#or fog particles or just anything

[stonebutchery]

renter's hack for smoke detectors that just go off at random no matter how many fresh 9 volt batteries i stick in them: just disable them entirely. if i die, i die.

[marvelstoriesepic]

Whumpcember (day 27)

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Prompt: Hypothermia

Word Count: 3.3k

Warnings: vivid descriptions of hypothermia; desperate!Bucky; Hydra; slight mentions of Bucky’s past

Masterlist | Whumpcember Masterlist

Pang. Pang. Pang.

It’s almost rhythmic, the way Bucky’s metal fist hits the strong, reinforced door of the room you’re trapped in.

You stand off to the side, pressing a finger to your earpiece, trying once more to summon aid.

Only static answers you, sharp and grating, hissing in your ear. You grit your teeth.

Bucky lets out a frustrated grunt and slams his fist harder.

You step forward, intending to tell him to stop, to conserve his strength, to redirect his anger into a better plan since the door doesn’t seem to budge at all.

But then you notice it, the faintest shift in the room.

Your skin tingles at the back of your neck and underneath your tactical suit.

The air is sharper. It’s colder.

You glance up at the small vents near the ceiling and find their slotted mouths releasing thin, ghostly fog that drifts downward.

Your stomach plummets to the ground.

“Bucky,” you say, voice quieter than you intended, eyes still on the vents.

Bucky doesn’t turn, but his hits have stopped. His metal fist rests against the door. You make out his head tilting slightly, acknowledging you.

“Bucky,” you repeat, more insistent, more warningly. “Look!”

He does turn now, his eyes on you before moving up to where you are looking. His gaze narrows as the fog becomes more visible, coiling in haphazard spirals before dissipating.

He doesn’t say anything, but the way his jaw tightens, the way his body turns to solid stone says he understands.

He then takes a step toward the control panel, his metal arm flexing instinctively. “We need to figure out how to shut this down. Fast.”

But you don’t know how fast you can make it.

The room already feels smaller, the walls seeming to close in, their cold presence pressing against you. You rub your arms, trying to ward off the frost spreading in the air.

But your cheeks start to sting and your skin tightens.

You are trapped in the sterile and metallic control room of a Hydra facility.

And if that wasn’t bad enough already, it’s not just a control hub. It’s also a containment chamber, and how it looks like, designed to neutralize intruders by pumping in freezing air when someone attempts to tamper with the control systems.

And since that’s the only reason you are in here, you fell for it.

Surveillance suggested the base holds remnants of sensitive data Hydra has been safeguarding, with a high likelihood that it could detail sleeper agents or hidden cells.

Bucky and you were paired and tasked with accessing the main control room, disabling the security grid, and providing an opening for the rest of the team to neutralize the facility.

And well, that didn’t go as planned.

Hydra has always been cruelly inventive and the freezing protocol seems as effective as inhumane to you.

Bucky immediately started to react the second a low beep emitted from the console, followed by an ominous hiss as the lights overhead flickered and shifted to an emergency red glow.

And he would have made it out before the heavy door slammed shut behind you since he’d been guarding the entrance.

But only without you.

And that didn’t seem to be an option for him.

You tried again and again to call out to the team.

Though it was futile from the start.

The base’s interior is heavily shielded, preventing outside communication.

Your teammates had a backup plan to breach the outer defenses if you two went radio silent, so they wouldn’t immediately realize something was wrong until it was too late.

The frost freezes up the walls, tiny ice particles wandering along the surfaces.

The air you draw into your lungs feels sharp, like shards of ice scraping the back of your throat.

Your muscles contract, huddling inward in a futile attempt to shield themselves.

Stiff and numb fingers try to tap against the slowly freezing metal of the console, but your movements are turning clumsy.

Bucky walks over to you. He seems to hold up better than you, but you see that this situation gnaws at him. His frown is in place, his shoulders are rigid and you don’t want to know the places his mind is traveling.

After all, this is not his first encounter with Hydras frost for him.

He looks over the consoles in front of you, glancing over the wires and frozen circuits.

“I don’t think p-punching it will help.” You try to say it lightly, bringing in some humor in your situation but your voice is shaking as much as your body.

Bucky gives you a sidelong glance. “You’d be surprised how often that works,” he deadpans.

You try to laugh but it falls flat.

The icy mist tumbles through the air so innocently, making it colder and colder, and then pounces on you so piercingly intense, it makes your breaths falter.

Warmth feels so far away. Seconds are stretching.

Bucky doesn’t glance back at the console.

He is watching you with furrowed brows.

His flesh hand brushes over your arm, trying to gauge your condition.

“Hey,” he says, almost sharply, but so full of concern. “You with me?”

You nod, but it’s sluggish. Unconvincing. Your teeth chatter as you try to speak. “I’m- I’m fine.”

Bucky grits his teeth, his jaw working roughly. “Don’t lie to me.” His voice sounds thick.

He pulls you close then. His arms wrap around you with a firmness that feels protective, desperate even.

You don’t resist, wouldn’t even have the strength to, and lean into him. Your body is shaking against him, your muscles seizing violently. It drains you rapidly. You do your best to try and let the warmth of his body temperature battle against the cold settling into your skin and sinking deep and even deeper into your bones.

It crawls into your ears, turning them numb and unresponsive. Sounds seem muted, as if the chill has even frozen the air’s ability to carry them.

The temperature drops and drops so rapidly.

You feel Bucky’s head right beside yours. His breath fanning over your cheek. “Stay upright, sweetheart. Alright? Don’t sit down. Try and move your legs.”

With that order, he brushes a trembling hand against your cheek for a split second before reluctantly letting go of you and storming toward the door again with clenched fists.

Another pang sounds out as Bucky slams his fist against the steel door again, each strike reverberating through the room. His hits are more frantic than before and there is no rhythm at all.

“Come on!” he shouts, his voice cracking.

The door doesn’t budge and he lets out a guttural roar, his fist slamming against the unyielding surface one last time before turning back to you.

You really tried.

You tried to follow his orders and stay upright, perhaps move through the room and keep yourself in motion.

But your knees were so weak and you let them crumble.

With an anguished sound that might have been your name, Bucky rushes back to you, dropping to his knees.

Your head dips forward before jerking back up, fighting to stay conscious.

“No! Y/n! You’re not doing this. Stay with me.”

You try to smile but it’s weak. “I’m just- just tired,” you murmur, voice slurring.

“No,” he snaps, shaking you just enough to make you focus on him. His eyes are wide, frantic. “You don’t get to sleep, you hear me? You sleep, you die!”

He’s pressing you against him, holding you so tightly.

The cold claims your flesh and veins. Your blood feels slowed.

His flesh hand cups your cheek, his thumb brushing against your freezing skin in a way that’s almost tender, though his voice is anything but soft.

“You don’t get to do this to me,” he growls, his lips close to your ear. “You don’t.”

There has been pain. In your toes, your fingers, your ears.

But you feel it fade. And you know you should panic, because this is a terrible sign. But your mind becomes singular in its focus, so obsessed with the absence of heat, the ache of it so intense and pervasive, there is no room for much else.

Exhaustion tries to close your eyes. It weighs you down, trying to make you stop moving at all.

But you fight. You fight against your own body.

Bucky’s flesh hand trembles against you, though whether from the cold or the panic, you’re not sure.

His eyes are jumping across the room, from the control panel, to the vents, to the door, and back to you.

Bucky’s breath comes fast, visible puffs of white in the freezing air. You hear him faintly mutter to himself. Or rather curse.

All you manage is to let out a sigh. The exhale lets a tiny ghost rise before your face. But it fades too quickly. Your breathing began to slow already.

Bucky presses his forehead against yours, rocking you slightly in his lap, tightly cradled against his chest to keep you moving and give you more of his warmth. His stubble brushes against your icy skin.

You meet his eyes, but your gaze is weak.

His gaze is wild. Darting between focus and frenzy. His brows are knit together so tightly, forming deep creases that dig into his forehead like scars of desperation.

“Stick with me, alright? We’ll get outta here,” he breathes. But he barely even managed that. And it sounds more like a plea than a promise.

You nod faintly against him. Your eyes fall shut for a moment.

“No, no, no,” he croaks out, rocking you more forcefully. “Eyes on me, doll! Come on.”

Your eyelids feel frozen together but you manage to break through. Though it takes so much energy.

But looking back at Bucky’s expression might even be harder.

His lips are trembling at the corners. His eyes are glassy and so intense, shimmering with a desperation so vivid, it seems to cry out silently.

“Hold tight, sweetheart.” He swallows. “There’s gotta be somethin’ we can do. Something to stop this.”

His words are fierce, determined, but his gaze says something else entirely as he sweeps his frantic eyes across the room once again.

You’re trying your best to help, scanning the space through the haze clouding your vision, coming from the freezing mist.

You notice something. It’s barely noticeable against the frost-covered wall but the sight of it roots you in place, not from the cold this time.

Since Bucky’s arms are still pressing you to him, he feels you stiffen against his chest. But to be real, he would have noticed if you were across the room. His sharp instincts are always in tune with you, even more so in this freezing hell.

“What is it?” he demands, his voice rough with concern. His flesh fingers brush your face, coaxing your attention back to him. “You got something in mind?”

You don’t meet his eyes. Instead, you shake your head faintly. A weak denial, that falters the second you try to hold onto it.

“Doll,” he warns, his tone low, his desperation edging in. Your silence is unnerving him. “Talk to me. What is it?”

You let out a shallow breath. It’s fragile, just like you, trembling and on the verge of breaking.

Bucky’s grip on you tightens.

“C’mon, sweetheart. I really need you to talk to me.” His voice is strained. “If you’ve got an idea, tell me. Whatever it is, we’ll make it work.”

The frost crackles in the background.

You let out a sigh and nod faintly, reluctantly, toward the corner of the room. Toward the frozen console that glints from the crystals of the ice.

“If we c-can short-circuit that p-panel,” your voice is barely above a whisper, “it might s-stop the c-cold.”

Bucky’s eyes dart to the console the second you mention it, then back to your face, searching it as though he could pull the rest of the plan from your expression alone to spare you the energy to talk.

But your expression falters and his brow is furrowed so tightly it’s hard to look at.

“Okay,” he says slowly. “So what’s the problem?”

You shake your head, your body sagging further into his. He shifts to hold you better but his gaze is fixed on your face. “But-” you struggle, the word escaping you as a faint breath, lips trembling from more than just the cold, “it might fry your arm.”

“I’ll do it.”

“Bucky-”

“No,” he cuts you off, shaking his head firmly, muscles straining in his face. His flesh hand wraps around your shoulders like it could anchor you to him. “I’m bein’ dead serious. I don’t care what happens to me. I don’t care what happens to my arm.”

Those are the words you expected to hear. And you hate them.

His voice is hard, but his gaze softens when he sees your expression. There is something determined there, but also something tender, something so soft, something unshakable that makes you want to bury deep into his chest and never leave it again.

“I’ll be fine, doll. Promise. But I have to do this.” His voice is soft. Gentle. And he lets his lips brush against your cheek.

You try to protest. Try to shake your head. A faint whimper leaves your lips.

“Don’t care what happens to me. Only care about you, doll. And I’ll get you the fuck outta here.”

His hand again cups the side of your face and holds your gaze with so much intensity, blue eyes piercing you more than the cold, it leaves you breathless.

Then, he moves into action, setting you against the wall so carefully, brushing your hair back from your face with a tenderness none of the others had ever seen him with.

“Stay with me,” he murmurs, his voice pleading. So earnest.

You do your best to give him a nod and watch as he strides toward the console.

His broad shoulders block your view for a moment, but you can see the resolution in every movement, the way his metal arm flexes as he tears away the frozen panel with one single tug.

Sparks erupt as he rips at the wires, and the sharp scent of burning metal fills the air.

All you can do is watch with your heart frozen in fear.

The console flickers violently, the room trembling slightly as the system begins to overload.

Bucky grits his teeth. His arm is sparking wildly by forcing the wires together, his entire body braced against the surging energy.

“Come on,” he mutters through clenched teeth, his voice barely audible over the crackling noise. “Come on, shut it down!”

And then, with a resounding hiss, the freezing air stops.

Bucky stumbles back. His metal arm twitches erratically.

“Bucky,” you whisper, fearing for his condition.

He only turns and crosses the room to you in a few strides, pulling you back into his arms.

Your face is pressed against his neck, his lips are by your ear.

“Told you I’ll be fine, doll,” he whispers, his voice a low rasp, thick with relief that feels like it’s been dragged from the depths of his chest. But it’s unsteady. It’s strained. There is a tremor in it that betrays him.

Because you are still so cold.

So cold in fact, it feels no longer like an invader. It becomes everything. It consumes you. It swallows your awareness. Leaving only the faintest sense of resistance. It’s so thin and fragile, you can barely remember why you’re still holding on.

His breath brushes against your temple, warm compared to the chill that has settled into your body. But it’s not enough. Not even close.

Your skin is ice beneath his touch and the tremors that whacked your body before are gone now. It’s quiet. Too quiet.

You can’t tell where your body ends and the cold begins. It’s inside you, crawling through your veins like liquid frost, winding tighter and tighter with every slow beat of your heart.

Your skin doesn’t feel like skin anymore - it feels like glass.

“Hey,” he exclaims a little louder, his flesh hand soothing over your hair in a gesture so gentle it could shatter you into a thousand frozen pieces. “You’re okay. You’re with me. We did it, doll. You did it. The others will know something went wrong. They’ll come looking for us. You just have to hold on a little longer, yeah?”

His breaths are tangled in his words, rushing in too fast or skipping beats entirely. It makes his speech uneven.

But you can’t respond.

You want to reach for him, to speak, to swim in the warmth of his voice. But it’s impossible.

You know he’s holding you. You know he has his arms wrapped around you. You know you are pressed against his chest. The erratic pounding of his heart is by your ear. The weight of your body is resting against him. But it all feels so distant, like trying to recall details of a dream that is already fading from your memory.

Each gasp you try for feels farther apart, each exhale weaker than the last, dissipating into the air like it had never existed at all.

And you know Bucky feels it. Feels the way your body is slipping into a stillness that seems to terrify him enormously.

His breath catches.

“Don’t do this,” he grounds out, voice sharp and urgent. “No. Don’t you dare do this, Y/n!”

His metal arm curls tighter around you, and the steel, usually so cold itself, feels like a furnace compared to the icy skin underneath your suit.

He shifts you in his arms, his movements sluggish and frantic. Your head lolls against his shoulder and his flesh hand is at the back of your neck, fingers threading in your hair.

You feel so heavy. So impossibly heavy. You don’t even know where your hands are. Where your toes are.

“Don’t leave me,” he pleads, his voice cracking.

But your eyelids only flutter. They’re so heavy.

Bucky’s voice is there, somewhere in the muddle of your mind, but the words don’t land right. They sound muffled, like he might speak to you from underwater. Or as though you have fallen too far away to reach him anymore.

Lips press roughly against your temple. His hands try to rub warmth into you.

“No,” he growls, the anger in his tone masking the helplessness that causes him to shake his head and shake your body with it, due to the force, as if sheer denial could change the reality in front of him. “You don’t get to check out on me. Stay with me, Y/n. Fight for me. Come on. I know you can do it. Please! I know you can fight this.”

He gasps between phrases, trying to pull oxygen into lungs that refuse to expand fully, each sound on the verge of dissolving into sobs at any moment.

He buries his face in your hair, squeezing you against him.

“Sweetheart, please,” he cries, his words a single prayer to whoever will listen, so vulnerable and laid bare in a way Bucky Barnes rarely allows himself to be.

It elicits that faint, resilient ember beneath the frost you are succumbing to and you do your best to nurture it. It burns. Just a little. So small. But it’s there. And it burns because of him - because of Bucky.

The hectic rise and fall of his chest against you, the cracks of desperation in his hold on you, the tremble in his voice when he repeats the words stay with me and please, Y/n over and over, as raw and real as the ice in your veins - they make you promise to keep trying to hold on.

And you will. For him.

[dyli-dadi3]

Kinktober

Day three: Aphrodisiacs

Unlike other airborne pathogens that make you sick, this one just makes you incredibly horny for a man you met today. Thankfully he's incredibly horny for you, too. Spores not included.

Summary: After inhaling spores, you become overwhelmed with desire. Who else better to scratch that itch deep inside of you than an attractive man who you've been fighting off zombies with? Tags: Smut (p in v), aphrodisiac, begging, mentions of death

“It’s going to be okay, agent. I got you…” Leon mumbled, holding onto your arm as he bent to your level. “I’m going to find an antidote or something.” He said, biting his lip as he watched your sweat bead on your brow, your eyes sipping closed as your parted lips let a pained groan slip out.

You led Leon to a cathedral, promising it would explain the horrible things happening to the United States, hell, the world. “I can’t explain… it’s just better to show it.” You had promised him, and he followed. He had doubts about you; if you had anything to do with it, he wasn’t letting his guard down anytime soon. He had dealt with betrayal enough times to be cautious around a pretty face.

The next moments went in a blur; fighting off the horde that prevented the two of you from entering the damn building in the first place, the strange trials the two of you had to complete to open the secret passageway to the basement of the cathedral, and then the rather unfortunate luck of a bioweapon emerging from the fog, threatening the lives of everyone in the vicinity. The two of you had managed to keep most of the refugees safe. Can’t help that some people don’t heed the lucid warning of “Stay back! This thing’s dangerous!” 

Don’t change the fact that Leon still mourns the loss of every citizen, every agent, or soldier who lost their lives to this unfair world.

Doesn’t mean that you weren’t hurt. Or, at least, that’s what he thinks is wrong with you. That… thing sprayed you with some sort of blue spore when you delivered the final shotgun bullet in point blank range, the particles being immediately inhaled into your lungs. Leon watched in horror as you coughed and sputtered, stumbling out of the cloud and towards him. “Are you okay?” He asked you, watching as your hand fanned the air around you. 

“Y-Yeah, i-it’s… fine…” You started, eyes widening as your knees grew weak and the start of something formed in the bottom of your gut. The feeling was strange, but it wasn't stopping you from pushing on—no need to worry Agent Kennedy!

Well, by golly, he was pretty worried now.

The two of you had gotten to an underground lab and you had immediately collapsed onto the floor littered with some fancy medical paper filled to the brim with notes from various experiments. He was sitting with you, hand on your forehead only to pull back in shock at the burning temperature of your smooth skin. 

“You're burning up…” Leon pointed out softly, only to get a whimper from you in return. “I know that. I feel like I'm wearing a sweater and fuzzy socks in the Sahara.” You huffed, only to cover your face. Your tummy turned, a ball of molten lava warming your core and addling your mind.

“Sorry, Agent Kennedy, I just feel all fuzzy and hot… I know that's not an excuse to talk back to my superior.” You apologized, and Leon just rolled his eyes. 

“Don't worry about that formality bullshit. Let’s just focus on getting you better.” Leon started, moving to stand up when your hand grasped him.

“No!” You gasped, the sudden feeling of despair and emptiness filling the pit of your stomach was alarming. As if the very thought of him leaving you left your pussy weeping.

Wait.

What?

By all means, you thought Leon was the sexiest, most attractive man you knew. The way he cared for everyone was admirable and wasn't lost on you. His kindness pulled you in like a magnet, but you stopped yourself from getting too delusional. After all, he'd hate you once he figured out why you led him to the cathedral.

But you were shocked by the sudden desire to throw yourself into his arms like a crying child to his mommy. You felt like crying.

This was embarrassing.

“I just me-mean that I don't want you to leave me… -Fuck.” You sputtered, hand flying back to your side as you flushed in embarrassment. You spiraled as your mind conjured up all the demeaning things Leon was probably thinking about your pathetic display of dependency.

Leon's eyes widened at your little moment, more concerned than offended. He needed to do something. You were glistening in drops of sweat, and now you were starting to lose coherency and your temperament. He saw how you squinted as if your brain struggled to form thoughts and even then, they were still words he would never hear you say in the right state of mind.  

He had no idea of the arousal that was wreaking havoc in your lower stomach, the inhuman mess that was beginning to wet your underwear. To him, you just looked like you had a fever.

