#pathetic attempt at web weaving :(

[kaumudi]

[kaiju-art-for-the-heart]

An Heir to the Throne: The Distraction pt.2

Chapter 5

The clash between the large titans were thunderous, earth quaking in their power.  Kong, who had attempted to strike first, was almost instantly bound by the feet in webbing. While his large body fell to the depths of the hoard, Godzilla takes his position to hold Kumonga firm. In the middle of hissing at the king, her mandibles opened widely at an attempt to blind him with webbing. As the two fought for power, his eyes locked onto her body movements instantly. And with one swift swipe, Godzilla grabbed the beasts head and smashed it deep into the ground. 

"Listen.." the king growled, continuously grating her face into the crushed pavement. "You are far from home, and know not of the territory you've stepped into. Return with your offspring, or die by my hand." he continued, feeling her attempt to push against his immovable force.  

"Oh how pathetic!" Kumonga screeched, whipping one of her legs around and  knocking Godzilla just far enough to aid in her escape. Though her body is large, the spider like kaiju rose quickly to scurry a few feet away, scoffing at his ultimatum. "If you think you have any chance of survival, you're mistaken. I've come here to TAKE this land you giant lizard bastard! Bow before your new queen!" she clattered confidently, her stature tall as if to assert dominance over him. Her claim fell upon deaf ears as Godzilla continued to charge her, his shoulder crashing deep within her sternum and effectively knocking the wind out of her. 

"Wrong answer." Godzilla bellowed, pushing her far enough to crash into a nearby building. Within her moment of surprise, he followed up his attack with a vicious headbutt. He knew then- that this would be far more tedious than originally planned. 

While Godzilla kept the mother busy, Kong had been struggling to take care of the babies that started swarming his body the moment he made contact with the ground. He could feel them weaving between his fur and biting any and everywhere they could, a shutter running down his spine at the unpleasant sensations. With one frantic swing, Kong was able to easily swipe them away from his legs while freeing himself simultaneously. With another quick movement, Kong flipped to his feet, baby spiders flying left and right with each aggressive motion. His eyes flicked all around as they surrounded his being, collectively hissing and snapping at the titan.  Lifting his axe high in the air, Kong unleashed a determined war cry as the hoard sprung their final attack against him.

Sliding one of her legs free, Kumonga was able to successfully claw Godzilla's face, narrowly missing his eye. Letting out a pained screech he grips tightly around two of her legs, dragging her across the ground and flinging her into a nearby building. After struggling to get back onto her feet, the Mother felt incredibly weak and unbalanced. An obvious blood trail catches her attention instantly, prompting her to look down her body and assess the damage. A distressed cry emitted from her as she realized she was now missing a few limbs. Her eyes followed the blood trail back up to Godzilla, his silhouette outlined in the pink haze of his growing rage. She watches in horror as he calmly throws her limbs aside and begins to walk towards her once more. Aching and afraid, the spider wobbly scurries from her current position to hide away, attempting to calm herself for the next move. 

 "And you call me pathetic." the king sneers, flexing his claws at the thought of finally finishing this fight. Within that small moment, a familiar presence enters his mind again and stops him dead in his tracks.  "My queen.." Godzilla says simply, his eyes locked onto the edge of Kumonga's current hiding spot. 

"Now is not a good time?"  Mothra joked, a small strained laugh leaving her. "I will always make time for you, my queen. Are you ok? How are you feeling? Do you think you can wait just a bit longer?" Godzilla questioned, his voice riddled with concern for his precious mate. Mothra assured him that all was fine and she was only calling to check on him. After her concerns were also eased, she urged him to keep focus and make it home in one piece before leaving once again to let him finish his duty. Taking a deep breath, Godzilla continued his pursuit instantly. His mind that was once locked onto the fight was now filled with daydreams of what awaited him at home. The thought of Mothra's face, her voice welcoming him, and the idea of his future offspring set him into a much more relaxed state. 

Though his pleasant thoughts were interrupted with a piercing screech. The ledge he thought Kumonga was hiding behind was in fact empty, and the screech from before was instead coming from behind him. Without a moment to react, Godzilla could feel a set of legs snake around his back and dorsal plates, latching onto his skin. His eyes darted over his shoulder to watch a set of large fangs imbed deeply into his neck, a shockwave of pain flowing through his chest and arm as the kaiju injected her venom. 

Kong gripped his axe, swinging wildly as his blade crashed down into a puddle of spiders. Though his efforts felt fruitless as they continued to swarm. "Its not enough.." he breathed, swinging again and again with minimal damage. His movements became so frantic he found himself using his hands and feet as a last effort. 

The deep rumble of chopper guns caught Kong's attention, his eyes darting to the Monarch fighter jets laying waste to the mass in front of them. Their efficiency was impressive, within a few seconds they managed to clear out 1/4 of the hoard alone. A small smile met his previous scowl at the jets zipping past him, knowing he had a new leg up in the fight. With another burst of determination Kong pushed on, unleashing every bit of strength he could muster to finish what they started. 

Godzilla screeches in pain at the sudden sensation. The brief moment she was able to land her bite, was enough venom to tranquilize even the largest ape. Feeling a bit of Deja vu, he grabs onto Kumonga's thorax and flips her off his back. Immediately her fangs are released as she slams hard into the ground below him. 

The wound and the surrounding flesh burned nearly through him, the pain searing enough to kick him into over drive. Kumonga stared up to her foe, waiting for the moment he finally dropped. Though her wait was cut short as Godzilla sank his teeth straight through her exoskeleton and deep into her flesh. "Its not possible!" she squealed, squirming as Godzilla continued to rip a chunk out of her body. "You should be.. brought to your knees!  Paralyzed from the neck down!" she hissed, backing away from him. 

"You are no match for me lizard! You may have reigned power years ago but I will be victorious!" Kumonga continued to babble, her bloody legs barley able to carry her away. Godzilla calmly pursued her, looking down at her coldly as she spoke. 

"Your kind are extinct for a reason.. and you'll be next.. and when I'm done with you-" she trailed off, watching Godzilla's tail begin to glow from the tip to his mid back. "You're silly little moth will be next. Though her fate.. will have her BEGGING for death!" she hisses, springing back onto her feet in attempt to lunge at the king. An intense pink beam blasted directly towards her face, the force strong enough to push her back to the ground. As the bright light fades, Godzilla composes himself quickly, looking to see the spider writhing below him. Narrowly missing, he only managed to catch half of his target. The eyes that once held so much hatred and distain were now burst out of their sockets. Her exoskeleton melted upon impact, sizzling the tender flesh underneath until it was left crackling to the open air.

Even being severely wounded the kaiju continued to charge Godzilla, clashing with him once more. "You bastard! Your death is already immanent, you absolute scum! I'll-" she howls, her attempts to stab him with her legs being blocked instantly. 

"I'm sorry Mosura but.." Godzilla sighed, his eyes looking past Kumonga and towards Kong who had his axe at the ready.  "I'm tired of her." he growled again, his eyes and mouth glowing fiercely as his atomic breath strikes her dead on. Blasting her backwards gave Kong the chance to finish the job, his axe severing her head clean from the thorax. Even after her body fell limp, Kong watched Godzilla blast through it until an inevitable explosion. As blue blood and spider entrails splattered over the two, Godzilla's uproar seemingly brought peace to the previous chaos of the city. 

Monarch watched from the sidelines as both kaiju bid their final farewell. Their notes were over flowing with the improved teamwork between them. Though they did have their differences, Godzilla seemed to be much more tolerable of Kong now more than ever before. As the two began their marches back home, Kong grabbed the remaining leftovers of Kumonga's body before hopping back into the Hallow Earth portal. Now, the real issue was getting the city cleaned up.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Traveling through the cool ocean waters was usually soothing to Godzilla, but this time around he could feel nothing but adrenalin coursing through his body. The wound that was previously irritated and inflamed was now entirely numb, his skin feeling as if it wasn't even there. 

The moment he stepped foot onto the beach of his territory he released a deep drone, slight anxiety trailing in its echo. The few seconds after were filled with a silent terror, until a weak trill echoed back. Its tone was nothing short of warm and inviting to Godzilla.  

The king wasted no time running from the beach to their nest, his steps quaking the ground below him. 

"Mosura!" Godzilla called out, his body instinctively moving to her side. Mothra looked absolutely exhausted, her forelegs trembling as she reached for her mate. She could feel his arms wrap around her, the intense warmth of his body soothing her fears as he pulled her into a gentle embrace. 

"I'm.. ok. Just a bit tired." she breathed, burying her aching head deep into his chest.  "But I can only imagine how tired you are. You're hurt my king" she cooed, scanning over the bloody mess pouring from his neck. Godzilla shrugged his shoulders, grooming the disheveled fur of her wings and back. "I will be fine. Right now, my only concern is you. I'm here now, everything is going to be ok." he assured her, both titans melting into their tender embrace. 

Time seemingly paused in that moment. Moon light blanketed the dark crevice's of their makeshift home, its gentle glow mixing with the hot haze of their bioluminescence. Both titans sat comfortably in each others presence, their eyes studying the silk cradle that was now fully occupied. "Three.." Mothra breathed, catching Godzilla off guard. "Three what?" he spoke softly, his gaze a bit blurry with each passing minute. "Three eggs.." she whispered excitedly, motioning for him to get closer. Godzilla was hesitant, carefully maneuvering from underneath Mothra to get a closer look. At first he thought she was seeing things, but the closer he got, the more pronounced the three small bundles became. Side by side laid three eggs, the moon highlighting their soft shells and gentle colors. 

A sense of unexpected relief took place of his previous adrenaline. Almost all at once his body felt incredibly heavy, his vision fading as the soft wraps of their nest caught his limp body. A deep, tired sigh escapes him, the last thing he could hear being Mothra's panicked calls. "You're all safe.. good" he trailed off, finally losing consciousness as the venom takes over. 

[codename-adler]

may i have some stichi thoughts? you've got me intrigued yet again - love, from liz

of course <3

as you might have seen, i've posted lots of web-weavings about the mafia husbands instead of answering this... but they never leave my mind, so here are some thoughts i've been having lately!

xxx

i came up with a scene where there is an attempt on Ichirou's life by some of his enemies, and he is severely injured. Stuart happens to be among his company him for some convoluted reason or whatever. and wow, his killer instincts kick in... he shoots everyone present, friend or foe. why? nobody can know the Lord has been compromised. nobody can know he is fragile, weakened. again, why? Stuart sure isn't going to tell us... but he does manage to bring the unconscious and bloody young Lord to the secret apartment he doesn't know Stuart knows about. Stuart nurses him back to health and lives in Ichirou's space, in close quarters, for a week. there are obvious signs of rapprochement between the two men. Stuart deals with the threat on Ichirou's life at its root, eliminates it, a clean cut. and in the end, how does Ichirou reward him? at the very, very end, what does he gift him in return? death. Ichirou sends him to his death. the last weakness, ridden of. or so he thought. it won't be long before Ichirou follows him. how tragic. how pathetic.

xxx

as Stichi is so unbelievably Shakespeare-tragedy-coded to me (see here), and because !!SPOILERS!! this wip inevitably ends in death, i was thinking: what if they really were like Romeo and Juliet, but toxic? what if Stuart escapes the death sentence Ichirou is forced to give him? what if he manages to fake his death and he bids his time to come haunt Ichirou? but what if Ichirou is haunted already and commits suicide before Stuart can reveal his hand? and then, what if Stuart kills himself too because betrayals and time apart for revenge is tolerable, but life without Ichirou is actually unbearable? it adds a level of flavor that is very yummy to me. it probably won't make the cut, but it's out there, like many of Nora's drafts. we can mourn what it is, and what it never was.

xxx

last snack for the road: in some way Stichi is like M and James Bond. Judi Dench's M and Daniel Craig's Bond, specifically. if M was a man. and if the age gap wasn't so... big. and if they were in love. and they were the bad guys. so not like them at all, actually, but it makes sense to me.

[heavens-sin]

ㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤㅤ closed starter for @sillygum ! : ̗̀➛

  The  skies  above  Dressrosa  darkened  as  Doflamingo's  Birdcage  descended  upon  the  island,  slicing  through  buildings  and  streets  with  ease.  Panic  swept  through  the  streets  as  civilians  scrambled  for  safety,  only  to  find  themselves  trapped  within  the  confines  of  the  deadly  cage.  As  Doflamingo  gazed  down,  he  couldn't  help  but  feel  a  surge  of  adrenaline.  Luffy,  with  his  straw  hat  and  sense  of  determination,  was  a  formidable  opponent.  The  fight  had  been  intense,  pushing  both  fighters  to  their  limits.  grin  etched  his  features  as  he  watched  how  Luffy  gritted  his  teeth,  refusing  to  give  in.  He  unleashed  a  barrage  of  punches,  each  one  fueled  by  his  determination  to  protect  his  friends  and  the  people  of  this country.  How  pathetic.  He  could  admire  the  efforts  of  the  man.  But  he  effortlessly  dodged  and  countered,  his  movements  fluid  and  precise  but  he  had  taken  quite  a  few  strikes,  kicks  and  punches  to  his  being.  If  it  wasn't  for  the  damage  given  by  law’s  ability  he  would  be  fine.  However,  Doflamingo's  smirk  never  wavered.   the  king,  with  all  his  god  risen  divinity  stood  atop  the  royal  palace ,  overlooking  the  destruction  that  gripped  the  island.  buildings  torn  to  ruble,  fires  burned  brightly  and  corpses  littered  the  ground.  As  the  battle  raged  on,  Luffy  pushed  himself  to  the  limit.  The  power  of  Gear  Fourth  was  immense,  but  it  came  at  a  cost.  Fatigue  set  in,  and  he saw  an  opportunity.  He  grinned  maliciously,  realizing  that  victory  was  within  his  grasp.  The  birdcage  ceased  its  momentum.   With  a  flick  of  his  wrist,  the blonde summoned  his  strings,  weaving  them  into  a  deadly  web  that  ensnared  Luffy.  The  man  struggled  against  the  threads,  the  mastery  over  his  Devil  Fruit  power  was  unmatched.  He  relished  the  sight  of  his  opponent's  futile  attempts  to  break  free.From  his  vantage  point,  he  watched  with  satisfaction  as  chaos  engulfed  Dressrosa.  The  people's  screams  echoed  in  his  ears,  a  symphony  of  fear  that  fueled  his  desire.   He  relished  in  the  sight  of  his  kingdom  crumbling  beneath  his  feet,  a  testament  to  his  absolute  power.

     ❝       FU  FU  FU  FU    *        his  chuckle  was  low,  his  words  laced  with  venom      ❝       You're  outmatched,  Straw  Hat.  What  happened  to  kicking  my  ass  huh?  you  seemed  so  confident   *         The  sun  hung  low  on  the  horizon,  casting  long  shadows  over  the  battle-worn  landscape.  Luffy,  battered  and  bruised,  struggled  against  the  relentless  onslaught  of  Doflamingo's  razor-sharp  threads.  his  reign  was  at  stake,  and  he  would  not  allow  a  mere  amateur  alliance  disrupt  the  delicate  balance  he  had  maintained  for  years.  A  cruel  smile  twisted  Doflamingo's  lips  as  he  tightened  his  control  over  Luffy's  movements.  The  pirate  king's  spirit  was  unyielding,  but  even  the  most  resilient  of  souls  could  be  broken.  Doflamingo  reveled  in  the  sensation  of  power  coursing  through  him  as  he  forced  Luffy  to  his  knees.

