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lazy-ahh · 23 days ago

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ORPHAN OF THE VOID (MEETS HIS RUIN)

pairing viltrum! mark grayson x (space outlaw) male reader

rule #1 of being a space outlaw: always put yourself first. you've survived slave markets, alien mobs, and the cold void of space—but none of it prepared you for mark grayson. in another life, you might’ve run. but his hand fits too perfectly around yours—and for the first time, you’re not sure you want to escape.

taglist @hhoneylemon , @queermaeda , @yujensstuff

you crash-landed on earth in what could be called a blaze of glory—if "glory" meant a flaming heap of scrap metal, stolen engine parts, and the distinct smell of burning circuits. your ship, the star-jumper (a name you gave it after drunkenly winning it in a bet), was now little more than a smoking carcass, its hull groaning as it settled into the crater it had just carved into the ground. you coughed, waving away the thick plumes of smoke, and grinned.

home.

or at least, what was supposed to be home.

you’d been lost for so long, your earliest memories were just fragments—scavenging for food in the wreckage of your family’s ship, their remains staining the walls in hues you didn’t want to remember. the rogue aliens who’d boarded hadn’t killed you—no, that would’ve been too easy. instead, they’d dragged you off, sold you like cargo to some backwater planet where the air was poison and the only thing thicker than the smog was the cruelty. you’d spent years in a rusted helmet just to breathe, doing grunt work for slavers who’d branded you like livestock. the scar on the back of your neck still burned sometimes, a phantom reminder of the iron searing into your skin.

but you’d escaped. stolen a ship. learned how to fight, how to lie, how to survive. you became a legend in the galaxy—the ghost of the outer rim, they called you. a thief with a heart? maybe. but only when it suited you. you helped where you could, but the second things got dicey? poof. gone. survival was the only rule that mattered. you gotta put yourself first, you know? self-love is important!

then, one night in some grimy spaceport bar, a drunk alien had sneered at you, called you a "disgusting human" like it was an insult.

human.

suddenly, everything made sense. the fragments of songs in your head, the faded memories of blue skies, the way your body craved sunlight like it was starving for it. earth. you had a home.

you’d spent months charting a course, dodging bounty hunters, and patching up the star-jumper just enough to make the trip. chicago—your home—wasn’t some distant planet. it was right here.

as you breached earth’s atmosphere, your heart pounded. you’d imagined skyscrapers kissing the clouds, neon lights, advanced technology, maybe even a welcoming committee. but instead—

"…am i in the right place?" you muttered, squinting at the distinct lack of floating cities.

eh, whatever. you hit the gas.

the landing was… rough. but the second you stumbled out of the wreckage, coughing up what was definitely not earth-friendly space dust, you were met with the barrel of a gun. then another. then—oh, fantastic—a whole squad of pissed-off, high-tech soldiers, their weapons humming with energy you really didn’t want to test.

your hands shot up in surrender. "hey, hey—easy! i come in peace and all that jazz—"

then, a new group arrived.

your eyes skimmed over them—some guy with a ridiculous beard, some guy that can actually pull off that mustache, a green woman, another woman with a... a uhhh hammer? a huge fish, some guy covered in all red, a guy you really want to steal from cause what was that flying vehicle he just came from, and- is that a martian???—before locking onto him.

tall. broad-shouldered. dark hair swept back like some kind of regal space prince, his jaw sharp enough to cut glass. his eyes—soft brown, but sharp, calculating—scanned you with an intensity that made your throat dry. his lips were a sinful shade of pink, pressed into a firm line, and his body—god, the way that white suit clung to him should’ve been illegal. the fabric stretched over his chest, his arms thick with muscle but still lean, built for speed and power. a familiar insignia gleamed on his shoulders, marking him as something dangerous.

something beautiful.

your brain short-circuited.