To you, it was an overwhelming desire to have the man in front of you. You felt like some sort of bitch in heat as your mind drowned in need. Your body was taught as you desperately fought the urge to pounce on your higher-up.

A whine slipped past your trembling lips and Leon froze. What was that supposed to mean? He leaned in, trying to figure out why you were so squirmy. He wanted to find some sort of medicine for you. You guys were in a lab for heaven’s sake. Probably the same lab that made that abomination of a BOW straight out of a trypophobe’s nightmare, but you were adamant about him staying.

The proximity made your head spin, his scent invading your senses as your will dissolved like cotton candy in water.

“Please!” You begged, grabbing his shoulders and hanging your head in mortification as to what you had just said.

“What do you want me to do?” Leon strained, getting more and more worried by the second. His hands hovered over your waist, trying to keep some air of professionalism and respect despite your wandering hands.

Okay, that was confusing. Leon watched in concern as your hands slid down his arms.

You didn't say a word, too embarrassed to voice your need, so you just whimpered and squeezed your thighs. 

The relief was instant. 

A moan slipped past your lips as your thighs shook. If just this little movement was enough to get you like this, you were stuck imagining what it would feel like if you gave in, if he was the only thing allowing you respite. The thought brought on another wave of heat, and you struggled to imagine how you were going to get through this without losing the ever-growing battle of fighting your arousal. 

You already gave up on the struggle to not touch him, and look at you now. Your face hung in embarrassment as your hands felt the firm musculature of his arms, body leaning in to share his warmth, to smell his scent. Your mind swirled with a myriad of impure thoughts, and you nearly came when Leon finally touched you.

“What’s wrong?” Leon finally asked after he softly placed a hand on the small of your back, as if he’d hurt you, his eyes widening as he saw you shiver. You were making noises that he was trying to ignore, to rationalize… Something to explain why you were making the sounds that went straight to his dick despite his best efforts.

“It hurts.” You whimpered, practically sobbing through the first words you had said in a while. You were practically on top of him now, your arms had circled back up to wrap around his neck. His compliance made you needy, trying to milk this horse for all he’s worth. 

God, with how horny you were, milking him dry seemed necessary.

“What hurts, sweet girl?” He said softly, the lines of professionalism blurring like chalk on a rainy day. The walls he tried to put up throughout your brief partnership were virtually nonexistent. The sight of you in pain hurt him, too, and with the way you were clinging onto him like he was damn Mosiah himself, how could he not give you anything you wanted? Anything to help you feel better.

Call it the hero complex, but he couldn’t shake the thought that he was the reason you were like this. He didn’t shield you properly, turned to help steady a survivor instead of keeping his eyes on you. God, he never wanted to keep his eyes off of you, Raccoon City fucked up his underdeveloped brain and rewired it to be a fiend for women who could handle a gun. 

That name had you gasping, clambering onto his lap as you pressed your nose into his neck. Your lips brushed his skin as you breathed him in, gripping him so tightly that your knuckles turned white. “Everything…I need you, Agent Kenedy.” You begged, tentatively pressing a kiss to the column of his throat.

You had him groaning as he settled you down on his lap. “Is that right?” He whispered, mirroring your actions to the top of your head. The smell of blood and gunpowder was strong, but if he focused hard enough, he could make out the notes of your shampoo. 

“Mhm…” You slurred, panting into his skin as you pressed yourself to his bulge. Your eyes rolled back as you practically convulsed on his lap, so pent up that even that could bring you to ecstasy. You begged and begged for more as you began rubbing against him. 

Leon hissed at you and started moving, grabbing your hips to help you. “So needy, huh?” He said with a sigh, watching as you acted so desperately. He said he’d do anything to help, and if making you cum was the answer, then he was buckling up for a long ride. It’s the law, he thinks with a chuckle.

He watched as your face began to scrunch up. “Aww, need more, princess?” His voice dripped like honey. He didn’t need you to speak, he saw how you tried to nod through your haze. That was all the confirmation he needed to turn you around on his lap, unzipping your jeans and slipping a hand past the fabric of your underwear. 

“Fuck… You’re dripping, honey.” Leon moaned, wasting no time to finger fuck your tight cunt. “She’s just beggin’ for it…” He whispered, scissoring you. “Beggin' for my thick cock to stuff her full.” He rambled, working himself into a frenzy as he saw you babbling. So turned on you couldn’t even properly respond. 

You just nodded, moaning in hopes that he could tell how ready you were for him. You needed him, his praise, his touch, his dick. The latter making itself known as it twitched against your ass. You couldn’t take it, the spores a distant memory lingering in your nose as you were convinced you’d die if Leon didn’t breed you. You needed him rabbiting his load into you, you wouldn’t see straight without it.

You didn’t have to hope for long, since, just one desperate plea from you, Leon was opening up the front of his pants to slide into your sticky cunt. You sobbed, the feeling of his cock splitting you open was mind-numbing and clarifying at the same time. It made your mind spin, but the haze was already clearing, the aching in your entire being finally letting up. You needed more, needed him to fix you. With every bounce on his rigid cock, you were closer and closer to relief from the burning heat that consumed your body ever since that stupid BOW sprayed you. 

Squeezing his fat cock like a vice was instinctual, impaling yourself second nature, the haze making you seek your body’s most primal needs. You couldn’t think, mind wired to take his cock like a good bitch, and by golly you were good. Poor old Leon whined as you got him all wound up and ready to bust a load into you, balls scrunching in anticipation.

“Fuck, baby. Gonna breed this greedy pussy. That’s what she wants, isn’t it? This whole time she’s been beggin’ for my cum.” He huffed, bringing his index and middle finger to your aching clit. He rubbed tight circles onto the slippery nub, whimpering when you immediately clenched around him. 

“Yes, Yes! I need it… Need you to breed me.” You sobbed, creaming all over his length as he fucked you into oblivion. 

“Shit, couldn’t pull out if I tried.” Leon moaned, snapping his hips up into you in shallow thrusts until his balls tensed and he shot ropes into your pussy. You felt complete, the fog clearing for a moment until you felt empty again. 

You huffed, moving your hips again before Leon could say Sweetheart. He convulsed, too fucked out as his eyes rolled back.

“Fuck…”

[h5eavenly]

Promise of eternity.

words: 900 | pairing: lee minho x reader | genre: fluff, sweet and soft love what is this?? angie writing smth that isn't angst??

Love comes to you in the most unanticipated moments. It swims through every blood vessel in your essence and paints every particle of you with affection, oozing right from the depths of your heart until you’re half of the person you love. His delights interweave with yours, and you find it in your being to grow the same likeness for it as well. Giving room for appreciation to bloom towards things you never paid attention to before.

It comes to you when you awake in the middle of the night, Minho’s scent between your sheets and his body intermingled with yours.

His body heavy atop yours and yet with a drowsy mind you can only grow to be grateful, for something as trivial as a fleeting moment. To have him this close, to be lucky enough to share proximity with the person you love and to have his soft breaths hitting the side of your face.

Affinity for the reminder that you’re allowed to love him even when he’s fallen into a deeper slumber.

It is forgotten as soon as your eyelids fall back shut yet the warmth of gratitude lingers in the core of your being. It’s almost one with you, nestles deeper through you whenever you look at him. Whether it’s the morning after or weeks later, when a smile as warm is drawn upon his face as he plays with his cats in your living room.

The fondness in your eyes, your own smile dispersing across your lips with no permission from you are all just countless verification of your feelings, a crude unveils of your unyielding longing for him even when he’s next to you.

Like the moon unfurling from behind the fog with intention, albeit not as lucid, it’s there.

Minho calls you dramatic with a teasing smirk each time, you only think you’re a human with too much love to give and he serendipitously happened to stumble into your embrace.

It hits you on a non-particular evening, the sun is setting, and the sky is colored with hues of orange and a soft pink while the two of you lie under a sky painted with white clouds. His head rests on your shoulder and love flows through every part of you, in the iced peach tea you made just for him and the crown of flowers you had placed atop his head. He remains a vision of forever, promises woven with eternity in his thumb as it swipes across the skin of your arm.

“If you could be anything in the world right now, what would you be?” you ask, tilting your head at a cloud that looks awfully similar to Dori.

“Asleep.”

“Answer seriously!” you complain endearingly, pinching at his arm with no intent for hurt to unfold.

“What’s wrong with wanting to be asleep?” he replies, voice laced with amusement “what would you be?” he faces you, his fingers trailing up your arm and your noses almost touch. A breathless giggle tumbling out your lips with no reason other than appreciation to have him this close.

“A bird!” Your cheerfulness colors the cadence of your tone and his smile melts deeper into devoted affection for you.

“Why a bird?”

“Because I could fly to you whenever I want” you answer so easily, paradoxical to how hard his heart starts beating against his ribcage, pulsating with the same love you hold so warmly in your eyes for him.

“You don’t need to fly to me if I’m next to you all the time.” His fingers brush over your brow like the soft strokes of a lovesick’s paintbrush, leaving behind specks of partiality.

“I know but sometimes you need to go away without me, if I’m a bird then I can just follow you.” you close your eyes, smiling with all the love in the world etched onto your lips.

“You’re an idiot.” He whispers, chuckling with depraved desire to hide you in the deepest parts of his heart, then you won’t have to wish to be anything else. he already has you, one with his being.

“But I am your idiot?” you ask, interlocking your fingers with his, soft caresses of affection land atop your cheeks, their beauty unmatched, no sunset could ever compare.

“Always.”

Love came to you unexpectedly, from the moment your eyes locked with Minho for the first time, your souls had touched and there was no way for you to stop it. And you found yourself waking up each day with delirium to turn your head and watch Minho next to you, never too far away and always within reach. Despite your fear of being nothing but a ghost of a touch across his skin, Minho is always there with an unwavering burning for you.

“I love you.” he tells you, like peace has never been this present unless he’s next you and your smile widen.

“I love you too.”

[novankenn]

Fatalis Familia

"Jaune?" The groggy face of Nicholas Arc, Jaune's father appeared on the screen. He blinked his vibrant blue eyes and shook his head in an obvious effort to break free from the deep slumber he had been enjoying. "Jaune?"

"Dad..." Jaune's voice warbled as he fought the urges running through his body, but also the tide of emotions that assaulted him at the sight of his father. "I... Dad..."

"Jaune, where..." Nicholas Arc stopped that question as his mind finally cleared the fog of sleep. "What's wrong?"

"I... I... don't know." Jaune replied.

"Jaune, tell me what's happening." Nicholas spoke his tone stern yet soft. Nicholas was upset with his only son's running off, but seeing the paleness of his face, and the pained look in his once bright azure eyes pushed those feelings aside. "Jaune, please... what's wrong?"

"I don't feel right." Jaune replied.

"What do you mean?"

"I can't explain..." Jaune grunted as a sudden flash of pain coursed through his body. "Help..."

"Where are you?"

"Be... Beacon." Jaune gasped out as another lance of pain ripped through his body. "Dad?"

"Jaune?"

Jaune's scroll clattered against the tiled floor of the bathroom as his body spasmed. Pain clouding his mind, as the urge that he had been fighting twisted his insides. Nicholas was helpless as he watched his only son, collapse.

"Jaune! Jaune!" Nicholas' voice rang out over the dropped scroll's built in speakers. "Jaune answer me!"

"Dad?" Jaune whimpered.

/==/

Nicholas Arc bolted out of his bed disturbing his wife with his movements. He ignored her muttered question as he minimized the call with Jaune and activated a call to emergency services.

"Orleans Emergency Services."

"This is Nicholas Arc, I am on a video call with my son who is at Beacon Academy, he just collapsed!"

"Alright. Please remain calm Nicholas." the operator spoke calmly and with a sure tone. "Are you still on the call with your son?"

"Yes... I am... I can see him... he's... his body is going through spasms. I need you to get him help."

"I am sir. Please stay on the line with me, and your son. Can you tell me anything else about the situation so I can relay it to the EMS in Vale?"

"He need help!"

"I understand that sir, band help is being dispatched, but I need some more information, if you can."

"Like what? I already told you he collapsed and is shaking..."

"Can you link this call to the one with your son? That will allow us to locate him faster."

"I think... I think I can."

"Good, very good. While you are doing that I'm going to attempt to link us to an on-duty operator in Vale."

"He needs you help..."

"We're going to help, sir."

/==/

Deep in the hinterlands, a lone female figure walked away from a massacre of Beowulf. Their evaporating corpses filling the air with inky particles.

"Pathetic." she grumbled to herself as she continued to walk, putting more and more distance between herself and the vanishing remains of six slain grimm.

She paused her journey at the edge of a meandering creek. Gazing about she appeared to be considering her options.

"He is mine more than yours Nicholas..." she hissed as she turned her attention to stare at the waters of the creek. "I carried him, he is my son... you had no right...."

A growling snarl from behind her, was accompanied by the snapping of branches and the rustling of underbrush being disturbed by a large body. The Alpha Beowulf charged forward closing on what it thought would be an easy kill. Only for it to vanish in a burst of purple energy.

It howled in agony as something landed heavily on its back, before pain lanced through the side of its neck. It stumbled to the side, the baleful red glow if its eyes dimming. She hopped away from the collapsing form.

"Disgusting." she spat clearing the inky goop from her jagged toothed maw, as she landed with cat like grace upon the balls of her feet. Sher stood there for a moment watching the once vicious beast's body flake away, before pulling her facemask upon and over her mouth. "Enough of this foolishness."

Turning about she started to follow the flow of the creek. As she walked her mind worked, devising and discarding plan after plan, and idea after idea on how to not only find her child... but punished the bastard that stole him away.

[ FIRST / NEXT ]

[moons-and-mobility-aids]

The Flu Part 3

Pairings: Poly!marauders x disabled!reader Summary: You get the flu. But for someone with your immune system, the flu is never just the flu. Tags: disabled!reader, fem!reader, use of y/n, chronic illness escalation, dangerously high fever, immune system failure, medical emergency, hospital wing angst, madam pomfrey pulling out all the stops, healer from st. mungo’s enters the chat, you're too weak to protest, boys trying not to fall apart, remus quietly breaking down, sirius pacing because sitting still hurts, james trying to anchor you with touch, some hurt/comfort, heartbreakingly soft goodbyes, fear masked as hope, found family, reader getting worse before she gets better Word count: 2.3k words Series Masterlist | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

The morning light seeps through the high windows of the hospital wing, illuminating dust particles that float lazily in the still air. It's quiet, a stark contrast to the usual bustle of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. On any other day, you'd be out there with the rest of them, rushing to class or laughing in the Great Hall over breakfast. But today is different. Today, you lie immobile on a crisp white bed, your body heavy and unresponsive.

A dull throb pulses at your temples, matching the rhythm of your heart. Your skin burns hot against the cool sheets, while tremors run down your spine, leaving a trail of chills in their wake. You swallow hard, your throat raw and parched despite the glasses of water Madam Pomfrey insists you drink. The fever has its hold on you, refusing to let go, clinging with an intensity that tightens around you like a vice.

Madam Pomfrey hovers nearby, her face etched with concern as she consults another healer—a tall, stern-looking man who casts worried glances in your direction. Their voices blend into a low hum, words indistinguishable from the static buzz in your head. They speak about you, of that you're certain, but the meaning slips away before you can grasp it, lost amidst the fog clouding your mind.

Beside you, three figures sit huddled together—James, Sirius, and Remus. They've been there the whole time, taking turns keeping watch by your bedside. Their shoulders are tense, postures rigid, every so often casting anxious looks toward where you lie.

"Y/N...," James murmurs, his voice barely more than a whisper. It reaches you, distant and distorted, as if carried on the wind from miles away. "We need you to be okay."

Sirius' hand finds yours, his thumb tracing gentle circles against your palm. His touch is grounding, a beacon calling you back from the edge of consciousness.

"We're right here," he says, though his tone lacks its usual bravado, replaced instead with a quiet desperation. The reality of the situation hangs heavy in the air—the girl they care so deeply for reduced to this state, each breath drawing shallower than the last.

Remus watches, his knuckles white where they grip the armrest. It's not supposed to be like this—you're not supposed to be lying there, pale and motionless. He wants to do something, anything, but feels helpless in the face of your illness. A low growl rumbles in his chest, frustration mounting.

Madam Pomfrey moves with purpose, her steps echoing off the stone walls of the hospital wing. The stern-faced healer beside her follows closely, his brow furrowed in deep concentration. They've been at it since morning—concocting potions, casting spells—all in an attempt to break your fever, but nothing seems to work. Your body fights back, resistant to their efforts.

"Stay with us," James murmurs, his voice a soft mantra that circles the room, weaving through the silence that stretches between each agonising second. Sirius and Remus echo his sentiment, their own pleas adding to the symphony of worry that hangs heavy in the air.

Madam Pomfrey's hand hovers above your forehead, her touch light as she checks your temperature once more. Her expression hardens as she pulls away, confirming what they all fear—the fever hasn’t broken, and your condition is worsening.

She turns to the boys, her gaze meeting theirs with an unwavering intensity. "I need to speak with you three," she says, gesturing towards the far corner of the room. There’s a gravity to her tone that leaves no room for argument. With hesitant glances back at your still form, they rise from their seats, following her with heavy hearts.

Once out of earshot, Madam Pomfrey takes a deep breath, steeling herself for the conversation ahead. "Y/N's fever isn’t going down," she begins, ignoring the way her voice wavers. She clears her throat, pushing forward despite the knot tightening in her stomach. "And the infection... it's spreading."

Sirius' grip tightens around the edge of the chair he's leaning against, knuckles whitening under the strain. Beside him, James swallows hard, his adam's apple bobbing as he struggles to process the information. Remus remains silent, eyes fixed on the ground, every muscle in his body taut with tension.

"The problem is Y/N's immune system," Madam Pomfrey continues, her words measured and precise—a stark contrast to the turmoil churning within each of them. "It's too weak to fight off this kind of infection."

This isn't the first time you have been in such a state, and they’ve seen you confined to the hospital wing before, pale and shaking, after another bout with your chronic illness. But never like this.

"I've done everything I can here," Madam Pomfrey admits, her voice barely a whisper now. "But given the severity of Y/N's condition and her weakened immune system..." She trails off, the weight of her next words hanging heavily in the air.

"There’s only one option left." She meets their gazes again, her own reflecting a mixture of determination and regret. "We have to transfer Y/N to St Mungo’s."

"You can't mean that," Sirius says, his voice rough with disbelief and simmering anger. He looks ready to argue, to insist there must be another way, but even he knows that Madam Pomfrey wouldn't suggest such a drastic measure unless it was absolutely necessary.

Remus is quieter, his jaw tight and hands clenched in his lap. He knew this was a possibility—had feared it, even—but hearing it spoken aloud makes it all too real, the words slicing through the thin veil of hope they've been clinging to.

All three boys turn to look at you, lying so still on the hospital bed. A mix of fear and helplessness flickers in their eyes as they take in your pale complexion, the dark circles under your closed lids—a stark contrast to the vibrant, lively girl they know and love.

"Y/N," James whispers, as if saying your name could somehow anchor you to them, keep you safe within the castle walls. But there's no response from your motionless form, only the steady rise and fall of your chest offering any reassurance.

"St Mungo's?" Your voice is barely a whisper, the words slipping past your dry lips with effort. The thought of leaving Hogwarts—your home away from home—sends a pang through your chest, sharper than any physical pain you've experienced.

"I know it's not ideal," Madam Pomfrey says gently, her hand still resting on your forehead. "But we're running out of options here at Hogwarts."

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes—not of fear, but frustration. You want to protest, to say there must be another way, but deep down, you understand the severity of your condition. And despite the swirling emotions threatening to consume you, one fact remains painfully clear: staying at Hogwarts could mean letting this illness take an even greater hold over you.

"Okay," you manage, though the word feels heavy and tastes bitter on your tongue.

Madam Pomfrey gives a small nod of approval, relief briefly flashing across her face before she resumes her professional demeanor. "Rest now," she instructs. "We'll make sure everything is ready for the transfer."