      ❝    You  and  that  annoying  brat  have  caused  some  trouble  for  me,  but  in  the  end,  you're  nothing.    *          Doflamingo  sneered.       ❝    Your  dreams  and  aspirations,  they  will  all  remain  as  just  that.   dreams.  idiotic  dreams  that   you  will  never  accomplish  .   all  a  waste  of  your  time.     *          Doflamingo's  cold  stare  met  the  resilient  stare  of  the  boy.  The  once  vibrant  determination  in  his  eyes  flickered  like  a  dying  flame.  Doflamingo  reveled  in  the  taste  of  victory,  savoring  the  moment  when  Luffy,  the  symbol  of  hope,  was  crushed  under  the  weight  of  his  strings.He  saw  the  unwavering  determination  in  Luffy's  eyes,  the  indomitable  spirit  that  had  defied  odds  and  conquered  foes.  The  citizens  of  Dressrosa  watched  in  horror  as  their  hope  waned  with  each  passing  moment.

As  Dressrosa  descended  into  a  silence  broken  only  by  the  triumphant  laughter.  

      ❝     FU  FU  FU  FU  .  .  .   I'm  going  to  enjoy  taking  you  apart,  piece  by  piece,  watching  as   you  beg  for  mercy.    *         

Doflamingo  said  his  voice  laced  with  contempt.   his  long  serpentine  tounge  slithering  out  to  wipe  the  blood  that  tainted  the  boys  cheek,  the  metal  tips  of  his  piercing  scratching  his  cheek.  he  smiled  coldly       ❝    I'll  show  you  what  happens  when  you  defy  me.  when  you  defy  your  king.     *          He  tightened  the  threads  around  the  boy  and  the  surgeon.        ❝      I  wonder  how  long  it  will  take  before  you're  begging  for  mercy,  screaming  for  release  from  the  pain  I  will  put  you  through.  *        the  blonde   purred,  his  voice  thick  with  sadistic  intent.  his  large  hand  cupping  luffy's  chin        ❝    And  after  you've  suffered  and  pleaded,  I'll  make  you  watch  as  I  do  the  same  to  that  little  brat.    *        

he  pressed  himself  unashamedly  against  luffy's  back.  The  boy  could  feel  the  man's  hot  breath  on  his  ear,  could  hear  the  sadistic  glee  in  his  voice  as  he  taunted  and  tortured  him.  Doflamingo  grinned,  a  feral  gleam  in  his  eyes.  The  boy  would  have  to  be  made  an  example  of,  a  warning  to  all  those  who  dared  defy  him.  A  cruel,  sadistic  smile  spread  across  his  face,  a  wicked  glint  in  his  eyes  as  his  mind  raced  with  thoughts  of  the  things  he  would  do.   His  hot  breath  on  his  ear,  luffy  could  practically   hear  the  sadistic  glee  in  his  voice  as  he  taunted  him.  Dbehind  his  lenses,  his  heterochromatic  hues  held   a  feral  gleam.  The  scent  of  blood  and  sweat  was  intoxicating,  the  sound  of  the  boy's  pained  gasps  music  to  his  ears.  He  tightened  his  hold  on  the  threads,  revelling  in  the  surge  of  power  he  felt  as  they  cut  into  the  boy's  skin.

Sharp  canines  brushed  against  luffy's  jugular,  threatening  to  sink  into  the  delicate  flesh.       ❝    I'm  going  to  devour  you.    *          he  hissed,  his  voice  dripping  with  venom  as  he  grinded  against  the  small  of  his  back,  expressing  how  excited  the  fighting  had  riled  up  the  king.    A  low  growl  escaped  his  throat,  and  his  lips  twisted  into  a  wicked  smirk.     his  fingers  making  certain  motions  that  caused  the  strings  to  tighten  hence  more  around  thier  bodies,   running  his  tongue  along  the  shell  of  Luffy's  ear,  his  breath  hot  and  heavy.  He  chuckled  darkly,  licking  his  lips.

     ❝    I'm  going  to  fuck  you  until  you  can't  move.     *        he  growled,  his  voice  thick  with  lust.       ❝    And  then  I'm  going  to  keep  fucking  you,  over  and  over,  until  you  break.  Until  you  can't  even  remember  your  own  name.    *        

[swlyf-24]

The World Operates With Or Without

The world is made up of concrete lies, spider webs fabricated into weaves of fabric. Fabric woven into tapestry of socializing, civilization, that is held together by bitter lies that can only crumble under the weight of the truth.

The world as we know it now might be strong, held together. But is that really the case? Underneath everything, underneath the layers of this earth, it is crumbling at the seams. The stilts the world is standing on are decaying bit by bit. The wood is being eaten up by the horrible truths of this world— breakups, fights, disagreements, scandals, liars, crimes.

The tapestry is only breaking apart thread by thread. When someone finds the right thread to cut, who knows what will happen then. The stilts are uneven, shaky, unreliable. How can we trust the stilts to support the weight of our bitter lives, if we can't even trust each other? Even that is the bare minimum at an attempt to save this world from crumbling at our feet, at an attempt for the web to be strong enough and for the stilts to uphold.

Maybe the world is held on illusions instead. Illusions of how we can still live in peace. But there never truly is peace, is there? Peace is your state of mind. It's never truly something real. It's your mind's illusion of feeling safe, feeling comfort, like there's nothing that can come after you anymore. But the world isn't like that. Tragedies after tragedies, it only eats the world more. But of course, all illusions break. It isn't forever after all. The illusion breaks and we'll see the hard truth of this world. The bitter lies and betrayals that built the wooden stilts, the spit of venom that comes out of our mouth that forms the spider web.

The world truly is something to behold. Webs of tactile lies that seemed to be cogs, the world can only rely on that to function. The fabricated web supporting the world unwinds with the sought out twisted lies that pick at the loose threads. Perhaps the stilts of the world only grow stronger the more we despise one another. Perhaps it strengthens at the sight of disagreements, fistfights, bloodshed. Perhaps the stilts and webs only hold up the earth to watch us destroy one another.

The weight of the truth is something that can't be underestimated. It might mean nothing to some, but the impact of it is ten fold. It crushes the weights of the dreams held by people living in lies—living in the dark swamp of sacrifice, betrayals and tragedies. To be seen is to be heard, to be heard is to be seen. You can't expect your cries to be heard if you're living in the swamp of lies and deceit.

The tactile lies and brutal sacrifices build this earth from scratch. The stilts and webs are just there to support it, trying their best to perhaps save the world— to keep it away from the black hole that seems to be helping us in our bitter symphony of lives.

The stilts rebuild themselves with each life that grows. The eternal nature of life, growing even in a dark place. A life being born in a rotting society, crawling with maggots and flies. The world never truly is whole, and it never will be. What will we be if it is whole again? Will the world still need us? Will it still need the stilts and woven fabric that was crafted out of our pathetic excuses? Will the world still function—needing the cogs that had been woven out of threads of steel, that seemed to represent our stubbornness in surrendering to the truth?

Will the world still need our strong-headed opinions on the way we fall into pit traps of a facade? Will the world still need our naiveness, believing everything before the people destroyed it all? Will the world still need us then if we're just sticks and bones— crafted for the fact of nothingness?

Will the world still truly need us then? Or did the world even need us since the start? Either way, the world has a mind of its own. It works in its own ways, and perhaps we are too blinded by our lives to see that.

To see that the world will still operate with or without us.

[paceywittergayboatman]

Why didn’t you like the end of succession?

(Also it’s Daniel Molloy)

I have a ask from like at least a year that I've been trying to finish on why it sucks as an ending because my reasoning is so complicated and based on literary research I've done

but essentially like I'm my opinion succession is like multi-generational gothic incest story about Roy family and like repeated cycles of family rape and trauma and it's aslo includes the plot of Oedipus

But aslo if you look closely it's heavily influenced by the celebration, king lear and Aslo Dickens novel little dorrit which is rich family( the dorrit family)in decay succumbs to hard times and scandal and the ending is very pessimistic white dude everything is bad woman submits to evil

Like one of women the daughters gets back with her abusive man's at the end and it's like very eh fuck life

Now the problem is that when you combine that with a incest plot which is arguably centered around a secret you gotta spill the tea and succession is mostly Kendall try to like fix holes in the wall (he's knows about parts of the secret)and then Logan like breaks a wall down and makes the problem worse

In the context that succession has a literal double Oedipus plot which is where the secret is spilled at the end and that's it naturally it doesn't quite work and the era where mopey evil white dudes win(tom) and everyone else is miserable is tired and Frankly just meh

Like I'm not saying I'm against tragedy but I think the other problem is that tom is aslo tom/Edward in king lear and by the end of king lear the jokes on king lear and I would say that Logan is a obvious lear in this scenario and by the jokes on lear by the end play

In succ Logan is dead before the finale so we can't gotcha him so the gotcha is on ken and that idk it just feels kinda empty but not in a artsy way it's just boring

This makes zero sense probably because I'm not explaining the Oedipus twist so I'll I'm gonna attempt to do it the shortest way that makes sense

Essentially my thought is that Rosemary was raped by Logan and Ewans uncle and died having twins kids Maraine and tom

tom was given away and got adopted and years later he meets an underage shiv then he rapes her and she has Greg and Josh's daughter kitty and he returns to family once he realizes they are rich and while this is happening ken tries to protect shiv and Greg and kitty from tom hence his decline into depression and shit

My ideal ending is ken wins and the vote but toms a sore winner the whole family is like yass we won and tom comes in and together we get like murder mystery style reveal and then Greg grabs a knife and we see him go to the bathroom and he screams and goes my eyes because he's stabbed them that way it's like Kendall couldn't save the family from their own history

Anyway it's alot more complicated than I've stated here but I think it's reductive ending it defeats the point of text and it's misery for misery sake is always a pathetic ending in my opinion

I have web weaving metas if you wanna know more but I'm not really someone who has good time writing essays and I'm working on other stuff so this all I got to give ya

[accultant]

Iago flinches at his first like of questioning, their hands twitching slightly. They want that to be the case - they hope that their escape will be forgotten, Iago considered nothing more than a lost cause and never thought of again, their brother, too, deemed a failure so great that they would never be asked to return again. It would be so easy that way.

But even now, they have the tingling sensation they're being watched or followed, resisting the urge to check over their shoulder. The paranoia that always plagued them only got worse when they left the Bhaal Temple. It wasn't too difficult to escape - though they tended to stick to their own isolation, they were always free to leave since their return to Puck and, consequently, to the temple, was always assured. Now, though, they think they'd rather die than return there. Unfortunately, looking at Gatt as he studies them, that death wish seems likely to be granted any second now.

"I can certainly try," they answer, unconvincing even to their own ears.

The question of why distracts them from their observations. He wants to know why they didn't say anything. Not why they joined, not why they left, but why they lied. It's an odd notion to Iago, to whom lies usually come so easily, with or without reason.

Their hands twitch again as they scramble for an answer. They look for the right way out of this, the next lie in the web they've been frantically weaving since they first came along this crew.

What comes out betrays them, a bumbling, stuttering attempt at the truth, "I was ... I thought - there's many reasons why I -" Oh, just spit out something, Iago, this is pathetic. "The plan was- is ... If I could only get away, I could..." They open and shut their mouth, trying to recover.

They make another attempt after a few moments of chewing on their lip and getting their bearings back, monotonous and honest, "I am a coward, namely. I knew I'd be despised, if not killed outright."

Then there's the matter of Puck. He's the reason why they do anything. They've only ever introduced themselves as the amnesiac's old friend from the Guild, nothing more. Damning themselves could condemn their brother as well. They had to protect him. "Besides - it's better left forgotten."

Their hands are definitely sparking now. Iago takes them down from their placating gesture to clasp them together, an old habit formed from a childish thought once that it could keep their magic inside.

Their excuses are weak without context - context that they have not provided and certainly won't be able to now, due to the hole they've dug themselves into. They know there isn't a good answer to his question. There's no way out. Their forced monotony starts to slip again, "'Why didn't I say anything?' What could I have said?" They glance at the sword over his shoulder and let their hands go, prepared for a fight if needed. He should have drawn his weapon by now. What is he waiting for? "What can I say now?"

"So what, you left them? You can just up and leave if you want?"

He doesn't trust them. He doesn't trust them. He knows he can't ever trust them, and then --- what is there left to do but try to kill them? They can't be allowed to just stay here in camp, walk around freely while he knows what they are; he'd never sleep again, or turn his back or set down his sword or do anything but watch. It's them or him. Either he kills them, or he leaves.

He stands silent, unmoving except for the heavy rise and fall of his shoulders as he breathes, watching their hands rise in an appeasing movement that feels like a threat. Maybe he can kill Iago before they get a chance to scream. Maybe. Maybe they'll kill him, which is fine, honestly. But there's also the option that they do get to scream, and then people will wake up and Gatt doesn't want to think further than that. It would be bad.

So it's leave, then. Walk away into the night and hope he won't run into any cultists, and that the brand on his face isn't enough to turn him into a mindflayer, and that these idiots manage to fix everything while he's looking the other way.

These are the options. He's staring at Iago, trying to read their expression, their weird, blank gods-damned face, and he doesn't want to kill them, and he doesn't want to leave.

"Why didn't you say anything?" he asks, less because he thinks it'll matter and more because he needs time to think. And maybe they'll say something that makes it clear what he's supposed to do or maybe they'll spontaneously combust on the spot, that seems just as likely.

[spxllcxstxr]

Creature Teachers • R.L

(GIF not mine)

Request: Hii, this probably sounds really weird but can I request like a (professor, if you’re okay with that) Remus Lupin x vampire reader? Where she really needs some blood so he lets her bite his neck to help her and it can be like cute and romantic or smutty, idk whatever you’re comfortable with. Yikes sorry I sound so weird 💗 — anon

Summary: You’re a vampire out of blood replenishing potions. Your husband offers you his.

Warnings: heavy blood mention, a spider makes a quick appearance, biting, drinking blood, normal vampire stuff, insecurities, all vampire things are a wee bit suggestive if you think about it

Word Count: 1.4k

A.N: I didn’t intend for this to become fic length. Obviously, I got carried away with the idea. This isn’t smutty and it isn’t really romantic? But it’s not angsty. I have no clue exactly what to categorize this as. Hope you enjoy it, because I loved writing it.

****

When your eyes snap open in the middle of the night, you’re greeted by the pitch blackness of the room, and yet you’re still able to spot the spider weaving its web tantalizingly slow in the far corner.

You watch it dangle, seemingly in midair, but it’s thin and translucent web shines just enough for your eyes to catch it.

If you were alive, your heart would be racing and you’d probably be hyperventilating.

