and only Spiderman... of my home dimension at least.

I invented and built a dimensional travel device that allowed me to jump between universes with the goal of exploring the limits of the multiverse. 

And then I met a woman in this other world who nearly died from a crazy freak accident.

I saved her of course.

Then I saved her again.

And again, and again.

... And again.

We fell in love, and I decided to stay with her in her world.

You know the rest. We got married. We had a life together.

I was happy. Really happy. 

For a while.

[Earth 383-D]

3 YEARS AGO

"Goddamn idiot bird," Miguel mutters under his breath.

Vulture is on the loose again, wreaking havoc on the city. The maniac is flying high above the city grounds, leaving a trail of mayhem in his wake. 

Miguel's been in pursuit for the better half of two hours. In that time, the bird has derailed the High Line, literally hit a traffic light and managed to knock over the spire on the Statue of Liberty as if he was flying under the influence.

Then somehow flew across town through Tribeca, along Lower Manhattan and Greenwich Village and now reached all the way to Midtown Manhattan. 

Dumbass ugly stupid bird. 

Miguel digs his claws into the exterior of the limestone and granite of the Empire State Building to steady himself, using the momentum to leap forward.

The Vulture crashes into a skyscraper 50 feet ahead of Miguel, and in the mad dash, he can see a man tumble out of the building head first to the ground from the 30th floor. 

Swinging forward, Miguel slings out a web from his palm, catching the screaming and sobbing office worker in midair and lands briefly against the windowpane. He ensures the man is secured to the building in a cocoon of webbing until the fire department can get him to safer grounds.

Miguel doesn't even get a second to catch his breath. From afar, he can pick up the sound of another window being crashed into by the unwieldy metal bird. 

Crap. 

It's impossible for Miguel to both chase the Vulture and keep everyone else in his path of destruction safe. One superhero can't be in two places at once (none that he has encountered).

Gritting his teeth, Miguel leaps off the building swinging freely into the air to make up on the lost ground between him and the metallic cuckoo bird.

He needs backup, and the backup is unfortunately running late.

Where is he? Why is he always late?

Does that man not understand that when someone calls for backup because of an emergency, the emergency part indicates that there's some urgency to it?

Flying through the air 100 feet above the ground, from the corner of his eyes, Miguel catches the familiar garish red flowing cape that billows from the cowl of the grand cloak and suit. 

Miguel would know that weird wizard get-up anywhere. 

"Strange!" Miguel calls out, and he can feel irritation rattle in his chest. "You're late! Where the shock were you?"

"The word you're looking for is 'fuck.' Where the fuck was I," the man responds with a sarcastic drawl.

Strange levitates through the air, effortlessly without expending any energy at all as he catches up with Miguel. "You gave me no notice. Be happy I showed up at all."

From a distance he sees the dumb bird soar high up into the sky and towards the all too familiar crowned roof of the Chrysler building. 

No. nononono. 

Why is he there? What is he doing there? Anywhere but there. 

His back flashes cold then burning hot as the Vulture makes a straight beeline for the familiar building.

It’s fine. Maybe he’s not going to fly in there. Maybe he’s just going to fly past it.

Miguel watches as the metallic bird soars up and up and up, past the midpoint of the building, past the 40th floor of your office and up to the 50th floor. The tight squeeze in his chest eases.

Then the vulture stops, mid-flight and looks down below, as if he changed his mind, before he descends again. 

Shit! Shit! SHIT!

He dives into one of the windows between the 40th and 50th floor. The sound of broken glass and shrill screams can be heard even from where Miguel is. 

Blood freezes in his veins and nausea overtakes him. Calm down. Breathe.. Maybe you’re not in. After all, Lyla’s security protocols would’ve been activated by now if you were. He would’ve been alerted. 

Soaring through the skies, Miguel reaches over to his wrist to punch in the dial for Lyla to check in and reassure himself you're safe. But his tracker blinks back in an alarming red, and he darts down his head towards the display.  

Error. 

His heart stops. 

The flying silhouette reappears through the shattered windows and the metallic harness strapped onto the vulture gleams bright against the sun.

It’s only then it hits him. Lyla's been deactivated by the madman's stupid Electro-Magnetic Harness. 

Why hadn't he foreseen that as a technical flaw?

Against the reflective glass panes, Miguel sees you, caught in the Vulture talons like a mouse captured by a large predatory bird. Every hair on his neck stands on end. His vision bleeds into red, blood roaring at the sight of it.

Kill him.

Miguel's gonna murder that freak for touching you. Crush his windpipe so he can't ever squawk again, then rip his throat out with his claws and feed it to the street pigeons for good measure.

Launching himself through the air, Miguel tears up the side of the building. The tempered glass beneath his claws and feet, shatters into sharp jagged pieces as he closes the distance. 

He is almost within reach. Only some 30 feet that still separates you from him. Leaping the final distance he slams hard into the side of the Vulture until metal crunches beneath his feet. 

Miguel roars until his throat burns with it. Palms gripping at the man’s jaw and prying it back to get at his bare throat. His fangs are ready to sink into the jugular. He can see the dark pupil of Vulture's eyes dilate with fear. 

Good. Miguel's anger will be the last thing this freak sees.

"Miguel calm down," Strange shouts at him from behind. "You're gonna knock her off."

Miguel freezes at the warning, forcing himself to hold still as he looks down to where you are dangling precariously from the Vulture's claws.

"Be ready," Strange shouts, and Miguel looks to him, not understanding what the hell he means. 

Strange rests his hand over the shiny blue gem hanging around a chain from his neck.

What does he mean by be ready? What is Strange going to do?

"What'd you mea–"

Miguel doesn't have a chance to finish the rest of his sentence. An unnatural force vibrates through him. A pulsating wave that pervades his senses, punching through his lungs and knocks him back. 

In an instance, you're propelled away from Strange and the Vulture, and you are freefalling towards the ground below.

Miguel leaps mid-air, arms outstretched to catch you as you plummet towards the ground below. His fingers clasps around your wrists, your warm skin against his fingertips.

He's got you!

Taking hold of you by the arm, Miguel pulls you into his chest as he wraps one arm securely around your waist.

Immediate relief fills him from the inside out as the adrenaline and the searing anger is already starting to fade now that he knows you're safe.

"You okay, nena?" he asks.

You nod, arms finding purchase around the back of his neck, and squeeze down tight. He swings you both to the safety of a nearby rooftop.

There's barely time for him to touch the surface, he hears the nearby explosion and sees Vulture crash into the concrete wall of the nearest building. 

Strange is levitating nearby, hands making wild gestures, presumably to perform some hocus pocus ritual. There’s a magical glow as strobes of light manifest out of thin air surrounding the Vulture from all sides and wrapping around him in a restraining bind.

Miguel sets you down. You're a little bit wobbly on your feet, and seeing you stumble the way you do has that protective streak spark anew in his chest.

Stupid Strange. He can't just do shit like that. 

What if Miguel hadn't reacted in time? What if you had fallen? 

This is why Miguel hates working with the guy, even if they’re friends. Always on his moral high horse about Miguel being reckless, then he pulls shit like this.

"Everyone alright?" Strange asks as he levitates through the sky to set feet close to you both on the rooftop.

Miguel grits his teeth with annoyance at the man’s casual demeanor when he nearly threw you out of the sky.

"Shock you, Strange," he spits out.

"Miggy..." you sigh in a reprimanding tone next to him. 

Stephen shakes his head at him. "I told you. It's fuck"

"Fuck you, Strange."

Sanctum Sanctorum is closer than home and Strange has, comfortable sofas in his ridiculously big mansion. Big enough sofas that Miguel can actually lounge in them comfortably without it feeling cramped. It's why, given the choice, he always prefer to regroup there, over your tiny apartment.

Besides, while the man's control over his magical powers can be suspect at times, he used to be a doctor. Supposedly one of the leading brain surgeons in the world, and Miguel is a lot more comfortable at the prospect of Strange giving you a checkover to make sure you don't need further medical attention than trying your luck at one of the local ERs.

"Follow my finger," Strange says as he shines a little flashlight into your eyes and moves his index from side to side. 

Your eyes follow him dutifully, and Strange proceeds with the rest of his medical check, asking you the boring standard questions. "Any symptoms of dizziness, lightheadedness, or a sense of vertigo?"

He fires them out in rapid succession, and a bit too perfunctory for Miguel's liking.

"Noticed any changes in your vision, blurriness or double vision, etcetera etcetera?"

Miguel's jaw tic in irritation at how Strange is putting in minimal effort and just going through the motions.

"Yeah, you're fine." Strange pats your knees, then whisks the flashlight away into nothingness with his cape.

That medical check wasn't anything close to thorough. Miguel crosses his arms over his chest. "Are you sure? Her feet were wobbly before, I wanted to make sure she didn't sprain her ankle."

"A little bit overprotective as always aren't we?" Strange says.

Miguel shoots the man a glare and Stephen sighs, "Her reflexes are fine, I don't think anything's sprained."

"Check again, you seemed sloppy," Miguel accuses.

"You know, I'm doing this as a favor because you’re a friend. Do you have any idea how much a medical examination by one of the leading neurological surgeons in the world would cost you normally?"

"I'll have Lyla transfer the money."

“No, it’s not actually about money just–" Stephen shakes his head, then sighs. "Nevermind.”

He gestures for you to drape your leg across his lap, then he reaches over to gently assess your ankle as requested.

"What is this necklace?" You ask. You lean closer to Strange, inspecting the blue gem where it rests against his chest.

Strange swats at your hand, the way an adult scolds a child with sticky chocolate smeared hands trying to touch the fine china.

"It's a protection amulet. When activated it forms a protective barrier that forcibly repels everything within ten feet of you."

"Huh," you reach back for the amulet undaunted by the earlier reprimand, fascinated and clearly enamored by it. "I'll give you fifty bucks for it."

Strange looks offended. "It's not for sale, and if it was it would certainly be worth a lot more than fifty dollars. It's a genuine magical artifact, not fake costume jewelry from the theater department."

You purse your lips, considering the amulet.

"Forty," you offer.

Miguel has to choke back a snorting laughter in his throat at the way Stephen's eyes goes wide in confused outrage.

"Wait, why is the price going down?"

“We’re in the middle of an economic crisis, Stephen,” you counter.  

Strange's head darts over to where Miguel sits, presumably for backup, but he's knocked on the wrong door. The man must be mad if he thinks that there is ever a world where Miguel would side against you.

"Strange, we both know it’s easier if you just give her the amulet." Miguel says. 

The man sighs, shaking his head in defeat.

"Be careful with it," he says as he drags the chain over his head to place it in your awaiting palms. "And don't lose it like the invisibility amulet with Mysterio. Had to spend a whole month clearing up your mess when that creep used it to get into the women's locker rooms at every local gym in Greenwich!"

"That wasn’t my mess! Miggy lost that one during an aerial fight. You can't blame that on me."

"You married him, so you're responsible for him. I consider you two jointly to blame."

"Now you're just lashing out," you shoot back.

Miguel watches the two of you in patient boredom, his head propped up by an elbow on the arm of the sofa. He expended way too much energy during the fight, and now he needs to refuel. 

If Miguel leaves you two to it, you'll spend an eternity bantering, the way you do. His stomach growls. He wants food. Wants wantons and beef ho fun and a dozen custard salted egg buns for dessert. And the longer you two are at it, the longer it's going to take for him to get it.

"Nena," he calls out, "I'm hungry. Are you two done? I want to go for dinner."

You shoot Miguel a quick smile, pulling out your wallet and take out a wad of green bills then fold it into Strange's hand with a happy grin.

Strange looks down at the crumpled up money in his hand. "Wait, you're only giving me thirty? I thought we said forty."

"You still owe me like ten bucks from mini golf last week."

Strange pockets the money with a grumble. "Unbelievable." 

“C’mon,” Miguel says as he stands up and gestures to the both of you with a curt nod of his head towards the door. “Let’s go. I’ll pay for dinner this time,” Miguel says, and that seems to abate Strange’s outrage somewhat as the man grabs your coat from the sofa cushions and offers it to you.

Life on Earth 383-D is strange.

Life here is borderline primitive. The technology is something out of the stone ages.

Social media is a wasteland. Reality TV is a dystopian concept. And he doesn't understand who Kardashian is or why everyone is obsessed with her and her family. 

He does like fax machines though. They are basically teleportation machines and it boggles him that the people of your dimension do not seem to understand its potential.

The one thing he will give this version of earth credit for is that the food here is nice. Everyone in his home dimension is too health conscious, and fried food has long been banned by the government for the long term damage it does to the cardiovascular system. 

He also likes the life that the two of you have built together here. You have a home in that tiny shoebox apartment. You have friends. Strange friends. Like the Doctor who flies around with the help of a magic cape and now practices the mystic arts after a gap year in Asia. A young girl whose main superpower is the ability to communicate with squirrels. Then there’s that ugly red-masked wise-cracking, katana-wielding maniac who never dies.

Sadly, your friends are not the only thing that is strange about your surroundings.

Miguel perches himself on top of the Chrysler building sitting hunched over on the ledge of the roof. He’s drained and bone-tired, chasing down a helicopter that had gone haywire and was hurtling towards your office building. 

Luckily Strange was able to assist and sent it through a magic portal to crash into the Atlantic without putting any lives at stake. 

"Just had to do some cleaning up," Strange says as he sets his boots back down on the ground. 

Miguel doesn't answer him, staring out at the city view and the setting sun as he takes a well earned breather for a moment or two. New York is a bit of a shit hole, but it does look pretty from a high viewpoint, especially when the sun is setting, Miguel has to give this city that.

It's silent between the two of them. Or at least it is until Strange decides to break it with a harkle of his throat. When Miguel doesn't react the man does it again, coughing discreetly in a clear attempt to get his attention.

Miguel doesn't say anything about the man's sore throat. He ran out of the lemon drops you bought him as snacks hours ago, but he does tilt his head up at the man.

"She's been getting into a lot of these incidents lately. More than usual, more than any normal human for it to be a coincidence" Strange says.

The whole of Miguel's back stiffens.

"Have you noticed the abnormal uptick in strange unexplainable supernatural occurrences lately? Indoor tornadoes. The rain of poisonous frogs outside of whole foods. A sinkhole appearing right next to the cafe your wife frequents."

Miguel doesn't love the insinuations. Even with his lips pressed tightly together, Miguel can feel the small muscle in his jaw flex like a nervous tic at the mention of it. Because yeah, he's noticed, kind of hard to miss when your wife's life is in constant peril at all hours of the day.

Ice storms in July that hit right outside your workplace. An inexplicable solar flare causing a blackout that had every single vehicle within a 5 miles radius go haywire in the dark near your apartment. A swarm of mutated mosquitoes with a venomous bite that chased you down Central Park. 

The incidents are occurring more frequently. They are also getting increasingly bizarre and dangerous.

No one can say it’s just bad luck when the daily occurrences around you are defying the very laws of nature itself. Something isn't right with the universe, and he's not sure what else there is to do except pretend that everything is still ok.

"What are you implying?" Miguel asks through gritted teeth. 

But for the first time in the years that Miguel has known him, Strange's talkativeness is nowhere to be found. He doesn't answer Miguel. He's smart that way, the clever bastard. Knows that if he says one wrong word, Miguel is going to unhinge his jaws like a feral alligator and snap at him. 

Strange has said what he needed for Miguel to know exactly what he's getting at. The man just meets his eyes with an intentional stare, not shying away from Miguel's glare.

It's not like the thought hasn't crossed Miguel's mind. Not like it hasn't been keeping him up at night, every night.

Even though you've always been accident prone and suffered from bad luck, at this point it's a mathematical impossibility that anyone would run into as many near death incidents as you have.

This isn't by chance. It's by design. Miguel's suspected as much for a while now. He just doesn't know whose design and why.

"It's not her fault," Miguel spits out.

"I never said it was."

"Even if what you are saying is true..." Miguel stops, and stares down at his fisted palms with a sinking feeling in his guts. "There's nothing she can do about it to stop it. You can't put that on her."

"Whether she knows about it or not, if it's true, none of this is going to go away.

Strange walks over to where Miguel is, sitting down next to him.

"It’s been escalating in severity," he continues. "There are strange universal energies attached to her. There’s warping of the universal order and space around her. We don't know how bad this can get, if we don’t do anything about this, it could unravel the fabric of reality itself."

Despite the calamity of what Strange is implying, his voice is even and calm as he says it as if he might as well be discussing the weather. That trait has always annoyed the shit out of Miguel.

"What are you planning to do if this continues?" Strange asks.

It's such a silly question. Strange says it as if this is a multiple choice question. But for Miguel there's only one correct answer. 

"Protect her. I have to. She's everything to me."

Miguel is staring into the sunset bu all he sees before him is your face even though you aren’t here. The happy smile that he wants to preserve forever. He tries to fight the ache that's building in him at the thought that it would go away.

"Strange, don't tell her. Please. She doesn't need that burden."

He fists his palms into his side.

Miguel never liked asking for help, but even he knows that if what Strange is saying is true. That if the universe for some unfathomable reason wants you dead, then he's going to need all the help he can get.

If Strange has figured it out. Then it's only a matter of time before others do as well.

Soon enough, you won't just have the universe coming after you but every superhero and villain combined in a united front to take out the common threat that you pose to this entire universe.

Even Miguel knows he can't do this alone and as much as that helplessness tastes like failure and bile in his throat, he can swallow his pride if it helps keep you safe.

"Stephen, you have to help me save her."

From behind, Strange rests one hand on the corner of his shoulder. The weight of it feels like a promise being made. For the first time in a long time, Miguel feels like he can breathe just a little bit easier.

"I will do what I can, my friend."

Weeks go by. There are more incidents. Runaway vehicles that go haywire. Electrical storm fires. Rain of poisonous locusts. 

Somehow he manages to protect you from it all. 

It just means that he has to be more vigilant, that's all. The universe doesn't rest and neither does Miguel now. Lyla has been set on constant alert to wake him up whenever he's napping at any small signs of abnormal occurrences happening near you, with an electric shock to make sure he wakes. Something the A.I. is taking a worryingly amount of glee in (which probably means he needs to retune her programming when he has time).

And today, today Miguel was meant to have a Sunday lie in. Universe be willing, his goal was to sleep all the way into the late afternoon and then you had promised to take him to IHOP and get him all the pancakes he could eat for late breakfast.

But right now he's not asleep. He's trying to. But there are hushed words and whispered murmurs, buzzing in his ear that keeps trying to drag him away from sleep.

It's you and Strange.

Judging from the distance of the noises, you're both standing outside in the hall. The fact that you two are trying to be quiet makes it worse. If you'd spoken in normal volume he could tune it out as white noise, but the conspiratorial quietness of it all makes the hair on the back of his neck tingle with alertness.

Fuck's sake. He swears to god if you two are gossiping and making fun of Hercules’ costume (or the lack of it) again.

It's too early for this crap. Don't you two know that people are trying to sleep? He was up all night chasing crazy Kraven worshippers releasing animals from the Brooklyn zoo. Miguel had to gather wild zebras and crocodiles all the way down East Village til 4am.

With a groan, he drags himself halfway up along the mattress, about to go and growl at you both to be quiet, when the cluttered noises register as words and the fuzziness of sleep clears momentarily.

"He'd destroy this world for you."

Huh? What are you two talking about?

Miguel's too groggy to make sense of the context of what's being said. Even with his super hearing he has to focus to make out the words.

"You can't let him."

Irritated, he gets out of bed and walks to the front door to swing it open. The first thing he sees is you standing with Strange in the hallway. You jump at the suddenness and look up at him with wide eyes.

You have the worst poker face of anyone he's ever seen in his life.

"What are you two jabbering on about this damn early?" he asks.

He'd expected the two of you to act coy, maybe a clever 'wouldn't you like to know' retort back from the Mystic. Instead, Strange's face is entirely inscrutable, tone serious as he responds.

"We were just catching up. Nothing important. I need to head back," Strange says, then he turns to you with a meaningful tilt to his head. "Think about what I said."

"What was that about?" Miguel asks you as he watches Strange step through a portal and disappear.

You don't say anything. There's a worried frown etched between your eyebrows as you bite down on your lip.

Something crawls under Miguel's skin at the whole interaction.

You're oddly quiet the whole afternoon. Deep in thought and walking around as if in a daze, which unsettles him.

It's not difficult for him to guess what's wrong. He might have been half asleep when you and Strange were whispering in the corridors, but Miguel can put one and one together. Having two PHDs and a lifetime's experience of working in theoretical physics gives you that leg up.

In a last ditch effort to get you out of the uncharacteristic blues, he orders a dozen of your favorite cupcakes from that tiny shop in New Jersey. It costs an arm and a leg to have it couriered, but it'll be worth it if it makes you smile. 

Then he sits down next to you on the bed and places the pink pastry box down on the mattress. It's your favorite place to eat cakes and it’s why you two always end up with crumbs and frosting all over the sheets.

You happily cram half a cupcake into your mouth in one bite as you eat, and he watches you contently. If there was any fairness in the world, this quiet idyllic moment could last forever. In a good world, Miguel wouldn’t have to burst this perfect bubble. 

Sadly, this world is neither fair nor good sometimes. 

"Strange said something to you right?" Miguel asks. 

You still next to him, clearly torn between whether or not to share what was said to you, probably in secret with the very intention of being kept away from him. 

“Nena,” Miguel tries again, and you close your eyes taking a deep breath, caving into his prodding. 

"Strange thinks that my incidents might be correlated with the strange natural occurrences lately."

That fucking asshole. He knew it. Irritation pings across his jaw, and Miguel bites it down. He tries to reel it, forcing back the rant that wants to surface. Instead he tries to focus on you instead of his own anger. 

"We don't know that. It could just be a series of coincidences," Miguel tells you. 

You nod, but Miguel's not an idiot and neither are you. He can see the worry creasing your eyes as you look down to your lap. 

Putting down the cupcake, he reaches over and links his right hand with yours. 

"Nena, don't worry.” He cups his free hand over your cheek to drag you up to meet his eyes.

“I'll fight the whole universe to keep you safe if I have to. Nothing's ever going to harm you so long as I'm here. I'm not gonna let anything happen to you. You're the most important thing to me."

You smile at him at the words, but there's a wistfulness to it that embeds a dull ache in his chest that he wants to physically rub away to make it stop.

You lean into his touch, until your forehead presses up against his and the physical touch blunts the ache in him for a moment, putting it on pause. 

"You’re the most important to me too," you say.

The sky itself cracks open not long after. 

It doesn’t take the combined forces and intellect of the entire world too long to hone in on you being the root cause. Soon enough every superhero, mutant, villain and alien starts coming after you. Because hero or villain alike, no one truly wants their world to end, not if it’s not on their terms. 

Mysterio tries to kidnap you by the elevator in your apartment building. The Human Torch even tries to burn the whole building down. The Punisher tries to murder you point blank outside your office.

Miguel can’t remember the last time he slept. He’s running on fumes. Day after day, he feels like he’s getting by on borrowed time. 

The friends and allies you have thin out fast as the threats to the world increase in severity. Miguel never imagined having Deadpool standing outside his door stating that the life of one single person cannot outweigh the universe itself. 

It’s all so stupid. None of them know what they’re talking about. A lynching mob with their torches and pitchforks. Never stopping to think whether harming you could trigger something much worse.

If Strange is right and you are the knot at the center of the fabric of reality that is coming apart, then ripping that out leaves a hole. Miguel gave up on explaining that fairly quickly because he realized that theoretical consequences doesn’t matter to an angry mob scared of facing the reality of extinction. 

It all becomes a blur. 

Exhaustion eats into his bones, until he can no longer tell the days apart. No matter how many times he saves you, disaster is always waiting just around the corner. 

And now he’s chasing down the Green Goblin to the top of the Chrysler building from the 61st floor, where the green freak has cornered you to the edge of the rooftop.

Miguel is already out of breath, running away from the coalition of superheroes and villains that are hot on his heels, trying to stop him from saving you. 

Adrenaline beats fast in his veins as he keeps running. Miguel is only able to make out those in pursuit in brief glimpses. The bright blue spandex suit of Reed Richards as his freakishly long elastic limbs stretch towards him. The blocks of metal hurtling towards Miguel, missing by inches and crashes into the side of a building as Magneto’s form hovers nearby. 

He ignores them all, not sparing a glance behind him. He just has to keep moving. It doesn't matter that his muscles scream and burn in exhaustion. Doesn't matter that his head dulls with a heavy ache from lack of sleep. He has to keep going for you. Has to save you.

He's so close, he's almost there.