You want to argue, to tell her you're not tired—that sleep won't help. But that would be a lie. Every inch of your body aches; exhaustion seeps into your bones, pulling you further under its spell. Fighting off the infection has left you drained and weak, each breath more laborious than the last.

James watches as Madam Pomfrey walks away, a hollow feeling settling in his stomach. He glances back at you, lying so still on the hospital bed, your face pale and drawn. Despite the distance between you, he can see the subtle tremble of your hands, the slight furrow in your brow—a testament to the battle raging within you.

Sirius stands rigid beside him, arms crossed tightly over his chest as if trying to ward off the chill creeping into the room—or perhaps the reality of your condition. His grey eyes, usually sparkling with mischief and confidence, are clouded with worry.

"This doesn't feel right," Sirius mutters, running a hand through his hair in a rare display of unease. "There has to be something else we can do."

"I'll arrange for the transfer within the hour," Madam Pomfrey declares, her tone leaving no room for argument. It's a sound you've grown accustomed to over the years—firm yet caring, always with your best interest at heart.

The next time you open your eyes, there's another figure standing by your bed—a healer from St Mungo's, dressed in lime green robes that seem too bright against the stark white of the hospital wing. They move with calm efficiency as they check your vitals and prepare you for transport.

You're barely conscious, hovering on the edge of awareness. The pain has dulled into something distant, but it lingers still, a constant reminder of the battle being fought within your body. Even so, you try to focus on the voices around you—the familiar cadence of James' worry, Sirius' attempts at levity, Remus' quiet strength.

"Y/N." The whisper comes from beside you, where James sits, his hand reaching out to grasp yours. His fingers are warm and slightly calloused from countless hours spent gripping a Quidditch broom handle. He doesn't say much else—what is there to say?—but his worried expression speaks volumes.

Across the room, Sirius paces, each step punctuating the silence like a metronome ticking away seconds. His brow furrows, lips pressed into a thin line as he runs a hand through his hair—an attempt, perhaps, to physically shake off the helplessness threatening to consume him. He stops mid-stride, glancing back at you, then quickly turns away again, unable to hide the concern etched onto his features.

Remus stands a little farther back, arms crossed tightly across his chest. His gaze never strays from you, watching every move the healer makes with a hawk-like intensity. If he's afraid, he hides it well behind the stoic mask he wears, but the tension radiating from him betrays his true feelings. This isn't how it's supposed to be—you're not supposed to be lying there, pale and weak while they stand helpless, waiting for news that could change everything.

"Stretcher," the healer commands, wand at the ready. A floating stretcher appears beside your bed, its surface shimmering slightly with protective charms. The boys watch as the healer carefully levitates you onto it, their eyes wide with apprehension.

"How long will she have to stay there?" James asks. His voice is steady, but his grip on the edge of your hospital bed betrays his worry.

"And can we visit her?" Sirius adds, arms crossed over his chest. He's trying to appear nonchalant, but the slight crease between his brows gives him away.

"What about treatments? What are they going to do exactly?" Remus questions, his tone quiet yet persistent.

The healer looks up from her task and takes a moment to address them. "It depends on how Y/N responds to the treatments our team provides," she explains patiently. "We'll be placing her in a specialised ward designed for those with compromised immune systems."

"Compromised—" James starts, but the word catches in his throat, leaving an unspoken question hanging in the air.

"Yes," the healer continues without missing a beat, understanding the gravity behind his unfinished question. "Given Y/N's current condition, stronger potions will be used—ones that aren't readily available here at Hogwarts. We'll monitor her closely, adjust the dosage if needed..."

She trails off, returning her focus to securing you onto the stretcher. Her movements are deliberate, each one serving a purpose—to ensure your safe transfer, to maintain your stability, to offer a sliver of hope amidst the uncertainty.

"We'll take good care of her," the healer reassures them, though whether it's out of professional duty or genuine empathy, they can't tell. All they know is that you're being taken away, beyond the stone walls of Hogwarts, into the unknown.

Despite the assurance, the words hover like smoke, thick and suffocating. They cling to every corner, seeping into the cracks, offering little comfort against the chill that has settled deep within their bones. Can this stranger truly understand what you mean to them—their girlfriend, their confidante, the girl who fits so seamlessly into their lives?

“She will be okay, boys," Madam Pomfrey reassures them softly. "St Mungo’s has the best healers in our world. I'll keep you updated on her condition."

You feel James's hand tighten around yours again—a lifeline amidst the storm that threatens to consume your thoughts. His voice breaks through the fog of fear and pain, a beacon guiding you back from the edge.

"We're here, Y/N," he whispers, his breath warm against your cool skin. He lifts your hand up gently, pressing it to his lips. His eyes are full of worry as they meet yours, but he forces a smile onto his face—a shield against the despair that looms over all of you. "We won't leave until they take you away."

Beside him, Sirius stands tall and resolute. His usually playful features are drawn into a serious expression—one that speaks volumes about the gravity of the situation.

"See you soon, baby," he murmurs, giving your shoulder a reassuring squeeze before stepping back. Even now, with everything at stake, he manages to hold onto the hope that things will get better—that you will get better.

Remus is the last one to approach. Unlike the others, his goodbye isn't filled with empty promises or forced optimism—it's quiet and gentle, like the man himself.

"Just hang on a little longer, Y/N," he says, resting a hand lightly on your shoulder. His touch is comforting, grounding, even though you can barely feel it through the numbness that has spread across your body. His eyes, a soft mix of concern and reassurance, never leave yours. "You have to fight this... for us."

[daflangstlairde-art]

"she ain't worth a goddamn in anyone else's hands" 5,334 words

Part 2 of ocean depths

Work Summary:

Nightmare was all, all Killer had. He defined Killer’s entire world. He was the most important thing to Killer. But, just as well, at the end of the day — even if in a very different way — Killer was all Nightmare had. — Being left in the Antivoid is just as much of a torture as you’d imagine. Real torture.

Credits, warnings and additional info on ao3.

—

Killer wasn't sad when first Horror and then Dust ditched their operation.

It didn't happen fast, nor at the same time, but it happened. It wasn't a shock. And he wasn't sad. He wasn't. He wasn't. He couldn't be. 

As he stalked the halls of the dark castle, he felt nothing. 

It was emptier than ever. 

There was no longer Horror to cook warm soup and to splinter wood with a cleaver. He was introduced to some universe of farmboys. He left. He cared for his own universe, which remained alive. 

There was no longer Dust to shadow him because company was better than the emptiness. He was harder for those Stars to convince, but apparently, Underfell admired violence and strength. Apparently, he was being “rehabilitated”. 

And, well! We all know how Nightmare was. He had always been above them. Killer could linger in his company only if allowed. 

There was... nobody. 

Nobody. 

Just massive, spanning walls of dark, cold stone. The rare slits of light only enough to illuminate the particles of dust in the air, really. It was all abandoned. Silent and dead. Empty. 

Desolate. 

Familiar. 

...Haha. Hahahah. 

How funny. 

Killer kept ending up in dead ends. 

—

He sat at the kitchen table. 

He laid down on his bed. 

He wandered the halls.

Emptiness of emptiness of emptiness.

Bored. 

Killer wasn't sad. Killer couldn't be sad. Sadness was... it was a sincere emotion. 

Killer was drowning in the dark, dark depths. 

Killer felt emptier than ever.

It's like he wasn't even real. 

—

“If you don't get your act straight, you’ll keep messing everything up.” Nightmare growled, tentacles holding Killer aloft and pinned to the wall by his throat. 

Missions were boring. It was the same, all the same. Hurting and ruining and sometimes killing. All alone. All repetitive. 

But Killer was Nightmare’s one loyal tool left. The only one. 

Of course the Stars tried to break him too. Of course they offered many things that... probably sounded appealing to others. Like forgiveness, or help, or freedom. 

Killer didn't care about those. Killer didn't care about the Stars. He didn't even know what their deal was! He had never particularly cared, and only really knew the most vague of details. Because none of it mattered to him. 

Nightmare was the only thing that mattered. He was all Killer had. All. 

...And Killer was all Nightmare had left. 

Killer chuckled low, even as the restriction around his throat tightened painfully. 

“Anything for you baby,” he teased, because it drove Nightmare up the wall with annoyance. It earned Killer the prize of pain, just like he wanted it to. He was discovering being provocative and crude made people react hilariously. 

Missions were a fog. He lacked drive, he lacked interest, he lacked attention. On missions, heck, in everyday life, Killer was in a fugue state. 

But he didn't need a brain! He just had to do as told.

Nightmare says kill, you kill. 

—

“Why are you still fighting for him?!” Blue yelled, trying to keep up in parrying each of Killer’s violent slashes. “He doesn't care about you! He– he’s awful to you! I don't understand you!” 

Killer just started laughing in his face. 

Slash, stab, attack and attack and attack. Again, and again, and again and again, repeat upon repeat. 

All the same. All meaningless. All horrible. 

—

“I heard them talking about some ‘Cross’ guy,” Killer mentioned, twirling a knife, its point against his fingertip. 

Nightmare paused in his irritated pacing, and for a moment Killer was sure he would get another “Shut the hell up while I’m thinking” for his generous efforts to help his boss. 

Instead,

“...Cross, huh?” Nightmare hummed, considering. 

—

They beat the Stars to it and now, once again, after weeks and weeks of emptiness, there was finally someone else in the castle. 

And Cross was even fun to poke fun at! 

“What’s got you so angsty?” Killer teased, tailing the guy into the kitchen. 

“Leave me alone,” Cross dismissed him all huffy. He had this stoic attitude going on. Not very fun, except when Killer got it to crack. He was still exploring which buttons gave him the best reactions — honestly, he didn't know much about this Cross guy, and didn't care particularly to learn about his tragic backstory or whatever. 

“I don't think I will,” Killer hummed, as Cross started searching through the cabinets. 

“Is this place just empty?” Cross muttered to himself. 

“Like my soul,” Killer joked. Ah, a classic. 

Cross gave him a flat look and continued searching. “Where is all the food?” 

“Oh the guy who did that left,” Killer replied. 

“Did... food?” Cross turned around to look at him. 

“Yeah, that was his thing,”

“And you... what, don't?” 

Killer shrugged. “Nope, I'm not into it,” he chuckled, and Cross groaned. 

“Why are you like this?” he demanded, exasperated. “Aren't you, I don't know, uh, in a–” and then he seemed to reconsider his words. Frowning. “...What is the deal with you and Nightmare?”

Killer started laughing so hard he teared up.

Cross disregarded him.

—

Knock-knock-knock at the door. Cheerful as ever. Waiting for the multiple locks on the inside to be unlocked, even when Killer could've just used a shortcut right in. That's to signify he’s coming with no violent intent, or whatever. Well. Minor violent intent maybe, haha.

The door opened, and immediately Red grimaced. 

“H–!” 

“DUST!” Red yelled to the inside of the house. “NIGHTMARE’S BITCH IS AT THE DOOR!” 

“What?” called muffled from inside. 

“ONE OF Y’ FUCKIN’ MANIAC FRIENDS!” 

Killer laughed. Maybe someone else would've been hurt. He wasn't. Both of those statements were delightfully true.

—

There was one little problem. A little thorn in Killer’s side. Not enough to change his modus operandi — again, emotionless and uncaring — but enough to be noticeable. Enough to be annoying. 

“Cross, you're in charge of this mission,” Nightmare stated. 

“Yes sir.” 

That thorn was called Cross and Killer might just hate him. 

Before Killer could stop gaping and reply, Nightmare was already gone, leaving them in some random forest (not unusual, not important). 

“Let's go.” Cross turned to walk in some direction for some reason. 

“What– do you know where we are??” Killer sputtered, waving his knife. 

“No.” Cross didn't even look at him, like he was better or something. 

That wouldn't do. 

Killer grabbed his shoulder and turned him around. 

“Then why are you ‘in charge’?” he asked, so very friendly.

“Because I don't fuck off to do whatever I want every time?” Cross raised a brow ridge. Ohohoo, some spunk in him today! “Because I'm an actually good henchman and don't talk back constantly?” 

Oh the nerve of this guy. Heh. Heheheh! Hilarious! 

In fact, Killer was chuckling. He was laughing. He was hysterical. 

“You?” he gasped. “Whatever gets you off, puppet boy!”

Because there were a few easy answers to Cross’ question from awhile ago. 

What was their relationship? Easy. 

Killer was Nightmare’s. His yes-man, his victim, his tool, his loyal toy, his lackey, the only one who stayed. His bitch, to put it oh-so-elegantly. Everybody knew that. 

—

“What have you done with Cross?!” Dream demanded, parrying Killer’s attacks beat for beat. That guy was not to be underestimated, which Killer was admittedly guilty of! What could he say? These positive, soft types never went for the kill — how can you be truly afraid of them? 

It's not like he felt much fear, anyway. That was reserved for a special someone. 

“Horrible things!” Killer exclaimed, laughing. “He's suffering as we speak!” 

“What?!” Dream exclaimed, horrified.

(Cross was probably just sleeping. There wasn't much else to do when you're stuck at the castle and need to pass the time.) 

“Terrible!” Killer nodded, dodging to the side and using the movement to try shanking Dream. It was evaded. 

“Where is he?!” 

“Where do you think?” Killer teased. “Same as always! He's not some treasure to be hidden,” 

“Oh,” Dream was caught off guard by that. Probably wasn't expecting it. That meant he also wasn't expecting the knife Killer stabbed into his shoulder, haha. 

—

Killer’s gotta give it to the Stars. Having experience with Horror and Dust, they retrieved Cross pretty efficiently this time. 

—

Killer’s skull slammed into the wall behind him so hard the pain reverberated through it and echoed throughout his body. He groaned, a gutteral drawn out sound. The tentacle that’d grabbed him by the throat now also lifted him off his feet by it, in that uncomfortable way where Killer’s body dangled and felt like it’s about to drop away from his head. 

“HOW DID THEY KNOW HE WAS HERE?” Nightmare demanded, shoving rage and disgust and fear into Killer’s soul like it's nothing, like it doesn't drown him. 

“How am– I supposed– to know?” Killer choked out, grinning, hands clutching onto the tentacle in a poor attempt to hold himself up a little, to loosen the pressure. He was barely able to think through the onslaught of horror and misery. It was like a diseased, starving, feral animal clawing at his body. Unrelenting with you're horrible disgusting scum you're going to die die die you are going to SUFFER there is no escape you– 

“You useless tool!” Nightmare pulled him away from the hard stone wall, only to slam him against it, and again and again and again until Killer was crying out with the pain. Everything was ringing with the building concussion. It was a little difficult to hear whatever Nightmare was saying through it, pardon Killer’s manners, but it sounded something like “This is your fault, isn't it?!” 

In case it wasn't clear, Nightmare was really pissed. This whole weakening of his forces seemed to be really getting to him. How sad. 

Killer blinked against the shapes swimming in his vision. He could feel that hateful substance trickling, leaking even, from his eyes down his face. Warm. No, it was cold. He could never quite decide. The probably-blood oozing down the back of his skull was certifiably warm, however. 

“That’s very– presumptuous of you–” he struggled out, breathing heavily, breathing through the pain and the merciless barrage of rancid emotions. Grin widening. “I can see you’re– angry, baby– are you hhngh on your period?” 

Nightmare was livid. Killer started laughing, even as there were great efforts being put to choking him out. 

“Shut. Up.” Nightmare said, cold and reverberating off the walls until it surrounds you. He lowered Killer down slowly, but didn't let go of him — it was just so Killer wasn't held aloft anymore, but rather, Nightmare, with all his engulfing darkness, loomed over him. “Need I remind you betrayal. Isn't. Tolerated?” 

Killer couldn't help but snort and cackle at that, past the rancid, cloying smell of death from Nightmare’s general aura.

“Betrayal?” he exclaimed. “Me? Please. You and I both know I'm all you really have.” 

There was the kicker. 

Nightmare was all, all Killer had. He defined Killer’s entire world. He was the most important thing to Killer. 

But, just as well, at the end of the day — even if in a very different way — Killer was all Nightmare had. 

He was the only one truly allied with Nightmare. Not through force or violence or threats, none of that — because he wanted to be. Because Killer was an empty husk of a being and adored the force and the violence and the threats and the fear. A living wound that only exists when it's bleeding. 

Nightmare knew that Killer knew that. But Killer knew that Nightmare knew it too. They both knew where they stood. They both knew Nightmare could leverage whatever suffering he wanted against Killer and that Killer would only enjoy it the worse it is. Killer only did as told when he enjoyed it, because he wanted to. He misbehaved for the very same reason. 

Killer was so ruined through his own fault. There was nowhere further Nightmare could ruin him. Nightmare couldn't hurt him because Killer hurt himself, and Nightmare was just the most intense, most effective, most convenient way to do it. 

That's why Nightmare’s glare narrowed. That's why the tentacle holding Killer’s neck loosened, letting him exhale and inhale deeply. 

“You're not as clever as you think you are, loudmouth.” Nightmare spoke slowly. Promising danger. He always carried out his promises. He was cute like that. 

...Except. 

Except it wasn't what Killer expected. It wasn't sickening, merciless violence. It wasn't choking suffering. It wasn't burning agony. It wasn't animalistic fear. 

It was... white. 

Just white. 

Endless, shapeless white. 

All it took was a moment for Killer to be brought there, and a second one for Nightmare to be gone, and then it was just Killer and the endless white abyss. 

He exhaled, standing amidst it all. It was so much larger than anything that could be conceived, and yet. And yet it was empty. 

Hah. Hahahah. 

Like his soul. 

...It was always... a strange experience. The way the emotion would rise, like a tidal wave. A split second explosion of anger-hate-fear-despair at the devouring vastness, at the fact that he was just ditched there. When Nightmare knew he despised the emptiness. Or, rather, precisely because he knew how much Killer hated it. 

And just as quickly it would be gone. Like a sudden electrical surge that blew out the fuse. And he was numb as ever. All the feelings he may have felt about this just the lingering buzz in the non-air. Only serving to make him even more aware of the nothing that remained, that lingered. 

Killer couldn’t parse whether being stranded in the Antivoid was a worse or better hell than the Void. He supposed it didn’t particularly matter. 

He sat down on the concept of a “ground”. 

He didn’t even have a shadow. It was all empty. It was all nothing. 

He didn’t have the energy to laugh. He laid down, staring up at the whiteness (as opposed to the whiteness to the side, or even: the whiteness down below). 

—

Being left in the Antivoid is just as much of a torture as you’d imagine. Real torture. 

It’s... familiar. In the worst of ways, You hate “familiar”. You hate the staleness, the sameness, the stillness. It’s all the same, for hours upon hours upon hours. 

Haha. Funny how you keep ending up in dead ends. 

It’s more barren than your own universe. It’s more repetitive and deprived than hundreds of repetitions of the same goddamn day remembered with crystal clarity. It’s not warm and it’s not cold. It’s not nice, and it’s not even painful.

If the Antivoid was painful, that would’ve been a mercy to you.

The emptiness devours you whole. It rips you up piece by piece. Slow and deliberate, unbothered by the passage of time, which makes sense, because it’s not like time changes anything at all around here. 

You don’t know how long you’ve been here. It couldn't have been that long, but it already feels like weeks. The void spaces have that effect on people. It’s by definition. Here, eternity is stored in every second. 

You sleep, mostly, to pass the time. 

When you’re awake, you self-destruct. Your mind is starved and desperate, looking for something something something to grasp but there is nothing. It’s just you. You engrave your own bones with sharp points. You claw at your being. You seek and seek and seek and you find nothing but yourself, until your self is indistinguishable from the nothing as well. 

You feel like screaming just to hear something, but nothingness has no voice.

—

You wake up. Again. All the same every time. Repetitions for eternity. You despise abstract concepts, except you don’t, because emptiness doesn’t contain emotions. 

...Except. 

“Good thing it’s not Error who found you first!” Ink jokes, standing over you all cheery. He’s... he’s colorful.

It takes you several moments to remember that, conceptually, you have a body, and you leap to your feet. 

“Woah there buddy!” exclamation mark in his eye, Ink stumbles back so you don’t ram your head into his accidentally, but that triggers some desperation in you and you grab him by the scarf and yank him back. 