"who the hell are you?" beard-guy snapped.

you blinked, then flashed your most charming grin, brushing soot off your jacket like you hadn't just been mentally undressing mr. tall-dark-and-pretty in front of an entire militia and superhero squad. "name's (y/n). professional space outlaw, part-time legend. also, uh... human? apparently?" you gestured to yourself with a little flourish. "surprise?"

the air hung heavy with disbelief. the red-suited woman (you'd later learn was war woman) tightened her grip on her mace. darkwing's cape billowed dramatically even though there wasn't any wind—showoff.

then that voice—deep, smooth, and dripping with enough arrogance to power a small planet—cut through the tension like one of mark's punches through concrete.

"you expect us to believe that?"

you turned slowly, and there he was. mark grayson. all six-plus feet of sculpted perfection, standing like the universe personally appointed him judge, jury, and executioner. his white suit clung to him in ways that should be studied by scientists, a familiar insignia gleaming on his shoulders like a warning label. his eyes—god, those eyes—dark and intense, locked onto you with the focus of a predator who just found his new favorite plaything.

the older guy in red and white (nolan, you also later found out) gave mark a look that could melt steel. mark barely glanced at him before returning that burning gaze to you, chin tilted up in challenge.

"believe what you want, pretty boy," you shot back, flipping your quad-blaster in a showy arc before smoothly holstering it with a satisfying click. "but i've been jumping from one star system to another since i was knee-high to a xenomorph, and i just pulled off the greatest homecoming this side of the milky way. so, y'know." you spread your arms wide. "applause would be nice. also, is this how earth greets all its returning space orphans? because ouch."

a new voice—robotic, skeptical—piped up from the group. "alright, let me ask you this: what master do you serve?"

you blinked. then burst out laughing. "what master do i serve?" you repeated, wiping an imaginary tear. "what am i supposed to say, jesus?" you gestured to your battered clothes and the still-smoking wreck behind you. "i serve me, pal. and occasionally the nearest bar when i'm thirsty."

"bar? you don't look any older than 17."

"what...? is there like, an age restriction to drinking here on earth? oh, what the fuck..."

mark's lip did that thing again—the almost-smile that wasn't quite approval but wasn't quite disgust either. dangerous. exciting.

"cute," he said, taking a step forward that somehow felt like a threat and a promise all at once. "but if you're lying, i'll throw you back into orbit myself."

"that's enough, mark." nolan's voice carried the weight of someone used to being obeyed. mark didn't back down, but he did pause, his eyes never leaving yours.

you couldn't help but grin wider. oh yeah. this was definitely gonna be fun.

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

the rivalry was instant. electric. the kind of tension that made your teeth ache and your pulse race in a way that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the way mark's stupidly perfect face twisted into a scowl every time you opened your mouth.

at first glance, you'd thought he was just another pretty-boy hero with a god complex—until you saw the way he moved. like gravity was a suggestion. like violence was his first language. and that symbol on his shoulders... something about it made the hair on your neck stand up. it was familiar in a way you couldn't place, like a half-remembered nightmare, sending little jolts of adrenaline through you every time it caught your eye. you'd seen it somewhere in your years drifting through the cosmos, you were sure of it. but for the life of you, you couldn't remember where.

"so what's your deal, superboy?" you'd asked during your first "team bonding" exercise (which was really just cecil's way of seeing if you'd try to steal anything, to see whether you were a threat or just a nuisance. a useful nuisance). "you part of some space cult with the fancy shoulder decals? or just really into symmetrical fashion?"

mark had looked at you like you'd just pissed in his cereal. "it's none of your concern."

"ohhh, mysterious," you'd crooned, leaning into his space just to watch his nostrils flare. "i like it."

that was the moment you decided you were going to make it your life's mission to get under his skin.

you, the cocky space rogue who could quote every line from the blurry vhs tapes of your childhood (even if the memories of your parents' laughter were fading like dying stars). him, the ruthless warrior who moved like he owned the air he breathed and had the ego to match.

training sessions turned into competitions. missions turned into showdowns. every time you pulled off some insane stunt with your jet boots—maybe flipping backwards over a charging villain while blasting your guns like some 80s action hero—mark would "accidentally" punch through the building behind you, sending debris raining down on your head.

