#so I end up just scratching my arm which gets itchy and releases nothing

[sensitivegoblin]

Unsafe vent

[nepenthendline]

A Characterisation/Writing Guide - Autism and ADHD

Hi everyone! This post is going to be a guide on how to accurately write characters with Autism and ADHD. I have been so many works where Autism and ADHD have been terribly written - using so many stereotypes and just nonsense that has nothing to do with neurodivergences, so I hope this helps educate writers and give them more confidence to write such characters.

For reference, I have Autism and ADHD, as well as many friends with either, therefore this information is coming directly from a neurodivergent.

This guide will be split into three parts: characterisation in both Autism and ADHD, Autism chracterisation and ADHD characterisation. This being because Autism and ADHD, while two different disorders, do have some overlaps. 

TERMS:

Neurodivergent - describes those differing in mental or neurological function from what is considered typical or normal

Neurotypical - describes those who are considered normal and do not differ in mental or neurological function

NOTE - Not everyone is the same. Everyone is different and will act and feel in different ways, this is simply an overview of how Autism and ADHD typically can be characterised

MUTUAL CHARACTERISATION OF AUTISM AND ADHD:

As mentioned before, both Autism and ADHD do have overlapping traits that can make them look similar at times, although it is important to remember they are two very different disorders. 

Autism and ADHD are NOT mental illnesses or learning disabilities. They are neurological disorders that people are born with, and cannot be treated or cured. Neurodivergents can learn techniques to help manage their difficulties, however. It is important to note that while these are not mental illnesses, it is very common for neurodivergents to have mental illnesses (particularly anxiety or depression) or struggle with learning as a result of their difficulties.

MASKING:

Masking is a technique that neurodivergents develop in order to act or speak in a way that is ‘socially acceptable’ or neurotypical by observing and replicating neurotypicals in different situations. This includes subjects such as not stimming/keeping still, not saying particular things, following social cues, speaking with specific tones at specific times and so on. 

Not every neurodivergent will mask but most do. Everyone does this to a different extent; some mask 24/7 to the point where you would barely be able to recognise any ‘abnormal’ traits, whereas others only mask in more serious or professional situations and let loose around friends or family. It is up to you as the writer to decide how your character will mask, however there tend to be some trends. For example, those with high-function Autism (especially girls) are much better maskers than low-functioning Autism (especially boys).

Masking is exhausting; it takes a lot of effort to, essentially, act as a completely different person for the entire day. This does not mean that neurodivergents are two-faced in any aspect however. Neurodivergents simply tweak their existing personalities to ‘fit in’ with the people or situation. 

Masking in writing:

It is quite difficult to write masking as the person is essentially just acting like ‘normal’. However, there are some things you can include that help demonstrate masking:

 Adapted stims* that are much smaller and undetectable than a person’s usual stims, such as fiddling with their fingers or edge of their sleeve, looking around often or slight movements such as swaying or playing with jewellery they are wearing 

 Speaking more or less than usual and with much more changes in their pitch and tone

Slight cracks in a character’s masking, such as stimming when others aren’t looking, not holding eye-contact when speaking, face or tone falling flat at points

*Stims will be explained in the next section

STIMMING:

Stimming refers to self-stimulating, repetitive behaviours that are done to often calm a person down when in stress, or to show high levels of emotion such as happiness. Both neurodivergents and neurotypicals stim, however there are some difference. 

The most common examples of stims are bouncing your leg when sitting in a chair, clicking your pen repeatedly or tapping on a table, which are things that most people have done at some point. The difference is that neurodivergents have a lot less control over their stims, and they tend to be much ‘bigger’, louder, distracting or harmful. It is also much more difficult for a neurodivergent to stop or ‘hold in’ their stims, causing more stress and agitation. Some people have small stims like fiddling with their hands, others have much bigger stims like waving their arms around, and some have harmful stims such as scratching or banging their head against a wall. 

Stimming in writing:

If you are ever asked to write about how a character would help someone else/a reader with their stimming, please never ever write about the character stopping the other person/reader. This is extremely harmful for the stimming character and projects a view that stimming is bad or ‘naughty’, and many people have faced trauma over being forced to stopped stimming as it is seen as disrespectful or distracting. Stimming is often one of the only ways neurodivergents can clearly express their emotions. If you stop a stim, the person will simply stim in another way. Instead, try these ways:

Stim toys that the character can use, these are often small and discrete, and can allow the character to stim without harmful, loud or large movements

Distracting the character with something else, possibly an activity, something to hold, or audio/visual distractions

Reassure the character that these stims are ok and they are safe to do around other characters

Take notice of the situation the character is in, why are they stimming? Are they anxious? Are they excited? It is better to prevent the situation in the case of stress rather than try and stop the person from stimming, and allow the character to stim when feeling happy

In romantic situations, allowing the character to stim with their partner shows high levels of trust and acceptance, and it is also comforting for the stimming character to often use aspects of their partner to stim, such as playing with their partner’s fingers or hair

Exercise is a great way of helping those who stim often to release pent up energy

Stimmers can trigger other stimmers, so if you have two stimmers in a room together, chances are they will stim together, getting louder and bigger than usual

SENSORY SENSITIVTY:

Both those with Autism and/or ADHD tend to struggle with sensory sensitivity. This describes how people are easily affected by sensory input (sight, sound, taste, touch and smell). Most cases of sensory sensitivity end in distress, fear, panic and overload, however there are some people who feel comforted by high levels of sensory input. When people deal with too much sensory input, they often go into a ‘meltdown’. This is different for everyone, but often includes irritability, panic, shutting themselves off from others, extreme stimming and a feeling of being severely overwhelmed. Some people cannot speak at all during these episodes. while others may shout or make noises. They are often mistaken for tantrums, bad behaviour or just being grumpy. Young people tend to have much more active meltdowns, such as shouting, stimming, running off etc, however older people (especially girls) then to be more quiet, shut off and unable to continue speaking or doing tasks. That being said, everyone is different and anyone can have a different meltdown. 

Sensory sensitivity in writing: 

The best way to describe sensory sensitivity in writing is relating it to pain or panic. Often those with low tolerance to sensory input describe loud noises, for example, as physical pain in their head, or certain materials as making them feel faint or nauseous. 

Sensory sensitivity relates to any sense, so some people may be terrified of certain noises, feel panicked by certain smells or feelings or feel sick/vomit from certain tastes - please understand the severity of this for some people

Neurodivergents often find techniques to help them with this, such as wearing noise cancelling headphones or playing music or audio to distract them

The best way to help someone during a meltdown is to help them out of the situation and leave them to decompress. This might include letting them sit in a dark room for a while, laying in silence or touching an item/smelling something that brings them comfort

Describing a meltdown for a character can often be similarly written like a panic attack, and often meltdowns can lead to panic attacks for some people, such as an increased heart rate, sweating, crying, hyperventilating/heavy breathing etc.

Struggling to write sensory overload? Try and think how you would feel if you had 30 different voices screaming at you at once, with bright lights and super itchy clothing. Really panicked, scared and overwhelmed right? 

Those who are sensitive to sensory input often hear/feel/smell/see things much louder/easier/more extreme than others, so while something may be quiet to one person, it seems really loud to another

HABITS AND COMPLUSIONS

Neurodivergences come with a lot of habits and compulsions, somewhat similar to traits of OCD. These are things such as having to have particular routines, having to carry certain items with them at all times (mine are my BTS water bottle and earphones lol). Without fulfilling these habits, compulsions and comfort items, a person can become extremely stressed, panicked and overloaded. 

Habits and compulsions in writing:

Writing these can go from very subtle to extreme, it could be that someone has to get ready in the morning in a particular order, eat their food in a certain way/order or follow a particular route to get somewhere

The odd thing is that neurodivergents are actually pretty bad at developing habits, a neurodivergent could do the same thing over and over every single day, but completely forget to do it one day and never do it again

When writing for characters, some characters may be able to mask their distress when their habits/compulsions are not fulfilled, however others can not do so at all, but either way this sends the character into feeling of panic and distress

A character may develop certain habits/compulsions for different reasons, it could be from experiences, completely random, comforting senses or familiarity and fear 

For example when walking into my nearest town I have to walk a very specific route on a specific side of the road or I freak out, this is because it’s what I’m used to and I struggle to deal with change

Speaking of change, a character can be written as anxious or irritated when plans are changed

SPECIAL INTERESTS/HYPER-FIXATIONS:

Probably my favourite topic - neurodivergents often develop special interests and hyper-fixations. These relate to specific subjects or activities that a person will learn about or engage in with extreme focus and dedication. Some common examples are trains and butterflies, where a person will learn and memorise  every type of train, or every type of butterfly to exist, and how different trains work or the life cycles of butterflies. This can be of any topic though, as a child my personal special interest was Ancient Egypt and I spent all of my free time learning about the history. As I’ve gotten older, this has changed and my hyper-fixations have been mostly BTS and Haikyuu (with some short ones in between). 

Special interests/hyper-fixations in writing:

Info-dumping! Characters with special interests can often be written with moments of info-dumping, where they will talk about their special interest for a long period of time to someone else. They are often very excited, talk quickly and possibly even seem a little frantic when trying to explain their interest - this is something they have little control over and tend to talk for too long or at inappropriate times 

Stereotypes are often written in special interests, particularly the example I gave about trains - not every neurodivergent likes trains, please be creative when thinking about what special interest your character may have, if they have one at all

A character may have one long-standing special interest that they’ve been learning about for many years, or they can flutter between multiple hyper-fixations in the span of a few days

Hyper-fiaxtions can affect a character in ways such as forgetting to eat or sleep, forgetting to do other commitments or becoming extremely upset, stressed or unmotivated when that interest is no longer doable (such as if a TV series ends)

Some characters may be embarrassed about their interests, whereas others will happily info-dump with no concerns 

FRIENDSHIPS AND RELATIONSHIPS

Both Autism and ADHD can cause difficulties in making and keeping friendships or relationships. This is often due to struggles in communication, forgetting to speak to people, getting bored of social interaction, getting overwhelmed and feeling too ‘different’ from everyone else. Some people, however, can make friends every easily, particularly more extroverted and confident types. Autistics in particular tend to have small groups of friends that they feel truly comfortable with, and may struggle to understand why a person needs other friends/ a large group. This can lead to feelings of ejectment or jealously. A neurodivergent will often struggle to know how a person feels about them without being directly told, and will need frequent reassurance that this feeling is continuous. 

AUTISM CHARACTERISATIONS

Talking too much or very little - about 40% of people with Autism are mute, meaning they cannot speak. Characters could also be selectively mute, meaning they can only speak in situations they are comfortable with, or certain people

Autism is a communication disorder, majorly affecting a person’s ability to communicate and understand socialisation. Here is how to characterise Autism:

NOTE - I have used functioning labels here as, personally, I prefer to use them and is more often used where I am from, however some people prefer not to, please keep this in mind

Speaking out of turn - this is either because they do not understand the social cue of waiting until someone else has finished to talk, or because they will forget what is on their mind if they don’t say it immediately

Taking jokes or words literally - this can cause character’s to become distressed when they do not understand a joke, or end up doing a task that was not meant to happen because they took a conversation literally. This also include having difficulty understanding figures of speech such as ‘it’s raining cats and dogs’

Having difficulty understanding the rules of social interactions - this covers a range of things, from struggling to know what to say when speaking to a cashier at a store, to not knowing what to say in certain situations. An example of this is if someone said ‘hi, my name is ....”, the social cue is to respond with ‘hello, it’s nice to meet you, my name is ...”, however those with Autism tend not to understand this and may reply with something else. In my experiences, I often panic and say ‘thank you’ instead, despite this not being the ‘correct’ reply

Expressing the wrong emotions - Autism makes it very difficult to understand emotions, either from others or expressing them yourself. While others immediately know a smile means someone is happy, this is not something that is easy to understand in Autism. An autistic person may laugh or smile during negative situations, or look upset or mad in happy situations as they are either unaware of how they are carrying their body language, or simply do not know what body language fits with what emotion

Difficulty understanding emotion of others - whether it be verbal or non-verbal, it can be very difficult for those with Autism to understand what others are feeling and can often jump to the wrong conclusions

Using the wrong tone of voice or having a ‘robotic’ tone - For the same reason as the last point, those with Autism tend to either sound robotic at times, or use the wrong tone in the wrong situations, such as sounding angry when they are not, however they are often unaware of this when it happens. This also means they tend to be more blunt and literal in their own speech

Not understanding hints - those with Autism often need to be spoken to very directly as they struggle to understand hints or ‘read between the lines’. This could be anywhere from not understanding hints of romantic feelings, to someone mentioning that the trash is getting too full (as a hint that it needs to be taken out)

Difficulty with focus and following lists - this is an overlap with ADHD however the reasoning is often different, autistic people are often perfectionists, so if you give them a list of things to remember, they will focus so hard on remembering the first thing correctly that they forget the rest. Difficulty to focus is often due to a lack of interest in the topic 

Attention to detail and ‘all or nothing’ - Autistic people are great at paying attention to small details and often focus on that more than the big picture. They are also very ‘all or nothing’ with how they delegate their focus, if they are interested in something they will put their entire energy and focus into it until its perfect, if they aren’t interested? They probably wont do it at all, this often means that some Autistic people struggle academically because they don’t feel interested in the topics, and therefore have no motivation to do the work

Great at following rules and instructions - despite being bad at lists, Autistic people tend to be good at following rules, this is because they are often black and white, literal and easy to understand, they like structure!

Increased skills and abilities - those with autism are often more creative and intelligent in a wide variety of skills that neurotypicals, in fact to be diagnosed with high-functioning autism, you must have a higher-than-average IQ. Unfortunately the stereotype is that Autistics are dumb or stupid - this is not the case at all

Boys vs girls - everyone is different, however boys and girls tend to act very differently. Boys tend to be more extroverted and loud and particularly struggle with understanding emotions or talking in turn. Girls tend to be more introverted, quiet and can mask much better, but struggle more when knowing if it is acceptable to speak

No empathy? - this is what people often relate to Autism, however this is inaccurate. People with Autism can and do feel empathy, however it tends to be slightly different. For example, if a neurotypical told another neurotypical about a bad situation they went through, the other person would often reply with ‘I’m sorry that happened to you, I hope you feel better soon”. A neurodivergent, however, would often reply like this, “something similar happened to me once.....”. This often comes across rude to neurotypicals, however it is much easier for a neurodivergent to relate the person’s feeling to their own experiences, and share comfort by letting the person know they are not alone

Difficulty with eye contact -  good body language often explains that eye contact is key, however this is extremely difficulty for neurodivergents 

Forgetfulness - to be honest I don’t know why this is, autistics are just really forgetful. You need to repeatedly tell them to do something or they wont do it

Planning - autistics often need and enjoy planning their schedule. They find comfort in knowing exactly when, where and how things are happening and with who 

Shyness and introverted? - many autistics will be shy, introverted and struggle with social anxiety, but this is not the case for everyone. A person can be autistic and be super confident, loud and extroverted - it is a stereotype that being autistic makes you shy and quiet

REMEMBER - AUTISM IS A SPECTRUM DISORDER MEANING PEOPLE CAN RANGE FROM MILD TO SEVERE TRAITS, NOT EVERYONE WILL HAVE EVERY SINGLE TRAIT

AUTISM STEREOTYPES:

Everyone likes trains

They are rude and blunt

They are stupid/unintelligent

They cannot understand rules

They cannot feel empathy

They are quiet and shy

They are disruptive 

AD(H)D CHARACTERISATION

ADHD is a condition that affects the focus and attention of a person. Here’s how to characterise someone with ADHD:

Not everyone is hyperactive - firstly, the ‘hyperactive’ part of ADHD doesn’t often mean physically hyperactive, but a person can have ADD where they do not show hyperactive traits

Difficulty focusing - this is much more than just not being able to focus, there are many reasons as to why this is, including getting distracted easily (by external sources or their own thoughts). finding it difficult to understand social interactions, feeling overwhelmed

Hyperfocusing - on the flip side, ADHD can cause people to hyperfocus on certain things, where it takes all their time and energy and they forget to do other things such as eat or sleep

Difficulty with eye contact -  good body language often explains that eye contact is key, however this is extremely difficulty for neurodivergents 

Speaking out of turn - this is either because they do not understand the social cue of waiting until someone else has finished to talk, or because they will forget what is on their mind if they don’t say it immediately

Difficulties controlling emotions and mood swings - this is often comes out in anger and frustration. This can be for various reasons: they are frustrated that they cannot focus like others, a lack of motivation, get easily stressed and insecurity

Restlessness - this is often seen as being always ‘on the go’, they need to be busy at all times doing different activities. In writing this can be shown as excessive talking, fidgeting, getting bored easily or taking risks

Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria - this is an emotional response to rejection or criticism which often looks like insecurity and anxiety. This could be real rejection, or perceived rejection, for example someone saying they are too busy to hang out may trigger an emotional response of rejection, low mood and anxiety in someone with ADHD. This can also lead to anger or panic, and causes people to become ‘people pleasers’ or not try at all

Poor organisation - the opposite of Autism where those with ADHD struggle with planning, organising, misplacing items and keeping things tidy. It is difficult to understand priorities, separate relevant and irrelevant information and time management. Those with ADHD often begin tasks and do not finish them due to restlessness, distractions or feeling overwhelmed by the task

Difficulties starting tasks - ADHD can make it very difficult to begin tasks as they feel too overwhelming, difficult or take too much focus. Breaking down tasks into smaller sections can help this a lot

Forgetfullness - out of sight, out of mind is often the case with ADHD, and so things like post-it notes and reminders can help people remember things they need to do

Multiple thoughts at once - neurotypicals tend to only have one thought/idea in their head at a time, however those with ADHD often juggle multiple thoughts which can lead to distraction and frustration

‘All or nothing’ - Those with ADHD tend to be ‘all or nothing’ with how they delegate their focus, if they are interested in something they will put their entire energy and focus into it until its perfect, if they aren’t interested? They probably wont do it at all, this often means that those with ADHD may struggle academically because they don’t feel interested in the topics. Unlike Autism, they tend not to focus well with repetitive  tasks as this lacks simulation

Medication - unlike Autism, ADHD can be helped with stimulant medication that allows them to focus a bit better. This is not a cure as ADHD cannot be cured, however it can be beneficial to some to help manage their struggles

Acting without thinking and being impulsive - to find some stimulation, those with ADHD may act without thinking of their consequences, or can engage in risky behaviour as other avenues may seem boring, please note this is not the case for everyone, and these ‘risks’ may be very mild like trying a new flavour of ice cream. They can act impulsively too and struggle to wait their turn

Communication difficulties - while ADHD is not a communication disorder, it can have affects on communication such as talking out of turn, starting conversations at the wrong times, being insensitive to particular topics or getting too distracted to focus on the conversation

Need reminders to take care of themselves - due to a mix of hyperfocusing and not focusing well, those with ADHD may often forget to do things such as eat, drink, sleep or shower

Quite easy to get their attention - when someone with ADHD is daydreaming, getting distracted or not focusing, it can be as simple as giving them a tap or a smile to bring their attention back to the matter at hand, even if these needs to be done multiple times

Rewarding behaviour - this technique works well as rewarding good behaviour releases dopamine, which is the hormone often lacked in those with ADHD, this allows people to connect activities and behaviours with positive feelings and are more likely to do it again in the future

ADHD STEROTYPES:

ADHD is ‘diet’ Autism

Those with ADHD cannot sit still

They are disruptive

Everyone with ADHD is hyperactive, loud and extroverted

[idkvoreiguess]

Little Black Shop

Zach had had a pretty uneventful day, just kind of wandering around town not really doing much. He'd been blown off by his friends but had decided to try and make a day of it. He'd been walking about town aimlessly for around an hour until he noticed a small shop with blacked out windows. The faded sign on the wall read "V. SERUMS." Zach was enticed by the seemingly hidden shop, so he decided to enter and see what it was about.

The interior was well lit and brightly coloured compared to the gloomy exterior. The shelves were lined with what looked like skin tonics and creams in multi-coloured bottles. Zach figured that it was some kind of beauty or skincare shop, which wasn't really his thing so he decided to leave and look around town some more. As he went to leave, though, he noticed a man standing by the door. He was a tall man of at least 6 foot 5 with shoulder-length black hair; even though he was pretty skinny he still felt very imposing compared to Zach, who only clocked in at 5"10.

"Welcome!" He said with a friendly smile that put Zach at ease. He had a deep, low voice that managed to echo across the whole shop. "What can we do for you today?" He asked, approaching Zach from across the room and putting his arm around his shoulder. Zach felt small next to his dominating figure, only just reaching the man's chin. He walked Zach over to the shelves, examining the various tonics with him.

He still didn't quite understand what the tonics did, and was pretty amused by some of the labels, which included "ORAL V. ANAL V. SPERM V." Stifling a giggle, Zach continued to examine the products, trying to understand their functions. "I think I might have wondered into the wrong shop" he finally said, realising he couldn't make heads or tails of what any of the products did. "I'm not quite sure what any of this stuff does."

"Ah, not to worry, you're what we call an unsuspecting wanderer. Sometimes people just accidently walk in, enticed by the shop itself" the store worker said. "Come with me to the back office, I'm sure I can find a use for you!" Zach didn't quite understand what the attendant mean by a use FOR him, but he was curious to see what the shop actually did so he decided to follow.

The back of the shop was significantly darker than the main area. It looked like they stored Halloween decorations there, with fake skulls and bones along with raggedy clothes that had holes in them. "First of all let's get you out of those clothes!" The man said cheerfully. Zach had noticed that they sold clothes at the front of the shop so he figured he was going to have some sort of outfit picked out for him.

He swiftly stripped down into his underwear in front of the worker, who appeared to be eyeing up his skinny, slender figure. Once he was stripped he expected to have an outfit picked out for him but the man was still standing there, smiling at Zach's almost naked body. "Very good!" He said happily, "this will make things much easier than usual." Without warning he lifted Zach up above his head, suspending him in midair.

He thrashed about in the air, trying hard to escape the man's strong grip. "What the hell do you think you're doing?! Put me down!" Zach yelled, slightly surprised that the man was able to hold him with total ease. "Sorry man, if you're not a customer then you're on the menu for the staff." He sounded as though he was trying to sound sympathetic but Zach could tell he was very much enjoying himself.

He promptly unhinged his jaw to an unnatural level and managed to fit both of Zach's feet in his mouth. He could feel his tongue exploring the flavours of his skin, moving up and down and covering Zach's feet in wet saliva. From there he slowly slipped Zach's feet into his throat, consuming more of his body in the process.

Zach was soon up to his knees, his legs now restricted and unable to fight the predator's powerful mouth with them. "Let me go!" He yelled, "this isn't funny get my legs out your mouth!" He continued to try and convince his attacker to release him from his wet, slippery grasp. But he could see the hunger in his eyes, there might be no getting out of this for Zach no matter how hard he tried.

Soon the pred had Zach past his hips. He felt his stomach open up and his feet dip inside the humid tank that was awaiting him. His feet were already sweating from the heat and they'd barely been in there a few seconds, he knew he would not be surviving long if his whole body ended up in there. All the while he was panicing and thinking about how he could escape he hadn't realised that he was up to his neck in this powerful man's mouth.

"SOMEONE HELP" he screamed, hoping someone outside the shop would hear him. Sadly, no one could hear his cries for help. "I'M BEING EATE-" Before he could finish his head was quickly engulfed by the pred's wet, slippery mouth. It was a quick trip down his throat and into the stomach that awaited him. Soon he was curled up inside the humid, slimy belly that was making his skin tingle.

Digestive juices quickly came rushing in, coating Zach's entire body in thick stomach acid. He felt it cover every inch of his skin, causing him to tingle all over and go red under the extreme heat. The inside of his capture's stomach smelt strongly of acid and burnt meat, which were held in by the thick walls that prevented anything escaping. Zach punched on the walls of his new home, but his hands just slipped down the walls of the fleshy sack, doing very little to help him escape.

From the outside world the shop attendant felt the helpless prey squirm around in his stomach. "Damn, you keep doing that and I'll make sure to keep as much air as possible in for you" he sighed, he always loved it when his prey desperately thrashed about to escape his stomach. He took in a large gulp of air to let the oxygen in his stomach keep circulating for his helpless meal.

Inside the stomach Zach was beginning to feel the effects of the digestion. His skin had begun blistering and he felt itchy all over. He'd accidently let some of the digestive fluids into his mouth, burning his tongue and melting away part of his cheeks in the process. He could already feel the flesh on his feet had almost completely gone, exposing his bone to the digestive juices.

Most of his nerves had been completely burnt away so instead of pain he felt a more subtle itchy numbness in his skin. This didn't spare him from the horror of watching his body gradually be eaten away at and dissolved though. Pretty soon most of his hands were just bone, and he could feel his joints begging to weaken as they were penetrated by the strong acids.

Moments later several fingers detached from his hands and fell into the soupy liquid below, which had turned a murky brown from the melted skin. As he went down to inspected his legs he inadvertently pulled his right leg off and was forced to watch as it fizzed away into the pool of stomach acid he was sitting in. He went to scratch his head to relieve some of the itching but was surprised to find that instead of hair he was mostly just scratching at loose skin and bone.

