#oops this is longer than i meant

[obey-me-fics-n-shit]

Yandere!Malleus Draconia concept that keeps eating at my brain goes something, something…….

Yandere Malleus who cannot handle when his darling (soon to be wife!) subtly tries to prepare him for the fact that she’ll be gone one day. So as a wedding present for her (though really Malleus himself) his grandmother, Lillia, and him devise a spell that will keep her alive as long as she’ll need to be.

Yandere Malleus, who once his darling is asleep, kills her. All for good reason, no doubt. You see, the spell ties her life force to his own. As long as Malleus lives, so too shall she, when he vowed to ‘share’ his life with her, he meant it. Killing her ensures she cant grow old now that she’ll be tied to Malleus’ already extended life. Because even though her life ended she can live attached to Malleus’ no problem, but you cannot grow and age on someone else’s time.

Darling who, for a long time, is none the wiser to the change Malleus, and indeed Lillia and the queen of briar valley herself made. At first it wasn’t so noticeable a problem, sure her human friends are starting to look closer to middle age, but maybe she’s just aging a touch more gracefully. After all, the food and air in briar valley is a good deal more refined than elsewhere. “You haven’t changed at all!” They’d say, jovially, just shy of hitting the nail on the head.

And the time passes so slowly anyways, sure it feels like she’s been in the castle alongside Malleus forever but thats just what happens when you run the same tasks everyday. No, it’s not until another decade or so later when her old NRC friends come back to visit again, that the changes in them- more accurately the lack of change in her- takes her by surprise. Faint crows feet and the beginnings of grey hair is now decorating her lively pals. Their age becoming them. It’s not even unpleasant, just a fact of life that she delights in noticing until she remembers that she too should be aging. That night she’ll spend hours looking at herself in the mirror, mapping where these changes ought to be reflected in her as well. Only with abject and mounting horror to find she hasn’t changed a day, hasn’t changed at all.

[al-luviec]

day 2 - energy / life / green

[anonymous-chicken-was-taken]

There is a man named Stanford Pines.

Just about anyone in the scientific community knows his name, and most know his face. It would be hard not to. It's plastered on magazines, on websites, on informational guides about the Institute of Oddology. Stanford Pines is synonymous with the word odd, peculiar, strange; it takes very little digging to find that.

Yet, when it comes to actually meeting the man? No matter who you ask, the answer is almost always no, they have not met him. Everyone knows of him, but nobody knows him. They see his face, they hear his name, they read his papers, they know his arguments. A lucky few even converse with him through email, or letters, or phone conversations. However, meeting him face to face seems to be an occurrence even rarer than the beasts he writes essays about.

Sometimes, he makes a public appearance. Sometimes, someone will see him walking about in some small, secluded space. His co-founder follows him like a shadow, never long taking his eyes away, full as they are of both care and peculiar caution.

Even more unheard of, sometimes, Stanford Pines will do something that interacts with the public. Once every few years, he will appear for an interview, or a photo, or something else to please the magazines that fill up his inbox. McGucket will be with him, every single time, and afterwards there will be whispers on the very internet he created from the people he'd spoken to. By all accounts, Stanford Pines is a very subdued, polite gentleman. Someone who is very intelligent and awkward, and attached to his co-founder at the hip. A man who is followed at all times by an army of personal security and NDAs. "For safety," McGucket will say as Pines' face goes dark. No one ever explains who's being kept safe, or from what.

To the students at the Institute of Oddology, it's even stranger. Nowhere does it say that seeing or meeting the core founder is guaranteed -- in fact, in comparison to other institutes, it's hardly even advertised that he's there -- but it's still surprising. If Stanford Pines is seen at all, it's almost always from behind a screen. Some students graduate without ever having seen him in-person. He does not attend events. He does not greet families. He does not make speeches unless he's being projected on a screen, a stark contrast to McGucket and his exaggerated mannerisms as his very real and present form hovers nearby. He holds no office on the entire campus. It is not unheard of to see him taking a walk with his co-founder, but it's rare enough to be shocking.

Rumors fly. Some are silly, absent things that would seem implausible to anyone who hasn't spent time in Gravity Falls. He's a vampire. He's a robot made by McGucket. He's a whole eldritch entity. Some rumors are more serious, whispered when his reclusive nature rings suspicious among the masses. None of them change the facts.

Perhaps it would make more sense if his co-founder was similar. However, Fiddleford McGucket is the polar opposite of Stanford Pines. He responds to interviewers asking about his computers. He makes speeches. He wanders around campus, stopping to chat with anyone who cares to listen. He's amiable and approachable as long as you can get past his rather extreme eccentricities, with an open-door policy and only one question he won't answer. If anyone builds up the guts to ask about Stanford Pines, and why he's so gosh darn reclusive, his only response is a sad, painful smile and a change of subject. In general, however, if one were to ask a given student of the institute where they could find Fiddleford McGucket, the chances are would be they'd be able to relay the information. However, like so much having to do with Stanford Pines, there is always a but.

At least three days a week, Fiddleford McGucket disappears for hours at a time. In theory, this would not be unusual. There's a section of the campus, slightly separate from the rest, dedicated to research. It takes much clearance to get to this area, for it is full of many very dangerous things. Some of the newer students fall under the misconseption that this is where he goes off to. However, there is a secretary at the entrance to this section of the campus, and when McGucket disappears, no amount of asking will get them to respond that he lies within. There is no summary of what he's there for, and there is no estimate of when he'll be back in his office. He is not there. For those hours, it's like he's vanished off the face of the planet.

There is another building seperated from the rest, barely visible through the trees. Tucked far behind the research area of the campus and heavily guarded at all times. No amount of clearance, or ID, or begging, will get anyone in. This place, most know, is where McGucket goes. No one can be certain, but there's a conviction there that this is the truth. It's the same way people know that this is where Stanford Pines resides. In those hours, McGucket disappears to the same nowhere at all that his co-founder lives.

No one tries to get there. Not anymore. There would be no point.

In order to do so, one would have to get into the research zone of campus. Already, this requires more clearance than most students could imagine. From there, one would have to go through a building only staff can open, at the very back of the campus, where only the most dangerous of research is kept. A security officer stands ever-vigilant at a back door leading to a winding pathway, intersected halfway through by a pair of guard stations. Past them lies a towering locked gate, centered in the midst of a towering electric fence. There is no guard station at the gate itself, though guards patrol the perimeter, even though the underbrush is too thick to walk through. There is no visible way to unlock the gate, but if one managed to get through regardless, they would find that the obstacles were still not over. The acre the fences encircle is thick with security, only some of which is human. It's impossible not to get caught, but if somehow, someone did, they would find themselves face to face with the sloped roof and charming wooden exterior so vaguely visible from the more well-trodden paths.