"wow," you'd deadpan, shaking concrete dust from your hair, "so impressive. did you practice that in the mirror? or are you just naturally this extra?"

his only response would be that infuriating smirk before he'd zip off to wreck something else.

the first time you stole his kill was an accident. the second time? absolutely on purpose.

"hey grayson!" you called out as you sailed past him on your jet boots, quad blasters already charging. "catch!"

the alien invader exploded mid-air just as mark was winding up for his punch. you took a dramatic bow in midair, blowing imaginary smoke from your guns. "you're welcome."

"you're insufferable," mark growled, floating closer with that murderous glint in his eyes.

"and you're jealous," you sing-songed, hovering just out of reach and sticking out your tongue for good measure. you loved being the only person who can get under his skin, being the only person who can get a reaction from someone who's normally stern and stoic and always in control.

he lunged. you dodged. it became your favorite game.

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

then, the obsession started.

not that you were complaining—hell, you lived for this kind of attention. but at first, you didn’t even realize what it was. you just thought mark was being his usual, overbearing, infuriating self—until the patterns became impossible to ignore.

it was the little things at first:

the way his eyes never left you during briefings, even when cecil was talking. like you were the only one in the room worth looking at.

how he’d suddenly materialize on your solo missions, arms crossed, that stupid smirk on his face like he’d won some game you didn’t even know you were playing. "need backup?" he’d ask, voice dripping with fake innocence, while you groaned and muttered, "i was fine, grayson."

the way he’d linger after training sessions, wiping sweat off his brow (ugh, showoff) while subtly blocking the exit so you’d have to squeeze past him.

but the real kicker? the way his entire body went rigid whenever you so much as glanced at someone else.

"oh my god," you whispered to yourself one day, hiding a grin behind your hand as you watched mark obliterate the stupid little stress ball you’d stolen from a space mall and gifted him as a joke. his fingers flexed, the poor thing reduced to rubber dust, all because you’d winked at rex splode while the two of you were debriefing with cecil.

"he’s jealous," you realized, giddy.

…or, well. maybe.

you shook your head, laughing at yourself. yeah, right. like mark grayson—mr. tall-dark-and-stoic, the guy who probably bench-pressed asteroids for fun—would ever be jealous over you. you were, after all, quote on quote a lesser being compared to him. and why would he want someone who wasn't an equal or close to an equal?

"years of zero human interaction really fried my brain, huh," you muttered, rubbing your temples. you were just being delusional, spinning little fantasies to make life more interesting, to cope. that’s what happened when you spent most of your life alone in space, right? you started seeing things that weren’t there.

…except.

except.

the way mark’s gaze burned into you whenever you laughed too loud with someone else. the way his voice got dangerously calm when another hero flirted with you. the way he’d "accidentally" bump into you in the hallway, his hands lingering just a second too long on your waist, his half-lidded yet stern gaze lingering on you as he waited for you to say something sarcastic.

maybe you weren’t imagining it.

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

"you're staring again," you teased one lazy afternoon, slumped against the guardians' hq wall like you owned the place. your arms were tucked behind your head, showing off just enough of your torso to be annoyingly casual—and just enough to watch mark's eyes flicker down for half a second before snapping back up.

you hadn't scraped together enough credits to buy your own place yet (superhero salaries were shit), but honestly? crashing at hq wasn't so bad. free food. cool tech. and, most importantly, front-row seats to the slow, delicious unraveling of mark grayson's infamous self-control.

his gaze was heavy today—dark, intense, hungry in a way that made the back of your neck prickle.

"you're imagining things," he muttered, but his eyes didn't waver. not even a little.