Zach realised that he'd soon be consumed by the powerful gut he was stewing away in and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He tried to lay back and close his eyes but his eyelids had been burnt off in the process. So he was forced to watch as the rest of his body was eaten away by the predator's body. His entire lower half had completely gone by now, and he could feel his core beginning to give way.

His left arm soon detached at the shoulder and fell into the mixture of stomach acid and his melted remains. The final thing Zach saw before he faded out of consciousness and was consumed by the shop attendant's stomach was his insides bubbling away as he looked down at his fleshless torso. He then faded out of consciousness, to be converted into fat for the man who had eaten him simply for wondering into the wrong shop.

As the worker felt Zach finally give in and stop moving inside his stomach he gave his now huge belly a gentle pat. "Another satisfied customer" he said, letting out a small burp. "UUUUUUUUUURP." He let out a louder, wetter burp, feeling something force its way up in the process. He quickly spat out a slippery skull covered in digestive fluids, along with a few acid-burnt ribs and a tattered pair of boxers.

He threw the remains in the pile of other clueless preyboys who had made their way into the shop without realising what it was. The only people who left the vore shop alive were proper preds, anyone else got digested into more belly fat for the ravenous staff. With that the shop boy went about his day, hoping someone else would wander in from the streets by mistake.

[malghra]

tenderest touch leaves the darkest of marks (1/3)

Darklina Week, Day 7: Soulmates

AO3 link

Soulmates aren’t the ones who make you happiest, no. They’re instead the ones who make you feel the most. Burning edges and scars and stars. Old pangs, captivation, and beauty. Strain and shadows and worry and yearning. Sweetness and madness and dreamlike surrender. They hurl you into the abyss. They taste like hope. ― Victoria Erickson

"I thought I had raised you to be smarter than this," she told him. "It does not do to fill your head with dreams and fairytales, boy. Love is a weakness the likes of us cannot afford."

Ana Kuya's knitting needles stopped clicking and she laughed softly, shaking her head. "It was just a story, Alinochka. Now, go to sleep." 

.

Aleksander believes his name was Anton, when he first heard about soulmates, or perhaps it had been Leonid, or Vasya. The names and cover stories have all blurred together into an endless succession of lies, he barely recalls them. He does remember the names from the story. Galina and her Igor.

His mother had been serving at some fat nobleman's estate at the time, and Aleksander had snuck out of his room to find a mirror in one of the many chambers in the main house and search his body for a mark. Because of what they were, he had never belonged anywhere, had never known a place he could call home, and probably never would, but belonging to another person sounded almost as good as having a home.

His mother had been the one to find him. He feared she would be cross with him for sneaking into the house, but she only sighed and shook her head. 

"I thought I had raised you to be smarter than this," she told him. "It does not do to fill your head with dreams and fairytales, boy. Love is a weakness the likes of us cannot afford."

Ana Kuya didn't use to tell many stories, and when she did, there was usually some lesson or warning in her tale. But when Alina was seven, Ana Kuya told the orphans at Keramzin a story that had her listening with bated breath.

Alina had always been prone to daydreaming, and over the next few weeks, she often caught herself thinking about Igor and his Galina, while she was doing her chores or picking flowers in the meadows beyond the walls of the estate. Alina had always been alone. She could barely remember anything from before. Someone to belong with, just one person to call her own in this world, it was everything she had ever wanted. 

Alina couldn't wait until she would meet her soulmate and leave the orphanage.

"When will I get my soulmark?" A fever-plagued Alina asked Ana Kuya one night, when the older woman had decided to stay by her bedside to watch her.

Ana Kuya's knitting needles stopped clicking and she laughed softly, shaking her head. "It was just a story, Alinochka. Now, go to sleep."

"I wish we could stay here forever" Luda sighed as she put her head on Aleksander's chest. She looked softer like this, and this fierce woman's tenderness almost surprised him.

"Perhaps we should." Perhaps they should forget about everyone and everything out there, stay in this hut, where it was just them, and kings and allegiances and wars didn't matter. He didn't know if he loved Luda, but he thought he could, and perhaps this would be the only way they could defy the rest of the world.

He'd searched his body earlier, in the light of the candles. No mark had appeared on his skin since he'd met Luda. He wasn't sure he had been expecting to find one, whether he even wanted to find one, but he had still felt disappointed.

"Do you believe in soulmates?" he asked her.

She twisted her neck, bracing herself on her elbow to look at his face. "Why, would you like to see your name on my ass, Aleksander?" she drawled at him with a smirk. The sound of his name on her lips stirred things in him. His mother would call him a fool who never learned if she heard it. 

"What? No," he muttered. "I meant..."

She giggled, nuzzling at his chest before meeting his gaze again, arching an eyebrow.

"You don't have a soulmark," he observed.

"You had yourself a good look then, did you?"

"I had more than just a look," he reminded her, grabbing her by the waist to pull her on top of him. 

"No," she told him as she inclined her head to kiss him. "I don't have a soulmark."

"Doesn't that bother you?"

"No, Aleksander" she moaned as she rubbed herself on his hardening length. "It doesn't. I won’t let the saints decide my fate. I make my own choices."

He groaned even as her words brought a smile to his face. She was right. He decided in that moment that he did love her, even if he shouldn’t, and apparently that was all his own doing, not some mysterious plan made up by the saints.

Alina was used to having nightmares about the raid on her village, which often left her sweaty and panting, but although the images in her dreams had been much the same, today was different. Her hair and nightgown were sticking to her damp skin as usual, and the dull headache was not unfamiliar either, but the pain in her lower back was, and so was the stickiness on the insides of her thighs.

When she sat up, she felt a gush of warm liquid. She threw back the covers and rucked up her nightgown, discovering bright red splotches on her skin and a darker stain on the bedclothes. She squirmed away, kicking at the covers, almost falling headfirst to the ground as she struggled to get out of the bed. She ended up on her hands and knees, half slouched against the side of the bed, heart hammering in her chest.

"Saints!" she hissed. Ana Kuya was going to kill her for staining the sheets.

To Alina's surprise, the older woman was surprisingly gentle with her as she gave her a bundle of rags and instructed her on her entrance into womanhood. She even allowed her to indulge in a cake and released her of her chores that morning. 

Hours later, she noticed the itch on the skin of her left breast. She rubbed at it lightly through the fabric of her tunic, mentally hearing Ana Kuya's voice chiding her, for it was unseemly for a girl to scratch herself, but the itch wouldn't stop.

When she unlaced her tunic to look at the itchy red blotch, it started burning. She he ran to her water basin, hoping cool water might ease the sting. She dabbed at the wound with a rag, and when it stopped burning, she uncovered it to see two words written an inch above her nipple.

A story long forgotten returned to her, and she clasped a hand over her mouth as the realization hit her. She snuck out of her room and tiptoed through the hallway down the stairs to slip into Ana Kuya's bedroom, where she kept a mirror on her dressing table. 

Shifting between twisting her neck and squinting at the letters curling on her breast in the looking glass, Alina deciphered the name written on her skin. Aleksander Morozova. She had no idea who that was. Her heart sank into her stomach, and she realized she'd been hoping for a different name.

Luda died. Aleksander had always known she would. His mother had warned him often enough. It still happened too soon, it was too brutal, too callous, and it hurt so much he could barely breathe. 

Afterwards, he had finally come to accept his mother's lesson that love was a weakness he couldn't afford, but he had still defied her by using merzost in his grief and his rage. Creating the Fold had changed him. He had become a dark god of death and destruction. Even if the small, lonely boy inside of him still craved it, he knew he couldn't risk getting attached to mortals again. 

Hundreds of years later, he decided it was for the best he had never received a mark. Watching every single person he ever met die was bad enough as it was, and he'd learned to shield himself from the grief. But he had also witnessed the heartbreak, the devastating and soul-crushing pain, the sharp-edged, gaping hole tearing a person apart after they had lost their soulmate. He was not arrogant enough to think he might survive that. 

He took lovers over the years. He was still a man after all, and he'd learned that nothing could replace the feeling of skin on skin and human warmth exchanged in the meeting of two, or more bodies. He tried to avoid other Grisha though, at least until after he'd built the Little Palace and he could be sure he had enough power to protect himself from their greed. He had not forgotten Annika. 

There was a Shu princess once, who would become a saint later. She believed in destiny, and though she knew what he was from the moment she first touched him, she wanted more from him than killing him and wearing his bones. Aleksander was sure that she loved him, but he had become incapable of returning those feelings.

He still remembers her eyes searching his body in the soft glow of the firelight after he had bedded her for the first time. He knew her name would not appear on his body, and that suited him just fine. 

Her own mark had been burned off on orders of the King, a king she would bring to his knees years later. She would take his throne and his country, and rule it wisely. He could have stayed by her side for that, but soon enough, he would sneak off in the dead of night, leaving her with a broken heart to protect his own. 

He took lovers, and he enjoyed his time with them, but he made sure to armour his heart, and he never looked for a soulmark again. 

Alina was only days away from her sixteenth birthday when Mal became the first person to see her soulmark. She'd come to accept that he was not her soulmate, but she still hadn't figured out who Aleksander Morozova was, so she told herself there was no harm in letting Mal kiss her in the meadow or behind the stables. 

And that was how she had ended up in the pantry with him. He had removed his shirt and kicked off his boots, unfastening and shoving his trousers down.

Alina was down to her tunic, her own leggings lost somewhere in a corner. She moved to close the distance between them. She pushed herself up on her toes and wrapped her arms around his neck to kiss him.

He splayed his hands on her back and pulled her closer, deepening the kiss. She rubbed her thighs together as she could feel his hardening length against her belly.

He fisted his hands into the fabric of her tunic and started bunching it up. She froze in his embrace.

"What's wrong?" he asked her. 

Alina hesitated, but she had known for a while that she couldn't hide this from him forever. "Promise you won't hate me?"

He frowned, but nodded.

She reached for the hem of her tunic and pulled it over her head, resisting the urge to cover her breasts with her arms.

Alina spotted the moment the desire in his eyes shifted to revulsion, or fear perhaps, she couldn't be sure. There was definitely pain, she decided, as she tried to grab his arm.

He flinched and danced away from her touch, not meeting her eyes in the faint light. 

Hesitantly, she reached for him again. "I’m sorry," she whispered, but he was already collecting his clothes and heading for the door.

When Alina wakes up after her first night at the Little Palace, she tries to insist that she is perfectly capable of washing herself, but the army of maids that has suddenly infiltrated her rooms just won't listen to her. They have her out of her clothes and in the bathtub in a matter of moments, and Alina can only sit back and stare at them with her mouth hanging open. 

She doesn't want any of them to see her naked. Mal had been the first, and for now, she wants him to be the last. She even kept her tunic on when she bedded Yuri in the cartographers tent, pretending to be too shy to take it off. 

She can see it happening, and she tries to stop it, but before she can do so, the girl closest to her brushes her hair back and bares her chest. She gasps and whispers, "Madam Safin!", clasping a hand over her mouth.

The tailor who has introduced herself as Genya approaches them and takes one look at Alina's mark, before clapping her hands once and ordering all of the maids out of the room. 

"I'm so sorry," she tells Alina with a sad smile on her face. "I can't fix that."

"I've had it for five years," she says dumbly, not understanding why Genya is apologizing to her. She crosses her arms over her chest and keeps her head down. 

"Ah," the beautiful redhead remembers. "You wouldn't know, of course."

"Know what?" Alina wonders, head snapping back up to look at Genya. 

She kneels next to the bathtub. "Do you know the story of Sankt Ilya?"

Alina nods. Ana Kuya had told all of the saints' stories countless times to the orphans of Keramzin.

"Grisha know him as Ilya Morozova, the Bone Smith," she continues, resting her arms on the edge of the tub. "You've heard the tale of his martyrdom?"

"Yes," she answers, though she remembers there were several versions. There was always a child, though.

"Ilya had two children. We don't know their names, but perhaps one of them was your Aleksander," she mumbles. "Ilya Morozova's children died with him, and their deaths ended the Morozova line."

She shakes her head. "What does that mean?"

Genya sighs, her big blue eyes filled with pity when she looks at Alina. "I think it means you are both blessed and cursed."

When General Kirigan leads Alina into his council room on the night of the winter fete, she hasn't thought about Aleksander Morozova in weeks. And when his lips meet hers she almost forgets her own name.

Alina has been kissed before, drunken endeavours, awkward fumblings, most of them mistakes, often either too tentative or too bold, but this, this is different. Kirigan's mouth and hands are sure, moving and touching with purpose. His body is hard and insistent against hers, but never crossing that line of suffocating aggression, even if part of her wouldn't mind it.

He kisses her like a starved man, desperate and craving whatever it is he may think she can offer him, and Alina feels like she is drowning. Her head is spinning, she feels weightless and too heavy all at once. It's too much, so overwhelming part of her wants to push him away so she doesn't lose herself in the feeling of kissing him and being kissed by him, but she's too hungry for it.

Instead, she grabs the lapels of his kefta, bunching the fabric in her rabid fist and cards the fingers of her other hand through the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling on the strands to ground herself. She's losing herself, but she's never been less afraid in her life. It's not truly loss, it's transcendence, a promise of something far greater, a concord of beauty and terror that has her straining to reach it. 

He groans into her mouth, and she swallows that groan greedily. His lips leave hers to nip at her jaw and suck on her pulse point, drawing a mewl from her throat. His hands are  still everywhere, roaming, exploring, holding, caressing, as are hers. 

She doesn't register the first knock on the door, but the second one makes her gasp, makes her reach for him with greedy fingers as soon as she feels him starting to pull back.

"Don't." She's not begging him, it's a feral growl rising from her chest.

He rests his forehead against hers and chuckles, stealing another kiss that has her craning her neck when he steps out of her embrace. Her heavy eyes flutter open, finding the black pools that are his and she feels liquid warmth swirling in her core. 

"Don't," she repeats, and this time it does sound like a plea, but she knows it's no use. Just a moment ago, he was in as deep as she was, but now he's striding for the door. 

He comes back for her, if only for a moment, but he returns to kiss her, only to leave again. It's a continuation of their game, this push and pull, but somehow there is no doubt in Alina's mind that he will be back. And she'll be here waiting for him.

She still feels dazed, and giddy, caught up in a warm, golden haze, when a creak behind her snaps her slow mind out of it and forces her to whirl around and call the light. 

A panel in the wall closest to her had swung open and Baghra was standing in the doorway it had been hiding. 

"Come, child, come quickly!" she whispers, and despite herself, Alina obeys the urgency in her voice.

"What's wrong?" she manages to ask before Baghra coaxes her into the tunnel behind her and starts walking, Alina following along.

Baghra tells her about the Fold and the Black Heretic, and she warns Alina that she's in danger. She claims that Kirigan is the danger. 

Alina objects. She keeps mouthing, "No!" her voice growing stronger until Baghra's stern look forces her to say, "I don't understand."

"Child," Baghra intones, grabbing her by the wrist. "Aleksander is the Black Heretic."

"What?" she blurts out. She should tell Baghra that she's not making any sense, that what she is telling her is impossible, completely ridiculous even, but she can't focus on any of that. Her hand flies up to cover the top of her left breast. 

"What did you call him?" 

Baghra huffs. "Did you think Kirigan was his real name? It's Aleksander Morozova."

Baghra tells her more, so much more. She summons shadows and shows her a painting, but Alina barely registers any of it. She keeps seeing his face. She hears his name inside her head, over and over again. Aleksander Morozova. Baghra leaves her, orders her to keep walking and to turn right at the fork. Her accomplices will be waiting for Alina there. 

Alina doesn't turn right at the fork. She's not ready to trust whatever Baghra has planned for her. She could wait and return to the Little Palace, follow the tunnel all the way back to Kirigan's—no, Aleksander's chambers, talk to him, tell him everything and demand an explanation.

Alina doesn't go back. She turns left at the fork and keeps walking, speeding up to a jog. Too much has happened tonight, and it's overwhelming her. She needs to get away from all of it. So she runs. 

[amethystpath-writes]

The Society

(NOT A PROMPT)

The grandiose room would have been extravagant had Nahzi been seeing it from anywhere other than the stage. She was a prop- no. A prop was hardly noticed. Nahzi was the whole exhibit, ready for viewing, prodding, and throwing insults at.

“She looks uncomfortable.” I’m stuffed in a too-hot dress.

“Her hands shouldn’t be covered in those gloves. They are for the elite class- for the Society.” My hands are scarred and Garnor thought they would be too ugly to look at- said it would distract from my ‘pretty, scratched face.’

And what did it matter anyways? Nahzi was a Society member’s property, so the gloves should have made the elite class feel well. This lady had no right. Then again, Nahzi didn’t want the Society gloves. She didn’t want them. She wanted them off. Now. Goodness, she never even thought about the meaning behind it. Nahzi was adorning their clothing, becoming more and more like them. Her stomach twisted.

“Is she capable of lifting her lips at all?” Into a snarl, perhaps, but that would only get me into trouble. “Garnor must have found the perfect routine. I should ask him about it after the Gathering. Misfortune befall you, Creature.” You used to be a Creature, too.

Did he say ‘routine?’ If unpredictability was routine, then yes. If Garnor was so great at what he did, why wasn’t Nahzi his wife yet? And why wasn’t he the one with special abilities?

The gloves were itchy now. So was the dress. The pins in Nahzi’s hair. They didn’t belong on a Creature.

Most of the critics were women, ones all dressed up in uncomfortable gowns and with faces powdered themselves. Looks like they fell right into their new roles. Women with pale, olive, chocolate, and all skins had fallen victim- had all been manipulated so easily by those around them. There were a few men who had fallen prone to a woman’s influence, too, but they were much fewer than the alternative. There was no particular reason- only an easy pattern Nahzi noticed too soon as she stood broadcasted on the stage.

A hand landed on Nahzi’s waist. Her first reaction being to pull away was a mistake as it rattled the chains hanging from her wrists, drawing the attention of all the hungry sharks. Nahzi dropped her gaze, but kept her chin angled high. She had nothing to be ashamed of as long as she defied Garnor. He would want her to speak; she wouldn’t.

“You have received many compliments, I heard.”

Nahzi nearly hummed mockingly, but that was just as close to speaking as deliberately saying, ‘Go screw yourself.’ She swallowed, taking a small breath. Still, Nahzi said nothing, but she did turn her chin to make eye contact with Garnor. He hated it when she did so. Hated it because it meant she didn’t acknowledge him as a threat. Garnor forgot Nahzi wasn’t a puppy dog like the rest of the bitches here- literally and metaphorically speaking.

“You know what happens when you ignore me.”

Ignore you? Is that what you call this? Nahzi made a tss sound, one that gathered more attention than she meant. Everything she did was an attraction. Everything. It was why she remained so silent, and otherwise so obedient- despite her grandest wishes. It broke her- literally- to be so docile. However, fighting the guests would have caused a ruckus that Nahzi would not be able to survive later. The silence, on the other hand, that she could deal with the consequences of- because Garnor didn’t understand the importance of it.

The chain was grasped at Nahzi’s left wrist, and she was pulled into Garnor’s chest. Hating the gasp she gave, Nahzi turned her head away, her arms becoming riddled with chilled bumps. Contact be damned. Looking him in the eye usually caused him discomfort. That was…until the reason it happened was because she’d been frightened by him enough that she glanced.

“Look at me.”

Deep breaths, deep breaths. Tongue on roof of mouth. Nahzi plastered a look of contempt on her face- the same expression she always bared until slip-ups like the one just now. She faced him again, blinked, and nearly smiled when Garnor frowned at her self-control.

“You will regret making a fool of me.”

Nahzi shrugged. Maybe I will, maybe I will not. See, as horrible as the punishments sometimes were for not being Garnor’s little trophy-power wife, it was always somewhat satisfactory to watch him stomp around like a toddler throwing a tantrum. That satisfaction was all she needed to protect herself.

“You are going to perform.”

For the first time this night, Nahzi’s lips parted. What? she almost said but caught herself and snapped her jaw shut, lips forming into a defiant frown. No. You can’t make me. But Garnor could, and Nahzi knew that; she just liked to tell herself better.

“Your hand.”

She shook her head, stepping back. The stage was large, but not large enough that Nahzi could outrun Garnor. Of course, she had chains on, anyway. Nahzi thought even without them she had little chance- especially when surrounded by so many people who saw her as nothing other than an animal which needed taming.

Not here, Nahzi thought. Do not turn me into a performer in front of them. Them- all the people a part of the Society. A bunch of rich brutes and their dainty and lesser partners, taking in people like Nahzi to starve to death if only for entertainment. It was a vicious cycle that Nahzi wished to someday put an end to.

“One of them will take me,” Nahzi said, and her voice was rasp and unpractised from her long hours of rebellious silence. “You know they will.”

“Good, then you will smile when you receive your next compliment.”

As horrible as Garnor was, she didn’t trust that others in the Society weren’t worse. Nahzi heard stories of Miss Meighleen’s Creatures being damaged so far beyond repair that the husband smashed it with one of those meat mallets used in the kitchens- killing it once and for all.

At least its life was ended before it could become such a horrible and mindless contribution to the Society. Still, Nahzi had no wish to die. She preferred this constant fight and struggle over an endless motionlessness.

It. Nahzi used to be called that…before Garnor assigned her a name and gender. How unfair? Nahzi never paid attention to that change before but now…now as the gloves itched, and the dress scratched her skin…as she spoke to Garnor as a plea to remain as she was…it was all this which made Nahzi realize with raised brows…she was becoming one of them. It was this change, she realized, which was the cause of her misfortunate state now- the reason she had ever been able to be put in these horrendous chains, ones that pushed her fingers into unusable fists.

“I could not perform even if I wanted,” she whispered. Nahzi touched a closed, useless, and restrained fist to her lips, then to her eye as a tear slipped and she tried to hide it. The sniffle was unconcealable, though.

Was this it? Was Nahzi finally broken in after months- or was it years- of a hard, dreadful silence? After rebellious glares and jerks away from touches? But she still felt Creature-esque. Still felt angry at this change, at this sudden transition of sacrifice.

All this time, Nahzi thought, and whimpered in the back of her throat, I thought I was making such strategic sacrifices. Not fighting the visitors because it might have meant more torture behind-the-scenes, which would have meant submission. When all along…those sacrifices were acts of submission, and they were adding up- so quickly that Nahzi didn’t even see it coming until this very moment.

“Your hand,” Garnor said again, and this time Nahzi didn’t even have the capacity in her mind to reject him, to- to defy him, even in an aggravating glare. She stood still, sniffing with eyes wide open as she recounted each of her small sacrifices, only realizing that she doomed herself, and that Garnor hardly had to step in to do it.

As her hand was involuntarily lifted, Nahzi began to wonder, Is this my species’ fate- to become slaves to the Society? Have we no way to eliminate the threatful parts of ourselves?

The restraint around Nahzi’s fists fell away, clattering to the ground in a way that the sound ricocheted across the room, ringing in all Societal ears, ringing their attentions to the stage where an unrestrained Creature now stood sobbing to herself.

Nahzi clenched her fist at her own free will, but as she released her fingers to reveal her palms, a string of glowing white light slithered out, skittering across the air in bounded hops…right towards Garnor.

The Society, which had congealed into a massive, crowded audience erupted into cheer, laughter, and applause as the white caressed Garnor's hand, gliding across his knuckles and around his shoulders before steadily sinking into his skin.

Meanwhile Nahzi fell to her knees, head in her hands as she sobbed at her loss of powers, at her sense of being having been so cruelly ripped from her with hardly a moment’s notice.

Now, if Nahzi ever wanted her abilities back, she would have to do to a Creature what Garnor did to her. Or rather, what she did to herself. Could she do it? Could Nahzi continue the cycle of thievery and grievances just to reclaim what was stolen from her, even if it meant stealing from another?

Would she become a part of the Society, or would she find a way to tear it at its seams from within its gates?

[aquietwritingcorner]

Sicktember Day 3: Chicken Pox/Rash Word Count: 2069 Author: aquietwritingcorner/realitybreakgirl Rating: G/K Characters: Vato Falman Warning: NA Summary: Of course Falman would be the one to catch a childhood disease as an adult. Notes: AO3 || ff.net

________________________________________

Chicken Pox/Rash

Falman sighed, and idly scratched his wrist while he read the report in front of him. “—the incoming transport was loaded with supplies slated for the southwest region near Yommib. Unexpected delays occurred in the rail system at 1034. Causes were as follows—”

Falman blinked at the page. It was difficult to concentrate on it. He had been reading reports for days and memorizing them for this investigation. The non-stop reading was wearing on him, as silly as that sounded. His head was hurting, and he felt exhausted from spending all day reading these reports. Every time he stood up, his body protested by aching all over. He supposed he had spent too much time hunched over the reports. He even skipped meals, not that he had much of an appetite after reading what the criminals in question were up to. He wished he could take a day to rest, but he knew that it wasn’t possible. The stakes were too high.

He idly scratched at his chest. Did he forget to put in fabric softener last time he washed? It was possible. He had been rather caught up in that book Sheska had recommended to him.

