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monstera-modd · 8 days ago

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DCxDP Crossover #2

The Space Worm

After a battle with a particularly tough ghost, Danny seeks refuge among the stars, hoping that his obsession will aid in his healing process. As he floats through the dazzling lights and passes by moons and planets, Danny finally finds the perfect spot! He trills and chirps in delight as he wraps himself around the metal structure, soothing his throbbing core. Closing his eyes, he indulges in the much-needed rest that Jazz always encourages him to take.

_________________

Constantine is going to kill someone (himself preferably).

Bleary-eyed, he reaches for his phone on the nightstand.

"Bat, if the world isn't on fire, I swear I'll curse you ten ways to Sunday!"

The call goes silent—par for the usual with Batman and phone calls.

"There's a massive spectral entity encircling the Watchtower."

John curses the day he ever got involved with their shit in the first place.

"...I'm on my way."

________________________

"This is awesome!"

Batman grunts as Flash smashes his face against the glass in the viewing dock, trying to catch a glimpse of the glowing worm. ("What? It has no legs, Batman—thus, a worm!")

Batman's glare hardens. "Constantine is on his way. Until then, no one makes loud noises that could draw the creature's attention to us."

"Did he say what it could be, perhaps?" Wonder Woman asks. She had been sitting at the end of the table but now stands near Flash, looking out into space.

A ping on one of the screens announces Constantine’s arrival. Superman, pacing silently, flies over and lands just as the doors slide open, revealing Constantine, who looks like he got dragged through Hell and back—twice. He rubs his eyes with the back of his hand, muttering something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like a curse meant to banish hangovers.

“Alright,” he sighs, stepping into the room. “I’m here. Where is the bloody emergency?”

Batman, ever the efficient one, gestures toward the massive viewing window. Constantine follows the motion, and for the first time, his usual deadpan expression falters. His cigarette almost falls from his lips.

"Bloody hell," he mutters.

“Right?!" Flash chimes in. "It’s a worm! A big, glowing, space worm!"

Constantine doesn't respond immediately. Instead, he steps closer to the glass, eyes narrowing. The creature is massive, coiled protectively around part of the Watchtower’s exterior. A strange, rhythmic hum reverberates through the hull, though it’s unclear if it’s coming from the worm or just an auditory illusion from its sheer size.

“Looks spectral,” Constantine finally says, rubbing his chin. “But… it’s not actin’ like a typical ghost. It’s just… resting.”

Wonder Woman folds her arms. “Could it be intelligent?”

“Most ghosts are,” Constantine mutters. “Even the dumb ones.”

Batman’s voice cuts in. “If it’s intelligent, we need to figure out its intentions before taking action.”

Superman frowns, his X-ray vision scanning the creature’s form. “There’s something… odd about it. I don’t sense hostility, but there’s definitely something going on with its heart.”

Constantine stiffens. “Its core?”

Superman nods. “It has a fluctuating energy source. Almost like…” He hesitates, then looks at Constantine. “Almost like a ghost that’s injured.”

That gets everyone’s attention.

"Injured?" Flash repeats. "So, what? This thing came here to take a nap?"

Constantine curses again, louder this time. “You bunch of blokes just let a massive, injured ghost curl up around your base without knowin’ what it is?”

“I tried to scan it,” Batman says, voice tight. “It’s unlike any spectral entity we’ve encountered before.”

Constantine sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Right, fine. Let’s do this the old-fashioned way.”

He raises a hand, fingers curling as he murmurs in Latin. A faint golden light pulses from his fingertips, stretching toward the glass. For a moment, nothing happens. Then—

A tremor shakes the Watchtower.

The worm stirs.

A low, warbling trill reverberates through the station, and suddenly, a pair of massive, glowing green eyes snap open.

Constantine stumbles back. “Ah, shit.”

The entire room tenses. Batman reaches for his belt. Superman prepares to engage.

But before anyone can act—

The worm blinks. Its form ripples, shifting, distorting, and then—

A human shape peels away from the massive ghostly coils, floating weightlessly in the vacuum of space.

A boy.

White hair, black jumpsuit, glowing green eyes filled with exhaustion and confusion. He clutches his chest as if it pains him, his breathing heavy.

Then, through the comms, a weak but familiar voice crackles through the static.

“Uh… hey?” The boy—Danny Phantom—gives a sheepish grin. “So… this isn’t where I parked my spaceship.”

The room is dead silent.

Flash is the first to speak.

“Holy crap. The worm talks.”

Constantine groans. "I hate this job."

-Danny the green worm

#danny fenton #danny phantom #dpxdc #danny is a worm #justice league #john constantine #batman #i love flash in this he is me and I am him #John Constantine needs a break and a week long nap #that's also all Danny wanted before some guy in red starting screaming like a kid at the zoo

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witherby · 2 months ago

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Human!Damian x Mer!Reader

Damian, one of the newest employees at Gotham Aquarium, forms a fast bond with its only mer inhabitant.

Content includes: Fluff, pre-relationship, language barrier

You crack an eye open when you feel movement in the water. The rhythmic swish, swish, swish coaxes you from the bed of seaweed you were curled up in and you drift to the source of the disturbance in your habitat.

Surfacing, your gills flex and twitch briefly as you adjust to breathing air, and you chirp at the creature perched on the lip of your tank, one hand still swishing the water. His vibrant, green eyes and small smile never fail to make you happy.

"Good morning, Princess," the creature — Damian is his name, your mind supplies — greets you warmly. He lifts up a bucket with your breakfast, and you trill and reach for it eagerly, webbed fingers curling around the metal and brushing against his own, dry digits briefly. "You've got two shows today. The usual one at noon, and then a private birthday party this evening. These money-hungry cretins refused to listen when I told them it would disrupt your routine and irritate you, but they don't care. I apologize in advance."

You click and whistle at him as you shovel a fistful of eel into your mouth, chewing happily. It was difficult to understand the land creature, but you weren't terribly upset. You got the gist — something different was happening today. When different things happened, you tended to get more snacks, especially if you huffed and fussed a bit, so it was fine. You hope Damian will stick around and play after you finish your meal.

"Good job, Princess," the land creature says when you show him the empty bucket. You know what those words mean, and you preen and coo giddily. You like the title he calls you, too. "Princess" is not your primary identifier; it's not what the other land creatures call you, only Damian. He calls you something different, which feels special. You like that you're special to him, because he's your favorite handler and therefore special to you.

You slip under the water briefly to wet your gills, then break the surface again with a flick of your long, iridescent tail and reach for him, chirping. Damian gives you a considering look, head slightly tilted like he wants to hop into the tank with you, but ultimately pulls away and rises. You croon sadly after him, slapping the water.

"Later," he says, "I promise. We'll play later, when there's time. Right now, the tours are about to start. You know that."

You chuff. You do know that. It's almost Attention Time, which means more land creatures walk through strange tunnels that cut through the bottom of your large habitat to stare at you, and you get to stare back. If you do enough tricks, you even get snacks and toys. You like the attention; you're a beautiful mer and deserve to be admired, but you wish the creatures would actually come into the water instead of the large, weird tunnels you can't reach.

Slipping under the surface again, your tail propels you towards the larger section of your enclosure, where the tunnels are, and you don't have to wait much longer before the first group of land creatures comes through to admire you. To your endless delight, Damian is leading them. The other caretakers know that you're the most active when he's the one guiding the tours, so you make sure to do all the flips and twirls you've been taught for him.

When you catch his eye, Damian smiles a little again, just for you, and you trill with joy.

-----

Thanks for reading! Reblogs encourage me to write more!

#damian wayne #mermaid au #damian x reader #damian wayne x reader #batfam x reader

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literaryvein-reblogs · 4 months ago

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hi! could you help with describing different sounds of materials and textures? like dripping of water, clinking of glass etc. maybe a vocab list or your advice in general, doesn't matter ☆

Chatter - to click repeatedly or uncontrollably (teeth chattering)

Chime - to make a musical and especially a harmonious sound (clock chimed at midnight)

Clang - to make a loud metallic ringing sound (anvils clanged)

Clatter - to make a rattling sound (dishes clattered)

Clop - a sound made by or as if by a hoof or wooden shoe against the pavement (clop of hooves)

Clunk - the sound of a blow (books fall to the floor with a clunk)

Crackle - to make small sharp sudden repeated noises (fire crackles)

Creak - a prolonged grating/squeaking sound (creaking wheels)

Crinkle - to give forth a thin crackling sound (crinkling silks)

Fizzle - to make a hissing or sputtering sound (fireworks fizzled out)

Grate - to rub or rasp noisily (metal grating)

Gurgle - to make a sound like that of a gurgling liquid (water gurgling through the pipes)

Hiss - to make a sharp sibilant sound (hissing steam)

Jangle - to make a discordant often ringing sound (keys jangling)

Pitter-patter - a rapid succession of light sounds or beats (pitter-patter of rain on the roof)

Pulse - rhythmical beating or sounding (pulsed from the speakers)

Rasp - to produce a grating sound (rasp of steel)

Rattle - a rapid succession of short sharp noises (windows rattled)

Ripple - to play with a slight rise and fall of sound (rippling water)

Ruffle - a low vibrating drumbeat (ruffle the pages of a book)

Rumble - to make a low heavy rolling sound (thunder rumbling)

Rustle - a quick succession of small sounds (rustling leaves)

Scrape - a sound made by scraping (chairs scraping against the floor)

Sizzle - to make a hissing sound (a sizzling pan)

Slosh - the slap or splash of liquid (water sloshed around)

Splash - to make a sloshing sound (waves splashing)

Splutter - to make a noise as if spitting (spluttering engine)

Squeak - to utter or make a short shrill cry or noise (squeaking wheel)

Susurration - a whispering sound; murmur (susurration of waves)

Throb - to beat or vibrate rhythmically (throbbing beat of the bass)

Thrum - to sound with a monotonous hum (wings thrumming)

Thud - a dull sound (bag landed on the floor with a thud)

Thump - to strike or beat with or as if with something thick or heavy so as to cause a dull sound (thump of footsteps on the stairs)

Whish - to make a sibilant sound (baseball whished past)

Whiz - a hissing, buzzing, or whirring sound (cars whiz by)

Some Words to Describe Different Sounds

Harsh or loud. If you want to articulate abrupt, piercing, or loud noises, use: beep, bellow, blare, cackle, clack, clang, clank, clink, croak, earsplitting, full blast, grating, high frequency, huff, jarring, rasp, rumble, scrunch, shriek, toot, twang, vibrating, wail, and zap.

Soft or subtle sounds. Some descriptors to use to evoke quiet noises: breathy, chime, droning, fizz, glug, gurgle, jingle, moan, sizzle, squish, swish, swoosh, tinkle, trill, wheeze, whir, and whoosh.

Animal sounds to describe noises. English language readers often associate these words with animal noises, but you can use them to create imaginative descriptions of other sounds: bleat, bray, chirping, cluck, hoot, howl, meow, neigh, purr, quack, roar, woof, and yelp.

How to Write With Sound

Auditory imagery engages the sense of hearing.

Literary devices (onomatopoeia; alliteration) can help create sounds in writing.

Sound is a great sense to use to create a mood.

Consider two scenes of the same forest:

You might describe the chirping of many small birds, the rustle of small mammals moving through the softly falling leaves, or the whispering of a breeze through the trees. This creates a particular atmosphere, one that seems peaceful and maybe even a little magical.

Now consider another set of sounds from the same forest. Somewhere in the distance you hear the howl of an unidentifiable animal. Nearer to you, the creak of an old branch, followed by the snap of a twig. The wind, when you hear it, seems to moan.

The same two descriptions of a forest can create entirely different atmospheres with sensory language. Some exercises:

Carry a notebook with you as you go about your normal day.

Pay attention to the sounds you notice and write them down as you go.

Does your coffeemaker whistle, or would you say it hisses?

Do the sirens of emergency vehicles wail, or perhaps blare?

Does your door squeak?

The more you can become attentive to these things, the more you’ll be able to incorporate them into your writing.

Use onomatopoeia to help capture the sound of a scene:

The plop of a frog dropping into a pond

The clink of two champagne glasses

The crackle of a dry log on a hot fire

The whoosh of a car racing by

Onomatopoeic Words: hiss, ping, crunch, pop, sizzle, bang, swish, smash, flutter, clunk, peck, whistle, smack, whack, hush, whir, tip-toe, thud, zap, twang, cock-a-doodle-doo, squish, stomp, tap, thump, splash, purr, tinkle, gush, kerplunk, slurp, swirl, crash, whirl, clang, mumble, squeak, boom, meow, cuckoo, pow, splat, quack, screech, zoom, tick-tock, burp, clip-clop, eek, hiccup, moo, oink, buzz

In general, though, you’ll want to be judicious about using onomatopoeia, unless you’re going for a deliberately cheesy, comic book-type effect.