From the corner of his eyes, he makes out the familiar garish red flowing cape fluttering against the blue sky.

Strange.

Miguel marginally relaxes, at the sight of the sole ally he has left in this universe. He leaps across the rooftop, into the temporary safety of the observatory deck.

His feet doesn't even reach the ground. Something restrains him from behind. Bright lights materialize out of thin air. It wraps around Miguel's limb with the strength of unbreakable manacles, hugging him so tight it restricts the flow of blood to his fingers. Then he’s brought down to his knees. 

Miguel whips his head back and Strange stands there, hands formed in a holding gesture.

“What are you–”

"I'm sorry," Strange says.

Miguel snarls at his restraints, wrenching and twisting in every direction he is able to even with the limited range of motion, but it's to no avail. The harder he struggles the more forceful the restraints seem to close in on him, mirroring his strength.

"I'm sorry it had to come to this. I really hoped there was another way but every life in the whole of the universe is at stake, Miguel."

Hot burning anger spears through him, and if he could he would raze it all to the ground with it. This place, this world and this fucking traitor standing there can all fucking burn. Miguel is gonna kill him. He's gonna kill this fucking bastard. He can't believe he trusted him.

“Strange, fucking let me… Stephen!”

He hears your pained shout and snaps his head towards the sound.

Miguel is only ten feet away from you. Ten measly feet from where the Green Goblin is holding you by the ledge of the rooftop. He can still reach you, if he can get free he can still save you. 

Tearing through the magical binds, there’s a bone-cracking sound in his shoulder. Searing pain spreads through his arm. For all his struggles, he doesn't know if he’s even an inch closer towards you. 

He watches you drop from the ledge. 

It's a pin drop moment where everything stops. His heart is no longer beating. 

No. This can't be how it ends.

He's moving forward, even as the sharp restraints digs into his limbs and flesh and burrows in with an excruciating ache. But the pain doesn't matter. All that matters is you.

It claws into him, and digs and tears, until he is sure that his entire limbs are going to be torn off, but he doesn't stop, keeps pulling against the resisting strength that surrounds him, rips against the hindrance embracing every ounce of the pain until finally, the pressure gives.

There's a cacophony of sound that's left behind him as he leaps through the air. He slingshots downwards, cutting through air as he tries to reach you.

Miguel catches your hand and relief fills his chest.

"I got you. I got you," he murmurs. He's not sure if those words are to calm you or himself.

Pulling you up in defiance of the pull of gravity, he tries to haul you up towards him. Your hand squirms in his, and if you keep going you're going to slip out of his grasp.

"Nena, don't move," he shouts in alarm, but you don't stop, twisting in all directions, making it harder for him to get a better grip.

What're you– You're resisting against his strength, why would you...

It hits him with a sickening realization.

You don' want him to save you.

"Stop!" he shouts. “Stop!”

You shake your head, tears filling the corner of your eyes that flow upwards and everything is upside down to him. 

"We’re out of time. You have to let me go,” you say. 

His fingers squeeze down even harder at your words, refusing to hear it. 

“There's still time. There are still other options. I can still save you!” 

Your hand reaches for the amulet pressed against your collarbone. Dread floods every nerve in his body as he sees your fingers squeeze around it.

"No!" He shouts. Screams it so loud it burns in his lungs. But deep down he knows it's not going to make any difference. "Nena, don't!"

The wind whips too loudly against his face. The sound of your heart pounding so painfully hard in his ear that it's deafening and he knows that sound will haunt him forever. 

You're scared.

He sees your lips move, but he can't hear what you're saying.

But he's heard these words so many times before from your lips that he knows them by heart. 

''I love you.''

An invisible force blasts away at him, it shatters through him through his limbs and torso into the very soft tissue of his stomach and makes his teeth shake. He's propelled upwards, unable to control his movements or defy the gravity that he's learned to navigate after all these years mid-air.

He holds on as hard as he can to your hand, but it doesn't matter. His fingers slip, his grip is lost.

You're falling through the sky.

Miguel doesn't remember much after that.

Somehow he makes it back onto the ground.

Somehow he finds you amongst the cracked dirty concrete. 

Somehow, despite falling from over a 100 feet your body is still intact where it lies lifeless on the ground.

Your bones are broken though. Body limp and soft in his arms in a way that has never felt more wrong to him. His only consolation is that you're still warm in his arms, and he thinks that maybe if he just doesn't let go, if he holds you tightly pressed to him the way he is doing now, it'll remain that way forever.

The sky has cleared above. There are no cracks in the azure blue canvas.

This world is saved. 

His world has ended. 

~ Next Issue

Dedication & Credits: To @thirstworldproblemss who has been with me on this journey since chapter one without her enthusiasm and her companionship and friendship and listening to my wild ramblings about this story, I would never have set out to write this thing. She gave me so much joy in the process, she also gave me her time and her skills and brainy talent to help me process and brainstorm this into a shape that I was excited to share with you all! You also have her to thank for that devastating last line.

@guruan who has been a constant well of inspiration with her amazing art, her bright sense of humor and her sharing of theories of what's going to happen! You've made writing this story so much fun!

Author's note: Here we go guys, we've officially entered the final arc now. With only three chapters to go! I am so excited to share the remaining puzzle pieces with you all!

[odinsblog]

where OJ Simpson died , what your thoughts on his abuse of his two wives and nicole brown and rod goldman's families , i know every women of color experience domestic violence , i saw black women cheer that oj is dead, has gotten away from murder

I wish I had something more poignant to say, but when I heard about OJ Simpson’s death the only things I thought about were,

1) Nicole Brown Simpson. She was a victim of femicide, and unfortunately,

2) I cannot help but remember how fucking mad white people were. Literally for years afterwards. And I’m not trying to excuse OJ or anything, but I was a kid when all that happened. Like not even a teenager. And I remember being interrogated by my white school mates, and I also remember being treated a lot more harshly than normal by my white teachers (lol, and I can count on one finger the number of Black teachers I had from kindergarten to high school)

For clarity, I dO believe that OJ murdered Nicole and her boyfriend and I am not making excuses for OJ

I just keep thinking about how the L.A. riots happened only two years prior, and how A LOT of the racist cops involved in OJ’s arrest were patently racist — they caught Mark Furman on audio tape freely slinging the n-word, and other (white) cops were totes cool with that

White people were sO fucking angry. Like, not angry because a woman was murdered, but because it was a Black man who murdered her, a literal blonde haired Guinevere

It was the same kind of whitelash that got Emmett Till murdered, and the same kind of white anger that landed the Central Park 5 and countless other Black men in prison. If Nicole was a Black woman (or if OJ was white), I doubt white people would have even taken notice

Again, I’m not caping for OJ Simpson. He definitely murdered Nicole, and there isn’t a poor Black man alive who would have gotten off like OJ did

FWIW, I personally do not know any Black women who cheered at his death, but then again, his death is a non-issue and it hasn’t come up too much (not at all, really) amongst my family and friends, and it’s almost beyond my generation

And I just wanted to add some context for the jury verdict that let him off the hook, because in my experience there’s this unwritten cultural thing in America where, whenever any non-Black person asks a Black person about OJ, they are really just expecting a simple admonition of “bad dark skinned Black man,” without digging any deeper and recognizing context like what had just happened to Rodney King and the L.A. riots —they ask Black people about OJ kind of like how whenever a media pundit “randomly” asks every single Muslim they encounter if they condemn Hamas)

(SN: And even if OJ hadn’t murder anyone, I never liked him ever since I read where he once said, “I’m not Black, I’m OJ” … I genuinely detest other Black people who are so desperate for the white gaze that they hate their own Blackness and would sell out Black people for their own self enrichment)

It’s wild af that every time I’ve heard about his death, it’s like listening to a highlight reel of his career, almost without any mention of Nicole or Ron Goldman’s murders

The United States has a big fucking problem with femicide

And misogyny

And racism

And racialized misogyny

I would say that OJ’s death would be a great opportunity to raise awareness about femicide and domestic violence and intimate partner violence, but America is so blind or indifferent to the role that ingrained racism plays, I wouldn’t trust the disproportionately overwhelmingly white media to not fumble it

Yeah, anyway, I have always believed that if the police hadn’t had such a long ass + well documented history of being abject liars and racists, Nicole might have gotten the justice she deserved

I hope that OJ’s death brings some semblance of peace to the families of Nicole and Ron

[talentforlying]

❝ every battle’s got a losing side. ❞ [ from mid ]

' and i don't have to lose if i en't the one FIGHTING! it's not my bloody battle, i'm not the one who fucking started it! '

it's a hopeless argument. the kind that spirals down into shit-slinging and punches. the kind he'll have to slink sheepishly back to and avoid apologizing for after everyone's had time to cool down and he's agreed that he's unfortunately fucking WRONG. he's not a fighter; he detests violence, doesn't want to be within toe-touch of a battlefield for the rest of his extended fucking life, let alone get tied into some stupidly self-sacrificial final play — but he's never been able to turn away from a problem when he could do something about it. no matter how small, no matter how FUTILE. no matter how fast it'll probably kill him.

so he does exactly what he always bloody does: he lights a cigarette, and he curses the nearest cape-and-tights. ' fuck me. and fuck you, too. '

@knightlier / LAST OF US STARTERS ( always accepting )

[cant-think-of-anything-creative]

OoooOOooooOooo guess what!!! This scene well and truly won't leave me alone so I have spent another night writing up my Thoughts and Ideas into something somewhat comprehensible!!!! I blame @jackdaw-kraai @darthstitch @bookwyrmie completely, congratulations y'all!!!!! You Did This!!!!!! 🤣🤣

In the middle of a crowded ballroom, Vader and the child currently held in his arms stared at each other. Luke had handed her to him before he fully understood that what he was receiving was in fact both alive and a small child, and not something inanimate and, say, less fragile. While he tried to recall what to do with an infant, she did something that, in hindsight, he should have expected.

She reached up and hooked her tiny fingers into the slots of his respirator.

"I would advise against that, child," he said.

"Aba," she babbled at him, her other hand joining the first.

"This is not a plaything," he gently added. A pop-up on his HUD alerted him to a blockage and the estimated time he could stay conscious with the decreased rate of oxygen. "It is a vital piece of medical equipment. I must ask you to treat it as such."

He carefully guided her hands away and continued to fend off her attempts to touch either his mask or the unit on his chest. Eventually she settled for his hand, gripping his thumb and pinky finger and manipulating them as much as she could.

"Thank you for your compromise," Vader said.

The child strung together a set of nonsensical syllables that nonetheless had Vader nodding.

He stood there for a while, half-listening to Luke's conversation and letting the child play with his hand until she got bored. His attention was recaptured when she began making small distressed sounds, ones that dredged up a spark of foreboding within him.

"What is it?" he asked her. "Are you hungry, perhaps?"

He looked at the selection of food -- none of it designed for a child. Moreover, he had no idea what kind of preferences or allergies this one may or may not have.

She whined more insistently and stuck her fingers into her mouth.

Vader turned to Luke, still chatting animatedly with his fellows. He placed a hand on his shoulder to get his attention.

"I will return," he said.

"Sure," Luke agreed, patting Vader's hand, and launched right back into his conversation. Vader looked to the guards stationed at the perimeter of the ballroom and only then did he release Luke's shoulder.

He walked a little ways over to the buffet tables and took a knife and fork from the offered cutlery.

"Look, child," he murmured, tilting the utensils this way and that so the glinting of the light caught her attention. Her eyes latched onto the shiny metal, reaching for them with the hand not currently occupied. Her distressed coos tapered off slightly, but began to rise again when Vader wouldn't let her grab them.

"Hm, not so interesting for you, I think," he mused. "But you may hurt yourself if I allow you to hold them."

She looked at him crossly, wisps of her brows furrowed in caricature of what she'd observed of others. She took her hand out of her mouth to babble insistently and slap the arm holding her, smearing saliva across the dark leather.

"Very well," Vader sighed. "Perhaps there is a mutually agreeable solution."

A fine ribbon of the Force wound around them, pulled deftly from the fabric of reality by an old weaver's hand -- the utensils rose on invisible strings, twirling gently around each other like a mobile. It had a similar effect, as well; the child returned her attention to them, now silent but for the small grunts she made as, again, she tried to reach out.

"I agree," he nodded. "A tactile distraction would be best. But these have far too many points for you to prick yourself on, child."

He twitched his fingers and the utensils collided midair, bending around and around each other until there was a packed ball of metal. One could hardly tell where fork ended and knife began. The metal squealed quietly as it was bent into shape, and the more pressure Vader Forced upon it the more it began to glow a red heat. The child watched as the color changed to a burning orange and eventually a bright, molten white.

Vader held the condensed ball of silver at arm's length, thankful now for the wide berth people tended to give him at these functions.

"I believe you would quickly become dissatisfied a simple ball. Would you not agree?" Vader asked. The child, now that it was well and truly out of her grasp, was already looking around with a lazy, hooded eye. "Hm. Something more complex, then."

He turned back to the metal and began twisting. Some sections pulled apart, some connected together, until the latticework of a great dodecahedron rested above his hand, spinning on all axes so he could ensure the angles were correct from every direction. A shape that would occupy her for some time, hopefully. He carefully rounded each vertex and smoothed every edge, and double-checked it with precision.

Then, once he was satisfied, he began to wick away the heat held within the metal. Slowly, the silver set and hardened. He had to be careful, so the lattice did not cool in sections and split apart.

The child began whining again. Vader idly tucked her more securely against his chest, mindful of his life support -- but something inside him he could not name seemed to both stir and settle once she laid her head on his shoulder.

"Almost finished," he consoled her. "I have to make sure it is not too hot for you."

Eventually, Vader released his grasp of the Force and the dodecahedron fell into his hand, cooled completely to ambient temperature. He turned it over once more, a last check for burs or points that he might have missed.

"Here you are, child. Will this hold your attention?"

She took it from him and immediately placed a rung into her mouth. If she minded the taste, she did not show it.

"I am glad to see it," Vader nodded. "This is the framework of a great dodecahedron, which is a regular polyhedron. Many are taught that there are only five regular polyhedra, but there are actually forty-eight in three-dimensional Euclidean space."

She looked up at him with attentive eyes and removed the shape to talk to him, waving the latticework about.

"Exactly. Perfectly foolish to exclude all but the platonic solids."

She resumed her chewing. Vader began explaining the finer points of three-dimensional geometry, and her attentiveness as a pupil only wavered once he started on hexagonal tiling. (Which was more than fair, in Vader's opinion -- the tilings were the least interesting of the lot.) He continued as her eyes drooped and she settled in his arms, turning her new toy in her hands as she listened.

Suddenly, the great dodecahedron fell to the floor, clinking softly to a stop a few paces away. Vader looked down and stilled in surprise; the child was laid fully on his chest and shoulder, eyes closed and breathing deeply in relaxed and restful slumber. She seemed unconcerned by the hard metal of his mantle, but he dared not shift and risk waking her.

He looked for the dodecahedron and found instead Luke, already rising with it in his grip and making his way over.

"This is cool," the boy said, twirling it in his hands. "Where'd you get it?"

"I crafted it from cutlery," Vader replied, wincing at the volume of his vocoder.

"Woah, neat!" Luke took a closer look at it. "I can't see any seam lines."

"No," Vader confirmed. By the grin Luke flashes at him, his tone had a prideful air to it. The vocoder interpreted his chuckle as a small burst of static.

Luke's smile turned sweet, looking to the child in his arms.

"How is she?" he asked, still fiddling with the toy. "Sorry I handed her off so abruptly. I got caught up."

"It was no trouble, little one," Vader dismissed his apology. "...She fell asleep."

"Ohhh," Luke cooed, hand to his cheek. "That's so precious. I wish I brought my datapad."

"And I am rather glad you did not," Vader lightly countered.

Luke rolled his eyes. "Aw, come on. If I took a picture I wouldn't share it with anybody."

Vader was about to reply when--

POP!

At the other end of the table, a burst of applause followed as someone uncorked a bottle of carbonated wine. The child flinched awake in Vader's arms, blinked twice at the loud and bright surroundings, and heaved in a breath.

"Oh no," said Luke, right before she began to wail.

Vader hesitantly pat her back -- his mantle was too hard to bounce her on unless he wanted to give her a concussion. He looked to Luke, whose arms were already extended.

"Can I...?" Luke asked, and Vader readily handed her over. Luke started swaying in place, rubbing her back in gentle circles. "You were doing great, it's just--"

"My armor is not designed for comfort," Vader agreed. "I believe you are much better equipped for her, little one."

Luke's eyes stayed on him for a beat longer than he expected.

"Yeah, I guess not," he eventually agreed. He turned to the child still crying on his shoulder. "But wow, you've got a set of pipes on you, huh? Hey, what's this? You remember this? Did Lord Vader make it for you?"

Luke managed to catch the child's attention once more, her cries diminishing to hiccuping sobs once she had hold of the latticework again. After a couple of minutes it was back in her mouth, and Vader went to retrieve a napkin from the table so Luke could wipe her face.

While at the table, he let his irritation bleed into the space around him and the Dark responded, prickling eagerly up his neck. The gathered crowd immediately quieted and scampered off to another, less disruptive location.

"She really likes it," Luke said when he returned.

"Indeed. She is an exemplary student."

"Is that what you were talking about over here?" he asked, smiling. "Weird math stuff?"

Vader crossed his arms. "It is a fairly simple geometrical concept. She grasped upon the context immediately."

"Aw," Luke crooned. "That's the cutest thing I've ever heard. You're gonna be a scientist one day, huh, sweetling?"

He poked lightly at her belly, just enough to make her laugh -- and drop the dodecahedron. Vader buoyed it with a quick reaction of the Force, guiding it once more into her hands.

She stared at it with wide eyes, then brought it overhead and threw it.

"Oh yeah," Luke said as Vader retrieved it once again. "A scientist for sure."

[tennessoui]

Please give me the TA scene where Vos takes Obi-Wan to a bar to get drunk and forget about Anakin and pick up some hotties but oh no Anakin is there and Obi-Wan is a little tipsy and doesn’t want to be rude so he goes to say hi. Then for the rest of the night when he tries to go Anakin pulls him back into conversation because he doesn’t want Obi-Wan going home with someone else

yes!!!!!! TIS THE SEASON (halloween)

(2.3k)(the first TA obi-wan snippet!!)

The thing about Quinlan that Obi-Wan hates the most is that his friend is the only person in the entire world that can out-stubborn him. That’s usually not a problem. But sometimes it is. Sometimes it results in Quinlan forcing Obi-Wan into doing something he’d rather not do.

All those people that say peer pressure isn’t really real have never met Quinlan Vos.

Obi-Wan sort of wishes he’d never met Quinlan Vos when the man shows up at his door on Friday evening carrying three different bundles of clothing.

“Because I’m nice, you get to choose what you want to be for Halloween,” Quinlan announces, laying out the options on Obi-Wan’s coffee table.

“Drunk and alone in my apartment,” Obi-Wan says. “That’s an option, right?”

“Just for that, I’m taking Indiana Jones off the table,” Quinlan replies, not sounding sorry about it at all. “I’ll be that one. I think I could make the whip look hot as hell.”

Obi-Wan crosses his arms and peers at the costumes. “Sexy nurse or sexy….Red Riding Hood? I’m not wearing that. I doubt it would even fit me.”

“Bullshit, you have a very dainty waist, Obi. But hurry up and choose because we’re going to be late.”

“We’re going tonight?” Obi-Wan splutters. “It’s not even Halloween!”

“It’s the Halloweekend, Obi-Wan. It’s like you’ve forgotten all of our sophomore year.”

Obi-Wan’s tried to block most of it out, that’s true. The parts he remembers, at least. “I think we’re a bit too old for Halloweekend, Quin,” he protests, staring down at the costumes. “And I--”

“Have been obsessing over this so-called hottest professor in existence, yes, I know.” Quinlan holds up his hand when Obi-Wan starts to disagree. “No, you know I’m right. I don’t want to hear your excuses. I’ve never heard you casually talk about someone so much and I’ve been there for all of your co-ed crushes. So what we’re going to do tonight is go and get your hot professor fucked out of your head, and the best way to do that is either sexy nurse or sexy Red Riding Hood. So.”

“I do not want this,” Obi-Wan reiterates slowly. “I very much am not aboard this plan.”

“Don’t make me invoke the BFFFOC, Obi,” Quinlan threatens.

The BFFFOC, or Best Friend Forever Failsafe Override Code, was thought up between them one night their first year of college. If ever one of them was going down a path that the other deemed unwise, they had the right to invoke the override and talk some sense into them.

“I don’t think me not wanting to dress in a slutty and offensive nurse outfit counts,” Obi-Wan protests loudly.

“It’s not about the costume, Obi, and you know it. It’s about this professor. You know you need to get over him. So get under someone else. I’d offer, but that would be in complete violating of--”

“BFFNBTBT,” Obi-Wan finishes with him, rolling his eyes. “Yes, I recall.”

That one, Best Friends Forever No Below The Belt Touching had been resurrected after a very unfortunate one night stand. The grounds for that code are some of the ones Obi-Wan is still trying to forget.

“Fine,” he snaps and hates himself for it. One day he’ll learn how to say no to Quinlan. “But I’m going with Red Riding Hood.”

“I thought you would!” his friend cheers. “The cape’s long enough to cover more of your upper thighs and you’re a bit of a prude.”

Obi-Wan snatches up the packaged costume from the table. “Fuck off,” he says, quite pleasantly in his opinion. “And I’m not paying you back for this.”

“You should shave,” Quinlan tells him as he turns towards his bedroom. “Really commit to the role!”

Perhaps tonight Obi-Wan will strangle Quinlan with his own length of Indiana Jones whip. The thought puts a smile on his face.

In the end, Obi-Wan does end up shaving. It’s not something he does often, but he’d looked at the costume. The dress doesn’t even come down to his fingertips. The hooded red cape somehow just a little bit longer.

And he thinks making Quinlan wait for thirty minutes while Obi-Wan gets ready is the very least of what he deserves.

Dragging out the process, however, doesn’t magically give Quinlan enough time to realize how stupid this is, because when Obi-Wan peers around the edge of his door, Quin’s on the couch in full Indiana Jones costume regalia, flicking through his phone.

“I look like a pervert’s idea about what Swedish barmaids looked like in the 18th century,” Obi-Wan complains, trying to flatten the hem of the flared out dress as he regretfully leaves the safety of his bedroom.

“That’s what the hood’s for,” Quinlan says sagely, looking up from his phone to take in Obi-Wan. “What, no makeup?”

“I need you to know that my biggest regret in my entire life will always be that I sat next to you on our first day of chem,” Obi-Wan tells him placidly, adjusting the cape around his bare shoulders. He hates to admit it, but the feeling of the inner fabric of the hood feels good against his skin. Soft.

“Oh, don’t say that, Obi, I’m sorry. You’re pretty without makeup.”

“I’m about to throw a punch,” he warns.

Quinlan grins and slings an arm around him. “Well then, looks like it’s time to go.”

----

They slide into two seats at the very crowded bar only thirty or so minutes later. Everyone around them is wearing some sort of costume, some so wild or revealing that Obi-Wan doesn’t even necessarily feel bad about the amount of skin he’s showing off.

Someone walks by in a golden speedo and Obi-Wan takes a gulp of his drink. At least this place does some heavy pours.

Quinlan leans into his ear. “See anyone?” he yells of the din of loud music and voices.

“I see a lot of people,” Obi-Wan reports back immediately.

“One more tongue-in-cheek response out of you, and I’ll make you do tequila shots, young man!”

Obi-Wan narrows his eyes, but then a girl in a french maid costume smiles at him flirtily from across the bar. His first thought is that he likes Professor Skywalker’s smile a lot better. Then he wonders about what Professor Skywalker’s doing tonight, if he likes Halloween. If he’s dressed up. If he’s alone.

“I would like two tequila shots,” he tells the bartender when she passes them.

“Obi-Wan, you shouldn’t have!” Quinlan tosses his arm around his shoulder and pulls him in for an awkward, but enthusiastic hug when the shots arrive.

“They’re both for me,” he responds. “You can choke.”

“You wound me so precisely,” Quinlan shakes his head, and flags down a bartender to order his own. Obi-Wan decides to ignore him, licking at the back of his hand quickly before sprinkling the salt onto the damp skin.

The first shot goes down easily, but he doesn’t even wait ten seconds before he’s brought his hand back to his mouth for another lick.

Halfway through, he looks up at the feeling of eyes staring at him. He follows his own instincts until his eyes latch onto bright, familiar blue ones across the way.