If one were to make it behind the reinforced door and yet one more pair of security guards, they would find nothing of note at all. In fact, were the windows not so thick, and the place not full of rooms with no place in a residence, and the path not so elaborate, and the whole area not so heavily reeking of isolation and uncanniness, one could almost mistake it for a normal home.

Inside, one would find Stanford Pines. Shorter than his head-and-shoulders shot makes him seem, and with a tangible air of melancholy about him that no projection could ever communicate.

Above all, Stanford Pines would appear incredibly alone, with only security, a McGucket Computer, and shelves upon shelves of books for company. If this someone who somehow managed to sneak in got lucky, they would arrive in this not-quite-a-home while McGucket had disappeared to there. They would find the two of them in deep conversation, and Stanford Pines would appear happier and more animated than most any living soul had seen him in decades, content in the company of his one connection; his shadow. Even when they had serious conversations, about the most serious topics in the world, something about him would be just that bit more lively. The visit would end, every time, with McGucket asking the same question. Every time, Pines would shake his head sadly as he responded; would the answer have been different, they both know that McGucket would have been informed long before he arrived.

Upon his co-founder's departure, one would be able to see Stanford Pines either sigh and sink right back into his melancholy, or the energy persist for another handful of hours. One would wonder why he was so reclusive, if he seemed so much brighter when he was among friends. One -- the impressive, unstoppable individual who managed to get into such a heavily monitored area -- would more than likely leave confused.

They wouldn't realize, unless they stayed within the bounds of the not-quite-home until it was far too late, what the hoards of security was designed for. Wouldn't realize that just as much as much as they are meant to keep someone out, they are also meant to keep someone in.

[abbacchiosbelt]

Jjba Bruno prompt #24 with interrogation :)

You're already shaking with nerves before you step into Bruno Buccellati's office. You'd only met him a scant few times after your family had come pleading to Passione for protection — and each time had unnerved you. His unnerving gaze seemed to hover on you when you were in his presence. You'd never willingly choose to stand in front of his office's doorstep, but a summons there by Bruno himself had forced your hand. Your family made it more than clear that saying 'no' wasn't a possibility.

Behind you sits some of his crew, their eyes burning into your back as you stand silently, your hand raised to knock. Your muscles refuse to let you move, and a bead of sweat begins to roll down the back of your neck. If you weren't sure your family would be punished for your disobedience, you'd turn tail and run as fast as you could.

Before you can move, the door in front of you swings open. You see Bruno seated behind his desk, and he beckons you forward with the crook of his finger. The question of how the door opened if he was sitting behind his desk was only a fleeting thought. You enter quickly and the door shuts seemingly by itself. Flustered already, you huff out a surprised noise, and you hear a low chuckle across the room.

He was amused by how nervous you were. Heat creeps up your neck as you swallow the verbal jab you wanted to throw at him. You hated Passione, and that extended to the man in front of you. It didn't matter that you'd heard good things about him from nearly everyone in the neighborhood - you refused to trust someone who aligned themselves with the mafia.

You finally come to stand in front of his desk. Though he was seated, it felt as if Bruno towered over you. His presence made the fight or flight instinct in your brain flare to life, and it was all you could do to not reconsider your earlier plan of running away.

"I assumed I wouldn't need to explain why I called you here today." Bruno offers no pleasantries as he immediately begins whatever it was he had planned to say to you. He doesn't give you time to reply, folding his arms on the table as he leans forward and continues to speak. "That blank look on your face when you stood at the door told me I was wrong."

You shift, uncomfortable. How did he know what you looked like when you were standing out there? Before you can question him, he gives you a look that keeps your mouth shut.

"Come here." Bruno gestures to his side of the desk, and you swallow thickly. What did he want? You follow his words, cringing inwardly at how easily you gave in to him. You hadn't even been able to choke out any words. He gives you an expectant look when you round his desk to stand before him. “No, not there, in my lap.”

You grimace, unable to stop yourself, and he smiles. "You really are naive. Your family didn't tell you what kind of deal they made, did they?"

You're pushed by an unknown force into Bruno's lap, awkwardly splayed across his legs. Your heart skitters in your chest, anxiety and fear clawing its way into your nervous system. It was all too much in such a short period of time when you hadn't even known why you were here in the first place.

You're held steady in Bruno's lap even though his arms remain on either side of the chair he sits in, his lips curled into a smile that made your skin crawl. "I suppose I shouldn't keep it from you any longer. When I told your parents of my interest in you, they jumped to find a way to make me happy." He pauses, letting his words sink in. "Today was the day we agreed you'd come into my possession, and in return, they'd get a hefty discount on their future fees."

"Wh-what? What the hell are you talking about?" You finally manage to find your voice, adrenaline surging. "You're lying. Just tell me how much my family owes, and I'll pay it."

Bruno begins to laugh, throwing his head back as if you'd told the funniest joke he'd heard in years. You don't know how to respond, wordlessly sitting on his lap until he finally stops.

"Sorry, sorry." He starts. "It's just, you really have no idea, do you? Your family owes multiple generations of debt. It didn't start with your family, but your parents were more than happy to pay their share by way of... well, you. And I told them I'd consider beginning to chip into their remaining debt if you behaved. I suppose they were too cowardly to tell you what they'd done before sending you to me."

Bruno sneers, as if they were the only ones making poor moralistic choices in the situation.

The pit in your stomach that had been growing before you'd walked into Bruno's office practically feels like a black hole now. You want to hold on to something, to grasp at something tangible, but any movement would put you closer to Bruno than you already were.

"Don't worry about them," Bruno interprets your silence as acceptance, unwilling to consider you'd feel any other way. "We'll make a new family. Together."