Tips for Describing Sounds in Writing

Consider your purpose. As you begin a project, decide if you want to render a specific experience faithfully or creatively. Consider the target audience for your creative writing, blog, or journalism. Understanding your goal and audience helps you make descriptors more effective and precise.

Employ onomatopoeia. Onomatopoeia is a type of sensory language in which the descriptive word sounds like what it describes—words like “drip,” “bang,” or “plink.” If you want to achieve an especially sound-driven description, consider using existing onomatopoeic words or craft your own.

Pay attention to verbs. While adjectives (words like “loud” or “sharp”) are the obvious choice for describing sounds, verbs are a powerful tool that can also help you achieve a strong description. For example, saying, “the jet was loud” is accurate and descriptive, while “the jet screamed” evokes an even stronger sense of the sound.

Sometimes less is more. Descriptions are most effective when focused, allowing readers to zero in on the essential details. If you include too many synonyms or attach multiple adjectives to each noun, you can overwhelm or confuse readers.

Sources: 1 2 3 4 5 6 ⚜ More: References ⚜ Word Lists ⚜ 100 Sensory Words

Hope this helps with your writing! :)

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hazbinshusk · 1 month ago

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husk x gn!reader. husk might hate his more catlike tendencies, but you find most of them downright adorable. so, when one of them surfaces while he's sleeping, how can you do anything but let yourself enjoy it? (or, cookies for @maygamitsu12).

also, check out @irkimatsu's rendition of husk making cookies - it's wonderful :)

featuring: pure fluff, suggestive themes/language, praise, cat behaviour.

The cool air of the Hotel’s thankfully stellar air conditioning is enough to warrant tugging the throw from the back of the sofa down over your lap, your book cradled against your thighs. Since the opening of the new hotel, there’s been more and more potential residents trickling in and out to satisfy their own curiosity. Very few stayed longer than the princess’ over-excited tours, but every now and then they lingered long enough to make a nuisance of themselves at the bark especially since Charlie insisted that Husk should never charge a potential future residence.

So, Husk would grit his teeth and bear it long enough for them to knock back two drinks before he’d shut them down and direct them to the door. And you would keep him company - staying close enough to offer him a sympathetic glance, but not so close as to ‘encourage them to chat’.

Your eyes are starting to itch as the hours tick over into the early morning, but you still manage a lazy smile as Husk finally steps out from behind the bar and makes his way over to you where you’re still reclined against a few pillows, legs stretched out across the couch. He returns that smile with one of his own, pulling the blanket off your legs. Your book goes with it, landing on the floor with a dull thump, and Husk flops down onto your lap with a groan.

You chuckle as he settles himself between your knees, wrapping his arms around your waist as his wings settle themselves over your legs to replace the blanket. Husk buries his face in your lap, rubbing his cheek against your thigh and sighing heavily into your skin. You feel your expression melt into one of affection, and you gently lift the hat from his head and set it on the table beside you so you can card your fingers through the fur between his ears.

A purr rumbles through his chest at your touch, and he leans into your hand as you scratch firmly at the base of his ear. His voice is muffled when he speaks, but you still manage to make out, “Too fuckin’ good to me…”

“Never,” is your natural reply, and you rub your thumb up over the curve of his ear. “You wanna go upstairs?”

Husk groans again, bumping his forehead against your thigh, rubbing his face into the soft flesh. “Too far… minutes…”

Your smile grows, and your fingers take up a slow, soothing rhythm between his ears, your thumb brushing back and forth over the space between his brows, easing away the creases that have formed there during the day.

“Okay, baby. Five minutes.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

You don’t realise you were anywhere near sleep until you’re waking up again, your head having lolled to the side to rest your temple against the back of the couch. Brow furrowing as you blink away some of the sleep still clinging to your mind, you realise slowly the reason you’ve woken up.

The two of you have shifted in your sleep; you’re reclining more comfortably along the sofa, Husk’s cheek pressed against your hipbone. His arms have unwrapped themselves from your waist and he’s rolled further onto his side between your legs, his arms tucked up between his chest and your thigh. And against your thigh you can feel his paws flexing in an almost rhythmic pattern, soft pads kneading into the muscle and soft flesh. Your cheeks warm and you feel a smile tug at the corner of your mouth as you watch, as you notice the soft purr trilling through the back of his throat.

Husk’s brow has smoothed in his sleep, the tension of the day worn away and it makes him look younger, innocent in a way that belays where he’s ended up in the afterlife. He might not put too much stock in Charlie’s vision – sometimes you weren’t sure you did either – but in moments like this it was easy to imagine the past could be wiped away, the slate left unmarred by past sins. He rubs his forehead into your hipbone when your fingers the fur at the back of his head, and you hesitate long enough to ensure he isn’t waking before you start to scratch your fingers gently against his scalp. His purring grows louder at the touch.

Husk’s claws prick at your thigh with each flex of his paws, his touch almost infuriating in its closeness to the apex of your thighs. When your hand drifts lower to tickle at the nape of his neck, he groans, shifting between your legs to wrap an arm possessively around your leg. The kneading continues, massaging deep into your skin, and you exhale something close to a groan yourself.

“Such a good kitty,” you murmur, the praise slipping out before you can stop yourself. Usually you’d try to avoid calling attention to his sinner form; he wasn’t exactly comfortable with it at the best of times, but God, he was just so pretty… “My good boy.”

Husk purrs louder, stretching under your touch in that fluid way that only cat’s spines seem to be able to do. His wings flutter against the back of the couch and your smile widens, Husk’s nose bumping against your hip. You feel the sandpaper line of his tongue against your stomach, the barbs of it catching in the thin fabric of your shirt for a moment before he settles again, his chin resting on your hip. His tail waves lazily behind him, the vibrations of his purring vibrating into your knee where his chest is pressed against it. One of his suspenders has slipped down his shoulder, and you tug it gently back into place.

“Pretty kitty,” you continue quietly, that lazy smile still clinging to your lips.

Wouldn’t everything just be so much simpler if you could just stay in a moment like this?

Another groan – more pronounced this time – rumbles through Husk, and those lines between his brows begin to reappear. He tucks his face further into your hip stubbornly, warm breath tickling against the sliver of skin between the hem of your shirt and the waistband of your shorts. “’m not pretty…”

You breathe a quiet giggle, reaching further down to rub your fingers over his spine between his wing joints. He lets out a sound that’s something akin to a moan, and even though the waking world is steadily drawing him out of sleep, his paws continue their rhythmic pressing into your flesh. “Yeah, you are.”

Husk blinks blearily, turning his head to rest his chin against your navel. A self-deprecating smile tugs at his lips, his pupils large and magnetic even under half-closed lids. “Looks are your department, love.”

You hum, cupping his cheeks in your hands. Husk shifts so he’s laying on his stomach again, his paws coming up to claim your hips. The kneading has lessened, but you still feel his paws flex against your sides. His eyes close blissfully as you rub your thumbs against the base of his ears. “Does that make you the brains?”

Husk’s voice vibrates slightly with his purr. “Mmm… that might be yours, too.”

“And that makes you…?”

“The cranky old drunk?”

You chuckle, and he lifts his head for you to scratch under his chin. “Good thing that’s my type.”

Husk echoes your laugh; a deep, throaty sound of warm velvet and burning whiskey.

“Bed?”

Husk groans as he pushed himself up onto his hands, crawling slowly up to straddle your hips and press his lips to yours. His wings flutter behind him, stretching the way you would stretch out your arms, and his kiss is soft and warm and comforting.

He bumps his nose against yours as he replies.

“Yeah. Bed.”

#husk #husk fic #my fic #husk x reader #hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel x reader #hazbin husk x reader #husk hazbin hotel #hazbin husk #hazbin hotel husk #maygamitsu12

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bookofthegear · 1 year ago

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You are carrying your Grandma’s good stabbin’ knife!

Family legend holds that Grandma acquired it the morning of her wedding day, when she entered the kitchen to discover the groom and the maid of honor on the table, doing something that did not involve plating canapés. The groom went for his pants, Grandma went for the knife, and the maid went all to pieces.

Once she had run them both out of the county, Grandma declared that she was still getting married that day, come hell or high water, whereupon the best man confessed that he had always worshipped her from afar and the day proceeded with only minor alterations. They were happily married for nearly forty years, until Grandpa’s death (not by stabbing.)

The knife served Grandma through two wars, one revolution, and a home invasion, and she gave it to you to take to college because “Child, you just never know.”

You also have a canteen, a blanket, and a deeply unreliable guidebook. And now, apparently, you also have a finch named Jimmy. He lands on your shoulder and trills excitedly to himself. {No, I’m not going to run a poll as to whether you take the finch. I know you people.}

The dark crack in the wall looms before you. With trepidation, you step inside, into a long concrete corridor holding an immense stone gear. It’s not turning. You’re not sure if it even can turn. The teeth don’t look right, and it has to weigh at least a ton.

The corridor runs east-to-west, and the concrete walls are covered in graffiti. You don’t even recognize the languages of half of them. There’s even a line up near the ceiling that looks like cuneiform, and you don’t think concrete had even been invented at that point. And of course, drawing a dick on things is timeless, and people have. Repeatedly.

One line in English reads “Harry Mountford was here!” and is dated nearly a hundred years ago. You could almost believe that the labyrinth had been untouched all that time, but some of the graffiti looks much fresher.

The floor is covered in dried leaves blown in from outside. Which is a little odd, now that you think of it, because you’re pretty sure they’re deciduous leaves and that’s a pine forest outside. That’s as much as you can say about the leaves, though. (Look, you really WANTED to take Botany for Adventurers, but it was opposite The Wombat of Shalott and Other Pre-Raphaelite Obsessions and c’mon. You’re not made of stone.)

Both directions lead into darkness. You can hear a very faint rhythmic squeaking coming from the west.

#book of the gear #ursula vernon #t kingfisher #choose your own adventure

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ahamkara-apologist · 27 days ago

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Eliksni Expression Headcanons

Done mostly for fun bc why not! This is based heavily on horse and parrot facial expressions in terms of eye tightness/squinting/mouth opening. The bristles refer to the mandibular ones mentioned in the Exuviae lore tab; vocalizations are more speculative and highly variable bc they seem to have a variety of chitters and subvocalizations that are very generalized, much like human laughter and hums. References to carapace plates on the back of the neck are for my own Eliksni design (where they have more plating protecting the spine) and can be disregarded to those who are uninterested in using it

...

Smile: eyes squinted with the skin around them soft, nictitating membranes half-drawn (like sleepy cats). Mandibles slack and relaxed, bristles not on end

Accompying vocalization: depending on mood, usually a purr or a soft, burbly chitter/trill, with a low, thrumming subvocalization. On larger Eliksni, this is a deep rumble that can be felt humming through the human body

Smirk: all of the same as a smile, but with tight, rigid mandibles (either fully closed or slightly flared) and more open eyes. Flaring the mandibles slightly would be seen as a shit-eating grin, closed mandibles is more cheeky amusement

Accompying vocalization: either a low, slow clicking subvocalization, or silence

Fear: Eyes huge, the skin around them taught. Mandibles bared and shivering in a ready position, bristles on end, carapace plates on back of the neck and shoulders folded down. Scent/preen glands take on a stress odor to indicate other Eliksni of danger

Accompying vocalization: Tight, high trills and chitters if not completely silent, a low, humming buzz for subvocalizations, almost like a bee's wings but just barely out of human hearing level. When deeply frightened, sharp, dual-tone shrieks occur

Anger: mandibles and teeth fully bared, skin around eyes taught, eyes can be wide open or narrowed depending on how wide the mouth is held or if the Eliksni is ready to fight (open eyes = more ready for a fight, if they are about to bite, the nictitating membranes will flick over the lower eyes to protect from bloodsplatter). Bristles on end, as well as chitin plates on the neck and shoulders, making them look bigger and more intimidating

Accompying vocalization: Highly variable, ranging from slower, sharper chitters and hisses to angry barks to deep, furious roars. Subvocalization: fast, rhythmic tolling, sometimes revving up to a furious low buzz

Submission/guilt: Eyes wide, the skin under them taught, holding the gaze of whoever they're submitting to in order to indicate attention/that they respect them and fear them, mandibles fully drawn up and shivering slightly, bristles flat. Young Eliksni chatter-snap their mandibles while cheeping to indicate that they're young and don't mean to cause offense, which adults only do if they're extremely scared or deliberately trying to unnerve/snark back to someone. Head usually held low with shoulders hunched

Accompying vocalization: Upper auditory ranges silent or utilizing a soft cheep (if pre-reproductive phase Eliksni), subvocalizations limited to very quiet hums if agreeing with dominant Eliksni's terms