If he’d taken the shot, he would have choked in this moment when confronted with Anakin Skywalker, out of the lecture hall and looking so intensely at Obi-Wan that he feels strangely vulnerable. Examined.

He breaks eye contact with his professor when Quinlan’s arm tightens on his shoulder and he knocks their shot glasses together.

It’s second nature at this point to do shots with Quin, and he drinks his down automatically as his eyes can’t help but to dart back to Anakin--Professor Skywalker--at his table.

He’s sitting alone. Not even that dressed up. Obi-Wan has no feelings about this.

Quinlan, who is frighteningly observant at the worst times, clues into Professor Skywalker’s presence before he thinks he should, after only ten or so minutes have passed. “That guy is staring at you,” he whispers very loudly to Obi-Wan, taking a pointed sip of his newest drink. “Or maybe me, but he sorta looks angry whenever I touch you.”

As if to prove this, Quinlan moves in to place a sloppy kiss on Obi-Wan’s cheek. Obi-Wan can’t shove him off quickly enough.

“Yep, definitely looking at you.” Quinlan concludes. “Looks blond, older than us, but like. Not ancient. What are you thinking? Wanna go over? I think you should, he looks like he’d give you a good time.”

Obi-Wan stares down at his drink. Quinlan doesn’t know what Professor Skywalker looks like. He doesn’t know that he’s actually cajoling Obi-Wan into the arms of the one person he’s set against him seeing. If Obi-Wan were a better friend, he’d tell him. But Obi-Wan isn’t. Obi-Wan’s feeling a little tipsy from the drinks, and his legs are all smooth, and he wants to talk to Professor Skywalker. He wants to see if maybe the man could want him if he’s wearing this. If he looks like this.

“I’m gonna go over and talk to him,” he decides in a rush, already lifting himself out of his seat. Quinlan crows in delight and reaches out to steady him when he stumbles a bit.

Water next, Obi-Wan thinks. He’s going to have water next.

It’s a short trip across the room to where Professor Skywalker is sitting. It just feels longer because of nerves. God, what is he doing? Why is he doing this?

But suddenly he’s at Anakin’s table. Suddenly he’s standing right in front of him, drink clutched in both hands, very aware of how much skin his outfit is showing off.

Anakin’s eyes dart down and the back up again before lingering at the exposed skin of his thighs. If it were anyone else, Obi-Wan would think he’s being checked out, but it’s his professor. And no matter how much Obi-Wan may want Anakin’s eyes to stick on him like a brand, he knows the older man would never want that same thing.

“Professor Skywalker, hello,” he finally says, fiddling with the straw in his drink. A few seconds later, he takes a sip, conscious of the way the man follows this motion. If it were anyone else--

But it’s not.

“Obi-Wan, I’ve told you to call me Anakin,” the professor scolds. “Especially outside of the classroom.”

“Sorry,” he says immediately. “Um. Anakin.”

Anakin’s arm drapes itself over the back of his booth as he sits more comfortably in his chair. “Please, sit.”

“I don’t want to intrude or anything, I just saw you and thought I would say--”

“Obi-Wan, sit,” this is a much clearer instruction. Obi-Wan drops into the other chair. Anakin looks him over again. “I have to admit, I didn’t have you pegged for being into this holiday,” he says roughly. “Or so committed to it.”

Obi-Wan thinks he’s probably blushing as red as his hood. “No, I um. You’re right. My friend, I--he wanted me to come out with him, and he only got me two costumes--I wouldn’t, but he--”

“Indiana Jones?” Anakin cuts in to ask sharply. “Sounds like a bit of a controlling boyfriend if he made you do something you’re not comfortable with.”

There’s an air of protectiveness in Anakin’s voice that makes Obi-Wan feel warm on the inside. Even though the professor couldn’t have been more wrong.

“No, no,” he corrects him anyway, even though a part of him is yelling that Anakin really doesn’t care that much about the details of his personal life. “We’re just friends. And I….”

He trails off, and Anakin arches one of his thick eyebrows in expectancy.

It may be that expression, the knowledge that Obi-Wan could give Anakin the answer he’s looking for, or the drinks in his system, but he finds himself continuing, admitting quite quietly, “I like it.”

Anakin straightens in his seat and takes a long pull of his own drink. “You like it,” he repeats. “Am I to assume you’re just a fan of the fairytale?”

Obi-Wan bites at his lip. He knows he shouldn’t say anything more, but....but they’re so far from the lecture hall here. It’s hard to remember why they shouldn’t talk about this. It’s hard not to let his mind wander to what he would say if the person he was talking to was not his professor, but a man he was interested in spending the night with, someone he was trying to seduce.

He shakes his head shyly.

“I like the hood,” he admits, because once he’s thought of it it’s incredibly difficult not to say it. He hardly even tries, if he’s being honest. “The cape is just long enough I can feel it on my thighs. And I like the skirt and--” he hesitates here, but it’s not called liquid courage for nothing. “The lingerie it came with.”

Anakin freezes with his drink halfway to his mouth. Slowly, he sets it back onto the table again and studies Obi-Wan with darkened eyes. His expression is unreadable and it makes Obi-Wan squirm in his seat.

“Fuck,” Anakin breathes out, the word almost lost to the roar of noise in the bar.

Obi-Wan fidgets in his seat. “Actually, sir,” he says suddenly. “I’m sorry, I should go, I only meant to say hello--”

“You should stay,” the professor interrupts, leaning forward and placing his hand on Obi-Wan’s forearm. The touch is electrifying. “For a drink.”

“Just a drink,” Obi-Wan agrees probably too quickly, a part of him responding to Anakin’s pleading expression perhaps more than it should. “My, what big eyes you have,” he jokes in regards to his professor’s begging look.

“The better to see you with,” Anakin replies immediately. For a second, his hand on Obi-Wan’s arm doesn’t move. Then his thumb strokes over the smooth skin there before he pulls back. “My dear.”

[teyvat-imagines]

Eula and Beidou (both separate) are training with there S/O until they get a little to into a sparring match, S/O fails to block an attack and they end up breaking there S/O’s arm how do they feel afterwards?

Hey there! :D Of course I can, thank you so much for the request!! ^w^

Accidentally Hurting Their S/O

Eula:

○ She had been a little dubious about sparing with you. She knew you could handle yourself, but at the same time her Favonius Bladework was nothing to laugh at. Still, she trusted you and when you looked at her with such an eager expression how could she say no?

○ The match was pretty even, you were quick on your feet and doing well against her heavy hits! Eula decided to up her game a little, coming at you in a spin attack, so the moment you parried her blade, her leg came down on you in a hard kick.

○ She had been expecting you to dodge out of the way. What she hadn't expected was the rather sickening crunch sound as her armoured boot collided with your arm, the force of the impact breaking it. Eula pulled back, expecting you to get back to your feet and charge at her, claymore at the ready. When you didn't move, at first she was a little annoyed, thinking you were bored of training with her.

"(Y/N)? If you think I'll go easy on you I can assure you that you have another thing coming. Underestimating me will have it's consequences and I will take vengeance if I- ... (Y/N)"

○ When she saw the look of pain on your face and the way you were biting down on your uninjured hand to muffle your sobs, she paled and moved to your side immediately. To know that you were hurt and she had caused it absolutely tore her up inside.

○ Knowing it was best not to move you, she called for another knight to go and fetch Barbara, knowing the deaconess would be able to heal you. The entire time she's apologetic and her hands hover nervously over you, already afraid if she were to touch you she would hurt you further.

○ Once Barbara has you patched up, you've been given instruction for bedrest. Eula takes some days off to stay by your side, fretting over you and ensuring your arm heals up properly.

"Ah ah, lie back down dear. You heard the deaconess. You need bedrest until you're fully healed. I'll take care of you, so please rest for now."

Beidou:

○ Beidou isn't one to back down from a challenge, even from you. In fact, especially not from you! She knows you're a good fighter and that you won't go easy on her! So when you ask to spar, she agrees with a hearty chuckle, reminding you that she wont go easy just because she likes you.

○ The fight goes well, you even had her on the ropes at a few points. Unfortunately for you, Beidou was just getting a feel for your fighting style. Considering she can keep up with Kazuha, of course she's smart enough to try and get an understanding of how you fight before starting to really push back.

○ Spotting an opening, Beidou moved and raised her practice claymore up, quickly disarming you. Before you had chance to think of a way to counter, she brought the wooden weapon back down with a little more force than she had intended. Considering this was just a sparring match and that wasn't her real sword, you thought you'd be fine to just raise your arms up and block!

"Not a bad move! But if this had been a real fight, your arms wouldn't be much use anymore y'know! Heh- uh, hey (Y/N)? What's wrong...?"

○ You really had underestimated Beidou's strength when she swung the claymore down. The force of the impact had been enough to bring you to your knees and completely break the bones in your arm. It took everything you had not to cry out, opting instead to bite down on your inner cheek, but you couldn't stop the tears welling up and Beidou could see just how much pain you were in.

○ She called the match off immediately, throwing her practice weapon to the side and tearing up some of the cape on her outfit to try and make a makeshift sling for your arm, making sure you were secured before she picked you up, soft apologies on her lips at every wince and sob from you.

○ A course was set for Liyue immediately, and she made sure you arrived in good time. Beidou takes you to Baizhu and makes sure you're taken care of and given proper medical treatment. The entire time Baizhu's working on you, she's by your side, holding your free hand and murmuring soft words of reassurance.

"It's okay, you're gonna be okay... We'll get back to the ship after and get some rest yeah? Leave it to me kid, I'll make sure you're taken care of."

[whltlock]

The Cosmic Horror of Gotham City

CHAPTER EIGHT / MASTERLIST / Subscribe on AO3

Pairing: Jason Todd/Non-binary!Reader

Summary: The weird guy in a party city costume bought you lunch? He also has a suspicious amount of romantic quotes on hand. Who is Jason at his core?

Word Count: 6340.

Occasionally, Jason spotted one of his own, slinging across the cityscape in pursuit of a villain. And once in a blue moon, he would convince himself of the otherworldly flutter and smoke of bat wings long gone.

Other times, if he stared too blankly and for too long, he started to hear the beckon of something prophetic calling to him in a sickly-sweet tone. It creeped along the rooftops until it danced across his silvery skin, waiting for him to accept the invitation.

He figured it was the ghastly pollution of the city getting to his head. Usually.

However, since your appearance, Jason had taken to contemplating more personal matters. He would observe your sleeping form, unable to decide what kind of threat you were.

A/N: Thank you all for the excellent reception to Wanda and Pietro! Unfortunately we won't see them again for a bit, but there's more fun to be had with them in future!

It feels like I accidentally (or evilly) split chapters up into two steps forward, one step back. Sorry lol. But Ch. 9 and 10 are good ones for their relationship development 🙊

You jolted awake with a groan, a grim crick in your neck before the day had even begun. The unrelenting chime of your phone alarm forced you from comfort. Except, as you irritably scrambled for the noise, you realised that you were not in a bed.

Glancing around, you remembered how you’d unceremoniously checked out of the motel.

As you tugged the blanket from the floor and into your lap, your eyes swept the room. You eyed the empty kitchen and bathroom. No motion from behind the ajar bedroom door suggested that your roommate was absent.

“Red?” you called to be sure. There was no response; barely an echo off the walls.

Standing up, you fashioned the fluffy blanket into a cape. You wandered into the kitchen where a paper shopping bag had been left behind. With a prod, several pieces of fruit rolled across the bench. A thinner bag within revealed a baguette. You breathed in the freshly baked smell, already salivating.

More rummaging uncovered a deliciously stuffed bagel. Your mouth gaped. How had you not noticed Red return with all these goodies when you were sleeping only a few feet away? Tired, you shook your head.

As one hand grazed over the bag, it nudged your attention towards the stickiness of a note. You plucked it and found a simple message in scrawl that rode the tightrope between fancy and messy: ‘Lunch.’

Your finger traced the writing in disbelief. Red had treated you to a feast for the day. Well, at least to your standards. Which you admit weren’t very high. Hell, he could’ve left you a slice of cheese and you would’ve been grateful.

But the kindness made a peculiar feeling simmer in the pit of your hungry stomach.

Soon enough you were preoccupied with whether or not Red had any dairy in that fridge of his, having decided that baguette and salted butter would be a perfect breakfast to start the day afresh. At least before you moved onto the other things on your agenda: snooping, dwelling on the past, and perhaps making it to work on time.

Another thought struck you with devastation: the new environment meant you had to find your own way to and from the library. Red was uncontactable if you needed a hint. God, you hoped your direction-challenged self was up to the task.

Despite the shortest sleep in the history of sleeps, Jason managed to drag himself out of bed before you awoke. Every muscle in his shell-shocked body begged for a few more hours he didn’t have. Unless he wanted to stay pent up in his room all day, or don the uniform from dawn until his nightly duties were over, he didn’t have much of a choice. Jason left quickly, unable to cope with the awkwardness of a morning-after.

Although he couldn’t help how his brain strayed. You’d seen each other at—perhaps not your worst—but close enough. The logical part of him fought against itself, ashamed by his decision to bring you further into the fold. Why were you utterly determined to be both annoying and helpful? Why was he so unusually curious about your similar experiences?

In spite of everything within him that objected to the stupendously terrible idea, Jason was drawn like a moth to light.

It was why he grabbed you a packed lunch with sides. He had stared down at the rows of food while recalling your mountainous waffle plate with a mousey smile. God, Jason’s cheeks had burned the moment he realised what he was doing. He snatched the first one he’d considered.

In an effort to combat the feeling of his stomach being unearthed by a bulldozer, he picked something for Roy, too. It was only right, since he planned to visit the centre.

Jason passed by the shift worker as he shuffled up to the double doors. They shared a mute nod in the subdued pastels of dawn. He still kept his head down, hoping they wouldn’t spare him a second glance.

As soon as he stepped foot inside the foyer, he was met with aggravating florescent lights and a booming voice. He wished he had his helmet to block them out.

"Jaybird!” Roy greeted, much too cheerfully for the early morning.

“Don't call me that,” he monotoned, leaving space between them.

Unperturbed, Roy asked, “You back for a trim?”

Subconsciously, Jason pushed the loose, curly hairs from his forehead. “No,” he said, and he hoped it wasn’t time for another cut.

Roy strut closer, making his hands tense into fists. Inspecting him with interest, Roy quizzed, “What’s this?”

However, when Jason looked up, there was an astute grin plastered across his friend’s face. He almost didn’t want to give him the bagel now, purely out of pettiness.

With an irritated grumble, he stuck his arm out and shoved the bag into Roy’s chest.

“Awe shucks, Jaybird,” Roy said as he eagerly accepted the food. “You spoil me, babe.”

“Shut the fuck up, Fitzroy,” Jason warned, although Roy knew full well there was no real threat behind those words. He might have even seen a hint of a smile on Jay’s angled face.

“C’mon,” he said, shrugging in the direction of his office. “Let’s brunch.”

“It’s not brunch,” Jason said bemusedly, but it was met with an indifferent wave and the swivel of Roy’s hips as he led the way.

You chose not to change out of your party outfit before heading off to work, needing as much time as you could get. Furthermore, you decided that it would be a waste to have only worn it in unpleasant circumstances. And it didn’t smell yet. So, even with its bedtime crinkles, you schlepped around in it throughout the library. For once you could say you were the best dressed there.

To your dismay, Tia was quick to notice the rumpled fabric. She stood in front of you while her eyes roamed freely over your body. With an inward shiver, you felt the tickle of paranoia and judgement creep across your blemished skin. Despite the smile that stretched across her face, a sense of unease accompanied it.

Curiosity highlighted her stark features. Her brow perked. “Walk of shame?”

You made a gruff, irked noise, avoiding her all-knowing stare. “No.”

She hummed, looking you over once more. “Why are you wearing yesterday’s clothes then?”

With narrowed eyes, you grumbled, “You don’t know that.”

Her caustic smile returned. “Now I do.”

You sighed at the loss of secrecy.

“It looks good,” Tia said, slipping into a genuine tone. Studying her for a moment longer, you observed how the razor-sharp edge of her personality dissipated. Your mouth curved up.

“Thanks,” you said. “Don’t expect any better.”

With a nod, she laughed. “You went to that party, right? So, you didn’t go home with the cop?”

You balked. “No,” you reaffirmed with an eyeroll. “I went home... alone.” You trailed off on the last word, realising it wasn’t entirely true. You’d found a temporary home with a vigilante after a shitstorm of an argument. Although that was much more exciting, you didn’t think Tia would be happy to hear it. You didn’t bother to expand; you could berate yourself just fine for the stupidity.

Fishing, she said, “Not even a little tongue action...?”

You threw your head back with a groan. “Tia.”

As if she were totally innocent, she shrugged off the accusation. Instead, she complained, “What kind of party was this?”

“A close-knit party for an on-the-low sort of person,” you reminded her. Eying her pout, you chose to give her something of interest. “But it was weird that everyone but him was coupled up.”

She perked at that. “You had the perfect opportunity!”

You made a noise. “For what?”

An insidious smile greeted you. “Endless possibilities.”

“You said we avoid men like him!”

Tia’s shoulders rolled; the wiki-how picture for nonchalance. “Eh. He seems vetted. Besides, you haven’t gotten into much trouble otherwise.”

You averted your eyes as she said it, glancing down at your healing arm. Little did she know how much trouble you had been getting into. You bit the inside of your cheek.

Tia took your silence in stride. “You want me to interrogate him first?”

“Oh, God.” You slapped your hands against your face at the image of her doing so. Your exasperation was mumbled into your palms, “I’m not trying to date him!” With a brief peek, you added, “But... I’ll keep it in mind.”

It proved a victory to her as her face transformed into fiery enthusiasm.

Roy’s office oozed of him. Jason couldn’t quite explain it, but he felt that anyone who knew the redhead personally could have figured it out without needing a second glance.

They sat in comfortable silence for the most part, munching on their respective breakfasts. Jason was happy enough with this set up: it meant he didn’t have to scramble for conversation topics or deal with Roy’s prying. Or worse, the friendly comments that had begun to plant the seeds of something unsettling.

Nonetheless, their shared quietude was unusual. Dubiously, he eyed Roy, trying to discern whether the man withheld bad news.

Abruptly, Jason flinched as amorphous blobs danced in his periphery. He turned, knowing it was only a person hurrying past the inset window, but his response was conditioned. Even when he sat parallel to the door.

A disgruntled noise dispelled from Jason when looked at Roy again. “What’s bothering you?” Jason asked, eyebrow poised as he stared at Roy’s pinched expression.

“Huh? Nothing,” he said, returning to reality.

Jason rolled his eyes. “Spit it out.”

Roy folded up the empty brown bag with a frazzled sigh. He leaned back into his chair, stretching his arms behind his head while he considered the explanation he wanted to give. “I had a fight with Donna.”

Jason snorted. “What’s new?”

“No, not like that. It wasn’t a normal disagreement,” Roy fussed. His face moulded into an upset frown as he thought about it more. “We haven’t talked since.”

Jason hummed. “What did you do?”

Roy looked like he was this close to clambering over the table and strangling him for the insult. “It wasn’t me!” he exclaimed, indignant. It was your Dick of a brother, came the humourless thought.

“Donna upset you?” Jason asked incredulously. His gaze passed over Roy, taking in his sullen state. Donna was usually the one annoyed by Roy’s antics, even though it was taken in zest a majority of the time. Most often they sorted out their problems on their own, both eager to forgive and rebuild stronger.

His arms crossed. “Yeah,” Roy mumbled.

“What happened?”

“She kept something important from me.”

Jason’s head tilted, soaking up the information. It was vague, but he knew that secrets never bode well.

Roy’s eyes moved to his phone that lay face down on the desk. “She keeps calling...”

“But?”

Roy sighed, sagging into the chair. Unable to meet Jay’s eyes, he said, “It didn’t just hurt me.”

He felt the true burden of Roy’s feelings then, as he understood why it was more serious than usual. Roy wasn’t just hurting on his own behalf—there was someone, or multiple someone’s—involved. Jason drew out a heavy breath, falling into an awkward slump. “Right.”

Half-heartedly, Roy quipped, “You’re not gonna ask if she cheated?”

Jason fixed his friend with a weighty look. “She wouldn’t do that.”

Despite his sorrow, the edges of Roy’s mouth lifted in a pleased manner. They both had faith in Donna despite her mistake.

Jason debated what to say that could even remotely help. What would he do in that situation? Forgive and forget? No, he was a spiteful son of a bitch.

“Maybe... Give everyone some more time to cool off,” he started, voice low. He talked into his lap, incapable of speaking so earnestly while being watched. “Then you can all sit down and hear Donna out.” The last bit sounded more like a question than a solution, but he’d tried. He finally looked up to gauge Roy’s response. “It wasn't malicious, right?”

Roy’s nod was slow as he deliberated the proposal. “I don’t think so.” Teeth pulled at his bottom lip for a minute.

Jason wanted to prod him further, but got his answer soon enough.

“I want to be able to trust her again,” Roy admitted softly, leveling their stares.

There was a surprising amount of conviction in Jason’s voice as he said, “She’ll earn it back.”

They settled into another silence, revelling in the discussion.

Inevitably, Roy sighed. “I gotta jet, Jay. Work to do, yadda, yadda, and all that.”

Jason lurched forward. “Wait.”

The action stunned Roy, and as such he ceased immediately. He was patient as he waited for Jason to speak his mind.

Jason swallowed through thickness, summoning the nerve to voice what he was searching for. “I want...” He paused, glancing up. He didn’t think Roy would be opposed, much less to help those people, but he couldn’t be one hundred percent sure. “I want to go back to the Bowery.”

“What? Why?” Roy jumped in, posture faltering out of concern. “Are those fuckwits back?”

“No,” he said, brain formulating and re-formulating his rehearsed speech out of anxiety. He had gone and checked both the Bowery and Panessa lot several times to confirm. The stench of rot grew with each visit. Jason prompted, “The police don’t go out there, right?”

Roy nodded, not quite following.

“They get no help?”

His friend nodded again, still waiting for an explanation.

“Then they get no supplies, no food,” Jason finished.

Roy made a noise in the back of his throat as he understood. “Okay,” he said. He placed a calming hand on Jason’s shoulder. “We’ll go tonight. I’ll see if we have any extras left here.”

Jason was blank-faced as he agreed, but Roy had known him long enough to observe the tiny tells of relief. The crinkle around his brows diminished and his frown flattened. Roy also wouldn’t let him go alone because he knew something had deeply bothered Jason the last time they went.

“I can help,” Jason mumbled after a beat, “in the kitchen, if you want.”

Roy slapped his palmed against Jason good-naturedly, then soothed it over when he noticed the wince. “Hell yeah, I’ll take my sous-chef any day of the week.”

You managed to make it to Red’s hideout before the sunlight faded completely. You’d taken a few wrong turns—which you blamed on Google Maps—but you walked up the million rickety steps nonetheless. Annoyingly, Red hadn’t activated garage access for you. You were tempted to ask but thought that might be overstepping. He owed you less than a place to stay, after all.

As you drifted through the corridors, your nose twitched at the dusty, old-fashioned carpets. You wondered if Red had ever thought about renovating the rest of the place. Maybe he could chain the outside for good measure, although you hadn’t seen any other people in the building so far. Old apartment numbers hung crookedly off most doors. Some lay on the abandoned shoe mats instead. A lot of the damage seemed like the result of earthly tremors.

The outside of Red’s apartment was equally as unwelcoming too, although you knew it was a ruse. Despite its weak stature, you’d seen how heavily reinforced the other side was. The wooden door was merely to make it look un-special.

Thoughtfully, Red had slipped a key into your lunch bag, even though you’d never discussed your staying over for more than a night. As you did a quick double check of the hallway, you thought about the easiness of an electronic key.

Letting yourself into the place, you were immediately hit with the smell of food. Had Red been cooking?

But, as you dumped your bag and looked around, he was nowhere to be seen.

It startled you when your phone vibrated for the first time in twenty-four hours. Turning it over in your palm, you watched as the screen lit up with a sudden barrage of messages from Dick. You wanted to roll your eyes as you skimmed the texts. They had mostly progressed from wanting a chance to explain to ‘where did you go?’

A new notification alerted you to an incoming phone call. Glumly, you stared at the contact picture that popped up. It was taken the day Donna had brought cake home; barely enough for Roy, you, and her to share. She’d posed next to it in a silly manner and you couldn’t resist snapping it. You’d wanted to add it to the album of stupid photos Roy had started.

A sigh escaped as her call went to voicemail. She followed it up with a short text.

DONNA: Tell me you’re safe, please?

Perhaps it was petty of you, but you tossed the phone onto the couch. You’d get to it later—probably.