[bleue-flora]

You know, I feel like we don’t talk enough about how sensitive and painful scar tissue is. Maybe because most people haven’t had stitches and huge, deep cuts. But let me just share as someone who’s had quite a few surgeries and injuries, scars are really tender. Like I cut the side of my pinky pretty deeply and I couldn’t wear rings on my ring finger for like a year because the ring rubbing against it hurt so much. And after I got my eyebrow stitched up, I couldn’t pencil my brow for about a year and whenever my sunglasses bumped against it, it hurt so badly. The surgery scar I have on the base of my thumb from when I was 4 years old still hurts if I’m stretching or using my thumb too much. The bigger the scar the worse it is too, which makes sense. I have two scars about half a foot long on the inside of both of my knees and they took forever to not be super painful to touch, even now they can be a little sensitive. All that to say, even when a character’s injuries are healed they would still have a lot of pain and tenderness going on from any sort of touch, even months after, especially in the places with the most nerves. Just something to think about…

[random-non-shower-thoughts]

I'm sick of writers constantly complaining about how hard writing is and how they have to suffer for the craft and how you need to struggle to make it good. I find it so annoying

You are not being quirky or funny to beginning authors and writers, all you are doing is telling them that if they didn't bleed their soul on to the page it's shit and they should feel like shit. I fucking listened to this kind of mindset for years and spewed it to those around me. I was pretentious and told others this mindset was the only one and did nothing because I knew my writing was obviously a joke and not worth reading. Because that's what everyone else said. I didn't bleed, I was having fun. You had to crawl through hell and burn the first draft to spit on the ashes. I wasn't ready to publish because I was enjoying walking my little book babies across the page and doing what they wanted. The little characters knew what they wanted, so I had to rewrite and wrangle them in later. The couldn't just run around like the little ones they were.

And I was right, I wasn't ready. Not because of them, but because I kept swallowing the same slop about how writing is hard and that a first draft had to be shit. I rewrote my first baby and it suffered. I tried to fix it like all the others said, and killed that entire series. Four books, hundreds of thousands of words. DEAD. I will likely never touch them despite all I did to tell a compelling story with characters that were fun, interesting, and well-researched to represent multiple groups. I cannot get that spark back because I was convinced it was wrong. I never tasted enough bile by the nice first draft that was good enough for myself. RIGHT NOW. IT WAS ONLY WHAT I COULD DO NOW.

I legit gave up on ever publishing anything and convinced myself to just make it shit so maybe I could crawl out of the mud and build from scratch. It's what my professor did, and she was years into a book she still wasn't happy with. She insisted she knew the way to publish and we should do the same. How she struggles with typing and making notes for the next draft, how the next one would be better after a rewrite. I had to do the same. It was the only way...

I am so thankful that I did some research after that and found myself falling down a rabbit hole. I wasn't really ready to fully accept the mantra from my professor. Her words never sat right with me, and those who listened without question were quite frankly, too snobbish about white men making badly written black women and all showing zero energy around first drafts--good or bad. I had to get a new perspective. The itch to see more called me to find answers. I was off put by the way they worked like it was an obligation, not art.

And I found it with a group of authors far older and more experienced than myself in a writing blog. Not just the creator held a set of different beliefs and the entire community was excited to share entire books worth of advice for free online, including the author posting (physical copies cost money, but despite running a business, the information was so freely given). And I think the three most important pieces of advice I ever got from them and changed my life were:

Quality will always equal quality. There's is almost no other art form that I have seen talk less about this mindset. Compared to say, drawing, where they go in opposite direction and it's one of the most encouraged aspects of it. I do not see this as much in writing, unless you are boasting bad/shit drafts. This is not what this advice is talking about. This was explained to mean everything from first draft to publishing, the entire process. To go all the way with works put out there that might not be what you first imagined but can say was done. Get that stroy done and put out there so you can move on and learn from previous mistakes and lessons.

You can write a clean first draft. I mean this, throw away the idea what you have done in a moment of happiness or in a frenzy is inherently bad or flawed or needs to be scrapped for the second draft because you obviously need to fix it. It was pointed out that this was a new idea and absolutely a bad thing when you had limited resources and time (pulp fiction, times when you had to make your own supplies, you were not allowed access to better technology). Now that we have electronic word processers, it is now a thing to shit on a first draft because you technically can. But why? Why should you have to throw out your level of quality and care because you are putting your first words to the page. It will never be as good as what you write tomorrow, but that's because you have learned and practiced today. And if you start with shit, your entire foundation is. Show you care about what you write, and much like a house, if what you use for the base is good, the entire thing will have a better leg to stand on. Bricks can be replaced, the swamp you placed them on is going to be much harder.

Do not listen to the inner critic until the editing phase. You know that voice telling you something is off when you are using an editor? The one that sounds like a serious adult and points out all that needs fixing? It has its place, but never on the first draft. Embrace the three year old that is playing with the blocks and says why to everything, that embraces the absolute batshit ideas that whisper to you like a infatuated lover. This is all you should listen too (outlines can be a great guide, but who says you have to follow everything?) Treat the true muse, this fun writing voice, no different than a caregiver would with a child/pet playing at the park, and let it run wild. You can patch up bruises and cuts. You cannot take back telling them NO in a fit of anger. The muse is no different.

And honestly, after reading this, my life changed so much. It made me realize that while I am not where I want to be, I loved what I created in the meantime. I wanted to hold the hands of ideas pulling my sleeve. I wanted to go on an adventure and say, "Yeah, let's go! What should we see today? What monster is waiting for us to discover?"

I literally felt a joy and wrote again. Not right away (depression is a loving embrace and the softest of kissers) but I had not felt such love for myself since before I gave up. I found a character I had not let get tainted my poisoned mind and I treated them like they deserved (and realized some things about myself exploring their minds). Such a love was waiting to be found when I learned they wanted something bigger and pulled me into a new bigger world. I didn't need a novel writing month event to create more than 50k. I didn't care, I wanted them to find their loves and pain, victory and lessons learned. They helped me explore viewpoints outside myself (and throw away some hateful things I harbored about trans women and prostitution from my upbringing).

I bled for sure, but only because I needed to develop the callouses on my fingertips and to lick the blood from my lips as I embraced my muse like a irresistible lover. I found myself in the character I birthed from stardust and an elder god's love of the universe. I learned that if I did this again it would be different, but that's okay. I can go back and read my old works with pride and kind words. I loved what helped me reach this far with a smile and something fun I wanted to read.

I found that if I took a month or a day to pound out a chapter, I was okay. I could sit back and know dealing a closet death and pain was fine, I had something to look forward to when the waters calmed and I was going to be okay again. My muse didn't need me to poke and prod, I could let them slumber with me while my flesh was aching and tears stained my face. I could smoke and drink with my characters and they would be happy to laugh at all the stupid and silly things we can think of. I don't need to suffer when the world is so cold and harsh. It is okay to embrace the warmth of a fire I created in myself.