Dominance/pride: Eyes narrowed and hard, pointedly looking away or offering only quick glances to submissives, head tilted up to bare throat, mandibles closed but flared out to show teeth. Bristles in a neutral state, as is chitin on back of neck. Openly scents the air or other Eliksni. Staring at someone is specifically a challenge, with the expectation being to either fight or to maintain eye contact and begin submissive posturing. Breaking eye contact after prolongued staring is usually a dismissive, rude gesture, indicating that they don't believe their enemy is dangerous enough to continue observing. Scent/preen glands more active

Accompying vocalization: Hissing (if challenged), deep roars. Subvocalization the same as anger, but often more of a low purr, like an engine growling

Irritation: Eyes narrowed and hard, mandibles taught with a little bit of teeth showing, bristles flared. Often paired with a head toss, the Eliksni equivalent of rolling one's eyes

Accompying vocalization: Silence to irate chittering, subvocalization is tolling (canon). Hissing also occurs

Contentment: eyes narrowed, the skin around them relaxed. Jaw closed or loosely open, with mandibles slack. Bristles in a neutral position, nictitating membranes visible at the corner of the eyes but not drawn up like in a smile

Accompying vocalization: Low hums, purrs, chirps, and trills. Subvocalizations always a low, buzzing purr

Courting/aroused: same as contentment, but with the mouth deliberately open for scenting purposes, and mandibles drawn away in show while remaining relaxed and loose. Eyes can be more open/tense depending on the mood. Head usually held high and at an angle to bare throat, chitin on back of neck slightly raised, skin on neck, face, and lower abdomen flushing a darker, richer shade to show off patterning- less like blushing, and more like firing up in reptiles. Scent/preen glands more active

Accompying vocalization: Rich low purr, paired with a deep, rumbling subvocalization. Creates an almost dual-toned, humming 'song' to court potential partners

Sorrow/pain: squinted/closed, hard eyes with bottom eyelid drawn further up over the orbit than the top, mandibles shivering, slightly flared, and held taught. Nictitating membranes almost or fully drawn over the eye. Bristles flat, head usually dipped down closer to the chest. Scent/preen glands take on a fear/stress odor to warn other Eliksni of danger

Accompying vocalizations: High-pitched, undulating keening and low warbling, shrieks if pain or fear is really bad. Hard, rapid clicking for subvocalizations

Surprise/curiosity/trying to look innocent: eyes huge but soft, mandibles tight and faintly flared, showing teeth. Bristles and chitin plates half-puffed up. Usually accompanied with a few head tilts and head bobs to elicit better hearing, and the mouth opening further to allow scenting.

Accompying vocalizations: Trills, chitters, and hums, a buzz-click buzz-click subvocalization that is pretty much the Eliksni verbal equivalent of a question mark, the speed of which indicates the intensity of the individual's mood

#destiny 2 #destiny 2 headcanons #eliksni #eliksni headcanons #alien specbio #long post #i love facial expressions if you haven't realized

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thyras · 14 days ago

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→ of ashes & flame ( II )

PAIRING → mairon | sauron x female!elf!reader

WORD COUNT → 3.2k words

SERIES → of ashes & flame (osatm universe)

WARNINGS → redemption au, ooc!sauron, fix-it fic

SUMMARY → mairon makes his way to the kingdom of Doriath, and in doing so is tested on his ask for pardon.

AUTHORS NOTE → welp here we are again, had more thoughts. so another chapter. I'm kinda digging this story, though I am TRYING not to make these chapters long because it's kinda draining to write lol and I know longer chapters are such a pain to read hehe hope y'all enjoy this chapter.

masterlist

As Mairon traveled ever closer to the realm of Doriath, a prickle of awareness settled over him, the fine hairs along his arms rising as he felt it—the telltale shimmer of enchantment woven into the very air itself.

Magic.

It curled around him like mist, a subtle yet undeniable force, brushing over his skin in slow, deliberate waves. It was ancient, layered with a mastery that few could rival, and though it had been ages since he last felt its touch, he knew it well.

Melian.

Slowing his horse as he neared the forest’s edge, Mairon dismounted with measured precision. The great trees loomed before him, their towering forms whispering in a language older than the stars. Though the path ahead appeared open, he knew better than to trust the illusion.

The Girdle of Melian was not merely a barrier—it was a will, a consciousness woven into the fabric of Arda itself, pulsing with the power of one who had shaped it with purpose.

He could feel its presence humming in the air, the unseen boundary stretching around the forest like an unyielding tide. He knew he could not disband it with force—not without irreparably staining his intent. To undo it would be a declaration, an act of unrepentance that would shatter any hope of being received with the goodwill he sought.

So he did not reach for his power. He did not test its strength, nor seek to part it with cleverness or force.

Instead, he waited.

And waited.

The wind stirred through the trees, rustling the leaves in a rhythm that felt almost sentient, as if the very land were deciding whether he was worthy of passage. Time stretched, unmarked by anything save for the distant call of a nightbird, the rhythmic sound of his horse shifting its weight beside him.

Still, he stood unmoving, unwavering.

If she wished to test his patience, so be it.

He had waited lifetimes for redemption.

He could wait a little longer.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, staining the sky in hues of deep crimson and gold before surrendering to the encroaching darkness, Mairon remained motionless upon the rock where he had waited for hours. His patience was unshaken, his stillness absolute, but his mind remained ever-watchful, attuned to the unseen forces shifting around him.

It was his steed that noticed first.

The great beast, which had stood calm and unmoved throughout the long wait, suddenly lifted its head, nostrils flaring as a low, uneasy snort escaped it. Its ears flicked back, muscles tensing, though there was no visible predator in sight.

Mairon’s sharp gaze flicked toward the horse, reading its reaction with practiced ease.

Animals, untouched by the deceptions of the mind, felt the movements of the world in ways even the most perceptive beings could not. They did not question when the air grew thick with unseen power, nor did they ignore the subtle shifts in the fabric of Arda itself.

This was the signal he had been waiting for.

Rising smoothly to his feet, Mairon turned toward the darkened forest. The trees, which had once swayed lazily in the soft breeze, now stood unnaturally still, their branches frozen mid-motion as though time had ceased its flow. The rustling of leaves had vanished, and the sweet trilling of nightingales—so ever-present in the twilight hours—had been swallowed into silence.

A hush fell over the land, not the simple quiet of night, but something deeper, something woven with intention.

It was not merely silence.

It was the absence of all things that lived and moved freely.

The weight of unseen eyes pressed upon him, watching, measuring.

Mairon did not move, did not reach for his power, nor attempt to cross the threshold before him. He had known this moment would come.

The Girdle of Melian had awakened to his presence.

And now, she would decide if he was worthy to enter.

A light breeze stirred, sweeping across the land with a whisper so faint it could have been mistaken for the rustling of leaves—had it not carried something far more deliberate.

His name.

Not the name he bore now, nor the many others he had taken through the ages, but the first—the true name given to him upon his awakening in the Timeless Halls. A name only another of the Ainur would know.

For the briefest of moments, something ancient within him stirred, something buried beneath the weight of ages. But before the past could sink its claws too deeply into his thoughts, the wind pressed against his back with the slightest force, guiding him forward.

The trees before him, which had stood as an impenetrable wall mere moments ago, shifted. The tangled branches unwove themselves, the leaves parting in silence to reveal a path where none had been before. A road, pale and glistening beneath the silver light of the stars, stretched into the heart of the forest.

And then, from the very air itself, her voice came.

“You may enter, sorcerer, but magic will not guide you here. Only light shall.”

Her words wove through the silence like silk, soft yet unwavering, a whispered decree that carried the weight of a thousand years.

Mairon exhaled slowly, the corner of his mouth twitching in quiet amusement. So, another test.

He had expected them, of course. He would have been a fool not to. And yet, knowing did little to temper the simmering annoyance that came with being scrutinized, measured, and weighed like an unproven apprentice.

His fingers flexed at his sides, his instincts coiling at the restriction placed upon him. No magic. The very essence of his being, bound and shaped by the Song of Creation itself, would be of no aid to him here.

Only light.

His jaw tightened, but he did not hesitate.

Mairon stepped forward, his grip firm yet effortless on the reins as he guided his steed onto the pale, glistening path. The trees loomed high around him, their ancient limbs stretching toward the sky, casting long, twisting shadows that swayed in the moonlight.

The air was thick here—not with mist, nor with the scent of damp earth, but with something unseen, something woven into the very fabric of this place. The silence was deep, unbroken, pressing against his senses like a waiting presence.

To any lesser being, it would have been unnerving. But not to Mairon.

He walked without hesitation, his steps measured, unshaken by the quiet. His shadow stretched beside him, flickering with each movement of the trees, always close—yet somehow, just at bay. It no longer clung to him as it once had.

The night had always been his ally.

In the days of Melkor’s dominion, he had thrived in its depths, walking unseen through the hidden places of the world, watching as the Quendi crossed valleys and mountains, unaware of the eyes that followed them. He had moved among the darkness as one of its own, a silent architect of the grand designs that would reshape Arda in the image of his master’s will.

But then he found you.

And the night, once his only companion, was no longer the solace he sought.

Slowly, inexorably, the gentle touches of the sun had become easier to bear. At first, they had been an unwelcome intrusion—too harsh, too revealing. But with each passing day, its light reached further into him, not burning, but mending.

It reached the deep, ruined places of his fëa, the parts he had long thought irreparably marred by his servitude. It touched where Melkor had wounded him, where the chains of old oaths had left their unseen marks.

And with you beside him, the light no longer felt like something he had to endure.

It was something that welcomed him.

Now, as he walked the enchanted path toward Menegroth, bathed in silver light and shadow alike, he wondered—had Melian seen it?

Had she known, the moment he stepped before her barrier, that the light had already begun its work upon him?

Or was she still suspicious of him, and his intentions of seeking her out.

The latter, he believed, was the truth of this instance.

For who could ever truly trust a being like him?

One who had once been shrouded in darkness, who had carried the weight of ruin across this land with hands that had shaped both beauty and devastation in equal measure. A being who had whispered lies into the ears of kings, who had bent the wills of the mighty and reshaped the world to suit Melkor’s purpose.

How could his word ever be taken as truth?

How could one ever look upon him and not see the specter of who he had been?

Mairon exhaled through his nose, forcing the thought aside. Now was not the time for such musings. He had made his choice, and whether Melian trusted his sincerity or not, he would prove it. Not with words, but with action.

And so, with unwavering grace, he continued his journey, his steps quiet against the earth. The silence around him remained unbroken, yet his mind filled the space where sound might have been, thoughts swirling and stretching outward like threads of a great tapestry.

He thought of you.

Of how you would see beauty in this silence, in the vastness of the night sky that stretched overhead, unmarred by storm or cloud.

Even with the weight of enchantment pressing against the air, you would not falter.

You would close your eyes, tilt your head to the heavens, and find comfort in the whisper of the leaves, in the silver glow of the stars.

Where he saw a test, a challenge to be endured, you would find wonder.

The thought softened something within him, grounding him in a way he had not expected.

So he let himself dwell in it, let the image of you settle within him, and walked onward, ever closer to the halls of Menegroth.

The path widened at last when the moon hung high in the sky, its argent light spilling through the towering trees like liquid silver. Ahead, the first flickering glow of lanterns appeared, perched atop a gracefully arched bridge.

The sight gave him pause.

The bridge, carved of pristine white stone, gleamed in the moonlight as if it had been woven from the light of the stars themselves. Its elegant form stretched across a slow-moving river, guiding the way toward the great entrance of the caverns beyond. The entrance to Menegroth.

Mairon halted, his sharp gaze tracing the meticulous artistry of its construction.

The masonry was masterful, each stone placed with such precision, such intent, that he could see no flaw, no imperfection. It was not merely a structure—it was a testament to skill, to vision, to the pursuit of beauty even in the heart of an underground kingdom.

Another humbling reminder of what could be created, even in the shroud of shadow.

For too long, he had believed that beauty and power could only exist when forged through dominion, through the shaping of raw elements into something greater than their natural state. That order had to be imposed, that the world required a master’s hand to reach perfection.

And yet, here stood Menegroth—its grandeur unforced, its magnificence drawn from harmony rather than subjugation.

Mairon exhaled softly, something unreadable flickering in his gaze.

Then, with measured steps, he crossed the bridge, making his way toward the cavernous halls of the one Maia who had agreed to hear him out.

His pace slowed as his sharp gaze landed upon a lone figure standing at the entrance to the caverns.

They were cloaked in shadow, their form shrouded beneath the folds of a heavy hooded mantle. The dim glow of the lanterns barely illuminated them, leaving their features obscured, yet Mairon did not falter.

His senses reached out instinctively, searching for the telltale hum of power that would mark them as one of the Ainur. But there was nothing. No whisper of enchantment clinging to their fëa, no shift in the air that hinted at the presence of Melian herself.

His alarm eased.

Had she chosen to appear before him, she would not have done so in secret. No, she would summon him when she saw fit—when she deemed him worthy of standing in her presence.