Wandering to the kitchen bench, you found another bag in the same spot your lunch had been. In it was an assortment of takeout containers. With eager fingers, you lifted the steaming boxes onto the counter.

One held fried rice, another with stir-fried vegetables, and the last was some kind of curried noodles. There were also fortune cookies and prawn chips. That was a lot of food, even for you.

Red must be coming back for his share.

Even with the growing pains of hunger, something else gnawed at you more. You wanted to look around before you fell into a false sense of security.

You started with the kitchen, rummaging through the cupboards and drawers. After finding nothing of interest, you set out some cutlery for later.

The living room was pretty bare, except for the linen cupboard. As expected, it housed apartment necessities. There was a locked safe too, but that didn’t surprise you. You gave up after a couple of spins.

Red’s desk was an organised mess of documents and scribbles that didn’t mean anything to you. The only thing you even marginally recognised was the ‘missing kids’ scrawled in that now-recognisable font. The computer looked very advanced, so you chose not to mess with it in case it had inbuilt lasers or something else wicked to match.

His bedroom was just as sterile, save for a few lonely possessions. His bed was exceptionally neat; pillows fluffed and covers tucked tight.

Minimal items hung in his closet. You found a duffle bag beneath the rack that had spare uniform stuff. You ran your fingers over a mask, touch delicate but curious.

You tried to conjure up what he looked like behind all that red. You weren’t sure, really. He must have something to hide, since he was so well guarded. But he was also kind of.... shy. Careful. His choice of vocabulary pointed to a natural intelligence and curiosity. Red stated facts with a degree of certainty.

You wouldn’t call him nice just yet, but there was a kind of compassion that he couldn’t hold back, even if it was singed around the edges. He could withstand your nonsense which was a charitable act of its own.

What did Red’s daytime life consist of?

Lost in your imagination, you kept fossicking. There were some boxes of tightly wrapped ammunition as well. Nervously, your eyes raked the room for hidden weaponry. So far, you hadn’t seen many worthwhile spots, but his brain was clearly wired differently to yours. He led a life that was perhaps not so different from yours, but it was an intentional choice at the end of the day.

There was a book on his bedside table. Your fingers outlined the title, finding it vaguely familiar. But as much as you tried, you couldn’t place it. You must have reshelved it at the library recently. Beneath it lay a classic romance. You flipped through a few pages to see that Red had made the occasional note, sometimes with quotes underlined.

The first few you read had been scratched out and it tugged at your heartstrings: “There are few people whom I really love, and still fewer of whom I think well. The more I see of the world, the more am I dissatisfied with it.”

“My good opinion, once lost, is lost forever.”

You thought the next one was funny. He’d drawn the tiniest smiley face you’d ever seen in the paragraph break: “Have a little compassion on my nerves. You tear them to pieces.”

“I think you are in very great danger of making him as much in love with you as ever.”

An odd lump formed in your throat upon reading it. It was too invasive, divulging his innermost thoughts without his knowledge or consent.

You carefully closed the book, setting it back into its spot.

Now, the bathroom was by no means luxurious, but the sight of a full, tiled shower had you salivating more than the food. The urge to bathe was stronger than your hunger. You decided that there was no point in waiting to eat beyond that, as you figured your roommate would be back long after dark.

Finishing up your search, you located a few more notable things. Red had a washer-dryer. With a lot of bleach bottles, you noted through narrowed eyes. But for all intents and purposes, Red’s apartment was basically paradise.

What caught your interest most of all was the skincare collection that lined the sink. Nosily, you read a few of the bottles. All of it combined was more than you’d ever owned. It was quite a stash.

Despite the drabness of the apartment, the small touches were very human of him indeed.

Back in the lion’s den—but this time armed to the teeth with supplies—Jason pressed on through the maze of debris that made up the Bowery. Both Roy and him walked through the melancholy mall, boots crushing broken cement underfoot. His ears pricked with a myriad of sounds: rats skittering, gusts of wind demolishing what was left of the roof tiles, and less malevolent sounds such as curious, whispered chatter. Jason couldn’t ignore the claustrophobia that closed in; feeling as if something evil lurked in those shadows alongside its townspeople. He swallowed through a flinch as something shattered in the distance.

Whatever it was, it was there solely to stalk its prey. Jason knew it wasn’t bothered with the rest of the scene, only with him. He loathed knowing why he so desperately wanted Roy to be there. God, he needed his fucking hand held because he expected his own shadow to pounce on him.

Jason debated whether the same ominous sense came over Roy, but a quick glance in his direction only suggested his usual alertness in a place with so many spots to hide. Cold anticipation settled in the back of his mind, expecting to hear the nauseating cackle from his nightmares. So far, each step had been lacklustre in that department.

“Hey, guys,” Roy called into the atmospheric dark. It forced Jason to spin around, wit ripped out from underneath him. Roy shot him a sheepish, apologetic look in turn.

“We got you the goods,” Roy started, disrupting the dusty peace of the mall. “Jackets, blankets, socks, y’know...”

Anxiously, Jason waited. The whites of glowing eyes peeked out from the shadows, examining the two suited men. It was unlikely they’d come out and face them; only children weren’t as emotionally hardened in the same way. Even then, they would probably snatch it and sprint.

“Let’s leave it,” Jason said in a quiet tone, head jerking towards a crumbling fountain.

Roy nodded. He hadn’t expected anyone to come running. Nevertheless, he did want to make their intentions known. It was the foundation of trust for their return. Roy knew, dimly, that his metaphorical plate was overburdened as it was, but he couldn’t leave them without assistance. The people of Crime Alley received consistent help unlike the outskirts of Gotham. It was labelled too deranged—too scary to venture into.

Jason unloaded his armful of bags into a neat pile. He balanced the trays of food on top of the fountain’s edge. He spotted Roy’s pensive expression. Jason straightened and tapped him on the elbow to re-focus him.

“Right,” Roy muttered, breaking from his stupor. He copied Jason’s stacks, although with less grace.

For the good deed it was, Jason didn’t feel any better. He wasn’t sure if Roy did either. But it was a start, he figured. Maybe if he made it known that vigilantes patrolled the area, others would stop avoiding the Bowery and offer their services too.

Jason headed for the exit, ready to leave the suffocating space. Persistently, however, he looked back over his shoulder to make sure Roy was still there. In his periphery, he saw the stilted movements of people beginning to emerge from the shadows.

Roy’s gentle voice made him look away, “Hey, Jay?”

Jason regretted wanting him by his side when his friend was so careless as to utter his name into the open air. But he was suspicious that whatever hunted him already knew who he was to some degree.

Jason didn’t respond, muscles tensing as his brain ran through the million things Roy could possibly say.

Roy eyed him before continuing, as if checking that Jason was present and listening. “What happened when we saved those kids?”

Jason’s breath caught in his throat. Was being haunted by his death not enough? Now he had to answer for the apparitions, too?

“What do you mean?” he croaked. He wanted the conversation to be over already, but he was aware that Roy knew him too well. And by the sound of it, Roy had been stewing in his own thoughts for some time.

“Jason,” Roy said, calm but firm. “It was like something possessed you.”

Jason snorted, but it sounded fractured even without the modulator. Possessed? Could they do that?

Why couldn’t he pass it off as being a Red Hood thing?

Roy sighed. “You spoke to someone.”

Right, that was why.

Jason flexed his numb fingers, stalling. His brain kept fumbling over different explanations. Some were deflections; some the truth. Abruptly, he blurted out, “You ever see things?”

“Like, hallucinations?” Roy fixed him with a measured look. “Yeah, when I’m tired.”

Jason’s tongue rolled over those words, dissatisfied. “Nah. It wasn’t that.” He’d had full blown hallucinations. He knew that it was something different altogether.

Roy’s face grew more concerned. “Help me out here, Jay.”

Jason’s palms pressed into his holsters, cagey as his fingers folded and unfolded. The memory began to resurface, threatening him with a mouthful of bile. “There was a kid,” he muttered, sour as the tartness on his tongue.

Roy held back the ‘there was a lot of them’ that he wanted to say. Instead, he waited patiently for Jason to continue. It was like trying to coax something out of a traumatised child. Which, to be fair, was an apt description for him sometimes.

Jason’s eyes flicked over Roy’s confused face as his brain failed him. He grew frustrated with himself. Jason wondered if all the bad things he’d experienced were destined to stay stuck inside of him, destroying what was left of his shredded soul. Instead of seeing the light of day, those feelings would turn into bitter, entrapped rock.

“He was...” Jason tried to speak, making those familiar, angry tears bloom. “Roy,” he choked, “he was dead.”

Roy paused, taken aback by both Jason’s sudden but obvious distress, and the fact that he'd used his name. It had been a very long time since he’d heard Jason use it so freely. Roy turned to him with a lump building in his own throat. Distraught swelled beneath the layers of that red armour.

“You saw a dead kid,” Roy breathed, not quite a question. Recalling the night, he attempted to piece it together. Personally, he hadn’t seen the body of anyone except the goons they’d put an end to. “You were... talking to a dead kid,” Roy mumbled under his breath. As he remembered what Jason had said—‘we’re here to save you’—his brain stuttered to a calamitous stop.

“Jason, are you telling me...” Roy swallowed, dread filling him up. “You can talk to the dead?”

Jason was slow to meet his gaze. He gave a single, jerky nod, before his eyes dropped to the dust. “I think so,” he whispered, voice cracking as he tried to remove the emotion that clung to it.

Roy stepped forward before he could stop himself, arms outstretched. He wasn’t quite sure if he was reaching for Jason or not. Something heavy fell over Roy’s chest as he realised that he’d crawled out of his own grave, only to be followed by those stuck in the ground. The constant reminder must have felt like eternal punishment.

In that moment, Roy shared in some of Jason’s anguish. “Holy fuck, dude.”

He took another stumbled step, facing Jason’s bowed head. Promptly, Roy flicked off the helmet’s locking mechanism, throwing it aside even as Jason tried to snatch his safety blanket back.

The redhead pulled him into a tight hug, ignoring Jason’s feeble protests. He couldn’t help but murmur an array of sorry’s as he pulled him closer.

Jason was stiff and wordless even as he allowed Roy to hold him. But as the seconds passed, he felt all those repressed thoughts and feelings about the situation well up. Jason’s face grew uncomfortably hot. His eyes and throat burned.

It might have been a little about everything else, too, a temperamental voice hissed in his mind.

It didn’t help that Roy wouldn’t shut up. His comforting words were tinged with bouts of grief.

And then, all the sensations were far too overwhelming. A broken sob ripped from deep within his chest, and Jason began to lose it as his head dipped into the crook of Roy’s neck.

You had spent a good half hour fiddling with the television until you’d mastered its controls. It was interesting that a VPN activated every time you used the device. You’d found that it was physically impossible to turn off. Like all good political and societal dissidents, he was careful to the nth degree.

Red had a robust film collection, including access to a few subscription services. A smile tugged at your lips as you realised he was very much a sci-fi fan. Absently, you thought he must have some kind of ranking system for movies too.

Your night ended with a lonely dinner in front of the big screen, before dozing off to the sound of white noise.

For days, Jason made himself scarce. He couldn’t bear to face you in the light of his apartment, even in disguise. He didn’t want to feel any of the judgements you’d made while living in the safehouse. He knew you’d snooped a little, considering how his things had been moved around ever so slightly. Jason couldn’t fault you for being careful; in fact, it was endearing how hard you tried to make everything look unsullied after the deed.

He would come back every morning post patrol or an afternoon nap—while you were at work—to drop off groceries. He knew he didn’t need to, but he also thought you wouldn’t eat very well otherwise.

Look at you, being maternal, Jason scowled at the thought. Alfred would be proud.

Again, that voice inside his head was neither his nor the Joker’s. It was deep; always spoken like a warning. He pulled at his tangled curls as his stomach sunk with a sinister feeling.

That was the baritone of the Batman—or perhaps more adeptly, Bruce. The sudden introduction of the reprimanding voice that had pried a home inside his brain made him want to hurl. Both his own and the mad clown’s berating were more than enough to destroy a man. It was good enough to drive him crazy a second or third time.

He pinched at his hair until it hurt, until his roots stung as much as the scar on his cheek. The wind burned against it, frostbitten. Jason regretted taking off his helmet, even in the dark of the balcony. It always reminded him too much. His boots ground against the dirty rails.

Some nights, Jason would sit outside on the fire escape, watching the mammoth, thrumming heartbeat of Gotham. He heard all of the lively sounds beneath him. He took note of the pretty, multi-coloured glimmers that dotted every street and window he could see into. She was just as beautiful as she was ugly.

Occasionally, Jason spotted one of his own, slinging across the cityscape in pursuit of a villain. And once in a blue moon, he would convince himself of the otherworldly flutter and smoke of bat wings long gone. Other times, if he stared too blankly and for too long, he started to hear the beckon of something prophetic calling to him in a sickly-sweet tone. It creeped along the rooftops until it danced across his silvery skin, waiting for him to accept the invitation.

He figured it was the ghastly pollution of the city getting to his head. Usually.

However, since your appearance, Jason had taken to contemplating more personal matters. He would observe your sleeping form, unable to decide what kind of threat you were.

Unfortunately for him, you never did anything questionable. Every night you would eat what he left, stow half away for him, and inevitably fall asleep on the couch with the TV on. He thought you may have been doing that last bit on purpose to quell the same things he ran from.

His mind shifted to Dick. When he’d been stuck in that darkness the other night, his brother had been the one to pull him out of it. Dick, of all people, had been his unlikely saviour. He’d never been so glad to see that smug dickwad. Yet, Jason continued to harbour a misguided, seemingly unstoppable rage for his him.

Jason couldn’t comprehend what had happened. He endlessly reimagined the restless void, recounting as it swallowed everything in its path—the way it had snuffed out life with ease. It felt like the cold clutches of Death, or whatever kin it was, slipped into his periphery whenever he blinked too long. It wanted a chance to rip him away again.

He considered mentioning it to Roy, at the very least. Perhaps he could spout some dim-witted comment to alleviate his paranoia. The humorous thought put a faint half-grimace, half-smile on his face.

It was quickly interrupted by a thump inside the apartment. Swiftly, Jason jammed his helmet on without another thought. Gun raised, he glued himself against the window sill. He peeked in, assessing what he saw in the flickering light of the television.

He found no movement belonging to any intruders. But his line of sight was plucked to something on the floor, near the lounge. It flashed and vibrated in a circle.

Jason’s relieved breath tumbled out, adrenaline already evaporating. It was your fucking phone going off. You’d dropped it while asleep. The light faded.

He contemplated sitting back down, but your phone began its dance all over again.

With an exhausted sigh, he drew the window open and crawled over the ledge. Jason swooped the phone up in irritation as it started its third ring.

His mouth dried up when he saw the name on screen.

Nightwing. Dick not only had your number, but you had his saved?

What the fuck?

His previous hatred came strolling back in with vengeance.

Jason could only watch as the call failed to go through. However, he did note that your background—if it had ever been—was no longer Roy.

He swallowed at the turn of events.

Then, it buzzed again. He wanted to punch Dick in the, well...

Why in the hell was he calling you repeatedly in the middle of the night?

Jason switched the device off. He looked down at you, asleep. The blanket was pulled right up to your chin, but your arm had fallen out. The culprit.

Hesitantly, he reached down. He almost pulled away at the last second. With gradual, timid movements, he placed your arm back under the soft sheet.

Jason’s eyes remained on your resting form, subconsciously synchronising his breathing with yours. After a minute—as if you felt his watchful gaze—you rolled over, away from him.

He walked over to his desk, pulling out the chair with a wince. Slumping into it with a heaved sigh, he gave in to his aching joints. The nerves in his hips and back flared angrily. It’d been a fortnight since he’d experienced this level of pain.

It had, by all accounts, been a particularly rough night. He felt utterly pathetic after his outburst with Roy. Although the redhead had tried to assure him otherwise, an unmoveable discomfort sat with him. Guess it was true that stressful emotions had a negative impact on the body.

As he listened to your rhythmic breathing and the soft hum of the TV, Jason almost forgot where he was. He fell into a sleepy haze, eyes unseeing.

There was just a low hum in the back of his mind.

Jason broke out of the trance with a hypnic jerk. He reassessed his surroundings, tensing as he recognised the apartment. It disturbed him to be so comfortable in your presence. Yet again, he’d let you lure him into a false sense of safety.

Despite his fears, the longer he sat there, the more your breathing soothed his worries back into an unconscious state. He drifted further and further into the next realm, mouth gaped in a low snore.

He managed to sleep through what was left of the night without any more interruptions from technology.

But when Jason’s eyes snapped open in the morning, the regret and fear that flooded his chest was almost unbearable.

[starlightrows]

Protector

Pairing: Din Djarin x reader 

Word Count: 1.5k

Warnings and Tags: Hurt/comfort, Near death experience, Blood and Injury, fluff, soft!Din

Summary:  A near death experience has emotions running high on the Razor Crest

“Get him out of here!” Din shouted, laying down cover fire. You clutched the child to your chest and made a run for it. You knew if you could just make it to the Crest, you’d be able to seal yourselves in. Out of the reach of the Imps.

The sound of the speeders behind you in the distance caused a wave of panicky adrenaline to spread throughout your body. You could not outrun a speeder, but the ship was right there.

Blood pounded in your ears, you wished you had a sling for the baby so you could use your arms for momentum, or to fire off a couple shots if it came down to it. The Crest was right there. 50 feet in front of you.

Suddenly you were struck hard from behind, throwing you forward. The child flew from your arms and tumbled to the ground. The rider of one of the speeders had fired off a shot, hitting you square in the back. Thank the maker for good body armor.

You could feel your face is scraped and bleeding, and your back radiated a dull aching pain. But it didn’t matter. You dragged yourself up and limped towards the child who was also trying to get up.

The sound of the speeder stalled, the rider had stopped. They were coming towards you. You reached the baby just as the solider hit you over the head with something blunt and heavy. You dropped to the ground. Head screaming in pain. Your vision blurry, you lunged for the legs in front of you, successfully knocking him over.

Your own ragged breathing the only distinguishable sound you could make out as you tried to fight off the solider. Surely time passes, while you throw punches and cry out at the pain in inflicts on your already bleeding knuckles; because the next thing you’re aware of is the fact that you’re lying on your back, staring up at the sky. Body empty of all feeling, thought and energy. Tears streamed down your face as you closed your eyes.

Din was coming up on the Crest, knowing you were perused, he was afraid to catch up. But he had to. The speeder sat running some distance away from the ship, and then saw you.

Laying on your back bleeding from the back of your head, your nose and lip, breathing shallowly with a vacant look in your eye. The child at your shoulder trying desperately to get your attention by “talking” and pulling at your hair.

The solider on the speeder lay beside you, head at an odd angle and arm very clearly broken.

He calls your name, cautiously approaching you. You did not answer. He knelt down beside you. He came into your view, it took all of your concentration to bring his T visor into focus. He was speaking you presumed, but you couldn’t make the garbled sounds into coherent words.

It was bad, and Din knew it. He scooped you up, and brought you into the ship, his little son toddling in behind him. He set you down on the floor, and moved quickly to get the box of first aid supplies. He gingerly turned you over in his arms, to apply a bacta spray to your head wound. He hoped it would be enough. When he turned you back over, he found that your eyes were closed, but your breathing was evening out. He took that as a good sign.

With one hand he unlatched his cape, and carefully placed it under your head. He left you where you lay, and went to close the the hull door. He turned to the child,

“Stay with her,” he instructed, the baby chirped back in response. Din climbed the ladder into the cockpit, and prepared the ship to take off. His mind buzzed with anxiety. He wanted to get in the air, and set the ship to autopilot. Get off the wretched planet, and make you more comfortable.

It struck him that you very well could have died if he hadn’t gotten to you when he did. You still might, if your head wound is worse than he thought. He didn’t know what he would do if you died. Especially protecting his son. He hadn’t quite sorted out how he felt about you yet. He knew he was fond of you. You were strong willed and quick thinking, but you were also incredibly gentle with the child and with him. He was thankful to have an extra pair of hands around on the ship to help him out, and even more so to have someone who knew a thing or two about caring for children.

With the ship now cruising through hyperspace heading towards Nevarro, Din climbed back down the ladder. You were sitting up, but bent over forward resting your elbows on your knees cradling your head in your hands. The baby clung to your boot, and made low gibbering noises with eyes closed right.

Din sat down beside you, and cautiously placed a hand on your shoulder.

“Hey...” he ventured, suddenly unsure of what to say. You mumbled something he couldn’t quite make out. It was then he realized, you were crying. His grip on your shoulder tightened

“Are you in pain?” He asked with growing concern. That was the last of the bacta spray, and he didn’t have anything stronger.

“I couldn’t save him,” you wept, raising your head to look at the child, still clutching your boot. You moved to bring the child into your arms.

Din paused, confused at your reaction. “He is safe,”

You didn’t look up, you didn’t say anything. But you cradled the baby, stroking his little green cheek tenderly.

“I was so close,” you said softly “so close to letting go. Not even 20 feet from the ship, and he would have been safe. And all I could do was lay there,”

You finally turned to look at your companion. He doesn’t say anything.

“If anyone else in the galaxy had come before you did. The baby would be gone,” You turned away, once again gazing at the child. Silence settled over the room.

Din finally broke the silence “You were at death’s door. You almost died to save him. That is more than anyone can ask of you,”

Fresh tears streamed down your face

He whispers your name to bring your attention back to him “You beat a man to death, and saved my son” he said “I owe you everything”

Without warning, you leaned your head over and placed it on his shoulder. He didn’t exactly know what to do, never having someone need him in such a personal way. So he did the only thing he could think of, he leaned his head over to rest on top of yours. His eyes drifted down to the child resting in your arms. He couldn’t help but think how pleasant the feeling was. Not that you were in pain, but that you trusted him and looked to him for comfort.

“I love him so much,” you said quietly “he cries, gets into things he shouldn’t, throws up on me, keeps me up all hours... but I love him more than I ever thought I could love something”

“He’s your son too,” he replied with a hint of a laugh

“He is isn’t he,” you agreed “I never thought I would be a parent”

“Neither did I,”

Silence once again settled over the Crest, but a comfortable one. The child’s big eyes had begun to droop, neither Din nor you could tear away your gaze. With the baby now sleeping peacefully in your embrace, you felt a better about the situation. You were surprised Din had indulged this behavior for this long, physical touch... talking about feelings... not really his area. But you didn’t want it to end. Not this moment. Not this journey. Not this life... you really had walked the line between life and death and you were not ready to kick the bucket yet.

“Thank you,” you said “for saving my life”

Din considered chose his next words very carefully “I had to”... maybe those weren’t the right words, they sounded disjointed and procedural. And extremely contrary to the intimate moment the two of you were sharing...

“I don’t want to do this without you” he blurted out. Now you didn’t know what to say. You pulled away from him, turning to face him, hoping to gage what he meant. Unfortunately the helmet hid any indication of deeper meaning.

Your sudden disengagement from him startled him a bit. He cursed himself for saying that.

You were confused. Did he mean he didn’t want to continue traveling with the child without the extra help... or was it something more?

Din’s mind raced with ways to explain himself, but he was never the best at verbalizing anything. So once again he did the only thing he could think of. He placed his hands on your upper arms, and leaned his head in to touch the forehead of his helmet to your head.

“You, me and the kid” he said “we belong together” he swallowed hard hoping you would understand. You placed your free hand behind his head, and pressed into his strange embrace. A shy smile crossed your lips.