[pastawayallday]

So... i was cooking something.

It's not spiderverse and i gave up halfway with the shadows because i no longer have time to work on it, but i thought it was decent enough to put here.

Overall, it was a nice exercise.

[miasmaghoul]

Miasma, im a lil sick and if its not too much to ask could i get a lil fic of sick dew with mountain and swiss and cumulus taking care of dew? It'd mean a lot 🥺🥺❤️❤️. (Ty in advance for your consideration)

Sick little guy ahoy.

I hope you feel better soon! ♡

"Has anyone seen Dew this morning?" Cumulus pokes her head into the common room, searching for a telltale blond head.

Mountain shakes his head, not looking up from the pan of eggs he's in the middle of scrambling.

"Not yet," he rumbles, cracking some pepper into his breakfast. "He missed sunrise."

Well that's concerning; Dew never misses his early morning coffee with Mountain and they all know it. A grunt sounds from the couch, and Swiss's head appears over the arm of it.

"Haven't seen him since yesterday," he says, stifling a yawn. It's still early, and Swiss has never been a morning person. "Why, he owe you money or somethin'?" Cumulus rolls her eyes.

"He's supposed to help me organize the storehouse today," she informs them, watching Mountain pluck a few fresh chives from the base of one of his horns. He snips them into the pan, and her mouth waters. Mountain makes the best eggs. "I can't find him anywhere. I think he's hiding from me."

Swiss snorts out a laugh, shoving himself up and stretching both arms over his head.

"Sounds about right," he scratches at his chest, sauntering towards the kitchenette to steal a sausage link from the plate Mountain has prepared. He earns a wooden spoon to the knuckles for his trouble, but it's not enough to dissuade him. Mountain grumbles, but doesnt whack him again. Swiss plants a wet kiss on his cheek in thanks. "You check his room?" He leans against the counter, munching on his prize. Cumulus nods.

"I knocked," she confirms, crossing both arms over her chest, "he didn't answer." Swiss rolls his eyes, smirking.

"C'mon, Lus," he chides, popping the rest of the sausage into his mouth and licking grease from his thumb. "You really think he'd answer if he's hiding?"

That's...a fair point, actually. Cumulus pinches the bridge of her nose. She'd like it noted that it is still very early, and she can't be blamed for her brain not firing on all cylinders.

"You're probably right," she sighs, running manicured fingers through her curls. "I guess I'll go try again."

"Do you want breakfast first?" Mountain asks it over his shoulder, stirring a spoonful of creme fraiche into his eggs. "It's just about ready."

"I'll be right back," she assures him, giving the pair a wave. Hopefully with a grumpy little fire ghoul in tow. Swiss pushes away from the counter and pads his way over.

"I'll come with," he offers, "in case you need backup." Mountain trills in discontent and Swiss ruffles his hair, gives him a chuckle. "Hush, grasshopper. We'll be back before you know it."

Mountain grumbles regardless, but doesn't argue further. Swiss hooks an arm around her shoulders and Cumulus does the same to his waist, the pair of them striding down the hall towards the stairs that will take them to the dorms.

"It's not like Dew to miss sunup," Cumulus murmurs after a moment, chewing the inside of her cheek. She can count on one hand the number of times this has happened, and it's never been for anything good.

"I wouldn't worry," Swiss replies, giving her shoulder a squeeze, "you know how he gets when it comes to chores."

That much is true. If anyone is going to shirk duties, it's Dewdrop. Cumulus hums, but something in her isn't convinced. There's an unease in her belly, something not quite right. She doesn't speak on it though, the rest of their short journey made in silence. Soon enough, she's knocking on the little ghoul's door once again.

"Dew?" Cumulus calls through thick oak, Swiss leaning against the wall nearby. "You in there, sugar?" There's no response, and that wiggly feeling in her stomach grows.

"C'mon, firecracker," Swiss says, louder than Cumulus had been, "rise 'n shine, you got shit to do!" He wiggles the doorknob, but it doesn't move. Locked.

"I don't think he's here," Cumulus mumbles. Swiss is less convinced.

"One way to find out."

Swiss drops to his knees and presses a large palm just below the lock. Cumulus watches wide-eyed as tendrils of shadow leak from the tips of his fingers, slithering up into the keyhole like tiny snakes. Seconds later there's a clunking noise, and Swiss fixes her with a grin as he stands.

"That's new," she comments. Swiss gives her a wink that makes the little hairs on the back of the neck stand up.

"I'm full of surprises, sweetheart." The way he says it has her stomach fluttering for a different reason, but Cumulus tries not to think about it. She clears her throat, knocking one more time.

"Dew? We're coming in, okay?"

Once again, no response, and Cumulus pushes the door open with no further warning. They step into the little ghoul's room, and are greeted by darkness. Dew's curtains are still drawn, the only light leaking from between cracks in the heavy drapery. Swiss crosses the room to throw them open, letting the sun in and revealing an empty bed piled with messy blankets.

Now that they're in the room, though, she can hear water running, and it makes sense why Dew hadn't responded. He's in the shower. Of course he is, it's the only place he could be. She feels silly for being so worried in the first place.

Something, though, still doesn't feel quite right. She'd last knocked nearly thirty minutes ago, and Dew isn't the biggest fan of long showers. The worry bites at her again, and before she can stop herself Cumulus's legs carry her to the bathroom door.

"Dew, baby? You in there?" She knocks, presses her ear to the door, and over the rushing sound of the shower she hears...something. Soft whimpering. Then,

"L-Lulu?"

Cumulus shoves the door open without a second thought, spurred by the weakness in Dew's voice. She finds him sitting in the corner of his shower. Fully clothed, drenched and shaking like a leaf. Hugging his knees. There's steam rolling off of him in waves, and it takes a moment for her to realize that it isn't coming from the water itself.

It's coming from Dew.

"Lulu," he rasps, voice as shaky as he is, "p-please..."

Cumulus reaches through the spray and finds it icy cold, turning the faucet off before stepping into the stall, dropping to her knees.

"Dew? Dew, sweetie, what-"

Cumulus sets a hand on his shoulder and immediately puls it back with a gasp. Dew always runs hot, but right now he's boiling. The little ghoul stares at her with foggy eyes, blinking so slowly.

"Help."

Shit.

"It's okay, lovebug, I'm here." She rests a hand on his cheek despite the heat, stroking too-pale skin. "Swiss!" Cumulus calls, trying to keep the encroaching panic from leaking into her voice. It's a skill she's developed over the years, staying calm on the face of even the worst things. "Need a hand in here!"