That meant this figure before him was no Maia.

A herald, then. Or perhaps a trusted servant sent to greet him, to escort him through the cavernous halls of Menegroth.

Still, Mairon did not speak immediately. He came to a slow, deliberate halt, tilting his head slightly as he regarded the stranger.

The silence stretched between them, thick and expectant.

And then, at last, the hooded figure moved, stepping forward into the lantern’s glow. The figure stepped forward, emerging from the shadows and into the warm glow of the lantern light.

Beneath the hood, her face was soft and serene, touched with the ethereal beauty that all elves seemed to possess. There was grace in her every movement, a quiet confidence in the way she held herself, but to Mairon’s eyes, she was no different from the countless others he had seen before.

Nowhere near your radiance.

He had spent centuries among the fairest of the Sindar, and yet none had ever captured his attention the way you did. None had shone so brilliantly in his sight, their presence like a beacon calling him home.

The maiden lowered her head in a respectful bow before lifting her gaze, a gentle smile curving her lips.

“Good evening, my lord,” she greeted, her voice carrying the practiced poise of one well-versed in courtly manners.

She hesitated for only a breath before continuing, as if weighing her words carefully.

“The queen is currently indisposed,” she said smoothly, “but she has sent me to welcome you and offer you a place to rest.”

Mairon did not immediately respond.

His expression remained unreadable, his sharp eyes flicking over her features, parsing the meaning behind her words. Indisposed. A carefully chosen phrase, one that carried no insult yet made it clear that Melian would not be rushed into granting him an audience.

Another test, then.

Of patience, of intent.

Mairon exhaled softly through his nose, inclining his head just slightly in acknowledgment.

“Very well,” he said, his voice smooth, measured. “Lead the way.”

For now, he would play this game.

But soon enough, the queen would grant him her presence.

And then, they would speak.

Once his horse was stabled for the duration of his stay, the servant led him deeper into the halls of the great King and Queen of Beleriand.

Mairon walked in measured silence, his keen eyes tracing the grandeur around him—the intricately carved stonework, the silver-veined pillars that stretched toward the cavernous ceiling, the soft glow of lanterns casting golden light upon the polished floors. Menegroth was not merely a fortress; it was a masterpiece, a vision of craftsmanship that even he, with all his pride, could not deny.

And yet, even as he took in its splendor, his thoughts strayed elsewhere.

To you.

He could almost see you here, standing wide-eyed beneath the vaulted ceilings, your gaze drinking in the artistry of it all, wonder lighting your features like the dawn. For all your wisdom, for all the reverence your people held for you, you had never lived in such magnificence. You had never sought it, never desired it.

Your humility was a trait that had drawn him to you, one of the many things he cherished, even when he did not always understand it.

And perhaps, without realizing it, that very humility had begun to shape him in ways he had once thought impossible.

He exhaled quietly at the thought as they came to a halt before a large wooden door. The servant turned to him and motioned toward it with a small nod.

Mairon returned the gesture with a curt incline of his head before stepping forward, his hand already reaching for the handle. But before he could shut the door behind him, the soft voice of the servant stopped him.

“The King has asked if you would join him in the morn for a meal.”

Mairon stilled, his fingers lingering against the edge of the door as he considered the invitation.

It was not an unexpected request, but it was still a choice. A subtle test, an offering wrapped in courtly pleasantries. An invitation from Elu Thingol was not something to take lightly.

His answer did not take long to form.

“I would be honored,” he said smoothly, his voice even.

The servant smiled, her expression unreadable yet politely pleased. She bowed once more before turning and retreating down the corridor, her soft footsteps echoing against the stone.

Only when the sound of them faded into the distance did Mairon close the door, pressing it shut with deliberate ease.

Alone now, in the dim glow of his quarters, he allowed himself a single moment of thought before turning his focus back to the task at hand.

Come morning, he would sit at the table of a king.

And soon, he would stand before a queen.

Mairon dropped his bag onto the bed and took in the stately room with a practiced eye. It was well-appointed, exuding the quiet luxury befitting a guest of his stature. The furnishings were elegant but not ostentatious—a large, finely crafted bed draped in soft linens, a writing desk of rich, polished wood, a fireplace that cast flickering golden light against the walls, and a lounger fit for a lord.

Everything was in its place, orderly and refined, much like the halls that housed it.

And yet, as he stood there, taking in his surroundings, he noted something else—something unspoken but undeniably present.

There was a warmth to this space, one that settled around him like the lingering touch of an old acquaintance. It was not the warmth he knew with you, not the all-encompassing comfort that came with the brush of your fëa against his own, nor the quiet sanctuary of the home you had built together.

No, this was something different.

Something like the welcoming embrace of a friend unseen for many years.

Mairon almost laughed at the thought.

A friend.

He had no friends.

Companions, perhaps—people whose company he found tolerable, even enjoyable for brief spans of time. But never anything more. Never anyone he could call friend.

Not like you.

You had Eärlindë—a friend so dear, so rich in love that at times he thought the two of you were bound by something deeper than mere companionship. As if, had fate allowed it, you would have been born as sisters, separated by the weave of ages but never in spirit. He had seen how effortlessly you laughed together, how your voices twined in conversation like the melodies of a song long sung.

It was a connection he had never known.

Never sought.

Friendship, in his eyes, was fleeting. It had no permanence, no certainty. People came and went, their affections fickle, their loyalties shifting like the tides. And for a being such as him—one who had walked paths that few could ever understand—what place was there for friendship?

No, Mairon had never needed such things.

Or so he had always believed.

With a quiet exhale, he shook the thought from his mind and turned away from the warmth of the room, his focus shifting once more.

There were greater matters at hand.

#sauron x reader #sauron #mairon x reader #mairon #trop fic #rings of power fic

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gerogerigaogaigar · 10 months ago

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In the wake of the Drake/Kendrick beef its become clear that a lot of people here don't know what hip-hop is and/or don't know how to listen to it. Instead of dunking on people's ignorance I'd like to offer up an educational opportunity. Hip-hop can be difficult to get into if you come from an exclusively white and rock oriented upbringing. It simply listens differently than other popular music and you have to learn how to listen to it. This is honestly true of all music, but white america grows up with modern rock and pop that more or less derive their structure from tin pan alley music of the early 1900's. Hip-hop is a derivative of the 70's disco scene. Disco had an even more dance oriented feel than the funk that it spun off from. And funk was already more rhythm heavy than the Soul and Rhythm & Blues that birthed the funk scene.

Hip-hop is, first and foremost, a black artform and I am not black. So I'm not trying to position myself as a community ambassador or anything, but I do get that there are some barriers that white suburban kids face when it comes to getting into hip-hop. I also know that I am very, very into hip-hop so being a suburban white kid is clearly not an excuse for dismissing an entire artform. And racism isn't something you are it's something you do. So its time to stop talking about Weird Al and Eminem* whenever someone asks if you like rap. Right now it is time to learn how to listen.

*all due respect to eminem, he's actually really good, but we aren't talking about white rappers right now

When listening to rap one of the first things you need to pay attention to is the rapper's flow. A rapper's instrument is their voice, but unlike what you may be used to rap vocals are part of the percussion. In the songs included below, try to listen for how the vocals create a rhythmic counterpoint to the instrumentals. and listen for how rappers use rhyme as well as rhythm to create a pleasing cadence. Don't worry about what they're saying, listen to how they say it.

All Caps We start with All Caps, an absolute beast of a song. MF DOOM meets the frantic energy of the beat with a steady even flow that feels effortless. DOOM interlocks Rhyme schemes and uses matching vowel sounds throughout the verses to create the illusion that he is just dropping thoughts off the top of his head. The maneuver he pulls in the last stanza always blows my mind. making a *pop* sound to onomatopoetically match the vowel sound in pot, got, and snot while also rhyming troubles and bubbles.

A Milli Next up is Lil Wayne. Much like DOOM he can bury rhyme schemes for days, but instead of a smooth even flow he goes in bursts of frantic energy to contrast the very steady beat.

Ultimate Denzel Curry is probably one of the best in the trap scene and Ultimate is an early track where he is nailing the lazy beat, angry delivery thing. his shouted couplets overlay the trilled snare to create a texture that is actually very typical of trap music.

Izzo (H.O.V.A.) Jay-Z has a triumphant tone and a sing-songy cadence to his voice. He tends to match the percussive parts of his raps to the downbeat of the drums and it further emphasizes the strings from the Jackson Five sample and his more melodic lilting.

Bad Character You might notice that Quasimoto sounds... uh... well its Madlib with his voice pitched up. Weirdly Quas has a totally different cadence than Madlib. The timbre of his voice is so distinctive but he raps so casually. It almost feels like he is disconnected from the beat, but he's still right on it. It is a weird quirky atmosphere.

ATliens ATliens is the first song on the list with multiple rappers on it. Big Boi is a master of the straightforward 90's gangsta style while Andre 3000 has a supernatural sense for where he is on the beat that allows him to dodge and weave around it. the two of them work together by giving a back and forth between the extreme steadyness of Big Boi and the extreme wonkiness of Andre 3000.

Protect Ya Neck The Wu-Tang Clan had a lot of members and Protect Ya Neck has all of them on it. It would take forever to explain the different styles of the whole Clan so I'm just gonna let you hear it all yourself. even if you can't tell them all apart it is still pretty easy to tell when they pass the mic.

Ready Or Not Wyclef Jean and Ms. Lauryn Hill are two of the best rappers, and also Pras is here. The interpolation of soul hooks that show off Lauryn Hill's singing skills were standard for the group, but Hill could switch from singing to rapping on a dime. Even when they are rapping there is a sense of soul music underlying their music.

Life's A Bitch Another track with a laid back beat. I couldn't tell you when Nas takes a fucking breath in this song. he just goes and goes. everyone on this is so smooth.

Fix Up, Look Sharp Finally I had to get some really rowdy shit on here. Dizze Rascal's flow is so bombastic. he hits every downbeat as hard as possible and almost drowns out the steady snare-kick beat with his voice alone. Like Jay-Z he is also very sing-songy.

#hip hop #kendrick lamar #drake #kendrick drake beef

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hayanwulf · 2 months ago

Note

Maybe something about Stephen being secretly an autistic and he have an sensory overload. Tony discovers that Stephen is autistic

Sorry if you don’t understand English it’s not my language.

The thing Stephen really loved about magic was, it could be very soothing to his senses.

Especially Earth’s natural eldritch fields that he could sense all the time, no matter where he was on the planet. It had become a new constant in his life, one that he greatly enjoyed, like listening to the constant hum of rain against the window — soft, steady, and endlessly reassuring.

And when he wielded that magic, allowed it to flow through his veins, it was like a cat idly brushing its warm fur against his offered fingertips, neither too demanding of his attention, nor overwhelming him with its own.

At the cost of sounding doltish, magic felt, well, magical.

More often than not, when he did not have any other duties, he could be found meditating by the Window of the World, lost in the rhythmic ebbs and flows of the magic as he allowed himself to be a conduit to. Nothing quite managed to calm his senses as effectively as listening to the light hum of magic did.

But the thing Stephen really hated about magic was, it could be very, very abrasive to his senses.

More specifically, the magic outside of Earth. The unique magic fields of the endless number of dimensions connected to Earth. They weren’t excruciatingly unpleasant, per say — except for a rare few that literally seemed dead set on trying to burn Stephen’s insides for simply standing within their dimension’s bounds — in fact, the magic and atmosphere of most dimensions was rather tolerable. It was the fact that he had to visit them often, for one reason or the other, that made it a lot more unpleasant.

And he had to visit them very often. Maybe to banish some extradimensional creature back to its home. Maybe to hunt some ingredient or a long-lost relic. Maybe for god-forsaken diplomatic negotiations which he really, really wasn’t cut out for.

Like this one.

Sitting at the dining table with Ataraxia Dimension’s Royals as they discussed the renewal of their alliance pact with Earth, Stephen internally cursed Wong for delegating him, of all people, for this task.

The dimension’s foreign magic constantly prickled at his skin, like the scratchy seams of a particularly elaborate outfit. The smell of their food was some odd mix of freshly gutted fish, petroleum jelly, and acrylic paint; entirely unappetizing, even if he knew, factually, that everything here was edible for his consumption. The agender heir of the Queens unabashedly flirted with him, hovering near his seat every chance they could get and leaving lingering touches on his arms and shoulders, the unprompted contant making him want to flinch and squirm away.

Oh, and the cherry on top: Ataraxians naturally had a very sharp, trill voice.

Everything felt too much. He was at the cusp of losing his sanity.

“Master Strange, won’t you feast? Is the food not to your liking?” One of the Queens asked, having noticed that he hadn’t even touched the contents on his platter. Her voice was shrill — as was every Ataraxian’s — as she spoke in her native language.

Language that Stephen had to translate with the use of a spell.

Spell that needed to be powered with magic.