“—Anonymous phone call received at 1025 purporting terroristic activities. Consequential investigation following received call. Mysterious substance on tracks (See report PGH#73940 for analysis). Small landslide approximately 3.5 miles down track (cause undetermined. See report IGF#2739 for further details).

Consequences of delays were as follows: 340 lbs. of meat unusable. 37 passengers missed connecting trains. Lack of support for troops at—"

Falman let out a sigh again and stood up. Breda looked up as he did.

“Goin’ somewhere?”

“I need more coffee,” Falman said.

Breda frowned at him. “You’ve been hitting the coffee hard the past few days.”

Falman nodded. “I know. But something about these reports just…wears at me.”

Breda grunted. “Yeah. I get that.”

Falman just nodded and got himself some more coffee before sitting back down and getting back to the reports.

“—Turnting. Further consequences include the delay of further trains, which had other unintended consequences (See attached report TDN#73849 for list of other related reports). A major consequence of note is the kidnapping of twelve children ranging from ages 14 to 3. This is believed to be part of a ransom and tr—”

Falman sighed, gripped his coffee, and kept reading.

By the time Falman went home, he was so exhausted he could barely keep his eyes open. His brain was swimming with facts and reports, and he was looking forward to a night of sleep to help. When he got home, he blearily changed clothes, not even bothering to shower. He’d do it in the morning. He was just too tired and wanted to curl up into a long night of a dreamless sleep.

Unfortunately, Falman didn’t get his wish. It was 0249 when his phone rang. Fuery was on the other end of it sounding more awake than Falman did.

“Sorry, sir, but the colonel said its time. Rendezvous at site omega.”

“Right.” Omega. That was the one furthest from command. “ETA of… twenty minutes.”

“Understood.”

Fuery hung up, and Falman rolled out of bed. He ached and was tired and coughed. He hoped he wasn’t coming down with a cold. That would not be good. Still, he didn’t have time to think about it. Twenty minutes was cutting it close, and he didn’t have time to think of much beyond throwing on his clothes and going through all of the reports in his head. As a last-minute thought, he grabbed a canteen, filled it with water, and stuffed some peppermints in his pocket. His throat felt dry, a bit sore, and Falman figured it was just his luck.

He hurried through the dark night, making his way to the omega site as quickly as he could. His back itched as he did, and he wished he had given himself more time. Maybe he could have put on a little lotion or found a shirt that wasn’t as scratchy. He’d definitely have to remember the fabric softener next time.

He made it to the omega site within the twenty minutes he had allowed himself, although he felt more winded than usual. He carefully entered the building where he knew they had set up a watch. As he entered, he saw that, thankfully, he wasn’t the last one there. Havoc and Hawkeye were both missing, although Breda and Mustang were going over some reports. Fuery approached him, a cup of coffee in hand.

“Figured you could use it,” he said with a smile.

“Yes, definitely. Thank you,” Falman responded. He took a sip, and the warm liquid felt good on his throat.

Fuery frowned at him. “Are you alright, sir? You look a little pale.”

Falman shook his head. “I’ll be fine. I think I might be coming down with a cold.”

Fuery’s brow furrowed. “That’s not good. Are you going to be alright?”

Falman gave him a tight smile and scratched at his chest again. “I’ll be alright.”

“Falman!” Mustang called out, interrupting them. “We need your input.”

“Coming, sir!”

For the next hour, a plan was laid out. Havoc and Hawkeye returned from canvasing the area. This was the group they were after, and they had several of the children held in the facility. Mustang called in more of the men under his command. They weren’t going to take any chances with these children.

And yet Falman kept feeling worse.

He drank coffee, drank water, made his way through all of his peppermints. And yet he still felt bad. His throat was dry, he had a cough, he felt so drained, and he was itchy. What was he so itchy? It was almost unbearable. Maybe it wasn’t that he forgot fabric softener. Maybe he was allergic to something. Maybe he had developed an allergy to his fabric softener. Maybe it was something that someone before him had used, seeing as he used a public laundromat.

It was Hawkeye who finally said something, and Falman found that he was glad that she did. She kept giving him concerned looks, until she finally reached out towards him, her hand going towards his forehead.

“You don’t look good, Falman,” she said. Her brow creased. “You’ve got a fever.”

That caught the attention of the others.

“What?” Mustang said.

“It’s nothing, sirs,” Falman said, scratching at his chest and then at his wrist again. “Just a cold.”

Hawkeye didn’t seem to be buying it. Instead, her hand moved, darting out to catch his wrist. “It doesn’t seem like it to me. And you keep scratching at yourself.” She pushed his sleeve up, and then blinked. The rest of the team looked on.

“What is that?” Breda asked.

Falman looked at his arm. Little red dots, blisters of some sort, dotted his forearm. The passing of his sleeve over them caused them to itch more, and he brought his other hand over to scratch at them. Hawkeye caught it, keeping him from doing it.

“Don’t scratch,” she ordered.

“Off hand, I’d say it looks like chicken pox,” Havoc said. “Or at least it looks like chicken pox.”

“That’s a kid’s sickness,” Breda said.

“Unless you never got is as a child,” Fuery pointed out.

“Or had a light case as a child,” Riza filled in. She focused back on Falman. “Falman. Did you ever have chicken pox as a kid?”

Falman blinked at them. “I—no. No, I never did.”

Hawkeye and Mustang exchanged looks. “Take off your shirt,” Hawkeye said.

“Sir?”

“Just do it, Falman,” Mustang said. “Let’s see how bad of a case it is, and if we can confirm if it’s chicken pox.”

Falman was just miserable enough that he didn’t feel like arguing, and he did as they said. Hawkeye released him, and he pulled off his uniform jacket first, and then the shirt he wore underneath it. A collective breath was sucked in, and honestly, as he looked at his chest, he couldn’t blame them. It was covered in the same red spots. Up his chest, down it, on his shoulders, down his arms.

“Is my back just as bad?” he asked, turning around.

“Oh yeah,” Havoc said.

“Alright, first things first—is there anyone here who hasn’t had the chicken pox?” Mustang asked. There were negatives all around. Everyone else had been afflicted by the disease in childhood, it seemed.

Hawkeye looked over him, worry creasing her brow. “Sir, we probably need to get him to the hospital. Chicken pox is more dangerous in adults. It’s why a lot of parents try to expose their children when they’re young.”

Falman honestly thought the hospital didn’t sound like a bad idea. Maybe he could sleep. Although the prospect of this disease being dangerous was worrisome.

Mustang frowned, and then looked at Falman. “Do you think you can last until morning? This op can’t be delayed.”

“Yes, sir, I can,” Falman said, although he didn’t really feel like it. “Although… I’m honestly not sure if I’ll be of much help, sir. I’m sorry.”

Mustang shook his head. “You couldn’t have predicted this. You’ll stay here, assist Fuery in look out duties.”

“Yes, sir,” he said.

“In the meantime, rest until it’s time to move.”

Falman nodded, visibly glad for the opportunity to rest. “Yes, sir,” he said.

He found himself a place to rest, and discovered, quite by accident, that Hawkeye was a fairly attentive nurse. Although she was still working on the op, she made sure he had plenty of water, got some medication from somewhere, procured a blanket for him, and got him a wet rag for his forehead. He dozed off and on, his fevered mind only picking up snatches of the conversations around him. When it came time for the operation to go into action, he drug himself up, did his best help watch and relay information, although, to be honest, most of it was a blur in his mind. Now that it had been determined that he was sick, his body seemed to have given up fighting the symptoms. As soon as he could, he was sitting back down.

Falman wasn’t sure how much time had passed before Havoc was rousing him from his sleep, helping him up. He led him down to a car, where Hawkeye joined them. It was only a short trip to the hospital, where he had to wait in the waiting room, was finally looked over, a prescription for a few things were slapped in his hand, and then he was sent on his way. Havoc and Hawkeye drove him back to his place where Havoc helped to settle him in while Hawkeye did something in his apartment.

To be honest, he felt too bad to care what she was doing or about the state of his apartment.

Havoc left, and came back with some sort of lotion, which Falman wasted no time in putting on. Havoc must have felt some kind of sympathy for him, because he helped him spread it on his back as well. The lotion helped, and Falman breathed a sigh of relief as it helped to mitigate the itching, at least a bit. Laying in his bed made his back itchy again, but at least it wasn’t as bad.

Before they left, Hawkeye came in to see him, putting some medicine on his bedside table, as well as a glass of water and a canteen.

“I left some broth for you on the stove, covered up. All you’ll have to do is turn it on to eat. There’s also some soup in your fridge if you feel up to that. I took the liberty too, of setting up what you’d need for an oatmeal bath in your bathroom. I’ve been told that soaking in it helps the itching. Someone will be back to check on you tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Lieutenants,” he said. “Sorry.”

“Don’t sweat it,” Havoc said. “It’s not like you got sick on purpose. Just rest up.”

“We’ll be back. Call if you need anything,”

“I will. Thank you.”

Falman heard them leave and relaxed as best he could in his bed.

Of course he would get sick.

Of course he would get the chicken pox as an adult.

But at least he had people who cared about him to help him through it.

[aggresivelyfriendly]

Hello babes!!! OMG, today has been a long week! A wonderful, dream big come true week! HARRY IS SOLO ON THE COVER OF VOGUE! Also, I have a new installment of Tryst for you all based on this 👆photo! Without further ado, I give you...

Scotland!

It's the pose that does it.

She's been so,  mon dieu she hates the moral judgment of the word. But it remains the right one here, in any language. Soo good, since she decided he couldn't give her what she needed, or maybe wasn't ready to, or didn't see her like that. Nothing more than a flying fuck when he got itchy on the road and she was available to scratch.

But here she was, with his encompassing form around her back and his arm causally slung across her collarbone and she could barely keep her lip from between her teeth to smile.

Smile for the camera, Helene. He'd whispered in her ear and she was thankful for their blustery setting the clothing covering her chill bumps.

All day, She'd been trying to keep dry and get some candid shots to go into the vault. Sometimes she wondered why they paid her to take so many images, most of them, a greater preportion than usual, just lived in her computer or Jeff's computer never to be used.

Would they ever release them? To the utter delight and meltdowns of this man's rabid fans.

She gets it, Helene does. What they see in him, she sees it herself often. And she sees more, his dick has made her soul smile on more than one occasion. It didn't start with these libidinous thoughts, it wasn't one of those moments where he was a living lighthouse or hedonism personified. It's the first scene with the imaginary fish and he's having a bit or trouble. He's also cold and wet. Which are two sensations he doesn't love, but seems to include in every damn piece of art he makes. He's throwing the little bean bag onto the rock and it's not meant to be gentle exactly, but he seems irritated, not concerned as you would be for a suicidal fish when you yourself are suicidal. His character at least. Thank god. But his physical discomfort is intruding on his ability to act right now; he's barely holding on. He loses his balance while frustrated and falls into the water, cursing.

Helene will not laugh.

She hides her giggles while they change him. He got his Gucci denim outfit uncomfortably wet. Why would you chose that outfit to go to a watery death? She is overthinking. As always.

He's ready to go again, fresh Gucci down to his drawers, and by the 10th take, he's in the swing.

When Harry nails it, He gives the director and Helene the biggest grin and she's charmed. The lights have turned on and the fog has lifted. He shines.

He is finished with this set up and Helene has just put her gear away. Harry brushes past her to get around a rock and presses an affectionate kiss to the easily accessible top of her head.

"Thanks for coming, Tiny. Know it's cold."

Helene smiles at him, and somebody else with a camera, someone not her, clicks their picture.

It's always weird when she is the subject. She's pretty sure she has more photos with Harry, selfies at least than with any boyfriend she has had, in her life, which flashes before her eyes, with a highlight reel of her beneath Harry, while he turns her around towards the camera.

The arm that was across her scapula, turns her like a top and her stomach flutters with the motion. His motion. His arm has come across her clavicle, like it did in LA, and she comes together like the place in between those bones, a shallow place where her heartbeat is thumping visibly.

She's thrumming.

Not that there is a damn thing she can do about it. He can do about it. Anybody can, they have so much work to do.

The quiver in her chest and bones and betwixt her legs stays with her all day. Through lunch with all the people she's missed on their break, around the lunch Harry's had cooked for them, with all the little flourishes he likes. All the different food needs accommodated, hospitality on show. It's a wonderful midday after a bitter morning, the sun's even peaked through. The whole group brims with happinesss. Helene and her table included, she laughs and kisses Molly's cheek, she's so cute.

She stays away from Harry though, through at least theee set ups, one not involving him where she could see his intention to hover and smell her pent scent. So, she puts distance, physically between them all day, especially when they move on to the shoot at the docks.

She's taking far away shots. It was easier to control the pulse at her center when he was in the loose jumpsuit. Now in the tight sweater vest, where he looks like some movie star from a bygone era, she's struggling.

It's sending her. Fly her to the moon.

So she keeps her distance and captures him from afar. She'd been doing so well.

Still is! She reminds herself.

The day is long because of her longing, but Helene makes it through.

"You coming to the pub." She jumps a bit at his breath near her ear, her hair is stirred by its breeze. She's surprised, she can usually feel his approach 10 paces off.

"No, need my bed." She begs off. She's begging he doesn't press, with those puppy dog eyes and dimples he knows how to wield.

"Really?" He pouts. "Need your company." He insists.

Oh, he's reached for the big ammunition, he's used everything in his arsenal, he's even touching her arm. He turns her again and she knows she going to say yes before he bites his lip and says, "please."

"Qui." She exhales. She'd like to qualify the sigh as resigned, but it's full of breath and melodic.

"Yes!" He presses a kiss to her forehead and squeezes her before he wanders off to gather troops.

So much for distance.

The pub is lovely, if their wine selection a bit limited. She can see why Harry picked this for his fictional island. He has excellent taste and this is so picturesque and any number of stories, real and imagined, could be contained in its Walls.

He tastes excellent.

He's across the room holding court. He's a little drunk, and he's just thrown his head back and she can remember the shape of his Adam's Apple on her tongue, and the taste. God the taste of his skin, especially after a show. Her lips would be raw from the salt afterwards, and dual thirsts would greet her in the morning light. Water with something more mineral from his skin.

Helene gulps her wine and tries to tune back in to the English around her. The mix of accents and the still difficult language is enough for her to have to get her mind out of the gutter intentionally to follow along.

Not the gutter, Harry's room.

She's squinting and translating something someone has said in her head and wondering how many times somebody has refilled her glass when another intoxicant fills her senses.

Harry's hand is on top of her head and then sliding down the back of her hair. It's exactly like he does when his dick is in her mouth. But he's usually not grinning like that.

"Tiny!" He's  so jovial when drunk. "This seat taken?"

There is no seat. It's the end of the booth, there is a small amount of brown leather, and Harry wedges himself onto it and picks up her legs, uncrosses them and lays them over his own to make space. He's solved his own problem and worsened hers.

She quirks a brow at him and he just kisses it like it's totally normal she's basically on his lap among all their colleagues. Only in this group he's made close as family would this not look risqué. Only with him. She's thinks only Sarah and Mitch know about them. Know that the 'know' each other. And they aren't on this shoot.

Nobody is looking at them funny, so she had better stop staring at him.

She tears her eyes away, like the wrapper of a condom, and goes back to translating.

It's useless when he starts running his nails along her thighs. She puts her hand on his to stop him, but he just grips her thigh instead.

It is not a step in the right direction. It's only leads one direction for her thoughts. To the way his huge hands look on her tiny body. The way his palm can cover her whole stomach and his fingers reach her honey pot still. She has photographic evidence. Between that thought and the wine, she needs to leave.

"Where are you going?" He looks very sweet, except the glint in his eye. She narrows hers at him.

"My room."

"Already?" He pouts.

"Qui."

"I can't really leave yet."

"I didn't ask you to."

He tilts his chin. "Maybe not out loud." He whispers just under her breath.

She exhales.

"Will you wait up for me?" He looks up through his lashes.

She can't even answer but her head moves up and down like a teabag into hot water in the morning.

She's boiling.

He grins. And leans up to kiss her cheek. "What room?" He murmurs. She knows he could find out if he wanted, but it would also alert the front desk, which might make it to the media, or worse, a fan with Twitter.

"24" she whispers through the veil of her hair. Pulls away from his tractor beam eyes and smiles at the table. Gives a few hugs and a big wave.

The inn is small, quaint. She's on the second floor, which is the top floor, waiting. Helene's kept her clothes on. The same outfit she has had on all day. Jeans, loose, and a t shirt, her dad trainers. Should she change? She tries to remember what Harry had on at the pub. He had changed a fair few times throughout the day.

She think he was wearing a hoodie, his name emobossed on the breast in some language or another, Gaelic?, and loose light jeans. Dirty vans adorning his feet.

She hopes she ends the night in his jumper, or wakes up and slipes it over her shoulders.

The hours slip away and her eyes have kettlebells attached to them. She's just about to take care of single girl tasks, washing her face and putting on the extra lock when the knock comes.

"I was about to go to bed without you." She leans against the door jamb. She's not purposely jutting her hip.  She's not!

"Ahh," he teases, touches the smudges below her droopy eyes and pulls her blonde hair. "You tired."

"Qui, it's been a long day." She breathes.

"What?" He laughs and pushes her into the room with his hips, "your call time was hours after mine!" He flashes his big green eyes.

"Maybe, but I don't have your stamina." She counters. Harry the athlete raises a brow at her statement.

"I've never had a problem with your endurance."

He let's that lie there, and she can tell both of their mind's are roving over memories of late nights turned into early morning mapping flesh.

"No, I suppose you are right." She goes easy when he pulls her forward and his mouth slides against her like a skeleton key into a waiting lock. She expects the kiss to escalate, but maybe they are both a little tired, exhausted from a long day, while longing for an extended night. His kiss remains deep, full of tingling tongue touches, but doesn't get faster, her back doesn't hit the wall, and there are no stops where she is pressed against or onto furniture.

He has some embedded geography of hotel rooms, because he navigates the suite like the globetrotter he is. They are both fully dressed, and the squeezes and rubs over the fabric are exciting, reminiscent of juvenile contained eagerness. When her knees hit the back of the mattress, Helene decides the adults need to take over and hikes the tucked in button down up and over his head, forgoing the buttons.

The black ink on his golden skin is a trail familiar to her fingers tips and she follows it down, down to the leaves framing his joyful path. She can feel the pressure of his erection on the slide mechanism of his trousers and against the strained teeth tethered together on his zipper. If it wasnt metal, it would unzip itself against the force. She sighs when she pulls him out. His dick makes her so proud every time. She can't imagine what it's like to carry it around.

No wonder he is so self confident, the word cocksure occurs to her and she giggles.

"Are you laughing at me?" He looks down and she's charmed, for all his assuredness, he's still vulnerable. It's why he is so endearing.

"Non," she's got him naked and guides him back to the head aboard. He looks more tired than her suddenly, he had a bigger day, job. She'll keep up the inversion of the evening, she can recall no other time together where she had clothes on while he was naked. "I was just think how much I appreciate your dick."

"And it made you laugh?" Oh he's still a little offended.

Helene will have to make it up to him. She ruts against his lap and takes stock.

He's half mast. Which is a rare state for him, in her experience. She nuzzles into his lap and laps from his base to tip. She can feel the plumping under her tongue and decides that's not quite adequate.

She can fit him all the way like this. It won't last, so she takes advantage and mentally pats herself on the back as she seems to expand her capacity as he swells. Once she can't muzzle her nose into his patch of hair anymore she pulls off with a gasp and looks up to his panting face.

"I wasn't laughing at you," she nods towards his bobbing shafts. "In my head, I thought how I'm proud of your dick, and decided it was the wrong word. But the right feeling." Helene put him back in her mouth with her tongue extended out, and stroked him from her throat to the squirming tip.

He's chuckling now and she smiles with her eyes at him. "You're proud of my dick?" His dimples are the size of salad plates.

"Qui, aren't you?" She flashes her brows while She straddles his lap. She's not sure she's satisfied her mouth hunger for him, but they have all night.

"Well...." He blushes, which makes her giggle. She's fully naked on his bare dick and he's blushing.

"Know you are." She whispers in his ear. "You have every reason to be."

"Mmmhmmm." He could be responding to her statement or her rocking over his lap. If one of them tilted just so....

"You've been cocky!" She emphasizes that by moving her hips to an almost position. "Enough before."

He looks just a touch frustrated.

"Should I show you how proud I am?" She slips the tip in, just the tip. Not quite to the popping point. It's a tantalizing suspension, just rocking while his eyelashes flutter. "Show you why you deserve to be cocky?"

"Mmmmm," he hums, vision now between their legs, mesmerized. "Please." He breathes and looks at her.

"Do we need a condom?" She's not sure how active he's been.

"Not for me." He grabs her hips and tries to push her down, as tantalizing as the pop of a champagne bottle, the moment of jubilant anticipation.

"Better safe than sorry!" she dismounts and grabs a skin. He breathes a breath like he is frustrated.

"Oh, Cherie, ne t'inquiète pas!" She teases and strokes firmly, guiding his foreskin over the sensitive tip. "We're only beginning." He helps her roll it down and lifts her thighs to press against the headboard on either side of him. She's glad it's padded. Harry's done waiting, or being gentle and shy. She can't even acknowledge the pop of their joining she loves, she's too busy catching up to the rough thrust of his pelvis up and into her own. "Merde!"

"Mmmmhmmmm." He hums and catches her lips with his own, a net to butterflies. It's soft, slow and sensual, in opposition to the bruising hold he has on her hips. He can handle her with one of his big hands. The other has found its place on her sensitive nipples. This escalated so fast she thinks the ending will follow the beginning with no middle to enjoy. She was hoping to fuck him slow.

Her hands slide down the headboard, it's coarse beneath her hands in comparison to the hair that fills her hands in the next moment. She pulls his neck back a little roughly. "Wait."

"For?" He keeps working her over his dick and it's compelling, and she loves it, but he's showing her why her makes her proud, and that wasn't tonight's lesson.

"I want to come."

"Good, that's what I want to." He hits her spot unerringly. And she's nearly convinced.

"No, non, on your tongue." She has to forcibly take herself off him. She lifts her knees and places her hands on his shoulders to hoist herself up. It's a favorable arrangement, her legs as long as his torso. "Allez." She suggests and his answer is a smile and the extension of his tongue right up her slit.

Helene has to grab the headboard to stay upright. She knew she was on the way. But how close she was to her journey is even clearer when his hands draw her ass cheeks apart and he's spreading her wetness over both holes while manipulating her clit with his tongue.

When he fits his mouth over her hood, creates suction and licks while fitting two fingers inside her separated by just inches of skin accessing both holes, she clenches without prologue. "Fuck." She rides his face until her orgasm has ridden out its welcome and he pulls his fragrant hand out to aid its twin in holding her steady until she's clutching the headboard and coming against his tongue again. Her wriggling at the over sensitivity only aiding his quest for number two.

She slides down his body slow and she's done, until she remembers her intention when his dripping shaft, wet with her and leaking a few drops for himself, prods her ass. She was gonna run this show, swing her hips like a pendulum so he'd enter a trance like state while inside her, the suspended animation of ecstasy. Helene needed to come so she would be calm enough to do it. To hypnotize him, slow and sweet.

She just needs to control the tempo, bang out a rhythmic unhurried beat on his hips.

It only takes a minor shift in alignment to throw them off their orbit. Send his mercury into retrograde with her pussy. She slides over the tip with ease, she's wet enough that she doesn't even have to work him in like normal. Though it still prickles her nerves with that familiar addictive burn she's only had with him and a few others. Those that pushed her boundaries. She's a globetrotter when she fucks Harry though. Her exhale would be loud if his groan wasn't louder.

"Fuck, Helene!" He looks down again and she decides now that she has given him dinner, he needs a show. Time to mesmerize him.She flexes her pelvis, rounding back and holds the headboard hard to find her beat. It's a slow jam, all the flavor of a samba. She's got a circle like a Ferris wheel and he's stuttering her name like he's afraid of heights but loving the ride.

"Again." Helene demands, her head against his forehead.

"What?" Harry's staring at her motion hard, distracted. Helene stops, she wants his attention, his eyes, his mouth, his dick, every inch of him focused on her, including those inside her. She rides the circle to the top, just his tip inside, and hovers. No other passengers are getting on, she just wants him to admire the view. She clenches and knows he can see it when he shivers.

Helene uses her nose to nudge his gaze up. He looks up, down, up, again. She pulls out enough to nearly unseat him and his fingers dig into her hips. "What?"  He repeats.

"My ñame." She looks him in the eye and presses her panting mouth to his while she slides all the way down, his pubic hair against her swollen clit. "Say my name."

He breathes it out, like a prayer, "Helene!" While she takes them to the top again. "Helene!" He shouts in exhalations when she slams down to his pelvis harder. "Helene!" She swings back up slow, and drops like they've found themselves on a rollercoaster.

By now her name is a chant, "Helene, Helene, helene, fuck Helene!" He's squeezing and staring and licking her lips sloppily and she can tell he doesn't know if he should stop her, try to help her along so they can get off together, or just cum.

He looks desperate to finish.