Dew doesn't seem to know that she's speaking, breathing shallow though his mouth and leaning heavily into her hand. He looks half dead, pasty and gray. Swiss pads in a moment later, and Cumulus hears him suck air through his teeth. She doesn't bother acknowledging it.

"He's roasting," she says gently, eyes never leaving Dew's face. She's not sure he can see her, but she's not going to risk it. "Help me get him out of here, would you?"

Swiss doesn't hesitate, stepping into the stall to scoop the suffering ghoul up in strong arms and hissing at the heat of him.

"You aren't kidding," he murmurs, carrying Dew back to the bedroom. Cumulus follows close behind, shedding her now-soaked leggings along the way.

"He must have finally picked up the bug we had the other week," she says, mostly to herself. Dew is their defacto caretaker when sickness hits, his natural heat keeping him insulated from the ills that float around the abbey from time to time. When it does hit him, though, he suffers. Mightily.

"Guess so."

Swiss sounds concerned now too, a rare tone. He sets Dew down in his desk chair, the little ghoul whining and clinging to him with weak limbs. He strips Dew with careful hands while Cumulus gathers a change of clothes from his dresser - an old shirt of Aether's and a pair of sweats that must have been Rain's at some point. They're too long, but they'll be warm and that's what matters.

She and Swiss work together to get him dry, Swiss channeling his fire to blend with her air and pulling the moisture from his skin and hair. Dew shivers through it, and through the pair of them getting him dressed again. He looks so tiny in the oversized clothes, and Cumulus's heart clenches. Poor thing must be miserable. She certainly was when she was stuck with this garbage.

"You'll be okay, bug," she assures him, tucking a stray hair behind his ear. "You'll be okay."

Swiss picks him up again once he's dressed, the little ghoul unconsciously burying his face in Swiss's chest for comfort. He deposits Dew on the mattress, only stepping back long enough to pull off his own shirt before crawling in after him. He hauls Dew onto his bare chest, that slight body limp and obviously heavy. Cumulus follows, organizing the blankets enough to get the pair of them covered. Swiss is already sweating by the time she's done, focusing his own power to draw some of the heat from Dew's trembling form.

"He's in bad shape." The other ghoul strokes Dew's back under the covers, and Cumulus nods.

"Yeah," she agrees, tucking a blanket around Dew's shoulders. "Where's Aether when you need him?" Of course this would happen the one week their resident healer was away, he and Rain accompanying Papa on a press junket.

"Seriously," Swiss huffs, forcing a chuckle. He presses a kiss into Dew's hair. "Guess it's up to us to play doctor for a change."

Cumulus sighs, perching herself on the edge of the bed and rubbing Dew's leg though the blanket. They sit in silence for a few long minutes, the quiet broken only by the little ghoul's soft, distressed whines. Swiss keeps his lips pressed to temple, gauging his temperature through thin skin.

"There you are."

The voice makes them both jolt, and Dew makes the saddest little sound until Swiss settles again. Cumulus turns to find Mountain in the doorway, a large tray in his hands and a crease between his brows.

"I figured I'd find you all in his bed, but uh. Not quite like this."

Cumulus can't help her sad smile.

"Little guy's sick," she says, barely more than a whisper. "Nasty fever, like we all had."

Mountain's frown deepens. He sets the tray on Dew's desk and Cumulus sees that's it's full to bursting with a wonderful spread. Eggs, sausages, toast and fruit. It's easily enough food for for all of them, and alongside it all are four steaming mugs. Two have teabags, the other two black coffee. The ideal breakfast in bed.

She hopes it won't go to waste.

"I can help," Mountain says, eyes slipping closed.

Cumulus raises an eyebrow, but before she can ask how she's greeted by small clusters of white flowers blooming at the crown of Mountain's head. He plucks them carefully, crushing the tiny blossoms between his palms and dropping them into one of the mugs of tea.

"Elderflower," he says by way of explanation. "It's a natural fever reducer." Mountain gives the concoction a stir, licking his spoon clean with a satisfied nod. "Tastes nice too. Can he sit up?"

"Dunno," Swiss rasps, now visibly drenched in sweat. Dew has more or less stopped shaking, though, so that's a positive. "He's pretty weak."

"We have to try," Cumulus whispers, biting her lip, "before his brain poaches."

Swiss chuffs out a laugh, one echoed by Mountain, and together they work to get Dew into the proper position. Swiss moves himself to the headboard, and Mountain lifts the little ghoul with no effort. Arranges him to sit against Swiss's chest, head tipped back against his shoulder. Cumulus gathers the mug and spoon while Mountain climbs in next to them, getting a large hand on the back of Dew's neck to keep him upright. Cumulus settles herself between Swiss's legs, kneeling and giving the drink in hand a stir.

"Dew? Sweetheart?" Swiss gives the little ghoul's waist a squeeze as Cumulus speaks, Mountain rubbing a thumb along his hairline. Dew blinks up at her, hazy and lost.

"Mngh...Lus?" Cumulus smiles, stokes his cheek.

"That's right, baby," she coos, offering him a small smile.

"Wha...wha's goin' on?" He squirms a little in Swiss's arms, but he has no energy to fight.

"You're sick, Sparky," Swiss breathes into his ear, kissing just behind it. Dew makes a soft sound, drooping against Swiss's chest. "Don't worry, we're here to help."

"Mount made you some medicine," Cumulus tells him, tapping the spoon against the rim of the mug. "It'll help. I'm going to feed it to you, alright?"

Like he's in any condition to argue.

Dew gives a weak nod, and there's no more talking after that. Cumulus feeds him the tea spoonful by spoonful, the floral scent of it permeating the air around them. Dew hums after each sip, licking at his lips every now in then. It takes a while to get the full mug into him, and by the time they're done Dew's barely conscious.

He's boneless between Swiss's legs, supported only by his arms and Mountain's hand. Cumulus sets the mug to the side once he's done and the others waste no time in getting Dew settled back into the bed. Laying him out on the center on the mattress, Swiss molding himself to the little ghoul's back. Mountain gets up long enough to take his shirt off, and in the process Cumulus catches him glancing at the breakfast tray he'd brought. She rests a kind hand on his bicep.

"I'm sorry," she says, a genuine apology. "We should have come and told you what was happening, but Dew-"

"Shh," Mountain soothes, dropping a kiss between her horns. "It's alright, Lus. There are worse things than cold eggs." She smiles up at him.