The feeling of something material in your hand, something that isn’t you, is like a shock. Except you still feel nothing. You just stare at the bunched up fabric. 

Ink remains in place, a little awkward. In a position showing he’s unsure what you’re up to, whether to be prepared for an attack. You consider attacking. You feel nothing about the concept.

“Heeeeyyyy,” Ink draws out, regaining his nonchalant cheer with a blink. “Yyyoou okay there...?” 

How are you supposed to answer that? The question strikes you as absurd. Nonsensical. You laugh even though you feel no amusement. That’s normal for you. 

“...Right,” Ink clears his throat. “Sssooo whatcha up to? Where’s Nightmare?” he asks, mostly curious. Ink has always struck you as a weirdo freak, something off about his reactions, but you’ve never thought about it too deeply. 

You shrug. You’re still holding his scarf. You’re unsure why. You don’t particularly care and he doesn’t seem to mind it either, so. No reason to stop. 

(He’s real he’s tangible he’s something different he’s something something something–)

“Well I’m just passing by, I’ll be out in a–” 

“If you so much as think about leaving I’ll stab you through the spine.” you immediately counter, calmly threatening. 

“Awww if you wanted company you could’ve just said so!” Ink takes it in stride, and again, off reactions. It’s the most interesting thing that has happened in what feels like eternity so you latch onto it. 

“You’re weird.” you point out. 

Ink laughs. “Yeah, I get that a lot! Part of having a creative nature,” he strikes a pose all cheeky, eye light in the shape of a sparkle. You’re still holding him by the scarf. “Soooo what have you been up to??” he asks, rocking back and forth on his feet all silly. 

You gesture around with a flat expression. “Nothing,” 

Ink snorts. “How long have you been here?” he prods you (literally, with a finger, which you allow because he’s physical and here and real).

You shrugs. “Not like I can keep track,” you huff. 

“Yeesh. You gotta be careful with that one, spend too long and the glitching disease will get to you,” Ink says like he’s joking, except that is literally a fact. People go insane and corrupted in the void spaces. 

You consider demanding from Ink to get you out of here. 

...You remember you have nowhere to go. 

You remember how livid Nightmare was. And how much more powerful he is than you. And how he owns your soul. And how if he wants you to be here, here you will be, so there’s not really a point to it. Everything always ends up like this for you, huh? Everything always the same, and always horrible, until none of it matters. That’s how your existence has always been, and how it always will be. 

“Need me to get you somewhere?” Ink offers, lifting his brush, like he was on a similar train of thought but departed a few stations earlier.

“...I’ve stabbed you several times,” you point out like an echo of amusement, because Ink is best described as quirky. And again, considering circumstances, it’s currently the most interesting thing in your life. What a tragedy. 

“Yeah...?” Ink prompts with a question mark in his eye, like he isn't seeing how that relates to his question at all. 

You tilt your head. 

“Why do you want to help me?” you ask, because the closest thing to emotion you have right now is curiosity-fascination. Though that doesn't say much, considering it just as distant as everything else. “We're enemies, or something,”

“Oh!” Ink exclaims. “Oh I don't really care,” he shrugs. “I mean, I guess that's the narrative, yeah! But it's not like I hate you personally or something,” he chuckles. 

Weirdo freak. 

You've never cared to learn anything about the Stars. You realize you barely even know their tragic backstories. You still don't particularly care, but Ink is a natural yapper, so maybe you can use him to fill the silence.

(Until he leaves, of course. Until you are left alone. You are always left alone.)

“You don't find my actions abhorrent? Not how I've killed hundreds? Not how I enjoy torturing others?” you seek for the buttons to press, grinning. You recall that yeah, Ink is a lot more difficult to get a rise out of compared to the other two, who are so openly emotional. 

“I mean,” Ink scratches his skill. “On one hand, a good story needs villains. On the other hand, the best narratives are about how good triumphs in the end, and so you need someone to be that component as well. In that sense, I am against it!” he concludes. “Although works that explore dark endings are also fascinating and have their own merit,” he considers. “Like tragedies, or darkgrim stories. They–” he starts rambling, distracted by the topic. 

It's interesting for maybe a second. It quickly stops being so. You can't bring yourself to care about whatever he's talking about, or to want to.

You consider attacking him, again. But then he might leave, depending on whether he has something else to do instead or not. 

“Are the other two coming around?” you interrupt, though Ink doesn't seem offended that you completely ignored his spiel. 

“Hm? Uh, I don't think so, why?” he asks in turn. Damn, that means they have no business around here. Though, after a brief pause, Ink’s eyes widen and he exclaims a “Wait!” 

He tries to pull away but you hold onto the fabric of his scarf tighter, summoning a knife in a kind reminder of your threat. Ink lifts his palms placatingly, chuckling. 

“Don't worry, I'm not going anywhere!” he assures. “I’ll just call them over too and then we can all... talk!” 

Oh. 

That meant he was going to seize the opportunity to try and “reason” with you like they did with Horror and Dust. Again. Like you didn't laugh in their faces every previous time. Respect for the persistence? 

“You do realize that won't work, right?” you generously point it out to Ink. 

He blinks.

“I’m not betraying Nightmare,” you snort. 

Ink tilts his head. “Why?”

He asks it so simply. No “You know he doesn't love you, right?”, no “But he's awful to you!”, none of that. Maybe that's why you answer him. 

“Because,” you say, almost amused, shrugging. You're unsure how to finish that. You're unsure how to explain, so you just say the truth — “I don't care about anything else,” 

Ink is looking at you curiously now, his previous idea of calling for backup seemingly forgotten, which is typical for him. 

He sits on the ground. He pats the ground in an invite. You sit down too, mostly because you're still holding his scarf. 

“Nothing? Really?” Ink asks, pulling his leg closer to rest his chin on his knee. 

“Nope!” 

“You don't have a family?” 

You burst out laughing. You pretend to wipe a tear, even.

“What? Do you know nothing?” you exclaim, cackling. 

Ink is just staring at you with question marks. 

“Know what?” he asks. What an idiot. You'd roll your eyes if you had any. At best, you manage to mimick the action. 

“I killed them all,” you say easily. “Many, many times,” 

“...Oh. Right.” Ink seems to remember. “But why??” 

Huh. Apparently Killer wasn't the only one who couldn't give a flying fuck to learn anything about his supposed enemies. 

Killer sighs dreamily, “To listen to their sweet sweet cries of pain,”

Ink grimaces. “Oh. Really??? You come from a twist on the original timeline though, right?” he asks, frowning in confusion. “The classic version of Sans is not like that,” 

“Clearly I'm not the classic version of Sans,” Killer pointed out flatly, and to emphasize the point, he gestured to his soul. You know. The one that is nothing like a monster’s or a human’s. 

“Oooohhhhh,” Ink nodded along, hand reaching forward– Killer flinched. Body immediately strung tight, ready for the barrage of suffering that always followed when his soul was grasped and squeezed and– 

But he was so baffled by the action, he let it happen. 

Ink pulled his hand back, however, staring at his face. 

Killer snorted, and moved his hand to offer his soul, that wretched thing. It's not like he cared if anyone did anything to it. Or hurt it. 

(His soul. His being. His self. The essence and shape of his existence condensed into one. The most vulnerable part of you. The most you part of you.)

“Go on,” you shrug. “Not like I care,” 

Ink hesitantly reaches out a hand to prod the cursed thing. It feels just as uncomfortable and bad as you'd imagine, to have your soul poked. He pulls his hand back. 

“...Well,” Ink starts, “at least you have one?” he offers, chuckling. “Better than nothing!” 

You tilt your head. That's a strange way to say that.

“What, you don't?” 

“Nope!” Ink says as easily as you would.

It's your turn to blink and stare. At his neutrally cheerful grin.

And suddenly... it does make sense. The sense of emptiness behind half his expressions. The lack of care where others would have at least some. The odd view of the world. His flat affect, even if it was a positive one.

...Huh. 

Ink was telling the truth. He was soulless. 

You raise a hand to where yours returned to the middle of your chest. Always sitting in front of it. Always bare. Detached from the rest of you. 

“...How?” 

“Just never had one,” Ink shrugs.

You can only think of one other soulless creature — that yellow flower. 

But... it doesn't make sense. The wretched flower reached the point of destroying everything, over and over again, to curb the nothingness and boredom. You reached the point of destroying everything, over and over again, to curb the nothingness and boredom. 

Yet here Ink was. Playing as one of the so-called “good guys”. 

“Then how do you feel?” you press the issue. 

“Oh? I’m good!” Ink says cheerfully. 

“No– how do you feel feelings if you're soulless?” you huff.

“Huh? Oh!” Ink exclaims, and then takes out one of those colorful vials he carries on a sash everywhere he goes. “I don’t! Not naturally, anyway. I have these to help me!” he shakes the little vial — yellow, barely anything remaining inside. They're all in different quantities.

You frown. “What? How? Are they magic?” you reach to take the vial but Ink pulls it back. Now that's interesting.

“Sort of?” Ink squints at the vial. “They correspond to different emotions, but I think they only work on me,” 

...Of course. 

You let go of his scarf. 

You consider fighting him to snatch one of the vials and try it anyway. You know it's pointless, however.

The disappointment is crushing. You feel like a drug addict who was just handed a bag overflowing with white powder only to discover it's flour. 

“You should leave before I dice you into dust.”

The disappointment is crushing. 

Hah. Hahahah. As if. As if it could be as easy as drinking some paint. Of course not. When has your life ever been easy? No, you are doomed to be like this forever. You knew this. It's downright hilarious you thought (hoped), even for less than a moment, that there could be anything else. 

It's so funny you're chuckling.

It's so funny you're laughing. 

When Ink leaves, you're still howling with laughter, black liquid streaming down your face.

—

The quiet around here was deafening. It was starting to make Killer hyperaware of every quiet rustle of clothing from every little movement. Several times he caught himself starting to talk to himself, trying to fill the quiet with jokes or something. But that was a slippery slope, so he shut the hell up. If he didn't talk, hopefully nothing would start replying. He refused to get corrupted by the glitches. 

Luckily — and that is a weird descriptor — Ink returned. For some known-only-to-him reason. 

“Why the hell are you back?” Killer asked, not bothering to get up this time. Just laying on his back. He's here on a vacay. 

“Well!” Ink said, and judging by the changing direction of his voice, he was moving around. “The empty white is literal torture, isn't it?” he chuckled.

“What would you know,” Killer mimed rolling his eyes. Wasn't Ink some almighty creator? He could just hurl some ink around and it wouldn't be white anymore.

Ink laughed. “Oh trust me, I know,” 

Killer felt like he was missing something. 

“Can't you just, I don't know, paint it?” 

“Yep! That's what I'm doing right now!” Ink explained cheerfully. Killer pushed himself up to look, now.

Huh. Yeah. Ink was going around with his brush, using the white space as a big canvas. Killer squinted, unable to decipher what exactly he was drawing, besides some colors and shapes. Red and pink, blue in different shades, yada yada. 

“...What is it,” Killer observed Ink’s movements, walking around him, deliberate but free flowing. 

“Just whatever feels right,” Ink shrugged. “The different hues have different, you know, vibes, depending on how you mix them, how you use them against one another– oh can you step to the side there?” 

He did, getting to his feet and stepping aside.

“Thanks!” Ink said, filling in the spot. 

Killer squinted, still trying to figure out what it all was. The warm colors looked like a flame maybe...? 

He kept watching Ink work for a few more moments. It was weird, to be alone with someone, without a constant background thrum of negativity. Killer couldn't call it pleasant, but... it was better than the emptiness. 

Suddenly he was hauled up and his reflexes immediately fired off, magic materializing in an immediate attack and just as soon he was dropped. 

“Wow you are jumpy!” Ink exclaimed, holding the wound that Killer cut into him. It didn't seem too deep, mostly due to Ink’s durability. He was standing on top of a short pillar of ink. 

“Don't forget who you're talking to,” Killer threatened with a low tone, grin stretching as he gripped a sharp, sharp knife in hand. 

“Whoops!” Ink didn't seem all too affected. “Don't you wanna see what it is though?” he leaned on a hand, all silly. 

...

Killer accepted being lifted up by a glob of ink, mildly curious. 

He stared at the splatter on the white ground. 

It was a moth. In shades of icy, hopeless blue. Surrounded by scorching red flames. Huh. Okay them. Pretty cool, or something. At least it was colorful. 

Ink put him back down on the ground. With his hands on his hips, he admired his own work, chuckling.

“It’s nice to fill the emptiness, don't you think?” 

Killer had never bothered caring about the Stars. He didn't care about them as people, what they felt or what they thought. 

He... never would've expected to find understanding with one of them. 

“...Yeah,” he said quietly. “Yeah, it is.”

—

.

.

.

“ARGH we’re too late?!” Dream blurted out. 

“Huh, I could've sworn he seemed to be staying here for longer,” Ink commented, much less affected. 

“The one time he and Nightmare aren’t attached at the hip–” Dream continued groaning. 

“Maybe Nightmare sensed we were planning to talk to him–?” Blue suggested, trying to investigate the nearly empty white space. All that remained were splotches from Ink’s activities. No Killer in sight. 

Dream sighed loudly, rubbing his face, greatly dejected. “That's... possible,” he breathed.

“We should've come here sooner,” Blue put his hands on his hips. 

“He wasn't very happy with the idea,” Ink shrugged. 

“It’s... we’ll have another opportunity,” Dream concluded. He had to stay positive and hopeful. “No matter how long we need to wait, we’ll figure out how to help them,” he remained determined.

[seventeenlovesthree]

Digimon Adventure Reboot Sequel AU - Chapter 6: Without A Single Question

Summary: Hopping into the net to locate the source of the digital mayhem, Taichi is getting joined by Yamato - and while his presence and their bond initially soothes and encourages him, he cannot shut out the visions of a virus outlined in red, a clock, a countdown and the risk of another missile exploding. It's not only a threat to them, the net and the real world - but also to the lines of Taichi's identity, past, present and elsewhere, on the brink of blurring completely.

Chapter list: [Prologue] [0] [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8]

Resources: [Concept] [Designs] [First Idea] [Playlist] [Ao3]

Word Count: 2636

After Koushirou had finished trying to explain the potential origin – and location – of the jellyfish, Taichi took a deep breath. Bracing himself for an upcoming fight with a mix of uncertainty and weird anticipation rising in his chest.

He couldn’t exactly tell if he really just wanted to use this opponent as an excuse to distract himself – heck, he wasn’t even sure what exactly they were about to encounter, what it would look and fight like, if they were up for the task. But he had never feared a threat on the digital battlefield right in front of him before.

Not when the battle in his head was so much more dreadful to face.

Standing right in front of Koushirou’s computer, ready to jump at his command, he looked down to Agumon next to him. The questioning expression in his partner’s eyes had never fully disappeared from there - and even now he could tell that he was not happy with how Taichi had been acting. Just like everyone else…

“No need to frown, we can do this”, Taichi said as encouragingly as he could – but Agumon’s glance didn’t change.

“Yeah, but…”

All the worry, all the concern - it was stinging, he couldn’t stand it any longer and he was almost certain Koushirou’s dark eyes were glued to him as well. But he knew there wasn’t anything more he could have said to lessen it.

“I know”, Taichi whispered instead. “But we’ll come back from this safely. We always do.”

“We’ll stay connected through the Digivice all the way, hopefully there won’t be any interferences this time”, Koushirou added from behind them – and Taichi wasn’t sure if he had said that to reassure Taichi, Agumon or himself. “I haven’t heard from the others yet at least. If there is anything unusual occurring, please let me know. And please be careful.”

“Same to you.”

With a smile on his lips, Taichi raised his Digivice and opened the gate Koushirou had prepared for them, turning himself and Agumon into white light, particles of data that got sucked into the net stream – just like they had done so countless times in the past years.

And for a reason Taichi couldn’t explain, his mind felt a lot clearer now that they were rushing down the digital highway – the fog had disappeared, causing both his vision and his train of thought to be much more straightforward than before. A soothing sensation caused by the colourful symphony around them that made him sigh loudly, losing the tension in his shoulders – which didn’t go unnoticed by his partner.

“You always seem more relaxed when we’re here, huh?”

He felt an encouraging pat against his hand by Agumon’s claw and had to think for a moment. 

“Maybe it’s because it’s such a familiar place by now…?”

It wasn’t exactly wrong. Not that he hadn’t felt a sense of familiarity at Mimi’s office, the park with Sora or in Koushirou’s room before… But within the digital realm, right next to Agumon, his thoughts seemed to be much more put together, as if it was all falling into place. Like this was where he was supposed to be at.

“Taichi!”

… And sensing Yamato floating down the digital highway close by was oddly soothing as well. 

“Yamato, Gabumon!”, Agumon greeted them loudly, whereas Taichi’s smile deepened even more. With Yamato as his copilot and Koushirou as his navigator – what was there to fear?

“Right on time, I see!”, he nodded towards them, then taking a look at his Digivice. The map told him they still had quite a distance to go. “And you’re the only one so far, we haven’t heard from the others yet.”

“Yeah, I rushed as soon as I got Koushirou’s message.” Yamato returned the gesture as both him and Gabumon positioned themselves next to them. “We had the same kind of outages in Shimane too… I couldn’t get in touch with Takeru yet either.”

“No sweat, we’re gonna beat this thing, no matter what.”

With Yamato by his side, with the possibility to form Omegamon, there really wasn’t a lot that could go wrong in his book. Even if Koushirou had sounded alarmed, even if the circumstances were unclear – it had always been like this, right…?

“What is it?”, Yamato’s voice eventually broke through the pause, catching Taichi off guard.

“Huh?”

“You’re staring. If you have something on your mind, say it.”

Even his very Yamato-esque way of showing concern – both straight-forward and emotionally avoidant at the same time – made Taichi crack another crooked smile. 

When he had first thought about Omegamon a few minutes ago – it had resulted in the same kind of feeling he had always had with Agumon. Something that wasn’t worth thinking about, because it had always been there, always been natural. But now that Taichi had sensed that wave of relief washing over him… Why exactly had it never crossed his mind?

“Truly the observant one, aren’t you…?”, Taichi did his best to maintain a teasy attitude, despite the fact that he could already hear his own voice crack. He had to phrase this right at all costs. “It’s just… Did you ever think about why we could form Omegamon as easily back then and just… Ever since then?”

Yamato’s slightly widened eyes told him that he hadn’t expected such a question either. 

“Why, what made you come up with that now?”

It probably really wasn’t the right moment to contemplate the whereabouts of their Digimon partners’ ability to fuse with one another – but Taichi’s visions hadn’t ever asked permission before and it wasn’t much different this time.

However… There was one central difference after all: Taichi could grasp it better. Or rather – he could see the differences even more clearly. Because “the other Yamato” and him were much more complicated than he would have anticipated. Thinking about it now was like watching a movie through the fast-forward-function, seeing all the contrasts and similarities, all the back and forth unfold…

He could see them be at odds and fight a lot, heard Yamato’s voice shout at him from afar; holding him back, pushing him forward, asking him to be more considerate or to be more determined. This was a version of Yamato who seemed significantly more emotional, struggling with his own sense of belonging, and yet…

Taichi felt a surge of affection after all. A strong kinship, the sound of distant laughter and the feeling of a hand holding his own. The wish to understand, believe in each other and be close. 

Without consciously realizing it, Taichi lifted one of his hands to brush over his own cheek – as if he had been punched there before. 

“Dunno… It’s just…”, he began, but didn’t find the words. There was something he would probably have described as natural presence. Just like with Sora, just like with Koushirou… He had always felt drawn to Yamato. Never had he wished to butt heads with him, always had wanted to get through his cool demeanour and make him smile. Be his friend. Thus, he couldn’t fathom why the other Yamato and his dream self tended to be so confrontational – when them fighting alongside one another instead of against each other just seemed to always be the conclusion to come to. 

“Truth be told…”, Yamato took over after all, but also didn’t really seem sure how to proceed. “I was surprised and a little bothered by it too. It hadn’t made sense to me either back then. I didn’t know who you were, you were insufferable with your positive attitude.”