The rush of Remus’ blood flowing through his veins is ever present in your ears. His heart pounds evenly in his sleep, and you’re completely and painfully aware of his dorsalis pedis artery pulsating against your own foot.

Your limbs are screaming in pain, skin feeling paper thin.

Hunger.

Hunger is the one thing on your mind, and you groan. If you weren’t so weak, you would pounce on your husband and drain his entire body dry of blood. You’re thankful you’re so weak.

“Remus...” You rasp out, unmoving. “Please...”

You need him to wake up, to help you, so you continue to gasp out.

“(Y/n)?” He eventually mumbles tiredly.

The blanket shifts next to you and his foot ceases contact with your skin. You yearn for it once again, attempting to reach out and follow it, but your body won’t allow it.

“So hungry, Remus...” You whimper, fingers twitching, trying to reach out to him.

“I’ll grab your potions, m’love.” He mumbles, groaning as he gets up from the bed. Your ears pick up the creaking of his joints and the sporadic beating of his heart as he wakes up.

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to calm yourself down.

His bare feet pad across the floorboards and glass vials clink together.

“They’re all empty!” Remus exclaims, going through drawers and looking between stacks of books.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” You whine out, roughly swallowing. Your flesh erupts in a fiery pain.

“I can run down to Snape—“

You hiss at the notion, hating his very suggestion. You didn’t need Snape meddling any more in your business than he already is. He was adamant about how the two of you were monsters, set loose around children. Snape delivered potions to you and your husband and yet he still couldn’t trust either of you. You didn’t want him involved to prove him right.

Remus sits on the bed, close to you.

“Bite me.”

His heart noticeably skips a beat due to anxiety.

Slowly, you turn your head to look at him, the whites of his eyes the brightest part of him even in the dead of night.

“What?” You choke, eyes widening at the thought of real human, or at least part human, blood being offered to you willingly.

It’s been so long.

It’s been too long.

“Just enough to get you through the night. Snape will drop off more blood replenishing potions in the morning.” He clarifies quickly.

His heart pounds rapidly which is understandable considering you haven’t had the need to feed from him since you were in school.

“Are you sure?” You ask, trying to restrain your eagerness. Desperately, you lick your chapped lips at the very thought.

Remus hooks his arms under your armpits, dragging you up to sit against the wooden headboard.

Feebly, you head rolls against the hardwood that’s digging into your scalp. A terrible change from your soft and delicate pillow.

“You’re in pain, (Y/n), of course I’m sure. Just not too much.” Remus reassures, pulling off his black shirt, leaving his chest bare and exposed.

Usually, you would use this time to ogle your husband, but instead your eyes latch onto his neck. It’s like every fiber of your being is calling out to his blood supply.

Your vision practically tunnels around his palpitating carotid artery, watching as it jumps in fright. Your gums ache as a fog takes over your mind.

However, you try to fight your instincts off. Using the carotid artery would surely kill him, and rationally, you don’t want to kill your husband. You’re particularly fond of him. It also might be hard to explain how the new Defense Against the Dark Arts professor got drained by a vampire in the middle of the night.

You have to have control.

Your lips tremble as Remus drags his body closer to your own. If he’s talking, you can’t hear him. You’re too focused on making sure you don’t bleed him dry. It takes everything you have in you to keep your mind on track.

Abdomens are pressed together, your legs hooked around the small of his back, practically sitting in his lap.

You dip your head in the juncture between his neck and shoulder, burying your lips and your nose against his skin. Deeply inhaling, you can smell the coppery substance through his skin and you haven’t even punctured him yet. Your eyes almost roll back in your skull at the mere thought of real blood. Blood replenishing potions were fine, but they weren’t satisfying.

“You’re sure about this?” You practically have to force out through your lips.

A hand rests on the back of your head, fingers petting through your hair.

“I’m ok, love. Whenever you’re ready.” He shakily replies, swallowing roughly.

Your lips drop lower, away from the arteries and instead hover over the mess of veins nearby.

Before even biting down, you delicately place sloppy kisses on the area you’re about to ruin. You hear him try to calm his heartbeat with a deep inhale.

You draw back, teeth shifting to make room for your fangs, and you finally sink them past layers of skin. He yelps, grabbing onto your hair. He doesn’t try to pull you away from him, but it seems you’re his anchor.

A rush of blood fills your mouth, the coppery taste and scent overwhelming every one of your senses. There’s a sweetness hidden behind all that metal, and you quickly discover it dancing on your tongue. You greedily moan in desire.

You take great big gulps, your body strengthening after each one. You trail your fingers up to his hair, pulling at it to expose more of his neck to you.

Vaguely you’re aware that you’re getting too lost in the thick fog clouding your mind.

“Alright love, that’s enough.” Remus groans next to you.

You let out a low and pathetic whine, tightening your grasp on his hair, lapping at the wound you’ve given him. The flow hasn’t let up.

You hear his heart start to pick up speed at your defiance, like he’s panicking.

“(Y/n).” There’s a faint waver in his firm tone. “Enough!”

That’s enough for you snap out of whatever bloodthirsty trance you were stuck it.

You detach your fangs from his flesh, pulling back swiftly. Blood coats your lips and you dart your tongue out to capture the rest.

Quickly, you scramble away from him, untangling your limbs in favor of cowering on the mattress.

Blood pools where you bit him but you’re in the right headspace to be able to rip your gaze away from it. Your eyes focus on Remus, how pale he’s become, even though you didn’t take too much from him.

“Merlin, Remus.” You pick up his dark shirt and press it to his wound.

Somehow his eyes manage to find yours in the dark.

There’s a glimmer of pain lingering in his irises, and guilt pools in your stomach. A frown tugs at your lips.

You’re a monster, aren’t you?

Couldn’t even control yourself enough, so you had to force your own husband to keep you alive.

You could barely restrain yourself while feeding off of him—you almost killed him. You would’ve, if he didn’t speak up.

“I know what you’re thinking...” Remus murmurs, lazily placing a hand on yours, pressing the shirt firmer against his body.

You purse your lips. Of course he knows, he goes through the same thought process every full moon.

“I’m fine, love. We’ll just both have to take a potion in the morning.” He reassures, scooching back to lay his head in his pillow. “But right now, I’m tired.”

Delicately, he gets under the blankets, shivering slightly.

While you don’t need to sleep at night, to be honest you’re not even tired, but the way he stretches his arm across your cold torso has you cuddling up to his side.

You stay up listening to his heartbeat even out and his breathy snores, knowing that you’re both alright.

•

All Character Taglist: @aspiringsloth20 @amourtentiaa @cherie-draco

Remus Lupin Taglist: @lunalovecroft

[team-council]

Title: It’s never getting titled

TW: Character Death, Lightly Grotesque descriptions of wounds, Possible Scuicidle Implications (I didn’t really mean to imply it like that, but I realize it can be read that way and will tag to be safe)

Description: Takes place directly after the council manages to quell the everblaze from book three. Bronte takes some healing salve to Oralie for her shoulder and reflects on Kenric’s death.

Notes: I would scincerely like to thank anyone who bullied me. I haven’t finished a fic in literally ever, meant a lot. This monstrosity is also not proofread and I am sleep deprived so I’m sure it’s absolute garbage near the end but just ignore that. Might clean it up and put it on ao3 later who knows.

An angry grey sky wept dry shudders of ash over each of the miserable, bowed figures that stumbled across the rolling fields stretching beyond and between the crystalline castles scattering Eternalia’s fading outline. The sun was nothing but a sunken stain on the sky, feathery gold light turned a sick shade of pewter as rising smoke choked the warmth from what of it still lingered beyond the horizon. The neon glare of Everblaze could no longer be seen melting crystal and dragging harsh lines of terror down the face of the distant city, but the air still smelled like burning sugar and dizzying sweetness.

With every ragged breath Bronte drew the saccharine sting of the now extinguished fire coated his tongue anew and prompted another fit of coughing to wrack his body. Though the soot that caked his face in thick, dark splotches had long dried his eyes, the muted sting of fresh burns sweltering along his cheeks and arms coaxed tears to blur his staggering vision. He’d long abandoned attempting anything resembling a graceful stride forward, allowing his feet to stumble over each other with every messy attempt he made to not hit the earth. Ignoring the trembling in his knees. Praying mutely that they might give way beneath him. That he might fall and never get have to get up. A fantasy of melding into the cool grass enticed his mind from the fervent protesting of his aching muscles. He imagined idly how the paled blades would curl at the corners of his mouth, cradle his hands and still the weary tremors that weighted his chest. Dazed, he was unable to keep from fancying what it would be to shatter into the dirt. To become ethereal and unknown, sunken beneath a tangled weaving of root where there would be naught to do but unlearn the world. To divorce sorrow and grief. To let the burdens of the many long centuries he’d endured go in passive dismissal.

His thoughts were interrupted as his foot caught the edge of something tough, and when at last he fell it was only to be met with the glassy, calloused embrace of faceted crystal. A dim, concerned muttering of multiple shrill voices hovered above his head, but as the councillor drew to his knees he found in clarity only the gaunt, drawn man staring back at him through the fuzz of a soot-drowned Amaranth stairway. Reminding him. Mocking him. To disappear was not a mercy he deserved.

“Councillor,”

Bronte was forced to respond when the stairs beneath his legs fell away from him, a large pair of hands having drug him up by the shoulders. Well, respond might have been a gracious word for the half-conscious grunt he managed to the goblin bearing his weight in their palms, his eyes not bothering to search the face of the guard, to know whether or not they held his weakness in contempt or pity. It didn’t matter. He couldn’t fathom caring. All that mattered was that there was no attempt to stop him from dragging his reluctant body up the steps, that no hand batted his away from the knob of the door, that the scanner reading the intricacies of his palm managed to make sense of his identity despite how fresh burns and ash might’ve tried and scrub it away. There was no triumph in the silent, inward sliding of the towering doors, no pleasant rush as frigid, bitter air swept the welts tapering down from his forehead. He hardly found himself capable of much but standing at the brink of the darkness that spilled forward into the until living room at his feet.

Lavish furniture sat steeped in shadows deep enough to sink under, curtains drawn to block the pitiful laces of grey-yellow light that might have struggled through had they been parted. Bronte’s own silhouette was absorbed effortlessly into the black, his whole body soon after as he mindlessly stepped forward, doors clicking shut at his back with an echo of finality.

The world was void of sound until the shake of a fragile breath bit the quiet in faint retaliation. Bronte followed the quivering whimper around the barest, ebon outline of a table, managing to discern only a tenebrous jumble of shapes wrapped up in the stifle of self imposed twilight. Whatever discomfort he might have felt at the still sightlessness, it was welcomed compared to the snap that brought light back into the chamber, cutting through the veil of blissful ignorance that had pardoned any necessity to look upon what it had charitably concealed. However selfish it might have seemed, for the smallest instant Bronte thought of turning the lights off again,

“Sit up,”

It felt wrong to speak- especially ask anything of Oralie. Her ringlets- dull and stringy- pulled down in thick tangled over her face as she rigidly drug her back up the arm of the lovesteat she’d curled into, blankets falling limp onto the floor with a meek thud. Bronte simply knelt atop them, his fingers trailing the pockets of his clock for the smooth outline of a familiar metallic tin. Oralie made no sound of pain or acknowledgement as he pulled down the sleeve of her shirt, revealing a thickly wound bandage fastened over her shoulder. The white color had turned yellow, and as the kneeling figure peeled back each layer the room- what of it he could smell above the saturated, sugary smoke bathing his clothes- began to scent of balms and puss, a littering of welts and shrunken skin having festered beneath the dressings. The case in his hands came open with yet another sound Bronte found himself too far away to register, his fingers diving numbly into the salve inside,

“It’s my fault,”

Came a sound like the shifting of a fault line. Bronte traced his fingers over the rim of the burn,

“I couldn’t do anything but watch,”

Cracking like stained glass. Bronte smoothed his thumb across a patch of withered, pink flesh,

“H-he moved so quick,”

He had been avoiding her eyes, her face. And still he found himself caught in both. Her soft features hollowed. Her warm eyes gutted, occupied only by vacancy. Ghosts of the nots. Of the would never bes,

“And I- I jus-just-“

And her anguish came again with vengeance. Came with strength she did not have to spare for tears she did not have to shed. How dare she think she had wept enough. How dare she think she couldn’t hurt any longer. With a long, godless wail it came back to her in waves, thin fingers gripping his shoulders as she curled forward, her whole frame shaking with the labor of forcing from her throat a cry like cracking ice. What little tears she could manage soaked through his cloak,

“And I j-us did no-nothing! I di-didn’t do anything! I jus-just le-let him go! I le-let him d-“

She had been doomed to fail the sentence from the very start, her broken declarations falling to senseless sobs and howls of pain as she rocked her forehead into his shoulder, re-adjusting her grip at his arms every so often as if letting go might send her physically spiraling into whatever pit of grief pulled at her mind, down somewhere she couldn’t be followed,

“It’s not your fault,”

Again. It felt wrong to tell her anything with certainty, even the truth,

“It’s not your fault,”

It came stronger this time. Still a whisper in her ear, but less like a mist and more like a fog,

“It’s not your fault,”

That’s right. It wasn’t her fault. It was his,

“You couldn’t have known,”

But he had.

“There wasn’t a way you could’ve known,”

He’d known everything. That the healing was dangerous. That he should’ve gone with them.

“You did everything right...”

It was his fault that they hadn’t listened,

“I promise,”

That Kenric hadn’t listened,

“You were everything he needed you to be,”

Why should he have? He had been impatient. Stubborn. Cruel. /Weak/.

“You’ve been so strong,”

For the past three years his judgement had been ruled by fear. Fear of a little girl,

“And so brave,”

And hatred. Hatred of species who’s betrayal’d dawned the advent of millenniums lifetimes ago,

“This could never have been your fault,”

Kenric was dead,

“It will never be your fault,”

Because he hadn’t been stronger,

“No matter what you might think,”

Because he hadn’t been wiser,

“Kenric wouldn’t want you to think that,”

Because he hadn’t been kinder.

“Ever,”

Her wailing had only gotten softer, grip having loosened the slightest bit. He couldn’t tell if anything he’d said had reached her or not. Had he even been speaking aloud to begin with? Had he even been loud enough for it to matter? He had to hope so. Their ilk was not meant to die, and thus not meant to grieve death. To mourn in earnest was not theirs. It never was. He knew too well how easily it would be for her to break beneath the weight of it. He could already feel himself webbing with cracks,

“I-I....”

She couldn’t protest beyond a dry heave, her shoulders raised for what felt like ever in a deep wrenching motion as Bronte clasped the fresh bandages over her newly dressed wounds. In the end, she merely fell into him, grabbing his shirt. His arms. His cloak. Anything she could to prove to herself she was still there with him. Every new hold she had on him felt like another clutch of guilt bearing at his knotted stomach. The morphine drip of shell shock had begun to fade and chip away. Clawed to pieces by the daggers of sharp mourning that broke his haze with every whimper Oralie managed into his shoulder. He knew even in the pathetic state he was in he couldn’t outrun his guilt forever. But he’d been hoping that he might for a bit longer. Selfish as it was,

“Oralie...”