So she stops, and he looks frantic. "Baby, please!"

Helene shrugs, kisses him and grinds herself against him inside on her spot and outside on begging pleasure zone until she's almost there. She squeezes him rhythmically to keep him ready.

She's almost there. They can hop off this ride together now. So she starts the ascent to the top again, slow circles until he's panting and chanting again, and then it's a free fall ride for them both.

Helene loses her stomach and screams his name in harmony with his chorus of hers.

Their sweaty foreheads rest together, until he is chuckling.

"Quoi?" She catches her breath enough to ask.

"I was just thinking, I definitely won't need a photo to remember this one!"

She feels proud, but she knows there is an image he's forgetting, one that will remind her of this Scottish adventure forever.

Months later, they've found themselves together, like together together, when she comes across it. She posts it, with a longing thank you.

When Harry gets home from set, he's smiling like a Cheshire Cat. "You trying to tell me something?" He shoves his phone at her with the open Instagram.

Helene shrugs. She's feeling proud, even prouder than she felt a year ago.

And she wants to show him.

[a-square-minus-one]

Honey 7

It’s been a while. I won’t lie and say that I didn’t have severe writer’s block. Still don’t like how this turned out. But it’s something. 

 “I’ve brought reinforcements,” Terra says, throwing her hands in the air enthusiastically. Raven breezes past her and places her bag of crystals and herbs onto the table.

“To our exposed tower,” Raven drones, emptying her bag one crystal at a time. Garfield bites at a hangnail on his thumb.

“Uh...you’re welcome,” Terra says, head tilting to the side and hands falling limply at her sides. Raven glances at Terra briefly, then returns her attention back to the stones. It’s silent for a few moments. Garfield sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger. Terra and Raven toed the line between friends and enemies constantly. They cared about each other deeply but also knew exactly what to say to push each other’s buttons. There was no telling how they’d interact with each other at any given time.

  “Thank you Terra,” he says, placing a hand on his girlfriend’s back. She shoots him a loose, irritated smile. 

“You don’t need to thank me,” Terra says, directing her words at the sorceress across from her. Raven’s head is turned down.

“Thank you for thinking of us Terra. I just don’t know if this is an instance where there is strength in numbers or whether adding members to our team multiplies our vulnerabilities.”

Garfield places his hands on Terra’s tight shoulders, feeling the air around everyone rising in temperature. 

“Mmhhhm, I get it,” Terra says, sucking her lips into her mouth in a way that suggests she did not, in fact, ‘get it.’ “Guess I was just worried when Garfield called me in the middle of the night to tell me that your little boyfriend turned him into a literal fish out of water.”

“Okay!” Garfield says, clapping his hands at the same time Raven’s head snaps up at Terra. “Terra and Aqualad are here. Nothing we can do about that now.”

“Right,” Raven says, keeping eye contact with Terra for a few beats. She puckers her lips, and looks blankly at the wall behind them. “Truthfully, both of your powers will be very useful to us.”

“How so?” Terra asks. Garfield tries not to make his relief visible when he notes that a lot of the edge in both of their voices has been softened.

“I’ll explain but first-” Raven says, waving her hands until there is a circle of white gemstones around the group. “Demons can’t pass a barrier of quartz.”  

“Right,” Terra says, rocking on her heels and eyeing the little rocks skeptically. “So how can we help.”

“Incantations don’t really have a shelf life. They are immediate solutions to immediate problems. Spells and curses work best when they are bound to something tangible. Either a person or something earthen. It’s the reason why voodoo dolls are usually made of clay. And the reason for these,” Raven says, gesturing to the multi colored crystals in front of them. “And water-”

“Is a purifying element,” Aqualad finishes for Raven, playing with a chunk of amethyst. He looks around at the team’s expectant faces. “Ever watch the Wizards of Oz? Water melts the witch.”

“Such a marvelous movie!” Starfire exclaims at the same time Garfield blurts-

“Raven takes showers though.”

He immediately buries his forehead into Terra’s hair. Not the best time to sound like I think about Raven showering. He thinks to himself, clenching his eyes tight. He feels his back muscles tighten when he hears Garth chuckle.

“The Wizard of Oz is an exaggeration of the actual truth,” Garth says.

“Being?” Nightwing asks. Aqualad looks at Raven to see if she wants to explain. Raven shrugs.

“You were very eager to explain a few moments ago,” she says, eyebrow arched. Garth chuckles, running a hand through his jet black locks. “Water is considered pure. Dark magic and dark energy travels through it at a much slower rate. It’s why people use water in baptisms and exorcisms. It’s meant to cleanse.”

“Is there anything this guy doesn’t know about?” Garfield mumbles under his breath into Terra’s hair. 

“I’m not great at art history,” Aqualad says. Garfield makes a point to look at Garth’s face when he rolls his eyes.

“So our plan is to have Aqualad throw buckets of water on your brothers?” Garfield asks.

“Our plan-” Raven narrows her eyes at Changeling. “Is to trap my three eldest brothers in crystal cages and detach their spirits from their corporeal forms.” 

“That sounds-” Cyborg starts, scratching at his head. 

“Like murder,” Nightwing finishes. Starfire cringes, placing her fingers on her lips. She looks to Nightwing, then to Raven.

“It’s not,” Raven says, sighing when Nightwing doesn’t immediately relax. “It’s not. My brothers are higher order demons. Their spirits cannot be destroyed.”

Nightwing crosses his arms over his chest. 

“Really Nightwing, do you honestly think we are capable of removing sin from the world?” Raven asks. One of her eyes twitches. 

Raven looks around to her teammates who say nothing. “The answer is a very very clear ‘no.’ My brothers need to exist.”

“The world needs balance,” Aqualad says. Raven nods at him. 

“Something it will not have if my father is released. Which is why we need to separate my brothers’ spirits from their bodies and trap them in clay figurines. This will make it nearly impossible for them to communicate their plans with each other. It will solve our problems for at least another decade.”

“And their bodies?” Nightwing asks. Raven feels her skin prickle at the sharp accusation.

“Are just that,” she replies smoothly. “Bodies. Their bodies only serve as conduits for their immortal spirits. Trigon will eventually find another human woman to manipulate and seduce and my brothers will have a new conduit.”  

“We need to think of another way,” Nightwing bristles, pounding his fist into his hand.  Raven looks at his fist in his hand.

“There is no other way.”

“We can’t just murd-”

“This is not murde-”

“Then why does your plan end with six lifeless bodies. Your brothers have human mothers. They are human.”

“No Nightwing...there is absolutely nothing human about my brothers. If you knew what they were capable of, you would know that. With certainty.” 

“Trigon made them the same way he made you.”

The words shouldn’t have had as much force as they did but Garfield finds himself taking a step back. He can hear everyone’s breath catch in their throat at the same time. Garfield notices Raven’s shoulders shift, almost as if she’s accommodating the weight of the words Nightwing just said. Besides that, she is frozen in place.  She does not look up. She does not acknowledge what was said. Nightwing’s frowning, his fingers twitching against his thighs. It looks like he’s torn between wanting to say something and wanting to stand firm. He doesn’t get the chance to make the decision because Raven turns around, her cloak swirling around her ankles. She starts moving towards the common room doors.

Then suddenly she yelps in a way that makes Garfield’s ears ring. One second she’s surrounded by shocking white light and the next she’s being propelled backwards, forcefully and quickly, into the sofa. Garfield can hear the impact as her back hits the wooden structure underneath the cushions. He winces. He and Starfire are by her side immediately. Nightwing runs in front of her, bo staff gripped tightly in his hand. His eyes are sharp as he looks around the common room for the intruder.

“My brothers aren’t here,” Raven says, wincing a little as Starfire helps her to sit up. Nightwing turns around, eyebrows crinkled. Raven sighs. 

“Star could you-” Raven pauses. Garfield looks down as her throat moves when she swallows deeply and silently. “Could you move one of those crystals?”

And understanding falls over Garfield like an itchy sweater.

“Demons can’t pass through a ring of quartz,” Raven mumbles, looking down. Garfield feels fingers tighten around his heart as Nightwing’s last words are validated. Trigon made them the same way he made you. He wonders how many therapy sessions he himself would need to work through that idea. Aqualad moves to the quartz quickly and tosses the gem across the room.

“You’ll have to-” Raven clears her throat, and she hasn’t looked back up again. “You’ll have to put it back when I leave.”

“Listen Raven-” Nightwing starts.

“I’ll be back,” Raven says, rushing to the roof. Garfield presses his lips firmly together and runs a hand through his hair. No one moves for a couple minutes.

“So...what do we do now?” Terra asks. Garfield rubs the back of his neck. The whole team looks to Nightwing. His face and body are a mix of hard angles as he looks to the doors Raven left out of. His lips a straight line. His shoulders at perfect right angles with his neck. His jaw, somehow even more chiseled. Still Garfield can see traces of regret behind his statuesque frame. Realizing they wouldn’t be getting anything useful from him, Starfire, Cyborg and Changeling look between each other.

“You’re up grass stain,” Cyborg says, drumming his mechanical fingers against his chest. Garfield gapes at him.

“Up for what?”

“You gotta bring her back down,” Cyborg says, as if it’s that simple. Garfield places both hands on his head.

“Bro, what if she’s meditating?”

“Her brothers can attack at any time. We have to prioritize this,” Cyborg says, arms crossed over his chest. Garfield looks towards Terra who has started up a conversation with Aqualad since Raven’s departure. He leans towards his friend.

“Do you really think I am the best person to talk to her about this right now?” Garfield whispers, his voice coming out like little hisses between his tight lips. Cyborg waves him off.

“Her brother was obviously trying to throw you two off your game earlier,” Cyborg shrugs. Garfield crosses his arms across his chest and resists stomping his foot.

“Seriously? Why does everyone keep saying it’s obvious? What am I? Chopped liver.” 

“Of course not friend,” Starfire says, rubbing her hand back and forth over his shoulder. 

“You know you’re the only one who can talk to her when she’s on that roof.”

“That’s not true!” Garfield exclaims. Cyborg presses his lips together and tilts his head from left and right as if contemplating that sentence.

“Okay, we could all probably  reach out to her but you’re usually the only one ballsy enough to do it. She’ll be expecting you.” 

“Well it’s not gonna be me this time,” Garfield says, fingers digging into his elbows. It was awkward enough in the elevator. 

Garfield stares at Cyborg. 

And Cyborg stares at Garfield.

And Starfire stands to the side looking between both of them.

And five minutes later Garfield finds himself on the roof of the tower, the door closing softly behind him. 

Garfield curses and silently prays he’s not interrupting time she needs for herself. Raven’s knees are clutched to her chest, the soft wind is blowing strands of her hair backwards. He’s pondering how to approach her when a strand of her hair catches the light. All together her hair is such a dark purple that it’s almost black but when the strands are separated it’s a plum color. It’s the same color of the plums his mom used to bring him in Africa. They were always so fat and juicy. Garfield licks his lips.

“Are you going to stand there all day?” Raven asks, not bothering to look back at him.

“Was trying to avoid getting thrown off the roof,” Garfield says, placing his hands in his pockets and leaning against the door. Raven finally looks back, and the light is hitting her in a way that tints half her face golden. 

“Haven’t thrown you off the roof, or anywhere for that matter, in years.”

“That’s-” Not true, he wants to say but then he thinks about it. She hasn’t used her powers on him in a while.

“Fair enough,” he says, and walks towards her. He tilts his chin to the spot next to her. “Mind if I sit?”

“It’s not my roof,” Raven shrugs. Garfield presses his lips together tightly but sits down next to her anyways. He mirrors her position, bringing his knees to his chest. He looks out at the glittering water.

“You think my plan is murder?” Raven asks. 

“Don’t think you’re capable of murder,” Garfield says, watching a bird jump around at the shore line. They let the sound of the waves crash over their conversation for a few moments.

“But I’m not comfortable with your plan,” he says and turns his head to look her in the eyes. “And I’m not sure the rest of the team is either.” 

Raven’s lips remain frustratingly straight. Garfield doesn’t break eye contact.

“There’s not another option.” Garfield shakes his head.

“There’s always another option.”

A particular hard wave crashes against the shore. Raven looks away to look at it.

“They won’t hesitate to kill any of you if given the option,” Raven says in a low voice. Garfield watches as she brushes a strand of hair away from her face then looks away again. 

“It’s usually a hazard of the job,” Garfield says, leaning his back against the roof and looking up at the clouds above their heads. Raven looks back at him from her seated position the sunlight behind her is making the edges of her hair glow.

“If your lives are in danger I’m going through with it regardless of what Nightwing, or anyone, thinks.”

Garfield sticks his palm underneath his head and juts his bottom lip out in thought.

“You know Nightwing didn’t mean to insult you.”

“Doesn’t mean I wasn’t.”

Garfield hums. 

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“You don’t have to apologize for Nightwing.”

 “Well yeah but I meant for making things uncomfortable in the elevator and for being so crude.”

“My brother made them uncomfortable,” Raven says, getting up from her seat.

“So you admit it was uncomfortable?” Garfield asks, grinning. He shields his eyes with his hand so he can get a better look at her face. She gives him a deadpan expression, then juts her chin towards the entrance to the Tower.

“Let’s get back inside.” 

Garfield walks in front of Raven once they get off the elevator to the common room and quickly removes the stone just as she’s about to cross the barrier.

“Okay, let’s say my plan is murder. Let’s say that that is something that you think I am capable of-” Raven begins. Garfield cringes. Cyborg shoots him a look.

“Hey! I got her back downstairs,” Garfield says, hands up in front of him.

“Raven-” Nightwing says through a sigh. She puts a hand up.

“Let’s say my brothers, who have stood behind every person who has done any sickening thing in this world, are like me. Let’s say these men who have raped, murdered, robbed, are anything like me-”

“Your brothers are nothing like you. I misspoke-”’

Raven puts her hand up again. “What is your plan?”

“We keep them in a similar room to the one we kept you in on your sixteenth birthday.” 

Raven purses her lips. “I don’t know what you are expecting from this experiment but I would be remiss not to remind you that my brothers’ entire identities are tied to how many people they can make fall from grace,” Raven pauses, then sighs. “But I admire your infallible, perhaps misplaced, hope that there is something good even in the depths of Hell...maybe I’m too close to the situation to see properly. I am not too proud to admit that.” 

She shakes her head. “I trust your gut Nightwing. It hasn’t led us astray yet. If you think that we can do this some other way. If you are convinced-” Raven hesitates, biting her lip. She looks Nightwing in the eyes. “I have followed you blindly to the ends of the Earth before.”

Nightwing lets those words settle on his shoulders. “I didn’t mean to say that you are anything like your brothers. But maybe-” Nightwing pauses. He places a hand on Raven’s shoulders. “Maybe they are, even if only a little bit, like you. Anyone who has the potential to be like you should be given the chance.”

“So be it,” Raven says, bowing her head, and moves to the table fingering her crystals.  

“You’ll all have to wear these. It will protect you from demonic influence.”

“I think we are forgetting one dragon sized problem,” Cyborg says.

“I’ll worry about Malchior,” Raven says. Garfield clears his throat.

“Actually Rae-” he begins. Raven looks up at him and he messes with the collar of his uniform. “I think I can help with Malchior.”

“Unless you’ve been hiding your knowledge of archaic magic-” Garfield rolls his eyes. 

“I think I can turn into a dragon,” he interrupts. She stutters and he has to stop himself from grinning.

“You can- I- what?” 

“Why haven’t you told me this baby?” Terra asks. Garfield shrugs.

“It’s new. I thought I could only turn myself into animals but apparently mythological creatures are not off the table.”

“How did you find this out friend?” Starfire asks, eyes wide and shiny. Garfield blushes and plays with the hairs at the nape of his neck.

“I may have turned into a unicorn.” Cyborg snorts.  Raven has to resist smiling when Garfield’s cheeks tint brown with a blush.

“Why would you-” Terra begins but things start to connect for Raven.

“Jordan,” Raven says in a low voice. Garfield peaks up at her through his lashes. “She loves unicorns.” 

Garfield nods, keeping eye contact with Raven. For once it doesn’t make the air around them too thick to breathe. 

“Well. I’ll have to be at your side at all times. Malchior will not resist an opportunity to change your form again. These crystals will protect you from my brothers but not Malchior’s magic. Aqualad can only be in so many places and he can only provide a temporary barrier. I’m going to have to shield your mind.” 

“Woah. I don’t think that’s safe,” Terra says, standing in front of Garfield with her hands up as if forming a protective barrier around him. “What happens if you get knocked out?”

Raven bites her lip, contemplating this. Garfield moves in front of Terra, his back to Raven.

“Even if I’m not fighting with Malchior directly, I’ll be in the same field. It’s better I’m close to Raven so I have the added protection of the mental shield.” 

“How about you sit this one out?” Terra asks, hesitantly, in a voice so low that Raven was sure Terra already knew the answer would be ‘no’ before she even asked the question. Garfield, in typical Garfield fashion, does not get defensive. He chuckles and grips his girlfriend’s shoulders lightly.

“Can superheroes do that now?” he directs the question to her but then swirls around to his teammates. “Cause let me tell you, there are about a million battles with Plasmus that I would’ve sat out.” 

Terra sighs. 

“We’ll make sure Aqualad is by us too. That way if I get knocked out, he can put up a barrier quickly and Garfield can escape somewhere.” 

“I want to be by you too,” Terra says and Nightwing immediately shakes his head.

“We’ll need at least four of us to fight the six brothers.”

“Four brothers,” Raven corrects.

“Four?” Starfire asks. “But there are seven sins?”

“My brothers weren’t all born in the same year. Currently sloth is an infant and Greed is around 2.”

“What?” Cyborg asks. Raven shrugs.

“Many women get a feeling about how evil my father is before he can impregnate them. Gluttony is only eight years old but I still wouldn’t underestimate him.”

“So Envy, Wrath and Lust are the only fully grown adults?” 

Raven nods. 

“So-”

Red lights swallow up the common room. Raven curses, quickly using her powers to string fragments of crystals around her teammates' necks. 

“We don’t have time. Remember, the goal is to get them in crystal cages.”

[di-kut]

Baar Bal Runi: Chapter 6

Series Masterlist

Pairing: The Mandalorian x Force Sensitive!Reader

Words: 4K

Summary: (Body Swap AU) You and the Mandalorian have stopped on Garel, a huge urbanised centre, in order to refuel and restock again. Fears of lurking bounty hunters, your looming shower, and the things you have kept from Mando are making you skittish and jumpy. 

Rating: T 

A/N: I am so sorry this has taken me SO LONG to do!! Thank you to everyone for being very patient and lovely with me while the chapter whooped my ass. I am going to hell for teasing this shower scene again and not delivering I know. Also guys @adikaofmandalore has made an absolutely gorgeous moodboard for this series here!

Garel reminds you too much of Coruscant.

You stare out the small window, arms folded over the chest plate of the Beskar, watching the speeders curve in layers like winding snakes up into the sky, black shadows against a rich purple sky. Beneath you there’s the yelling of stalls and sounds of droids just off the alley in front of the hotel. The streets are crowded, the walls around you leak with waste from machinery. Distant rock formations loom with the towering of the buildings around you. Everything is tinged purple, or red and blue from the bright artificial lights lining the streets. Beneath you, two floors down on street level, a garbage shoot opens and empties cubes of compressed plastic into a dumpster. You pull the window closed.

Mando watches you from his bed, hit feet crossed at the ankles. Scarf finally removed, in only your tunic and trousers and boots. Hair unbraided, but tucked into his collar to keep the loose strands from getting into his way. The bed is a narrow creaking thing, but the mattress has springs and is stuffed, and feels like heaven after months on the Crest. Your bed is identical, pushed against the opposite wall of the small room. You move to it, decide suddenly against sitting, and pace back to the window.

“It’ll be fine.” Mando’s eyes track your progress across the room.

“There are so many people.”

“Exactly. No one will pick you out in a crowd. Or – or – pick me out.” He frowns. “We just need a refuel, and water. And they accept Imperial credits since – ”

I can’t work. You sigh and pause in your track across the room. You haven’t talked about it, not exactly. Haven’t talked about what will happen when the credits run out, but you can’t live forever without one of you picking up a job. You resist the urge to take the helmet off, know you still have to make your way back through the crowds to the ship, collect your packs for the nights you had rented rooms, had access to facilities to mend and wash your things. It had been months since you had anything other than just the inside of the Crest or a tiny trading dock on some backwash planet. You should be excited, but –

“What’s wrong?” Mando says.

“It’s… nothing.”

He can’t see your eyes, but unnervingly seems to sense where they have drifted, and his line of sight follows yours to the closed door of the ‘fresher. You hadn’t been able to rent the cheapest rooms, as you had originally intended, because it would have meant communal showers. Which was not an option. And you were glad, not just for the Creed, but also because you would not have to discover the Mandalorian’s body in a room full of strangers. And he would not have to do the same for you. Your face is so hot you can feel sweat starting to form at your hairline. You should not be worrying about washing, on a planet so bustling and full you have far more to keep your mind occupied. The threat of Bounty Hunters was very real on a planet like Garel, and it was not only you but the kid you should have been worried for. But.

“Are you okay with this?” He asks.

You pull at your glove. Catch the thick seams of the leather between your fingertips. “Yes. No. Not really but… I need to wash. We can’t just not wash.” You admit in a small voice. “Is… is it okay for you? The armour…”

He deflates in a puff of air, sinks into the bed. “I don’t know. But like you said. We can’t not wash.”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah.” He echoes. Stares down at his hand – your hand – laying flat over his stomach. “Is there… anything we can do? To make it easier.”

You shrug. Feel your leg begin to jump against the ground so you pace again. And Mando watches you carefully from the bed in the corner, letting his eyes drift to follow you about the room.

“Gotabor.” He waits till the helmet turns to look at him. “Whatever I can do, just tell me. I will do it.”

You sigh and finally let yourself sink into your own bed. “I don’t know. Just – just – ” You scratch the your neck under its covering and then the underside of your jaw. Its growing itchy with facial hair, beginning to catch on the fabric and rub at the helmet on the sides of your cheeks. “Nothing. I don’t know.”

“We don’t have to – ”

“No. We need to wash.”

You and the Mandalorian stare at each other, mirrors on your identical beds at opposite ends of the rooms. His face is pinched again, but he otherwise looks so relaxed you would never have guessed he was bothered at all, shoulders propped on the pillow, chest sunken back half against the wall. Completely at odds with his expression. He nods eventually.

There’s a soft, sleepy coo from the cot. It’s hovered in the corner, unsealed, but the child is asleep inside. Rolls over slightly and one of his large ears pokes out of his blankets. But he does not wake, tucks his ear back against his side and makes another quiet noise of contentment. You both stare at the kid, glad to have something to think about that isn’t your impending showers, or each other’s bodies. You needed to get your things before you can shower – can’t bear the thought of having to put the same dirty clothes back on afterwards. The delay is a relief, but also makes the twisting anxious knot in your stomach worse. You aren’t sure what’s worse; knowing you will have the Mandalorian’s body completely exposed to you or knowing yours will be exposed to him.

Mando makes some noise, like he’s clearing his throat. You look over to him, the hand which had been spread over your stomach is curled into a fist. “It’s been almost a month,” he says. “Since – since this.”

“Yeah.”

“Is there… do we need to…” He sighs. “Do you need anything – from a medcenter or…”

“Oh. Oh.” You sit up a little straighter on the bed, glance down at the Mandalorian’s body beneath you before you can stop yourself. Rest your hands against your lower stomach. “No, no I’m – I’m on cycle suppressants, so. So, no.”

He nods slowly. “Okay.”

.

You agree to leave the child sealed in his crib, and with the door locked behind you. Better than dragging him through the crowded street again. The ship is docked at the nearest bay, not five minutes from the hotel. Your trip will be a quick one. It’s late, by local time, weaning into the early hours of the morning, but the market strip is still as busy as it had been when you’d landed some hours ago. It should take longer than it does to weave through the crowd, but the people melt away from before you when the glint of the Beskar catches their eyes. You walk ahead of the Mandalorian, feel him close in your wake to avoid the bustle of people. Feel the sudden overwhelming frustration and panic which does not belong to you.

You stop dead, feel him slam into your back. He swears in Mando’a and is rubbing his forehead where it had hit your pauldron. Instead of breaking off, you feel his frustration spike, and then melt very quickly into something sharp and calm. He looks around you, the Viroblade he had strapped onto his own belt, somehow appearing in his hand.

“What is it?”

You stare at him. The feeling shifts again, changes quickly, the sharpness fades and melts into concern. A tugging, warm feeling. You see it reflected on his face. See his eyebrows pull up into worry, his eyes searching the visor of the helmet.

“Gotabor?”

“It’s nothing.” Your voice is quiet. Half the syllables too low for the vodocor to pick up and are lost in the sounds of the street around you. You clear your throat. “Nothing. It’s nothing.”

You feel it. He does not believe you. The worry becomes warped, powerful. Fills up your chest and throat. And then it cuts out and you stumble slightly, the sensation of the Mandalorian’s emotions leaving like having the floor yanked from beneath your feet. He catches your arm, but you find your footing before you can fall. Steady your weight against his shoulder. He keeps his hand against the gauntlet, tightens his fingers until you see the knuckles turn white. Stares at you with the same piercing look which makes the hair at the back of your neck stand on end.