Magic that circulated through the air around him, foreign and chafing, chilling him to his core, making him want to shiver every time he drew upon it.

And he drew upon it. Again and again and again.

Too much.

“Ah, no, it is perfectly fine,” he told the royals. It’s perfectly fine, he told himself.

The words tasted bitter as a lie, the thoughts pungent as rotting flesh.

“I was simply wondering if I could have some wine to accompany this fine feast?” he added, making up the lie on-the-spot. Well, perhaps not entirely a lie, as he had had their equivalent of ‘wine’ before, and had in fact quite liked it.

By any luck, they would serve him the same thing Wong had once treated him, and this entire dinner would be a little less unbearable.

Not that luck was ever known to favor him very much.

“Of course,” the other Queen intoned, and gestured at one of the servants. The servant in question had barely taken two steps when the Princex perked up.

“Ah, allow me,” they chirped with an extra cheery voice, which really only sounded extra shrill to Stephen’s ears, and he dug his nails into palm to stop his hands from flying to his ears. The agony that shot up his damaged nerves was a way better source of pain than branding crescent marks into his palm could ever be.

Too much.

The Princex flicked their blue hand in the direction of Stephen’s glass. Stephen barely suppressed a flinch as he felt the magic weave so goddamn close to him, filling the glass up with a rich, violet colored liquid with a fruity scent.

Stephen closed his eyes, clenching his fist tighter.

By the Vishanti.

Wrong color. Wrong scent.

What he’d had with Wong one exhausting night in the Sanctum kitchen had been a different shade of violet — a hint more of blue in it. It had smelled less like an ester from a chemistry lab and more like sliced pineapples draped with jasmines.

Too much.

He opened his eyes, staring down at his drink.

It was the same thing he’d had before. He knew it was. It just had a slightly different recipe or manufacturing. Which, of course, was to be expected.

It didn’t help. Because he knew it would taste different, howsoever insignificant the difference.

But he didn’t have a choice, did he?

He swallowed, trying to ignore the twisting feeling in his gut, and thanked the Princex. He picked up the glass of wine, and looked up at the two Queens.

They were staring expectantly at him, likely waiting for him to begin.

He took a deep breath, suppressing a wince as the slightly off-set scent invaded his nostrils. It’s fine, he told himself. Maybe if he told himself enough times, he’d start to believe it.

It’s just one dinner.

One dinner in exchange for another century of peaceful relations. He could manage that much, for his world.

He closed his eyes and took a sip of the wine.

And nearly choked as the thick, cool liquid slid down his throat; the consistency off, the taste off.

Wrong Wrong Wrong—

He quickly separated the glass from his mouth. Some liquid escaped his lips, trickling down his neck before he could’ve gotten his hands on a tissue, making him hyper-aware of the cold, damp trail it left on his skin.

Too much Too much Too much—

The sound of shattering glass was near-deafening to his ears, his now empty hand shaking violently midair. More voices immediately echoed through the hall, sharp and piercing. Stephen couldn’t make out what words were being said, if any. He had let go of the translation spell. He doubted he would’ve comprehended the words even with the spell.

He stood up, feet staggering. His heart thundered loudly in its cage. Everything was too bright, too loud. The smell of the banquet stabbed into his nose, the magic left scorching blisters against his skin, the taste in his mouth a sickly sweet.

Stop, stop, stop, make it stop—

One last time, he drew upon magic, and called forth the path that would lead him home.

Between one moment and another, the feel of Ataraxian magic against his skin was replaced with Earth’s natural eldritch magic. Magic that was familiar, gentle, soothing—

Except, it wasn’t.

It burned. God, it burned.

Like the raw feel of touch against a freshly acquired wound. Like torching a skin that had already been abused with fire.

And his ears. His ears hurt. It was too much noise, and his ears hurt. Why was it still noisy? He had left that place behind to come back home, hadn’t he?

Then why did everything still hurt?

Stephen let his knees crash to the harsh, cold floor, and screamed.

He couldn’t be sure how long the agony lasted. It certainly felt like forever.

It was drowning and barely making it to the surface, allowed to take one life-saving gulp of air, before being pulled down again. It was spiders and ants and centipedes crawling on every inch of skin, feeling every individual appendage of the crawlers as they touched blazing nerves.

And when he finally felt like himself again, when his head was finally above the water and was allowed to breathe normally again, the magic around him was no longer overwhelming. It ebbed and flowed, in that pattern he was oh so familiar with, and he focused himself on it, drew stability from it.

He blinked, no longer staring blankly into the dimly-lit surrounding, but taking it all in, letting the familiarity, the safety of it all wash over him. The space around him so silent that he could hear his own breaths. It felt a little unnatural. This space was neither supposed to be so silent, nor so devoid of light.

His face was mushy and sticky from tears, his eyes unpleasantly puffy. The skin at his neck burned, as did his hands; he must have tried to (literally) peel his skin off again.

He was wrapped up snugly in something heavy and warm. At first he had figured it must be the cloak — they had, since choosing him, learned how to help him in such scenarios — but as he looked down at himself, he found himself wrapped in a nice, large blanket. The cloak was still underneath it, wrapped snug against Stephen, letting him trace his fingers over their velvety folds to distract himself from the ache of his damaged fingers.

And he was no longer on the cold floor, but a cushiony couch — the couch that Tony always kept around in his workshop.

Speaking of the man himself...

Very slowly, he turned his head down, to where Tony was kneeling by the couch on the cold floor, his eyes glued to Stephen with rapt attention.

He had sat there the entire time.

God, he’d witnessed the entire thing.

Stephen’s muscles tensed as a wave of embarrassment crashed into him.

Of course he had. Stephen had been the one to stumble into his workshop through a hastily drawn portal, only to be even more overwhelmed by AC/DC playing on full blast. And now he’d watched Stephen breakdown like.. like that.

Stephen’s heart raced as he tried to figure out, how much did Tony know? How much had he figured out?

What did he think of Stephen, now, having seen him break down so pathetically?

“Cheesecakes? How do you feel?” Tony asked in the quietest voice, as though afraid of startling Stephen into fleeing. He reached out a hand, gently resting it over the thick blanket covering Stephen.

Stephen fixed his eyes on that calloused hand. He needed to move his hands, or pace, or something. But the blanket was.. he didn’t want to leave it. So he settled for running his fingers over the Cloak.

Ignoring Tony’s question, he instead asked in a partially hoarse voice, “How did you.. know the blanket would help?”

Tony shrugged. “Peter gets overstimulated too often. These help, got them specifically for him. I keep one on every part of the compound, just in case.”

An uneasy feeling twisted in his stomach. He hadn’t known that Peter had sensory overloads. He really should’ve figured that out himself. ‘Too often’. Vishanti, how bad was it?

He would need to talk with Peter, later. Offer his help to the kid.

Tony slowly rose from his place on the floor and took a seat right beside Stephen.

Stephen looked away. He didn’t want to look at Tony’s face, too afraid of what he would find there. He had done it, he had made an irreparable mistake. Yet again. This had to be a new record, how to ruin personal and professional relationship as quickly as possible.

What a fool, he thought to himself. Just one dinner. Couldn’t sit through one god-forsaken dinner.

Centuries of peaceful relations and allianceship, and he had managed to single-handedly flushed that all down the drain and make their planet an enemy of Ataraxia. And now he had opened the can of worms that was his issues, to Tony. It was only a matter of time before he, too, would flee, realizing that he couldn’t put up with Stephen and his issues.

Some sorcerer he was.

Some boyfriend he was.

“—phen, Stephen!”

The call shook him out of his head, and he found his wrists held hostage by strong but careful hands, close to his neck where he had tried to peel his skin off again. Fresh tear marks streaked his face, trickling down his neck to soak his robe. The blanked was half unraveled.

“You’re spiraling again, Sweetcakes,” Tony whispered.

Stephen tried to hold back a whimper, couldn’t help but lean into Tony’s gentle touch. He didn’t know how Tony did it. He had never quite liked being touched, but with Tony he couldn’t help but crave that touch, that always reminded him of home and safety.

Would he lose that tender touch forever, now?

“Shh, hey, Sweetie, talk to me. What happened?”

Stephen choked on another sob, unable to look Tony in the eyes as he so carefully maneuvered Stephen’s hands down, his calloused touch gently massaging Stephen’s fingers. What could he even say anymore? Everything had already fallen apart. So he said the only thing that made sense.

“I messed up.”

“Okay,” Tony said. An electronic whine echoed behind them, and Stephen looked around to find Butterfingers hovering behind the couch with a glass of water — when had she arrived here? — which Tony took from her claws, and brought closer to Stephen’s lips, just gently holding it close, not yet forcing the cool glass against his mouth. “How about you hydrate yourself first, and then we’ll talk about what is it so that we can figure out how to fix it?”

Stephen’s eyes flitted to Tony’s face, those honey-gold eyes still fixated on him; then to the hand that still held on to Stephen’s, massaging back and forth in an easy rhythm, then back to the offering of water inches away from his mouth.

It was so hard to decipher what was written on Tony’s face. It shouldn’t be. It really, really shouldn’t be. They’d been together for nearly a year now, why hadn’t Stephen learned it all yet?

Emotion lodged in his throat, threatening a new wave of tears to fall from his eyes. He screwed them shut, squeezing a few tears out anyway.

Tony wasn’t even going to ask him what all of that had been? Why Stephen had acted half insane just a while ago? Tony had to have realized that it was nothing like a normal sensory overload, right?

Does he even know..? Stephen swallowed thickly. He had to, right? He must, he wasn’t a genius for nothing.

But..

Stephen opened his eyes, taking in the man sitting with him, still holding the glass of water ever so patiently, his attention single-mindedly focused on Stephen and only Stephen, as though nothing and no one else existed in this world.

But even if he knows, he doesn’t see me any differently.

The glass of water forgotten, Stephen threw off the thick blanket and threw himself on Tony, wrapping his arms around his genius. Tony set the glass down to wrap his own arms around Stephen, warm and strong, feeling like home and safety.

Stephen chose to believe that the emotion in Tony’s face was love.

#ironstrange #stephen strange #tony stark #autistic stephen strange #autistic meltdown #sensory overload #fic #mcu fanfiction #hayans tumblr shorts

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edupunkn00b · 3 months ago

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In the Arms of the Angel

Written for the @tsspromptmonth Sleepy Bean Fanfic Café for @nonbinary-octopus. Prompt: Space au with a language barrier, and optional gt, animal traits, and enemies to friends. Aliens carefully introducing a new humans to the spaceship like acclimatizing cats; Janus as the territorial established "cat."

Rated: G - CW: 3846

Logan lost count of how many days had passed since the ship’s sub-light engines had stopped and the deafening clank of docking claws had dragged against the hull. His captors had switched out the double-walled water tank eight times, always within the same cycle of when the level dipped below 25% of the clear container’s capacity.

They always came in twos to exchange the tank. One would with the sealed 80-liter tank pinched gingerly between finger and thumb, the other standing guard with a tapered metal rod as thick around as Logan’s chest and three times his height. The narrow end spat and sizzled with electricity, the other ended in a hinged semi-circle.

A semi-circle designed to fit perfectly around the average Terran neck.

He eyed the water tank now. One more shower and it would likely hit the Kelplan’s arbitrary refill mark. Sitting in the corner, he could peer through the partially-empty tank, trying again to identify the sensors or cameras they used to track the water level. He’d never found it. He supposed one of the many sets of Keplan’s who’d plod down the hall might make note of it along their path, but save for the singular time a group of them had actually opened his cell, none would slow as they moved past him.

That visit had ended when he’d thrown a cup of water at the nearest of them, a Keplan only twice his height who’d tried to lift him up by his hair. The spill had triggered the ship’s hazard alarms—and granted Logan his personal experience with both ends of the Keplan’s rod.

He’d just drawn the privacy shade and begun to undress when bells dinged, announcing his cell was being opened. Scrambling to cover himself, he’d managed to zip his thermal unisuit when the curtain and pulled back with the sparking end of a Keplan rod.

~“Sdjy aldu yslkfjy sii!”~ the taller Keplan’s mic screeched at him, gesturing with the rod toward his bed in the far corner of the cell. ~”Aldu! Aldu sii!”~

Shaking his head, Logan pointed in vain at his ear piece. He didn’t know if it was his device was damaged or if the Keplans’ had theirs set to the wrong Gamma Quadrant language. It didn’t matter much. Neither could understand each other.

The Keplan stabbed the rod in his direction again, close enough to raise the hair on the back of his neck and arms. When words failed….

Relenting, Logan moved to his bed and sat on top of the blanket, knees hugged to his chest, bare feet carefully clear of the metal bed frame. The Keplan grunted to its partner still in the hall. A low, buzzy hum told Logan they’d activated the floor guard, electrifying the cell floor.