“The two of you, are my world” you said “and I would die to protect it”

Din chuckled lightly “Let’s hope it never comes to that”

[sweet-curried-powder]

IBVS Week Day Two: Adventure

*cue rude buster*

so i was listening to the deltarune soundtrack again a while ago, and while i was thinking of a prompt for day two i vaguely remembered an ibvs/deltarune crossover au where ed and isaac get yeeted into the dark world, so that was my inspiration for this one! i know i could have technically used this for the favorite au prompt on day six, but i have something...different in mind. ;)

by the way, spoiler warning for chapters 22-25 of season one of ibvs! i think everyone has read the entirety of season one already, but if anyone wants me to put this under a read more or anything, let me know.

ibvs belongs to @onebizarrekai

~~~~~~~

Ever since Chris was young, he wanted to leave his hometown and explore the world.

He wanted to be like Link from the Zelda games that he grew up playing; to grab a sword and travel through unknown lands, slaying monsters that appeared in his path. Well, he had a sword, technically, but honestly it looked more like a giant knife. That could be a thousand degrees, for all he knew.

Unfortunately, that wouldn’t be the case, not now, or anytime soon. He was stuck with a neglectful father who had been drinking more as of late, stuck having to repeat junior year due to all the times he’d had to change schools, stuck with so many things he’d rather not be stuck with, in all honesty.

“Oi! Earth to Chris!”

He snapped out of his train of thought, only then noticing that Isaac, his friend, was waving a hand smeared with ink and pencil smudges in his face. Chris shook his head quickly to clear it, smiling slightly at his friend.

“Oh, uh, hey dude.”

“Are you good, man?” Isaac asked, tilting his head. “You seemed really out of it. Did you not sleep well or something?”

“Nah, I’m good. Just zoned out, I guess.” He fidgeted with his sleeves a bit. “What did Ed even want us for, anyways? There hasn’t been any supernatural shit going on since the whole Onceler thing happened.”

“No idea.” Isaac put his hands behind his head, Kokichi Ouma style. “You still okay after that, man? I mean, that must’ve been freaky. I mean, what’re the chances that you would’ve gotten possessed by the Onceler, of all people?”

“I’m still okay. I mean, I still have nightmares about the Onceler, and I can’t listen to ‘How Bad Can I Be’ without getting chills, but I’m alive.” Chris rocked on his heels. “I swear, sometimes our life feels like some sort of crazy fanfiction or something.”

“With all the ghosts and supernatural shit? I totally agree. I mean. We fought what? 90’s terrorists? If that didn’t really happen I’d think I was on something.”

Chris chuckled slightly. “Yeah. I mean, Dillian’s in jail now, so we don’t have to worry about our school getting blown up by a J.D. kinnie.”

“A who kinnie?” Edward asked, suddenly approaching behind Isaac.

“J.D. You know, Jason Dean?”

Silence from Edward and Isaac.

“You know. From Heathers? Veronica’s crazy boyfriend?”

More silence.

“...Jesus Christ. Isaac, we’re watching that this weekend.”

“Anyways, what the fuck did you want, Error?” Isaac looked back at Edward, an eyebrow raised in suspicion. “School doesn’t start for like an hour and a half. It’s early as shit.”

“Cause I need to talk to you guys. Obviously. In the closet.” He grabbed the two boys and pulled them into the closet, where it was pitch black dark. Not just normal janitor’s closet dark, a dark that you’d expect to experience outside during midnight.

“What the hell? Why is it so dark in here?” Isaac mumbled, looking around. “I can’t see shit.”

“Maybe a light bulb burst or something,” Chris suggested. “I mean, the school’s still looking for a janitor after Mr. Chudley got arrested. I think there might be a box of bulbs in here though. I mean, it is a janitor’s closet.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Edward rolled his eyes as the trio walked further into the closet. “Well, good luck trying—”

SLAM.

Their heads whipped around quickly, just in time for them to notice that the door had slammed shut behind the three of them, leaving them in the darkness.

“Well fuck me-” Isaac mumbled under his breath, Chris running to the door, shaking and pulling at the doorknob with everything he had.

“I can’t open it!” the monochromatic teenager cried desperately. “I think it’s locked from the outside… but how did it get locked, I don’t—”

There was suddenly a loud rumble, as the floor shook beneath their feet. Chris took several steps back, breath caught in his throat. “Fuck, an earthquake? Now?”

“No,” Edward muttered. “This...this doesn’t feel like an earthquake…”

And as if on cue, as soon as Edward said those words, the floor gave way, and the three boys found themselves falling, their screams lost in the void-like darkness.

“...Chris...Chris!”

Chris groaned, eyes opening. It was Isaac, but...he looked different. Instead of his normal clothes, he was wearing some sort of purple cloak, with a shining white brooch at the neck, and several bottles full of different colored liquids attached to a sash that was tied at his waist. It looked like something from an anime, or an RPG-style video game.

“Isaac?” As Chris shifted, he heard heavy metal clunking and creaking slightly, causing him to look down. He had on several pieces of armor with a cape, with leather boots, and there was a sword and a shield nearby. “...what the hell am I wearing? Where are we?”

“No fucking clue,” Isaac answered. “Last thing I remember is falling through the closet floor, and the next thing I know, I wake up on the floor of some weird place. Looks like something out of a fantasy movie or some shit.”

Chris stood up, looking around. The area was wet and humid, water dripping from the ceilings, colorful crystals sticking out of the walls. It seemed to be some sort of water-gem-cave? “Do you know where Edward is?”

“Nooope.”

“Welp. Guess we should find him then, huh?” Chris picked up the sword and shield, slinging the former over his shoulder. “I mean, it wouldn’t hurt to explore this place a bit. It’d be a fun adventure, anyways.”

[asclepius-erebus]

The Armored Man

Title: Personal Eden (Ongoing)

Chapter 1: The Armored Man

Rating: Mature (17+)

Word Count: 2.0k

TW: Mentions of abuse (physical/verbal)

Flanked by suited guards at all four corners of the private billiards room, you stand nervously at the side of your master; an aging politician, paranoid about not only his perception in the public eye, but also self-preservation in the wake of his long winded history of gambling, trafficking, and despicable ideologies that have even the most corrupt audiences cannot accept. He frequents this particular casino, how fitting, and is notorious for his poor betting skills and overall ineptitude for making any sort of rational monetary agreement. You’ve witnessed his dumbness before, betting all of his credits away simply to serve his enormous ego.

You keep your head low, not allowing yourself even a glimpse at his newest client until it was permitted of you to do so, that was the rule. Instead, you focus on the sparkling silver platter in your hands, covered with an equally as spectacular dish cover, with elaborate embellishments and with enough brilliance for you to make out even the finest details in the reflections of the muraled ceiling. You catch your own reflection in it, your ruby lips coming to a fine line of both despondence and humiliation.

For as long as you’ve endured this job, it never fills you with the pride that your master promised you it would, nor what he shames you into believing.

You’d agreed to the work a few years ago (five… perhaps), where the pay was handsome, living conditions guaranteed to be provided, and with the promise of growth and experience to graduate you into higher ranked and paying jobs. However, you quickly learn this was not the case when standing in a line with many other girls who looked nearly exactly the same as you. But by then, you’d signed the contract, and you were picked out of that line of young women to serve the man you are not allowed to refer by name but simply master and sir. It’s an arrangement you deeply detest, but one you’ve been conditioned to follow out of fear for your own safety, and security.

“Mando!” Your master greets boisterously, “If you don’t mind me calling you that.”

“Ja’Aele Malsifer.” You hear a voice say in polite greeting, filtered by a modulator, the speaker likely wearing a helmet. But even over the digital graininess, their tone felt warm and pleasant. You do not hear them take the empty seat at the other side of the table, Malsifer is surely displeased by the blatant rejection of his gesture of performative kindness.

“Lighten up, will you? It’s just us friends here today. Y’don’t need to be so uptight.” Malsifer continues, popping open the top of a crystal whiskey bottle and serving himself and his guest a drink. There was still no movement to be heard from the guest he refers to as ‘Mando’.

“I don’t remember us ever being friends, Malsifer.” Mando responds, you hear him lean on the back of the upholstered chair, “What do you have for me, otherwise, I’m leaving.”

You understand this to be your cue to set the silver platter down between them at the table, before the sharp quip of Malsifer’s metal cane snaps at your shins and you nearly let the silver platter collapse onto the ground. Luckily you catch it.

“I didn’t tell you to put it down, did I?” He hisses through his teeth, returning his cane at the side of his seat before taking a drink of his whiskey, “Please, Mando, you haven’t touched your drink!”

“I didn’t ask for it.” Mando responds sharply, “I don’t have time, nor the patience. What do you have?”

Malsifer bitterly motions with his glass for you to set the platter down at the center of the table, removing the cover to unveil a handful of tracking fobs, some blinking more erratically than others. At this opportunity, you steal a glance upwards at his guest, Mando, to find him completely decorated in armor made of Beskar.

He looks completely and utterly enormous in his costume; broad shoulders, puffed chest, gnarly buttons and switches across his wrists, and a cape round his neck for what could only be dramatic effect. He is terrifying.

You have experienced your fair share of questionable clients that Malsifer hosted, some as physically repulsing as Hutts, and others more beautiful like Twi’leks, but this armored man (if he even was a man) is clearly a terrifying force, one that earned the Beskar to decorate his armor.

You back away to the side of your master, awaiting any further instruction, and perhaps the opportunity to finally lift your lowered gaze.

“I have a few… enemies, so to speak.” He begins, “Some unfriendly business partners for whom a bounty is worth less than what they owe me.”

“What’s your point?” The armored man asks, “You’d rather have them killed than for them to pay you back?”

You agree to his logic. At this point, you’ve known that Malsifer has exhausted his coffers extensively, and that it’s much easier to clear his debt by killing the ones who owe him and to upcharge anyone or anything that is now required to repay the enormous sums.

“I’m offering you payment for a service.” He replies simply.

“I’m a bounty hunter, not an assassin.” Mando replies just as tersely.

“Exactly!” Malsifer exclaims, “What made you think I won’t compensate you for your troubles?”

“It’s not just me who thinks so.” Mando responds.

Malsifer laughs, swirling his whiskey, “I’m well aware, which is why I’d rather invest in something well worth my money.”

At this point, your eyes perk up at the conversation, sensing that Malsifer’s patience is eating away with every passing moment. Mando does not seem willing to entertain his comments and sarcasm, however, it is how Malsifer determines who is his friend or foe. He is the classical example of someone who requires others to enable his behaviors rather than constructive criticism, no matter how kindly you approach the matter. You’ve felt it across your knees and shins even with the softest, most encouraging, tone of voice.

Mando clears his throat, reaching from some place behind him and keeping his hand there for a moment, “I’ve been given an offer much more expensive than yours…”

“I’ll double the pay!” Malsifer says boldly, his vision set on what Mando holds behind him.

Suddenly, clattering onto the table, is another tracking fob, blinking angrily and rapidly as though the target were right in front of it.

Mando clears his throat, “You.”

Malsifer’s eyes widen in surprise.

The room erupts into the deafening shrieks of red blaster fire as they fly into every corner of the room with deadly precision and accuracy and into Malsifer, before stopping at you.

Your skin erupts into fine little goosebumps, a chill sweeping over you as you barely finish inhaling a breath and drop the silver platter’s cover onto the carpeted ground. The yell you let escape is short lived when you realize that the blaster has taken aim at you, with Mando behind the trigger.

“You. Who are you?” He demands.

Your name quivers from your scared lips, tears blurring your vision altogether as you silently pray to the Maker in an effort to consolidate a good place for you in the afterlife.

“Will you help me take him back to my ship?” Mando asks, his blaster still trained onto you, grip slightly loosened. His voice took on a softer tone, more sympathetic.

Your eyes focus onto him. You didn’t notice his helmet before, too focused on the elaborateness of his other armor to see that the same skill and craftsmanship had been applied to his helmet as well. Sharp angles of the Beskar metal accentuate where sunken cheeks would be, and a thin and impenetrably black visor is the only point of reference for eyes. It looks too much like a storm trooper’s helmet, but judging from the medium of choice, an Imperial manufacturer couldn’t possibly invest so much time, effort, and credits into giving all hundreds and millions of stormtroopers a full set of armor made of Beskar.

“What are you?” You ask, voice shaking, already feeling your makeup melt off your face with every trickling tear.

Mando lowers his blaster irritably, “Will you help me take him back to my ship?”

You decide against any further questioning, knowing that soon, more security will arrive to investigate the situation. For you, it would surely be on sight.

Nodding, he hoists the lifeless body of your master onto his shoulder before slinging his arm over your shoulders to distribute the brunt of the weight more equally. Malsifer’s metal cane topples to the ground.

Mando kicks it up into his hand, briefly investigating it and removing the silver head piece, revealing the small and compact dagger that you’ve seen be used as a letter opener and an interrogation device.

He hands it off to you, “Might come in handy.” He says.

You’re physically repulsed to be holding the instrument of yours and other’s misery in your hands as a ‘handy’ tool to inflict yet even more suffering, as if it weren’t enough. Clearly, the armored man had little consideration for that.

The two of you clamor out another exit, one that led down an empty stairwell and out back into the gardens. The air smelled rich with incoming rainfall and the aromatic flowers that bloom during the later night hours. This would be an enjoyable setting, however, with a dead body slung over your shoulders, your body experienced all ranges of emotions at once, fifty times over.

The sky begins to open up as the two of you race across the mazes and patches of flowers and into the neighboring forest of trees whose dense canopies made it that much darker than the night and two moons could already afford. The leaves, however, did little to shield from the heavy rain that punished you further on the already unfortunate night. The light and flowy dresses that Malsifer had you wear did little to protect you against the cold downpour that transpires over the course of a few minutes. They stick to your arms, legs, and back as you race with the armored man through the forest, the sounds of shouting and alarms blaring behind you.

The armored man slows, stopping upon an open hull to a ship you could not see very well in the dark. He releases you from the weight of your dead master, dragging him up into the darkness of the hull.

“Go!” The armored man shouts at you insistently.

Your eyes dart behind you, the noise of the shouting, the alarms, and the rain overwhelming your already stressed senses. You try to quickly think of a way out of the forest, but you’re helpless without anything to protect you, feed you, and keep you safe against the elements of the landscape you’re not familiar with. The mobs will certainly find you amidst the shrubbery and trees, making you basically dead. You’d be framed for Malsifer’s death, and subsequently be put to death as punishment.

You look back up at the armored man, who continues to haul Malsifer’s body further into the abyss of his dark hull.

“I have no where to go!” You cry up into the hull, hoping that Mando could hear you, “If I stay I’ll be killed!”

The familiar armor returns into view, side stepping one side of his body out of the ship and the other remaining inside, also deliberating something.

“I don’t need anyone else on my ship.” He says dryly, his helmet looking down at you from his height.

You look back in the direction of the casino, the mobs sounding as if they’re closer.

“Please?!” You beg, “You don’t understand, I have no where to go! I have no family, no friends, no money! If they find me here they’ll blame the murder on me, and then they’ll kill me if they don’t do it now!”

The armored man looks into the distance, seeing the same dancing lights as you are of search animals and security officers scouring the area for yours and his scents.

“Fine.” He says, “Get in”.

[irene-sadler]

severe thunderstorm warning

but wait theres more

a tropical storm is rollin through town so it is absolutely disgusting outside and (mostly unrelated) i was up until 2 am yesterday/this morning b.c i decided to watch the stupid seattle mariners steelheads go into extra innings yet again (tfw ur a fan of a west coast team and u live 4 timezones away so the 10th inning takes place at 1 in the morning) 

anyway during that time i wrote a lil follow up to the executioner so nobody will hate me until uh 

the actual follow up is written which at my usual pace will be in approximately october. 

yw enjoy todays double header of hot nonsense this one’s called 

Severe Thunderstorm Warning:

     A week had passed, and even if she’d maybe made up her mind, she still hadn’t actually talked to Reynard about it.

     In her defense, nonstop days in the saddle interrupted only by an all out battle with a Nilfgaardian relief force and a followup skirmish with their baggage train guards hadn’t left much time for side conversations.  By night, the army either marched or caught a few hours of sleep when it was too dark to keep moving. She could count the number of words she’d exchanged with Reynard about something unrelated to the wounded, the condition of the bridges they used and the towns they passed, or the unpleasant but not undrinkable casks of acidic wine they’d captured on two hands. Most of them were just greetings, offered in the morning with his usual overdeveloped sense of social protocol, at night with a hint of some underlying emotion to suggest he actually meant them. It almost made her nostalgic for the days when her total forces were, more or less, a ragged collection of highwaymen with slings, a half unit of Lyrian pikemen, and a stray dog.

    On the other hand, she wouldn’t exactly be able to rush to the Aedirnian’s rescue without the trailing, dusty, exhausted mass of soldiers that snaked along the road under the baking afternoon sun, from one end of the flat horizon to the other, and she didn’t have enough men, maybe, even then. A big enough opposing force with a little more rest, a few more horses, and a following wind might be able to take them out. A private conversation was a small price to pay for an army that could probably hold its own in the field, with even odds.

    “Storm’s coming,” Gascon announced, riding in from the head of the column with a scout and a thick cloud of dust trailing him. She snapped back to the present and looked skyward.  A hawk or vulture crossed far overhead, almost too small to see. There were a few, smallish, grayish clouds drifting gently across the endless blue, and, above those, the edge of a very high, white cloud cover that might set in overnight and block the moon. She hoped she was wrong; she couldn’t march in total darkness, and the loss of four or five hours of moonlight would set them back seven or eight hours of actual travel time.

    Nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary. Reynard glanced upward and then shrugged at her when she looked back down.

    “Uh. Metaphorically?”

    “No,” Gascon said. “Literally. It’s crossin’ the plain fast, will be in sight pretty soon. Tipper, here, thinks it’ll be a bad one.”

    “Lot of lighting in them clouds,” the scout noted, squinting. “Looks just like th’ one from last week, if you ask me; don’t like t’ be out here in th’ open when it hits, but nowhere else t’ go -”

    “How much time do we have?” she asked, interrupting the man’s lecture, which seemed to be going nowhere fast. Gascon glanced behind himself, toward a vague, pale smudge on the northeastern horizon.

    “Thirty minutes?”

    “More like ten,” the scout said.

    “Better stop the column, then,” she said, resisting the urge to swear pointlessly and waste a few irreplaceable seconds. “Gascon - ride up to the front - have ‘em spread out, stay low to the ground. Reynard -”

    “The back,” he said, immediately, wheeling his horse around. “I’m on it.”

    The supply wagons wouldn’t be able to drop out of the wind and lightning in the open field, and would have to circle around and hope for the best, but she didn’t have to tell him that. He could do his job without her. She focused on the middle, diverting riders and scouts up and down the column with orders for every junior officer and NCO they came across. The result was that, as a black cloud blocked out the blue sky and the air abruptly shifted from dead still to a gusty breeze headed toward it, the army came to a grinding halt and spread out, laying out under canvas tarps and cloaks until the plain was dotted with clustered shelters. Loose horses drifted among them groups, ears tilted back.

    It would have to do, she thought, reviewing the sprawling, messy product of her efforts. If the storm was as bad as it looked like it would be, it was all they could do. She dropped off her twitchy, unhappy horse, turned it loose to fend for itself with the others, and realized that her own cloak was somewhere with the faraway baggage.

    She squinted up at the boiling cloud overhead and frowned dubiously. The wind had died again. Thunder rumbled nonstop in the distance and crashed overhead. It didn’t look good, she had to admit, and she was lucky to have a scout who could read the signs. If she hadn’t gotten ahead of the storm by a few minutes, it would have been a disaster. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much chance of getting her cloak or even a jacket before the rain started. She’d been caught unprepared and there was nothing she could do about it.

    It could always be worse, she told herself, pointedly. She spent a minute with her cavalry commander, come up on foot to report that his units had made themselves fast as much as possible.

    “Can’t answer for the horses, though,” he said. “We had to let ‘em go, on the chance this’ll be one of them hurricanes.”

    “Hurricanes?”

    “Whirlwinds.”

    “Yes. Good idea,” she said, picturing the havoc one of those would cause. She doubted there would be one, but -

    “You just never know what might happen,” the Colonel noted.

    “No. Good luck,” she said. “Once this clears out, we’ll be back on the move.”

    Eventually, if everything went perfectly. She didn’t have to voice the thought; he knew what could go wrong. He saluted and headed off toward a distant fork of lighting from the ground to the clouds. The wind suddenly picked up again as soon as he left, gusted toward the clouds, then back in the opposite direction, bringing a strong smell of rain and a strange, greenish cloud with it. She squinted at it. It was like rain, traveled along the ground like rain, but it was the wrong color. By the time she realized that it was a cloud of blowing grass and dust it was too late to duck before the mess hit her right in the eyes. She turned away from the wind, got caught up in the stinging hail that instantly followed it, and stumbled directly into something solid. Whatever it was caught hold of her by the shoulders before she could push off of it; she squinted at it and recognized Reynard in time to keep herself from decking him. He said something that the thunder drowned out. She shook her head.

    “Come on,” he shouted, into her ear. She let him drag her onto the ground, under the dirty gold cape he held over their heads. It was just about big enough to cover both of them, if they huddled close together. Another few inches and she would be sitting in his lap. It wasn’t like she was entering unprecedented territory; she told herself to not think too hard about it.

    “Where’s your cloak?” he asked. She shrugged.

    “Somewhere in the baggage train. Where’d you come from?”

    “There. I had time to grab mine,” he said, paused, for a deafening crash of thunder, seemed to be out of things to say afterward. The hail stopped banging off the cloth over their heads. A waterfall of rain followed it.

    “What a mess,” she said.

    “It’ll clear up soon.”

    He was maybe three inches away from her. She was extremely aware that the last time she was this close to him she had been in his bed. He glanced away, like the same thought had crossed his mind. Unfortunately for him, there wasn’t much else for him to look at; he was back to watching her, a little warily, a second or two afterward. She had plenty of things she could talk about, and one or two she should talk about, but the words just weren’t coming to her.

    If she kissed him, nobody would know about it, she noted to herself, instead of trying to find any. It would be easy; he was literally right there, watching her with a slightly too intense look in his eye. She had told him she was thinking their relationship, whatever it was, over, but she had always known what she was going to do. She just hadn’t had the time or the place. or the words to tell him. This was not any of those things. It was damp, because the cape was leaking slightly, and a little awkward, and she could barely hear herself think over the rain and thunder. Nothing about the situation was convenient for an extremely personal and delicate conversation.

    “I had a weird chat with Gascon, the other night,” she said, instead. He looked vaguely confused, like he had expected something else.

    “What about?”

 ——        

    It was two in the morning, probably, and they were still marching under the light of a dwindling half-moon. She was pretending she wasn’t tired and sore. Everyone else seemed to be half-asleep on their feet, at best.

    “Good morning, Meve,” Gascon said brightly, riding up next to her and interrupting her wandering mind. “You’re looking pensive and thoughtful. What gives?”

    “Huh?”

    “I mean, lately, you’ve been mostly surly and unapproachable. Which, don’t get me wrong, is a good look on you, but this one’s a little less terrifying.”

    She frowned at him and decided there was no particularly good response to the comment.

    “You want an apple? I stole some from th’ orchard we passed earlier.”

    He held one out, with the same encouraging smile he used when he offered his dog a bone. She squinted at the offering. It was definitely a crabapple, and definitely not really ripe. Her stomach growled anyway.

    “Yes, all right.”

    She caught it in midair; he waited for her to eat half of it before he asked, casually, “So. What are you thinking about?”

    She shrugged vaguely. When she wasn’t thinking about Villem or coming up with a dozen schemes and contingency plans for the next day, week, month, she was mostly thinking about Reynard. By unspoken consent, they had carefully avoided being alone together at any point in the last couple of days. The distance hadn’t made her feel any better. The only good thing about the situation was she was pretty sure nobody had noticed anything different.

     He rolled his eyes at her.

    “Silent treatment, is it? Been taking notes from Reynard lately?”        

    Nobody except Gascon, apparently. She raised an eyebrow at him, warningly. He blithely ignored it.

    “Or maybe you already had that little strategy down. You have known each other for a long time, after all. How long’s it been?”

    She cleared dust out of her throat. The question seemed harmless. She didn’t see any reason to not answer it.

    “Uh. Eighteen years. Maybe more.”

    “That long, huh?”

    He had a curious gleam in his eye. She eyed him cautiously.

    “What was he like back then?”

    She thought about it for a minute.

    “Well, I was - nineteen? So he was, what, maybe twenty-two? He was - I don’t know - about like he is now, only younger.”