“Something’s wrong,” he says.

You shake your head.

“You’re – ”

“Not here.” You say. “Not here, Mando.”

He starts to tug on your arm, steps in towards you like he is going to push you himself. “We’re going back to the hotel.”

“We’re almost at the ship.” You feel fine now, strong and solid again. All except for the strangeness of a leftover aching which does not belong to you. Slightly winded. “Let’s just get the packs and go back.”

He is going to fight you on this, you think. He is going to drag you through the market back to the hotel room. He stares at you hard and you watch as the debate he is having with himself plays out behind his eyes. So open and honest. His whole face is, lets every thought flicker across it, hasn’t had it exposed to the world since he was a child. His hand tightens its hold on you and then he sighs and releases your arm. Steps away from you just enough that there is a breath of space between you. He jerks his chin in the direction you had been walking, sheaths the Viroblade again as he does.

The docking bays on Garel are locked with codes, distributed by automated machines which charge a nightly fee. You punch in the code and the door slides open with a quiet hiss. The bay has a fuel station, water tanks, powered down droids in the corner for maintenance. It’s a clean, durasteel and plastoid, slick and sterile and lit in white fluroscent lights which flicker on as you arrive. There’s a space on the wall which is slightly brighter, a familiar sight to you, the removal of Imperial insignia has left the faded spot exposed to the world. Above you the traffic of speeders continues on a steady pace, slicing against the purple clouds. The Crest looks even older amongst the sleek surfaces, rougher and dirtier than it usually does. Calms you against what you know you must do, the familiar sight of home.

The packs are huge, too heavy for just one of you to carry. Empty medkits to fill, clothes to wash and mend, your holopad to connect to a larger terminal, download articles, books, news, anything which will shed light on your predicament. You had prepared them before departing the ship, left them stacked inside the ramp just in case you could not find anywhere to stay.

The ramp lowers slowly and you stand by it, foot jumping against the ground again. Try to formulate the words in your head before you start. Try to run through everything you know he will ask you in return. Think very briefly about continuing to conceal it from him but you know you can’t. Know that you had already lied to him once. Mando is watching you openly, and you can’t feel him anymore, but you can see his concern still painted over his features and feel worse because of it. Know that concealing that you have felt his heart four times now is becoming a breach of the trust you have won with him. It doesn’t make you feel less sick.

“Mando,” you say as he lifts his heavy pack onto his shoulder. “Mando. I have to talk to you.”

He looks to you expectantly.

“It’s about – it’s – ” Your foot is still jumping, echoing around the hull in the Mandalorian’s heavy boots. You breath in as deeply as you can through the helmet. “You remember when we talked about how I could… how I could feel things?”

He frowns. You are growing more skittish, fight the urge to turn away from him.

“Well I – I said I couldn’t… that I’d never with you but, but…”

His face smooths over. “But what?” He doesn’t sound angry. He sounds perfectly calm and you know him well enough to prefer his temper to this. You shift backwards slightly, away from him.

“Just then… when I stopped.” You think about not admitting the rest, about letting him believe this had only just developed, but the guilt gnaws away at your stomach. You twist your gloved hands together. “And in the desert. I felt what you were feeling.”

“You said you couldn’t do that to me.”

Your heart feels like its pounding in all your limbs at once. You squeeze your hands together to stop you from fidgeting them. “I… I know.”

“When you told me you couldn’t do that to me, had you already… had you ever…”

You bite into your lip, drop your head to the chest plate. It’s all the answer he needs. “Only once,” the vodocor cracks through your quiet tone.

He is still so calm, so still. “You lied to me.”

“I didn’t want you to be upset.”

He snaps. You see it, the split second it happens. The calm breaks away and his face pulls into a snarl. He hoists the huge pack up his back and shoves past you and down the ramp, footsteps echoing through the empty dock. You stare at the space where he had been and then swing around and scrabble after him, leave your own pack laying against the floor of the Crest as you struggle down the ramp, feet unsteady.

“Mando, wait, please – ”

“You have everything that belongs to me!” He yells, swinging around to face you. “You have my body, you have my Beskar, you have my Creed! And now you tell me even m-my feelings? You have taken everything away from me!”

You flinch away from him again. The Mandalorian is shaking, vibrating almost, his jaw so tight you think he will break his teeth on it, his eyes burning red and shining. The wetness in them grows and he swipes a hand across his face, so harsh you can hear the sound of the back of It hit against his cheek. Catches a tear before it falls. You stomach lurches. He is breathing in short, angry gulps. Looks at you like you have betrayed him. And you have.

“I’m sorry.” You say. “I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you but… I’m not doing it on purpose. If I could make it stop I would. I promise, I don’t want – ”

“How many times?” His voice is ragged. Eyes search yours through the visor. “How much?”

“I…” You trail off. Drop your gaze from his, can’t take it. Can’t take the way he is looking at you. The guilt is worse, so much worse, makes you feel sick. “Four. Four times.”

He opens his mouth to say something, a mean, ugly expression on his face. But he closes it again, his eyes searching the helmet frantically. You want to call to him again, reach for him, say something, anything. But you do nothing, you stand there silent and still and he shudders. Closes himself off. And then he is turning, passing the powered down droids, and hitting the control panel at the door so hard you jump. Worry it will break. He is outside before it finishes opening and disappears into the throng beyond it. Leaves you standing alone, listening to the hiss of the door as it closes again, the sounds of the outside world entering and then becoming sealed away. The docking bay is unbearably silent.

You feel strangely mechanical when you turn and walk back up the ramp, lift the heavier of the packs onto your shoulders. The pack which should have been his but isn’t. His words echo around and around with the sounds of your footsteps as you tidy the hull of the Crest with the lights from the docking bay. And he is right, you realise. He is right because you have taken everything that is his, and you still hold everything about yourself in which you take pride. Your hands have fixed the ship and rewired the engine and adjusted the child’s crib to take controls from an external remote instead of the gauntlet strapped to your forearm. Your hands are still capable of all that they were before, even though they are not your hands, they are his. But he is left with nothing. No Creed. No Beskar. Everything which holds him together now makes a part of you. A Mandalorian without a helmet.

You close the ship in a daze, descend the ramp again and stand by the manual control as you watch it fold back into the belly of the ship, sealing it off from the outside world. Feel a buzzing start to settle into your fingertips as you stand still, and you almost reach for the controls to open the ramp again. Think your lumpy cot in the dark of the hull would be better than having to go back and face him again. You rest your hand over it before you drop it slowly back to your side. You wish you were different; wish you were not able to feel anything of the souls of the people around you. Close your eyes tightly and try to hold all the shaking pieces of yourself together against the trembling you feel growing from inside you.

The market feels more crowded even now. The press of the heat and noise all around you unbearable, but you do not move fast. Can’t make yourself hurry back to the room where you know you will have to face Mando again. You even stop, more than once, let yourself be moved by the crowd and blankly inspect goods hanging in stalls ramshackled to the sides of the towering buildings all around you. Let sellers talk to you eagerly, show you food and weapons and tinkering little bits of jewellery you have no intention of buying. Shake your head at every one of them when you can no longer bear standing still and drift on, a part of the crowd. Ignore the way people jump when they notice the armour, trip over themselves to move from your way. The blaster at your back presses under the weight of the pack. Makes you wider, even, than you already are. You happily let it slow you down.

You are so caught in your own head that you don’t hear the yelling or the scuffling until you are nearly in it. A wall of people, taking up half the pathway, raising cheers and yelling. You hit into someone’s back and step away again. They turn, ready to shove you away until they see the Beskar. The man throws both hands up and steps to the side, and the ebb of the crowd behind you pushes you forward into the circle.

You sigh and start to shuffle sideways along the back edge of the gathering, trying to slip between people harder with the added bulk of the pack behind you. And there are people all around you, human and alien, trying to get a closer look. Even with the intimidation of the Beskar you are pushed along, moved further forward. You realise the crowd isn’t just cheering, there are a chorus of language and swearing being thrown around, someone yelling about credits and another answering in Huttese. Bets. A fight, you realise, and try harder to move. Push back harder against the people at behind you. Someone shoves into your side, another shoulders in front of you, trying to get closer to the action. You shoulder them back with a grunt, feel the swing of your pack connect with another body. A cry raises up through the crowd as you see the massive head of a Barabel pass over the rest of the crowd, circling the centre of the group, the dulled lumps of horns on its skin like massive rivets against green leather. As it passes closest to you the people ahead of you shudder and part, moving back from the enraged alien’s path and allows you a glimpse into the makeshift ring.

And Mando, fist curled back around his viroblade, circling opposite the Barabel.

The crowd closes back in as you blink. Stunned. The Barabel charges forward and you hear another deafening scream raise up around you as the crowd roars in response. You move before you realise what you are doing, shove your shoulders at the people ahead to try and break the crowd.

“Move!” You yell and it’s thundering. Around you everyone jumps, scatters and you push to the front of the circle.

The Barabel has circled further away now, scaly fists curled into tight balls and held up. Tongue hissing between its teeth and snarling. Sunken yellow eyes trained in on Mando. Opposite the Barabel he looks tiny, hair pulled half out from where it is tucked into his collar and falling around his face, flushed and sweating, a red blotch where he has taken a grazing hit near his temple. His pack lying on the ground near your feet. You feel the pounding of blood behind your eyes. Search Mando for any other injuries. Realise his gun is still strapped into his holster at his hip. He wants to fight.

And before you can think they charge at each other. The Barabel swings but Mando ducks low and twists and evades it completely, moves back out of the huge alien’s range. The knife is throbbing in the air, shivering so that you can’t focus on it. And then the Barabel is reaching again, roaring and swinging but Mando stays away, keeps himself far enough out of reach that it can’t find purchase. Weaving along the edge of the circle, further and further from the Barabel, but closer to you. You watch, mind blank, as the Barabel charges again. Mando twists but he isn’t quite fast enough. You see the misjudge, see the size of his step and swing of his arm, and realise he is fighting in your body, trying to manipulate a completely different person into a victory. The Barabel gets a fistful of his tunic but the viroblade is already at its arm, looks like it glides along the scaled surface, but there is a singing burst of blood beneath the sharpness of the blade and the Barabel screams and releases him.

Mando stumbles back, right in front of you.

You lunge forward, grab a handful of his collar and yank him back before the Barabel reaches him again. Haul him with you half into the scattering crowd. There’s shouting everywhere, all around you, the clamouring of tens of people rearing for a fight. Screaming filling up the helmet. And Mando is twisting, yanking against your grip, surprisingly strong. His collar stays bunched in your hand, his hair whips against the chest plate of the Beskar.

There’s a cool blade pressed through the fabric at your throat before you can blink.  

. 

Gotabor: Engineer

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[insert-current-obsession-here]

The Benevolent Possession  of Waverly Earp - pt1

After two whole years of sharing her body with a fallen Angel, Waverly likes to tell herself that she is used to it. 

Having someone else in her head, hearing every thought and knowing every desire (who often encourages the darker ones) can be overwhelming at times. 

Waverly likes to tell herself that she’s used to it but there are days where she does not feel particularly strong and the lack of privacy, the shared autonomy, the temporary loss of control, the unimaginable sensation of loneliness, can break her down and crumple her up until she is unrecognizable. 

On those days, few and far between now, she will clutch at her temples and scream at the sky and the Angel will scream too, always louder than her, and it helps, knowing that her struggles are shared, that the burden does not rest squarely upon her own two shoulders (even if it literally does). 

In that regard, it is not all so bad. 

It helps that the Angel gives in unexpected ways. Waverly learns early on that she has an eidetic memory and an affinity for remembering the phone numbers of fast food restaurants. She often loans a bit of her inhuman strength to help Waverly open the lid of a stubborn jar, or to hit just a bit harder when training with Wynonna. If Waverly needs advice, the Angel is always happy to provide her calculated opinion. If Waverly stumbles, the Angel will catch her.

And, of course, the power. An electric buzz just beneath her skin, itchy and always, always present. The Angel can handle it with deadly precision and she tries to explain to Waverly that she does not need to be afraid of it - afraid of what they can do - and that she could learn to use it, the Angel could teach her, if she wanted. But Waverly can already see the way everyone looks at her when the Angel is in control and so she tucks it away, in the back of her mind, and promises the Angel that she’ll get back to it eventually. 

Though they never do and the Angel does not bring it up again, a small mercy for which Waverly is grateful. 

Besides, there are more important things to worry about.

It takes them a long, long time to decide on a proper name for the Angel. But when they finally do it feels like Waverly is less hollow, like she’s not simply listening to the ethereal voice of her own darkness anymore. Adrian sounds pretty and divine and fitting for the Being that she has grown to know over the last two years. When they try it out for the first time it settles like it belongs on their tongue, and Waverly feels something that was stolen from her chest slide back into place. 

And of course, Waverly gives, too. 

Sometimes, while tossing and turning above the sheets, flashes of a frozen horizon and a stone throne chasing away sleep, Adrian will quietly ask if they can go flying. 

Waverly’s shoulders tingle, the wings that she cannot see but knows are there itching for freedom, and she rolls her eyes at Adrian’s obnoxious attempt to convince her because they both know that she always says yes. 

She rolls out of bed and pulls on the first thing that she can find in the dark and with one last, longing glance over her shoulder at her sleeping wife, she slips silently from the bedroom. In the hallway, Adrian reminds her to skip the missing step - the fifth one up from the bottom - and Waverly white knuckles the banister as she steps successfully across it only to gracelessly stumble over one of Rachel’s overturned sneakers laying forgotten at the base of the stairs.  

Waverly strings together a line of mismatched curses as she hustles the rest of the way outside, to the porch. Adrian’s laugh is too loud to belong in the still quiet of the night and despite her anger at Wynonna for putting a fire axe through the stairs and her annoyance at Rachel for ignoring her request to keep her shoes by the front door, Waverly laughs too. 

She peels away from the homestead, a steady hand pressing firmly against the stitch in her side, and listens to Adrian discuss ways to punish Wynonna for her drunken escapades. 

Under the light of the stars, Waverly stands on her tiptoes to find the half-full pack of Marlboro’s and the lighter she’d stored on top of the shed out behind the barn. “You know we can fly, right?” Waverly ignores them and continues to feel around until her fingers hit the corner of the carton and it falls deftly into her awaiting palm. “Stubborn.” Adrian says, her tone teasing, Waverly only grins. 

Vice in hand, they wander away from the homestead, bare feet moving easily across familiar land. They don’t stop until the Earp arch is a fuzzy blur in the distance. “You need glasses,” Adrian comments, and in the empty space just to the left of her humor, Waverly can feel her itching to switch places. Adrian’s low voice is barely audible over the hum of anticipation in their veins, “Humans and their proclivity to deteriorate.”

Standing alone (but not really alone) in a wide open field, her toes anchored into the cold Earth, Waverly relaxes her body, closes her eyes, and let’s Adrian take over. 

The transition is seamless to the point where Waverly doesn’t even realize that it has happened until they’re among the clouds. Waverly’s mind wanders while they fly, her thoughts trailing miles beneath them, and if Adrian cares about her detachment she does not mention it. Eventually, they slow to a stop, the large grey wings flapping furiously to keep them in the air, and Adrian takes a moment to light a cigarette. She places it evenly between her lips and breathes in and out four times before asking, “Would you like to watch the sun rise?”

Waverly doesn’t say anything, Adrian knows her answer. 

They turn around and Adrian flies them home, back into the ghost river triangle, angling towards Purgatory. They pass over Shorty’s and the police precinct and are halfway down the gravel road that leads to the Earp land when Adrian asks if Waverly is unhappy. 

“I’m not, not happy,” Waverly says quickly, watching as the edge of the lake behind her home races into view, “I just sometimes feel like I’m letting everyone down and I don’t know how to change that.”

They land behind the barn and Adrian takes her time crushing the end of her cigarette against the wooden siding with her thumb before she responds, “Is this about Wynonna? Her killing?” 

Waverly flinches away from the reminder and Adrian makes no move to comfort her. Her response is blunt and honest in all of the ways that Waverly is not ready to hear, “You cannot blame yourself for the actions of your sister.”

“But I do,” Waverly admits, the truth staining the cold air bright red, “I do blame myself. I… we could have helped her. What was I so afraid of? All I’ve ever wanted was to be the chosen one, to be special. And to learn that I’ve always had the power to help but have been too… weak to use it? How can I not blame myself for that.” Waverly can barely catch her breath, she can feel herself spiraling down, down, down…

Adrian presses their palm to the center of her chest and pushes hard enough to pull Waverly back, to anchor her to the spot they share, and she breathes for them.

Adrian flexes her wings, let’s the rising sun dry away any moisture that they’d collected while up in the clouds, and shrugs, “We can go whenever you desire, the Garden will always be there to let us in.“ She relaxes, closes her eyes, and Waverly shifts forward to take control. 

Blinking her eyes open Waverly shakes out the tension in her fingers and watches Adrian’s suggestion float through their mind; peace, Heaven, paradise, waiting for them - “No, no,” Waverly is firm, certain, and if she childishly stomps her foot just a bit for emphasis no one but herself and an Angel are there to see it, “I don’t want to leave my family...” She sighs, heavy and tired and full of so much guilt that her lungs ache with the force of it, “This is my home. It’s where I belong.”

Adrian lets it go, releases the idea back out into the cold world and let’s it and all of its promises leave as simply as it had come, “Then this is where we shall stay.”

Waverly pulls the sleeves of the flannel tight around her arms, inhales a mouthful of vanilla lingering around the collar, and shivers as she begins the long walk back to the homestead.

“You cannot avoid watching the sun rise forever,” Adrian says, carefully, after Waverly has stored the pack of cigarettes on top of the shed and they’re standing on the back porch, hand wrapped loosely around the brass handle, waiting for the urge to go inside. 

Waverly pushes forward, all motion and chaos, and steps across the threshold into the only home that she’s ever known, “I’m not avoiding it and you know that…” She sighs, frustrated, and she wishes that she never would have gotten her hair cut short so that she could have something to pull on when the words won’t come out like she needs them to, “I think it’s just that I don’t feel like I deserve it — yet.”

Adrian stays silent and Waverly feels more alone than she ever has before. 

She starts the first pot of coffee and brushes her teeth three times at the kitchen sink before Nicole comes trotting down the stairs. She can hear her wife catch her foot in the hole and stumble over it but when she turns the corner into the living room she is smiling brightly like it had never even happened, like nothing has changed. “Hey Wave,” She says, leaning across the table to press a kiss to the side of her head, “How long have you been up?”

Waverly shrugs and scratches at a spot near her left shoulder blade, “Not very long.”

Nicole nods and reaches up to pull three mugs down from the middle cabinet. When Waverly turns to look up at her, the weight of the world sitting at the tip of her tongue, Nicole is already moving away towards the fridge, “I was thinking pancakes for breakfast.”

The sun is up, the kitchen is warm, and Nicole is smiling at her.

Adrian is quiet. 

Waverly licks her lips and tastes smoke. 

[vincess-princess]

ex malo bonum

Chapter 4.

Word count: 5707 Warnings: violence, self-harm tendencies, restraints, lots of blood, GRAPHIC NON-CON. Proceed with caution!  Author’s note: you wouldn’t believe this, fellas. arnold updates. a one in the lifetime experience. 

The rest of the night Vince spent in hazy slumber, the one that at first feels like a heavy, cozy blanket that grows heavier and heavier until it starts strangling. It might have been because of his blood loss, he figured later, since neither angels nor demons, no matter who he was at the moment, actually needed sleep. Tommy was probably right, though. This body, which didn’t let him destroy it at first, was now on the verge of collapsing. It needed more careful treatment.

And… Tommy. Vince couldn’t get his head around him. Hurting him, then coming in at night to fix him. Trying to help him get through an encounter with Nikki, then attempting to do the same Nikki wanted to do to him. There was no logic in his actions, no motivation. And he called him “a lot of fun”. There was no innate hate behind his words, the feeling so natural to both angels and demons, the feeling that kept them against each other. There was nothing fun in that. Tommy, however, managed to find it.

Vince was dragged back from his slumber in the early morning when the sky had only started to color. There was a sound, sharp, loud, alien to Vince. He had never heard it; it was so hostile it sent a shiver down his spine. Vince was both curious and averse to seeing its source. Must have been one of those terrible inventions humans used to kill each other not so long ago. Vince had never seen them; he was kept up there snowed under all the paperwork. So many people to die meant so many souls needed handling.

The sound thundered along the streets unnervingly close to the house Vince was kept in before fading away in a few seconds, leaving an uncomfortable emptiness in the air.

Then the emptiness was broken by a scream, a scream in a very familiar voice. Nikki’s. And… angry.

Vince shuddered. He could only hope the anger hadn’t been caused by Tommy’s night affair. The entire conversation they had with Tommy was now running in his head, with no end and no beginning, and every time the word “Nikki” stood out in that mess, Vince could feel his own fear, almost physical at this point, pulsating in his stomach. It felt like a cold icky lump in his chest unfolding more and more, releasing more cold, liquid fear into his veins. It was irrational, of course, because what would Nikki do to him apart from hitting? How would he hurt him when Vince welcomed his pain, even longed for it?

Still, the lump was there, a constant, merciless reminder of Vince’s own weakness over something he didn’t even know about, of his unworthiness. He had to remind himself that he, after all, used to be God’s warrior once. He might not have been one anymore, but he surely wasn’t going to just let Hell claim him like that, without an effort. He would take everything Nikki would do to him like He did. He might have rejected him, but Vince wasn’t yet going to discard everything his life had been about before that happened.

Wait, yet?..

Vince waited, flinching at every sound from behind the door. He could hear worried voices in another room, voices that from whispering sometimes rose up to screaming, but even then it was hard to make out words. Occasionally he heard quick footsteps in the hall, but none of them stopped in front of his door.

The sun had gone up and was approaching its highest point in the sky, and still - nothing. Vince stared at it until he went temporarily blind, dull pain starting to throb behind his eyelids. The pain in his shoulder had decreased, turning from sharp strikes of pain throughout his whole upper body into a dull and totally bearable pulsation under the skin. The cut had closed over the night, and only a drop or two of blood oozed from it from time to time. The scratches from claws on Vince’s cheek had almost healed as well, leaving only red itchy traces. Vince dug his nails into one of them as hard as he could, but his nails were too short to actually hurt him, only leaving faint traces. He tried to tear the thread off and open the cut, but the thread turned out to be very strong.

Vince needed the pain and couldn’t get it.

Nikki came when the sun had already started to set, coloring the sky so brightly Vince couldn’t tear his gaze away from them. The Earth was ugly, ugly and cruel, but there were times when Vince remembered that it once was His creation. Humans might have disfigured it beyond recognition, but the core, the idea behind the Earth remained unchanged.

Now, however, it didn’t seem good. No world that had given birth to such a creature as Nikki did.

Nikki closed the door quietly, approached the bed and bent down to Vince’s face. Vince pretended to be asleep when he entered the room, but he didn’t need eyes to sense him. The air as though grew colder with his presence. Or was that the trickle of fear down Vince’s spine that made his hands shaky?

Nikki’s hand, that stretched out to grab his hurt shoulder and shake it violently, also was cold.

“Wake up, blondie,” he whispered quietly, almost tenderly, and this hint of tenderness made Vince open his eyes in surprise and, maybe, maybe, a little bit of hope. It was taken from him that very moment. The eyes that met his gaze were not green – they were pitch-black.

“I see Tommy visited you last night,” Nikki continued, rubbing his thumb over the stitches. It stung under his touch. “What a dumbass, huh? Didn’t even use the chance.” Nikki’s other hand slid across Vince’s chest, fingertips barely touching the skin.

“He did,” Vince said, staring right between Nikki’s eyes. He couldn’t bring himself to look directly into those pits of darkness, but he’d be damned, and he meant that literally, if he showed his fear in front of Nikki, even slightly. He wasn’t afraid, he reminded himself. Nikki couldn’t hurt him more than he had already been hurt - when he fell.

“Oh, really? Glad to hear that,” Nikki grinned and sat down on the bed, his palm pressing lightly onto Vince’s chest, not deep enough to hurt, but enough to hold him in place. “And how did it go? Did you like it?”

“He was interrupted,” Vince murmured. It felt as though cold threads of fear were seeping from Nikki’s fingers into Vince’s chest, sticking together into an icy lump.

“By Mick, right?” the hand moved down onto his stomach, tickling his skin with the claws, half an inch away from pain. Vince remembered how deep those claws could dig in. “Such a pity. In this house, I always have to do everything myself.”

Vince didn’t answer. Next moment, the claws dug into his skin, drawing a sharp inhale out of him.

“You know no one will come and save you now,” Nikki smiled sweetly.

“All bark and no bite,” Vince croaked, his mouth suddenly going dry.

Nikki blinked, taken aback for a moment. Only a moment, though.

“Kinky,” he said then and leaned towards him in a swift movement, obscuring his vision by a mass of black hair with an artificial, somewhat bitter smell. Teeth closed on his neck and bit through the skin, drawing blood and shooting strikes of pain down his spine.