It grunted again, then trilled something long and musical out in the hall. Bulbous blue eyes atop a smooth green head peered through the doorway. Vertical slits blinked at him, once, twice, then a third time before the hulking figure squeezed through the door.

The visitor stood at least a half a meter taller than the largest of the Keplans, though the tight quarters forced a slouch that might have hidden as much as another meter of height. The creature blinked at him again, then reached for him with a hand large enough for Logan to sit on.

Careful not to touch the cell walls, Logan shrank back, shaking his head.

Grey stripes oscillated up and down the newcomer’s face and it turned its hand, palm up, close enough for Logan to touch. The Keplan near the door trilled and tromped further in, the neck-ring end of its rod pointed at Logan. The newcomer squawked and turned, shifting its hulking frame to stand between them. The Keplan stopped its advance.

The green creature made another little sound, a deep, rhythmic huffing that Logan would have thought was laughter in a Terran. Eyes turning first, it looked at Logan. He stared back, watching the creature’s eyes swivel in their sockets. Moving independently of each other, they traced over his cell, his cracked eyeglasses, his bare feet. His neck. They were entrancing, with no discernible limit to their degrees of motion.

Too late, Logan noticed how close the creature had gotten and by the time he felt the slimy touch of its fingertips against his face, and its sticky toxin had already begun to numb his cheek. He shouted, arms flailing, then collapsed in a heap on the bed.

Unable to move, he could only watch as the creature’s giant hand closing around his body. Then darkness fell.

“Be careful!” The Kepler System Asylum Coordinator warned from the doorway, too cowardly to enter the Terran’s quarters. “It’s vicious! It tried to burn my cub with acid!”

“I watched the vid,” Patton shook his head, tucking the tiny Terran in his shelter blanket before gently scooping him up. “Your cub lifted him up by his hair!”

“Their hair is dead. LIfeless—” The shorter Keplan interjected, six fingers twitching on her barbaric prod. “They’re not tentacles, you know.”

Patton let his displeasure show in his skin and she had the good grace to step further back. “Just because their hair can’t move doesn’t mean they don’t feel pain when you yank on it! Is this your first Terran?’

“Well—”

Patton turned his back to her and the Keplan in the doorway and caught Remus’ eye where he waited in the hall. “He’s very light,” he frowned, cradling the tiny Terran close to his chest. “I hope I didn’t use too much.”

Center eye narrowed, Remus smiled. “He’s strong. He looked ready to fight you,” he added with laugh that shook the deck.

Unconvinced, Patton brushed away the matted hair that had fallen over his face, noting the sharp cut of his jaw, the hollows of his cheeks. Anger buzzed beneath his skin as he approached the Coordinator. “You’ve been underfeeding him,” he hissed.

“It’s—”

“This Terran uses ‘he.’” Remus interrupted, tapping the datapad in the Coordinator’s hand. “Or can you not read your own chain of custody forms?”

A low growl expressed the guard’s displeasure at the interruption but she bowed her head in quick apology. “He does not eat all we give him.”

Patton stood taller, the tiny Terran clutched close.

Fearful pheromones wafted from both the Keplans. “We cannot be held responsible when it—he’s not a good eater,” the Coordinator finally countered.

Sparing one last look at the meager quarters, Patton stretched to his full height in the hall. “You’d better hope you can prove that on your next inspection.”

“C’mon, Paddy,” Remus tugged his elbow, looking down at the unconscious Terran bundled in his arms. Patton allowed himself to be pulled away from the Keplans. “It’s time we got him home.”

Recalling the little Terran’s willingness to fight him, he kept his eyes on the tiny creature. “You don’t think he’ll be so… fiesty with Janus, do you?”

Remus blinked slowly in thought before tapping the doorplate. Neither could ignore the lack of plates set at Terran height. He wiggled his fingers once they’d passed through and the door swished shut behind them. “Well, that’s what your ju-ju juice is for, isn’t it?”

Logan woke on a fluffy cushion in one corner of a large, dimly lit room. The space was furnished in a mix of Standard and Terran-sized pieces, with soft rugs set between plush sitting areas and tables. One wall was taken up with the usual computer screens and terminals, one—impossibly—set to a Terran’s height. At the other end of the room was a tall platform, set at least twenty feet in the air, only six or so feet from the ceiling. Terran-height.

With no ladder and steps, it appeared the way in or out of the elevated space was being lifted by one of the much taller creatures who ran this ship. Logan shuddered at the implications of a soft-padded prison with no walls.

He didn’t have long to think about it. Shadows moved on the other side of the translucent door and Logan hid behind a tall chair just before it swooshed open. Voices filled the space, more of the same musical gibberish his translator had produced back in his Keplan cell with another, lower voice woven through.

A Terran voice.

Logan shook his head, fighting to hear past the buzz from his earpiece to parse through the heavily accented Terran beneath.

“Xcmzz—understand why it has to—zxcbc—my room—cvz!”

The answering rumble was soft, with a similar huffing sound Logan had heard back in his cell.

~”Sdagfd dstr sdar asfwww”~

Logan couldn’t be sure, but the voice sounded… different from the one in his cell. Louder, maybe. More certain. As he was puzzling it out, a third voice broke through.

~”Sdhjew wer djanniss”~

“I am not being selfish—xxc—Merely… Defending my own space.”

~”LKdsjk ssd folks djanniss. Asfdda djanniss.” The response was gentle, solicitous. Though Logan couldn’t understand the words, he edged closer to the door, drawn to the soft voice. Until the Terran spoke again.

“Ugh, and he smells.”

~”Djanniss!”~ Logan ducked behind the upholstered seats when the tall green one scolded the other Terran. He waited for more—a strike, a cry, any sign of his new captors’ correction of the other Terran.

When he heard little more than the red furry one’s cooing, he peeked around one corner.

The creature’s dome-like head was only inches away and again Logan couldn’t help but notice it resemblance to an extinct Terran amphibian. It turned its large green body toward him, keeping one eye directed at the other Terran.

~”Safrtei sadwe?”~ it said, voice trilling up at the end. When Logan didn’t respond, it moved closer and repeated the sounds. ~”Safrtei sadwe? Werpof saf ertw sadwe?”~

After a long moment, it shuddered, bright spirals running up and down its skin. It turned to the other Terran. ~”Sadwe iou.”~

The Terran lifted his head from where he’d settled in the big red one’s arms and scowled down at him. Half his face was hidden in the fluffy red fur but his smirk was unmistakable. ”They think you’re deaf or mute.“ His voice dripped with condescension. “You can speak, can’t you?”

“Of course I can,” Logan snapped, frustration growing. He stood, pointing at his translator. “It’s my ear piece,” he said, voice breaking. “If you—” Hands fisted at his sides, Logan stepped around the sofa.

The room exploded in sound. The red one squeaked, hiding the Terran in his fur and, nattering, the big green frog-like creature reached for Logan, brushing sticky fingers over his outstretched hand.

“If you—” Logan tried again, steps faltering. The floor rushed up to meet him and he fell—right into the waiting palm of the taller green creature.

Face smooshed against a rug, Logan woke with bits of fuzz stuck to his chin and lips. He jolted upright then fell back with a grunt against a low, padded wall just as quickly. His pulse throbbed in his ears, a rhythmic crash against his nerves. Moving slower, he pushed up to a seated position and carefully scanned his surroundings.

He'd been changed into a one-piece suit similar to what he could see of the other Terran. Feet clad in thick socks and boots, he smelled… antisceptic. He'd been bathed and—a hand drawn through his much shorter hair confirmed—tangled locks combed or cut away.

Logan found himself in a much smaller room now, with a Terran-sized bed at one end and a low vid-desk and terminal at the other. The ceiling was low, as well, likely just above his head if he stood. If he stood. Merely looking up caused the spiral patterned walls to swim before his eyes, the dizzying movement reminding him of the moving stripes on his new captor’s skin.

Small sounds wafted to him and, after a few moments, he suspected where he was. Bracing himself on the ledge, he peered over the side. He was in the elevated room he’d spotted when he’d first awoken in the new ship.

Damn.

Now that he was in the space, though, he spotted small hand holds lining the ledge. Perhaps—if he were very careful—he could climb down? Pushing up, he slung one foot over the ledge.

“Oi!” The other Terran's voice voice halted his movement and he froze, one leg still hooked over the edge. “Your food is up there,” he said, looking pointedly at the tall insulated cabinet in one corner of his… box.

From one cell to another, Logan supposed. This one smelled better, at least, like freshly scrubbed air, warm bread and something approximating a berry jam.

“Thank you,” he called back, voice cracking, dry and disused. "I'm… I'm Logan," he said.

"Call me Janus," the other Terran said. "Pleasure."

"Pleasure," Logan repeatedly dumbly. After the first few weeks of attempts to be understood onboard the Keplan ship demonstrated he wasn't merely being ignored, he'd given up trying to speak in more than monosyllabic grunts to his captors. He’d only managed a few words before the big green one had dosed him again. Now the words piled up in his head and his throat, a logjam of thoughts and questions.

Caff would help. It had been years since he'd had more than a stim shot. Sadly, it seemed the fresh environment was letting his imagination run wild, the soothing, spicy scent of tea filling the air. A clinking cup only added to the illusion.

Peering over the ledge, he watched his cellmate—crewmate? What were they here?—take a long draw from a thick-walled cup. Steam billowed off the top as he let out a comically satisfied sigh.

“Is that—“ He cleared his throat, watching the other Terran suppress a flinch at the sudden sound. “Is that tea?”

“Why, yes, it is,” he murmured, hardly bothering to hide a smirk behind his cup as he took a slow sip.

Logan eyed the water and bread and jam he’s been provided. His new captors hadn't included tea with his food. Perhaps it was a privilege to be earned?

“What did you need to do to get it?” he asked, fighting to keep the longing from his voice.

Janus shrugged. “I asked for it. I enjoy it and it keeps me sharp when I help in the conduits.” Back now turned to Logan, he patted a utility belt slung across his back. He winked over his shoulder. “Terran height advantage.”

Licking dry lips, Logan finally stood. The room spun but not as badly as it had when he’d first woken. He stumbled to the cup marked with the universal hazard sign for water and gulped at it. “Do you speak…” He sipped, forcing himself to go slowly when his stomach lurched. “What do they speak?”

“Which one?” Janus drawled, one eyebrow raised still with that blasted half-smile. “Or do all aliens look alike to you?”

“Dammit, you know that’s not what I meant!”

Instead of replying, Janus merely poured himself another cup.

“What about the green one—the smooth green one,” Logan added before he could interrupt.

The other Terran blew across the top of his cup and shrugged. “Don’t you have an earpiece?”

Logan’s shoulders slumped and he picked at the greyish lump of what he supposed was bread. "It's malfunctioning." He sniffed at the loaf. It was soft and warm, bigger than his outstretched hand. Fresh, too, with none of the mold that had covered most of his previous captor's offerings.

With a dollop of the jam the bread was actually quite good. The food settled his stomach and he'd finished half of it before Janus spoke again.

“Pity.”

“You could—" Surprised to find something as mundane, as Terran as a napkin, Logan wiped crumbs from his mouth. "I mean, would you…”

Janus still wouldn’t face him completely, but he straightened at the desperation in Logan’s voice. “Would I…?”

“It would be a favor I’d repay, of course… But… Would you translate that for me? Tell them I can’t understand them? Tell them my device is—”

“Perhaps… If for no other reason than to stop the gibberish you’re sending to my device. Honestly, it’s giving me a headache.”

Logan swallowed back a retort about basic Terran decency and freely sharing skills and nodded. “Thank you,” he muttered. “I would be in your debt.”

“Yes,” Janus smiled. “Yes, you would. I might even—”

A loud clanging outside the larger room drew both their attention and Janus spun around, briefly facing Logan for the first time.

Deep red lines spidered out from his left eye socket, the surrounding skin scarred, stretched tight over his temple and cheekbone. He blinked, left eye milky white.

“Did they—” It was rude to stare, but Logan couldn’t quite tear his eyes away from the scar. It looked… new. “Did they do that to you?”

Janus scowled up at him before his eyes widened and he turned, again hiding his face. “I assume you mean this?” he asked, waving a hand over his left side.

“Well… yes.” Logan had seen worse done at the hands of Collectors.

Janus sucked his teeth. “Of course not,” he spat, stroking a pillow covered in red and green fur. “They would never,” he said, quieter, before staring up at Logan again, giving him a full view of his injuries. “If you must know, it’s a diode burn.”

Logan’s fingers flexed, imagining the tiny diode that would have caused such… precise damage. Far too small for Standard-sized hands to manipulate. His mind supplied the answer just before Janus continued.

“The last stray Terran they’d taken in hadn’t…” Lips pursed, he glared up at Logan. “Hadn’t been housetrained.”

Mouth opening and closing a few times, Logan finally shook his head. No wonder he was so obnoxious. “That’s awful,” he finally said.