    She had met Reynard at the same time as all her new husband’s other knights. She hadn’t really noticed anything particularly interesting about him specifically, at the time, if she was honest. He was young, barely said anything because he was so stiff with nerves and propriety, and had a patchy mustache he was trying to grow out, to make himself look older. The stiffness had largely survived the years, as a defense mechanism. The mustache, fortunately, hadn’t. She smiled a little; they had both gotten older and wiser, or, at least, less insecure. She wondered what they would be like in another twenty years.

    “You’re drifting again,” Gascon said. She snapped back to the present and eyed him.

    “What?”

    “Oh, you know; I bring up Reynard, you get this faraway look in your eyes and start staring off at nothin’. It’s a thing you’ve been doin’, lately. You should probably be more careful; people are bound t’ notice. Other people, I mean.”

    The side-eye turned to a glare; she turned her full attention on him.

    “What do you mean, exactly, Brossard? And keep your voice down, for once.”

    “Well,” he said, carefully, “I mean, I know you didn’t go dig through the stash we had in the closet, back in Rivia Castle; only two people had keys to it, far as I know - me and the quartermaster. Carver didn’t stir between midnight and dawn, like usual, and I had mine on me the whole time. Doubt you wandered off t’ look at the scenery for a couple hours, and I couldn’t help noticin’ that Reynard bunked not twenty feet away from your room -”

    “So?”

    “So, maybe, that’s where you were that night. Maybe. Don’t worry, I didn’t mention this, uh, theory of mine t’ anyone. If it’s true, far as I’m concerned, it’s your business. Well, yours and his.”

    “Then why bring it up?”

    He tilted his hat back a little, considered her suspicious face in the torchlight.

    “Because you look kind of miserable, if I’m honest. Did your chat after the Lester affair go that bad?”

    “No,” she said, looking ahead again, trying to pretend she wasn’t miserable, just tired. “No, not exactly. It’s - it’s complicated.”

    “You keep saying that,” he said. “Not everything has to be complicated, you know.”

——

    “Complications,” she said, vaguely. Reynard didn’t look any less confused.

    “What do you mean?”

    “I don’t mean anything. Listen,” she said, deciding maybe Gascon was right, just this once, in this very specific situation, “If I kissed you, right now, would it change anything between us?”

    He blinked at her.

    “No.”

    A trickle of cold water seeped through the cape and ran into her hair. She shifted forward, away from it and toward him, leaned in, and pressed her lips against his. He kissed her back, slightly uncertainly for a second or two, but when she moved closer and slid her right hand around the back of his neck his lips opened slightly and she could tell he stopped thinking about it. He was busy maintaining their ineffective shelter, but she had nothing in particular to do with her hands; she felt the pulse pounding in his throat with her left, ran her right through the short hairs on the back of his head, and let the electric feeling that crawled across her skin and the thundering in her ears drown out her thoughts until, after what felt like not much time at all, he gently pulled his head back.

    “Wind’s stopping,” he whispered. She paused, listening for the real thunder, from the storm. It still crashed overhead, but less often than it had before and mostly somewhere far off to the south; the rain had slowed from a waterfall to a minor downpour, and he was right about the wind. It had shifted direction again, to a gentler crossing breeze that smelled like the oncoming evening. She almost wished it wouldn’t, and the storm would keep going, but time passed whether she wanted it to or not. There were a lot of things she couldn’t control.

    If she was honest, given a few more minutes, she would be one of those things.

    “Damn,” she said, under her breath. “Just when things were going so well. Nothing can ever be easy.”

    “Complications,” he agreed, an ironic smile crossing his face that made her heart stop for a second. “What now?”

    “This,” she said and kissed him again for a long moment that felt like it would crash and burn if it went on. She dragged it out as much as she could, anyway, until a little voice in the back of her mind started warning that any more would result in them being discovered, or a Nilfgaardian cavalry unit would ride over the horizon while she was distracted, or someone would slip and fall on the wet grass, stab themselves on their own dagger, and trigger a day-long safety brief - or some other disaster would happen. He looked her in the eyes for the second or two more that she let herself waste, smiled slightly, like he knew what she was thinking, and then she forced herself away from him, out of the shelter of his cape and into the drizzle. A hint of blue sky was showing through the darkness on the northern horizon. The army was still battened down around them. An offended cluster of horses stood around a hundred yards away, dripping. Reynard carefully shook water off his cape and frowned disapprovingly around at the disorder.

    “About time we got going,” she agreed, reaching a hand toward him. He took it; she pulled him to his feet, smiled up at him for another strangely long second, and let him go.

    “I’m on it,” he said.

[lilacslovers]

💎 Lilac x Gordie {Royalty + Royal Guard AU Fic} Chapter One | The Meeting 💎

aaa i’m so happy! i’ve finished a fic of the first meeting of my s/i and gordie in the royalty au <3

yes it does say chapter one but. idk if this a proper series, its possibly a figurative ‘lets start from chapter one !’ its also just. omg it’s just a chapter like. not even a drabble. just a whole chapter HSJSND

but i truly hope you guys enjoy this! :0 (fic is in the keep reading !! ^^)

•••

The dark oak-stained carriage rattled around Lilac with every prance of Rapidash transporting it, the tight space and cool, pillowy seats barely making up for the sheer cold she was moving into.

In her gloved hands lied a handwritten letter from the Royals in Circhester; a neat cursive paragraph requesting her and her other guard apprentices to protect their home. After all, they would need good protection to hide their most precious jewels in the family, and they required the best of the best. In a way, it flattered Lilac to know they wanted her to assist them.

She folded the letter back into her sac tied at her waist, cuddling into her cape in shock from the sudden Circhesterian chill; she wasn’t too far from the castle now, and wished that they could’ve made her Royal Guard uniform more cozy inside. Perhaps they considered this weather late spring or summer temperatures...

Off guard, the shrill of Rapidash’s cry as it finally came to a halt nearly catapulted her into the rock-hard wood in front of her. She gasped in relief to have caught herself in time, straightening herself to correct such unawareness.

A crunch came from the snow as she dropped down from her carriage, a bag with her necessities slinged over her armoured shoulder. Walking to the near entrance, she turned to the coachman.

“Brr, it’s quite cold around here! You better stay safe in that house, Lilac!” he said, smiling cheerfully.

“Thank you, coachman.” she replied, turning next to the Rapidash, stroking its soft mane.

“And thank you, Rapidash.” she grinned at the Pokémon, in which it whinnied gleefully in response.

Walking across the tiled road to Circhester Castle, the snowy bushes brushed up against her, gorgeously grown flowers to withstand the eternal cold peeked their heads out of the fluffy hedges. Already employed guards outside were gossiping to each other about the family; perhaps they were new guards, like herself. Lilac halted, gaining the attention of the two guards at the grand door they stood up against.

Lilac decided to break the tension between them.

“I am incredibly sorry to interrupt. I am Lilac. I am here to sign myself into the occupation of Guard. I have a letter from the castle itself if you were to want it-“

Before her quiet voice were to finish her sentence, the doors loudly creaked open, revealing the Queen herself; the entrance surprised all three of the guards, yet they all retained the same serious face to show their composure. The Queen gave Lilac a stern look...

“Oh!” came the cheery exclamation of the Queen Melony, holding her hand to her face. “Welcome, dear! I suppose you must be the new Indoor Guard, correct?”

“I- um,” Lilac mumbled, clearing her throat to free the words she had before being surprised. “Yes, your Majesty. I have brought your letter. It is an honour to work with you.”

“Come inside!” invited the Queen. “‘Tis warmer in here, after all! I’ll show you to your position here in the castle.”

“Ah, thank you, your Majesty.”

•••

The warmth of the castle quickly defrosted Lilac’s freezing arms, and the sudden relaxation couldn’t help but make her stare in wonder at the details within: the castle walls were extremely high, regal tapestries hung. Across the tapestries came multiple family portraits from popular artists, and looking closely at the painting would reveal details drawn ever so to-the-point, it made Lilac ponder how someone could even make such a realistic piece in a time limit...

“Oh, I must say,” the Queen began to state. “My children can be quite the troublemakers, hoho... My youngest, a daughter and three sons, I believe they sometimes choose whom they like to see more often, more with my sons, I think. But... my oldest...”

She stopped in her tracks, and so did Lilac.

“... Well, he’s heir to the Throne, now. He possibly cannot choose who he works with, hoho!”

“I see, your Majesty.” Lilac lightly smiled to match the emotion of the Queen’s conversation. “I shall wish the Prince congratulations on being first to the Throne.”

“Oh, he would simply love that,” the Queen chortled. “He is quite the sensible man. I do hope he is excited to rule... I’ve had quite the years around here.”

It was hard for Lilac to decipher who this Prince was; after all, the long generations of family portraits across the wall couldn’t help Lilac’s imagination at all.

Queen Melony pointed to a space by a door, where Lilac stationed herself onto.

“Perfect! Your routine will to be to guard at this area, as well as to watch the household members around here if needed.

You will also patrol around here with other guards around 12 to 1 o’clock PM. Is that understood?”

“Yes, your Majesty.” Lilac agreed, straightening herself stoically. The Queen promptly smiled, and as she went out of sight, another guard poked their head out from the corner.

“Psst, hey. New guard.” they squeaked.

Lilac made eye contact with the other new guard.

“Have you seen Prince Gordie yet?”

“Who?”

“Prince Gordie!” another guard peeped. “C’mon, ‘who?’ Like, the Prince that is, like, constantly just... around? And cool?”

“I really don’t mean to be out of the loop, but...” Lilac held her chin to think. “I haven’t heard anything about any Prince Gordie... All I heard back from my town was when the Queen of Circhester came to visit, and when she did, it was never a ‘visit’ visit, only a ‘come to check out the best carriages’ visit.”

“Oh my Arceus, the Prince...!” yet another guard joined the conversation. “He looked shortly at me once. I just... I felt so seen...”

Oh, brother. Lilac looked away, until the commotion of the group caught her attention once again.

“Ah, look, there he comes...!”

A man came from the depths of the hallway, and suddenly it felt like everything was going slower - or perhaps Lilac was imagining things...

The man had his soft hair tied into a well-kept short ponytatail, as well as his soft and cute lapis eyes kept relaxed and sensual.

He walked with such confidence only a prince could ever have, his cape drifting gently across the satin carpets below. A slight jingling sound came from his minimalistic, yet beautiful necklace around his collar, the pendant resting on his chest where his relaxed blouse shaped the area around such jewellery.

His shoes lightly skipped across the satin carpets to not make even one noise, yet his heels made an dull tap that satisfyingly echoed across the area.

Whatever decent vision Lilac had of the Prince completely went from her mind; the Prince of Circhester, in her eyes, was indeed quite more handsome than she thought.

The guards squealed in delight, making all sorts of gestures to make Prince Gordie look over.

“Gordie! Could you please have a quick discussion with us? We need to talk to you about something?”

... And suddenly, all light the Prince had in his eyes disappeared as soon as he looked at them.

“... Gordie?” his deep, muttering voice repeated, his eyebrows furrowed. Lilac could see the optimism drain from the group, herself shivering along with them even if not involved.

“Never, in all my life, have I heard a stranger call me only by my first name. From what I recall, my title here is ‘Prince Gordie of Circhester’. Is that correct?” his angered voice paused for a while to let the guards rapidly nod their heads, truly attempting to not get into trouble.

“Yes. Now, all I want to hear from you few now is to refer to me as ‘Prince Gordie’. If you cannot, then ‘your Highness’, but if you can’t even manage a formal tone with a prince, you shall expect to be evicted from this castle. Is that understood?”

The guards nodded once again, mumbling out a few ‘Understood, Prince Gordie’s out from their held breath.

“Now. Don’t you have some patrolling to do? It is, after all, 12 o’clock. Go.”

The guards scurried away slowly, cowering from the unfortunate interaction.

Lilac, afraid herself of getting into an altercation, began to steadily inch her way around one corner.

“Please wait.” the Prince interrupted in a much normal, albeit naturally deep tone. Lilac hastily straightened her back once again, turned to face him.

“I did not mean you, I apologise for any confusion.” he stated, grinning. “It’s not actually 12, I just wanted them to leave, hehe.”

“My complete mistake, your Highness.” Lilac replied. “That is quite a tactic to make somebody leave, it’s certainly impressive, your Highness.”

“Hm,” Prince Gordie hummed, taking his chin with one hand. “Tell me, what is your name?”

Lilac paused, finding herself quite confounded at his question; oftentimes, asking for a guard’s name would be informal, as was taught in training.

“Ah, um, if you want it, It’s Lilac, your Highness.”

“Lilac, eh?” Prince Gordie grinned to himself. “A fitting, lovely name for a lovely guard.”

Lilac’s heart struck from the compliment, trying not to show any emotion upon her face, but the Prince began to speak again.

“I must go. I have quite a lot of errands to do.” he sighed, flicking his hair away from his vision.

“But, I do hope to see you again... Lilac.”

Prince Gordie gave a wave as he walked back out of the corridor, Lilac waving goodbye at the same time. As soon as he went completely, she faced the brick wall, intensely pondering the peculiar conversation she had had...

Surely...? Surely, he wasn’t trying to get her into trouble...? But, why would he take interest of only getting her name? Perhaps he was... No, absolutely not, Princes don’t form relationships with their servants...!

Unless, Prince Gordie wanted to?

Nevertheless, Lilac herself had duties to do. But, as she began to walk away, she couldn’t help but think as she rested her palm on her blushing cheek...

[raymondebidochonlifechoices]

I hope I'm not being too awkward when I ask (and feel free to ignore this): if you had full creative control of the show, how would you run season 5? You can pick and choose whatever leaks you want to include.

Not awkward at all! Thank you for the ask, @arsenicpanda! This was quite unexpected in the best of ways!

It took me a while to come up with an answer, because as much as I like to speculate, my experience of Riverdale has always been that of the passive viewer: I consume the show as is. I watch. I applaud or I whine. There’s usually quite a bit of eye rolling. I also read A LOT of fanfiction. The latter experience serves different purposes than watching the show and none of those purposes are a canon fix-it. In terms of TV-watching, the product is what it is and I watch it purely for entertainment and relaxation. I do not engage creatively with Riverdale, although I’m both critical of the show and VERY appreciative of the incredible creators in our fandom. So what would I do in season 5?? I’ll try to combine some of the things I’d like to see with some of the things I think we’ll get. Here goes nothing!

1. Wouldn’t it be nice if, for once, a member of the Coopers weren’t after Betty? Yes, I’m talking to you Chick 2.0 Charles. However, I absolutely love @sullypants’ hypnotism theory, which explains all the unpleasantness of 4x17-4x18, while being bonkers enough to be perfectly plausible for Riverdale. Canon accepted!

2. My head canon is that Jughead and Betty do not break up before, during or after college. Even if actual long distance (not the 15’ Stonewall Express variety one) puts a strain on their relationship, seven years is a long time not to work through their issues, especially if bughead is supposed to be endgame (the same, incidentally, applies to post-time barchie). However, I’ll go with the break up for this one.

3. Jughead publishes his book. It’s about Stonewall and it’s called Stone-cold. That’s peak canon!writer!Jughead right there. Bret reads Jughead’s book and writes explicit fanfiction about it in prison.

4. Jughead does have writer’s block but he is not an alcoholic. WTF, Riverdale? He’s also in debt because he has to pay student loans and has used the advance money for his second book to foot JB’s college tuition. Realistically, Betty should be in greater debt (4 years in Yale cost like 300k?!), but for some reason she’s not.

5. Polly and the twin tweens move in casa Cooper-Jones. Jellybean moves out the next day. I’m afraid we won’t hear of her again, because Trinity Likins is too young. WTF: I googled her and she’s 18?! Revision: JB never moves out and has a lot of scenes with Jughead and Betty. We never hear of FP again. He’s probably gone to the place Sierra McCoy is. 

6. Hiram has one of the main storylines. Veronica guest stars. Hermione has had enough and joins FP and Sierra.

7. Betty goes back to Riverdale when Alice calls with news of Polly’s disappearance, then asks the FBI to create a post for her there. Archie, also back in Riverdale, wants to helpTM Betty. He goes behind her back and convinces Betty’s supervisor to be her partner while in Riverdale. For some reason, they have to fake date. Betty is furious. While on a “date” at Pop’s, Jughead comes in. He’s investigating Pop Tate’s disappearance. Archie is all about selling the fake dating. Betty is not. Jughead is … not sure about things. Veronica and her s1xep1 black cape make an appearance. Core four engage in 10 minutes of uninterrupted cringe.

8. Archie’s earnestTM interventions distract Betty from figuring out things or put her in danger. Betty Cooper seethes at the mere mention of Archie’s name. Archie is oblivious to the bughead UST and tries to interact as much as possible with his old pall Jughead. Jughead does not appreciate. Veronica catches up with what’s really going on one episode in. B and V become best friends again because the show is already juggling 10 different plots at once and ain’t nobody has time for characterisation and shit. Ronnie sees Archie’s glistening abs and charity work and remembers that Chad hasn’t hit the gym for 6 months and is also a very shifty businessman who works with daddykins.

9. At this point I would greatly appreciate it if feminist!icon!Veronica gets a storyline that passes the Bechdel test even for 1 episode. Unfortunately I doubt it. Her vendetta with Hiram has lasted so long, that I literally have no idea what would constitute a good storyline for her?

10. Betty gets shot (we’re overdue one of the girls having a near-death moment). Preferably trying to protect Jughead. Preferably Archie is there too but she doesn’t give a shit, as Jughead is always her only choice. Preferably it’s Archie’s fault they’re in this situation in the first place. But it’s ok, because his heart was in the right place (i.e. on the left side of his sternum). Give me the killer telling Betty she has to decide whom to save. Give me slow motion Betty tackling Jughead. I’d like Archie to chase the killer (who escapes) while Jughead tries to tend to Betty’s wound while calling an ambulance. Director’s note: bloody hands are slippery on the i-phone screen. Preferably nervous over-talkative Archie vs mute Jughead in the hospital. Veronica consoles Archie, because her independent storyline was wrapped up in the previous episode. Give me Jughead crying while hugging Betty Cooper’s clothes in her closet. Archie finally admits he and Betty are not dating and that she can’t stand him.

11. Betty gets a scar but otherwise heals admirably. In fact she’s out of bed chasing the Mothman down the Lonely Highway by the next episode.  

12. Other things happen, involving other characters. I don’t know. I’d really like to see Reggie in an odd friendship/partnership with Jughead (unfortunately doubtful). Also: if Cheryl isn’t Dr Curdle Jr’s successor what is even the point?

Note: Ever since reading this incredible fic by @darknessaroundus, I desperately want bughead’s final scene in the show to be Betty and Jughead breaking and entering with their baby in a sling.

[rhetoricalrogue]

Wayhaven Week, Day 7

For Wayhaven Week 2020, hosted by @otomefandomevents. Thanks for having this week, it’s been so much fun seeing what everyone comes up with and getting back to knocking the rust off my own writing.  I haven’t completed a fandom event in some time and it feels really nice to contribute to all seven days!

Prompt: Mend Pairing: Mason/Zoe Dawson Warnings: in-book level violence, slight injury mention, tiny Book 2 villain spoilers Word Count: 1,662 Summary: Take a hike in the woods, they said. It’ll be fun, they said. Worst. Date. Ever.

There was something to be said about a warm shower after being soaked to the bone from getting caught in the rain. Zoe curled up in her bed at the Warehouse, the duvet draped over her shoulders like a cape, and concentrated on the material in her hands.  Rain still pounded against the windows, but she was grateful to be indoors instead of out in it.

There was a sharp knock on her door and she turned her head in time to see Mason come in, a mug of something in his hands. “Thought you might need it,” he offered, handing it out to her.

She took a deep inhale, enjoying the scent of freshly brewed coffee as the warmth of the mug seeped into her hands. “Thanks.” She pat the side of the bed. “There’s room enough for two over here, you know.”

Mason smirked, but didn’t hesitate to slide into bed with her. “Just can’t wait to get me in bed with you, could you, Sweetheart?”

Zoe rolled her eyes and set the mug on the bedside table to concentrate on what she had been doing. “That is such a tired line, Sunshine.”

“And yet it still manages to work.” He rested his chin on her shoulder and looked down at the material in her lap. “Is that my shirt?”

“Yeah.”

“What are you doing with it?”

She held up the needle and thread. “Well,” she started, continuing to stitch as she talked, “you have a hole in your shirt where a hole doesn’t belong and I’m patching it up for you.”

“Didn’t know you knew how to sew.”

“Brace yourself: I also know how to embroider.” She smiled at his soft snort of laughter, his arms casually draping around her to bring her back flush to his chest, his legs bracketing her hips. “You should check out my Etsy shop.”

“I really don’t see you as the type to do those Live, Laugh, Love or Home Sweet Home type samplers.”

“No, but do you see me being the type to do elaborately done flowers surrounding Fuck this Shit or Don’t be a Dick on it?”

His arms tightened around her waist. “Yeah. Yeah, I totally see something like that coming from you.”  He silently watched as the long gash on his shirt’s sleeve was mended, Zoe making stitches so small that he had a hard time trying to see where it had been cut in the first place. “I’m okay.”

She froze, hands reaching for the travel sized pair of scissors in her mini-sewing kit she had brought along with her in an overnight bag once that had managed to just eventually stay at the Warehouse. “I know you are.” Her fingers smoothed over the mended material. It was drying, but she had scrubbed the sleeve to make sure she got all his blood off before she started sewing. “Why wouldn’t you be?” She closed her eyes, desperately trying to tamp down on the fear that had seized her earlier that evening.  She and Mason had been on patrol on the outskirts of town, following up on a tip that some leftover Trappers had made a temporary base of operations somewhere in one of the many abandoned industrial buildings that dotted the countryside.  It was supposed to be a quick reconnaissance only mission, just observe and take note of their whereabouts and then report back so the entire unit could go neutralize them.

And the evening had been incredibly quiet too. The two of them had made their usual banter as they hiked, but Zoe had stopped to simply enjoy the peaceful look on Mason’s face the further they got from town. 

And then the bottom had dropped out of the sky. It had looked like rain all day long, but then again, it had looked like rain for the past week without anything to speak of, so neither of them had expected the sudden thunderstorm to hit.  Luckily, they had been close to the old abandoned steelworks that hadn’t seen anyone in it since probably the seventies. Zoe’s foot had slipped in the softening dirt and while she had wrenched her ankle pretty badly, at least Mason had saved her from a face full of mud by catching her and slinging her over his shoulder like a bag of potatoes as he sprinted the last few feet towards shelter.

Unfortunately, they hadn’t been the only ones to find the steelworks. Zoe was hopping on one foot while cursing her ankle when she realized that Mason had gone absolutely still, the sound of his warning snarl warring with the rumbling thunder outside. She’d barely had a second to unholster the Volt from her hip before the Trappers they’d accidentally discovered attacked.  Luckily, even as outnumbered as they were, they’d had the slight advantage of being on their feet where most of the Trappers had been seated around a makeshift fire.  Mason had made quick work of most of them while Zoe had taken down her share, adrenaline making her forget about her twisted ankle.

She had been in the middle of cuffing the unconscious Trappers with their own supply of zip ties when she noticed Mason inspecting his forearm, his free hand digging into his back pocket for a cigarette before realizing that the rain had ruined what was left in the pack.  She wouldn’t have said anything, except she happened to catch the way blood dripped down his arm to spatter on the dusty concrete at his feet.  She’d hobbled to his side as fast as she could, hands ready to rip her own shirt to act as a makeshift bandage before Mason had shoved his sleeve up to his elbow, showing her that while the skin underneath was bloody, it was whole.

One quick phone call to Adam had the rest of Unit Bravo, accompanied by several other agents to transport their quarry, at their location within minutes. She’d protested, but Mason hadn’t listened to her as he scooped her up in his arms and settled her into the back of the SUV Adam had been driving. To his credit, he hadn’t argued when she plucked the cigarette from his lips that he had lit from the pack he found in the back seat console to smoke for herself, he merely sparked up a second one and reached out to grab her foot and keep it elevated on his lap for the remainder of the ride back to the Warehouse.

The debriefing had been quick, both of them tired of being soaked to the bone and their replies snippier than they probably both meant for them to be.  Blessedly, Nate had been the one to suggest calling it a night, seeing that they had gotten enough details for a preliminary report and they’d get back to it after a change of clothes and a good night’s sleep.  For her part, Zoe had shot Adam an apologetic glance before limping towards her room.  There was a silent sorry for being grouchy that was left unsaid between them, but she felt better when he sighed, his shoulders dropping slightly and his eyes softening as he nodded in understanding.

Mason had surprisingly left her alone to shower once he was satisfied that she was able to put weight on her ankle and move around by herself.  Luckily it hadn’t swelled much and after using a wrap from the first aid kit she found underneath the bathroom sink, felt a lot better than it had earlier.

“At least no one died this time,” Mason told her, his mouth muffled by her shoulder and bringing her back to the present.

“No one died the last time,” she countered, turning her head to look at him.  “Though you came damn close.”

“Still here, aren’t I?”  He held her closer, his chin nudging her oversized shirt’s neckline out of the way so he could press a kiss to her exposed shoulder, then another to the side of her neck. “You can’t let one time get to you.”