Here was the pain that Vince craved so much. He closed his eyes and immersed himself in it. He waited with bated breath for the familiar rush of relief to wash away the discomfort of pain, to clear his head and to bring his emotions under control.

Only, it didn’t come. It was just simple pain now. Humiliating. Undeserved. Senseless. Pain he had to endure for a demon’s enjoyment. Not for the sins of humankind. Not even for his own sins.

For Nikki’s hard-on.

Vince’s hand grabbed a fistful of Nikki’s hair and pulled his head back, forcing him to unclench his teeth. It was a short victory: he made Nikki yelp in pain, but then he grasped Vince’s wrist, digging his claws into it so deeply Vince’s fingers weakened their grasp. He had to release Nikki’s hair and jerk his hand back, unsuccessfully trying to break free from the grip.

“Well, you’re fucking making me,” Nikki hissed, reaching for Vince’s handcuffed hand. Next moment cold metal wrapped around his hurt wrist - Vince had no idea how the demon managed to do that without a key - chaining it to the bedhead like the other wrist. Again.

Nikki straddled him, disheveled. “Usually I don’t like my toys restrained,” he said through heavy breathing. “But having you like this is kinda hot. What are you gonna do now, angel?”

Vince kicked him on the back as far as his left knee, the only unrestrained part of his body, could reach. He aimed at the head, but only reached the shoulder, making Nikki fall forward and almost sprawl on top of him. Nikki rolled to the side and with his elbow stopped another kick, gripping Vince’s leg once it reached his arm and clutching onto it. He then pinned it to the mattress with both his knees and scrambled to get his belt out of the belt loops. Vince wriggled helplessly under him, trying to push him off, but to no avail. The belt wrapped around his ankle and tied it tightly to the bedpost.

Once it was done and Vince couldn’t move at all, Nikki sighed with relief and leaned back, observing his work with a satisfied smile. Vince tried to jerk his legs and arms before realizing he probably looked like a dying animal in a trap, the most undignified situation he could imagine, so he lay still – he would not let Nikki enjoy seeing him struggling like that. Only his eyes were burning holes in Nikki’s face.

“As I said,” Nikki continued like nothing had happened, “I don’t usually like my toys tied up. But you’re truly something else. So… fierce. And so helpless at the same time.” He smiled, and Vince was sure he caught a moment of unexpected fondness before the smile turned into a sneer.

Nikki stretched out his hand and caressed Vince’s cheek, the one with the scars – now barely visible lines – from his claws. “I like your spirit, y’know.”

If not for Nikki’s quick reaction, Vince would have bitten his fingers off.

“Yeah, that’s what I’m talking about!” the demon grinned, but the next moment his smile wilted as fast as it appeared. “Now back to business. I’ve had enough of your stubbornness already.”

“If you’re so pissed with me, why don’t you leave me alone then?” Vince spat out.

“In your wildest dreams, honey.”

Nikki got on top of him again and leaned forward to the bite on his neck. The blood oozed from it slowly but steadily, and a few drops had already stained the sheets. Not that it made a big difference: the sheets were already dark red and black, and smelled no better than they looked.

Nikki licked the blood off, his tongue warm and wet on his skin. Vince winced in disgust.

“You taste heavenly,” he carefully tucked a stray lock of Vince’s hair behind his ear and leaned towards it, so close Vince could feel his breath on the skin. “And I mean that literally. You still have a lot of heaven in you.”

Still. Vince turned away from Nikki, not wanting to see the complacent expression on his face. But even that he wasn’t allowed to do.

“Squeamish, huh?” Nikki’s fingers grasped Vince’s chin and forcefully turned his head back to face him. He smiled, but Vince would rather he didn’t. “That won’t do, angel. You’re gonna look at me the entire time. Get me? Look up there, right in my eyes. And if you don’t,” he paused for effect, his grip on Vince’s chin tightened, “it’ll hurt.”

Pain, more pain. Wasn’t Vince craving it?

“Good,” he said indifferently, staring right at the ceiling above Nikki’s shoulder.

For a second Nikki looked at him blankly. Then Vince’s guts were torn out of his stomach, dragged out alive and wrapped around the bedpost.

Or rather, he felt like they did. This terrible, unbearable pain in his stomach couldn’t be a result of anything less than that. Vince screamed, but even his voice was taken from him, and his mouth only drew in short, panicky gasps. Vince cried, but tears weren’t coming, as though afraid of blurring Nikki’s face in front of him, his calm gaze and satisfied grin. Edges of Vince’s vision started going black, Nikki’s face – fading away. Vince’s throat was raspy from all the screaming, his breath broken and shallow. The demon must have stuck a hand into his stomach and tear out his organs one by one, so slowly, so cruelly-

It was over. Oh Lord, it was over. Over. Must be His help. Of course, He hadn’t forgotten about him, or He would let him pass out from the pain. Of course, Vince still mattered to Him. After all, he was His son – a wayward one, but a son nevertheless.

The world around Nikki’s face gained clarity, and Vince could again feel the warm metal of his bracelets, now bloody from all the jerking he unconsciously did, and the rugged belt against his skin. He couldn’t help but glance down at his stomach, to see if his guts were still there. The skin was dirty and covered in dry blood, but otherwise perfectly unharmed.

“Still feel like it’ll be good for you, wannabe martyr?” Nikki grinned. “Or will you be a good boy and do what I say?”

The urge to spit him in the face was almost irresistible. Almost, because the pain, terror, and desperation Nikki had made him feel were still fresh in his mind.

The grasp on Vince’s chin tightened again, claws digging into his skin.

“I’m waiting for an answer,” Nikki notified coldly.

“I’ll…” humiliation got the right words stuck in his throat. It took Vince an immense effort to push them out. “I’ll – I’ll do what you say.”

“That’s a good boy.” Nikki let go of his chin and wiped a drop of sweat off Vince’s forehead. “Alright, now let’s finally get down to business. I swear, if you pull one more trick, I’ll just choke you, and not in a romantic way.” Wait, there was a romantic way of cho-

Nikki unzipped Vince’s pants and pulled them down together with his underwear, and as Vince felt goosebumps on his naked skin, every thought he had in mind drowned in a sudden wave of pure, primal fear. It was hard to believe Nikki wouldn’t do what he promised, but hope, oh, that bitch had almost made Vince believe that it was just bluff, despite Nikki looking like the last person to do it. But now it was actually happening, with Nikki settled between his legs, undressing him, all so terribly real, that every little drop of hope Vince had had before evaporated, and instead of a steady flow of emotions in his mind, there was now a desert, blinding rays of fear turning every positive emotion into sand, and the hot, dry wind of desperation forming dunes out of it.

Nikki’s voice brought Vince’s mind back to the real world. “Damn, that won’t do,” the demon frowned, and Vince’s stomach sank. What else did he want from him? Wasn’t what he had already done enough?

But Nikki only poked at the belt around Vince’s leg with annoyance. Apparently, it prevented him from taking the pants off completely. They just bunched under Vince’s knees, not letting Nikki spread his legs wide enough.

“Should have undressed you first,” Nikki muttered, looking thoughtfully at the pants, then raised his hand, with those long, pointy claws, and then there was a sound of fabric tearing. “I hope you weren’t attached to them or anything," Nikki patted Vince’s bare leg and with the last pat left his hand on his thigh.

It slowly slid up and settled on his hip, with a finger carefully circling the hipbone. Then it moved onto his stomach, as though Nikki could feel where Vince’s terror was located. He probably did. No, he definitely did.

Something switched in Vince’s head. Wasn’t it enough that Nikki enjoyed his helplessness and humiliation? Did he want to enjoy his fear too? Completely break him, turn into a wrecked mess?

Those thoughts felt alien to him, like they had been sent to his brain from the outside. But this was only for a moment – as they ran like poison through Vince’s veins, they became so personal, so incredibly his, that no other person in the world could feel exactly the same.

The very next moment from a poison they became a drug. Vince let it into his thoughts. Embraced it.

Well, he better make a fucking effort then, the drug whispered in a familiar tone.

“You’re so tense,” Nikki said sweetly. His voice felt like a bitter pill in a sugary coating. “That won’t do.”

“What the fuck else do you want from me?” Vince threw his head back onto the pillow, looking at Nikki with exhaustion. He wanted all of it to be over already, but he knew Nikki wouldn’t just let him out like that. Still, one could dream. “Just do the thing already.”

“We’re not in a hurry,” Nikki reminded softly, but his hand on Vince’s stomach tensed up, ready to let out claws at any second. “Do you remember what I told you at the bar?”

“You talked a lot of bullshit,” Vince spat out.

“Oh, for sure,” Nikki snorted. “But there was a moment of truth there. It’s going to take as much as I need, and in the end, you’ll be begging for more. Remember?”

“You fucking wish.”

“Wanna make a bet?” Nikki offered, flashing a toothy smile. “That you’ll like it, little slut that you are.”

Vince spat at him. Most of the spit was left on his own chin, but some reached the aim.

Nikki wiped it off of his face, his grin growing wider, and oh God, did he have that many teeth before?

He pushed Vince’s legs wider, jerked one up by the knee, looking at what no one had ever looked before. Even Vince hadn’t, too busy coming up with various suicide scenarios in his time in the vessel. Vince wasn’t sure what the purpose of all those body parts he had down there was – there surely was some, but he hadn’t got to know. Still, he felt blood rushing to his cheeks against his will. Some kind of instinctive reaction? The feeble remains of the vessel’s own consciousness?

He didn’t get to finish this train of thought, though.

“You know,” Nikki kept smiling, that fake, terrifying smile of his, with too many teeth, “usually there’s supposed to be some kind of lubrication there. To, y’know, relieve the friction. But, unfortunately, we don’t have any.” He pushed Vince’s leg up onto his shoulder, giving himself better access to his lower parts, raised his hand to his face, so Vince could see it, and curled two of his fingers, and Vince slowly started to realize what he wanted to do with-

Then his flesh was being ripped open, Nikki’s finger digging deep into it with the claw out.

Vince dropped his head back onto the pillow, clutching at the handcuffs with so much desperate power he felt the skin on his wrists bruise, scratching the bedhead frantically and trying so, so hard not to scream - all in vain. It was muffled whimpering at first, then, when the second finger joined in, screaming. The world went bleak and blurry with tears, blackened at the edges of Vince’s vision.

Then Nikki pulled his fingers out, squeezing a hoarse gasp – all Vince could get out at the moment – out of him. Through tears, Vince could only see something red where Nikki’s hand was supposed to be.

“So we’ll replace it with natural lubrication,” Nikki finished as if nothing happened. The sound of his voice barely managed to get through the buzz in Vince’s ears, whether it began from his own screams or from how hard he tried to hold them.

“Don’t wanna talk back anymore, angel?” Nikki bent down to Vince’s face and wiped a tear off his cheek. “Funny how just a little bit of pain made you change your mind so quickly."

The poison, no, the drug, drowned out by pain before, fluttered weakly in his chest and wilted. Vince looked dumbly at Nikki and through Nikki, not seeing his face inches away from his own.

For that, he got a powerful slap to the face – this time without claws.

“You’ll space out when I allow you to,” Nikki reminded him sternly. Vince had to focus on him and blink to show he heard him. A simple nod seemed too much of an effort.

“Let’s move on then.” Nikki returned to his place between Vince’s legs, now with a growing red spot on the sheets between them. Vince heard him unzipping his pants.

No one will come this time, he thought.

No one did.

It was bigger than fingers but at least didn’t have claws on it. It went easily through torn flesh, making Vince writhe and whimper with every inch deeper. Nikki’s hand lay heavily on his chest, pressing him down to the mattress, not letting him resist in any way. Not that Vince even tried.

“Say goodbye to your virginity,” Nikki told him once he was fully inside, his hands on Vince’s hips, one holding onto them firmly, the other rubbing his thigh - back and forth, back and forth. “A little too much blood than there usually is, but you’ll survive. Most likely.”

Most likely?

Vince’s stomach twitched. Maybe it was just another one of Nikki’s threats, he tried to calm himself. Just another threat with no ground behind it, said solely for the sake of it. He lifted his head up to check Nikki’s face, but then caught a glimpse of his eyes and dropped it back, his arms weakening. While Nikki’s face was calm, his body relaxed, his movements well-calculated, his eyes were where his real emotions could be seen through.

He didn’t lie - he couldn’t guarantee for Vince to survive this. His eyes were that not of a sentient being, but a reflection of a single emotion so intense as though it took human form. It was hunger. Hunger for pain.

For Vince’s pain.

Nikki thrust in for the first time, and Vince exhaled a soft, almost unrecognizable “damn”. Nikki’s dick felt burning hot against his flesh, and Vince’s blood was boiling, and his entire lower part of the body was on fire. Not a good kind of fire - the kind of fire that burned witches. Just like it burned sins out of their bodies, it was burning something out of Vince’s.

Nikki’s lips curled into a satisfied smile, and he thrust again, and again, and again. Vince grit his teeth and bit his lips till they bled and swallowed his own screams till his throat ached. He wouldn’t scream. He wouldn’t give Nikki that pleasure.

When Nikki changed his position and hovered over him, placing a hand at the side of his head, Vince instinctively turned his head to the side - only to be gripped by the chin and turned back. Nikki kept thrusting in, but more for the sake of keeping up the rhythm.

“You’re so quiet,” Nikki remarked idly, his other hand moving slowly, too slowly from Vince’s hip to the stomach and then the chest. “Doesn’t it hurt anymore?”

Vince didn’t answer. He couldn’t even if he wanted to, his tongue sat swollen and dry in his mouth.

He should have learned by then that Nikki didn’t like being ignored. A hand wrapped around his throat, and Vince suddenly realized this was how he was going to die. He didn’t pay much attention to the way his nose inhaled and exhaled air before, it came so naturally to his vessel… now it was gone, taken from him. Vince gasped, trying to break free out of the grasp, but was immediately pressed back onto the pillow by the relentless hand on his neck. Panic washed over him, panic so intense he hadn’t felt even when he stood in front of a heavy truck, flew off a building, fell into a delirium of drug overdose. He had something there with him then – confidence, security even. Back then he was invulnerable, indestructible, bulletproof; he just needed to show the extremes he was ready to go for to be forgiven.

Now there was no security, no connection, no feeling of protection. He was alone, and nobody was going to save him. The hand on his throat cut off his air. He needed to breathe to live, and he couldn’t, and he was going to die, Vince realized as the edges of his vision started to blacken.

Then the grip on his throat loosened.

“Scary, right?” Nikki whispered in his ear, tickling his face with his hair. “Vessels are so fragile. Squeeze their throat for three minutes – and they’re gone. And you’re gone. No vessel - no you.”

“Don’t,” Vince managed to get out. His hurt throat distorted his voice, turning it into barely understandable croaking.

“Why not?” Nikki put his hand on his throat again, and Vince tensed up, but Nikki’s hand only stroked the skin where his fingers were digging in merely a minute ago. “Don’t you wanna die a martyr? Go back to Heaven?”

“I can’t,” pain accompanied every sound coming out of Vince’s mouth. And you know that was left unsaid, hanging in the air, too long a phrase for him to handle.

“Fallen angels who haven’t finished transformation belong to neither Hell nor Heaven.” Nikki informed him matter-of-factly. “Do you know what happens to them when they die?”

“No,” Vince moved his lips silently.

“They stay here, on Earth,” Nikki said casually. “With no vessel, nowhere to go. Restless spirits without a purpose, full with grief over what they had lost. Nobody knows them, nobody needs them, and the only recognition they get are horror stories.”

Why are you telling me this? Vince wanted to say. Only a barely audible “why?” came out.

“Just to be sure you know what lies ahead if you decide to end your miserable existence,” Nikki smiled, but only with his lips. His eyes were devoid of emotion, fixed on Vince, examining him, watching his reaction. “Do you prefer that, angel?”

Three days ago the answer would have been obvious for him. He would have gladly accepted immortal grief and desperation if it meant he wouldn’t fall even lower, wouldn’t turn into something he despised so much. He did something terrible and deserved to be punished for it, and if those grief and desperation were his punishment, then so be it.

He wasn’t the same as three days ago, though.

Vince knew that every moment of silence elongated the time the hand that now was stroking his skin leisurely was going to spend squeezing his throat.

He knew that and he kept silent. He didn’t know what he would choose anymore.

“Don’t wanna talk? Alright then.” Nikki’s grip hardened, and Vince was once again gasping and suffocating and clutching onto his restraints. Then Nikki entered him again, thrusting into him with merciless determination, and the world became a mess of flashes and blurs in front of his eyes. He heard ringing and gasping in his ears. Pain was the only constant thing in the background.

Nikki released him only when his jerking became weaker, more like a convulsion than a struggle. Vince inhaled hungrily, not noticing the pain going through his neck and chest with his every breath.

“Look at this. I made an angel cry,” Nikki wiped a tear off Vince’s cheek. Vince hadn’t even noticed he was crying. “What a monster I am, right?” He kept moving his hips at a steady pace, but the pain didn’t feel as unbearable anymore. Maybe Vince had gotten used to it already.

All he could do was a barely noticeable nod, but it was enough for Nikki.

“Yeah, of course- oh fuck, angel-“ Nikki moaned after an especially deep thrust which made Vince bite his lip, “-of course, I am.” He smiled crookedly, no usual complacency in his expression, and sped up, thrusting with such a violent passion even moans didn’t manage to form in Vince’s throat – only short, hiccupping gasps.

The bed was shaking, its headboard was bumping against the wall, and Vince tried to focus on that, on the simple, repetitive sound, but the hotness and pain in the lower part of his body and the sounds of skin slapping against skin were too loud, too strong to be drowned out. Barely minutes must have passed, but to Vince it felt like ages.

Maybe he died as a result of one of his suicide attempts and this was his Hell. His own, personal torture. Maybe no fallen angel really became a demon and was instead given their own punishment. Maybe there were no demons at all, and those were just other angels taking revenge for their own sufferings on the newer ones since they couldn’t reach those up in Heaven. Maybe Nikki was just the same as he was, just had gone further down the road. Maybe he…

Nikki let out a choked moan, his movements growing more and more erratic, his breaths shallow. Vince didn’t know all the whereabouts of hooking-up, but this surely meant something.

“Damn,” Nikki choked on his own breath. His hands, gripping Vince’s hips, were shaking, “damn, angel-“

Then he squeezed his eyes shut, his thrusts faltering, and something spilled inside of Vince, something hot and slick and oh God, was that really what he thought it was?

No, thank God, it was white. It mixed with blood on the sheets, and Nikki watched it with complacency on his face and exhaustion in his eyes. Vince dropped his head on the pillow. He wanted to pass out so badly. Just fall into darkness and come back when it’s all over, when Nikki’s gone.

Nikki, still breathing heavily, stretched out his hand and grabbed Vince’s torn pants, wiping off blood and sweat and the white thing.

“So how was that?” he asked casually, throwing the pants away and lying down on his side beside Vince. He propped Vince’s head up with his hand and examined him. His face was so close to Vince’s he could see his nostrils move when breathing. he looked away, at the ceiling, and this time he was practically sure he could see eyes up there. Or were those just colorful circles in his eyes?

“Answer me,” Nikki poked him in the chest, but not very strongly, just to attract attention. “Don’t you remember what happened the last time you didn’t? Or is oxygen deficiency causing memory loss for ya?”

Vince looked back at him for a little longer this time. Nikki’s expression wasn’t mocking or smug like it had been throughout the whole thing. And his eyes - his eyes started going back to green again, now the color of rotten leaves.

“You didn’t fulfill your promise,” Vince whispered hoarsely.

“What, about the pleasure?” Nikki raised his eyebrows. “But we didn’t make a bet, did we? Or do you consider spitting in the face an expression of agreement?”

A demon is always a demon, Vince thought wearily. It wouldn’t help him anyway: he would find a way to turn the bet against him. They always did. That’s why they were demons.

“Are you satisfied now?” Vince whispered almost soundlessly. His throat was sore and couldn’t get out anything louder than a whisper.

“Huh?” Nikki seemed to be taken aback, but only for a second. “I guess,” he said slowly, even thoughtfully. “I should be.”

So all of that wasn’t enough for him, Vince thought with growing desperation. What was he going to do next, flip him on his stomach and start again?

It must have been written all over his face because Nikki laughed and pinched his cheek.

“Calm down, angel. I’ve had enough for today. Poor little thing, I even feel sorry for you. Not your fault that you got into my hands after falling. Though I doubt there are demons out there who wouldn’t jump at the chance.”

“Sorry?” Vince tried to sound indignantly, but with his voice barely louder than a whisper it came out almost pitifully. “You loved it!” he got the intonation right this time, but this three-word phrase sent him into a fit of coughing.

Nikki patiently waited for him to finish, then spoke quietly, in a tone too calm to be natural.

“You see, it’s not so much about you personally – though you did piss me off with that holy toothpick of yours – as about you being an angel. A fallen one, yes, but still an angel. And I’m a demon, blondie. And Heaven has done me a lot of wrong.”

“And you’re taking the revenge on me?”

“Not quite. That’s not a personal matter between people, or demons, or whatever. Honestly, any other angel with a fuckable vessel could be in your place. It’s more of a desecration, sweetheart. God loves his children, so what could hurt him more than hurting one of them?”

Vince expected to hear hate behind those words, but there was nothing. Nikki sounded like he was explaining something simple to a child. Like it was so obvious it didn’t even need an explanation. Like it was normal.

Maybe it really was, and Vince just couldn’t understand it yet?

“You used to be a child of God too,” he murmured, avoiding looking at Nikki and practically feeling his eyes staring intently at him, waiting for something.

“I rejected him,” Nikki finally said after a long pause. “Long ago.”

[purplesurveys]

941

ACH

Do you listen to anything by Bach? I’ve probably encountered some of his material since I like looking for classical musical playlists to listen to on Spotify, but I���m nowhere near being a devoted fan or anything like that.

ASH

Do you like ash trees? I’m not attached to any kind of tree, really – but I know I have nothing against this kind, haha.

Do you have the ashes of a family member or a pet? No. The only ashes I’ve gotten to encounter are my grandpa’s, but we’ve since placed them in our local ossuary so that he can rest in peace.

How often do you feel like you want to bash your head against a wall? Before September, quite seldom. But with this month being so turbulent, chaotic, and nothing like I expected it to be, seldom has turned into every day.

Has anyone ever thrown you a big birthday bash? Sure. I had a big party when I was 7 and I also had a nice slew of celebrations when I turned 18. But if you mean a surprise birthday bash then no, no one has thrown one for me.

Do you know anyone who is brash? I do, but fortunately I haven’t had to work with her for a while now. I certainly often felt annoyed when I used to have to.

Do you typically carry cash or a credit/debit card? OMG Y’ALL I finally opened my own bank account last Friday I’ve never felt so grown-up until now haha. My dad helped me set up my first card, which is a debit card. :)

Have you ever crashed someone else’s party before? No, that sounds so annoying omg. I’d never want to be known as a gatecrasher. I know I’d be pissed if someone showed up to any of my parties uninvited.

Have you ever been involved in a car crash? Yes but fortunately they’ve all been super mild ones. One of my biggest fears is getting involved in a car crash where things would be out of my control and becoming seriously injured, like if a drunk driver crashed into me or if a 12-wheeler loses its brakes and slams into my car or something. I think I’d live in resentment for the rest of my life if that sort of thing happened to me and still ended up alive.

Do you use Door Dash? I didn’t know what this is so I had to look it up, and even though we don’t have Door Dash we do have several apps that do exactly the same services.

How often do you use a dash in your writing? I like using them in more casual contexts like survey entries, personal essays, feature articles, etc. I avoid dashes in academic writing since dashes are not really the most formal of punctuation marks.

Last place you made a mad dash to? The car repair shop that my dad asked me to meet him at because his situation was a little urgent at the time.

Do you make it a habit to flash people? Oh wow, no I don’t. That’s one of the last things anyone can expect from me. I like wearing revealing or skin-tight articles of clothing, but that doesn’t mean I like giving absolutely everything away lol

Do you prefer flash or no flash on a camera? No flash, always. I hate the effect that flash does and I never go for it, unless I’m in an area where lighting is poor.

Is the Flash one of your favorite superheroes? No. I’m not very big on superheroes to begin with.

Do you use the phrase “I’ll be back in a flash”? Not really. I find myself using “I’ll be super quick” more, or using ‘jiffy’ instead of flash.

Have you ever had a gash in your head before? Anywhere else on your body? I sported a gash near my eyebrow once because of some cousin who tried to blind me by hurling a glass jar towards my left eye and just narrowly missing my actual eyeball. Now there’s a scar in its place. Currently, I have multiple gashes on my arms and legs because Cooper.

Do you like hash browns? They’re okay, but I can’t have them all the time because I find them way too greasy for my enjoyment.

Do you do hash? No.

How often do you use hash tags? Almost never, unless I’m fighting for a political cause like BLM or calling for free mass testing. Hashtags got real lame real quick when they started getting popular around 7-8 years ago.