Janus’ expression softened—just a bit—but before he spoke, hollow metal clanged again, louder this time. The door swished open. The green furry creature peered inside, fur shifting to reveal several more eyes surrounding the one Logan had seen before.

~”Djanniss! Jkalg asdjl ta lksd as!”~ he said in a rush to Janus before pointing up at Logan on the upper platform. ~”Dsjf?”~

“There’s a coolant leak in the aft crawlspace,” Janus translated, hurrying to the doorway. “If you want to prove yourself worthy of your own tea,” he said. “Now’s the time.”

“Yes! Yes, I want to help!” He nodded, swinging the other leg over the ledge and nodding at the green furry creature.

It turned and crouched low, bringing its monstrous eyes as close to Janus as their heights would allow. ~”Asdl?”~ Logan didn’t know something so large could speak so softly. ~”Djanniss asfdll sdll. Fsadj.”~

Smiling, Janus stroked the creature’s hand. “I’m certain,” he said before glancing up at Logan. “Besides, I know you’ll all have him for dinner like the last one if he tries anything.”

The room shook with the creature’s rhythmic huffing and even as Logan shrank back, it wrapped long, furry fingers around him and plucked him off the ledge. ~”Asd…”~ it said, fur undulating. ~”Lkas asdd asd.”~

Janus laughed as he climbed up onto the creature’s other arm, gripping the fur like rigging lines. “You’re right about that.”

“What?” Logan demanded, holding on tight as the creature strode down the corridor, long legs moving at a near-run. “What did it say?”

“He said"—Janus corrected pointedly—"you're so bony you wouldn’t make more than a mouthful.”

Klaxons blared as they moved further aft and in moments the creature stopped at the end of the corridor. A small walkway spanned the doorway and, as they got closer, Logan noticed the doorway was split on one side, a smaller, Terran door hidden within. “That’s our way in,” Janus said, pointing to the tiny control panel. The creature set them down—far more gently than Logan expected—and watched as they pulled on the protective gear hanging just outside the door.

Just before Janus sealed his transparent mask, the creature trilled, all but one eye covered by fur. Janus moved to the edge of their walkway and pulled off one glove. “Done this a million times before, Re,” he said quietly, stroking the creature’s fur. It—he petted Janus back, thousands of strands curling around his hand and arm and shoulder like furry tentacles. A few tugged at the harness straps crossing his abdomen, like they were testing its strength.

~”Gsalk Djanniss,”~ he murmured before stepping back.

“I’m always careful,” Janus winked his good eye at him before hefting up one of the toolboxes.

Logan took the other one and, at Janus’ signal, palmed open the door.

A dull orange cloud rushed out at them and the unmasked creature—Re?—gagged behind them. They hurried inside and Janus slapped the inner panel, closing them in with the noxious coolant. “We have five minutes!” he warned, his mic’ed voice spilling into Logan’s helmet.

Nodding, Logan, scanned the closest pipes, searching for the source of the leak. “There!” he cried, waving one arm to get Janus’ attention and pointing to the far end of the chamber with the other. Dark orange liquid sprayed in the distance, sublimating into a heavy fog after just a few seconds of contact with the ship’s air.

Janus nodded and shot off toward the leak without a word. Hurrying, Logan grabbed his toolkit and followed.

He was fast, ducking between the criss-crossing network of pipes and conduits, sliding between control panels with a practiced ease. Logan struggled to keep up and after just a few seconds, was far behind. "Keep up, Bones," Janus taunted over his mic.

Clamping his toolkit to the front of his safety harness, Logan rushed ahead. Both hands now free, he gripped the higher pipes to launch himself over obstacles, gradually closing the distance between them.

He was nearly in arms reach of Janus when the pipe he gripped vibrated against his palms. “Look out!” he warned, head whipping back and forth, searching for whatever caused the change.

Fog billowed up between them and Logan darted forward, aiming for Janus’ shadowy silhouette. Smoke and steam hissed behind him and he flung himself at Janus’ form, dragging both of them down to the deck. Heat rushed past them, hot enough to be felt through the triple-layer safety suits.

Pressure released, the steam stopped venting as suddenly as it had started. The two Terrans cautiously lifted their heads, eyes lingering on the scorch marks where Janus had been standing.

Gloved hand shaking, Janus smeared the soot left behind. “Don’t think this means you can ask me to share my tea with you,” he said, his low drawl doing little to hide the tremor in his voice. Or his smile.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Moving closer, Logan returned his smile. “Besides,” he added, motioning toward the much smaller coolant leak. “We get this fixed and I think I might just get my own.”

"You just might, Bones," Janus chuckled and opened his toolkit. “You just might.”

---

Yes, the title is a Sarah McLaughlin reference and, YES, Janu had absolutely convinced Roman to give him Logan's tea that first morning.

#sanders sides #ts logan #ts janus #ts patton #ts remus #ts roman #space au #humans are very very small in the universe

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kissyghosty · 4 months ago

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i understand halloween was 5 days ago but someone asked for some halloween fluff so i must provide

insp by a prompt on the server!

[ao3 link]

Simon has to repeatedly tell Soap no, he can’t use Ghost’s good knives for something like this. While they’d be in familiar territory to their original use, this is…different. Something that doesn’t require such deadly efficiency and sharp edges.

Still, Soap sets into the hapless target with a gusto that would make the old Ghost proud, if not somewhat terrified. “Have at ‘em, love.” He grunts, turning away as Johnny sets out to complete his task. Something about a “masterpiece” is mumbled by Soap, but Ghost is already plopping down on the worn-in couch with a glass

He looks around as the tell-tale sounds of knives plunging in and ripping out chunks takes over the apartment. A bookshelf full of plants. A pile of haphazardly-stacked books. Grow lights. Halloween decor that is totally meant for the holiday being near and not because Ghost and Soap like the looks of it year-round, meaning it’s left out. Miscellaneous sizes and shapes of terrariums dot any spare space left, which Johnny insisted on having far too many of because “at least you don’t need to remember to water them!”

Miss Catty is curled up on one of the shelves next to a grow light. Her tail flicks at random intervals, though her eyes stay closed. Simon is sure that if he were to check, she’d be purring fiercely. The grow lights let off a comfortable amount of warmth and their cat eagerly took advantage of it. Simon takes a moment to mull over his actions before quietly clicking his tongue.

The (rather huge) black Maine Coon’s yellow eyes open as if inside a void. Over the sounds of Johnny’s work, Ghost can hear her faintly trill as she stretches luxuriously before hopping down to wander over to the couch with him. She makes herself at home in his lap, taking up nearly all the space on his thighs. He can’t quite find it in himself to be bothered as his strokes down her back rhythmically and repeatedly, an action that’s become incredibly grounding and calming to him.

“Ah, shit.” Something clatters to the floor in the kitchen, garnering both Simon’s and Miss Catty’s attention.

“You’re carving a gourd, Johnny, not digging information out of someone. Take it easy.” Simon’s voice is low and rumbly and filled with mirth.

Johnny either doesn’t notice Ghost’s presence or doesn’t acknowledge it. He sticks the blade of the knife back into the orange flesh of the pumpkin in front of him. Previously-carved chunks sit on the table next to him, accompanied by the rather-disgusting innards in a bowl. Ghost pulls a chair out to sit down across from Johnny and watch him work.

“You wouldn’t understand,” Soap teases. “You don’t see it the way an artist like myself does.” He sits back momentarily as Miss Catty jumps up to investigate his work. She sniffs the gourd curiously before sneezing and deciding it’s not worth her time. “You li’l shit! This is inspired by you!” Johnny taps the flat side of the knife against the carved pumpkin in exasperation.

“Spin it around so we can have a look, yeah?” Simon drawls. Johnny does so eagerly, wiping off any remaining debris.

It’s…certainly something. He can tell Soap went for some sort of cat face, but the lines are uneven and jagged. One eye is noticeably bigger than the other. One of the ears is completely hollowed out compared to the other, as if he had changed his strategy midway through working.

“Looks good,” Ghost tries and fails to hide a smirk behind his glass.

Soap looks like he’s won a prize. “Did it m’self.”

Ghost starts separating seeds from the pumpkin guts, putting them aside. When Johnny asks about his actions, Ghost explains. “Jasper knows how to cook these and make them real good. I’m gonna save some to give to them. Could probably save some chunks for their critters too. They’d appreciate it.”

“Jasper’s critters are probably dead tired of pumpkin at this point. Still, I’ll check.”

“You even have a light to put inside it?”

A moment of pause. “No.”

“There might be old tea candles somewhere in here,” Simon murmurs as he stands to ruffle through the junk drawer in the kitchen. Johnny props his head up on an open palm, blatantly ogling the other appreciatively.

Their cat sticks her head inside the hollowed-out work, yellow eyes wide and curious. After a moment, it’s not just her head inside the pumpkin. She manages to squeeze her front legs and shoulders inside as well before wisely deciding that it wouldn’t be that smart of an idea to get stuck inside it, retreating just as gracefully.

Ghost comes back a few moments later with a tea candle in his fingers. He slides it across the table to Johnny with a lighter following its tracks right after. The candle is lit, producing a small, wobbly flame that looks like it’s doing its best to stay lit. Gingerly, it’s placed inside the pumpkin and the top is plunked back on before Soap darts over to turn the apartment’s lights off to appraise his work.

“Best work yet,” he grins at Ghost after thoroughly looking it over.

#simon ghost riley #john soap mactavish #soapghost #ghostsoap #fluff #mar's stuff

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bluestarlett · 2 months ago

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{Your face is out of place and I can't make you out.}

Of course, something designed to be out of place will never truly fit in. no matter how much you try, little star,

you’ll always be stuck as you are, {little star}. 2,017 words.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay.” Seraph trilled softly, placing a gentle hand on Asteria’s shoulder as she halted at the stairs. Eris looked up at him nervously, taking a small step back.

“Saturn. They’re still mad at me.” She whispered, distancing herself from the door. Qamar frowned, shaking his head.

“Starlight, I promise you they’re not. They wanted to see you too, remember?” He said softly, stepping closer toward the first step but not pulling Asteria against her will. Sidra blinked softly at him, her brows furrowed in worry as she twirled her loose curls around her finger. Hesitantly, she stepped forward, pulling herself up onto the first step. Luna smiled in relief, guiding Eris up the stairs at her own pace.

“Alright. You ready to go in?” Seraph turned to Eris, his hand resting against the wooden door to the planetarium. Asteria stared intensely at the door for a moment before nodding firmly. Artem smiled, knocking rhythmically on the wood before pushing the door open, guiding Asteria inside.

‘Saaaturn,” The Moon sang, dancing over to the Sun and pulling them toward Asteria. “Come say hi to your sister, fishbrains.” He teased lovingly. Saturn rolled their eyes, stopping in front of Eris. Ethos peered up at Logos fearfully, rubbing her arm as she shied away timidly. Saturn couldn’t help but want to be rude and back-handed, but bit their tongue as they let out a simple, flat greeting.

“Asteria. Hello.” They said, squatting down to be at Asteria’s height. Soul stared in surprise for a moment, before quietly waving in response. Juno chuckled, shaking his head.

“You two are so awkward. Maybe a few glasses of wine could lighten the mood,” He trilled, pulling out a bottle of sparkling wine that he’d hidden in his robes. Shams clasped their hands together in delight, slithering over to Seraph.

“Why, would you look at that! You’ve remembered. I’m quite shocked,” They teased, plucking the bottle from the Moon’s grasp. Luna rolled his eyes as Saturn rummaged through the drawers of their desk, pulling out a few flute glasses which—no one bothered to question why they had these, though it did earn Saturn a sceptical glare from Seraph. The Sun set the glasses down, pulling the cork out of the glass with a loud, satisfying pop. They looked at Eris curiously, tilting their head

“How much would you prefer I pour?” They said, their voice seeming a bit forced as they awaited Sidra’s answer, their eye narrowing impatiently. Asteria nervously rubbed the back of her hand with her other, shrugging nervously.

“I… I don’t mind. Just the same amount as you and Seraph.” She said softly. Neptune squinted at her for a moment, before slowly filling up a glass and pushing it slightly forward, offering it to Ethos. She stared at it for a moment, before carefully picking it up by the stem, the golden wine trembling just as slightly as her hands. Logos paid her no mind, pouring themself a glass as well as one for Seraph, before promptly plucking their glass and downing a good quarter of it within a single moment. Luna rolled his eyes disapprovingly, pulling up a chair for Eris and setting it beside his own. Soul blinked at the old, antique chair.

“So that’s where this went,” she mumbled as she lifted her skirts to sit down. The Sun and Moon flashed eachother a quick glance as Eris spoke. Qamar slowly stretched his arms in front of him, wings flicking behind him as he made himself comfortable.