"I'll make it up to you," she promises, and Mountain will certainly hold her to that. She knows from experience. She stands on her tiptoes to kiss his collarbone, and Mountain gives her ass an affectionate squeeze.

"Lulu," comes a sad little voice from the bed, and the ghoulette turns to find a spidery hand reaching for her. "'mere."

Who is she to say no to that?

Cumulus climbs in where Mountain had been earlier, pressing a soft kiss to the little ghoul's forehead. It's a touch cooler than it was earlier. That's a good sign. Dew snakes an arm around her waist, nuzzles into the softness of her chest, and to their shared delight a rusty purr kicks up in Dew's chest.

Swiss wraps his arm around the both of them, and Cumulus hums. The blankets shift and Mountain makes himself comfortable at her back, mirroring Swiss's position and getting them all tucked in.

"Rest, now," she whispers, knocking her horns against Dew's affectionately. "You'll feel better soon." Dew whines, tired eyes searching hers.

"Promise?"

Cumulus kisses his cheek.

"Promise."

Dew drifts off quickly after that, and the rest if them are content to let him. Content to care for him as he cared for them.

It's the least they can do for their favorite little fire ghoul.

[atticoratticus]

im always going to be so glad that Rollo didnt get a 'redemption' scene or even really change his ideals or goals at the end of GloMas. Even though thats likely something a lot of people might want (hell, Ive even seen some people say his lack of change was 'bad writing'), its just not realistic. Development doesnt happen instantaneously, especially not when someone doesnt even WANT to change in the first place.

While the confrontation with Idia, Malleus, and Azul might have sparked some sort of realization in him, this is a matter of changing something he has thought for YEARS. We dont know how old he was was his brother died, but it was obviously young. This is a hatred hes let fester ever since then, and its presumably only grown stronger with time. His grudge against magic and magic users is embedded in him, and it takes a LOT to actually change that sort of thing.

And, as I said before, Rollo doesn't want to change. He says it flat-out after hes defeated - his defeat might have been a roadblock, but hes still going to keep trying to eradicate magic (obviously not an exact quote, but thats basically the meaning in what he did say). Theres no sudden realization of 'maybe im wrong' or 'maybe I should change my ways', because those sorts of sudden developments are not accurate to his character.

Rollo as a whole is incredibly set in his ways, even down to the exact meal he eats for lunch every day of the year and the type of stationary he uses. He is all about careful self control and routine, not to mention the fact that he is likely INCREDIBLY stubborn. He just isnt the type to make hugely impactful changes to himself at the drop of the hat.

I do think its possible for him to eventually learn to let go of his hatred in the future, but that would also require him to actually open up to people and allow himself to face this head-on rather than falling back on habits - something that he is very averse to and in itself will take a lot of development on his end in order to happen.

Such a major change is something you work on over the span of months to YEARS, not a single night. Rollo not doing a 180 change isnt bad writing, its realistic.

[hey-haven]

I cannot be silenced! Yuuki Mishima you deserve better!!!!

Looking back I do think it’s kindaaaaa gross how Mishima was treated by both the writers and the fandom. I do think between this and Baby Reindeer (work with me here) people really can’t grasp the idea of a flawed victim.

When it comes to the media, people are more willing to accept a palatable victim. Someone who is either a completely helpless damsel in distress, or someone who can bravely fight back and overcome their abuser and grow stronger from it. But that’s just not how it really works a lot of the time.

I remember when Baby Reindeer came out, there were a good handful of viewers who would go as far as to say that Donny deserved the abuse he was receiving because he was essentially enabling Martha in some way. And then we peel back the curtains and learn the reason why he enables her is actually, arguably, far more horrific than we could have thought.

People didn’t like that he didn’t do the just and noble thing right away, but that’s frankly why I like the story so much. Survivors of abuse don’t just come out the other side fully grown and matured from their experience. They will have to deal with issues that have branched out from the seed that was the abuse. Sometimes we will learn to bite back as a way to cope. Sometimes we can become desperate, clingy, avoidant, angry, violent, paranoid, we can end up hurting someone else. It’s not good and people have every right to be angry when survivors do something bad, but that’s sadly how some people become after dealing with abuse.

So no, the perfect victim you see in stories are almost never real.

Abuse doesn’t make stable individuals. Quite the opposite really. I think it makes a lot of sense for Mishima’s story to go the way it did. Someone who was isolated for years because he was bullied throughout middle school only to become one of the main targets of an abusive, power hungry teacher? No yeah, I see why Yuuki became obsessed with fame and attention. I see why he is extremely clingy to the protagonist. It’s all obvious signs of a sad kid who finally found some form of connection and is desperate to hold on to that. Obviously what he did was not good, but the story makes that very clear. It’s not like they ever tried to excuse his behavior.

I think it’s gross how people whittle him down as some annoying pest, when the thing that made him so clingy and obsessive is years of isolation, bullying, and physical abuse/manipulation. I’m not saying you can’t find those aspects annoying, I very much get why it can be. Even I have moments where I go “dude I can’t keep defending you”. That being said, I do think people should be more willing to step back and look at the bigger picture.

Yuuki actually takes the steps to better himself without the Phantom Thieves changing his heart, which goes to show that he actually has a very strong will and moral compass even if it does lose its way now and again. His healing won’t be linear, but he is trying. I think that makes him a stronger person than people give him credit for

[tempestandwhirlwinds]

Spoilers for the Percy Jackson TV show and books:

I have actually loved all the little changes and additions they've been adding to the story omg. Since Rick is actually heavily involved with everything, it feels like he's editing the story he wrote over a decade ago, and as the author that must be SO satisfying. He's leaning so much harder into the narrative parallel between Percy and Luke. Granted, it has been a while since I've read (and reread) the series, but it seems like Percy is much angrier at his dad for abandoning him (and his mother, especially). The whole scene where Percy says in his prayer to his mom "I'm gonna make him come down here and see me, and to see us"? I feel like we didn't get kind of anger from Percy until later in the series, and damn it feels good it see! Like yeah, Percy, you should be fucking mad! Also, emphasizing the connection to his mom (I'm Sally Jackson's son!) and refusing to go on the quest for a father that never did jack shit for him, even at the cost of the world? this perfectly shows how much of a problem and a threat the gods consider Percy later down the line. This kid is rebellious, stubborn, and will not be pushed around by the gods - the way he was being yelled at my Dionysus to take the quest and that little 12 yr old boy just yelled right back at him??? King shit. Percy is motivated by love, not power, not glory, and the gods can't help but feel threatened by that. He'll save the world, but not for the gods or even the rest of humanity, but on the off chance that he'll see his mother again. God I love this series.