Do you have long eyelashes? Yes, it’s my favorite feature of mine and I get compliments on them fairly often.

How often do you lash out at others? For what reasons? Not often, but when I do it’s almost always because I’m already buckling under immense pressure and probably have nowhere to release my stress onto. I don’t turn it into an automatic mechanism though, because I don’t want to make others feel like shit for things they didn’t do.

Do you like mashed potatoes? I enjoy them but they’re not really my favorite dish. I can do 4-5 spoonfuls of them before getting over them haha, like I can never seem to finish a serving of it.

Do you typically gnash your teeth together? No I HATEEEE the sensation and the sound that it makes. My sister grinds her teeth in her sleep and it drives me nuts whenever we’re on a family trip and we share a room.

Do you know someone who speaks balderdash? Sure.

What color is the backsplash of your kitchen? White.

Have you ever had any rashes before? What kinds? Yes. Back in high school I used to occasionally get a random itchy area on my leg and whenever I’d scratch it, it would turn into an ugly patch of rashes. I never figured what the condition was but I’m just glad it’s never happened again.

Do you typically make rash decisions? Sometimes. I really tend to impulsive. The last one I made was swapping a full-time job opportunity for an internship with much lesser pay. Even I was surprised by how quick I jumped into the latter, but I like the nature of the work of the internship SO MUCH MORE, and I dunno if I’ll be happy with what I would be doing in the full-time gig. Plus, internships here are never even paid ones, so the fact that they even offered to give me an allowance per day just goes to show how good the company I’m interning for is.

Have you ever worn a sash before? I probably have but I don’t remember what for anymore.

Do you often find that your personality clashes with others’ around you? Yes, but I’m also good at adjusting to all kinds of personalities so I’m not too bothered by the clashes.

Whose tires would you like to slash? Any racist’s tires, really.

Who would you like to smash with? No one at the moment.

What was the last thing you smashed out of anger? I don’t really tend to be violent when I’m angry. The last angry thing I did was to throw my head against a pillow, but that’s it.

Do you have a secret stash of something hidden anywhere? Nopes.

How often do you take out the trash? My parents prefer to do it so they don’t really ask us to.

Has anyone ever told you that you look like trash? Other than myself, no.

Do you like to splash in the pool, the bathtub, or in puddles? I wouldn’t call it my favorite thing to do; I hate the mess that it makes, ha.

Have you ever thrashed violently before? What was the cause? Yeah. I probably embarrassed my grandma for life when I did so, but it was when I had to be confined to the hospital and they needed to insert the IV thing on me. It sent me into the worst panic attack I’ve ever gotten and I ended up thrashing a lot and several people had to hold me down so that the nurse could stick the thing into my wrist.

Do you own and use an eyelash curler? No. Those make me cringe so bad...I hate how they get so close to the eyeball. Kate brought her makeup kit to school everyday and she always made me try to learn how to curl my own lashes, but it just made me feel so nauseated lol

Have you ever experienced backlash from others? A few times before.

Have you ever had whiplash before? Never.

ATH

Do you prefer a shower or a bath? Shower. Much more efficient. Baths are relaxing, but I don’t like how I end up bathing in what’s pretty much dirty water.

Have you ever given another person or an animal a bath before? I’ve only given Kimi a bath. I let my dad bathe Cooper since he’s too much of a handful for now, plus I think it’s fair if we bathe one dog each haha.

How good are you at math? I can answer advanced algebra, statistics, and geometry questions if you give me enough time to review and get reacquainted with the formulas, but I’m perfectly alright with no longer revisiting trigonometry and calculus for the rest of my life.

Do you feel like your life is on the right path? Career-wise it definitely is; I’m happy with the direction it’s going right now. Everything else seems so turbulent at the moment and I can’t say I’m happy.

Are there any bike paths or footpaths in your area? We have sidewalks, if they count.

Have you ever gone on the warpath before? Not really. I do get very angry with certain people if I think they’ve been behaving badly, but I rarely get confrontational.

Is there a birdbath in your yard? No, those aren’t common here at all. I’ve only seen those in cartoons, I think.

Have you ever had a footbath before? Nopes.

What’s the last thing you’ve had to deal with the aftermath of? I can think of one thing but it’s still pretty triggering so I don’t feel like bringing it up at the moment.

Have you ever witnessed a bloodbath? Thankfully I haven’t. I get so queasy when I see blood though; it’s so much better off this way because I wouldn’t be able to deal with one at all.

Are you a sociopath or a psychopath? Do you know anyone who might be? No lol. I don’t think I know of anyone who could possibly be either. I wouldn’t want to associate myself with one in the first place.

Who’s the last person that you faced the wrath of? Myself.

AMP

Do you have an instrument that you plug into an amp? Nope, I own 0 instruments.

When’s the last time you felt amped up? What was the reason? Thursday morning when I parked in front of the office I was gonna have my job interview in. I needed to hype myself up to feel confident so I spent a couple of minutes in the car pumping my chest and screaming and shit, lol

Have you ever gone to day camp or overnight sleepaway camp? No. My mom wouldn’t have allowed me as a kid.

When’s the last time you felt like a champ? It’s been a while. I haven’t exactly felt like I’ve been winning in anything.

Last time it was damp where you lived? This afternoon. It was really humid for a good few hours and then it ended up raining.

Weirdest place you’ve ever had a cramp? My index finger whenever I’d try to use chopsticks; and my toes when I hiked in Sagada. The toe cramps were so bizarre I was actually laughing-crying the whole time the tour guide was treating me; my dad was taking photos of me too loooooool

Do you refer to your grandfather as “Gramps”? No. I call both of them Lolo, which is our local version of Grandpa.

Have you ever worn a headlamp before? No, I’ve never really had to.

Do you have a ramp anywhere in your house? I don’t think so, no.

Has anyone ever called you “scamp” before? No.

How many lamps are in the room you’re in? How many are actually turned on? There is one lamp, and it is currently turned on.

Do you stamp your feet when you are angry? It doesn’t tend to be a behavior of mine, no.

Last time you used a postage stamp? Not sure...grade school, probably? I never used those a lot.

Are there streetlamps on your street? What time do they turn on? Yep. I don’t keep track of their schedule but a safe guess would be either 6 or 6:30 PM.

Last place/area that you wanted to revamp? My room.

Do you know anyone who is a tramp? No.

Have you seen Lady and the Tramp before? Not the full movie but I’ve seen a lot of excerpts from watching Magic English as a kid.

Do you know anyone with a “tramp stamp”? I don’t think so.

AWK/AULK/ALK

Is the squawk of certain birds annoying? Which ones? I’ve never found any of them annoying, but maybe that’s also because there aren’t a lot of different birds flying around where I live.

Do you prefer hawks or falcons? And…why? I don’t have a preference; I’ve never encountered either.

Has anyone ever watched you like a hawk before? That sounds a little creepy and I wouldn’t want to know if anyone has.

What was the last thing you used caulk on?   I’m almost positive I’ve never handled that, haha.

[a-zebra-is-a-striped-horse]

[ichigopanhpff]

BNHA Fic: Blink! Ch. 13

Read Ch. 12 | Masterlist

SPOILER ALERT: We’re now closing on the Hassaikai Arc.

Muffled voices could be heard shouting with a thumping rhythm of footsteps pounding on concrete. Her tongue had a metallic taste to it. Her body felt heavy like corroding iron in salty water.

“..—ink… B…—nk...”

Her eyes slowly fluttered open, her vision still blurry.

“Blink!” Uravity’s voice reacted and cleared up in her hearing. “You’re up!”

Blink squeezed her eyes shut and reopened them to refocus her irises. Letting out a soft breath and gasped, she laid still staring at the morning sky. Cautiously pulling herself back up, Uravity supported her back with steady hands.

“You shouldn’t move,” the brunette warned. “You’re injured.”

She looked down to see her bruised left arm was in makeshift sling with a splint. Blink audibly hissed upon feeling a sharp and numbing pain shoot up when she tried to move it. It felt like her shoulder was popped back in place while she was knocked out.

“You’re finally awake, ribbit,” Froppy hopped over with a worried look. “I tried my best to catch you when you fell, but…” Her sad eyes wandered over to her injured arm. “It was already like that by the time I did.”

“What did you do to it?” Uravity asked with worry.

“I… I don’t know,” Blink truthfully answered. The last thing she remembered was feeling a surge of adrenaline and power build up in her left arm and destroyed Chisaki’s monstrous arm before blacking out.

She asked the two girls to help her up, to which they obliged and supported her until she got her footing and balance back. Everything felt like it was in slow motion as Blink’s brain was trying to process the aftermath. Everyone around here were either evacuated with cuffs around their wrist or rushed out on gurneys to be treated at the hospital; she saw FatGum and Red Riot at a glance rushed out with IVs attached to them as they were placed into one of the ambulances to be treated. Both were passed out from exhaustion.

She shuffled her way from the girls and and found Chisaki restrained to a lone gurney. Glowering over him, he slowly regained consciousness.

“Do you know who I am?” she spoke softly, still feeling the scratchiness in her throat.

He looked at her with the eyes of a broken man.

“You look like him… Rennosuke.”

“I’m his daughter,” she coldly stated. “I’d say the despair you’re feeling from having your dreams crumble before you is a satisfying payback than seeing you dead.”

“You don’t want me dead?” he jested with a dry chuckle, as if he was daring her. 

“No,” she affirmed with a renewed sense of self in her eyes. “Not anymore.”

Local authorities and heroes pitched in to help with the aftermath of the battle. They assessed four houses were destroyed due to Chisaki’s Overhaul and three citizens had minor injuries. Were it not for Deku’s quick thinking in taking the fight up in the air, the collateral damage would’ve been much worse.

The heroes who were injured were taken to the hospital for treatment.

Kirishima had bruising and lacerations all over his body, but will make a speedy recovery; Amajiki had a huge facial injury but will heal up quickly without scarring. Fat Gum had numerous bone fractures but was fully alert and starving. Aizawa ended up with 10 stitches from his wound.

Thanks to Blink’s on the spot triage and the knife wound missing Rocklock’s internal organs, his injuries weren’t life threatening at all. The heroine herself had a few cuts and gashes at the side of her head and right rib, dark bruising around her neck, and a dislocated shoulder. The doctors said it would take about two weeks for a full recovery, but was able to be discharged.

Unfortunately, not everyone came out unscathed.

After helping Deku take down Overhaul with her quirk, Eri collapsed and ran an extremely high fever that placed her in quarantine for the time being.

Sir Nighteye’s injuries were far too severe to recover; not even Recovery Girl could do anything to help him and succumbed to it.

The next day, Ren and Midoriya decided to stop by the hospital to visit everyone; the former wanted to see Togata and be there for him, having lost his mentor. He must be sulking in his room.

“How’s your arm, Ren-senpai?” the freckled boy asked.

“Sore,” she grumbled and scratched her cast, pretending it’s her actual skin on her arm. “The dressing’s making it itchy. My mom’s gonna kill me with her nagging when she sees this on video call.”

“Ah, I know how that feels,” the boy chuckled out uneasily and rubbed the back of his head.

The two walked on in comfortable silence.

“Mido-kun…” Ren called, prompting the boy to turn around, only to be met with a gentle smile. “Thank you.”

“Eh? F-For what?” he stuttered out.

“You helped me take down Chisaki when I couldn’t…” She looked down with a bittersweet smile. “Honestly, I’m frustrated because I had to rely on your strength to do so.”

“It’s really nothing!” he replied and held his palms out at her in neutral. “I just wanted to save Eri and—”

“You gave me the justice I wanted. I’m in your debt.”

All he could do was stare at her bruised neck, thinking back to the moment she used herself as bait just so he could rescue Eri. Even though he did defeat Chisaki, he felt guilty being unable to help her. It was then he realized the limitations of what a single person could do on his own.

This is the heavy burden every hero carries.

With his thoughts beginning to spiral out of control again, a light peck on his cheek roused him back as he saw Ren’s face extremely close to his.

Midoriya was dumbfounded.

“Come along now. We don’t wanna be late,” she casually reminded him and trekked a few steps forward.

The green haired boy, however, couldn’t move and suddenly turned five shades of red, ready to collapse right then and there.

He got a kiss. On the cheek. From his senior.

Having calmed down a few minutes later, they entered the hospital with news reports all over the TV saying Chisaki was attacked en route to prison by the League of Villains and stole an important piece of evidence. The two saw Aizawa watching the report and quickly reassured Midoriya it wasn’t his fault before making his rounds.

Leaving their belongings with Recovery Girl, the two made their way to see Togata, despite Aizawa’s warnings. The two made their way over, with Ren stopping in her steps. Midoriya turned to see his senpai with a hanged head and slumped shoulders.

“You… go on ahead first,” she uttered out and leaned on the wall. “I… need a little time to collect myself.”

The boy quietly nodded and gave her a concerned look before going ahead.

She felt bad for lying to the first year; Ren really just wanted to talk with him alone. Gathering her emotions together, she saw All-Might strolling down from the other side of the hallway.

“It’s been a while, Uncle All-Might,” she greeted. “You’re looking well.”

“Oh, Ren-chan?!” the former number one hero excitedly replied. “You’ve gotten so big!”

The two exchanged hugs and he held her at arms length to get a better look at her. It was many years ago when he last saw her, when Dave was still his sidekick in California. He remembered her and Melissa were thick as thieves as children. And now here she was in front of him as a teenage hero in-training with eyes of a person who’s seen their fair share of trauma and tragedy.

“Last time I saw you, you were as tall as my calf,” the blond hero lightheartedly joked before turning serious with a soft voice. “How are you holding up? How’s your arm?”

“Dislocated but I’ll heal up fine.” She gave him a sad smile and looked down. “Emotionally and mentally, I’m... still processing everything.”

All-Might placed firm hands on her shoulders, drawing her eyes back up to his.

“It’s not easy, going through what you are right now. Every great hero before you have been where you are. But please know there are people here for you when you’re ready to talk about it, including me.”

The girl softly nodded as he drew her into a tight and comforting hug. She had to use every ounce of willpower to not cry on his shoulder. Instead, she quietly thanked him before releasing.

“I should go and find Eraser Head,” he finalized with a small smile. “Be well, Ren-chan. We’ll see each other soon.”

“You too, Uncle All-Might.”

After a beat longer, she saw Midoriya leave the room and swiftly entered after. She saw Togata smiling at her with a hint of sadness from his bed. Swallowing the weighty lump in her throat, she slowly marched up to him, ready to give him a piece of her mind for stupidly taking the bullet for someone who’d done so much harm. Ren balled her right fist up and shook with tears streaming down her face, unable to utter a single word.

All she could do was stumble in her last few steps before throwing her uninjured arm around his wide and muscular shoulders, sobbing.

The tears he couldn’t let out because Sir Nighteye told him to keep smiling no matter what.

Tears of defeat not knowing whether or not his quirk would come back.

The tears of anger knowing how damn hard he worked to get to where he was, only to give it up for a little girl.

Tears knowing he knew being a hero who was desperately saving someone meant sacrificing his dream.

And all he could do was return her embrace, knowing exactly how she felt.

Her pillar was gone.

–

The debrief and piles of paperwork from the raid continued even after the interns got back to school. Aizawa had one-on-one counseling with each of them to keep their mental health in check. Ren’s was particularly short considering her history; it was more like she had nothing left to say. Everything was blurry and numb to her at that point.

The raven haired man requested her to come to him if she wanted to talk and didn’t push her any more. The train ride back was in complete silence. By the time they made it back to the dorms, it was already nightfall. As much as Ren wanted to message Seri and Tomoe, she was far too exhausted to do anything and just wanted to sleep.

The five were greeted with the entire class of 1-A.

“We were all super worried!”

“Is everyone okay?”

“We saw everything on the news!”

“You bastards are always coming home after getting caught up in somethin’ serious!” Kaminari shouted with distress. “Just stop scaring us for once!”

As the barrage of uneasiness continued, Todoroki saw one individual in the back with un-styled rose-gold hair. Her face was decorated with bandages and puffy red eyes, her skin sallow and sickly. Outfitting an arm sling on her left, she looked completely disengaged and hollow. Ren looked like she was going to disappear if someone took their eyes off of her. From what he saw of the broadcast, the look she had on her face then was all too familiar to him: it was the exact same expression he had from the Sports Festival; full of icy rage and fury.

“Ren-senpai!” Hagakure called and ran into her in the form of a tight hug, jolting her mind halfway back. “You had it rough out there too!”

“All the cameras on TV could catch was you dashing up at the villain,” Sero said. “You were crazy fast and took out one of his arms like it was nothin’!”

“But when your body went limp after he caught you, I screamed my lungs out!” Ashido exclaimed. “I thought you were actually dead!”

Bakugou sitting on the couch also noticed his upperclassman and let out a soft sigh. Even not knowing her full story, the way she was fighting the villain was on a completely different level. The power she used on him was something she dug deep to let out. It was a power requiring necessary sacrifice.

“Yes, we were all worried about them, but let’s calm down!” Iida suddenly shouted. “We all saw what happened, but their hearts have also been worn down by everything that’s happened too. As their classmates, we should give them some space to relax.”

The commotion died down to reflect on Iida’s words. That was when Midoriya spoke up.

“Thanks, Iida but… I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

The freckled boy nodded to which the tall spectacled boy joined in on the worrying. As the group dispersed to the kitchen area with Midoriya, Kirishima, Uraraka and Asui, Todoroki made his way to Ren and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. Her desolate and weary eyes met with his troubled ones, another expression that all too recognizable.

All she could do was rest her forehead on his chest, feeling his heart beat calm her down through his sweater. His right hand naturally made its way up and rested it at the back of her head to comfort her, threading some of his fingers in her hair like his mom used to do with him.

Not wanting any more questions if someone saw them, Ren immediately got off. What they didn’t know was a certain spiky blond boy did.

“Good luck with your license exam class tomorrow,” her soft, hoarse voice said with a faint smile that never reached her eyes before turning in for the night. “Let me know how it goes.”

Even if everything felt normal with everyone in 1-A under the same roof again, certain individuals didn’t find sleep so easily. The mission played on repeat in their heads, the future uncertain.

Sure they rescued the little girl, but what will become of her?

Who would take care of her now?

And would her quirk act up again?

There were so many pieces up in the air and no one knew where it’ll land.

And then there’s the involvement of the League of Villains. Not that they know their true motives, but they were certain they stole the quirk-destroying bullets when they attacked Chisaki’s van. Not even the comfort of Ren’s bed could lull her to sleep after a day like this, despite how tired she felt.

All she could do was stare at was the box containing her past.

He was gone now. She got her closure.

So why did she feel so empty?

[spectrumscribe]

Okay, I just thought of this since I only actually got around to watching the other rottmnt episodes yesterday but like since they look like they'd love it (well at least Raph and Mikey) maybe have the turts spend a night with April dressing up all cute and like putting on makeup and nail polish (Maybe with them wearing old big clothes April found or owns? Or after acquiring a whole bunch of clothes through whatever means). (Mikey and Raph just really loved dressing up and I loved it too)

this one was too cute a prompt to pass on. and congrats on joining the brand new rottmnt fandom! we’re growing in numbers with every day that the proper release date draws closer. :3c

“It’s making my eyes itchy.”

“Shh, you look great. Now- keep holding still, I have tocurl them.”

“Is it gonna hurt?”

“Not if you hold still.”

“Those look like they’re going to hurt me.”

“They won’t, promise.”

“You sure?”

“I’ve used them on myself, Leo. They don’t hurt.”

Leo’s lips stay in a bracing grimace though, rigid all overwith tension as April gently curls the fake eyelashes. She giggles at howscared her friend is, considering that Leo walks around with a giant sword mostdays and has faced plenty scarier than makeup tools. He’s a total dork, justlike Mikey, who is watching the process with wide eyes; leaning on his armsover the side of the bed, looking up at the both of them.

“Soooo… does ithurt?” he asks, poking Leo’s leg.

“Nnnnooo…?” Leo says slowly, blinking as April takes awaythe curler. He’s still grimacing. “Still super itchy, though.” He blinks rapidly,testing out the lashes. “God, how do humans livewith hair on their faces like this?”

“Haha, you look so weird, Leo. I wanna go next.”

“I think I might stick with eyeliner, April,” Leo says,touching the tips of the lashes. April smacks his hand away before he canunstick the glue.

“Take a look before you decide,” April says, holding up acircular desk mirror. Leo takes the mirror from her, examining himself in it ashe turns his head side to side. The thick black eyelashes stand out against thestreaks of red markings on his face, accentuated further by the eyeliner they’dalready applied earlier; before April convinced Leo to give eyelashes a go.

“I look… soweird,” Leo says after a moment. “Turtles really aren’t supposed to have hairon their faces. It’s… kinda a nice-weird, though? Itchy, but nice.”

“My turn,” Mikeyproclaims, clambering onto the bed and shoving Leo out of the way. He percheson the comforter with an expectant expression, eager as anything. Leo grumblesand unscrunches himself from between Mikey and the wall, climbing off the endof the bed and getting some space.

“Can I have the reallythick ones? They’re glittery,” Mikey asks, pointing at the costume eyelashesApril saved from Halloween one year. “If I’m gonna have itchy eyes, I wanna getmy money’s worth out of things.”

“Sure thing, hon,” April says, opening the packet. Mikey isless fidgety than Leo had been, probably by virtue of having seen his bigbrother go through the experience first. April’s started to realize that aslong as at least one of the brothers has done something before the rest, theother three will gladly follow lead. Even if whatever they’re doing is a badidea.

They also, sometimes, feel more comfortable doing somethingafter April’s done it first. That factmakes a strange squishy spot of warmth in her chest. Her relationship with thebrothers has really started to feel closer the past months; easy andcomfortable.

April doesn’t have any blood siblings, so in a way, it’s beena novel experience having the brothers in her life. More and more, they… feellike actual little brothers to her. Sitting here in her room, her small makeup bagspread across the bed and having spent the past half hour delicately painting eachother’s faces- it feels familial and warm in a way, like they’ve doneit a hundred times before. And that’s proof enough of how close April’s gottenwith the brothers.

The appreciative noises Mikey makes to himself when he getsthe mirror, after the job is done, makes April smile fondly. “I feel like abird of paradise,” Mikey says, fluttering his new eyelashes.

“You definitely look like one,” Leo says from the floor,having moved into the same spot Mikey had been. He laughs when Mikey winksexaggeratedly, still showing off his new look.

April uncurls her legs, sighing in relief as blood flowsback into. “Aight, I’ve been sitting too long. Up, up. I gotta check if theother two haven’t made the microwave sentient yet anyway.”

Her friends do as she asks, getting out of the way andfollowing April from her room. There’s no smoke coming from the kitchen, orsounds of laser blasts, which April is steadily becoming familiar with viafriendship with Donnie- but there isthe sound of someone lecturing someone else with a frustrated tone.

“Do you see this? It’s a vegetable. You have a mouthful ofcanines. You don’t like vegetables.Carnivores do not eat carrots.”

Mayhem’s crickety voice responds with a rolling chirp.

“You. Are a carnivore. I aman omnivore. I eat carrots. You eat meat. I saw you inhale fivehamburgers in one sitting just last week. Go steal someone’s fastfood and leave my carrots alone.”

“Oh my gosh,” Mikey giggles. Leo is laughing into his palm,and April feels herself grinning. As they come into the kitchen, Donnie isstanding in front of the counter with his hands on his hips, sans his battleshell in a rare instance of vulnerability limited to only specificcircumstances. IE: spending time with his family and April in a safe setting.

Mayhem sitting in front of the scowling turtle, tailflicking back and forth playfully as they give an innocent look. There’s acollection of chewed on and spat back out carrots littering the counter aroundtheir paws.

“Are you berating my pet, Donnie? Seriously?” April laughs.

“They keep stealing the snacks,” Donnie accuses flatly,pointing at Mayhem. “They are. A thief.”

“Ohhh, and such a cutelittle thief,” April coos, coming over and petting Mayhem. They purr like alittle engine, chirping as she squishes their cheeks and scratches their big ears.

“You’re biased,” Donnie scoffs.

“They do keep my feet warm at night,” April admits happily.Leo and Mikey both ignore Donnie’s disgust with the veggie snatcher, joiningApril in giving Mayhem the attention they’ve probably been trying to get.

“Guys?” Raph asks from the next room over. “Hey, there’s afew good movies on Netflix and I dunno which-” Raph’s shell scrapes the wall ashe tries to squeeze through the doorway, and he cringes and cuts off. “Oh,shit, shit- April, I’m really sorry.”

April sees the damage done, a deep gouge into the whiteframe along with a few other smaller scratches. She just sighs, picking upMayhem and cradling the strange little creature. “It’s alright, Raph. It’snothing my cousins haven’t done already- or me, too, actually. I got up to someserious shenanigans as a kid.”

“I either bump my head or I hit the wall; your home is so tiny,April,” Raph complains, though he still looks deeply apologetic. April noticedfrom the get-go how careful her large friend has been in her home. Despite the excitementabout April’s parents being away for the weekend and the five of them gettingto hang out here, April suspects Raph is actually fairly uncomfortable movingaround in such a small, breakable space. Thus, his expression of regret and howhe’s holding all his limbs close to himself.