She exhaled. “I know. Letting things get to me means I become a liability.”  She frowned. “But I didn’t freeze.” In the moment, she had channeled all her fear at the possibility of Mason making a repeat performance of being overwhelmed with no one around to help them into pure rage, attacking hard and fast so the Trappers wouldn’t have an opportunity to hurt him.

“No, you didn’t.” There was a thread of pride in his voice as he shifted closer.  “You did good, Zo.”

“You weren’t too shabby yourself, Mason.” She held up his finished shirt. “Even if you did get tagged in the end.”

He made a dismissive noise against her skin. “Better me than you. At least I heal up without needing stitches.” Mason reached out and took the shirt from her hands.  “Damn, this is good work.”

“You think? I tried to make the stitches small so you wouldn’t feel them against your arm.”

Mason put his hand into the mended sleeve and try as he might, he couldn’t even tell where the rip had happened. “Can’t feel a thing.  I wish we’d teamed up earlier, you could have saved a bunch of my clothes from getting trashed after missions.”

Zoe rolled her eyes. “Well, I can’t have that. You look damn hot in this shirt.” She moved so she could set her sewing materials on the nightstand next to the now-abandoned mug of coffee. “Though you look damn hot out of it too.”

Mason chuckled. “You flirting with me, Sweetheart?”

“Fucking trying to, Sunshine.”  Zoe laughed when Mason tumbled them both across the bed, somehow pulling the duvet out from between them in the process.  He grinned against her mouth as she tangled her hands in his hair and it wasn’t long before the two of them were lost in the other, the thunder and rain outside muting the world around them.

[gingerwritess]

How did Loki meet their S/O?

shawarma

warning: some violence and descriptive injuries

a/n: HEY HERE IT IS

finally wrote how you n Loki met woop HOPE ITS EVERYTHING YOU IMAGINED

friendly reminder that criticism is NOT welcome here if it’s mean and just because you want to be right and you just like telling other people they’re wrong!!! :)))

i know the ending is a bit sudden but don’t WORRY we’re entering slowburn territory folks enjoy

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The feeling of coming-to is a strange one.

Normally it goes with eyes opening to darkness, then you blink a couple times and start to remember where you are.

This time is no different. The blinks come painfully, powdered cement probably catching behind your eyelids, but you pry watering eyes open to glance around.

Your office, destroyed. Only one desk still stands, unfortunately not yours, computer parts litter the floor, half the ceiling appears to have collapsed—a pair of heeled feet bend at an odd angle from under the rubble.

You scramble away, dust settling in your throat with each heavy gasp before you manage to pull yourself to your feet. Something warm trickles down your cheek but you can’t feel it, staring in horror at your humble little office: the new intern, Mark, lies over in the corner, clearly dead.

A pencil sticks halfway out of his neck.

One of the janitors who’s name you hadn’t gotten to know yet is writhing at the top of the stairwell as you stumble past, moaning in agony and clutching her face, something red dripping from behind her hands.

The first step down the stairs sends you retching and you vomit over the handrail.

Fresh air, fresh air—

It’s not much fresher, but you fall to your skinned knees and take in lungfuls of dusty, smokey air.

More bodies. This time both human and alien. Ugly purplish and scaly and distorted, like every alien you’d ever imagined would drop from a portal in the sky.

The scent of charred flesh hits your nose and you double over once again, heaving the bile from your empty stomach onto the stained streets.

“That was dramatic.”

You nearly fall over with a start, heart leaping from your chest—oh god, to hear someone else actually speak, be alive—

“You.”

One of the alien’s staffs is sticking into a corpse just a few feet away; you take a quick step and pry it from the body, trying not to retch.

He cocks his head.

“Are you going to kill me?”

You take a shaky breath and point the spear at his chest. “I-I’m considering it.”

The god lifts his head, turning his face to the sky and closing his eyes. The throat now bared so plainly to your pointed end of the spear is bruised, you notice, yellowing purple spots starting to appear on the once perfect skin.

“Kill away.”

Awkward and heavy in your grip, the spear shakes with the trembles of your hands as you stare. No, don’t kill him yet—you’re still not sure what you’re looking at.

That face has been plastered across news channels for hours; you’d seen a warning this morning and thought to yourself how freakishly blue his eyes were, not paying much mind to the “dangerous persons” warning that came after the photo.

It’s never a worry, you always think you’ll be fine, but then it happens.

Now this “dangerous person” is sitting on a curb, flakes of rubble and dust on his caped shoulders and in his dark hair, leaning against a stop sign with a hammer of some sort on his knees.

“Why are you just…” you move the end of the spear down and back up. “Sitting here?”

“Would you rather I do something else?”

The pointed tip of the staff meets the hard armour on his chest. “Don’t,” you hiss, fingers tightening around the cold metal. You should just do it, end him now, it’s the least he deserves—

“Please,” you add after a moment, voice coming out much more cracked and desperate than you intended. “No more, please don’t.”

“Then kill me, mortal, we don’t have much time.” He lifts his chin again, this time not closing his eyes, just staring at you down the bridge of his nose.

You can’t move forward, can’t push the spear through the hollow of his throat; your feet won’t move.

“Do you have any idea,” you choke out, pushing the staff against him a little harder, “how many people you killed?”

“Enlighten me.”

It all happened so quickly that looking back, it’s a blur.

You know you cut him, somewhere either along his jaw or his neck—mostly out of self defence, you’ll tell yourself later. It was almost as if he’d known you would strike him when he said that; he bared his teeth and snarled, lunging at you just as you brought the spear down near his neck with a shriek and a set of handcuffs yanked him back into the stop sign with a crash.

So he is a prisoner.

You point the spear right back in his face, trying to slow your pounding heart—good.

“Stay back,” you order, but it comes out in a pathetic whisper.

“Or what?” The god’s lips curl at the corners. “You’ll…kill me?”

Why does he sound hopeful?

A door to the left of you slams open and before you have a moment to even blink, Iron Man is pointing a glowing palm at you, a bag of takeout in the other hand. The other god you’d seen on the news, the good one, Thor, steps in front of your more evil god, blocking that haunting smirk from view.

And Captain America’s hand is on the spear, a burger in his other hand, lowering the weapon from pointing at the two gods and slowly taking it from your trembling hands.

“No one else needs to die today,” he murmurs, tossing the spear to the ground and giving you a small smile.

Your eyes meet for half a second before you crumple to the floor, shaking and curling in on yourself.

You almost killed him.

* * * * * * * *

Stark Industries hired nearly every displaced employee after the attack, adding wings to the tower and new job descriptions to fit everyone he could help.

You’re grateful for the job; it’s not like you had much elsewhere to go. Dumping all your savings into a little apartment put a new roof over your head, but sure as hell drained your wallet for the next few months.

And so begins the rebuilding process.

The god, Loki, you’ve learned is his name, is being held in the tower, too, for who knows how long. No one will say. You don’t see much of the Avengers, besides getting out of their way in hallways and rec rooms and giving an awkward half-wave whenever the Captain looks your way.

It’s not like he stopped you from nearly skewering a man.

You see Loki, every once in a while, just in passing. First time, he was being escorted to a holding cell by a few armoured shield agents, and you had been heading up to your office.

Those freakishly blue eyes caught yours.

He smiled.

If you could even call it that. The concept of an “evil grin” was something you’d figured out only happened in movies, no actual person could have an evil grin—until that.

That…was an evil grin. Full on Disney villain smirk, you half expected him to offer you a poison apple.

A shudder ran through your whole body and he disappeared around the corner, handcuffs clanking with each step.

Rumors about him start circulating within days, whispers heard of a second attack, a plot to tear apart the Avengers, assassination attempts on Thor…even mind control. But he has fans, you discover after agreeing to an after-work outing, a lot of your coworkers actually find him attractive—

No more truth or dare four drinks into the night.

“You know that wasn’t really him,” one girl had snorted, swaying in her seat. “He was being brain-played! No, no, m-m…memory…mind controlled!”

She’d snapped her fingers in your face with a laugh and you’d rolled your eyes. “I doubt it, some people are just…” you had paused, trying to capture everything wrong in the world in one word. “I don’t know…hateful.”

“But he’s hot.”

You left early that night.

And a couple days later, you see him again. This time he doesn’t look like himself.

He’s stumbling down the hallway, past the break room with one hand clutching the side of his head, the other leaning his weight against the wall for support. His eyes screwed shut, a look of pure pain twists his face.

Good, he deserves it.

You cringe to yourself as you watch him struggle—that was a pretty malicious thought—and he punches a fist into the wall, leaving broken drywall clouding the air as he shakes his hand out and punches the wall again, clawing at his head with the other hand.

What’s this act for, this time?

Thor comes running, catches Loki’s fist that was about to shatter a window, and slams him into the wall with a shout.

You peek your head out the door and for the first time hear Loki whimper, a pathetic, refreshingly weak noise in the back of his throat. He’s hurting.

“Need me to call for backup?”

The blond slings Loki’s arm over his shoulders and lugs him up against his side. “I have this under control,” he smiles, hoisting Loki’s limp body higher. “We got through him this time. Once more and he might be back to normal.”

“Is normal…” you gesture to the lanky god. “Is normal any better?”

“A bit,” Thor grunts, lifting one of Loki’s eyelids and studying his rolling eye. “He’s a bit less…genocidal.”

“Oh, goody.”

His eyes fly open and he jerks towards you, snarling like a rabid animal.

“YOU—”

Barely stopping a scream from ripping from your throat, you shrink back against the wall and shut your eyes, hands covering your face and yelling until Thor takes him by the throat and slams his head into the wall again.

“You should’ve—” Loki’s voice dies in his throat and he slumps, head lolling.

“What the HELL—”

“Cognitive recalibration,” Thor sighs, dragging Loki upright. “He’s…unstable. Teleported himself right out of the lab before we could stop him. My apologies.”

Chest heaving, you nod and try to catch your breath. “Don’t worry about it. Just, uh, please don’t let him kill me.”

“To be fair,” Thor chuckles, “you did nearly murder him.”

“He literally blew up half of New York.”

* * * * * * * *

There’s a guard now, a shield agent with a clunky gun and who probably sleeps in a bulletproof vest, following a few steps behind you everywhere you go.

Apparently Loki had asked for you a couple days ago while he was still being held in the lab. Well, maybe not so much asked rather than demanded Mr. Stark bring you to him.

Mr. Stark said no.

Thank god.

They asked him why and he wouldn’t give any answer more than “even prisoners are allowed their toys,” which upon hearing, you’d tried to quit your job.

The captain, Steve, and the others told you you’d honestly be safer here, where they can keep the recently brainwashed god on a tight leash and keep a protective eye on you—hence the guard.

You’re scared out of your mind, naturally.

He’s sweet though, the guard.

He holds doors open for you, asks you how your days are going, compliments your outfits in a way that’s actually not creepy for a change, and only once brought up the fact that you managed to get yourself on a god’s hitlist—you know, the usual small talk.

But there’s been no talk of Loki the past few days, though, it’s been kind of nice. Nothing to worry about.

Your “special agent” seems to think so, too; he’s getting comfortable.

After another day standing by your office door with a gun in his hands, he yawns and stretches, arms over his head. “I’m gonna get a coffee,” he announces. “Ain’t nobody makes it like I do, sweetheart, want one?”

You laugh and politely decline, going back to your work as the door swings shut.

Sweetheart. That’s new.

Someone clears their throat.

Loki’s leaning against the door, arms crossed and staring at you, hair a wild mess and leather shirt in shreds.

You scream for your guard and nearly fall out of your chair, scrambling to find the gun set under your desk.

“He won’t hear you,” he drones, rolling his eyes and raising a hand.

“No, no, don’t—”

“Relax, sweetheart, I only want an answer.” He takes a couple steps towards you, eyes dark. Cold. Immensely threatening…you have to find this gun.

“Stay away from me.” Finally feeling the cold metal under your fingers, you shoot to your feet and point the gun at him, ignoring the shaking of your hands. “I will shoot you in your fucking face, if you take another step—”

“It’s like you read my mind.” He taps a finger to his temple and stalks towards you, staring down the barrel of your gun.

“Wh-what is that supposed to mean??” You take a couple stumbling steps backwards, keep the gun trembling in his face.

The god pauses in front of you, staring at your gun. Or maybe more so your hands; they’re shaking beyond control now. He raises a finger and pushes the end of the gun, watching it weakly wobble in your grip.

“Finish the job.”

It’s barely a snarl and he makes a sharp, sudden movement towards you; you shriek, squeeze your eyes shut, and pull the trigger.

Gunshots are louder than you imagined.

Once the ringing in your ears has stopped, you don’t want to open your eyes. You’ve seen enough blood, dead bodies, and bullets through the head to last a lifetime—thanks to this guy, though.

The thought slightly comforts you and you crack one eye open.

“So you would have done it?”

His breath is cold on your neck and you whirl around with a shout, pulling the trigger again and again with no direction, no sight, no idea where he is, just needing him gone. No more haunting you, or rather…no more hunting you.

He’s in front of you when you open your eyes again, twisting his head around and rubbing his neck with a quiet groan, the bullet holes in his pale skin sewing themselves shut.

The smoking gun falls to the floor with a clatter.

“Damn,” he grunts, bending to pick up the gun. “You like to see me hurt, hm?”

He moves towards you, one hand behind his back as the other twirls your gun around on a long finger, and you can’t seem to break eye contact until the backs of your thighs hit your desk and you fall to your ass with a dull thud.

A smirk turns at his lips and you swallow hard.

“Next time,” he murmurs, handing you back the gun, “take the coffee.”

“No—w-where are you going??”

He pauses with a hand on the door and turns back to your raised gun. “I got my answer. Worth a try.”

The door swings open before you can ask what that is and your guard walks in with another yawn, two cups of coffee in his hands and a donut balanced on each one.

Needless to say, he was a bit surprised—and confused—to find you a babbling, trembling mess, sitting on your desk in an empty room, pointing an empty gun in his face.

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hope you enjoyed, feel free to send me ideas!

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[blu-eh]

when kingdom comes calling

Words: 7,545 | Chapters: 1/1 | AO3  | Fanfiction

Summary: the Ghost Zone population assumes that Phantom took the crown with dignity. What they don’t know is fifteen year old Danny Fenton just wants to graduate high school, is constantly ready to throw hands with an army of eyeballs, and absolutely will not be crowned the Ghost King without a fight.

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

Danny is fifteen when the first Observant appears to completely ruin his life.

He wakes up with the feeling on the sun on his face and the birds chirping from outside his window. It’s peaceful, really, with his blankets being warm and his pillow soft. He feels more than a little well rested, which is a first considering his usual night-time activities, and thinks that maybe (just maybe) he can make it to school before the first period bell rings.

Belatedly, his ghost sense goes off.

Danny’s expecting it, really. It doesn’t stop the swirling aggravation as his good luck comes to an end. The day started out abnormal simply due to the fact that he had not once woken up at some ungodly hour in the morning to beat up a wandering ghost and send it back to the ghost zone. As per Fenton luck, his morning is ruined before it even has the chance to begin.

He groans, rubs sleep from his eyes, and comes face to face with the giant floating eyeball.

“Holy shit—” Danny turns intangible out of sheer surprise, falls through his bed, and is left grasping the sheets in order to pull himself as far as he possibly can away from the wayward Observant that is conveniently floating in his room. The Observant looks at him without blinking and its long cape flutters around its pencil-thin figure.  

For a moment, they simply stare at each other. Danny, on the floor in his space pajamas, and the Observant hovering a few feet from the ground with its weird, unblinking, green eye.

“What are you doing in my room?” Danny says, slowly, and picks himself off the ground. He settles into a familiar fight stance and readies himself for a confrontation; space pajamas, bed head and all.

His previous encounters with the Observants and their weird time-council have not always been pleasant.

The Observant blinks at him, once, and says, “I have come to collect you for your coronation.”

“My what?”

“Your coronation, Daniel,” the Observant says with a sigh (which is really weird considering they don’t have mouths or, well, anything other than their eyes and hands). “It is time for you to take the throne and rule the Infinite Realms.”

Danny stares at him, his mouth opening and closing but no words coming out.

The Observant sighs again, “Please, come. There is much to do before you are crowned.”

Danny rubs his eyes just to make sure he’s not in some weird hallucination. He doesn’t think he’s fought any ghosts that could trap him in some freak alternate dimension or some sort of weird dream, but one can never be too careful. It would explain the situation more than whatever the Observant is trying to tell him, at least.

The Observants hate him. As if his own self-loathing isn’t enough to cover that base already. They’ve made it perfectly clear that should he ever mess up, should he ever become anything like Dan again, he would be destroyed and the council would not spare him pity for being a fifteen year old halfa.

Danny doesn’t remember doing anything bad or anything that could potentially cause his evil-future-self to come about and reign destruction and carnage on the earth, but then again Danny doesn’t have temporal clairvoyance like Clockwork and the rest of the Observants. Maybe he slept through one too many classes? Maybe he shoved the wrong ghost in his thermos?

Not like it matters, anyways. It doesn’t change the fact that Danny promised he wouldn’t turn into that and he isn’t just going to take whatever scheme the Observants dished out for him without a fight.

Danny holds up his hands, “Alright, okay. Listen, you had me going there for a little bit. I gotta admit that I was pretty surprised and kudos for the creativity but if you’re going to come up with a plan to kill me, at least make it believable.”

The Observant narrows its beady eye, “The council does not like it any more than you, child, but even we cannot directly disobey the Ancient Code of Rights.”

“The what?”

“Do you really not know?”

Danny’s irritation bubbles to the surface and he throws up his hands, “Its not exactly like any of you hand out Being a Ghost for Dummies book! Ghosts don’t tell me anything unless they’re trying to post-mortem murder me!”

The Observant blinks at him again, “You bested the previous king and his army in single combat thus earing the rights to the throne, the Ring of Rage, the Crown of Fire and the position of King of all Ghosts. I am to lead you into the Infinite Realms where we shall hold your coronation and crown you king. From there, you shall lead the Realms as did Pariah Dark in his prime.”

“King of all Ghosts—” Danny spluttered out before taking a deep breath and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Alright, ignoring literally all of that for a second—why didn’t I get this position, oh, wow, I dunno, right after I defeated Pariah? It’s been a year now.”

“You did not even know about your own core,” the ghost says, sounding miffed. Danny thinks if anyone should be sounding aggravated right now, its him. “A ghost—rather, a halfa in your case—that does not know his own power cannot take the throne. The council made a decision to wait until your powers were under your control and you have learned more about the Infinite Realms and the power you possess before taking your rightful place.”

Irritation bubbles to the surface as Danny tries to ignore the painful fact that he knows very little about ghost culture and ghost politics. He doesn’t dare tell the observant this, though, because he doesn’t want the power and he certainly doesn’t want to be king of some stupid dimension. His parents shoot at him enough thinking he's a normal ghost. There’s no telling what they would do if they ever were to find out he’s the ghost king.

Ectoplasm sparks to life in his hands as he tries to keep his emotions in check. He’s angry and confused and worried because why couldn’t things just stay simple?

Notwithstanding, it still doesn’t change the fact the Observants have tried to do something worse than kill him on several different occasions.

“You tried to have me obliterated.”

“Yes,” the Observant says simply. “That still would have been the preferable outcome to this entire situation.”

Danny blasts the floating eyeball out of his room and doesn’t once feel bad about it.

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

There’s an eyeball in his locker.

Danny glances around at the nearly empty halls and hisses out, “What are you doing here? Go away before I make you!”

The Observant hardly looks rattled at the threat. If anything, the thing seems even more determined to get Danny to go through with this absolute bullshit plan to make him, someone who is half human, king of the ghosts. “Follow me to the Infinite Realms for your coronation. You are under obligation to meet the council at Pariah’s Keep where you shall receive the Crown of Fire and the Ring of Rage.”

“No,” Danny snaps. “I have an English test next period with Mr. Lancer.”

“This is no time for your silly human games—"

Danny slams the locker in its eye. He turns to look at his friends, feeling deader inside currently than when he’s in ghost form.

“Huh,” Sam says and blinks in surprise. “When you told us this morning, I thought you were kidding.”

The locker rattles behind him and Danny casually leads against it when people start looking his way. The Observant could easily use intangibility to escape, but, for some reason, doesn’t. Danny’s not going to question it. “I wish I was.”

“Kinda cool that we’re friends with royalty,” Tucker says.

“You’re not,” Danny says. “Because I’m not taking some stupid crown and I’m not ruling the Ghost Zone where I am constantly in danger because ghosts hate me. I’m perfectly fine out here, with my family, and away from all of them.”

“Frostbite doesn’t hate you,” Sam says. Danny shoots her a look but she continues on like she hadn’t seen him. “Neither does Dora or Pandora, I think. And Cujo and Wulf.”

“You gotta admit, dude,” Tucker says and slings an arm around him before meandering away from the rattling locker. “The whole Ghost King thing is pretty cool.”

Danny’s so tired.

“Tucker, honestly, I just want to get to college and maybe not fail at life,” Danny says. He has a horrible feeling in his gut that this is only the start of what might be the end of his entire future. “And I have a very bad feeling that my future is not going to be as normal as I want it to be.”

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

Jazz figures out the entire situation by the end of the first night when she sees a floating eyeball hovering in front of Danny’s bedroom door. She ends up yanking him in her room and forcing him to tell her everything. He tells her, albeit reluctantly, but he does have to admit it feels pretty good to get it off his chest.

It still isn’t a fun conversation for any of them considering Danny’s future hanging by nothing more than a flimsy string.

Life still goes on. Mr. Lancer assigns him an absurd amount of homework. The school gets shut down at least twice a day because of Observant sightings. Unfortunately for Danny, school doesn’t stop just because a bunch of ghostly eyeballs have taken to haunting the school corridors.

Besides, by the third day and seventh missed class, Danny makes it exceptionally clear that the Observants should not—under any circumstance—enter his school and disrupt his classes. If they do, then Danny hasn’t been scared to use force in the past and definitely isn’t scared to punch a giant eyeball in the face should he see them wandering the halls or loitering in the windows.

The Observants learn very quickly. So, instead of bothering him in the halls, they wait outside in the parking lot until he’s let out of class at the end of the day. From there, they float around him (along with an unwilling Sam and Tucker) and try to convince Danny to enter the Ghost Zone and become a king of a realm he doesn’t even totally belong to.

“—Your coronation ceremony awaits you in the Infinite Realms. The council has requested your presence.”

Danny breaths through his nose, shares a sideways look with his friends, and tries not to do anything drastic. The Observant is just lucky that the streets are currently empty because, otherwise, Danny would not be putting up with the constant pestering. “Do you have anything new to say?”

“Should you not come then the council will be forced to do things outside of prior tradition.”

At least it said something new, Danny thinks even though he doesn’t necessarily like the tone the Observant is using. Out loud, he says, “Does that mean you’ll leave me alone and find a new king?”

“No,” the Observant says.

“Damn,” Danny says. “Anything else profound?”

“The Infinite Realms is in need of a ruler—"

“I said anything profound?”

The Observant actually looks a little offended by that. Tucker hides his laugh behind a cough while Sam doesn’t try to hide hers at all. He gives them a wry grin when he thinks the Observant isn’t looking and all three of them burst into laughter.

The Observant narrows its eyes at the group and says, stiffly, “Very well. If this is your choice.”

It disappears in a puff of smoke. Danny glances at the spot where the Observant once floated and shrugs because, well, it’s not like he can do anything about it now. It doesn’t stop the sudden feeling of apprehension that washes over him.

“Do you think they’re actually going to leave Danny alone?” Tucker asks.

“No,” Danny says. “I think it’s just going to get worse from here.”

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

“I’m not coming to the stupid coronation,” Danny snaps the moment he sees the eyeball in his bedroom. It’s a new one, of course, because the council apparently never sends the same Observant twice.

This one is definitely different, though. It's holding something close it its chest in its green, clawed hand. Every couple seconds, Danny catches sight of a flickering green light despite not being able to make out the object’s shape.

“Since you have made your refusal to enter the Infinite Realms for your coronation, then we are forced to bring the coronation to you,” the Observant answers. It opens its hands and presents the object; small, black and flickering in a eerie green flame with a smooth bottom and tiny points at its top. He can’t help the small sense of familiarity as he takes the object in.

Danny feels his heart stop.

“Wait, what—this that the CROWN?”

“Bow your head, child,” the Observant says. “And we shall get this over with.”

Danny backs up so fast he hits the opposite wall before the Observant can move a single step closer. He drops into a fight stance. “Yeah, uh, no. I’m good, thanks. Please go back to the Ghost Zone and literally never come back here again.”

“You do not yet hold power over the council.”

Danny shifts to into his ghost form and charges up an ectoblast. The combination of its flashing light and the fire from the crown cast an eerie green glow on the walls of his room. “Wanna bet?”