[granadahvlmes]

"A Scandal in Bohemia" and Watson's Loyalty

This is (hopefully) the first in a series of short essays inspired by @fruitviking on the following prompt:

Someone (I would like it to be me but I don't have the time right now) ought to write an essay on the recontextualising of the Adventures and Memoirs stories in light of the fact that they are written posthumously.

[dusts off English lit degree]

In A Scandal in Bohemia, when Holmes says, “I am lost without my Boswell,” the moment reveals a rare vulnerability in a man known for his logic and detachment. At first, it might seem like a wry compliment, gentle teasing between companions, a simple nod to Watson’s steady presence. But through the lens of grief, this statement becomes deeper—a quiet acknowledgment of need.

In Watson’s retelling, this moment sharpens, infused with regret and the weight of hindsight. Holmes’s composed words might conceal a hidden desperation, a recognition that even the sharpest mind is not immune to loneliness. To Watson, this may appear not only as a compliment but as a glimpse into Holmes’s unspoken fears: that his brilliance was both his gift and his burden, with Watson as the one who helped carry it.

Holmes’s insistence that Watson stay for the case, despite Watson’s new marriage and independent life, feels urgent—a plea from a man who knows the power of his own solitude, and its limits. Does Watson recall this moment as proof of their unbreakable bond, or because it reminds him of the times he wasn’t there? Does this request, framed as practical, linger in Watson’s memory as one of Holmes’s unspoken vulnerabilities—left unanswered?

Holmes famously immortalizes Irene Adler as “the woman,” the one who outsmarted him and forever altered his perception of her. In that same moment, Holmes immortalizes Watson—not just as his chronicler but as the companion who makes the crushing weight of genius bearable. For Watson, this elevation is bittersweet. Being Holmes’s “Boswell” is both an honor and an unbearable standard, one he tried to meet but that feels incomplete in Holmes’s absence.

Watson may not ask outright, but certain questions haunt his memories: Did I notice the strain in his words? Did I stay when I should have, or leave too quickly for my own life’s comforts? These unspoken doubts turn happy recollections into shadows of regret.

The story’s final scenes grow more poignant through the lens of Watson’s grief. Irene Adler’s escape, which Holmes accepts with his usual stoicism, mirrors Watson’s quiet futility in revisiting their cases. He can record them, preserve them, even celebrate them—but he cannot relive them. In this light, Holmes’s insistence that Watson stay feels less about Adler’s mystery and more about their shared legacy. Watson, writing later with the ache of loss, might linger on this moment because it represents what he fears he overlooked: the quiet but profound reliance Holmes placed on him.

For Holmes, Adler was a woman who surpassed his expectations. For Watson, he was the man who grounded Holmes. Yet in looking back, Watson’s reflections are laced with anguish. Did Holmes lean on him too much, or did Watson fail to see the needs Holmes hid behind his brilliance? If Holmes was lost without his Boswell, Watson now finds himself equally lost—haunted by the thought that he never fully grasped how much his presence mattered.

The story’s ending, set against the eventual shadow of Reichenbach, shifts from triumph to quiet devastation. Holmes’s request that Watson stay echoes as a memory Watson cannot release—a lingering question without resolution. It serves as a reminder not just of their bond but of time’s fragility, of the chances Watson fears he missed to do more or be more.

Watson’s recollections carry an undercurrent of unease, a subtle sense that the connection he shared with Holmes was fleeting. The specter of Reichenbach looms just out of reach, turning A Scandal in Bohemia from a clever victory over an adversary into a poignant elegy for moments Watson never realized were slipping away.

In the end, Holmes’s declaration—“I am lost without my Boswell”—resonates throughout Watson’s narrative, a refrain of need he cannot silence. It is a reminder of the times he stood by Holmes and the moments he could not, of the irrevocable cost of those silences, made heavier by the weight of grief.

[spenpy]

eugh whos this clown (shakes him)

[drowningincumdownhere]

feeling soooo soft rn. i want to take care of a puppy/bunny/kitten/etc., especially one who's had a rough day.

i want to take a bath or shower with them and take my time making sure they're all clean and relaxed, kissing them all over as i do, and really who can blame me for getting down on my knees and enjoying how good they taste and what pretty noises they make when they cum?

once we're done, i'd wrap them in a big fluffy robe (staying naked myself) before leading them to bed, where i'd start playing their favorite movie on my laptop and we cuddle real close. well, it starts as just cuddling. before long, my hands would start to wander, finding their way under the robe and teasing them oh so gently.

after a while, probably about halfway through the movie, i'd untie the robe and start edging them, stopping touching them entirely if they made too much noise or tried to touch themself or me.

pay attention to the movie, [puppy/bunny/kitten/etc]. be good for me, and i'll give you what you want.

once the movie's over, i'd finally let them cum and make them lick up the mess they made on my hand before guiding them in between my legs.

look how hard you made me, being such a good [puppy/bunny/kitten/etc]. i'd stroke their cheek as i move my hand to the back of their neck. what are you going to do about that, my sweet [boy/girl/pet]?

if they're good, they'd start sucking my achingly hard cock, but the hand on their neck is there to... encourage... them if they need it.

i wouldn't immediately start fucking their face, but they feel so good, it wouldn't take long for me to start, all the while being very vocal- moaning and praising them, how good they are at taking my cock, how pretty/handsome they are like this, that sort of thing. all the things i know they like hearing.

i'd stop when i feel myself getting close- as much as i love cumming down their throat, i've got other plans tonight.

don't think i didn't notice you humping the mattress, when you've already cum twice tonight. what a needy slut my precious [puppy/bunny/kitten/etc] is. up on all fours, so i can breed you properly.

[viciousbite]

@end1essrage asked; [ BRUISE ] for one muse to punch the other. @ darkfang 

Darker Thrilling Prompts

This wasn't the way Darkfang wanted to introduce himself, oh no, but he didn't regret it either, not yet. He wasn't the best at conversing with other mechs, nor doing things the normal way. He was fresh to freedom, and at the first sight of 'entertainment', he followed. Quietly at first, making no noise, but alas everything crashed down eventually and his presence had been spotted and he twisted a few mech's processors the wrong way. Instead of surrendering himself calmly, he lashed out. A few mech's had ended up on the ground twitching, paralyzed from his venom.