He whispered after a moment. And was met with quiet. Quiet and trembling breaths. She’d become heavy against him, her grip gone slack, eyes finally falling to tearless rest. Good. He hadn’t been sure what he was going to say anyways. The lights echoed out again with another dry snapping sound and Bronte stood from the thicket of blankets at his ankles, propping Oralie’s head on a pillow before draping her in covers again, still hoping- desperately and undeservedly- that she had believed him.

He paced the length between his and Oralie’s office with more grace this time, aware now of what the lull to fall and fade and become nothing but memory was in truth.

Not escape from sorrow or grief, but from consequence.

Consequence for the person he’d become. For that he’d done to others... There would be no reckoning with Councillor Kenric. He was dead. No apologies or tears- though he would certainly be giving both in abundance regardless- would change that.

But Oralie wasn’t dead.

The rest of the council wasn’t dead.

Sophie wasn’t dead.

He wasn’t dead.

And to that end there were still plenty of consequences to face.

[hereisleo]

Circle VII: Violence

The Second Babylon

w/ k.hj & reader ft. ateez

g/ demon!au, mystery, suspense

a.n/ after more than three weeks of dry spell, i present you the finale

t.w/ blood, slight gore, violence, death, murder, guns and fire

recommended playlist:

by shoji meguro -

a new world fool

“Rise.”

You stand from your kneeling posture at the command and your eyes meet the burning red of the King. Hongjoong breaks into a smirk, “I told you, ‘You’ll seek us out yourself,’ and here you are.” He leaves his throne, the seven other commanders remain seated, boots soundless against the red carpet. His fingers caress your cheek before digging into your face in a vice-like grip. He leans forward, nose almost brushing against your, the vicious growl rumbling in his throat roots you to the palace floor, “I should punish you for your insubordination.”

He beckons Fraud to approach. The lightning bearer towers over you. The crackle of electricity raises the temperature in the throne room, shadows shift to its taunt. “Let it be remembered, you don’t disobey me.” The last thing you know is the blinding white-hot pain as lightning strikes the consciousness out you.

To say your shoulder is not moving properly is an understatement. The burns have knitted itself to normal skin as Yeosang sits by your bedside, his bed, waiting for you to rouse. You wake up to his finger gently tracing patterns on your arm. You reach for his hand and he lets you hold them. “You could have dodged it,” He refers to the bolt of lightning. “You’re fast enough.” Sure you are. They probably don’t expect you to sit there and take it. You release his hand and feel your shoulder. Uneven surface tells you the bolt scarred your skin in fern-like patterns. Lichtenberg scars. Most disappear in a few days but yours are here to stay.

The fireplace roars to life, black fire licks the unburnt woods. A summoning call from the King and all are expected to answer. Yeosang helps you off the bed, every fibre of your being protests but you trudge on, out of the chamber into the hallway. Yeosang keeps a hand on the small of your back, a precaution should you stumble. Rounding the corner, you find Mingi and Yunho coming out of their chambers. Mingi smirks and nods at you, already up and walking after been directly struck by his lightning. Yunho pats your head and walks behind you and Yeosang. Seonghwa almost purrs when he sees you while San and Wooyoung whistle in amazement. Jongho says nothing but the respect in his eyes are enough.

Red on red. Red staining the gold. Red on the skin. Red dripping of the sharp nails. The throne room is a bloody macabre. Hongjoong stands in the middle of bodily carnage, limbs here and there, and there’s a heart fluttering its final beats in his hand. He turns around and smiles, canines elongated and stained, “I let them breach security.” Familiar badges you used to carry every day lay drenched on the plush carpet. Your eyes glance over the bodies if there’s one body in particular amongst the raiding party. He offers the heart in rhetoric fashion, “Anyone hungry?”

Seonghwa is the first to approach the embodiment of Violence. “Famished, Joong,” he whispers, wiping away the stray splash of blood from the King’s cheek, he has no qualms licking off the blood of his finger. Hongjoong seems to preen at the action. “We’re going. Time to get rid of the thorns from the rose.” He tosses the heart away and it stops short by your boots. His finger points at you, eyes blazing as bright as the blood staining his skin, “They demanded you. I applaud them for their bravery but no one takes what is mine.” No one makes demand to the King.

The shadows curl and snap, opening the void pathway to the Living Plane. The brim of their hats cast a shadow over their eyes, charcoal webs of veins protrude right below the skin, red irises more prominent than ever. Their black coats billow behind them, one by one, the commanders enter the void and melt into the shadows. Hongjoong waits for you with his palm open. You hold his hand, soiled and sticky yet soft. He raises them to his mouth, lips brushing against your knuckles.

“Lay waste to them.”

A siege is what this is. The precinct is surrounded by a wall of black fire, Seonghwa’s mouth curls into a menacing dragon-like grin. You could hear the tinkling of wind chimes in your mind as the wind picks up, your coat whipping in the wind and hat following the direction of the air currents, Yunho is nearby. The fire grows unceasingly. You’ve seen the sight before. The Great Fire of Rome, London, Chicago and many other accounts recorded in history. Wooyoung and Yeosang work on driving the officers outside into a frenzy. San taking them out with ease. They’re turning the Living Plane’s symbol of security into their playground. One of them alone could raze a city yet here they are playing. You could feel pinpricks of electricity tickling your skin, funny how it’s not painful anymore after being submerged in the River Styx. “Shall I get rid of the mutt for you?” Mingi whispers, his cheek pressing against yours and you follow his line of sight. “I’ll take care of it.” Mingi barks a laugh, “Have a blast, little one!”

Jongho’s miasmic presence alone in the bullpen is enough to make the officers kneel. You pass by him and he tips the brim of his hat in greetings, ever so polite. The building shudders, splinters and ashes rain down. Compromised structural integrity. He’s trying to cave the building from the inside, burying the people underneath. The protection runes inscribed to the structure prevent him from bringing the building down. “Need a hand, Jongho?” You call out teasingly, he scoffs and a rune cracks under the suffocating gravity. Guess not. This place is never designed to handle nine commanders of hell at the same time. The scenario never even crossed the mind.

Hongjoong stands beside you, more blood covers the expanse of his skin, he coat soaking the red liquid that’s not his. You wipe the stain from the corner of his mouth, he must have feasted before finding you. In front is the entrance to a secret passageway. Every employee in the Anomaly Department signs a vow of silence regarding the passage. Not at a single word to anyone. Not to be open until there’s an unprecedented attack. The intricately weaved runes are glowing white at the threats yet Hongjoong chuckles, “Pathetic.” The world is always evolving and so does power. The runes are outdated, no one checks it for who knows how many years. Hongjoong blasts the wall into pieces, all it takes is a punch. He’s not a king for nothing. The thrumming of his miasma flow is intoxicating, you could feel it latching, igniting violent tendencies inside. The embodiment of Treachery and the detective mix a savage concoction.

Runes litter the walls and floors as you descend the stairs, Hongjoong close behind you. You wonder how many media coverage is on the other side of the ring of fire. All thoughts are vanquished from mind when you come face to face with a stone door. How far deep into the underground is this? The miasmic energy leaking from the stone is akin to the one you feel in the underworld. “Ley lines,” Hongjoong says behind you. “The runes are pathetic but they’re smart enough to make an escape route close to Limbo.” He steps in front of you, a slew of phrases in a dead language spills from his tongue. The door rumbles open without a fight. No traps activated. You always forget that he’s been on this world longer than any supernatural beings. The first supernatural inhabitant to walk the Earth.

Familiar voices reach your ears. You smile. Oh, how the end of the beginning has come to fruition. The taste of fear on tip of your tongue is delicious. They have no time to cross into Limbo nor did they expect the final defence to be breached. “Detective?” A gentle call of your old title melts you from Hongjoong’s shadow. The reds of your eyes drilling into your partner’s, ex-partner. Guns are pointed at you. The Captain’s frightened face brings a grin to your mouth and the Junior Detective flinch. The grin is short of feral. “Detective, please come back. I know you’re in there,” the pleading of the Junior Detective makes you coo, eyes desperate and the service weapon unsteady in trembling hands.

You approach the Junior Detective, hands raise in the air at the attempt of an nonthreatening advance. “Stop right there!” The Captain yell. “How could you betray us like this?!” Hongjoong clicks his tongue and in a second, he has the Captain against the wall, hand tight around her neck. The Junior Detective whips his attention toward the King of hell, gun trained to his head. That’s not going to kill Hongjoong. “Betray you? Oh no, no. You took Treachery from me, Captain. No one steals from me,” animalistic growls emerge from his throat, nails growing sharper. You could see scarlet beads pooling at the divots where his claws dig into the delicate skin.

Placing a hand on the service weapon, you coax the Junior Detective to lower the gun. Without missing a beat, Hongjoong tears open her throat. The stone wall is splattered red and blood rains on the King. You watch the Captain chokes in her own blood before going cold. Screams of anguish ring throughout the tunnel, gun clattering away. Your partner slumps against you, dragging you to the wet ground. Tear streams down the Junior Detective’s cheeks, heaving and inconsolable. Hongjoong laughs and laughs, doubling over and clutching his stomach as if what went down is the most hilarious comedy show he has ever seen in a while. It probably is, the last time you have seen him laughs this hard was during the assassination of Julius Caesar.

You hum and nuzzle into the sobbing Junior Detective in your arms. “Mingi was right, I should have done it properly,” you whisper. Your old partner’s breath hitches, “What do you mean?” You plant a kiss on the corner of your partner’s mouth, “The Kiss of Judas.” And you let go of the horrified Junior Detective, the cogs in the brain turning to process your words. The tunnel rumbles as the crashing of explosions outside continues. It’s going to collapse.

Chunks of rocks drizzle down. Hongjoong offers his arm for you to link and you do so. “Fabulous show, Treachery! Time for the curtain call! We have a feast waiting for us,” he praises, eyes shaping into crescent moons. Walking toward the stone door, the melodious dead language spills from his mouth. You turn your head to see the Junior Detective rooted to the ground as more and more debris falls. You smile one last time and wave, farther away with each step. Classic Hongjoong. Death by stoning. Never forgive and never forget. The door shuts and the tumbling of boulders chorus inside.

“Goodbye, partner.”

<<prev

ateez main masterlist | sa: masterlist

[lurafita]

SIM Tony / Peter, Part 4

Read part 1 here

Read part 2 here

Read part 3 here

I hadn’t planned on updating this so soon after the last part, but I got inspired.

Alright people, things are going to start getting real from here on out. Tony’s new ‘Superior’ mode makes an entrance. I don’t know exactly how many parts I’m gonna do for this before I find a point at which I can call it finished, but just know that from here on out, the plot is gonna spice up.

From here on out, Tony will be Superior Iron Man, and while I will probably deviate in his characterization from most other stories that feature SIM Tony (mostly in the way he treats Peter), he will get dark. He will be manipulative, possessive and ruthless. Violent (never to Peter though, I can’t write physically abusive relationships and don’t want to), dominant and dismissive to other people (aside from Peter, because as you must know by now, I just can’t be too mean to Peter).

Tony Stark had had his insecurities over the years, but he had never realized just how truly lacking he had been before.

Before his transformation, before his new suit, before his new.... him. Everything was so much better now. So much stronger. So much more.

It was as if he had awoken from a life long sleep. Truly alive for the first time ever. And it felt glorious. He wondered if it was the same for Peter, after the spider bite had changed his DNA. This feeling of rightness.

He was reborn.

He was...

Superior.

He admired his reflection in the floor to ceiling windows of his laboratory. His hair, that had been peppered with grey spots before, was a rich black now. While he had always been fit, his physique had changed slightly as well, making him stronger, broader. No more wrinkles on his handsome face. Extremis had knocked off what felt like a good twenty years from his body. He was in the prime of his life.

Another thing that was new was his eye color. Instead of the previous dark brown, his eyes now bore a cold but fierce blue. It wasn’t like he minded the change, but he had always been a bit partial to his brown eyes. They had reminded him of his mother. Though to be honest, hers had been a little lighter than his. More of a honey brown, than his previous dark coffee tone. It didn’t matter though. The icy blue was very becoming, and there was someone else whose honey brown eyes he would be able to stare into very soon.

A low groan had his gaze drift to the ground some feet behind him, where Curt Conner and Otto Octavious were currently lying in their containment cells.

Breaking the two former scientists out of the Raft had been easy, but taken a lot longer than Tony had liked. Timing had been crucial, and so the planning had been meticulous and followed down to the very second.

Acquiring Venom had been just slightly more tricky, but nothing was impossible for a man like Tony Stark. (Even his previous, inferior, self.)

Then the experimentation had started. Each of the villains had unique strengths and abilities, that the billionaire wanted for himself. The perfect melding of two species and regenerative factor from Conners, though preferably without the monster make-over. The harmonic symbiosis of the human body and machine from Octavious, though Tony had no desire for the frankly gaudy looking appendages. And the fluidity and shapeability of Venom’s armor and other perks, but without the alien taking over the genius’ mind.

Two days of panning for the acquisition of the three villains, followed by four days of experimentation on his subjects to find out how it all worked. Tony could only smirk derisively when remembering how much his previous self had loathed the process. Tony had never been as much of a believer in second chances as Peter was, but he had been against human experimentation and torture. In the beginning, Tony had tried to keep any pain to an absolute minimum, had tried to be as respectful to whatever remained of his subjects humanity as possible, even though he would never forgive them for the torment they had inflicted upon his love.

But when things had reached the finish line, as he had extracted and recreated what he needed from them, as Extremis had absorbed and subjugated Venom and combined everything together to mold it all to Tony’s body, he had known that his previous reservations had been needless. These creatures didn’t deserve any consideration or mercy from him. Whatever pain had been inflicted on them had been warranted. So what if extracting the genetic code to their mutations had fried their pathetic little minds? It was nothing that Tony Stark should need to concern himself with.

Foolish sentimentality and redundant human morals might be cute for Peter, but they should never limit him.

Speaking of Peter, it was time that the new and improved Tony went to fetch his sweetheart. Six days, though unfortunately necessary, had been far too long to be separated from his love.

“Jarvis, take two suits and transport the garbage to the warehouse I have prepared. Then send an anonymous tip to Shield, so that they can collect them.”

“Yes, Sir.”

The monotone, taciturn answer of his A.I. brought another grin to Tony’s face. Jarvis attempts to caution and dissuade him from his plans to improve himself had not sat well with him. After all, the A.I. was just that, an artificial intelligence programmed by him (well, his former and weaker self), to assist and serve him. He had appreciated neither the sarcasm, nor the way that Jarvis tried to lecture him about the possible dangers his transformation might bring.

It was yet another piece of evidence that showed how fucking weak he had been before. The old Tony had programmed his A.I. specifically to back talk and supervise him, to make sure he wouldn’t cross a line he couldn’t un-cross. To keep himself humble.

Pathetic.

The only kind of sassy mannerisms he would tolerate in his life came from a certain spidery hero.