The Observant takes a step forward. “This is cumbersome—"

“Oh, wow, I’m sorry,” Danny snaps and spots his thermos right behind the giant, floating eyeball. He mentally makes a quick plan in his head. “Next time you try and make my life a living hell I’ll make it easier for you!”

The Observant makes a move as if it were going to place the crown on Danny's head but Danny's faster. He dodges, rolls out of the way, and blasts the stupid ghost in the side. It doesn’t make a sound, but it does narrow its eye further.

“If you put that thing on my head so help me—HEY, I said don’t. I don’t want your stupid crown or your stupid throne!” Danny tries to keep his frustration under control as the observant moves to place the damn thing on his head again. He lunges to the other side of his room, fingers curling around the familiar metal of his thermos. “Find someone else and leave me alone.”

The Observant slinks back, crown still in hand. It glances at the object before meeting Danny’s eyes. “I see this will not be easy.”

Danny doesn’t give it a chance to move. Before the Observant can even react, he opens the thermos and sucks the thing up (crown and all). The green glow of the room vanishes and Danny is left standing, alone, in the lightly damaged remains of his once-clean bedroom.

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

He finds a new Observant in his fridge with a certain flaming crown in its hand. He slams the fridge door shut without a single word.

Unfortunately, Observants are ghosts which means they have ghost powers and this one is much smarter than the locker-Observant. It phases through the fridge and attempts to place the crown on his head without a single word.

At least they were past formalities now.

“I’d say give it to Plasmius but we all know how that would end,” Danny says and dodges the hands that attempts to pin him down. He’s stuck in human form for the time being seeing as his parents are just a room over and he doubts they would be happy to find Phantom floating in their kitchen with Fenton missing. “Don’t—hey! If you don’t stop, I’m going to blast you, I swear to the ancients—"

“We are the ancients, Daniel—"

“Oh my god, shut up. Please, stop talking.”

“This is your destiny—”

“Has it ever occurred to you or your council that forcing a fifteen year old to become a king is really fucked? Like, seriously, I haven’t even graduated high school yet. I’m barley passing history, I don’t know anything about politics, I can’t even vote in human elections and you want me to become a king?”

Footsteps come from the room next to him. Danny meets the Observant’s eyes as he realizes the fact that there is a ghost in a ghost hunter’s house. There is absolutely nothing good that will come from this.

“Danny?” His mom’s voice calls out. Danny slams a pillow over the Observant and sits on it just as his mom rounds the corner. She looks around the room, once, and doesn’t seem to notice how Danny’s awkwardly sprawled out on the couch in a desperate attempt to keep her from seeing the Observant. “I thought I heard yelling. Is everything all right?”

Underneath him, the Observant squirms in clear discomfort. Danny hopes he elbows it in the eye.

Danny laughs nervously and plasters on a smile that’s just a bit too wide. “Nope, no yelling. I didn’t hear yelling. Everything is fine, mom. Nothing to see here.”

He feels a hand creeping up his back and he whips around to grab the clawed green appendage before it can force the crown on his head. Unfortunately, in his effort to resist being crowned, he forgets all about his ghost-hunting mom who has definitely saw the ghost beneath the pillow.

Danny likes to think that his life is just one string of disasters after another with absolutely no end in sight.

“Is that a ghost?!” Mom says and, oh boy, her gun is already out and pointed at the Observant.

Danny shares a slightly panicked look with the Observant, still holding it’s hand with the crown away from his own head. It might be the stupid eyeball’s fault in the first place, but Danny doesn’t think anyone really deserves to get handed over to his mom. Or get ripped apart molecule by molecule. That would almost be as bad as Skulker skinning him and hanging his pelt on the wall.

Danny scrambles off the couch, “Okay, this is all just a big misunderstanding—"

Mom’s not listening to him, though. Her gun whirls with power and she takes a step forward. “Step away from my son, you ectoplasmic fiend!”

The Observant either wants to die again or is stupidly brave because it stands up, billowing cape and all. “He is to bear the crown and the ring as seen by the council and take his place as the rightful ruler of the Infinite Realms in order to—”

Mom blasts the Observant before it can say another word. Danny has never been so grateful for his mom’s trigger happy finger in his life.

His mom turns to look him over and Danny shrinks back and says, weakly, “I think they have me confused with a ghost.”

The Observant floats back into a standing position, the crown flickering in his hand. Unfortunately, one blast is never enough to force an Observant to leave. Danny should know. He’s blasted them enough times to figure it out.

Danny hates floating eyeballs with his entire being.

“Daniel James Fenton,” the Observant says and dodges the next shot by his mom. It tries to approach him, yet again, with the crown outstretched. “You must take the crown and the ring in order to rule the Infinite Realms as it is your right—"

“Shut up,” Danny throws a couch pillow at it. The pillow bounces harmlessly off the ghost but his mom shoots it a second later so he feels rightfully validated.

“Don’t touch my son!” his mom snaps.

She blasts the ghost enough to send it backward, into the kitchen. The crown goes skidding out of its hands and rolls right to Danny’s feet. Danny meets the Observant’s eye. Then, out of pure spite, he kicks the thing as far away from him as possible. The Observant narrows its eye.

Mom has a ectogun to the Observant’s face before it can protest. Danny tries to hide his smile, but doesn’t do a fantastic job if the look the Observant is giving him is anything to go by.

“Listen here, you odd manifestation of ectoplasmic energy and post-human consciousness,” Mom says and leans a bit closer. “You are going to tell me exactly why you are here and exactly what you were trying to do to my son.”

The Observant doesn't even look at her.

“Another time, then,” the Observant says but it’s glaringly obvious that it is not talking to Danny’s mom. It stares at him with its weird, beady eye.

Mom notices and shakes the thing with her fists. She looks a second away from decking it and, if it had been any other situation, Danny might have let her. He probably would’ve even laughed. This situation, however, is not one Danny finds much humor in.

The Observant gives him one more look before both it and the crown disappear in a puff of green smoke. His mom’s face twists into one of furious frustration but she doesn’t seem wholly surprised. The house plunges into a irreversible quiet and, sitting on the floor of the living room, Danny feels a familiar twinge of apprehension in his gut.

It’s incredibly apparent that the Observants have no qualms about secret identities.

Not a second later, his dad bursts into the room with a gun in hand. “GHOST?”

“You just missed it, honey,” Mom says, fuming, before dropping to her knees and pulling Danny into a hug. “Oh, Danny, I’m so sorry. That must have been so terrifying for you. I know how much those nasty ghosts scare you. I promise that we'll work on the ghost shield and nothing like that will ever happen again.”

Luckily, his mom seems more concerned about the fact that a ghost got into their house and tried to attack their son than to pay close attention to the words the ghost has spoken. It doesn’t stop the rush of guilt that holds his very core.

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

“Take the crown, Daniel.”

“Can’t,” Danny says, tightly. “I have an algebra test tomorrow that I haven’t studied for because someone keeps trying to put a crown on my head when I’m sleeping so, as you can see, I’m trying not to be stressed about that. Can we please schedule this for another time?”

The Observant gives him a look. For a floating eyeball, the thing is shockingly expressive.

Danny shifts into a fighting stance. “Right, of course. I forgot nothing is easy with any of you.”

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

Jazz catches him shuffling down the stairs to the basement at four o’clock in the morning.

“Danny,” she says slowly, “How many of those eyeball ghosts are in that thermos?”

“Twenty seven,” Danny answers and tries not to fall down the stairs in pure exhaustion.

It’s more of a game at this point—try and get as close to the ghost kid as possible to put on the crown and the ring before he blasts them. Danny thinks the game sucks and he wants out.

“You don’t look very good.”

Danny narrows his eyes. “Thanks, Jazz. I hadn’t realized.”

Danny can tell from her face that she’s trying to psychoanalyze him but he likes to think that he’s actually doing pretty well considering the sheer number of Observants that try to force a crown or ring on him. It’s been almost a week and, well, he’s still not the Ghost King so that has to count for something. Danny is holding off hope that the council will get the message and fuck off.

“Don’t be sarcastic, Danny, I’m just worried,” Jazz says and follows him down the stairs. “How are you holding up?”

“My life is a nightmare,” Danny answers. “And my nightmares manifest in the form of lots of floating green eyeballs.”

He takes the last couple steps into the basement and places the thermos in the release shoot. There’s no point in keeping them in there—Danny knows because he’s already tried. No matter what he does or where he keeps them, both the Observants that he’s captured and the crown vanish from the thermos. Then, they show up the very next day and the cycle begins all over again.

“That’s very specific,” Jazz tells him. Then, “If they keep popping up like they have, it’s going to be very hard to keep your secret from mom and dad for much longer.”

“Jazz,” Danny says and tries to keep the worry out of his voice (even if he knows it's a losing battle). “If this keeps going then I’m not going to have a secret to hide from anyone anymore.”

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

There’s yelling on the streets and an ectoblast whizzes past his ears.

Danny’s in ghost form, fresh out of a battle from a rogue ghost, flying high above the streets with his parents following behind him in their assault vehicle. They’re yelling at him, like normal, and trying to blast him out of the air. Had it been any other day, Danny could’ve lost them in mere minutes but he’s exhausted from the fifteen observants he’s been avoiding and the two ghosts that he’s fought just this afternoon.

Another blast comes dangerously close to hitting him.

His ghostly tail flicks in irritation and he turns, just for a moment, to yell out, “Stop blasting me!”

He almost gets an ectoblast to the face in reply.

“Hold it, ghost kid! Listen to me when I’m talking to you!”

Danny races through the streets, the RV curving dangerously on the road behind him. A shot fizzes by his ear and he drives to the right, towards the school. He makes it a good thousand feet when an Observant pops, literally, right in front of him with the crown in his hand.

Danny shoots the Observant on principal.

Unfortunately, Observants are freakishly strong for only being a giant floating eyeball and, sure enough, he had a grand total of three different pursuers behind him. The only thing that could make his day better is if Valerie shows up to join the party.

(He really, really hopes Valerie does not show up to join the party. Danny doesn’t think he can handle his parents, the Observants and Valerie well enough to keep the crown off his head and his secret intact.)

Too add to Danny’s extreme luck, he can only take so many ectoblasts before even he needs to land lest he be forced to transform back into a human. He lost the Observant someone a couple blocks back, but, sadly, his parents will not be bound by important things like traffic laws and speed limits. His parents end up cornering him in some wayward back alley where they stand at the mouth, blocking the entrance. Both guns are trained on his grounded form.

His dad aims his ectogun right at Danny’s face and shouts, “Freeze, spook!”

Danny really, really doesn’t want to fight his parents but he also doesn’t want to be caught and dissected, so he powers up his ectoblasts anyways and waits for a good enough opening to fly away without being shot out of the sky for a second time today. His mom watches him with a wary caution that he matches. Out of the two, she’s definitely the more dangerous one.

“Come quietly, Phantom. You’re trapped,” his mom says.

It’s then that the Observant decides to make its appearance directly next to his parents at the mouth of the alley, holding out the crown. His parents jump at the sudden arrival of yet another ghost but the Observant pays them no mind.

“GHOST!” Jack yells and hoists his gun to the newest arrival.

“You’re the ghost that was in our house the other day,” his mom says with a sort of venom in her voice. She looks mad—like, actually pissed off—which is something Danny’s glad he’s never been on the receiving end of (yet). She seems almost conflicted, like she wants to aim at the new ghost but cant't since her gun is currently trained on Danny's chest.

The Observant hardly reacts, holding the crown out further. It meets Danny’s eyes and Danny has half a mind to blast the thing, despite his parents being there.

“Please do not make this more difficult than it already is,” it says.

There’s a split second in Danny’s mind where he almost considers turning himself over to his parents. Surely, it would be better than whatever awaited him should the Observant actually manage to crown him.

“Listen, guys,” Danny says and backs away. He holds up his hands, placating. “This has been fun and all but I’m very tired and I don’t actually want to deal with this so if I could, like, leave, that would be great.”

His mom’s eyes snap back over to him and she lifts her gun from where she had lowered in during her surprise. “You aren’t going anywhere, spook!”

The order actually got a rise out of the Observant. It turns to his parents with its single eye narrowed. “You have no jurisdiction over Phantom.”

“Phantom is in our town,” his mom snaps right back. The gun unwittingly moves more towards the Observant and less towards Danny. "Therefore we decide what is and is not fit!”

“He is the rightful king—"

“King?!”

"Ghosts don't have kings—"

Through the bickering, no one notices as Danny sinks into the floor, slips out of the alley and vanishes.

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

“Please, don’t,” Danny says.

He’s in ghost form, hovering about two hundred feet off the ground. It had been a normal morning for him so far despite the distinct lack of Observant appearances. Now, with a sick feeling in his stomach, Danny understands why.

In front of him, the Fright Knight stands in all his terrifying, ten foot tall glory. “You must bear the Crown of Fire and the Ring of Rage in order to take your place on the throne."

"Cant we talk about this, maybe?" Danny says, a little leery and more than a little pissed off. It's one thing to deal with a bunch of annoying, flying eyeballs but it's another thing entirely for said flying eyeballs to recruit the ghost of nightmares.

"I apologize, my prince, but there is no option here.”

Behind the Fright Knight, ten or so Observants loiter in the air. The one in the middle holds the familiar flaming crown and another holds the ring. They surround him in a semicircle, looking expectantly at the Fright Knight.

Danny’s life really just sucks.

“Oh, there’s an option alright,” Danny snaps. If there's one thing he hates, it's not being given a choice and while this is going to hurt (it’s so going to hurt), Danny is not going to let the Observants or the Fright Knight get that god-awful crown on his head. “I beat you once and I can do it again!”

The Fright Knight tilts his head in recognition and draws his sword. “Perhaps, but I am not playing to win.”

Has Danny ever mentioned that his life sucks? Because his life sucks.

“Should we help him?” Tucker asks Sam from where they stand below. Danny can just barely make out the words they’re saying with humming of his core and the rush of adrenaline that shoots through his system.

“I don’t think they’re planning on hurting him?” Sam answers back. “Besides do you have anything to go up against the Fright Knight?”

“Point,” Tucker says.

(Danny has great friends.)

“We would rather have done this the easy way,” one of the Observants says. The others bob their eyeballs in agreement.

Danny whirls on them, eyes narrowed. “You forfeited your right to have opinions on what's easy when you brought the Fright Knight into this!”

“It’s for your own good,” the same Observant answers. “The Fright Knight serves the king and the king alone.”

“For your own good,” Danny grumbles under his breath, mockingly. His hands light up with ectoplasm. “We’ll see about that.”

The fight doesn’t take long.

It’s as the Fright Knight said; he is not fighting to win. The knight is not below a few dirty tricks to hold Danny down for just a few seconds. Danny puts up a good fight but he's running on three shots of espresso and maybe a sum total of six hours of sleep the entire week thanks to the constant threat of observants trying to put the crown on his head or ring on his finger. Safe to say, he's not in his prime condition.

The Fright Knight ends up pinning him down in the middle of the destroyed street. His friends rush forward to help, but two Observants hold them back. Danny thrashes from where he’s pinned but he can’t do much more than move his head around. The Fright Knight and his horse are, unsurprisingly, very heavy and apparently very well trained in holding down slippery, intangible ghost-teenagers.

The Observant holding the crown approaches him slowly. Danny tries to bite it’s long, claw like hands out of spite but the Observant goes intangible before he can make contact. It slowly lowers the crown towards his head.

Danny’s eyes flash a dangerous green. “I swear, if you put that crown on my head I’ll—are you kidding me?!”

The Observant drops the crown on his head. It hovers just a few centimeters above his hair and Danny immediately feels a heavy sort of energy expanding throughout his body. The crown flares to life, changing from a small flicking fire to a roaring flame as power gathers in his very core.

“You could have come to your own coronation, however, we were forced to make drastic measures,” the Observant that crowned him says.

Boy, doesn't that just set Danny off.

With a snarl, Danny uses the new energy to twist and blast the Fright Knight off his back. The crown follows his movement, flaring brightly whenever he uses his powers. Instead of fighting back, the knight merely bows and disappears. Danny waits a couple moments, tense and ready to fight, but it seems the Fright Knight has done what he came here to do.  

The crown feels heavy on his head.

He blasts the two Observants holding Sam and Tucker, too, just because they’re annoying. They rush over to him, but he holds up a hand and motions for them to wait. There are, after all, still ten ghosts and a ring that Danny needs to avoid.

Danny turns to the Observants, fights clenched and eyes narrowed. “Okay, congrats! You win. The crown is on my head. Please get rid of it now.”

“The Crown of Fire is your right,” one Observant says. “It belongs to you alone.”

An idea suddenly comes to mind.

“Cool,” Danny says, slowly. He takes the crown off and is surprised how little it resist. The fire doesn’t even burn his hand as he holds it by the rim. “Then you won’t mind if I do this.”

He throws the crown as far as he can, watching it sail above the homes. It flies for a hot minute before flicking out of sight. Danny feels strangely satisfied when he turns to the Observants with a grin on his face. However, the Observants don’t look nearly as worried as Danny expects them to. In fact, they look unbearably smug for what is, functionally, a giant floating eyeball.

The looks he's getting ring as very bad in his mind.

Something heavy settles back on his head. Danny’s smile drops and feels a sinking alarm in his gut when he reaches up to touch the flaming crown that he had, just mere seconds ago, thrown across the entire town. The same power settles in his core once again.

“No,” Danny whispers, horrified.

“Holy shit,” Tucker says from across the street.

Danny turns and catches Sam’s eye. She mouths what is going on? at him. Danny wishes he knew anything about what’s happening but, as always, he’s clueless and confused and no small part of him is very, very angry.

The Observants merely stare at him. One steps forward and says, “The crown is yours by right. Hold out your hand and we will bestow upon you the Ring of Rage. Then your coronation will be completed and we shall leave you and return to the Infinite Realms to continue our temporal duties.”

Danny’s flare a brighter green. Ectoplasm pools in his hands and he readies for another fight. He doesn’t know it at the time, but his crown flickers to life. Suddenly uneasy, the Observants back away slowly.

“If you try and put that ring on my hand I will cut off my fingers,” Danny says.  

“You won’t,” another Observant says.

“Wanna bet?”

They get the ring on his finger but, by god, Danny doesn’t go down without blasting all ten of them into the ground first. They pin him just like before, in yet another crater in the middle of a street with the crown on his head, the ring on his finger and unimaginable power flowing through his veins.

Apparently satisfied, the Observants let him up and quickly retreat. Danny stands, grumbling all the while, brushes off the remainder of dust on his suit and turns to the Observants. He's staring at the group, wondering just how he should get rid of them after they ruin more lives when all ten of then fall to their knees.

Danny takes a step back in alarm.

“All hail King Phantom,” the Observants say together. Their voices echo across the quiet streets of Amity Park. “Defeater of Pariah Dark and ruler of the Infinite Realms.”

People come out of their houses, peeking and staring up at him in horrified awe. Children point to his crown and laugh while the eyes of the adults reflect unseen amounts of terror. Danny can already see whatever good reputation he had dying like a snuffed out flame due to a single announcement. Danny meets Sam and Tucker’s eyes and wishes for nothing more than to flicker out of existence at that very moment.

Instead, Danny is forced to stand there, arms crossed and pissed off, with a burning crown floating on his head, a heavy ring on his finger and the weight of the entire Ghost Zone on his shoulders.

It’s quite possibly the worst day he’s ever had in his entire half-life.

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

The ghosts coming out of the portal over the next couple days to congratulate him almost make the situation worse.

It’s Johnny 13 who comes out first, gives him an exaggerated bow with a grin and says, “Hope you have a fun time being king, kiddo. I don’t envy you.”

Danny, who has had the worst two weeks of his life, simply rolls his eyes and mutters a sarcastic, “Thanks.”

“Kitty sends her regards as well," Johnny flashes him a lopsided grin and gets on his bike. He raves the engine before suddenly looking back. "Don’t expect the current peace to last.”

Danny watches him go, hands in his head. The crown flickers in the dim light and ring glows. He’s still not quite sure what a normal king is supposed to do; much less king of the Ghost Zone.

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

“The crown looks good on you, dipstick,” Ember says, later, when he’s out flying and trying to clear his head. No matter what he’s tried, the crown and ring simply won’t go away. He's been forced to wear an assortment of hats and gloves in order to keep his parents from finding out. They're pissed enough that Phantom was crowned the Ghost King as it already is.

“I hate this,” Danny tells her. “I want the crown and the ring gone.”

The other ghosts are definitely enjoying his absolute misery, even if they were all on somewhat friendly terms. As it turns out, a lot ghosts tend to play suck-up when confronted with unimaginable power.

Ember's smile widens and she says, “Well they’re your crown and ring. You can do what you want with them.”

Danny wants them gone. Then, he realizes something and stares at her in surprise.

“Was that advice?” Danny asks. "Did you just give me advice?”

“Did I?”

“I thought you hated me.”

“Right now, I pity you more than anything,” Ember tells him. “It’s whatever, babypop. You’re the king now and you’re no Pariah Dark so even if you do get in the way of my plans, I’d rather have you be king than go back to his rule.”

“That’s a very low bar to set,” Danny mutters under his breath. He stands, the crown flaring as he does so. He tries to hide his scowl. “Don’t cause trouble or, I dunno, try and brainwash the entire human population, and you can stay.”

He disappears into the air, content to head home for the night. Behind him, Ember calls out, “Think about what I said, dipstick! It’s your own power. You just have to learn how to use it.”

Later that night, he floats on his bed an concentrates. His own power bubbles to the surface and, in a fit on control, he wills his ring and crown to disappear. The objects flicker once, twice, before vanishing entirely. They’re not completely gone, of course, because he can still feel the power in his body but hidden is better than nothing.

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

Technus gives him some weird ghost device as a congratulations present. Danny’s pretty sure it’s not going to explode and/or capture him, but he can never be certain with a ghost like Technus. He ends up quietly shuffling it to Tucker when the technology-themed ghost isn’t looking.

Youngblood, Spectra, the Box Ghost, Lunch Lady, Desiree and even Vlad (holy shit) come and give him (begrudging) congratulations. Half of them think it's hilarious that he’s the poor sucker who gets the bear the burden of the crown while the other half think it’s too much power for his tiny halfa body to handle. Luckily, Danny now has a much easier time sending them back to the Ghost Zone if they get too rowdy.

Vlad gives him an especially vindictive look when he corners Danny in their human forms. Danny returns his look by secretly flipping him off since he can’t exactly shoot the mayor with an ectoblast in public.

Vlad leers over him in what's supposed to be intimidating. “I doubt you can hold on to that crown forever, boy.”

Danny might not want to be king but there’s absolutely no way that he would ever let the crown or the ring fall into Vlad’s hand.

He pushes Vlad away and clenches his fists, eyes narrowed. “Are you going to try and take it from me, fruitloop?”

“Perhaps another time,” Vlad says with a smile. Danny holds his fists to his side to keep from punching him in the face. “After all, a crown is a heavy burden for a child to bear.”

Danny grits his teeth. “I think I’ll manage.”

“We will see, little badger,” Vlad says and turns to leave.

Danny glances around, just to make sure no one is looking, before creating a tiny ice patch right in front of Vlad. He tries to keep his laughter muffled (but definitely takes pride) when the billionaire-asshole slips and sends him a particularly nasty glare. He gives Vlad the most innocent wave he can muster despite the grin on his face.

Danny thinks he probably needed that meeting with Vlad. While he still doesn’t want the crown, Danny finds that spite is one hell of a motivator to keep the crown as far away from Vlad as possible.

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

Skulker comes last. To Danny’s horrified surprise, he bows low and says, “Congratulations.”

Danny stands in his pajamas at three o’clock in the morning and feeling slightly overwhelmed. “Alright, this is more than a little weird.”

“It’s custom to greet the new king,” Skulker says and straightens back out. Danny’s half waiting for a gotcha! and some missiles but Skulker doesn’t do much more than observe him.

Danny narrows his eyes and crosses his arms. “Do you have to be weird about it?”

“Don’t get me wrong, whelp,” Skulker says as he turns to leave. “This will not last. I hope you realize that just because you are king does not mean I will stop hunting you. Your crown just makes you that much more valuable to mount on my wall.”

Danny shifts between feeling touched and a little relived at the normalcy of the situation and the normal disgust that comes with Skulker threatening to skin him because, really, it’s just gross. Despite his words, he still hears the silent message Skulker is trying to convey.

Just because your king doesn’t mean anything will change.

And that? That’s more than a little relief off his shoulders. For the first time since he was crowned, Danny lets out a genuine bark of laughter and a grateful smile comes to his face.

“Thanks,” Danny says. “I don’t think I’d have it any other way.