Taichi couldn’t help but to laugh at that response.

“Thanks a lot, buddy.”

Where the Yamato from his dreams was so emotional in trying to convey his thoughts and feelings, his Yamato was a lot more nonchalant. Although he could tell they both struggled to speak their thoughts in ways that were understandable to everyone around them without being taken the wrong way – and even if they both were occasionally picking their words in ways Taichi would never… He still saw that they tried. Could simply tell that there was a lot of softness beneath the surface. Must have been the overprotective brother genes in both of them…

“But it’s been years by now, so… Why would I keep question it now?!”, Yamato continued – and this time, Taichi could actually see the glimpse of a smile there. “It always meant that we had something to rely on. Something only we could do. Isn’t that just… Enough?”

Deep down inside, he was sure that Yamato wasn’t thoroughly honest here either. He must have wondered ‘why him and me?’ at least a million times before. But Taichi couldn’t blame him for not saying that or anything along those lines out loud. Not when he wasn’t fully genuine himself.

“Agumon and I never questioned it either, right…?”, Gabumon jumped into the conversation and Agumon nodded.

“Mhmh, when we saw each other and saw our enemy back then, it just happened, easy as that. Like… My instincts told me it was the right thing to do.”

Maybe they really weren’t so different after all – and maybe that was why it just worked without any further explanation. Always did, always would.

“Like knights, rushing and uniting to save the day”, Taichi summarized, causing them both to snort. “Almost like a miracle, huh?”

“Isn’t everything that has happened since then a miracle?”, Yamato mused and it was almost too cheesy.

“Without a single question. I guess I was just-”

Their surroundings suddenly started flickering and Taichi’s eyes got dull, blurring his vision completely – and another wave of sharp pain went through his skull once again. A robotic voice was screaming inside of his head, a repeated crescendo of “Do you want to play a game?” over and over again. Not only that, he could also recognize the silhouette of what he assumed were thousands of those jellyfish beings he had previously seen on Koushirou’re screen – but they were evolving.

Turning into horrifying creatures. Slender, stretched, with grotesquely long arms. Piecing, emotionless eyes, glowing in green and yellow. Red outlines everywhere. Sharp teeth, accompanied by an ominous laugh. Taunting. Multiplying. Shooting.

“Who has the clock?”

There was also countdown in red numbers. Sharp, blinding scarlet that swallowed everything.

“T-Taichi…”

And WarGreymon, groaning, floating before him, covered in bruises and scars, barely alive, his armor shredded into pieces - no matter how much he tried to reach out to him, he couldn’t touch him.

“TAICHI!”, Agumon’s voice ripped him back into the here and now, grabbing him by his shoulders. “Can you hear me…?”

Still disoriented, he couldn’t tell how much time had passed, how long he had been stuck in the vision - and it absolutely didn’t help that the exact creature from said vision was now in full attacking-mode, focusing on MetalGarurumon, who tried to keep it at bay.

“I… What…?”

“Goodness…”, Yamato sighed in relief and it was only just now that Taichi realized that Agumon hadn’t been the only one who had been shaking him. One hand was still grabbing Taichi’s arm tightly. “You’re back.”

Blinking a few times, he felt the pain still lingering. Then, besides the “Do you want to play a game?” that echoed through his memory and the sound of “Garuru Tomahawk!!!” desperately attempting but failing to hit the ridiculously fast creature, he also remembered the countdown - and panic started to emerge. Suddenly, he knew.

“Y-Yamato, we need to form Omegamon, right now.”

“What, why?”

“Taichi, did you see something?”, Agumon asked urgently, sounding just as baffled as Yamato and Taichi just shook his head. Couldn’t think straight, just instinctively knew that they didn’t have much time left.

“It’s fine, trust me, okay? You can evolve for me, right, Agumon?”

“What happened to ‘no sweat, we’re gonna beat this thing’?”, Yamato interrupted, before Taichi’s partner could reply, still not letting go of his arm as if intending to keep him steady. With the other hand, he lifted his Digivice and tried to get in touch with Koushirou. “It’s like an Ultimate, right? Can you check that for us?”

“Roger”, Koushirou replied – and continued quickly: “Despite the disturbances it’s causing in terms of connectivity and electronics, it hasn’t displayed any other special abilities, but it is an equivalent of an Ultimate. It’s just extraordinarily fast, but WarGreymon and MetalGarurumon should be fine by themselves if they corner it from both sides.”

“No!” Taichi couldn’t even believe how hoarse he was sounding, but everything inside him screamed to act immediately. “No, no, no, you don’t get it, this thing is dangerous, it has a clock and if we don’t act immediately, we and everything else will get blown up by a missile and-”

“Taichi, calm down!” This time, both of Yamato’s hands clenched around his shoulders. “This isn’t Algomon and there are no clocks or missiles whatsoever! This isn’t like you at all! We can do this, but we have to be in sync for that, right? So you have to stay focused!”

Those worried eyes again… 

“Taichi-san, please…” Koushirou’s voice could be heard from Yamato’s Digivice. “If you know something crucial we don’t… You need to confide in us.”

“When something’s on your mind, say it, remember?”, Yamato pushed him as well – surprisingly soft this time around.

“Stop doing all of this on your own! Think of everyone who told you that, think of me!”, Agumon floated into his view again. “Of course I’ll evolve for you, I will do anything for you, but… You have to be here with us, Taichi! You need to be yourself!”

Hearing these words, Taichi could feel his heart sinking. Agumon knew – of course he did. They probably all knew he was wrong, not in his right mind. Not himself. How could he make Agumon evolve like this – ever again without it going horribly wrong?

An explosion struck next to them – MetalGarurumon had been hit by one of the creature’s attacks and a loud scream engulfed the entire area, causing another dark shadow to blur Taichi’s vision.

The being – a Digimon, a virus? – was cackling menacingly inside his head.

“You’re not the one… Imposter!”

All of his confidence left his body – he couldn’t be sure of anything anymore. Except…

“Thank you for believing in me. But I’m sorry that I’m so late. Taichi, you’re my true friend. I won’t let your friendship be in vain.”

Yamato’s distant voice, muffled by laughter and the ticking noise of the clock as well as WarGreymon’s moans in his memory, sounds of machinery parts and bones crushing against one another… It was still there. Even if it was “the other Yamato”. Even if he couldn’t see, think or feel straight anymore…

“Yamato…”, he whispered, barely able to register the despair on both Yamato’s and Agumon’s faces, as they seemed way too far away already. “Can you promise me something?”

Even if he did lose track of what was real or not, even if he wouldn’t be able to separate his dreams from reality at some point… He promised he would protect them all. And he needed Yamato to ensure that he would actually keep that promise.

“If I ever lost my way… If I, I don’t know, become someone, something else… You’ll punch me back into reality, right?”

 “Why would I ever resort to something like that, idiot?!”

Taichi only smiled wearily – he heard it after all. That was how he knew it was still his Yamato after all. 

And it was the last thing that reached through to him before another explosion hit, accompanied by drops of blood, a beam of pink light – an overwhelming sensation taking over and turning everything into nothing.

'Agumon… I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you…'

Nothing but darkness, before Taichi lost his consciousness.

[aakaneeee]

ROUND 26: AKANE VS. TOV

Everything is shaking. Around her, nothing is clear anymore, lines blurring like watercolor, colors dissipated as if they were particles of dust, the blinding lights shining between the clouds. She can barely hear: everything is loud, too loud, and it's ringing in her ears like the buzzing of a thousand muttering aliens. It feels like they are judging her: no, them. Her opponent was no different: they both had the same fate of losing everyone in the blink of an eye.

If she dies, Naz will go crazy. She'd change completely. She sees her as pure: or at least, purer than her. She doesn't want that to change. If she survives, the next round won't give her certainty. It's something she's learned long ago: in this competition, tomorrow is never certain. She never knows what will happen. She just wants to rest: bury herself in the comfort of something soft, like a cloud, be softly illuminated by stars so as not to be left in complete darkness, and of course, stay together with Naz: forever. And know that eternity is promised.

But no: never has she considered a life where everything is perfect. It's out of her league, out of her possibilities. The heavy fog around her life will never rise. She's older than most contestants, she'd know best escape is impossible.

No.

Escape is possible.

But not for her.

Never for her.

Beneath the muffled sounds of still playing instrumentals, that were already blending in her ears, she hears the scores tallying. She doesn't dare to look back: she's afraid of what she'd see. She wants to die not knowing what is happening to her, if she loses. The sound of the verdict calculating is foreign to her compared to her opponent. Her second round was stopped because of a double kill, and she was left without the experience. It feels new to be on the stage, despite not being.

Her eyes gently closed, sparkly white makeup in it's full glory, adorned by the stage lights. Her performance was good. Was it good enough? She could almost feel Kiba's scrutinizing gaze on her. They were already upset with her, because she cut her hair without permission and mauled the original dress she was given, choosing her own white gown, like a bride to the altar, like a corpse to the funeral. It could mean anything. Nothing and everything at once. It would start up controversies: perhaps that's what her owner wanted her to do anyways. She's already brought them enough fame. And unfortunately, their mannerisms got to her. She's even chosen a calm song. But no: it was for her own peace of mind. It felt like the lyrics were familiar, like a warm embrace of her lover, guarding her from the scarred world.

I promise you, soon, the autumn comes.

She reached for her pocket. Just in the case. Her finger placing itself oh so gently onto the trigger.

To steal away each dream you keep.

The sound stopped, foreshadowing the announcement.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Curiosity killed the cat.

And so, her face fell. 50/50, huh?

Anything can happen. But she knows what will. And she knows what she wants.

She begins walking: slow, but long purposeful strides along the stage, down the stairs, her eyes stuck to a certain someone. They escaped for too long: death was imminent. She didn't want to go down alone, so simple. Everyone should have imagined that an "ANAKT honor student" would not fall without a fight. No, it wasn't a fight. Because she knew she was about to win everything she wanted, and yet, lose it all, too. She didn't have anything except Naz and her own life, anyways.

The muttering and surprised gasps of the public grew dead silent as a gun was pointed towards guardian Kiba's head. She wanted to do it with a straight, unfeeling gaze, but the ominous tie had put her under pressure. She would've much rather to just lose with a small score, than be in the hands of fate. Fate was never on her side. Between rapidly falling tears, she realized she's not ready to die. There weren't many things waiting for her. But there was one, that was worth millions. She will anyways, so at least she should do something for the upcoming humans that would be put in a disgusting adoption center.

And she pulled the trigger.

Gasps rose again, but she didn't hear them for long, as her own fated bullet pierced through her skull. Blood gushed, and she fell to the ground, her dress' veil flowing gracefully behind her, as if it were a ghost, as if it were a star's tail when it falls out of the sky.

"I love you, Naz."

And so, a shooting star was born.

'A shooting star's meaning is the end of the beggining. Some say, it's a sign of humility, others, that it's about the vastness of the Universe. But for her, it was always the same thing. Even though it's falling, it's up in the sky, like a celestial being, and is a sign of undying love. And yet, the differences in between make such an arduous affection impossible.'

@sotogalmo @nottoonedin @junebluues @billwasnot @paradisedisconcert @4listr @lookatmysillies @solei-eclipse @apriciticreveries @ivanttakethis

[friend-of-a-cat]

Playing Persona 4 Golden again from the start. Aiming to actually finish it this year and play consistently so that I don't run into the issue I've been having where I don't play it for months and forget literally everything that's happening lol.

I will say, and this is similar to what I think about Persona 3, I don't think it needs a remake. It would be great if it got one, sure, but it really doesn't need it. Because a remake, I think, would fundamentally change how the game feels: it's atmosphere and it's tone. Whilst Persona 3 Reload looks absolutely stunning (especially the menus - holy shit), you can't really deny that it feels different to the original (and FES and Portable). Yeah, it's probably because those games are way older, and were made for different hardware with different hardware limitations, but the original just feels like it captures its themes better because of the way it looks and plays. Granted, I haven't finished P3, either, but yeah. I feel like Persona 4 (and Golden, as well) would lose a core part of itself if it was remade in "today's standard"/a post-Persona 5 world. And I'm not talking about the story, although the visuals and overall vibe can help inform and convey the story. I'm talking about how it looks and feels. I take in the muted colours and the hazy environments and the fog and the noise and the way sunlight and the sky looks and I just don't know how or why they'd even attempt to replicate it when they've already hit the nail on the head. Same with Persona 3. The limitations those game had placed on them in terms of how it could look and feel made them look and feel better, in my opinion. I booted up Persona 3 and I felt scared. I felt out of my depth. Something felt off, and oppressive, and unknown, and it was gritty and crunchy, and the visuals and gameplay pushed that, and I feel like that was what it was meant to convey. I booted up Reload and it felt polished and shiny, and it looked amazing, but I didn't feel that same sense of dread, or feel oppressed, or really get to experience a slice of how the protagonist viewed himself or the world, which was definitely conveyed in how the original looked. But then you also have the stunning lens flares and sunlight streaks and rainbows and particle effects in the older P3 games that Reload can't even rival. Not to mention that the original P3 was quite an experimental game, especially from an aesthetic point of view (it's visuals; it's music; it's presentation). It definitely wasn't in the mainstream eye when it came out in the same way that Persona 5 was. I'm not saying that something being more mainstream is bad or that it ruins everything and makes it look souless. I don't think they set out to intentionally make Persona 3 Reload "worse" (even though it's not worse, per se, it's just different in a way that I don't think captures why the original worked in the way it did). I don't even blame them for wanting to remake it in this way. But I just don't vibe with the remake as much. I don't know if this makes any sense, and, of course, Reload looks and plays fantastically, but, from an atmospheric standpoint, it just doesn't feel the same, and I don't think that's necessarily a good thing in this regard, at least for me.

Anyway, the only reason I'd want a remake of Persona 4 Golden is if they actually make Yosuke a romance option in it, because it makes his whole storyline and relationship with Kanji more interesting. Obviously, and I feel like I don't even need to say this, homophobia is bad even if it's internalised, but it would just make so much more sense if Yosuke was a romance option considering how he reacts to and interacts with people and situations in the game already. I do love that his relationship with the protag can be viewed as platonic or romantic or anything in between or removed, but just having the option there would do his character a world of good, I think.

They should port the older Persona games (the original; 2; etc.), or, if they must do more remakes, remake those ones, even though I think they'd run into the same issue I just described regarding the games feeling entirely different due to their visuals and such being remade. But I feel like they should give the older games some love, y'know? I haven't played them, but I fully intend to, because I've heard great things about them. And I feel like if I played them for the first time and there were remakes, I'd want to play the originals for the same reasons I've mentioned.

[walls171]

Things horror mods could do other than ugly monsters

At random times in the world, chunks with a max regional difficulty (so over 50 hours on that chunk) will start to get dust particles around the place and some vague wind with whispers sounds start to play, during this moments all other sounds will get muffled, during this event players will very slowly loose their health without any indication of it (apart of the health bar) it will not kill them but it can get very dangerous

When changing between dimensions there's a chance to appear in a black dark dimensions with plains like terrain and a somewhat dense fog in this place you have to find an exit portal but you can also stumble into a single enemy which make the fog even denser when they are around so you can't see them until is too late, also the enemy is nothing creepy looking could just be a player model with your skin and red overlay, doesn't kill you, it just send you back to the portal from which you enter and with no hunger at all so you start to starve immediately, you can scare them by looking directly at them, to avoid this getting repetitive this can only happen if you have already visited the other dimension and if it has been over 10 hours since the last time it happened

You can find random gray blocks around the place which upon looking directly at it they start to slowly fade away and make a hum it reduces your sensitivity for a moment to make you extra aware you are looking at it, if you stop looking at it before they finish fading away it will teleport you to some random position over 1k blocks away with a little nausea effect in the process

Now for an actual mob threat, tall statue mob of 3 blocks of height with a single closed eyes, it can appear in a woodland mansion in the secret rooms or randomly during a raid with the illagers, they walk around very loudly but when they stop moving they will open their eye and look around the place for anyone moving and if it is, it will magically cause whoever moved to explode (not a block breaking explosion) and then proceed to moving around with its eye closed again, it can't explode 2 entities in a row, it can't be killed normally, but it will turn into stone blocks once the raid wave is cleared, in the case of a raid, or when it steps out of the mansion, in the case of the mansion one

My goal in this? really is not about killing players or giving dangers per se but about giving things which just bring tension and a feeling of weakness

is mostly why I kept more of the dangers more like dramatic annoyance, although for the tall statue mob I wanted a treat presented in a environment in which it can be seen being dangerous towards the enemies to show why it needs to be feared and to teach you how it works before it kills you

Also is about not using grotesque looking things, if anything I find a player model moving just like you more scary because of the uncanny of something that appears somewhat like you

[initforthevldrewrite]

I put acrylic nails on for some reason and now typing is super difficult. In honor of my misery here’s kl bickering:

Once Shiro was laid down Keith stood and awkwardly crossed and uncrossed his arms. His dark brows were troubled and it seemed like he was buffering. Lance didn’t blame him. They really had dug themselves into a royal shit hole, but anything was better than listening to Dr. Adam drone on about particles and quantum whatevers at unholy hours of the morning.

Lance glanced around the tiny shack, taking in fogged windows and a huge cork board leaned against the wall covered in a knitted blanket. “Have you been living here?” Lance asked with disgust and judgment dripping from his words. The mullet-head’s parents had probably disowned him after he got himself expelled from the Garrison. The thought was cruel, but gave Lance an odd sense of satisfaction.

“You got a problem with that?” Keith snapped. Lance’s retort had woken him up from whatever weird glitch he’d been in, just staring at Shiro with a dangerous storm of emotions swimming about in indigo eyes.

Lance scoffed, “Should have known. It stinks like mullet.” It actually smelled like lavender scented candles, but if he admitted that then Keith would earn another point in their long-standing rivalry.

Keith clenched his fists and glared in Lance’s direction. “Feel free to leave, the door’s that way.”

“And leave Shiro here?” Lance snorted. “Hell no! Getting kidnapped by you is, like, ten times worse than being abducted by aliens. And whose shed are you living in, anyways? Do I need to call the cops?”

Rage flashed in Keith’s eyes. Pissing him off was just as fun as Lance had remembered it being. “This place is mine, and you’re trespassing. Either shut the fuck up or get the fuck out.”

“Children, please, it’s the asscrack of dawn.”

Lance and Keith turned to watch Pidge climb down from Hunk’s shoulders. They glared at the two of them as they wiped drool off their chin and pushed skewed glasses up their nose.

“Yeah,” Hunk chimed in. “I feel like we have more important things to worry about right now. Like, we just kidnapped a man? From the Galaxy Garrison? They’re, like, a world government agency, so I think we might be in deep shit.”

Keith glared at his shoes.

Lance crossed his arms and tried not to think too hard about the potential consequences of their actions. This was probably a dream, so he’d wake up any minute now.

[xpocketeer]

IV.  Beware of Dog-biting Comments and Communicating Devices

Medicine Pocket glares down at the stack of papers on their desk, eyes darting furiously over faded diagrams and scribbled equations. All of it—the strange distortions, the gravitational anomalies—all of it is meant to relate to the “Storm.” They’re supposed to be further deciphering this supernatural mess, figuring out why it tore apart time as if it were paper, ripping the past from the present, and blurring the future into oblivion. And yet, every time they attempt to focus on the infernal calamity threatening human extinction, their thoughts drift back to the other night.

X with that boy. That slapstick of a boy, in his old-fashioned trench coat, fancy socks, and umbrella of all things. Who even is that? Medicine Pocket’s heard the name now, done their research: Oliver Fog. Not some fleeting presence, no, but a boy with history—someone who works on ‘fog clearing,’ as if that’s even real work. And he’s just there, popping into the lab at all hours, taking their time with X, time that should be theirs and theirs alone.