Darkfang's frame sported small scratches here and there, his tail flicked defensively around his frame. The one mech who gained his interest in the first place, had come on scene. And here they were, the present. Action before processing a thought, Darkfang pounced towards Megatron, frame quick and agile, but not quick enough. The golden blade upon his gauntlet slashed at empty air, and the pressure of tough metal collided against the side of his faceplates. The collision caused Darkfang's frame getting flung backwards until his back collided against the ground with a metal screeching sound.

The snake-like Mech hissed and cursed to himself, scrambling back onto his pedes with energon dripping from his faceplates. The golden finials at the side of his helm twitched and momentarily trembled, showing the second of fear crossing through his processors. His other golden optic flickered a few times before it refocused upon the larger Mech. "Hah, What a lovely group of mechs you have here. I must say, they are quite more entertaining than the one's in the city. and you, oh, finally got your scary red optics on me." He opened his fanged mouth and the corners of his lips pulled up into a grin.

"All I can promise you is, this ain't anything personal." He chuckled, and dashed towards Megatron. No, it wasn't anything personal, it was his 'bad' way to gain attention and to see that the Mech before him was as strong as he'd heard. His processors were screaming for him to stop, back away, this wasn't a mech to mess with. His pedes kept going until he reached the Mech, servos curled into a fist, and he went straight for his face. And if that didn't work, the next strike came from his extra appendage, a long mechanical tail that swung towards Megatron's legs to try and get him off balance. What he didn't process was, what he'd do after, he didn't want to get offlined if he lost, no-- He, did he want to stay here? Or go back to the city? Something for him to process once the result of his actions came into a conclusion, that is, if he survived in one piece.

[boxfullaturtles]

Donnie + gagged and/or drugged

If he ever gets out of this chair, Donnie's going to cut out Kendra's tongue so he doesn't have to hear her stupid voice anymore.

She's spent the last ten minutes gloating and rubbing it in his face that she has him tied up and at her mercy. He's given up interrupting her because the banter's gotten boring. And his wrists are starting to hurt from the bindings holding him to the chair.

"--which means we obviously need you and your dumb brothers out of the way for a while," Kendra's saying, pacing in front of him as she preaches, "So in a few minutes we're gonna have a visitor. They're gonna give me a shit ton of money...and we're gonna give you to them. Don't worry, they take care of exotic animals, I'm sure you'll be fine."

That makes his temper flair, "Animal!? ANIMAL!? I am not some pet! This is human trafficking!" He snarls, wrenching against his restraints.

"It might be...if you were human," Kendra laughs, cruel and nasty and cold. Jeremy looks smug. Jase is nowhere to be seen.

Donnie snaps his teeth in frustration and decides he doesn't want to stick around to play her game anymore. His markings flicker as he calls his mystic powers to the surface. Constructs are clicking into an array of guns around him when a needle bites into his elbows. It breaks his concentration and he whips his head around to glare at Jase, who'd snuck up behind the chair while Donnie had been preoccupied by Kendra.

Fuck.

There's an empty syringe in his hand. Donnie's heart pounds in his chest as his gaze snags on it. He looks up sharply at Jase, who won't meet his eyes, and then turns to stare at Kendra.

"What did you do? What was in that?"

"You need to be less...bitey for our client," Kendra says with that mean smile of hers, "Rellaaaxxx, it'll make you feel good, Von Ryan. It'll be the best trip you've ever had."

Panic is making his breath come faster. Drugged. She's drugged him. And he swears he can feel it surging through his veins, his frantic heart pumping it through the rest of his body. He's never done hard drugs; he and Leo had the curious bit of weed every now and then but even that was a rare thing, done only in the confines of secrecy and solitude when they knew without a shadow of a doubt that they would not need their wits about them for several hours.

"Kendra--" Donnie chokes on his voice. This is ludicrous. It doesn't feel real. Sure, the Purple Dragons have tried to kill him and his brothers half a dozen times, but they're too stupid and incompetent to actually do it.

But now Donnie's tied to a chair, at their mercy, and he--

His head feels strange.

The room has started tilting like the deck of a ship. (He’s never been on a ship at sea. He's never been to the ocean.) He sways, rocks, his body is loosely connected by sinew and bone, wet meat and hot blood. Inefficient and easily damaged.

He doesn't like this. It's weird. Everything's wrong.

The world groans and vibrates with movements and sound. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to block it all out. His own breath whistles down his throat and he can feel the creak of his lungs expanding balloons, pushing his plastron, stretching his flesh, muscles flexing and contracting, organs settling, blood racing--

Fingers dig into his face, tilt his head up, and he blinks against the lights. There's someone leaning over him, bigger than Kendra. A stranger. Donnie whines, feels the sound vibrate in his skull (he can count the vertebrae in his spine and so can Leo). His eyes roll. The stranger's touch is poison ivy; it makes his flesh itch and burn. He tries to pull away but they tighten their hold, grinding into his jaw bones. There are voices but he can't remember what sounds words make and he only catches a few things.

"-------old did you------------looks young---------"

"----teen I guess------never asked."

The stranger's thick fingers pry Donnie's mouth open, running a clinical finger over his gums and examining his teeth. He lets out a garbled wretch. He can taste the atoms that make them up, every place they've been sticking to their filthy hands, smearing dirt inside his mouth (stop stop stop stopstopstopstoptstop). But he doesn't have the strength to resist or even spit the horrid flavor out. He's floating a million miles away. There are stars in his bloodstream.

Hands leave heat trails over Donnie's arms and down his plastron. His gear is peeled away, the bindings removed. Some distant part of him screams to run, but his body and mind giggle and remain boneless rubber.

"----like this or------"

"----bites-------dose of some-------"

His body jerks, slumping forward. Someone's trying to pry the battleshell off his back and he lets out a high pitched keen that pops in his own eardrums.

("Don't be afraid, little Hamato...")

No. No no no no nononononono--

("You are not alone.")

Violet neon light erupts around him, blinding and avenging.

The world turns with rapid click click click click click.

A blaze of noise. He's dropped, the stranger's hands are gone. He hits the floor and he can hardly breathe, his head spinning in a million different directions, trickling into electrical outlets and clambering up grounding lines.

He's spread so thin...

...what was his name again? (where are his brothers?)

There's something sticky and warm on his hands. On his chest. It smells like iron. Metal and heat and something grinding to a halt. A dead engine. Ozone.

No one's touching him anymore.

The universe has gone quiet.