As the two suits now carrying the all but brain dead men inside them flew away from the tower, Tony let his Endo-Sym armor encase his body. He watched with smug satisfaction as the silver cells flowed like water over his form and solidified into a nearly unbreakable shell. No verbal or manual commands required. The armor was a part of him now, reacting to his will alone.

“Find my sweetheart, Jarvis.”

Six days since they had last spoken, and Peter had left the tower in tears. But Tony would rectify it all now. He was better now.

The window in front of him opened and he lifted off the floor, his new suit capable of storing and using electric and psionic energy for flight easily.

A miniature map of the city appeared on the transparent shield in front of his eyes (why deprive the people of his handsome face with a helmet, after all. Also, the silver armor complimented his blue eyes marvelously). A little dot blinked rapidly right at the docks.

“Camera footage and public reports indicate that Spiderman is currently engaged in a fight with the Green Goblin at this location, Sir.”

Tony’s eyes narrowed. He hadn’t expected to be dealing with the Goblin this soon, but he was not about to let Harry fucking Osborn hurt his love any more. Feeding more power into his thrusters, he sped to the harbor.

-

Peter hadn’t managed to dodge the last bomb his former best friend had thrown completely, and was knocked out of the sky from the explosion. The noise and flash of it was hell on his enhanced senses, disorienting him as he fell to the ground, unable to catch himself with his webs.

The hard impact punched the breath out of him, and he felt his ribs crack.

Possibly broken, but he couldn’t worry about that right now, he needed all his concentration to be fixed on Harry if he wanted to win this.

Ignore the pain.

Danger!

He propped himself up and off just in time to avoid the knife aimed at his jugular, but not quick enough to escape it all together, as the blade sliced a small gash along his arm.

Since when does Harry use throwing knifes?!

“What’s the matter, Spiderman? A little on the slow side today?” Harry cackled above him, spinning around on his glider and readying himself for his next attack.

Harry was right, though. Their fight had dragged on too long already, with Peter having to lure his nemesis out to the docks to avoid civilian causalities. As the adrenaline that had kept him on his toes at first was ebbing away, the exhaustion of the last few days started catching up to the young hero anew. Even with the help of his spider-sense, Peter’s movements were starting to get sluggish.

Ignore it.

The number of hits he had taken was rising at a rapid count.

Ignore it.

The constant explosions from Harry’s bombs was playing havoc on his senses.

Ignore it.

“No funny little quips today, Spiderman? No ‘You don’t want to do this, Harry.’?”

His breaths came in harsh pants, he had no air to spare for words.

Danger!

A jump to the right saved him from the full force of another small bomb, but brought him closer to the water, and away from any buildings to climb or attach his webs to.

If there even was any left in his shooters.

Ignore it.

Harry’s mutated, twisted face grinned down at him. “Tired already, Pete? But we are just getting started!”

Danger! Danger! Danger!

This time it wasn’t just one, but five of the miniature bombs that the Goblin threw down at him. Peter let instincts and spidey-sense take control as his body weaved through the explosions. But it was too much.

There were too many. Too close.

He was too hurt. Too exhausted.

Ignore it!

He couldn’t.

DangerDangerDANGER!

Too slow.

The bomb detonated right at his feet, throwing him back through the air, weightless for an endless second, before he was swallowed up by the cold embrace of the ocean’s water.

Move. Move, dammit! Swim up! You still have a job to do! Fucking fight!

He tried. But his limbs felt cold and numb, and the water kept dragging him down.

I’m sorry.

Just as the darkness was starting to creep in around the edges, he heard some kind of big splash. He tried turning to the sound, but moving hurt. Everything hurt.

So this is it, then.

Just as they had constantly during the last six days, Peter’s thoughts turned to the man he loved.

I’m so sorry, Tony.

The last thing he saw before unconsciousness set in, was a pair of ice blue eyes.

_____________________________________________________________

Hui.

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frenchfrostpudding

  alanaaw88

[pi-cat000]

MSA time travel idea (part 36)

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, Vivi POV, 8, 9, 10, Lewis POV, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, Lance POV 18, 19, Lewis POV 2, 21 , 22, Vivi POV 2, 24, 25  Lewis POV 3,  Mystery POV , Vivi POV 3, 29, Lewis POV 4, 31, ViVi POV 4 , 33, 34, Lewis POV 5

Part 37: Here

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Content Warning: (chapters got some light descriptions of blood right out of the gate. So watch out for that.)

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Mystery POV:

Blood splatters, leaving a long trail which arcs in a circle around him. Mystery flings Lewis’s arm, now containing the cursed abomination, across the ground. It bounces twice, skidding to a stop several feet away. He bares his teeth, snarling, fanning out his tails so he occupies as much space as physically possible. It is a warning to anything that would dare challenge him. The forsaken creature twitches and spasms pathetically, helpless without a proper host. Only his sworn oath not to pursue holds Mystery back from ripping it into smaller chunks and burying it in the desert.

The disembodied limb flips itself upright and, at the centre of its palm, is one green eye marred with gold flecks. Lighting flashes accompanied by rolling thunder which amplifies his growls so they shake the ground as his anger grows. When he concentrates, he can feel water collecting in the clouds, the static in the air and the arid land, anticipating rain.  Mystery cannot channel the full might of the storm, that is beyond him, but he can still funnel some of its latent natural energy into the space around him. The air crackles.

Rightfully, the creature inhabiting Lewis’s arm immediately about-faces and scuttles off, disappearing behind a low-growing shrub. Oh, how he longs to give chase and punish it for threatening what is his.

“My…Mystery?”

Vivi’s voice pierces his rage, slicing it apart like a knife. Mystery tears his attention away from the challenger, looking over his shoulder. Vivi's eyes are wide, face pale, breath shallow and rapid. Lewis is unconscious, blood pooling under him. The human’s aura dims as his body fails, connection to the physical world weakening.  

“Help me.”

If there were ever a moment that Mystery had felt true shame, this would it. Hastily, Mystery spits the blood collecting at the back of his throat onto the concrete. It tastes like iron and broken promises, conjuring unpleasant memories. He is beside Vivi in one elongated jump, examining both Lewis and Arthur. Both are dying, Lewis faster than Arthur. In his attempt to save the human, he may have inadvertently hastened his death.

/I am here./ Mystery reassures even as he desperately sifts through several centuries worth of memories and experience for a solution. Healing others and repairing damage had never been skills under his preview. Healing was the domain of different, more benevolent, entities. Ask him to erect a protective ward or cast an illusion and he could do so in a heartbeat, but foxes weren’t healers.

Vivi is now breathing hard, glancing from where she is holding Arthur and over to Lewis, lying prone. Dying. 

No. Not good enough. Perhaps a spell to slow decay and put both humans into a stasis state would work. Once upon a time, he had held enough power to speed or slow the growth of whole rice fields, matching them to weather patterns. Acres upon acres grew or failed at his command. He hasn’t been able to call on that ability since his oath to the Yukino family replaced his oath to Inari. But…he knows the theory behind that sort of time-based magic, and even without divine help, he should be able to accomplish something similar on a smaller scale. It would just require personal sacrifice.

He glances back at his seven tails. The physical manifestation of his skill and experience. One tail for each human should do it. Two hundred years’ all up. Mystery has never willingly given one up, let alone two tails at once…but it would be more than adequate payment for the ritual he wants to perform. A spell to extend their lives by slowing decay. 

Why is he even hesitating?

/ I will save them./

Carefully, he reaches for the intricate web natural energy which makes up the living world, feeding in his own power. Behind him, his tails still, then sway in a very particular pattern, weaving a dome-like structure which tightens around Lewis and Arthur.

Time slows.

So focused is he on the task, that he barely hears the car pull up or see how the area around him lightens in its headlamps. It is not until Vivi speaks, voice scratchy, that he registers a second presence.

“Dad…”

Touma Yukino drops beside him, flustered yet determined. Mystery has never been gladder for the human’s presence. In this trance-like state, both Yukino’s glow a bright, fluorescent blue. They seem to be moving doubly fast now that Mystery has detached himself from the regular flow of time.

“You’re doing fine honey. Keep holding that down,” Touma says. More footsteps and louder panicked voices sound behind him.

“…heard gunshots? What’s happening?”

“I need the lights on.” Touma yells, “Quickly!”

The building’s lights flicker on and there is a low gasp and more commotion. Mystery closes his eyes and concentrates, attempting to block out the humans panicking and yelling.

“No…keep the girls inside…bring the medical kit.”

Alongside the yelling is the scent of fear, thick, almost overwhelming now Lewis’s parental figures have joined in assisting Touma.

“Lewis…calling the hospital… need an air-lift...only way…”

The sounds fade. All the chaos drops away becoming a soft silence.  Mystery inhales and exhales, opening his eyes to examine the faint transparent outlines of Arthur and Lewis’s auras, no longer weakening.

“I was beginning to think I would fade to nothing before I had this chance to talk.” 

The oddly familiar voice comes suddenly, causing circular wrinkles to form mid-air. Mystery’s eyes dart up, searching for the source.  The sound disperses, ripping away in all directions. He cannot move far while in the middle of this sort of ritual. If he is interrupted now, the consequences would be catastrophic.

“Over here.” The air shimmers and a second Kitsune, wearing a set of eye-glasses and sporting suspiciously familiar black and red fur, appears.  Judging by the human’s lack of reaction, Mystery is the only one to see it.

/This is a trick./ He growls, suspicious of the creature mirroring his appearance. /What is your business here?/

His snarled question is met with a dismissive tail wave. A single tail wave. This Kitsune only has one. “Only to give a warning, late as it may be.”

The other fox flickers, losing transparency, like it is not wholly there. The very act of speaking seems to be weakening it.

“In my timeline, between now and two years into the future, Lewis, Arthur and Vivi die. It was, in no small part, due to my inaction. With help, I sort to send Arthur’s soul along with this echo to act as a guide. I had hoped to avert the disaster. I thought my death would be payment enough for this transgression against the Natural Order. “

Mystery narrows his eyes. /Arthur’s aura./ He interrupts, /That was you. What did you do?/

“Mid-way through attempting to merge the older and younger soul I was interrupted. I am sorry.”

Before Mystery can snap another insult the other continues, “When I initiated the ritual someone or something intervened and I was trapped, helpless, watching history repeat itself. It is just as well that Arthur and Lewis’s fates are not solely reliant on my ability to act or everything would have all been for naught.” It looks somewhat reproachful now, fading so it is barely visible.

“Shiromori is coming and I fear that, in reversing time, I have put you all in greater danger. But ..." Now there is a clear note of hope in the other's voice, "at least I have managed to give this warning. Protect them and do not make the same mistakes I did.”

The echo disappears completely, leaving Mystery cold with fear.

.

.

When Mystery completes his stasis spell, he immediately shifts to his dog form. Even the small transformation leaves him wholly exhausted. He feels the fatigue in his bones, and in his head, fuzzy and distracting. Quickly, he staggers out of view, so he does not accidentally trip one of the many humans who arrive and begin to prepare Lewis and Arthur for transport. The loss of two tails, two hundred years’ worth of experience, is disorientating. It is like having his insides scooped out and replaced with empty space. His memories swim around, disjointed, as he attempts to stitch them together. He hopes he has not lost anything too important but only time would tell.

Uncomfortably woozy and lightheaded, his thoughts turn to the warning.

The other Kitsune had talked of an alternate future and oncoming danger. Fretfully, he scans the horizon.  All he sees are clouds and a wall of rain coming towards him from across the desert. The taint left behind by the demonic abomination is faint. Most likely, it is attempting to put as much distance between itself and Mystery before sunrise.  As it should. Mystery growls. There is one final flash of lightning and the downpour reaches him, falling in a thick sheet, drenching him in seconds. A wind picks up, turning the droplets into tiny needles.

Shiromori cannot have escaped her seal. It was guarded by the Yukino main family. Touma would have heard word of it breaking and informed him. Surely, this was a trick or a trap. No sane creature went against the Natural Order.

Mystery tries to shake the image of the faded Kitsune, painfully weak, its single tail curled over its paws. The creature had spoken like someone mourning the loss of a loved one. His kind are not meant to love. Mystery stares down at his dog paws and his vision blurs, water running into his eyes. He feels himself shiver, growing cold. This form had always been one of his weaker ones. A poor choice of disguise. He blinks the exhaustion away, staggering to his feet, having to brace all four paws.

Vivi. He should find Vivi. He owes her an apology and an explanation. Whatever otherworldly dangers may be approaching, it was useless to fret without properly examining Arthur first. He could start panicking once he had confirmed the existence of time-travel.

Slowly, he trots around to the door of the Pepper’s diner. Whereas moments prior the driveway had been alive with commotion, it is now empty. All that is left of the evening’s chaos are two puddles of blood being quickly washed away. Would Vivi still be here? She might have followed Lewis and Arthur to the hospital. He sniffs, and finding the rain too heavy, searches his connection to the Yukino family.

Vivi is, indeed, inside the diner. He scratches at the door, hoping to be let in.

Vivi answers, looking down at him with a blank expression. Then she turns and walks away. Silent. Mystery waits for a beat before following, shouldering the door closed to shut the rain behind him. The many times he has been in this building, it has always been awash with colour and activity. He could barely walk two steps without getting petted and pulled in various directions by Lewis’s younger relatives. Not that Mystery had minded, the younger ones always reminded him of when Vivi was small and would follow him around attempting to grab his tail. Concerned by the room’s unnatural stillness, he listens. Several feet away he can hear the mummer voices belonging to the Pepper patriarch and the three smaller humans.

Satisfied that the family seams safe, he continues into the next room. Vivi has moved to sit on the large family-sized couch. She is balled up in one corner, knees drawn to her chest. Before her, resting on the low coffee table, is a cup of flowery tea with steam slowly rising above it. Her clothes are clean, and her hair is damp, smelling of soap and shampoo. From his position of the floor, in spite of the rooms low lighting, Mystery can make out how the skin on her hands and face is red like she’s scrubbed them a little too hard.

/Arthur and Lewis?/ Mystery asks, because, after setting his spell in motion, he had been too tired to see its aftermath.

“A helicopter picked them up. Dad and Lew’s mom are on their way to the hospital. Apparently, I need to stay here and ‘get some rest.’” Vivi falls silent after a sarcastic imitation of what Mystery thinks is Touma. Rain pelts against the window, rattling the glass, and wind whistles around the building.  

He sighs, sits, and waits. There was nothing more for him to do. Last he had seen, both Lewis and Arthur were stable enough physically. They should live with proper care. 

Vivi is the one to break the elongated silence, “That demon, the body snatcher, is it…”

/Gone./

“It’s not in Lewis?”

/No. I removed and sealed it to the best of my ability. It will not be possessing anything for a long while./

“I see.”

Vivi falls silent and glares at him, eyes accusatory. Tentatively, he tries wagging his tail. He knows it is far past too late to continue the dog act, but Vivi always loved when he wagged his tail. A small part of him hopes it will make her smile.

“You lied.”

Mystery winces.

“All this time. You were lying. You were all lying. Dad, gran….did mom know?”

/She was aware, yes./

Her expression darkens, stricken. “Why? I thought dad was just a paranoid stick in the mud. Maybe, if you’d told me the truth, I could have actually been useful.”