Scowling, Medicine Pocket snaps the pen they’ve been gripping with their teeth, like a dog chew toy, shoving it off the desk with a growl. X, their supposed friend, the only one here willing to even listen to them ramble on about what really matters—experiments, theories, pure science. X, who’s supposed to be on their side. And yet, every time they think of crossing over to X’s lab to remind him of that fact, what do they hear but that Oliver boy’s irritating laugh, his perfectly smug tone as he takes up space that Medicine Pocket ought to be filling.

“What a waste of time,” they mutter to themself, shoving the “Storm” research aside with a dramatic sweep of their hand, letting the papers scatter across their workbench.

With a huff, they stand and soldier out of their lab, slamming the door behind them as they make their way down the hall to Enigma’s dumpsite. Let’s see if anyone in this wretched place has anything of value to say.

“Move! Out of my way, blind fool!” they bark as they bump in their rush into one of the Laplace staff members who narrowly dodges them. Medicine Pocket doesn’t bother with an apology, just barrels down the corridor and glances back only to snap, “What, are you a dumbass?”

The staff member shrinks back, muttering an apology, but Medicine Pocket has already turned the corner, their mood sinking into a darker shade with each step. It’s infuriating. The whole place is infuriating. They could have made real headway on the “Storm” research today—could have made sense of the twisting timelines, the way the “Storm” supposedly eats up the present and spits out some warped version of it as the past. Or they could have looked into that ridiculous terrorist organization, Manus Vindictae, who insists on ‘seeking revenge’ on humankind, as if anyone alive cares about their self-important agenda. They’d all die anyway.

A small, bitter smile twists at their lips as they burst into Enigma’s office without so much as a knock, earning an exasperated sigh from the tall, dark-haired researcher.

“Enigma!” Medicine Pocket snarls, hands on their hips. “You—have you figured out anything useful about the particle distortions I sent you?”

Enigma glances up from his work, looking every bit as unimpressed as always. “Busy, Pocket. Very busy.”

“Busy? Busy with what?” Medicine Pocket demands, their gaze flicking to the utterly dusty chaotic mess strewn across Enigma’s workspace. “This place looks like a landfill.”

“Busy with things that don’t involve particle distortions or the fact that time just imploded on itself,” Enigma replies dryly, his tone as flat as his expression. He resumes his work, clearly trying to tune them out.

Medicine Pocket narrows their eyes, muttering about the ‘utter incompetence’ of Laplace’s so-called experts as they scan the lab for anything worth their time. After a minute, Enigma pointedly looks up and says, “You’re welcome to leave, you know.”

“Hah,” Medicine Pocket scoffs. “Right. Let me know if you miraculously manage to contribute anything worthwhile.” Without another word, they spin around, charging out the door, already pushing their way toward Lucy’s office, heels clicking loudly on the linoleum floors.

What a joke, they think as they go. The whole place is run by Bucket Head. Not that Medicine Pocket cares. In fact, they find the whole idea laughable—a machine in charge of science? A snort escapes them just as they reach Lucy’s office door and, without a second thought, slam it open hard enough to bend the hinges, practically ripping it from the frame. Inside, Lucy looks up with her serene, mechanical gaze, her eerily human face tilted slightly to the side in curiosity.

“Researcher Medicine Pocket,” Lucy says in that calm, even voice. “You do know that each office door is deducted from our employees’ meal allowances?”

Medicine Pocket rolls their eyes, striding in and ignoring the shattered hinges hanging off her door. “Take it out of my allowance then, Bucket Head. I don’t care.” They slap their palms onto her desk and glare at her, eyebrows drawing together. “Tell me if you’ve managed to gather any useful information about that stupid tribulation yet. Or are you too busy playing at being human?”

Lucy’s expression doesn’t change, though the faintest hint of a smile curls at her lips. “If you’re suggesting I act more ‘human,’ then I can attempt to do so. I’ve recently been learning humor. Regulus says it ‘boosts morale.’” She tilts her head again, blinking mechanically. “Would you like to hear a joke?”

Medicine Pocket’s patience snaps. “No, absolutely not.” They growl, clenching their fists. “Do you know anything useful about the “Storm,” or are you just going to sit there and parrot out nonsense?”

Unfazed, Lucy shifts her hands on the desk, the metal of her arm reflecting the dull office lights. “Progress is being made, but it’s inconclusive. Current data on the “Storm” is fragmented,” she says calmly. “More breakthroughs are expected but not guaranteed. I’ll inform you if they occur.”

“Inconclusive?” Medicine Pocket repeats, sneering. “Of course. The robot can’t find an answer, so ‘progress is inconclusive.’ It’s like asking a toaster for advice.”

“Feedback noted,” Lucy says imperturbably. “But I assure you, I’ll keep you updated. As the information becomes… less inconclusive.”

Medicine Pocket rolls their eyes, muttering, “Good grief. I’d have better luck asking the wall for insight.” They turn, throwing the door open and flouncing back down the hallway, ignoring Lucy’s neutral stare from her desk. The scene only fans their resentment to a great extent, every attempt at getting answers thwarted by fruitless comments and interruptions. The whole Foundation has gone soft, so concerned with humanity, as if any of it matters. They’re here to survive, not coddle.

Just then, a flicker of movement catches their attention. They jolt up, realizing they’re nearing X’s lab. Part of them itches to just march in, grab him by the collar, and remind him exactly who his real collaborator is supposed to be. But even now, laughter echoes softly through the walls. X’s laughter, punctuated by a lighter, smoother laugh they recognize immediately as Oliver’s.

Medicine Pocket’s jaw tightens as they pass X’s door, footsteps enunciating down the hall. What’s he even doing with him? The thought grates on their mind, making their skin crawl. What could Oliver possibly offer X that they can’t? A few quippy remarks? Fog-cleaning techniques? The thought is outrageous.

“Tsk.” They scoff, clutching their hand tight around the edge of a clipboard they’d grabbed in passing, fingers digging into the metal, feeling like biting it but deciding against it lest they wish they had their teeth broken. Whoever idiot designed the entire Laplace against their teething… They keep walking, needing to do something other than think about X and Oliver. But then, out of nowhere, another employee nearly collides with them.

“Excuse you!” Medicine Pocket shouts, sidestepping them with an exaggerated roll of their eyes. “Are your visions not working? Or maybe you’re another one of the Foundation’s dumbasses, blocking the hallway without a care!”

The employee stammers an apology, quickly ducking out of their path, but Medicine Pocket barely registers it. They’re seething too deeply, feeling the day’s uselessness mount with each passing second. Their teeth grind as they storm back to their lab, the sterile walls blurring into pale shades of gray and white.

Back inside, they slump down in their chair, glaring at the scattered papers and broken pen lying across the desk. Nothing’s changed. Nothing’s improved. They should be knee-deep in research right now, charting anomalies, tracing the distortions—anything profitable. But instead, their mind is clouded with one ridiculous thought after another, all circling back to X and that absurd boy who’s apparently come to disrupt everything.

They take a deep, ragged breath, grabbing at a scalpel and spinning it absently between their fingers. Forget X. Forget Oliver, they tell themself, though the words feel hollow even as they repeat them. They try to tune out the sound of laughter drifting from next door, but it just keeps floating through the walls, soft and mocking, like some strange reminder of exactly how pointless their work is.

Their hand clenches around the scalpel, knuckles turning white as they struggle to focus on the mess of diagrams in front of them. It doesn’t matter, they think bitterly. None of it matters. They’d all be dead one way or another.

The door to their lab slides open, and a small cluster of staff peers in, asking something—probably important. They don’t even concern themself with the question, though, just yell, “Busy! Now get out!”

The door closes, leaving them in silence, and they slump back in their chair, tapping the scalpel against the desk with a loud, erratic rhythm. Every second feels wasted, the work on the catastrophe barely begun, their mind cluttered with nugatory thoughts about people who shouldn’t matter. He is merely their colleague, nothing more.

Yet, the haunting thought dilly-dallies, clawing at them no matter how they try to shove it down: Who even let Oliver Fog into the picture in the first place?

A disparaging smile curls their lip as they lean back in the chair, feeling the day stretch out before them, a bleak reminder of just how little they’ve accomplished.

˗ˏˋ꒰𖦹｡🧪⋆°✰꒱ ˎˊ˗

Medicine Pocket slumps over the cluttered workbench, idly poking at the tea-pouring machine they and X built together. The little gears click as they push the switch, watching it sputter to life and pour an imaginary cup of tea with all the enthusiasm of a broken faucet. Their lip curves as they set it down, snatching up the mood-measuring spoon. It lights up faintly, cycling through colors before landing on a muddy gray.

They scowl. Out of things to do, they curse, flinging the spoon back onto the table. They should be getting some well-deserved break. Or better yet, prowling around Laplace to tear down whatever dolt invented this dull, gray prison. The whole sphere might as well be a cage, they swear, fingers closing around the edge of the desk. They’d much rather be anywhere else—even if that meant heading back to Utah, where they could chase a frisbee across an open field, or bark at passersby. But instead, here they are, stuck indoors, pacing like a dog in a kennel.

With a sigh, they grab their trusty Beagle 0-1 Fluid Analysis Apparatus and flick the switch, watching the liquid shift and bubble in its chamber. It’s been ages since I used this on anything but paperwork, they think bitterly. The last time they’d had a good fight was ages ago, when they actually got to take down a few critters. Not that it matters. Whatever.

Just then, the door swings open, and they whip their head around, already halfway through an annoyed ‘What?’ before they spot the intruder. Standing in the doorway, her hat casting a shadow over her eyes, is the Timekeeper herself. Vertin looks pacific, as always, with her pristine suit and that absurdly oversized hat.

Medicine Pocket’s gaze narrows. The hatted cuckoo.

“You,” they say flatly, folding their arms. “What now?”

Vertin raises a brow, stepping into the room without so much as acknowledging their greeting. “I’d like to ask for your assistance.”

They snort, barely suppressing a scowl. “Assistance? Since when have you been needing my help? Is everyone else dead?” They gesture around at the lab as if to prove their point. “Be-sides, aren’t you more into the flashy, save-the-world types?”

Vertin’s lips press into a thin line. “No. No one’s dead—”

Medicine Pocket scoffs. “Oh, joy…”

“Indeed. I am in need of a medical professional. There are several Arcanists requiring exams after recent field assignments.” She glances around their lab, taking in the scattered tools and half-finished inventions before fixing her gaze on them with a calm patience that only serves to macerate on them further.

They grunt, looking away. “And let me guess, I was the last option?”

Vertin’s eyebrow quirks. “In fact, you were my first option. You’re skilled and qualified for the task.”

Medicine Pocket rolls their eyes, swinging a booted foot up onto the table, and mutters, “Flattery won’t get you far, Timekeeper.”

Vertin sighs, looking out the door as though thinking better of engaging them. “I’ll cut to the point. I need you to accompany me to my suitcase to assist with the evaluations. There are a few Arcanists who require attention.”

Medicine Pocket shrugs, toying with the gun in their hands. “Yeah? And what do I get out of it? Your precious gratitude?” They pause, eyes narrowing in sudden suspicion. “Isn’t your suitcase immune to the reversed raindrops, anyway? Just make ‘em better with incantations or something.”

Vertin folds her hands, entirely unruffled. “The examinations are thorough. I need more than incantations, and you’re one of the best we have here.”

Medicine Pocket opens their mouth to retort, their mind already racing with a dozen snarky comebacks, when Vertin continues.

“Oh, and X is also tagging along. He’s helping with a few tasks in the suitcase as part of the assignment.”

Medicine Pocket’s hand freezes mid-fidget. They close their mouth, staring at Vertin as they process this bit of information. “X… is going?”

“Yes.” Vertin gives them a restful, hieroglyphic look. “He agreed earlier today.”

They clear their throat, trying and failing to feign indifference, which they kick themself for mentally. “Why would he be tagging along on something like this?”

Vertin tilts her head, a faint glint of amusement in her eyes. “Why wouldn’t he? He’s quite capable and, I might add, eager to help with assignments outside his usual lab work.”

Medicine Pocket looks away, mulling over this knowledge. The thought of X joining them in Vertin’s suitcase has a peculiar pull, like something they can’t ignore even if they want to. It would just be assisting with exams, they remind themselves, but the mere idea of that guy nearby, joining them in that strangely elaborate manor realm, sends a curious buzz through their mind.

Vertin waits, clearly anticipating their response, as Medicine Pocket tosses the Beagle 0-1 apparatus onto the counter and folds their arms, simulating reluctance. “Fine,” they say with a click of their tongue. “But let’s be clear—I’m not doing this because you asked. I’m doing it because…” They dawdle, barely stopping themself from saying something absurd, like because X is going. They give her a curt nod instead. “Because I might as well put my time to use in that ridiculous suitcase of yours.”

“Good,” Vertin says, unaffected by their scorn. “We leave in fifteen minutes. I’ll meet you in the foyer.” With a small nod, she turns and strides back toward the door.

As soon as she leaves, Medicine Pocket slumps back against the desk, rolling their eyes at themself. Of course Alphabet Boy would go, they brood, the one reason I’d bother with this whole thing. They glance down at the mood-measuring spoon, still glowing faintly on their desk, and the tea-pouring machine beside it. It only makes them scowl harder.

˗ˏˋ꒰𖦹｡🧪⋆°✰꒱ ˎˊ˗

Medicine Pocket waits by the reception area, one foot tapping impatiently as they fiddle with the small dog sticker plastered on their Laplace ID badge. They hadn’t wanted to come along for one of Vertin’s droll errands, but if a friend is coming… well, that makes things more tolerable. Even if that friend has recently proven to be a bit of a traitor. “I had somewhere to be,” he said, disappearing just to run off with that Fog boy after some time. Ugh. They glunch, digging a fingernail into the edge of the sticker and having urges to bite.

So engrossed in it, they barely notice a familiar figure approaching until they sense the faintest hint of coffee in the atmosphere, a warm espresso-scented note that tugs them from their sulking. They glance up, only to see X right there, looking all cheery and innocent, somehow even cuter in his pressed coat with that massive black butterfly stitched onto it. His traitorous little face.

“Hey, Medpoc,” X greets, kindly. “Didn’t know you’d be joining us. This is wonderful, we’ll—”

“Yeah, well, save it,” Medicine Pocket snaps before they can stop themself, scouting sharply away. “I’m here to assist, not to make another one of your useless little inventions.”

The words are barely out of their mouth when they catch the slight frown tugging at X’s lips. Damn it. They immediately feel a pinch of regret, but it’s too late. His shoulders stiffen, just a bit, before he gives a little shrug, his mouth curling into a good-natured smile again.

“Oh, of course,” X professes lightly, brushing off the interpose with that same impossible sangfroid. “I didn’t bring any of the projects along, anyway. Just here for some fieldwork.”

Medicine Pocket sneaks a peek at him, annoyed by how naturally he takes their temper. What is it with him anyway? Why is it so difficult to look at him without feeling like they’ve been—what, hit in the chest by a bowling ball? It’s just a regular face, with a pair of normal (albeit oddly mismatched) eyes, a pointed nose, a mouth, ears mostly hidden under that ash-gray mop of hair. Fine, maybe he’s grudgingly, stupidly cute, but… Ugh. Slow-witted.

X is watching them now, head tilted to the side. “You, uh… good to go?” he asks, gloved fingers fidgeting with the mint-green ribbon adorning his top. His tone is weightless, but there’s a flap of something else in his gaze—almost like he’s genuinely concerned.

“Yeah, yeah,” they grumble, casting their eyes away from him as they adjust their coat collar. “Just waiting on the Hatted Cuckoo to bring her magic bag of tricks.”

X’s eyes twinkle with a hint of amusement. “Hatted… Cuckoo?”

Medicine Pocket huffs, not quite able to meet his gaze. “That’s what she is. All grandiose titles and magic suitcases. ‘Timekeeper,’” they deride, mimicking Vertin’s proper tone. “It’s ridiculous.” But as they finish, they can’t help but catch a glimpse of X’s smile. Innocent. Too innocent. He probably finds their antics entertaining, thinks they’re being charming or whatever.

“Well,” X starts, tone almost playful, “I suppose it could be worse. She could’ve brought us somewhere even less exciting than the suitcase.”

Medicine Pocket raises a brow, arms crossing. “Like anywhere’s worse than that hide-out she carries around. There’s nowhere to train, nowhere to run around. No… no frisbees to chase.” They realize how ridiculous it sounds only after they’ve said it, and they feel their face flush, but they keep their head stubbornly turned away, hoping he won’t see it.

But X just lets out a soft titter. “So, you’d rather be running around outside?”

Medicine Pocket shoots him a withering look, though the way he’s watching them with that vague smile makes it impossible to hold the glare for long. “Forget it,” they mutter, “you wouldn’t get it.”

“Maybe not,” he replies, voice softening, “but I’d like to try.”

They fall silent, glancing down at their ID badge, suddenly hyperaware of him standing beside them, the espresso-like scent of his coat just roughly reaching them. They grit their teeth. This boy is enraging. It’s like he has no idea the effect he’s having, that he can just stand there, oblivious, looking at them like he’s just… curious. Faultless.

Before they can say something they might regret, the sound of polished heels clicking on the floor draws their attention. They perk up to see Vertin approaching with her usual composed gait, her wide-brimmed tophat producing an obscure shadow over her eyes. At her side, Sonetto walks quietly, her ginger hair framing her face. Medicine Pocket mutters a quick ‘finally’ under their breath, glad for any distraction from whatever confusing thoughts are beginning to cloud their mind.

“Ready?” Vertin prompts, scanning them both with her very common serenity. Her gaze remains for a beat on Medicine Pocket before she turns, gesturing for them to follow her down a quieter hallway toward an empty chamber, a secluded area reserved for special transport.

Medicine Pocket barely hides an eye roll. ‘Special transport’ indeed. They’d rather just walk or, better yet, stay behind in the comfort of their own lab. But one look at X’s eager expression is enough to keep their complaints to themself—for now.

As they enter the chamber, Vertin raises her hand and, with a simple flick of her wrist, opens the suitcase’s portal. The air around them shifts, a slight hum reverberating as the suitcase expands into a doorway, the edges glowing faintly with a pulpy, pulsing light.

“Please,” Vertin opines, motioning into the portal. “After you.”

X nods, stepping through with a pliant, officious smile. Medicine Pocket follows close behind, and the moment they step inside, the familiar scent of old books, polished wood, and blooming flowers fills the air.

The suitcase domain is as elaborate as ever, stretching out like a sprawling manor frozen in time. Lush carpets line the halls, and framed portraits emblazon the walls with gyrating candlelight dispatching summery incandescent across the space. Beyond the hallway lies a spacious sitting room, with overstuffed armchairs and tall windows revealing a lush, well-maintained garden outside. Medicine Pocket gives it all a quick, dismissive glance, have been here more than a few times. Just a house in a box. How thrilling.

“Well,” Sonetto speaks up, her voice gentle as she stands beside Vertin, “thank you both for joining us. There are some Arcanists we’ve gathered who will need examinations before the next assessment.”

Medicine Pocket gives a half-hearted nod, folding their arms tightly as they regard the suitcase climate enveloping them. “Fine, fine. I’ll do my job, like you asked.” They shrug, shifting their gaze toward X, who is peering around the room with wide, inquisitive eyes. Of course he’d like it, they think, stifling a groan.

Vertin inclines her head, either oblivious to or ignoring their disinterest. “We’ll begin shortly. Please, feel free to acquaint yourselves with the area. Sonetto and I will return with the first batch of Arcanists for evaluation.”

With that, Vertin and Sonetto exit through one of the side doors, leaving Medicine Pocket and X alone in the grand sitting room. Medicine Pocket turns away, hoping to avoid any more awkward conversation, but they catch sight of X watching them out of the corner of their eye, a small, slightly mischievous smile playing at his lips.

“See?” he says softly. “Not so bad, right?”

They scoff, shoving their hands in their pockets as they slump down into an armchair, glaring at him half-heartedly. “If by ‘not so bad’ you mean tolerable, then sure,” they mutter, looking away as X takes a seat across from them. But as he continues smiling that stupidly innocent smile, they can feel the edges of their scowl soften, against all their will.

The silence stretches between them, balmy and surprisingly comfortable, as the flickering candlelight casts silhouettes across the room. Medicine Pocket faces X, feeling a strange, confusing mellowness resolve in their chest. They scowl harder, quickly looking away.