“It’s cool, no worries. They probably won’t even noticeanother scratch,” April promises, handing Raph Mayhem for a cuddle. Now thatthe two of them have gotten warmed up to one another, they get along just fine.After the third time Mayhem attacked Raph- back when the little creature firstcame to them- they’d come up with the hypothesis that Mayhem was mistaking Raphfor the big muscly monster guys that’d been chasing them. Some treats, a calmspace, and Raph sitting down instead of standing over them fixed that easily.

Mayhem purrs contently in Raph’s arms, easing the slightdiscomfort that’d been in his expression. Donnie, through the conversation, hasdrafted his two younger siblings for busboy services, and is sending all theirmovie snacks into the living room.

“Nice lashes,” Raph says to Mikey and Leo as they pass.

“Nice hat,” they chorus back, and Raph grins, still pleasedwith his wide sunhat. When the brothers had first arrived, they’d stumbledacross the bags of clothing donations April’s parents have been collecting fora community event. Raph, for obvious reasons, hadn’t fit a single piece ofclothing.

While the other three had been playing dress up, and while Aprilhurriedly bullshitted an essay so they could really start the fun, Raph had saton the couch and tried not to act too disappointed about being left out. Donnie,who’d been sporting a nice work jumpsuit and ill-fitting rain boots at thetime, was the one who fixed that.

“It suits you,” he’d said with purposeful kindness, placingthe sunhat on his brother’s head. It hadn’t been a beat later and Mikey and Leooffered the wealth of chunky necklaces in addition; finding a way to includetheir oldest brother in the dress up game.

Raph put the necklaces back in the end, but hasn’t takenthat hat off since it was put on his head. April has a feeling she’ll just giveit to him permanently, because Raph keeps touching its brim with a happy littlegrin.

“Can we watch this one?” Mikey asks, selecting an animatedmovie from the trending section. “It dropped like, yesterday, and I didn’t geta chance to watch it yet.”

“I saw the trailer, it looks decent,” Leo says, floppingonto the couch next to Mikey. April takes the third cushion of couch, while Donnietakes the loveseat. Raph sits on the floor, leaning carefully against the armof Donnie’s chair, so he doesn’t rip the fabric of it.

“What’s it about?” Raph asks.

“The future and robots and a generic rebel girl,” Donnie replies.“From the looks of things, at least. It’s pretty obvious from the title card.”

“What? I sent you a link, Don,” Leo says, vaguelydisgruntled. “You didn’t watch it?”

Donnie shrugs. “You send me a lot of links, Leon. I can’tclick on them all and keep up with myprojects.”

Mikey pats Leo’s shoulder as his brother sulks momentarily. “I’lljust play the trailer right now for everyone, ‘n’ then we can decide if wewanna watch.”

“No!” Donnie abruptlyshouts, lunging at Mayhem on the coffee table. He unsuccessfully picks them upand drops them on the floor in order to save the carrots, as Mayhem canteleport and tends to ignore people trying to put them where they don’t want tobe.

The trailer starts playing as Donnie tries again to shooMayhem off his carrots, only for the creature to teleport out of reach and landin April’s lap. Purring and holding a baby carrot in their mouth. Donniemutters, “I give up,” and slumps into his loveseat as his brother laugh at him.

“You are a very bad baby,” April tells them seriously, thoughshe’s smiling indulgently. They just chirrup in a distinctly unrepentant wayand spits their chewed carrot on the carpet. She’ll have to clean that uplater.

April scritches their ears with a roll of her eyes, settlinginto the squish of being on the couch with Leo and Mikey; ready for the nexthalf of their hangout night.

Commission info & Kofi link.

[shibyn]

and the wind sounds like the world’s sigh

persona 4 & 5 | shiho-centric, investigation team Near the end of May, Shiho transfers to a sleepy town called Inaba for a fresh start. However, Inaba isn’t the sleepy town her parents thought would be best for her— its on edge with unsolved mysteries, and Shiho finds that there’s a bit more behind what meets the eye regarding some of her classmates and a TV screen.

chapter 1: inhale | 2.4k | ao3

Maybe this is hell. It's a white ceiling, off-white walls, bright white lights, white bedsheets. It's the bland meals, kind but insincere conversations, background noise of the news. Sad, prolonged looks from Mom, regretful frowns from Dad, the overall lack of feeling from her legs. The monotone beep of the heart monitor and drip of the IV. Hell can't be dark and fiery and the screams of the damned-- it has to be this. 

Ann is a light in this place. The blonde of her hair offsets the white entirety of the room, the radiance of her smile breaking the solemn air that's been stagnant. She can't always visit, but Shiho looks forward to the times she can. She's the inch of normalcy left in Shiho's life-- she tells her about things that have been going on in school, a cool photoshoot she was in, a dumb thing Ryuji was up to, a shiny A on a test that she only passed because Akira helped, a new restaurant the three of them went to-- she's glad, so glad that Ann hasn't let this change her, hasn't let the wobble of her lips when she looks towards Shiho's legs keep her from looking her in the eye and talking as if they weren't in a hospital. More often than not, Ann isn't there. She isn't there, and sometimes Shiho thinks it may have been better to land differently, breaking more than just her legs. She's confined to bed, confined to sleep and watching tv and staring at the wall. She's stuck, legs basically useless, and she has to sit through looks of pity from the doctor, her nurses, her physical therapist, her parents. Her skin crawls whenever her parents visit. They know what happened, but they don't know. They're so quiet when they visit, so sad, so pitying, and she has no idea what they're thinking. She hopes and hopes for the door to slide open whenever they're here, hopes the doctor does a checkup on vitals or the therapist takes her to learn how to use her legs again or Ann to come bounding in and dispel them. She's not lucky. They stay and they speak of things so mundane-- at least it's nice to talk with Ann, but with her parents it all feels awkward and forced and Shiho wishes she had the gut to tell them to stop, they don't understand, don't act like you understand. They aren't in the room the day Ann enters, eyes both bright and watery. Ann basically crashes in the seat next to her bed, grasps her hand so tight she's momently scared it'll snap, and tells her it's all over, he's in jail, he got what he deserved, he's gone. Shiho cries and Ann cries with her, and maybe, just maybe she'll be able to walk those wretched halls again and graduate side-by-side with Ann like they imagined and maybe she'll meet Ryuji and Akira and give them the biggest hug possible and hopefully hang out with them at Big Bang Burger or the Arcade. Her hopes soar, and she wishes she could stand so she could hug Ann and leave this awful room. Her parents walk in the next day, faces drawn in, and tell her we're going to move when you're released from the hospital. We're sorry, Shiho. Shiho doesn't cry. She just hopes her legs will stay broken, so she can still at least stay here and see Ann regularly.

—

Her legs ache the moment she steps off the train into the Yaso-Inaba Station. They've ached the moment she stepped on the train and throughout the whole ride. Shiho takes this as an ill omen. The car ride to the house is in a terse silence with occasional awkward conversations between her parents, similar to the train ride over. Inaba, her parents had told her, was a tiny rural town. A big difference from the metropolitan style of Tokyo. A good place for a fresh start, they said. Shiho can see between the lines and know they chose this place because nothing happens here. (She knows that they think if it's a peaceful place, there's less of a chance of her ending up in an ambulance midday and missing two months of her life. If it's peaceful, bad things won't happen. They won't.) It takes less than twenty minutes flat to drive to their house-- in Tokyo, on good days it would have taken twenty minutes to drive a mile. It's a small house, different from their even smaller apartment in Tokyo. They actually have a backyard. It's on the edge of Inaba and supposedly not too far from her new high school. Unpacking is quiet aside from the occasional 'put that in the kitchen' and 'can you help me carry this?' Thankfully it's cloudy outside, so it isn't too much of a chore. Most heavy things, like furniture, were delivered before hand, which cuts the labor. They apparently make enough noise for a neighbor to come out and greet them. Her mom ends up side-tracked talking to them, so she and her dad finish unpacking to avoid being dragged into the conversation. It's a single story house, small kitchen, small living room, two small rooms, two small bathrooms, and yet its still more spacious than their old apartment. Shiho claims the bedroom facing the backyard. Her dad helps bring in some boxes and offers to help set up furniture before Shiho shoos him off. Her room slowly comes together. She slowly puts things on the dresser, on the wall, in the closet, until it looks vaguely like her old room. It has all the same elements, but it doesn't register in her mind as her own yet. She goes about it in a detached sense, like her body is on autopilot. One year, Shiho thinks, this is my home for one year. She comes across her next uniform that her parents snuck in her boxes-- a black seifuku with a glaringly bright yellow ribbon and houndstooth patterned skirt. It's... something, to say the least. Not the worst uniform she's ever seen, but... well, it's definitely something. She guesses she can call it stylish for a school uniform. She lays it out on her bed, smoothing it out absently. There's no true blazer, so she can't exactly get away with just wearing the undershirt. She misses the plaid of Shujin, regardless of how ugly she thought it was at first. Her first day is... tomorrow, maybe? The day after? Her mom had told her, but it felt like fuzz in her ears. She doesn't want to think about school. Belatedly, she takes a picture to send it to Ann later. Ann was at a photoshoot right about now-- she couldn't exactly check her phone every now and then and respond to her. The lack of consistent buzzing from her phone made the whole unpacking process more quiet. Half-way through the next box, her dad reappears at the doorway, leaning in a casual way against the frame. He whistles in awe at the progress she's made, saying, "Wow, already this far? Sorry, sweetie, but you're gonna have to do the kitchen and living room at this pace." She rolls her eyes. "Sure thing. It'll probably be useless, though-- you'd probably reorganize it to your liking." He shrugs. "It's going to take weeks before your mother and I find an equilibrium in that kitchen. Ya close to a stopping point? I was kinda thinking bout getting dinner." She isn't, but the dust is starting to get to her. Besides-- this is might be the first time he's looked her in the eyes in a week. Maybe things are turning for the better. "Sure. I think I saw a take out place not too far away on the drive here." In a blocky motion, she pulls herself to her feet. Getting up to her feet was no longer easy. It was a struggle, even after so much physical therapy. She liked to think it was okay now. Yet-- her leg twists and twinges painfully, her breath catching in her throat as her world tilts. There's a flash of movement from the corner of her eyes in her dad's direction, but she manages to catch herself by slamming a stabilizing hand against the wall. Shiho swallows thickly, breathing slowly to calm the spike of her pulse at the sudden feeling of falling. She glances up warily. Her dad's hand is halfway towards her, as if to catch her if she didn't regain her footing, with the other braced against the door frame with white knuckles. There's a pause, a bit deafening, and her father retreats his hand and crams it in his pocket. A scowl sits on his face, the corner of his mouth twitching with unspoken words, and he quickly pulls on a grin that doesn't fit his face. "That was close," he laughs, a bit wheezily and with a tremor in the undertone. He shifts awkwardly, maybe debating to check if she's fine or to let her be. I wonder what went through his mind just now, Shiho thinks, throat tight, did he see my leg breaking? or them shattered, beneath hospital blankets? or maybe-- "Ah, you may have to start wearing your brace more often, kiddo. It's kinda hilly and rainy around here." Grimacing, she nods. "I'll put it on before we go." It's on her dresser, where she threw it after taking it off earlier to give her leg some air. She hates that thing-- it's hot and sweaty and itchy and it always seems to get disgusting in less than an hour. It's going to be miserable to wear it in the rain-- it'll become soggy and she'll have to deal with the spongey feel of it the whole school day. A moment passes. Her dad still lingers by the doorframe. He clears his throat and scratches his arm absently. "Are you going to be alright?" he asks, looking anywhere but her. "Yeah," she says quickly, and back tracks. "Yeah. I-- I'm alright. Just a little sore from the ride." Her legs are never not sore nowadays. Not that they need to know. There's a solemn look on his face. Shiho grits her teeth and thinks please don't. He nods-- she can't tell if he's satisfied with that answer or not-- and leaves. For a second, she just stands and breathes. Everyone around her has been walking on eggshells since she landed in the hospital, and she's so tired of it. She wonders how long it'll take until it's all gone and done for. Her mom trusts them with dinner, saying that she's in unpacking mode and doesn't want to drop out of it now that she's in it. The car ride is quiet for the most part, with the two of them peering out the window to spy a places to eat or figure out what something is. There's plenty of tiny mom-and-pop stores just a walk away from their house, and the Main Street isn't too far of a walking trip, either. Shiho has a feeling she'll become familiar with these streets in due time. The sun had set enough to the point where it was fairly dark out with the overcast. The clouds aren't lit up orange with city lights, and there's an underwhelming amount of obnoxiously neon signs on these streets. Some store signs aren't even lit up-- just how rural is this place? Oh!-- then, maybe when the nights aren't cloudy, she'll be able to see the stars? They end up parking at a brightly-lit grocery store and wander to a nearby takeout restaurant. The air's thick with rain soon to come and is quite chilly for spring-- the warmth of the restaurant they slip into is more than welcoming. It's a small place-- a few tables are set up inside with a couple tables occupied. Shiho very pointedly avoids their wandering curious stares. Three boxes of noodles ends up being the price of a single nice meal in Tokyo. And even better, from what she could peer at in the restaurant, they're possibly the best looking noodles she's seen in years. Not grossly greasy, or dangerously overcooked. The chunks of beef and chicken shine with just the right amount of sauce, and the vegetables don't seem still half frozen from the freezer. Sweet n Sour, General Tso's, Teriyaki-- the smell makes her want to crack a box open in the car, and from the pace her dad walks at, he wants to, too. Ah. The lack of city lights also makes the lights of a police car much more stark. Both her and her dad falter-- they aren't near their car, were they? God, what if the police around here were crazy strict about parking between the lines. Her dad didn't have a great streak with being completely center, and the parking lot was empty, so he didn't exactly try-- what luck would that be, not even six hours in Inaba and they've already gotten a ticket. But as they step closer, the car is parked in a side street close to the market. Her dad's shoulders drop in relief when there's no-one  by his car. There are some standing outside the police cars, like there's something going on. One glances up and spots the two of them ogling. He smiles disarmingly at them, nods to his companion, and approaches. "Good evening," the officer says kindly. His hands are neatly tucked into his jacket pockets, posture open yet with a tension along his shoulders. "Sorry to bother the two of you this evening. I'm required to ask anyone I see, though— have you seen any suspicious activity nearby, recently? Biker gangs, suspicious figures, anything?" "No," her dad says curtly, his eyes drifting in the direction of the side street with a confused frown. Biker gangs? Suspicious people? Shiho thinks absently, shifting the bag on her arm anxiously, wait, didn't they say— didn't they say nothing happens around here? "We moved in today. Is something wrong?" A dawning realization crosses the officer's face. "Ah. No, not-- not necessarily. We're just keeping watch." The officer seems to mentally juggle what he should say. He ends up frowning and says, "Well... a first-year at Yasogami by the name of Tatsumi Kanji went missing recently, last seen by his mother's textile shop. He's possibly involved with activity in biker gangs. If you hear anything about him or see any activity, be sure to report it, yeah?" The smile her dad gives the officer is tense. "Understood. Thank you." Dinner isn't going to be as pleasant as she thought it would be.

[littlereyofsunlight]

Goodbye, Dreamland (part 2)

Part 1 was posted earlier today. Catch up before you read the end!

Fic: Goodbye, Dreamland Pairing: Steve/Peggy Rating: T+  Summary:  Steve and Peggy take a trip to Coney Island in an alternate-timeline in which Peggy is brought to the future and Ultron never happened.

“You don’t think the Cyclone will make you queasy this time, do you?”

Steve shook his head. “I haven’t had any problems with my stomach since the serum.” He thought for a moment, then added, “Not that I’ve been on a roller coaster since then, but the way Nat flies the Quinjet has to count as a thrill ride sometimes.”

Peggy had only been up the one time when Natasha was flying, but she really couldn’t fault his logic.

“Well then, let’s go. I never did get to try it out on my last trip.”

Steve felt a familiar churning in his gut as their car rattled its way up the steep incline, but when the brakes released and they shot down the first hill, it unspooled into a pure rush not unlike what he felt when he got to jump from an airlift. It turned out, Peggy really liked roller coasters. It felt dangerous, the way the old wooden car careened over the tracks, slamming them from side to side on the curves. Beside Steve, Peggy screamed her delight and he gave an answering “whoop” when they crested the next hill.

“That was absolutely brilliant.” Peggy’s eyes were bright and her color high when they finally came to a stop.

“You liked it?”

“I’ve never felt anything like it!”

Steve smirked. “You should try jumping out of a plane sometime.”

She rolled her eyes and smacked him on the shoulder. “Yes, but no one was shooting at us here.” She smiled wide. “We’re going again.”

They rode the Cyclone two more times, and then did the Soarin’ Eagle, the Wild River, the Steeplechase, and the Thunderbolt. Peggy suggested the Slingshot next, but Steve steered her towards the Raceway instead. Steve liked to tell the story of how Peggy had been relieved of driving duties after a particularly harrowing escape through the Alps with the Howlies piled into the back of a troop truck. Now when he told it, he’d be able to add she was still hell on wheels even when the car was miniaturized. They did several circuits before Steve was able to pry her out of the driver’s seat, and then he only managed it with a promise of funnel cake.

The funnel cake vendor also sold fried Oreos, so Peggy insisted they sample those, too. Steve tried one Oreo, pronounced it “interesting” and then demolished his own funnel cake—they’d each ordered one, in deference to Steve’s advanced metabolism and Peggy’s legendary sweet tooth. Peggy agreed that the fried cookies were a strange confection, but she wasn’t about to let chocolate, even the inferior American version, go to waste.

Hot, sticky, and lightheaded from the combination of race car exhaust, waning adrenaline and far too much sugar in their systems, they agreed to take a break on the Wonder Wheel so they could take in the view.

When their car reached the full fifteen stories, the Wheel shuddered to a stop. Peggy leaned close to the cage, the better to see out past the boardwalk to the flat expanse of sand, crowded with Saturday beach-goers and all their gear, despite how late it was growing. “We should have brought our bathing suits, the bay looks perfect from up here.”

Steve looked over her head at the same view and felt a sudden swooping in his stomach. “Oh,” he said, quickly looking away.

“Something wrong?” Peggy turned back to him.

In an instant, Steve felt every last one of those one hundred and fifty feet between himself and the solid ground. He grabbed onto the seat divider in front of him as he inexplicably felt like he might lose his balance, though he was sitting down. “Uh, I guess I’m not used to just hanging out in midair.” He tried to laugh it off. “Maybe if I were chasing down Hydra, I wouldn’t notice how high we are.” His stomach gave another worrisome lurch.

Mercifully, they started moving again, and the feeling receded as they got ever closer to the ground. “Are we—” before he could get his question out, it was confirmed. They were going around again. Steve whipped his head around in confusion as the car sailed right past the ride workers and began a second ascent, and with it, his churning gut.

He closed his eyes and tried to control it by inhaling through his nose and exhaling slowly through his mouth.

“Oh darling, I didn’t realize it affected you so much.” Peggy had a little smile on her face as she shifted closer to him and put a hand high up on his thigh. “I’m sure we can think of some way of distracting you until the ride’s over,” she suggested, a sultry note in her voice.

“Oh,” he said, keeping his eyes trained on her hand so he wouldn’t catch sight of the view outside their little cage. “Uh.”

It wouldn’t have been the first time lust had turned him ineloquent, so in the aftermath Steve had to admit Peggy wasn’t exactly in the wrong for leaning in to kiss him at that moment. It was, however, not what Steve was trying to communicate just then.

The ride worker took one look at the mess Steve had made and heaved a sigh so loud Peggy was fairly sure people heard it in Queens. “I’m so sorry,” Steve murmured, actively willing himself to shrink back to his pre-serum size out of sheer mortification. Peggy said nothing at all, and she wasn’t quite sure if it was the shock or anger fueling her silence.

Once she was clear of the ride, Peggy made a beeline for the nearest restroom, holding the hem of her blouse out so the damp portion didn’t stick to her torso. Luckily her reflexes were still as fast as they’d been during the war, or it could have been much worse. Steve followed her, hoping there’d be a nearby spigot. At the time, he hadn’t been thinking about moving his feet out of the splash zone. He supposed he was lucky a day at the beach called for flip-flops.

There was no possible way she’d get her top clean enough using only bathroom soap and a hand dryer on its last legs. Peggy wasn’t about to walk back out into the fray with a giant stain on her shirt. Grinding her molars together, she reached into her bag and pulled out Steve’s souvenir.

Steve tried his best to hold in his laughter as Peggy stalked out of the rest room in the ridiculous shirt he’d never intended for her to wear, but the juxtaposition of her thunderous expression over the artificially inflated body drawn on her torso did him in.

“You seem to be feeling better,” Peggy bit out, shaking her hair out from the neck of the t-shirt. She crossed her arms over the horrible cartoon.

He wiped at his eyes and nodded. “I’m so sorry, Peg. I really didn’t know that would happen.”

Peggy sniffed. “You’ll have to make it up to me, Rogers.”

“Anything.” He looked especially penitent in the light of the setting sun.

She stretched her neck and let out a breath. “I think a very stiff drink is in order so I can deal with the double humiliation you’ve put me through.”

“You don’t want to go home?”

“We haven’t seen the fireworks yet, Steve.” She looked at him as though he’d suddenly lost all higher brain functioning.

Steve made a face. “Really? Even after—”

Peggy laid hands on him and turned him in the direction of Ruby’s Bar and Grill. “We came out here to experience all Coney Island has to offer. That includes fireworks,” she said through grit teeth. “Now, until said fireworks appear, we’re getting me a drink, Captain. You owe me.”

The boardwalk in front of Ruby’s was a crush of people trying to enjoy a beverage or ten that hot summer evening. Even though the sun was setting, the heat of the day lay heavy over the beach, a wan breeze occasionally providing slight relief. Steve waded into the crowd while Peggy hung back at the edge. Some time later he returned with two drinks in hand. She raised her eyebrow. Steve didn’t drink unless he was trying to be sociable, and they’d long passed the point in their relationship where he felt the need to keep up the pretense.

He shrugged. “I’m just holding this one while you finish the first. No way am I going back into that madness.”

“You’re making great strides towards getting back in my good graces,” Peggy smiled.

Steve grinned back at her. The crowd pressed in around them and the air felt stagnant, close, too humid and warm. He tipped his head in the direction of the aquarium, up the boardwalk. “You wanna get out of here?”

“Yes please.” She gulped down her drink so they were only sneaking one adult beverage out of the bounds of the bar, then followed Steve as he cut a path through all the people milling around.

Eventually the crowds thinned out as Peggy and Steve made their way down the wide walkway.

“So this whole neighborhood used to be pretty upscale,” Steve said as they passed the housing project buildings in the distance. “Back when they called the waterfront attractions Dreamland. Then it went up in a fire.”

Peggy quirked her lip. “Much like our day.”

“Yeah,” Steve agreed, “it was pretty much the opposite of what was advertised.”

There were hardly any people down this end, the revelers sticking close to the bright lights of Luna Park as they awaited the evening’s show. Peggy drew Steve over to a bench, and they relaxed as twilight gave way to nighttime. Though it was steamy, Peggy sat close to him, with Steve’s arm draped across the back of the bench.

“Sticking to the beach might have been a better plan,” Peggy said eventually, watching the water lap against the sand.

“It’s not the cleanest one by far,” Steve said. “And it’s always so crowded.”

Peggy let her head loll back against his shoulder. “That’s all part of the experience, though.”

“Yeah, part of the experience used to be running naked into the surf, so, you know, we won’t be repeating that any time soon.” He scratched at his neck, which was finally beginning to heal now that the sun was down. It was itchy.

“Were you here often?” Peggy asked. “Before the war?”

Steve shrugged. “My health was usually better in the summers, and doctors kept encouraging me to ‘take the sea air,’ which, sure, that helped some. But me and Buck definitely got into more scrapes out here than I care to admit.” He rested his chin against her hair. “We had a lot of fun.”

“Do you think he’ll come in from the cold one of these days?” She’d missed Steve’s run-in with the Winter Soldier, but it not the effects it had on him. Even now, he would rush out if Sam or Nat brought in word of a credible sighting. But Sergeant Barnes didn’t want Steve to find him. Not yet, at least.

“I hope so.”

“Me, too.” She did, though she was afraid of what it could mean for Steve if it happened.

He looked down where their hands were linked in his lap. “Just can’t seem to shake the bad memories out here, huh?”

“They aren’t all bad, though, are they?” Peggy bit her lip.

Steve kissed the the crown of her head, breathing in the scent of sunscreen and Peggy’s shampoo. “It was pretty great seeing you go to town on those milk bottles at the shooting gallery,” he smiled into her hair.

Peggy chuckled. “The look on your face when that boy asked if you were Thor!”

“I was flattered.”

“Naturally.” The breeze finally picked up, and Peggy took the opportunity to snuggle in closer. “So, maybe a good day after all.”

Steve cupped her chin, gently tilting her face up to his. “Not all bad.”

And, as they kissed, the fireworks show began. As far as cliched days at Coney Island went, both Peggy and Steve had to admit this one was pretty great in the end.