/I believe the reasoning was that you were safer not knowing./

“Well, congratulations you failed.” Vivi stands, stomping out of the room and to the kitchen sink, dumping out her tea. She paces back and forth for a minute before turning to the door.

/Where are you going?/

“I’m not waiting here. I'm driving to Milton...I'll sit outside the emergency room all night if I have to.”

/It is raining./ He points out helplessly, following on her heels as she picks up a jacket which is coloured purple and several sizes too large.

She spins and glares again, “Does this look like the face of someone who cares?"

Mystery hesitates, pausing to watch her pack a bag and have a brief discussion with the elder Pepper. The short man escorts Vivi to the door, visibly tied and worried, giving Mystery an expression of acute unease. The faint smell of fear collects around him.

“Are you coming or what. It’s a forty-minute drive. Plenty of time for you to start explaining things.” Vivi orders, facing away, freezing at the door, silhouetted in the frame.

Mystery skirts in close. Despite her brash words of action, Vivi remains still, eyes fixed on the pavement just visible through the rain. The blood from earlier has all but washed away, soaking into the ground. The faint red streaks remaining have Vivi transfixed. Tears are dripping down her face, falling in time with the rain. Her hands tighten on the jacket. Mystery watches and aches. Many myths and stories caution against becoming too attached to humans. Mystery thinks of his failure to save Arthur, and the forced decision to pick Lewis instead. His inaction had almost killed them both, and it should not have affected him as much as it has. He can still feel the echo of rage and fear. A decade ago, he would have simply chosen the route with the greatest chance of success and thought of it no further.

Now, all he wants to do is stop Vivi’s crying.

/I am sorry./

.

NOTE: Mystery joins the angst party. The next part is either going to be a Lewis or Arthur POV. Since they’re interchangeable, which would people rather read first? 

ALSO:  I realised as I was editing. I accentually cut the foreshadowing for echo-Mystery out for some reason. It was supposed to be in part 22  but I think that it was before I decided to add several Mystery POVs to the fic so it wouldn’t have made much sense back then.  Might add it back in at some point. I should really keep better plot notes. 

Part 37: here

[houseki-no-suffering]

summary: Cinnaphos iwanttobelieve, 1960s AU, slow burn. Unhurried burn. We stopped for a ten-minute break and now it’s been 5 years burn. but hey, i can see a spark? a tiny little spark??

hello fellow deceased rock enthusiasts. ‘tis i, your friendly local ghost, here to deliver... FLUFF! 

okay, not quite but kinda. cute things. nice things. pretty things. take this, chapter 77  so, thanks @lapishead​ for betaeing this and enjoy!

After Diamond left, Phos excused themselves as well, saving Cinnabar from the awkwardness of being the one to end the conversation. If it were up to them, they’d probably never leave that table continuing to ruminate on possible questions to ask Phos-─ half waiting to muster enough courage to mumble them out loud and half-expecting Phos to read Cinnabar’s thoughts and answer them by themselves.

Cinnabar’s mind moved back and forth over the following days, relentlessly, in an effort to remember exact words and gestures, recall inflections and posture of a subtlety that they might have missed. Their mind supplied unhelpful distortions where it could find no evidence, until Cinnabar’s social performance had become a miserable, offensive attempt.

Their words had been too strong or not strong at all, harsh when they should have been soft, weak where they should have been asserting. Did they look at Phos too much or too little? Did they show the correct amount of empathy? Had they been sufficiently sorry, but still resentful enough to show Phos that they had not been forgiven simply because Antarcticite passed away? And what did Dia get out of Cinnabar’s conversation with Phos? What did they think, what could they infer? What did Cinnabar want Diamond to infer?

Thousands of small, insignificant thoughts gnawed each at Cinnabar’s self with tiny, unpainful bites. And yet, the sum of all of those bites was eating away Cinnabar’s resolution from the inside, tearing apart the handful of certainties that Cinnabar had left. They had spent five years trying to hate both Phos and Antarcticite, and it had all been for nothing. It made Cinnabar feel like the most pathetic of assholes.

Was it okay to hope that Phos would open up about Antarc and about their past with Cinnabar? Or would this make Cinnabar a pushover? Or a fake friend who was only curious about the mystery that surrounded Phos? They wished they could help, even after everything, but they didn’t know if it was their place to.

Following their thread of thoughts, Cinnabar had almost reached the gate of the institute. A small crowd of family and acquaintances was gathered in front of the building, all people that Euclase had skillfully assembled to help in the preparations for Bort’s party. Cinnabar noticed that most of them had come with bags and groceries, which only added the anxiety of being empty-handed to Cinnabar’s trail of worries.

A few heads nodded as they spotted Cinnabar approaching, waving them good-morning. Cinnabar held their attention only until they recognized Diamond’s face, next to Jade, then they cast their gaze to the ground and made their way toward them quickly, holding their breath as they skirted through the crowd.  

“Is it true? Phos is really coming?” Jade greeted them. Diamond could easily have answered their question and Cinnabar kept wondering why other people thought of Cinnabar as the number one Phos-facts’ source. They brushed a lock of hair behind their ear, avoiding Jade’s eyes.

“Mhm,” they nodded, reminding themselves to unclench their jaw.

“Wow. It’s been... wow, it’s been so long.”

“Isn’t it great?” Diamond’s enthusiasm still gave no signs of wavering.

“Ugh, to be honest they made such a mess last time. My back still hurts remembering all the tables I had to clean up.”

“I’m pretty sure we all helped,” Euclase joined the conversation, resting their hand on Jade’s shoulder. They were wearing a floral shawl wrapped around their head, holding their thick, distinctive bunch of keys in their other hand. They graced Cinnabar and Diamond with a smile and greeted everyone else with pride.

As Euclase walked to the gate and opened it with the confidence that comes from habit, Cinnabar felt as if their body was shrinking under the weight of everyone’s gazes and expectations.

The institute was calling them back, with its comfortable, prepacked routines. A trail of identical days and experiences still tied tightly around Cinnabar’s wrists like old ropes. Too soft to be a chain, they were like lax, comfortable shackles, made so that it would be easy to shake them off, then feel guilty about leaving them behind.

As Cinnabar crossed the rusted threshold to the small courtyard, they could feel the gaze of the dormitories looming over them. A three-story building with tidy, squared windows and severe walls of grey-blue plaster. With each step, Cinnabar was walking deeper in a limbo of memories, in a house that used to be home and that was urging them back with fond resentment. It reminded Cinnabar that they had no place to be here today. They had left, much like Phos, but the institute could welcome them back mercifully, Cinnabar only needed bow their head low enough.

The bushes of sleeping hydrangea, the dull, tiled path to the gym, the soft chitchat of other people, intermingled with Euclase’s crystalline laugh, were a foggy, distant echo of regrets. Cinnabar noticed that they had been twisting and scratching their fingers only when they felt Diamond’s hand on their shoulder, a warm presence that the institute’s aura would quickly swallow.

“Let’s go to the gym,” Diamond offered and Cinnabar nodded out of reflex.

As they ran their eyes around, they noticed that half of the people had already disappeared; Euclase had probably recruited them for kitchen duty.    

The largest room in the complex, the gym had long since been consecrated the chosen location for parties and gatherings. It was among the oldest buildings in town, a remnant of the Regime, and the only part of the institute that Sensei didn’t build. Its high ceilings were decorated with ancient flakes of dust and spider webs, weaved when the war broke out, when the place had been converted in a temporary refuge for the wounded.

Fragments of that austerity clung to the thick walls of the gym, like in the way the room would always be cold, even when bursting with activity. This was the case now, as Cinnabar could hear voices and directions bouncing off the walls of the gym in echoes that reverberated through the entire institute. Even if the spider webs had long been accepted as integral part of the building, it didn’t mean that the floor and windows weren’t in need of cleaning.

Yet, most of the noise was coming from the metallic choir of chairs and tables being picked up and arranged in symmetric compositions. Sphene was in charge of directing this loud orchestra while Jade, sleeved rolled up and hair tied in a ponytail, took on themselves most of the heavy job, lifting and moving around pieces of furniture as Sphene saw fit.

As the chilly humidity of the gym clung to Cinnabar’s coat, they realized that they had been hanging around like a misplaced piece of furniture, out of synch with the frantic rhythm of the people around them. It was all too familiar.

Diamond took hold of Cinnabar’s arm just as the umpteenth existential crisis climbed its way up Cinnabar’s consciousness.

“Geez, look at the mess those tiles are. Will you help me fetch a broom and a rag? How can Sphene hope to arrange the tables like this? Did they even clean them? I’d never place a cake on top of them, no no, Bort’s gonna hate it.”

Mixing complaints with detailed plans about the party and how they were going to help, Diamond dragged a dazed Cinnabar down the high-ceilinged corridors of the dormitories, the echoes of their shoes on the tiled floor getting lost in the cacophony of voices and activities. Cinnabar was wracking their mind to come up with something they could help with. Something quiet and that wouldn’t be physically demanding and that they could preferably do alone and unsupervised.

Dia was already offering a terrified Cinnabar a broom when, out of desperation, Cinnabar thought of telling them they’d help Red Beryl with the decorations. No amount of glue and glitter in their hair would be worse than have everyone judge them creeping their way back into the group. Or be forced to clean. Yet, Euclase’s voice cut them off their plans.

“Shinsha, can you help us with the potatoes?”

“Wha-“

“Aw, looks like someone needs you more than me,” Dia complained, “I’m gonna go ask Benito, I think I saw them around. See you, dear,” and, waving a goodbye, Diamond ran back to the gym, leaving their friend to drag their way into the kitchen.

The clanging of pots and pans filled the room, just like the smell of tomatoes and onions would do in a couple of hours. The first wafts of warm air were raising from the old stove in wood-scented, invisible spirals, a welcomed change from the cold of the gym.

With small steps, Cinnabar walked into the kitchen, careful not to cross anyone’s gaze, and waited for Euclase to notice their presence. At least they would give Cinnabar’s hands something else to do than twisting and scratching.

“Hey,” and of course the first person to notice Cinnabar would be Phosphophyllite.

They were carrying a huge pot in their arms, shoulders curved under the weight, and if Cinnabar had not been so uselessly surprised, they’d offer some help.

“Oh, Shinsha, here you are,” Euclase finally made their appearance. They put their hand on Phos’ shoulder, in a possessive gesture that the height difference between them made funny. “Hope you’re doing well, dear. We really need a couple more hands to peel and cut the potatoes, Phos is already taking care of the sweets, aren’t you dear?”

“Well, I, uh, I haven’t done anything yet.”

Euclase chuckled.

“Then let’s get to work. I’ll bring you the knives.”

Cinnabar went to pick up a box of potatoes, their eyes following Phos as the younger one put down the pot and began to gather the ingredients to make a dough.

Euclase had turned on the radio and they were humming a soft tune as they worked and Zircon and Morga had joined them. Cinnabar still felt like an off-key chord, so they kept their mouth shut, but they nonetheless dragged the potatoes to the same table Phos was working at. As they sat down, they noticed that Euclase had placed the knives exactly there, as if they had known.

Phos was eerily silent. They weren’t singing, they weren’t focusing on anything else that wasn’t the dough, their eyes forcefully cast downwards, as if the whole kitchen could catch on fire if they barely crossed Cinnabar’s gaze.

Phos’ arms were still clothed and now they were white up to their elbow, sticky pieces of dough and egg dangling from the fabric of their shirt. Yet, as nervous as they looked, Phos’ hands were stirring the mixture with energetic confidence, in smooth, precise motions. It was hypnotic almost, completely different from the way Phos used to be and from the way Cinnabar still was, Cinnabar realized eyeing the potato they had been torturing for five minutes.

“You’re good,” they mumbled, more out of fairness than to break the ice.

Phos looked struck.

“Oh, thanks. It’s nothing, really.”

“When did you learn?”

Phos shrugged.

“Practice, I guess.”

“Oh.”

“It’s just relaxing.”

Phos’ cheeks dimpled in a soft smile, which Cinnabar mimicked. Somehow, the silence that followed wasn’t as heavy as usual.

An hour and no more than two potatoes later, the first batch of cookies was done and Cinnabar, despite the high levels of social activity, was still alive.

The kitchen’s air had become a bizarre concoction of sweet and sour smells that spanned from the tomato sauce still on the stove to the umpteenth jam tart.

Cinnabar wasn’t sure they liked the smell, they thought as they munched on a milk cookie, but it was warm and not unpleasant. They even smiled in Zircon’s general direction as a sign of appreciation, portioning the sweet in impossibly small bites just to keep their mind occupied.

Euclase on the other hand was ecstatic. They looked like they were floating rather than walking, their feet never resting on the same spot more than a couple of seconds. Like an experienced conductor, they would direct everyone’s activities until they flew together in seamless harmony.

Even when they left the kitchen to supervise those in gym, Euclase’s presence never really left the room. Maybe it was in the way the music coming from the radio still filled the bubbles of silences that arose when Nepti or little Morga had nothing more to say. Maybe it was in the way Zircon’s attitude mimicked Euc’s perfectly. Cinnabar reprimanded themselves for never noticing: Zircon would even put their hands on their hips with the same constructed gentleness of Euclase.

Small talk soon filled the room with its unobtrusive presence. Like Cinnabar had expected, most of the questions and the comments were directed at Phos and Phos dodged them all with artistry. Cinnabar wondered if the others knew about Antarc or how much Euclase had filled them in on Phos’ past. Judging by the number of sheepish smiles and whispered comments, everyone knew. It was the same brand of fakeness that Cinnabar had been trying to run away from.

It made Cinnabar’s heart sink, especially when they looked back at Phos and absorbed the way their hands and eyes would be focused on work, as if they didn’t care, as if other people could never reach them through the bubble that they had created for themselves. Phos must know too that they were the talk of town and somehow they had accepted it with a smile.

Rolling down the sleeves of their flowered chemise, Euclase waltzed back inside the kitchen. Their eyes gleamed with a new question for Phosphophyllite.

“Oh, dear,” they began, “I can’t begin to imagine what we’d have done today without you. You’re such a dear, you should really come by more often. Actually, why don’t we set up your room again? I’m sure everyone’ll be so happy to have you back.”

From their position right in front of Phos, Cinnabar could notice the way Phos’ hands tightened around their spoon.

“Oh, that’s so… nice, thanks. I’ll think about it.”

“Which reminds me,” Euc ventured further, coming closer, “you still haven’t told us where you’re staying.”

Cinnabar’s eyes darted to Phos’ face, along with everyone else’s. Cinnabar would lie if they didn’t admit their own curiosity, but once again Phos didn’t answer, which left Euclase to soften the edges of a heavy silence with more words.

“I’m just worried,” they said holding a hand to their chest, “are you okay? Do you need anything? Is there anything we can do for you?”

This time, Phos offered Euclase one of those soft, distant smiles Cinnabar was becoming used to.

“I’m fine,” they said.

Euclase placed their hand on top of Phos’ shoulder, like they had done a few hours ago.

“We’re here for you, okay? I just want you to know that. We’ll always be here for you.”