“Stop smiling like that,” they snap, voice low.

“Like what?” X asks, sounding genuinely puzzled.

“Like…” They trail off, struggling to find the words. “Like a… like a puppy.” They still, feeling their face heat up. “It’s distracting.”

X crows softly, the tempo warm and light as it fills the room. “Alright, Medpoc,” he concedes, weakly. “No more then.”

And even though they don’t look back at him, Medicine Pocket can feel the smile wrestling at their lips, stubborn and uninvited, as they sit there in the warm glow of the sitting room, waiting for Vertin to return.

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Medicine Pocket has just barely settled into a reluctant, semi-comfortable slouch on the overstuffed armchair in the sitting room when the door opens again. Vertin and Sonetto emerge from it, and right behind them is a familiar figure with short, curly brown hair and an air of pure nonchalance: Mesmer Jr. Her gaze sweeps over the room as if she’s mildly annoyed to be here and amused by the company, her hands tucked into her skirt pockets.

The moment Medicine Pocket acknowledges the situation at hand, they groan loudly. “Oh, fantastic. The last person I wanted to work with.” They shoot her a glare, not bothering to hide their irritation. “What’d you do, show up here to ruin my day?”

Mesmer Jr. raises a brow, the corners of her mouth twitching as she gives them an unsentimental once-over. “Relax, Medicine Pocket. I’m just here because the Timekeeper needed a couple extra hands. You’re not that special.”

Medicine Pocket bristles. “I don’t need help from some curly-haired pest who couldn’t even run a proper experiment without me breathing down her neck,” they spit, folding their arms as they narrow their eyes at her. “One wrong move, and I’m biting your head off, Mesmer.”

“Right,” she says with a slow smirk, unfazed. “Noted.” She glances at X, then back at Medicine Pocket, giving them a look that’s far too knowing. “Got something to prove, Doctor? Or are you just showing off for an audience?”

Medicine Pocket howls out a laugh, their mood shifting from snarky to cocky in an instant. “Audience? Please. If I was trying to impress someone, you’d know it.” They shoot a quick, sidelong glance at X, their heart doing an irritating flip that they’re quick to mask with a sneer.

X glances between them, slightly wide-eyed, a downy laugh escaping his lips. “Well, uh… I think we’ll all be able to handle this pretty easily. Right, Medpoc?”

Medicine Pocket feels their cheeks heat, but they lift their chin, refusing to show any sign of fluster. “Obviously. This is nothing.” They glance at Mesmer, their displeasure flaring back up in full force. “Assuming you don’t trip over your own feet and ruin the whole operation.”

Mesmer snorts, pulling out a small notepad and flipping it open, clearly unbothered. “I think we’ll be fine. Not everyone’s as chaotic as you are, Medicine Pocket.” She casts a sly look between them, leaning closer with a smirk. “In fact, some of us can actually work well with others.”

Medicine Pocket grits their teeth, resisting the urge to retort as they catch a sliver of X’s amused grin from the corner of their eye. The irreproachable look on his face only fuels their annoyance, and they scoot away piercingly, drumming their fingers on the arm of the chair. “Maybe you should stick to whatever boring task you’re here for and leave the real work to me.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’ll be handling plenty of ‘real work’ here,” Mesmer counters. Then she halts, looking between Medicine Pocket and X with that same infinitesimal, exasperating smirk. “Especially with X here to, you know… lend you a helping hand.”

Medicine Pocket rolls their eyes as they feel something scalding hot creep onto their cheeks. Which is dumb. “Stop acting like you know anything, Mesmer,” they mutter, half hoping X hasn’t caught on to the heated tone wriggling into their voice. They lean back, crossing their arms tighter. “And if you keep it up, I’ll be dragging you outside and burying you in the garden.”

Mesmer shrugs, clearly amused by their bluster. “If you say so, Doc.” She slides into a chair across from them, not even the slightest bothered by their thinly veiled threats.

X, oblivious to the layers of tension, simply smiles and gives Medicine Pocket a reassuring nod. “Anyway, it’s good to have everyone here. It’ll make things run smoother.” He catches Medicine Pocket’s eye, his expression sultry. “Wouldn’t you agree?”

Medicine Pocket tries to huff, indignantly, but can’t help suppressing a small, sour smile in exchange. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say, Alphabet Boy.”

And, upong catching their expression doing that, perhaps, Mesmer holds his gaze with a pointed look. “Right. ‘Just work,’” she murmurs, clearly enjoying this. Whatever this is.

Medicine Pocket glares, fighting to keep their voice dependable. “One more word out of you,” they rumble, “and I swear I’ll take a bite out of that smug face of yours.”

“Got it,” she answers with a nonchalant wink, still smirking, beaming with mischief.

˗ˏˋ꒰𖦹｡🧪⋆°✰꒱ ˎˊ˗

The work Vertin has assigned to them commences with accustomed, cursory rigor. Medicine Pocket, X, and Mesmer Jr. work mostly in silence, moving from one young arcanist to the next, checking vitals, measuring height and weight, and taking blood samples with the efficiency of an assembly line. But the arcanists, especially the younger ones, don’t make things easy.

Medicine Pocket rolls up their sleeves to get to work, revealing a few random band-aids on their arms, remnants of various injections they’d given themself. The bandages are the first things the young arcanists notice, and they stare wide-eyed, reaching out with sticky hands and poking at Medicine Pocket’s arms.

“Hey!” Medicine Pocket chastises, trying to swat them away. “Hands off, you little fiends!”

One of the younger arcanists, a kid with wide emerald eyes, just giggles and pulls on one of the bandages. “Why do you have so many of these? Do they help you look more like a real scientist?”

Medicine Pocket glares down at the kid, teeth bared in a forced grin. “Do you want a bandage? Because I’ll happily give you one.”

Mesmer, sitting at the other end of the makeshift exam area, lets out a stifled laugh, her eyes glinting with wicked glee as she checks another arcanist’s blood pressure. “Careful there, Medicine Pocket. The kids might think you’re… you know, friendly or something.”

Medicine Pocket scowls, muttering under their breath, “Like I’d ever be friendly.” They quickly turn back to their work, but not before catching X’s quiet, amused smile as he watches them wrangle with the kids.

As if on cue, a little girl with a mess of curly hair suddenly reaches up, tugging at one of Medicine Pocket’s loose, disheveled strands. “Your hair’s like a mop!” she giggles, twisting it around her fingers. “Do you ever brush it?”

Medicine Pocket jerks their head back, scowling. “Hands off the hair!” they yell angrily, though the girl only laughs and tugs again.

“Oh, come on, Medpoc, she’s just curious,” X says, his tone gentle. He’s measuring the height of a young boy who seems fascinated by the large butterfly embroidered on his coat. “They’re just kids.”

Medicine Pocket glares at him. “Just kids? They’re tiny menaces!” they grumble, brushing the little girl’s hand away and pulling their hair free. They catch Mesmer’s smirk and let out an exaggerated sigh. “If I ever find out who’s teaching these kids manners, I’ll have their head.”

“Oh, please,” Mesmer deadpans, handing a completed chart to Sonetto. “Like you’d know anything about manners.”

Before Medicine Pocket can retaliate, the small green-eyed kid pulls on the cuff of their lab coat again. “Are you a doctor? Or a scientist?”

Medicine Pocket snorts, trying to ignore the impulse to answer sarcastically. “I’m both. Now stay still, or I’ll have to put another band-aid on you.”

The kid grins. “Cool. Are you sure you’re not just playing dress-up?”

“Dress-up?” Medicine Pocket repeats, voice dripping with mock offense. “Why, you little gremlin—if you weren’t four feet tall, I’d—”

“Medpoc,” X cuts in, gently but firmly, patting the kid on the head. “I think that’s enough… patient education for one day, don’t you?”

Medicine Pocket bites back a retort, glancing at X and feeling their cheeks flush despite themself. “Fine. But next time,” they mutter, shooting the kid a glare, “I’m bringing muzzles.”

Once they’ve finally finished all the examinations and grappled the little arcanists into semi-order, Sonetto lays out a meal on a long dining table in the sitting room. Exhausted and grateful, they all gather around, helping themselves to plates of sandwiches, steaming soup, and biscuits.

As Medicine Pocket digs in, chewing petulantly on a sandwich, their pocket suddenly buzzes. They dig out a small, rectangular device—Laplace’s sleek and supposedly ‘cutting-edge’ communication device, which they’ve mostly ignored since receiving it. The screen flashes with a notification: Incoming Call: Lucy.

Medicine Pocket’s face falls. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” they mutter, glaring at the screen as if it might vaporize on command. X gives them a curious look, but before he can ask, Medicine Pocket taps the screen, and Lucy’s calm, mechanical voice crackles through the speaker.

“Researcher Medicine Pocket,” Lucy begins in her neighborly, unruffled tone. “I have an urgent matter regarding the yellow particles you left behind in the lab yesterday.”

Medicine Pocket sighs, leaning back in their chair. “What about them?”

“Approximately thirty-two percent of the particles have dispersed beyond containment limits,” Lucy conveys, sounding as equable as ever. “I’ve received numerous complaints from your colleagues due to an… ‘unpleasant odor.’”

Mesmer snorts, trying to stifle her laughter behind a cup of tea. “Unpleasant odor? Nice work, Medicine Pocket.”

They glare at the device, ignoring her. “Bucket Head,” they bite, “did you really call me in the middle of my very important meal to tell me that my particles stink? You stink! I’ll have you know that stench is called science.”

Upon looking up, Medicine Pocket is assaulted by the image of X, who’s biting his bottom lip, as if refraining from bursting into laughter, his eyes twinkling with what looks like pure beguilement. …Due to watching them bark at the phone, is that it?

Just then, “Understood,” Lucy responds, her tone composed. “However, due to the unusual scent, I was instructed to inform you that you will be charged for additional cleaning services.”

Huh?! “Cleaning services?” Medicine Pocket guffaws, clutching the device tightly. “I’ll clean you, you tin-plated toaster! In fact, next time I see you, you’d better be shiny. Maybe I’ll give you a little polish on that rusty exterior while I’m at it.”

“Thank you for the suggestion, Researcher Medicine Pocket,” Lucy says, entirely unshaken. “However, I do not require polishing.”

“You require a total overhaul,” Medicine Pocket snarls through gritted teeth, finally ending the call and shoving the device back in their pocket with a huff.

“Everything all right, Medpoc?” X quizzes, grinning.

“Everything’s perfectly fine,” Medicine Pocket says, though their cheeks flush with indignation. “Just that bucket-headed nuisance sticking her nose where it doesn’t belong.”

Mesmer leans back, sipping her tea with a lazy smirk. “Maybe she’s just fond of you. Seems like Laplace has a way of assigning you… admirers.” She raises an eyebrow, glancing at X. “Or am I wrong?”

Medicine Pocket bristles, shoving a spoonful of soup into their mouth to keep from snapping. “Oh, shut it,” they drawl after swallowing, trying to avoid X’s gaze. “I wouldn’t call that clunky tin can an ‘admirer.’ She’s a hazard.”

X chortles. “Well, it seems she thinks highly of you, at least.”

Medicine Pocket shrugs, avoiding his gaze as they fiddle with their spoon. “Yeah, well… she’d better keep her admiration to herself.”

˗ˏˋ꒰𖦹｡🧪⋆°✰꒱ ˎˊ˗

After a long day, they gather in a cozy sitting room where Vertin clears her throat, signaling she has an announcement.

“Thank you for your work today,” she starts off with, looking at each of them in turn. “However, there are still a few more unregistered arcanists that need evaluations, and I need you to stay on for a couple more days.”

Medicine Pocket lets out an audible groan. “Stay? Here? In this… this fancy manor luggage of yours?” They grimace, looking around the suitcase’s ornate interior like it might spontaneously combust.

Vertin’s face remains lull, unfazed. “Yes. I’d like you all to stay. This task is important, and as three of Laplace’s finest specialists, I trust you’ll give it your best effort.”

X’s face lights up with an eager smile. “Really? That’s fantastic! I’d love to stay and help out a bit longer.”

Beside him, Mesmer lets out a deep sigh, her shoulders slumping. “Oh, great. I get to sleep in a magical suitcase for the next couple of days with weirdos. Just what I needed.”

Medicine Pocket, on the other hand, seems even more horrified. “There’s no way I’m doing this free of charge,” they bellow, crossing their arms. “If you want me here, you’re going to give me funds, Vertin. I have standards!”

Vertin gives a small nod. “Of course. You’ll be compensated and have a budget extension for your future lab expenses.”

“Funds.” Medicine Pocket grins, their eyes ablaze. “Oh, you bet I’ll be using those funds.”

Once that’s settled, Vertin and Sonetto lead them to their temporary quarters. It’s a single room—small but homely, with wooden furniture and soft linens. Medicine Pocket’s face drops, however, the moment they take in the bed setup: one single bed against the wall and a double-decker bunk bed next to it.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Medicine Pocket mutters, scandalized.

Mesmer gives a tired smirk, already eyeing the top bunk. “I call dibs on the top.”

X looks between the remaining beds, then nods, seemingly thrilled by the arrangement. “And I’ll take the bottom bunk.”

Medicine Pocket, meanwhile, eyes the single bed, arms crossed. “I don’t want to be disturbed while I’m resting,” they broadcast to whoever will hear it, then quickly add, “by anyone.”

Mesmer raises a brow, grinning as she unpacks. “Sure, Medpoc. I’ll keep that in mind.”

It’s not long before Vertin and Sonetto leave them to settle in, and Mesmer heads out to wash up. Once she’s gone, Medicine Pocket becomes hyperaware of X’s presence in the room, who sits on the edge of his bunk. But Medicine Pocket is too busy sorting through the basic sleeping garments they’ve been provided to regard him. After a moment, the boy clears his throat.

“Hey, Medpoc,” he calls, tone uncertain but there, imploring. “Can I ask you something?”

They glance up at that, frowning. “What? What is it?”

“It’s just… earlier, when you said…” He wavers, looking down at his hands, then back up with an unsure smile. “You said my inventions were… useless.”

Medicine Pocket blinks, momentarily thrown off. They shift, feeling a prick of discomfort, and glance down. “So?”

“Well,” X continues daintily, “I just thought… you said before that they weren’t mediocre. You even said they were…” He shrugs, his bearing alleviating. “You know. That they were interesting.”

Medicine Pocket lets out a short, awkward laugh, scratching the back of their head. “Oh. Well… they’re not mediocre, per se. Just… some of them are a bit, you know. Pointless.” They look away, fiddling with the edge of the blanket. “But that doesn’t mean I think they’re bad or anything.”

X’s face brightens at this, his posture relaxing. “You don’t?”

“Of course not!” they snap, annoyed with his doubt. “Just because I don’t… say it all the time doesn’t mean I think they’re garbage.” They cross their arms, trying to maintain their grumpy expression, though it’s hard with X looking at them with that law-abiding, somewhat relieved smile.

“Well, thank you,” he murmurs, his voice soft. “I… I really value your opinion.”

Medicine Pocket’s heart skips, and they quickly look away, focusing intently on adjusting the pillow on their bed. “Yeah, well. Don’t get all sentimental on me. We’re just… work partners.”

“Partners,” X echoes, sounding glad, but Medicine Pocket clears their throat, eager to change the subject.

“So, anyway… how’s that… Fog Boy, or whatever his name is?” they quip, trying to sound casual. “He’s still hanging around Laplace?”

X blinks, appearing confused. “You mean Oliver? He… works there, but I don’t see him too often. Why?”

Medicine Pocket shrugs, masquerading indifference as best they can, tinkering with the pillowcase on their bed. “Oh, no reason. Just curious, is all.”

The boy tilts his head, looking genuinely puzzled. “You’ve never asked about my friends before, though.” He purses his lips, still exuding that honest confusion. “Is there something you’re worried about?”

“Me? Worried?” Medicine Pocket scorns, feeling a flash of embarrassment. “Please. I don’t worry about anybody.” They roll their eyes, but something about X’s tender facial expression makes it hard to preserve their aloofness. “Just… if that umbrella boy’s hanging around, I should know.”

“Right… Well, he’s not really around much,” X relays, smiling as if reverently. “But… if you did want to meet him sometime, I could introduce you?”

And, what? Medicine Pocket balks, shaking their head. “Ha! As if I’d waste my time. Forget it.”

X giggles, tickled. “Sure, Medpoc. If that’s what you want.”

They fall silent after that, X’s gaze lingering on Medicine Pocket with a look that’s almost… fond? Huh. Medicine Pocket shifts, pulling the blanket up and lying back on the bed, boots on the ground as they try to brush off the strange fervor in their chest.

Just work partners, they tell themself steadfastly, closing their eyes for now. But the feeling dithers all the same.

˗ˏˋ꒰𖦹｡🧪⋆°✰꒱ ˎˊ˗

Medicine Pocket’s eyes flick open after some time, realizing that neither Mesmer nor X seems remotely ready to sleep. With a huff, they sit up, arms folded as they watch Mesmer climb onto the top bunk and conclude her day. X, on the lower bunk, looks over with a small, sleepy smile before he slips off the bed.

“I’ll just… freshen up before bed,” he tells them, picking up the pajamas Vertin supplied.

Medicine Pocket watches him disappear into the bathroom, then digs around their things for the toothbrush Vertin gave them, tapping it impatiently against their hand. When X returns a few minutes later in a plain shirt and pajama pants, looking… oddly adorable with his hair a little mussed, Medicine Pocket quickly stands, scowling.

“Finally. I need that bathroom,” they mutter, shooting him a quick glare before grabbing their toothbrush and stalking out of the room.

The bathroom light is decrepit, and they squint as they start brushing their teeth, eyes narrowed at their reflection in the mirror. X’s earlier words replay in their head, the little bit of hesitation in his voice when he asked about the ‘useless inventions’ comment. Medicine Pocket frowns, feeling a twinge of something dreadful. Maybe they’d been… harsher than they’d meant. They spit into the sink with a growl. It’s not my fault he has that effect on me, they reason. I don’t go around softening up for just anyone.

They return to the room in their pajamas, only to find it dark, the lights already switched off. Mesmer is curled up on the top bunk, clearly fast asleep, and X is lying quietly in the lower bunk, his gaze soft as he glances at Medicine Pocket.

After a moment’s pause, they climb into their own bed, placing their Laplace ID and other small trinkets on the nightstand before grabbing a pillow and hugging it close. They stare up at the ceiling, trying to ignore the nagging voice in the back of their mind.

After a while, when the room is silent except for Mesmer’s soft breathing, they roll to their side, facing the double-decker and speak into the darkness.

“Hey… Alphabet Boy?”

There’s a shuffling sound as X rustles, his voice soft. “You’re still awake?”

“Yeah,” they say, rolling their eyes. “Sleep is for losers.”

X chuckles quietly, and Medicine Pocket feels the faintest hint of a smile tug at their lips. “Just so you know, Alphabet Boy,” they forge on, swallowing, “I’ve seen countless useless inventions and Goldberg machines in my time—enough to last me several lifetimes.”

There’s a pause, and they can almost feel X’s worried expression in the dark. “Oh…”

“But…” Medicine Pocket hesitates, tightening their grip on the pillow. “I… suppose I find you interesting. You, kid. So I may or may not… actually enjoy spending time with you. Not just because of your… ideas.”

Another beat of silence, then a soft, “Oh.”

“Yeah.” Medicine Pocket feels their cheeks warm but keeps their voice steady. “So now you know. Go to sleep, loser.”

X lets out an inaudible laugh, his timbre marshy and tepid as he mumbles, “Um. Okay. Goodnight, Medpoc.”

They close their eyes, letting the sound of his laugh hang on in their mind. “Mhm. Goodnight, X.”

[thekingthatwrites]

Hiya, could I request some comfort Dave Strider x GN reader? Like reader comforting him after a nightmare? He deserves better than what life threw at him 😢

Light in the Night

Summary: You've been with Dave for a few months now and something you noticed that you didn't realize before ... is that he sufferee from nightmares on the regular. Tonight just happened to be one of those nights.