“Gosh, I can’t remember the last time we’ve all been in a room together. Without something grave to worry about, anyway.” He trilled wistfully, taking a small, hesitant sip of his wine. Asteria hummed in response, tapping her glass carefully.

“It’s… nice. I’ve… I missed you guys. A lot.” She whispered, staring down as she watched her reflection against the pale hue of her wine. Artem smiled softly, subtly tapping Asteria’s back with his wing as a gesture of comfort.

“We’ve missed you too, Aster.” He said, before flashing Saturn a quick glare. Neptune rolled their eyes, sprawling themself out across their chair quite extravagantly as they drew another sip from their glass.

“Yes. We’ve missed you. I do apologise for my silence,” They began, returning the glare to Juno. “I’m simply not accustomed to speaking under these conditions.” Qamar rolled his eyes and quickly flipped Logos off as Eris began to chuckle, faintly shaking her head.

“No, I get it. I’m… I’m awkward too,” She said with a nervous laugh. Apollo smirked slightly, raising their glass out toward Artem and Asteria. The Moon and Stars stared in confusion for a moment, before raising their own glasses. The sound of glass clinking together masked the small sighs of relief and amused huffs as Luna smiled forgivingly at Neptune.

Asteria looked around the room curiously—all the comfortable, cluttered yet cosy bookshelves spilling with tomes of which the leather covers were lovingly worn out and discoloured; the walls of clocks which all ticked quietly, at different seconds and minutes and hours, of every size and shape, carefully arranged to an almost artistic level; the chessboard tucked away on the far corner of Saturn’s desk, hand-drawn diagrams of the constellations pinned hastily onto the walls—every little thing made the room its own little world—a home; one she’d never got to live in.

“I… am very fond of what you’ve done with the planetarium, Saturn.” She mumbled quietly, her gaze settling on an old tapestry hung above the door—one she hadn’t noticed. It wasn’t simply any tapestry—woven into the threads were the images of the gods.

The Sky, the Wind, the burning, warm yet relentless Fires, the Moon, the Forest, Death, the Universe, The Sea, and…

The Stars.

Saturn perked up, sitting straight in their chair as they stared curiously at Eris. “...Thank you. I very much appreciate it.” They said, trying to mask the shock in their tone. Seraph followed Asteria’s gaze, frowning slightly as he settled on the woven tapestry above the door. Quickly, Sidra tore her gaze from the image, turning curiously to Saturn.

“Neptune, tell me, what exactly do you do up here? You spend all your time here and I’m curious.” She paused for a moment, her tone growing softer and more remorseful. “Sorry. You don’t have to tell me. I know you’re more of a private person.” Saturn leaned forward eagerly, placing their wine down onto their desk as they clasped their claws together.

“No, no, not at all. I do not mind. Truthfully I’d be… quite delighted! To tell you about my work.” Neptune chuckled nervously, tapping their claws against their glasses as their tentacles flitted about absentmindedly, fidgeting with anything that would move. “I’ve never had much reason to talk about it.” Seraph smiled at Eris, subtly nodding at her as Apollo turned to rummage through the stacks of books under their desk. After a moment of silence interrupted only by the sound of papers being sifted through and a few mumbled swears when paper was torn, Saturn reappeared from under the desk with a large, thick leather journal in hand. They dropped it onto the desk which emitted a loud slam and untied the bindings on the cover, opening the book and turning it toward Asteria.

“Quite a large portion of this book consists of mathematical equations—which can seem quite frightening and overcomplicated but are actually very intriguing and easy to understand! This one calculates the distance between us and that constellation,” They pointed to one of the charts hung on the wall before returning their focus to the book. “This one, the mass of Sirius A, this one is–” They paused awkwardly, looking at the cluttered page. “...There are many of these, so perhaps it is best that I leave them be.” They laughed sheepishly as they fumbled with the corner of the pages, trying to skip ahead. Eventually they landed on a page which seemed to be an odd, feverish ink illustration with glowing inks which were likely made from bioluminescent life. Neptune blinked fondly at the page, which was warped by ink and crackled under their touch.

“This one is more experimental, I suppose. An attempt to recreate a rather interesting vision I’ve had in the past.” Seraph rolled his eyes, flicking Saturn with one of moons wings.

“By that, they mean they took acid.” He remarked, folding his arms and smirking lightheartedly at Apollo. The Sun rolled their eyes, flipping another few pages. Every word that left their mouth, every fond remark Seraph would crack, every scientific property that flew over her head, Asteria listened with intrigue.

After what seemed like a few hours, Saturn shut the book, setting it in their lap.

“Nonetheless, that is why I believe quite strongly that Freud had some severely bullshitideas. I do not know that man but if I did, we would have problems.” They said flatly. Seraph snorted, smiling fondly at Saturn. “Gods, Sunshine, I hardly ever hear you speak so much in a day.” Saturn rolled their eyes, waving their hand dismissively as they shook their head. Once more, Asteria turned, pushing herself to her feet and striding toward the tapestry on the wall.

“Saturn, where did you find this?” She asked wistfully, brushing against the threads with her fingers. Neptune sat up, craning their neck to see over Eris’ shoulder.

“Oh, that? I’m honestly not quite sure. It was tucked away in one of my bookshelves and I decided to keep hold of it. Why?” They slinked over to Asteria’s side, holding up a candle so the details woven in would be more visible. Eris sighed fondly as the light glittered off of the golden and silver threads within the weave.

“It’s a tapestry of the gods,” She breathed out, taking the fabric into her hands with such care you’d think it was made of butterfly skin. Saturn’s eye narrowed as they squinted at the tapestry.

“Well, then, maybe I’d best get rid of it,” they spat under their breath. Asteria turned to face the Sun, her brows knitted sceptically as she analysed Shams.

“...Why do you say that?” She whispered defensively. Neptune scoffed, slithering back to their desk.

“I’ve no respect for any so-called ‘gods’. Especially not Harmonia,” They hissed, sipping their wine. Seraph glared at Saturn, his expression stern and warning as he subtly shook his head. Eris crossed her arms, scowling.

“You should,” She said flatly. “He’s the reason you even exist. Why everything here exists.” Saturn rolled their eyes, downing what was left in their glass and forcefully setting it onto the desk with a small thud. “Even if that were true, I do not owe that prick a morsel of my respect. He is naught but a pathetic, whining child.” They snarled, tapping their claws together.

“Saturn,” Seraph said, his calm, cautious voice laced with the threat of cyanide. Apollo glared at Artem, before turning away with little regard for moon. Ethos sneered at the Sun from the corner, her hand wrapping around the doorknob.

“You know, I think I’m going to see myself out. Thank you for the… experience,” She hissed coldly, pulling the door open and stepping out into the stairwell. Luna quickly pushed himself to his feet, rushing over to her.

“Aster, wait,” He called out, following her onto the staircase and closing the door behind himself. Eris turned to Seraph, flashing him an icy glare. Artem reached out to her, bowing apologetically.

“They don’t mean that, Aster. They’re just…” He trailed off as Asteria turned away.

“You don’t need to justify it, Juno. It’s fine.” She said blankly. Pathos hugged his arms around himself, stepping slightly away from Eris in guilt.

“I just wish I hadn’t known that this would happen. Though, of course, anytime I try to fix something, everything works in my demise.” Seraph frowned, opening his mouth to try and comfort Asteria, yet no words came out.

“...I’m sorry, Asteria.” He said quietly.

“...I’m sure you are.”

“Goodnight, Seraph.”

#chonnys charming chaos compendium #chonny jash #cj mind #cj soul #cj heart #chonny's charming cosmic confluence #Saturn goes on a whole ass rant

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bits-and-babs · 2 years ago

Text

𝐃𝐈𝐀𝐋 𝐓𝐎𝐍𝐄

pairing: captain john price x f!reader ('raven')

summary: john calls you in the middle of the night.

warnings: [ 1k words ] reader answers a phone call where john is fucking another woman, jealous!reader ,mutual desire hatred, (f) masturbation voyeurism in the weirdest sense

notes: i’m disgusting for this one <33

Price's name illuminates your phone screen in the pitch-blackness of your bedroom, trusty blackout curtains impeding the lambent street lights of Washington from pouring through the glass. The digital clock in the upper-right corner of your mobile reads 03:49.

Panic capsizes your stomach, and you fumble as you scoop the trilling device into your hands. You're sobered from the intoxication of deep sleep almost instantaneously; the timing of this call is too early to possibly be anything less than urgent. John is in Amsterdam, searching for intel to pinpoint Hassan and the centre of Al Mazrah's terrorist regime. The grave chirrup blaring from the speakers in your hand convinces you he must have something.

Punching the green phone icon, you bring the vibrating rectangle to your ear and speak before the audio even reaches your eardrums. "What do you have for me, Price?"

You expect the sound of a breathless John having escaped a gunfight in order to bring back invaluable information that would bring the U.R.A's terrorist cell to its knees. These would have been entirely rational, standard grounds for a phone call this early in the morning from his secure phone line.

It isn't that. Or anything close.

"Fuck, John- don't stop, please don't stop-"

You stall, frozen to the bed despite the hot flush that pools sweat over your skin. It all plays over the speaker; the stranger's mewls of bliss, heavy slaps of skin, and grunts that are unmistakably John's. It makes your heart pummel your rib cage, its pulse so insistent that you can hear its rhythmic thump as clearly as John's steady thrusts.

It's devastating, a fierce surge of something ugly prickling sharp and hot in your stomach. It's as though Price had jammed the smouldering end of one of his cigars into your gut lining, the embers catching the fibrous tissue of your insides and sparking a wildfire. So why, despite the searing jealousy that blazed through your body, did you feel your cunt clench at the sound of his voice.

"That's it, mmm. Good girl, spread those legs for me– yes." Price's voice is thick, whispy like the smoke he exhaled into the microphone while you called orders that saved lives. It soaks into you, infects your mind like his husked syllables and the needy pulse in your clit that they wrought is contagious. It certainly sounds like it; the poor girl beneath him wails like he's just set her ablaze.

"Hngggghhh–"

It's wholly inappropriate of you. Immoral, licentious. You should be yelling something down the phone in warning that the stupid man had somehow managed to butt-dial you and hanging up the phone, and yet–

Your fingers sink low, dip between your folds and skirt over your clit. Trembling, you press the button for the loudspeaker, unable to persuade your wandering hands to cease their wicked path. He sounds divine, utterly wrecked, as he sinks low and long into this mystery woman's cunt. Heavy, shaky breaths that trail off into a guttural groan.

You can almost smell him– the malt of his breath, the scent of tobacco clinging to his skin like it's seeped into your pillow after a day of meetings with him, the acrid smell caught in your hair and leeching into the threads of your bedding when you lay your head down to sleep.

"Chief."

The infinite circle you drew on your clit abruptly ceases as the sound of John's address to you. His voice is tight, unease thick on his accented tongue.

"C-Captain Price," you cringe at the thickness with which you say his name; like it was trying to betray your fingers slowly sinking into your weeping cunt as you answered him. If the wet sound of your pussy didn't give it away already, that is.

"Callin' was a mistake," John rumbles, the weighted silence in the background telling you he'd noticed his phone alight and had stumbled into the bathroom to explain what you'd heard away. He couldn't. You'd heard it, and you were fucking yourself to it.

"Why are you-... Sleeping with someone when you should be working?" You attempt to reprimand him, to do the bare minimum requirement of your job, but your thumb presses ardently against your clit, and it comes out sounding far more like a jilted lover having caught her boyfriend balls deep in another woman– while actively getting off on it.

There's a silence, long and drawn out. Your mind fills it for you, images of Price's face buried between your thighs and curling his tongue around your clit and drinking you down as though you tasted far finer than the decades-old whiskey collection he almost indisputably possessed.

A breath. A wet squelch of your cunt as you bury your fingers knuckle deep inside your fluttering walls.

"I suppose I should be askin' why you're touchin' yourself to the sound of me 'sleeping with someone', Station Chief."

The confirmation that he knows makes your cunt bear down on your fingers desperately. You're intoxicated by it, the second-hand smoke in your pillowcase, the images of him fucking this poor girl into the mattress and the lilt in his voice as he calls you out on your salacious decision to finger yourself to it all. You're going to cum-

"I could re-pport you for this-" you stumble over your words, almost slur them as static bliss prickles against your clit while you twirl your fingertip over the bundle of nerves.

"We both know you won't," he speaks with an air of authority reserved for those under his command. It leans you over the edge, dangles you above the precipice as you feel yourself crest. "You have your fingers in your pussy, Chief, don't lie to me."

You want to say no, negative Captain, but when you open your mouth to speak, something detonates inside you. It sears through you, obliterates your insides with its ruinous path as you sob out some mixture of his name and a curse, your toes curling beneath the bedsheets.

“Mmm. Couldn’t lie if you tried.”

The dial tone sings for you, then, piercing the afterglow of your orgasm and ringing in your ears.

Fuck. He knew-

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