A chorus of soft approvals and smiles seconded Euc’s words and Cinnabar thought that Phos looked relieved for the smallest second.

Phos nodded, smiling with more conviction than before.

“Thanks, guys,” they said.

One potato at a time, everyone retired. Some went back to their rooms in the dorms, others went back home or just around town, to spend some more time together. Only Euclase, Jade and Diamond lingered to tidy up. When Phos insisted to help, they shushed them off and shoved them out of the building in a chorus of polite pleasantries.

Cinnabar had no idea why they had waited until Phos was leaving to come back home. Sometime between Dia’s cleaning frenzy and Euc’s speech, they must have elected Phos as their designated buddy to cling onto.

The sky had darkened to a gloomy blue and the air was chilly. It pricked at Cinnabar’s nose like mint, humid and fresh like the season that had just begun. Cinnabar breathed in deeply, reveling in the fact that they were still alive, that their clothes would smell of onion for days, and that it was okay. To their surprise, they realized that they weren’t in a bad mood.

Phos was shoving their hands inside their coat with affected emphasis, as if noticing just now that Cinnabar and them were alone together. They had the eyes of a lost puppy, which was relatable, and they followed Cinnabar in silence as they made their way past the gate with slow, quiet steps.

The first stars were peeping through a soft curtain of clouds and the metal of the gate was a comfortable presence behind Cinnabar’s back. It was like the institute had spit them out, refusing them but also letting them go, free to live as they pleased.

Phos’ goodbye interrupted their train of thoughts.

“Thanks for coming,” Phos said, “I’m sorry I made you but it was… nice. I mean, I had fun and I hope you didn’t hate it and you’re not too angry with me.”

“’twas okay,” Cinnabar mumbled.

Phos raised their shoulders sheepishly.

“That’s good then, I’m happy,” they smiled. “I should be going, I’ll leave you be.”

Cinnabar looked at them, then at the pebbles that crowded the sidewalk behind Phos and that had suddenly acquired incredibly interesting shapes and colors. Rather than exhausted, Cinnabar found out that the day had made them braver. They shoved their hands inside their pockets, tightening their fists.

“Walk me home?” they said.

[bazingaholmes98]

Prompt: Tony finds out Harley didn’t survive the Snap. 

A/N: Well hello there my marvel lovelies i felt like feeling sad, so here ya go. This is my first attempt and Tony so please, please, PLEASE let me know how I could improve this and in my defense I’m hella sleepy to proof- read this but I need the angst out of my system ;-;

@afuckingshipper @my-babies-are-ash Cause y’all wanted to be sad with me :)))

Dull voices buzzed around him, and gentle pats rained on his back. At some point, he registered Pepper hurling abuse at him, as she clawed at his ripped jacket, when a yelp informed him that her hands had found the deep gash in his side.

Tony didn’t see what the fuss what about though. Another corpse to the corpse pile - humanity had borne through worse and come out okay. Then why did this feel shittier than all those?

Oh, that’s right. Cause you could have stopped this. Ha.

Tony’s mind spun out of control as he collapsed onto some fine linen, the pain on his side slowly devolving into a dull throb, as a reassuring voice above him announced that the nanites will heal his innards in no time.  Tony thanked the voice and grabbed at his nanite housing unit on his chest, asking for a computer to reprogram it.

He could see Pepper snarl at him from somewhere and Nebula’s beady eyes consider the red head expanding before her in anger. Tony sighed at Pepper. Please, he willed his eyes to say, not now. Baby please not now.

Pepper seemed to understand, but her anger was too profound, too volcanic to muster sympathy, as she stalked out of the room asking for Happy to commandeer for his idiot boss a god forsaken laptop. Tony felt his heart sink - he wanted to run after her, hug her, promise her that he would never leave like that, even if it mean that another half of the Universe was going to dust.

Then why didn’t he? Why did he just readjust his back rest to receive the laptop that Happy was handing him?

“What are you doing?” Nebula asked softly from the shadows, the hood covering her blue visage. Everyone seemed to be taking her presence pretty lightly. And why wouldn’t they - everyone had other shit to care about. And apparently they all needed Tony’s attention, he observed as his phone logs and emails seemed to be blowing out of control.

“Friday get rid of this drivel,” he raised his head to face Nebula, as he slowly unhooked the nanite compartment from his chest, “Just taking stock. Seeing what we have lost. The world’s in chaos outside, and we can’t…” the words seemed to stick in Tony’s throat. What could they do? They couldn’t bring them back? It was the only way, Tony… bullshit Stephen and you know it, Tony’s brain seemed to be shouting. There is no way this is how they come on top. Not like this.

He snapped his mouth shut and quickly attached a cable to the unit and began to furiously type away - the nanites started to weave and shape themselves into his HUD. His brain was racing at a million miles per hour, the incomplete sentence hanging over his heart like a guillotine.

We can’t what Tony? Come on you vivacious prick can’t you complete a goddamn thought without spiralling into… there we go, go on panic you stupid, stupid fuck…

Tony starting to hyperventilate, as deep breaths pained his side. Nebula’s dark eyes remained fixed on the human, her deepening sadness masked effectively. She could feel the words in his mouth, stuck there because of denial. “They’re not coming back. So we gotta think of something yeah?” she finished flatly.

Tony nodded and continued typing away as the Iron Man mask slowly took shape on the hospital bed. He stared at the mask’s blank eyes.

The suit and I are one.

Prophetic. I feel just about as empty as this tin can.

“They aren’t coming back” Tony repeated blankly. Nothing could bring back the dead, especially those that were literally already dust. So why was he quickly rapping away at the laptop keyboard, trying to get Friday online?

It was like that time he was in his garage, in his car, sifting passionately through old reports about Vanko, trying to find out more about his assailant, and as the webs lifted, he remembered feeling an uneasy peace.

He could do with a little peace, however intangible and ridiculous that might sound. As if on cue, the eyes lit up with the familiar blue, and Tony slipped the mask on his head.

“Good to see you again, Boss.” Friday’s cool voice declared as soon as visor hissed in place. “Based on the reports and the events of the last month, I had estimated your safe arrival to be nearly 0.1%”

“Missed you too Friday,” Tony thought, as he was painfully reminded of JARVIS. “Alright what’ve we got?”

“It’s not good, boss.” Friday said, sounding tentative, “Governments are in disarray, they’ve been shutting borders left and right, nuclear threat is at an all-time high, even though Wakanda tried to....”

“What about SHIELD? Fury should’ve been…” A cold icy realisation began to explode throughout Tony’s abdomen, and suddenly he felt like he wanted to vomit. Director Fury never seemed like the kind of guy who could just blink out of existence - Tony had always imagined that he would go out in an explosion, Viking Style, with the rain of heaven shining off his bald head. A beacon of hope to those who deemed themselves irredeemable.

So why didn’t he mourn him?

“He’s dead.” Friday said confirming his worst fear.

“Compile a list of my contacts who are alive. I need to know who we can get on right now.”

The list was small, pathetically small. Nat, Steve, Bruce, Thor, and Clint were alive. He raced his eyes across the list, looking for other potential additions to a team, trying to ignore the glaring loss of a Peter Parker on that list or the way his heart dropped like a turbulent plane as his eyes grazed the words “May Parker”. Not even that Lang dude seemed to be alive, or Pym, or his daughter, or…

“Friday,” Tony whispered, “Friday, where’s Sam Wilson?”

“Deceased, boss.”

“T’Challa?”

“Dead.”

“Sergeant Barnes?”

“Dead.”

“All right fuck it, give me all the dead folks.” Tony groaned, his stomach flipping and somersaulting unpleasantly. The list was frighteningly large.

“Maria Hill.” He croaked.

“Dead.”

“Wanda? The Maximoff kid?”

“Dead.”

A child. That pompous shit Steve had said so himself, she was just a child. She didn’t deserve this, did she? If only he had listened - What good did... ah, fuck it never mind. He was too tired to think about lost causes.

The face of a young boy wrapped in a poncho suddenly popped into his head, and before he could stop himself he blurted.

“Harley. Harley Keener, Teness-”

“Dead.”

Nebula gasped at the speed with which Tony hurled his mask off his face, a gust of air exiting his already empty lungs, as he collapsed back into the bed, his face a sunken shell. The light twinkle that nebula had seen return when they had landed on Earth faded - to Nebula, Tony’s eyes were like the stars snuffed out by violent black holes, a black hazy void of dreams wisping about his doleful round eyes.

Just a child. 

“Tony?” Nebula noticed a dark man wobbling into the threshold, his gaze concernedly surveying the broken man on the bed. He seemed friendly enough, but Nebula inched closer to the bed, unsure of whether her intent was to protect Tony from the intruder, or Tony from the all-consuming darkness growing within his heart.

Tony continued to stare blankly at the wall ahead of him, as Rhodey stepped gingerly over to his friend. Relief washed over him when he saw Tony alive and well - watching Bucky disappear in front of Steve had made him paranoid for the months that he waited to hear from Tony again. It made him mad - it was like Afghanistan all over again. But seeing Tony’s expression - he recognised it from that time Rohdey had come to shout at him about Monaco in the garage. It was one of utter defeat. The face of the man free-falling out of control - his eyes were tinted with red, his face a bruised, battered mess. A man who had nothing more to lose, and would like nothing to change that state of affairs, thank you very much.

“Tony,” Rhodey said softly, his arm grabbing Tony’s shrunken form. Tony’s lip twitched and Rhodey tried hard not to hug him in the tightest hug he could manage and tried to put a smile on for his best friend. “Yeah man, that was some Afghanistan type shit. How many times have I gotta tell you that doughnuts ain’t good for you?” he chuckled, his eyes constantly on the lookout for any sign that he might collapse.

Tony managed a smile, as he grabbed Rhodey’s forearms and gave them a little squeeze as if trying to put all unsaid feelings into that little gesture. He was truly glad that his best friend was alive. But that solace quickly gave way to the image of Harley’s cold form wrapped in a poncho seared into his mind. That image slowly dissolved to dust in front of him, like Peter, like Quill, like fucking Strange. The smile slipped off his face.

He wanted to cry but no tears came. His brain continued to whir and click - it felt like shit, trying to get Friday back online, ignoring Pepper, hunting for those alive to form a team or a plan or something… it hurt cause that’s what always happened when Tony tried to feel hopeful. He would just end up hurting himself or someone he loved.

Tony wished to God that Stephen was right. Tony wished that he could find hope in Stephen’s affirmation that this was the one plan that would succeed. Tony wished that he could continue fighting, continue saving that little spark of hope that seemed to reside in some gold titanium armour within his body.

But for now, he was all out of wishing and lungs seemed to be getting even more airless than usual. Faces of the dead swam into his vision - people he had failed. The unlucky ones hand picked by the lottery of the Universe. 

“I had estimated your safe arrival to be nearly 0.1%” 

Funny how his luck seemed to be work in the worst possible way. The Universe seemed to be running his life in an entirely different casino - a casino where every chip was rigged to screw you over.

“So you’re just going to leave me here, like my dad?”

“I’m sorry.”

He was breathing heavy, his brain spacing out as Rhodey’s arm caught his slipping form into a hug. His eyes were screwed shut as his heart hammered against his chest, a little voice in his head crying out desperately

“Oh God, What do I do? What do I do?”

But while there was a comforting voice at the other end of the line in Tennessee, here it was just Rhodey’s cries for a doctor and his own relentless sobbing.

[creepingsharia]

The Muslim Brotherhood’s Twitter Deception

Posted on November 19, 2011

via The Muslim Brotherhood Takes Twitter – By Lauren E. Bohn | Foreign Policy.

…

“Miriam” (she prefers to use a pseudonym, for “security reasons”) is one of the admins of @Ikhwanweb, the official English-language Twitter page for Egypt’s Muslim Brotherhood, one of the most prominent Islamist organizations in the world. Ikhwanweb, the Muslim Brotherhood’s official English website, started the twitter account @Ikhwanweb back in 2009. For years, the account was a robotic-curated Twitter feed which did little more than link to the website’s posts. But Miriam has recently helped transform the account into a virtual coliseum for some of Egypt’s most heated debates.

For the last few weeks, @Ikhwanweb has been fastidiously engaging journalists (“You got the schedule for our daily rallies, right?”), critics (“We have a lot more important things to focus on and an election to win,” in response to a flurry of questions regarding their funding) and curious lay-tweeps alike (“Check chapter 4 of our party platform for our position, the economy section at this link“). Their goal? “To spread the truth,” they say, and engage with an English-speaking audience and liberals who wouldn’t otherwise interact with them. But their critics accuse them instead of presenting a falsely forthcoming English-language front that masks their true political intentions.

“We’re tweeting to humanize the Brotherhood and correct misconceptions,” Miriam says. “We’re not this big, scary terrorist organization.” The social media enthusiast grew up with the long-banned Muslim Brotherhood. Her parents are something of Brotherhood stalwarts — her mother, a journalism professor, is running for parliament in an affluent Cairo suburb. But she’s also very much a digital native, who came of age alongside the activist generation made famous by January’s uprising. “There are so many people in the Brotherhood like me, who are young, educated, speak many languages, travel,” she explains. “I’m not an anomaly, but everyone has the wrong idea about us.”

Miriam’s partner-in-tweeting Hazem Malky, 36 — a self-described “certified Twitter addict” who previously tweeted prolifically at @hazemmalky publicly, but recently locked his account to avoid “hate-tweets” — is an editor at Ikhwanweb and medical doctor by training. Currently based in New York, he also prefers to use a pseudonym, citing worries over “Zionist elements” and the United States government. He talks a mile a minute with a vaguely Brooklyn drawl, adroitly weaving arguments together with an easy mix of American vernacular and Classic Arabic. He says he tweets from his iPhone on the road, at the dinner table, even in his sleep. “Actually,” he concedes, “it’s sort of pathetic.”

In part, their turn to Twitter reflects a broader need for the Muslim Brotherhood to engage with and reassure Egyptians and the West. The Brotherhood has been banned since 1954 and long held down by autocratic regimes. However, their recently established political arm, the Freedom and Justice Party, seems likely to have the upper hand in upcoming parliamentary elections. After twenty-four protesters, mostly Coptic Christians, were killed outside Egypt’s State TV building, Maspiro, in early October, sectarian tensions ran high. Malky said it was important for the Brotherhood to use Twitter more aggressively to respond to those concerns. “Many were implicating us, saying we had a special deal with the military,” he says over Skype, blaming both Egyptian state and independent media for habitually bashing Islamists. “But we’re used to fighting back and this is just a new frontier. We know we won’t change everyone’s mind in a few months, but we’re using every channel we can to correct and inform.”

Malky and Miriam repeatedly emphasize that the buffed up Twitter feed isn’t a top-down decision from the Brotherhood’s notoriously stringent and webbed hierarchy, but rather an internal administrative decision made by Ikwhanweb’s editorial team who say they have full control in managing the website without Muslim Brotherhood “interference.” Their tweets are not vetted, but do represent the official position of the Brotherhood — a potentially dangerous combination for any political organization. Still, they say Brotherhood big-wigs, like Khairat El-Shater, known not only as the organizational brains behind Ikhwanweb, but the most important power broker of today’s Brotherhood, “actively encourages” their online efforts.