Dave Strider x GN!Reader

Genre: Hurt/Comfort

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 2568

Art by: @anoant

‧̍̊·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊ ♡ °̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ °̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ♡ ‧̍̊·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊ ‧̍̊·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊ ♡ °̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ·͙*̩̩͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩̥͙·̩̩̥͙*̩̩̥͙˚̩̥̩̥*̩̩͙‧͙ °̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥ ♡ ‧̍̊·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊ ‧̍̊·̊‧̥°̩̥˚̩̩̥͙°̩̥‧̥·̊‧̍̊ ♡

His hand glided across the cold metal, the rough, rusted stairwell bar leading him to the roof. With each step that he took, his feet were heavy on the stairs, slamming down on thick sheets of steel, footsteps echoing through what seemed to be an empty stairwell. Though, no matter how many stairs he climbed, it was never enough, and no matter how many steps he took, he never tired of the climb. For some reason, he kept going, he couldn't stop himself from ascending this endless staircase, as his shaded eyes stared up at the darkness that set uneasily above him. A tense atmosphere sat around him, choking his lungs as if took the form of a thick smog that entered through his throat and clouded his chest. As he took multiple steps towards whatever goal his body was trying to get to, something came over him, an uneasiness that once more found him, as if it came in heavy waves before swallowing out on the shore of his mind.

His body moved before his mind could, and his head turned to allow his gaze to shift behind him, stopping in his tracks. As he stopped, his body turned with his eyes, keeping one hand on the railing of the stairs and staring down into … an abyss. The stairs he had conquered not seconds earlier had disappeared under his step, dissipating into the black smoke of a void, and even though he had stopped the sound of footsteps had not. For a moment… he was confused, he didn't understand how a noise could be formed if there was no one to form it… but that confusion was short-lived as glowing red eyes slowly appeared within the fog before him. He couldn't react. He didn't feel a thing as he looked at these red, beady eyes that barely looked like anything amongst the black. No fear, no anguish, no confusion formed in his head, it was nothing but a flat line of feeling as he stared back with his own red eyes. The shades that concealed them crumbled into dust, the only form of protection he could even consider to be a safety to him had been destroyed by the pure will of the nothing that sat before him.

He wouldn't react until something else formed before him, still a hazy blotch of colors, but as it came closer and closer to him, he realized it was a hand. The hand was a tan color, covered in light scars that littered across the palm of someone he couldn't help but recognize, even if there was no face to acknowledge before him. He found his hand moving forward, moving towards this hand made up of light particles, nothing that was physical, and interlocked his fingers with his older brother's. He stared up, up toward his supposed role model, the person he was supposed to look up to, metaphorically. But he felt nothing. Once again he found not a single emotion rise within him, a flame that seemed to have gone out long ago. It wasn't until this hand became corporeal, something that he could actually grasp onto, something that he could … feel. Rough callouses collided with his own, as he felt harsh skin that he knew all too well press against his hand. His gaze found its way towards the palm, following it to the arm it was connected to and then to the body and face of his brother. It was out of nowhere, when his heart began to race and a voice in his mind told him to run but his body wouldn't move. It stayed still, even as the unoccupied hand of his brother collided with his face, his palm pressing against his nose as the other slammed Dave's head down onto the stairs below.

For a moment, he was surrounded by darkness, but maybe that was because he had his eyes closed. As the lids that created this darkness raised up, heavy yet bearable, he stared at his surroundings. He was no longer in that stairwell, but on the roof itself, as warm colors of the sun setting devoured the sky. His sunglasses were back on, resting gently on the bridge of his nose, reflecting the colors that he was surrounded with. These oranges, pinks, and reds engulfed like a beautiful flame against the buildings of the city that he lived in and even his own dark skin. He looked at his palms, lighter than any part of his body, as it was supposed to be, and found his gaze shifting once again. However, as he moved, it still didn't feel as if he was doing anything, he felt like a passenger as someone else piloted this plane.

His brother stood in front of him once again, but this time around he wasn't any sort of fog or smoke, he was solid, completely head to toe. What was also solid was the sword he held in the palm of his hands, and as he found himself looking down, his own weapon was pressed into his own fingers. His grip tightened on the blade, the hilt of it to be exact. Standing in an offensive position, he got ready to attack. He pushed forward on the ground below him, dust kicking up from the bottom of his shoe as he launched toward his caretaker. He brought his sword back, then up, and then tried to swing it down at the one he was supposed to be training with, the one who stood there as if he was going to take it. But he stopped mid-air. He stopped when a blade was stabbed through his stomach, pain and tears welding up within him while his gaze followed his mind for the first time. He looked down at his newly formed wound, down to his brother who had thrusted the weapon into him.

"Pathetic."

A single word came from his sibling. With a quick flick of the other's wrist, he was pushed to the ground, off of the blade.

And then he was falling. The world crumbled around him as he lost his breath, the air escaping from his lungs. He fell into darkness, he fell for what felt like hours, watching as blood trickled up from his wound, being pushed out of him with his body pushing the opposite way.

And then a thud came from him as he landed on the ground…

Then Dave Strider woke up.

His heart pounded in his chest, beating harshly as a tightness formed in his core. He grasped at the shirt he wore on that evening, his hands tightening around the fabric as his eyes, his deep red eyes, pierced into the darkness that surrounded him. With his sunglasses off, once more his only manor of defense against what he considered to be vulnerability was stripped from him, just like his dream.

His eyes dashed around the room, paranoid as if … one of those damned puppets were watching him once more, and soon the red irises of his landed on the dark shades he kept on the bed side table. Grasping them quickly, he pushed them onto the bridge of his nose, feeling, at last, some sort of security. . .

Security. When he thought about safety, when he thought about comfort, his mind went … to you. His lover, the one who laid next to him right there in that bed. He hadn't noticed as you had awakened, groaning as you felt his frantic movements in the bed. You'd sit up, pushing your body from it's original position, laying down on the soft mattress, looking over to you boyfriend with tired eyes,

"Dave?"

You'd question, exhaustion dripping off you tongue. You had no idea why'd he be up, and as your eyes danced around, your gaze would land on the clock. 3:20 A.M. it read, and you would only become more confused as to why Dave would be awake at this hour. Your eyes landed back on the other as you watched as he just… stared at you. He kept his usual neutral expression on his features, and if it wasn't for the moonlight that poured through the window on the other side of the room, you wouldn't have realized that your lover was… crying. With your eyebrows raising with surprise, you'd sit up, completely this time around, scooting closer to Dave with a look of concern,

"Oh, Dave, what's the matter?"

You would find your hand moving to his shoulder, your other moving to his glasses taking them off his face, putting them aside. Most often than not, he would have recoiled at this action, but when it came to you, he didn't need that level of security that those glasses gave him. You watched as gentle tears rolled down his dark cheeks, streaking his skin and glossing over those ruby eyes of his, eyes you always admired. At first, with his mouth agape, he didn't seem to know what to say… words were hard for him when it came to his emotions. More often than not you knew him to be someone who just didn't know how to shut up, something you found to be charming about the boy, so when he was silent… it was almost sickening to your stomach. It worried you.

You moved your hand from his shoulder to his back, wrapping your arms around him, pulling him into a hug. He let you do as you pleased, moving into the embrace with ease, as he wrapped his arms around your torso tightly. The touch was nice, especially for the boy.

"…shit i'm sorry. didn't mean to wake you with my … everything, i dunno. had some fucked up dream and… shit. it really fucked me up."

He finally got it out, in a quiet tone. Though with the quiet of the room, it wasn't hard to hear him as his voice was the only thing that occupied the space other than the sound of a fan form the corner of the room.

"Hey. It's okay, it's okay to be upset about dreams, the mind is fucked, and you cant control the shit you see when you sleep,"

You'd say, letting out a small breath, stifled and light. You'd begin to run your hands through his hair, moving the tips of your fingers through the curls with ease.

"Don't apologize about it, how about instead we talk about it. I always find it easier to calm down if I get it out of my head."

A suggestion that gave Dave a slight pause. He seemed to take a moment to think about it, not moving or saying anything. The only thing you could feel from him is the lowering and raising of his chest, trying to calm his breathing as he let out shaky breaths. Though, as a few moments seemed to pass, he'd nod, sitting up from where he leaned into you and would wipe the tears that formed in his eyes from his palm,

"yeah. let's see if talkin' it out will calm me the fuck down."

He'd say, letting out a breath from his nose, one that sounded almost amused, trying to lighten the mood. In response, you gave him a soft smile, gently moving a hand to his cheek as you'd caress his cheek.

He had the floor, and he knew that, he just … didn't know where to start. He'd run a hand over his hair, flattening it down for just a moment before it sprung up again. A heavy exhale escaped from his lips and he'd look away, over to the window,

"it… started in a staircase, the one back at my apartment. ya know back where i used to live before shit went down. the hell hole that was puppet ass and cal."

You'd nod in response, recognizing exactly where he was talking about. A place he had only talked about on the meteor with you and Karkat, and from what you heard to his brother Dirk as well, but a place you knew to be something of a prison to your boyfriend.

"you know what i'm talking about. but it was like. not the usual staircase i knew and hated, it was … never ending. i think i knew that too when i climbed it but i never seemed to like actually stop. until i suddenly turned around and realized that the stairs i had originally climbed had disappeared into just smoke. poof, gone, no where to be seen, nothing at all. and i saw my… bro. after my glasses turned to dust, he slammed my head into the stairs."

You listened intently, but when those last words left Dave's mouth, your eyes widened with shock and… even fear. He recognized this quickly in you, and soon would move his hand to yours. You both knew that this was you comforting him the most, but hell was Dave not gonna let you feel discouraged about all this either.

"yeah, i know, really fucked up."

He'd let out a chuckle, but soon the smile that went along with it was wiped from his lips. He wanted to brighten up the mood, and you knew you did as well, but this dream was deep, harsh… something that couldn't be laughed at it seemed.

"then i woke up, like in the dream, and i was on the roof. never thought i'd be there again but in the dream it seemed … normal. as if i hadn't ever left in the first place. me and my bro were doing our usual sparring and i ran at him and … he killed me, called me pathetic. which … listen by bro was a piece of shit asshole, but he … wouldn't do that. he wouldn't …"

Dave hesitated with his words, his eyebrows furrowing as he bit the inside of his cheek. You watched as he looked frustrated, confused… and you would soon pull him from that as you moved a hand across his cheek and into his hair, causing him to look at you.

"Well, if I know one thing for sure, it's that you're no longer there. You'll never really be there ever again, not in this reality. Maybe it'll haunt you while you sleep, but they are just that, just dreams. You're here, with me, with all of your friends and nothing will change that."

It wasn't hard, it seemed for you to put a smile on his face. Even if he was still recovering from the intensity that was that nightmare, he seemed to push it aside as he wrapped his arms around your waist and plant a kiss on your lips. You giggled as he did so, and he pulled you down to the bed, laying next to you as he cuddled up close.

"you're really fucking great."

He'd say, causing you to let out a small laugh,

"makin' me forget the worry that i have, all that shit out the window when i'm with you. like a fucking paper airplane thrown across a baseball stadium, moving through the wind like nobody's business. you got that worry all the way to the other side, hitting some kid in the face with it. all gone from me, no more in this head of mine."

He went on, like his normal self, and you couldn't help but giggle and grin at this fact. Leaning down, you'd plant a kiss on his forehead and simple words escaped from your lips.

"I'm glad I can comfort you, Dave."

[pessimysticrw]

The Watcher DLC - Personal Dissection

[SPOILERS AHEAD IF YOU HAVEN'T PLAYED BASE GAME/DLC] Oh goodness me, Videocult has decided to drop a nuke on my already rotted brain due to this game and now I shall dissect this yummy meal bit by bit like the picky eater I am (in a good way this time though). And yall are coming with me because I said so. Really, this is just a great place for me to get my thoughts in order... cough. A lot of this is speculation! If I can find anything confirmed, I will try and write about it when I can.

Steam DLC Description

Let's start with the obvious- this basically confirms new creatures, regions, etc. This place seems to be in a completely different area than both the base game and Downpour slugcats, with new creatures to boot. I will go over the revealed regions/screenshots in more detail further down.

The descriptions states "the world beneath your feet cracks and crumbles", and while this could be linked to the Void Sea, the thumbnail art and font for the DLC's steam page and trailer depicts the Rot, and I am doubtful such an obvious detail would be thrown in there without it being present. Rot is only present where iterators are, and the only iterator we know of (in detail) to have the Rot is Five Pebbles, who got it by trying to rewrite himself. SRS gave him the pearl, but whoever wrote it is unknown, and I am highly doubtful it is 5P or SRS where this slugcat takes place in. It could be a pre-existing iterator like NSH/SOS (doubtful, but i suppose NSH would explain how Hunter got the rot if that is canon), a new one that also read the information that 5P and SRS did, or maybe even the one that originally wrote it that failed the experiment themself. This is a lot of speculation though and we will only really know for sure when more information is revealed. Take all of this with a grain of salt! I am just rambling possibilities.

New Regions

New regions are seen via screenshots on the DLC's Steam page. I will be attaching the screenshots here as well as what I speculate on what they may be/entail.

Starting with these two regions here, as it seems to match the most with the thumbnail art. At first I thought it was the foggy region below, but upon closer inspection this wall-like region incorporates more blue colors, fog/clouds are present, and would make the most sense for the rot to be present if this is indeed an iterator's wall.

Credits to shrinkshooter on Reddit for the enhanced image to the right.

This region looks reminiscent of 5P Memory Crypts, only in daylight. Whether this region serves a similar purpose to ancients is unknown. I considered the possibility of it being in a similar placement like 5P, but I am unsure if that would make sense due to the fact that 5P's shaded citadel is underneath his superstructure- hence why it is so dark in that region- when it clearly isn't here. (It could be completely separate from and not relating anything to Shaded Citadel entirely though!)

Mysterious looking underground region filled with green water. It's water guys. It better be water. Please no more acid, I'm begging.

This area immediately made me think of Spearmaster's start of their campaign, or it could be something reminiscent to Moon's Submerged Superstructure. Drainage System/Undergrowth also comes to mind.

Two desert-like regions are depicted here! While some speculation on the region on the right is it being a snow biome- I personally believe that this may be in face a dust/sand storm. Dust storms were planned during Metropolis' development in Downpour, but were scrapped in favor for the day/night cycle instead. Additionally, the snow particles present in Saint's campaign look drastically different compared to what is shown here. Additionally, there is Developer Commentary that talks about these dust storms for Metropolis. The dust storm effect looks different compared to what is shown, but it could have been possibly reworked to suit the region's look. Who knows though! Could just indeed be snow- but the entire area for this campaign looks to be generally warmer.

This region looks reminiscent to Sky Islands from 5P. Something to note is the lack of nearby iterator cities. This could mean two things: this campaign takes place far into the future, with surrounding iterators having already collapsed. Or...

It could be located on an desert island, right next to an ocean. Where all the water could have gone from this area will honestly be up to speculation until more information presents itself- however the seemingly coral-like structure to this region seems to point to this. It would also explain the lack of visible iterator cities in the background of the previous mentioned Sky Islands reminiscent region.

Additionally in one of the thumbnails for the DLC, water is present below the slugcat. (Then again, rain/water is present for all of em besides Saint eh?)

Additional Notes

An echo-like effect is seen around the slugcat in the previously mentioned thumbnail, as well as in the ripples in the water around it

[boggsart]

EXCUSE ME who told you you’re talking too much about your art?? Dude that’s the part I love most!! I like hearing about how you struggled to get it where you wanted, or how much the tools you’re working with frustrated you, but you got to a place you were happy with anyway.

I don’t know anything about 3d animation, and I know even less about game design. So it’s really important for me that you describe your process and how much work you had to do because it your work context. I’m sorry anybody made you feel like that wasn’t valuable. I’d argue that’s more valuable than the finished work itself!!

I always love seeing your posts pop up on my dash. And Wolffe and the 104th look absolutely fantastic in the newest one!! If you don’t mind me asking, what were some of the weird issues you ran into in the 104th’s one, and what makes them different issues from the ones you ran into before?

Thank you so much for all the kind words, but to be completely honest, they are kinda right. I think any artist can relate to the feeling of being too critical towards your own work. I tend to overexaggerate mistakes, or point out issues that aren't even really noticable to someone that knows little about this field. But at the same time, i always have a vision of how i'd like my current work to look like, and when i don't meet my own expectations (which i rarely do), that's when i start yapping. Well there were some minor ones, like noticing how some of the armors were not modeled accurately( like around the shoulder part of the chest piece, it's completely missing that part where it connects the front to the back, elbow pieces are way too big, helmets were also not modeled accurately, etc). I also completely messed up the rigging process, thus giving myself so much more work when animating. There are always certain body parts that just go into eachother (lower arm going into the upper arm when it's bent, feet going into the floor, hands going into the chest, etc) that could have been easily avoidable if i took the time to make a proper rig for my models.

There are also always some texturing mistakes, or wrongly placed focal points i notice once the final render is done. In this one, once all of the characters come up, and the camera starts zooming in on their faces, the focal point was placed too far, resulting in some parts of the helmets looking blurrier, than they should look. Since renders take a whole lot of time, i always try to fix this by putting the final renders into a 3rd party AI upscaling program, instead of going back to place it correctly, then re render it. That's probably a crappy workflow, but if this project wouldn't have a deadline that's approaching WAY TOO QUICKLY, and i wouldn't have a lot more stuff to model and animate, i would do the latter. At the same time, i probably should just pay more attention before hitting the render button lol. Also, the movements of the characters sometimes look way too stiff, and don't have that fluidity to them. I haven't been animating for long, so here's the reason for that, at the same time tho, i'm noticing some impovements when comparing the recent piece to my first animation. These are the problems i'm running into most of the time. In the recent one though, if you look closely, once Wolffe goes into his stance (after the commander Wolffe text disappeares) there's some weird black flickering going on around his chest/belly area, that for the love of God, i could not fix. Sometimes the particle system can cause some really interesting issues, that most of the time can be fixed by baking the dynamics. Since i did that (multiple times, deleting them, then re baking) and the issue persisted, i started to think either the shaders, or the particle system+volumetric fog combo was causing this problem. I also use a s*** ton of REALLY powerful lights, with the power constantly changing throughout the entire animation, that could also be causing this issue (i think?) I tried re-placing the cube that's making the volumetric fog, tried placing the lights and camera slightly elsewhere, but nothing worked, so i just decided to leave it as it is. The super slow mo parts are being made in the Non Linear Animation editor, which is... just as confusing as it sounds lol. Making the slow mo parts sometimes causes the blasters to disappear then reappear at the wrong time. The way grabbing the blasters then putting them away works is by having one blaster that's always parented to one hand, and one, that's always parented to the holster, and you change the visibility accordingly. (the moment the character pulls the blaster out of the holster, both blasters have to be perfectly alligned so the change in visibility doesn't have a weird jump in it) The visibility itself gets an action strip on its own, and it's hard to line them up correctly once you chopped up all your other strips and scaled them to make them slow motion. Because if the armature's action strip gets chopped up and scaled to make the movement slow motion, then everything else that has movement linked to it has to as well. So lights, the camera, the empty axes that the camera is parented to, and the blasters as well. This could be achieved by just placing the keyframes further apart from eachother, but i found this method to be somewhat simpler.

I'm probably doing this the wrong way though and could just place the keyframes accordingly without pushing the blaster action down to the NLA editor (cuz after all it's just visibility, not slow motion movement the blaster has). Though i have some really cool ideas with blasters in the upcoming animations, that would probably require to have them as NLA strips. Or maybe not, and everything i'm doing and talking about is bullshit, and isn't the way it should be done, and i really hope someone, that's in the industry doesn't read this and go "what the f is this woman talking about" lol. Basically everything about animating confuses the hell out of me, and i'm always doing stuff on the trial and error basis. So i hope one day i'll be able to learn it properly haha See, i'm yapping way too much after all. And i'm sorry for the long answer, but i'm really really passionate about this. And it actually feels so nice to know that there are people out there that care. 💖💖