The revamping of their Twitter feed into an instant resource hub isn’t the Brotherhood’s first attempt at establishing a vast digital footprint. In addition to Ikwhanweb and Ikwhanonline, the Brotherhood’s media extends to an extensive network of portals like Ikhwanbook, Ikhwanwtube, Ikhwanwiki, Islamophobia, and Ikhwanscope. With plans to expand the unit to cover parliamentary, and later presidential, elections throughout the country, Ikhwanweb’s team of self-proclaimed “media geeks” ranges from 15-20 executives, editors, reporters, translators, and technicians. And they plan to soon share a large new office space with their Arabic counterpart Ikhwanonline.

…

Ed Husain, senior fellow at the Council on Foreign Relations, has been tweet-spatting daily with @Ikhwanweb after he ran a piece on his CFR blog “Is the Muslim Brotherhood Bribing Voters in Egypt?” Ikwhanweb promptly issued a response, to which Husain then responded. Husain calls Malky an archetypal spin-doctor, playing a game on Twitter from New York, far from the Egyptian streets.

“They put forward these people who are fluent in English, can argue well, and produce really nice quotes, but they’re not representative,” Husain argues. “The Brotherhood’s backbone is deeply conservative. They’re playing a deceitful and dangerous game.”

Yep. And Twitter conversations suggest many links between the Muslim Brotherhood, pro-Hamas Electronic Intifada and the Center for American Progress, etc. Coincidence they all know each other and parrot the same Sharia Lobby rhetoric?

Ali Abunimah ✔ @AliAbunimah  · Oct 21, 2011

If this were in a Muslim country…: Women removed from advertising billboards by occupation authorities in Jerusalem http://www.haaretz.com/print-edition/news/women-noticeably-absent-from-jerusalem-ads-1.391157 …

Ikhwanweb ✔ @Ikhwanweb

@avinunu yup! Same thing happened when they removed #HilaryClinton pic from #whiteHouse photo with Obama. Mainstream media was silent

4:41 PM - 21 Oct 2011 Twitter Ads info and privacy

See Ikhwanweb's other Tweets

Matt Duss ✔ @mattduss

RT @avinunu: Gaddafi speaking live from his unfinished basement. As soon as he's done crushing the revolt, he's turning it into a rec room.

3:55 PM - 22 Feb 2011 Twitter Ads info and privacy

See Matt Duss's other Tweets

Related:

Muslim terrorist group Hamas on Twitter, Facebook, Youtube

From 2010: Muslim Brotherhood launches new wiki, social media sites

[squiddybeifong]

Bittersweet

Day Five of the Azula Ship Challenge

Pairing: Tophzula

Notes (on chronology) in tags

--

Red rimmed eyes stared unflinchingly at the guard as he entered. The armored man walked calmly around her, loosening her chains and leaving just enough space for her to move around. She observed the sliver of his neck that was left exposed and felt her fingertips twitch, trying to ignite a light that couldn’t be lit.

He noticed her staring and squared his shoulders, quickly depositing a tray on the grimy tile in front of her. Noodles, tea, sliced komodo-rhino sausage, boiled cabbage. The prison’s chef even left her two of the kitchen staff's sweet buns.

Flicking her sight up, the prisoner couldn't help but feel her eyes drawn to the man again. The corners of her mouth tilted down as she watched his stance, observing the nearly imperceptibly nervous shifting of his heels. She suppressed the instinct to snort. Pathetic. But then again, he was on prisoner duty, so he couldn't have been worthy of being called one of the fire nation's best. Still training her attention on him, she watched his jaw shift for just a moment before he spoke, his voice booming in the silence of her cell, “Here you are, Princess. Enjoy your lunch.”

Azula barked out a harsh laugh. Princess? What was she the princess of? The only things under her command were the circumstances that imprisoned her: her honorless defeat of an Agni Kai (against Zuko no less!), her crumbled sanity, the fluttering shreds of her dignity, left only through her royal blood. She ruled the heavy chains that bit into her wrists, the unkempt, stringy strands of uneven hair that covered her face, the horrible throb between her ears that lasted for weeks on end every time that waterbending peasant attempted to heal her mind, the short condescending visits of her oh so dear brother. Yes, she certainly was a princess, wasn't she?

She kept cackling as he left the room, the thud! of the door slamming shut drowning out her voice. The brunette gradually fell quiet, still letting breathy little giggles escape her mouth at the humiliation of it all. The back of her throat burned, cracking and dry as she tried to wet her lips.

She tilted a bit under her own weight as the ground trembled. It was a tiny shake, as subtle as a hushed breath, but Azula felt it nonetheless.

She knew what it meant, of course. The earth’s quiet jolts didn’t surprise her as it did the first time.

Against her better judgement a wry smile overcame her lips. She should have moved to position herself in some menacing stance. She should have turned away from the eastmost wall, where her visitor would appear. She should have grabbed the tray and angled herself the best she could, poised to beat their heads in the moment they appeared. She should have forced her weary features into a sneer. A wicked twist of her lips that would strike the deepest chamber of the heart of whoever could witness her glare.  

Whether they could see it or not.

But she didn’t even attempt to make herself more intimidating. She simply sat up, straightening her back and rolling her shoulders.

A moment later the ground opened up and a figure plopped out. Without a moment’s hesitation they sauntered in front of her, easily bending the metal off her wrists with a simple flick of one small hand. Azula watched as Toph grinned at her and couldn’t help but stare. The short girl's hair was hanging loosely around her shoulders and back, a strange sight compared to her signature bun. Decked out in a red cloak and loose fitting pants, she looked like the average fire nation peasant. While greens and browns fit her far better Azula had to admit that Toph played the part well.

Saffron eyes watched as the short girl straddled her hips and made herself comfortable in her lap, settling down with her chin against the princess’s chest, her rough fingertips resting right underneath Azula’s ribs. This time the firebender couldn't contain her snort, amused at the girl's impatience.

Toph pressed a firm kiss on her shirt, right in between her breasts. Languidly, she spread her slender fingers and traced the edges of Azula’s stomach, fanning down and clutching where her waist bloomed out into her hips.

Lazily trailing her kisses up to her prisoner’s neck Toph felt the princess shift under her. Restlessly, Azula grabbed at the younger’s biceps and pulled her even closer, growling under her breath at the chuckles that escaped the blind girl. Impatient, Azula lunged forward, crushing her lips against Toph’s own. She snarled into the kiss, tasting the salt and dust that coated her lover’s skin, aware that the blind girl tasted the metallic blood on her own.

Calloused fingers reached up to palm her face as Azula dove further into the kiss. The younger girl broke their embrace, trailing her fingertips along the royal’s jawline. Foreheads resting together, Toph was silent as she continued her inspection, feeling the sharp contours of her princess’s face. Azula’s half lidded eyes watched as her lips quirked down into a frown.

“You need to eat, Lightning Bug. Starving yourself won't help.”

Azula snorted at that and leaned down for another kiss, her face nearly moving into a pout when she was rebuked.

The earthbender’s face was set in concentration as her slender fingers trailed over Azula’s body, feeling the jutting rib bones and chafing skin beneath her shirt. Casually, her palm raised and with a flick of her wrist the tile underneath the tray rose and slid towards the two.

Toph grabbed one of the sweet buns and held it up, pressing the pastry against her lover's cheek. Stubbornly, Azula pressed her lips shut and shook her head, growling out, “I refuse to eat any of that.”

Toph tilted her head to the side, eyebrows raising up mockingly, “So you're not hungry? At all? Even though Snoozles could probably find you just from how loud your stomach's been grumbling?”

As if to emphasize her point a rolling gurgle was heard from in between them. Gold eyes glared at her traitorous stomach for a instant before her eyes were back to Toph's face. Ignoring the anger in her cloudy eyes, the princess repeated, “I'm not eating it. It's beneath me to do so.”

Intensifying her glare, she pressed, “And I am not hungry, Toph. Give it a rest and kiss me already.”

The blind bender’s brows only rose up even further, a concerned line forming from her lips. “Zula…” Azula frowned at her tone, taking in the girl's change away from teasing and use of her actual name.

Groaning in annoyance Azula let her head fall back until it hit the wall behind her, taking some pleasure in the loud bang! of her skull against the brick. Toph's hands came up to weave at the back of her neck, the pads of her dirty fingers rubbing at the matted patch that was her hair and behind the backs of her ears.

The two were silent for a while, the only sound being their breathing and the rhythmic shifting of the small fingers in the princess's dark brown strands.

Azula closed her eyes and tried to calm her breath to steady herself. She felt her shoulders slump and the tiniest arch come over her spine as she started to relax. She could feel Toph shift against her, the muscles of her arms tensing a bit. The princess bit her lip, a heavy feeling pooling in her stomach as she realized she could tell that the short girl was nervous. Toph breathed in once. Shifted a bit more. A second breath, deeper than the first. Azula attempted to brace her mind.

“I can tell when you're lying.”

Dark eyelids snapped open and the prisoner tensed, her body completely still. Irises the color of a newly dying sunset slowly traced the cracks and spider-roach webs that decorated the ceiling. The dusty features called out to her, slowly urging her weary mind to register, to somehow accept her companion's words.

Against her will tears started to well up in the corners of her eyes. Her pupils seemed to pulsate, dilating and shrinking as reality just kept hitting her. She had truly lost everything. She couldn't lie. She couldn't bend. She couldn't walk around without these Agni forsaken chains binding her. A dry, choking sob escaped her trembling lips as she squeezed her eyes shut. She couldn't even talk. Her throat was closing in and her hands balled into fists at Toph's waist.

The princess of the fire nation. Ozai’s protege. The firelord for all of a few minutes. The forgotten prisoner hidden away for nearly two years now. The psychopath that few deemed redeemable, if any thought of her at all. The sixteen year old who'd been conditioned to fight for pleasure rather than necessity.

The teenager who was currently being comforted and straddled by a fourteen year old, who had seen her less than fair share of war as well.

Her sobs turned to laughter as she curled in, clutching Toph to her chest in a tight hug. The earthbender was silent, only rubbing soft circles into her hips and tenderly scratching behind her ears.

Azula felt crushed from all sides: her stomach was caving in on itself, her sanity was still unstable, her legacy would be left as one of an invalid. Her abdomen growled out and she felt as Toph moved, grabbing the cup and pressing it to her chapped lips. Without any encouragement the princess drank, feeling some of the tea fall from the corners of her mouth as she did so.

Toph refilled the cup and held it to her lips again.

Blankly, the prisoner blinked as she drank. Her still leaking eyes painfully rolled in their sockets and focused on the crown of Toph’s head. She watched as her bangs fluttered about and brushed against the length of her face and felt the need to move them aside.

Before she could the little earthbender was twisting again, grabbing something just out of reach. Azula lazily flicked at a pesky lock of hair that peeked out from beneath the golden headband and came face to face with a sweet bun.

She took in Toph’s hopeful face and snorted.

“Come oooon....” Toph’s voice was teasing as she took a bite of the bun, humming in satisfaction as she chewed on the sweet fruit inside. Azula drew her lips into a tight line as the pastry was once again held level at mouth, the waning figment of her pride keeping her from being fed directly. Then the earthbender grasped her chin and neither her pride nor her hunger could prevent her from leaning up into the tomboy's kiss.

Azula felt the stretch of her pinched skin as she leaned up, jerkily tangling her fingers along Toph’s hair. She hummed, the sound surprisingly light in her mangled throat, enjoying the soft feeling of long locks in between the gaps of her fingers.

Toph tasted sweet. Like fruit filling and soft bread and jasmine tea and salt. Azula deepened the kiss, running her tongue along the inside of the shorter girl’s mouth, feeling as the metalbender eagerly responded.

If any shred of her once royal dignity was left, it vanished at the whine that involuntarily escaped when Toph pulled away again. A wicked smirk had enveloped her thin lips -- lips that were beginning to be bruised, Azula noted proudly -- and she raised that infernal bun up again.

“Ah, ah, ah, not yet. You need to eat dinner before your dessert.” Despite her obvious teasing a part of Azula wished to singe the smirk off her face, but the lethargy that pulled her limbs down prevented her from doing so. A finger twitched and she jumped a bit, stunned at the hazy idea that flitted into her mind.

Violence wasn’t to be enjoyed, merely endured. She had to remember that. To even think of violence against Toph...

The prisoner shook her head, physically shaking away the treacherous thoughts. Her eyes flicked to the pastry again and when she spoke she knew Toph could feel her deadpan, “Sweet buns are dessert, you know.”

She ignored the wonderful twist around her heart at Toph’s lazy chuckle, “No duh, Fire Lily.” She leaned in, pressing their noses together and casually flitting her thumb on the protruding bone of Azula’s collar, “My dessert is way sweeter.”

Their lips brushed against each other; not a kiss, but a promise.

Her voice in a whisper, Toph softly nuzzled her face as her hands wrapped around the prisoner’s shoulders, adding, “Plus, I brought you a little something extra.”

Eyes fluttering shut at the tenderness, Azula softly pried the bun out of her lover’s grasp and took a bite.

...

Azula braced herself on the frame of her cot and leaned back against the wall, feeling the dull weight of the chains on top of her thighs. Glancing first at the crumbs that littered her hands and then at the washcloth more than an arm's length away, she settled for popping her index finger into her mouth.

Oh. The taste of her skin tasted just like Toph. Sweat and dirt and blood and breadcrumbs. Sweet and salty.

The princess smiled sadly, gazing around her grimy cell. The shadows’ darkness engulfed the room, sucking away any of the lingering remains of the feisty earthbender.

Chuckling darkly, slim fingers unwrapped the little package -- Toph's extra something special -- and carefully picked up the candy. It was a small piece of chocolate, carefully molded into the shape of a bear. One eyebrow raised as she studied the figure in an attempt to figure out what kind of bear.

It obviously was neither a platypus-bear nor a roach-bear. Gopher-bears had different snouts. Armadillo-bears had stumpier paws and skunk-bears were hairier.

Was it just a bear?

Golden eyes narrowed as she observed the shape more intently, picking up the paper and noting the insignia of Ba Sing Se on the back of the paper. She snorted, shaking her head at the memory of Kuei’s odd fondness for his pet. It was just a piece of candy, what use did she have for it?

But then again…Toph had brought it for her.

Azula plopped the sweet into her mouth, feeling it melt against her tongue. Slumping down until her chin rested on her collar, she softly chewed on the chocolate, feeling the nuts embedded within.

Her eyes flicked down to her hips, exposed by her ridden up shirt. She smiled as she took in the beginnings of a bruise: five little circles the size of Toph’s fingertips. Azula’s gaze moved from the pink marks to the dust and grime and shadows and scraps of food that surrounded her. Something soured in her mouth and she grimaced.

The princess swallowed the chocolate thickly, the candy settling like a rock in her stomach.

The taste of Toph still lingered in the back of her throat, refusing to be overwhelmed by the creamy chocolate. But it didn’t matter anymore; not until her little earthbender came back for another visit.

Until then, it was too bitter for her.