"uh-huh. sure." you smirked, tilting your head just enough to expose the column of your throat—just to see if he'd bite. "you like me, grayson."

it was supposed to be a joke. your tone was light, playful, the same way you'd tease rex, robot, or atom eve. but the second the words left your mouth, something in mark's expression shifted. his jaw clenched. his pupils dilated. his shoulders tensed like a predator about to pounce.

something dangerous. something possessive.

your breath hitched.

oh.

oh shit.

before you could react—before you could even breathe—his hand shot out, fingers wrapping around your wrist in a grip that was just shy of bruising. his skin was warm, calloused from countless battles, compared to yours which still had their softness since you wore gloves most of the time, but still calloused all the same. the contrast and similarity sent a jolt of heat straight to your gut.

"maybe," he said, voice so low it vibrated through you, "i just like putting you in your place."

you swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. your pulse was racing, and you knew he could feel it when his thumb brushed over the frantic flutter beneath your skin.

"oh?" you managed, raising an eyebrow like your heart wasn't trying to climb out of your chest. "and where's my place, exactly?"

his grip tightened. his other hand came up, fingers skimming the side of your neck—right over your pulse point, like he knew exactly how much he affected you. his thumb traced the line of your jaw, slow and deliberate, while his middle and ring fingers ghosted over the brand on the back of your neck—the one you never let anyone touch.

you flinched.

mark noticed.

his touch gentled—just for a second—before his voice dropped to a whisper, his lips so close to your ear you could feel his breath.

"wherever i want you."

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

the warmth came later. slow, like a star forming in the void—quiet, inevitable, burning.

it started with late-night talks on the hq roof, your legs dangling over the edge while mark hovered just beside you (because of course he wouldn’t sit like a normal person). you’d ramble about the constellations you’d charted, the supernovas you’d raced, the black holes you’d barely escaped. and mark—mark, who acted like listening to anyone else was beneath him—would actually listen. his eyes would stay fixed on your face, his brow slightly furrowed, like you were the only thing in the universe worth his attention.

"and then boom—whole damn asteroid belt turned to dust," you finished, waving your hands dramatically. "wish you could’ve seen it."

"i could have," he said, nose scrunched in that way it did when he was trying very hard not to sound impressed. "if i’d been there."

you snorted. "oh, please. you’d have punched one rock and called it a day."

he huffed—the closest thing to a laugh he’d ever admit to—and nudged your shoulder with his knee. "i wouldn’t have needed a stolen ship to escape."

"wow. rude." you clutched your chest. "and after i shared my trauma with you."

his lips twitched. "some of us don’t need to compensate with stories."

"ohhh, big words from the guy who literally calls himself invincible—"

"it’s accurate—"

"it’s embarrassing—"

he flicked your forehead. you punched his shin.

neither of you moved away.

the touches came next.

small, at first. a hand on your back after a fight, lingering just a second too long. a shoulder pressed to yours in the elevator, like he needed the contact. once, after a particularly brutal mission, he’d even carried you back to hq—not because you couldn’t walk (you could, thank you very much), but because he’d taken one look at your limp and decided for you.

"put me down, you overgrown—"

"shut up," he’d grumbled, arms tightening around you. "you shouldn’t be walking on that leg."

"it’s fine—"

"it’s bleeding."

"oh, so now you care about blood?"

he’d glared, but his grip had been careful.

then came the almost-confessions.

"you’re such an idiot," mark grumbled one night, pressing a gauze to the cut on your lip after you’d somehow managed to piss off an entire alien mob (in your defense, they’d started it).

"your idiot," you corrected, grinning through the sting.

his fingers stilled. his eyes—dark, intense, burning—locked onto yours.

for a heartbeat, you thought he’d argue.

then his thumb brushed your cheekbone, gentle, and he muttered, "obviously."

and that was the thing, wasn’t it?

mark grayson, with all his viltrumite pride, his superiority, his unshakable belief that he was better than everyone else…

…never treated you like you were beneath him.

if anything, he looked at you like you were his—his equal, his partner, his. like he’d already decided you’d rule the planet at his side.

(and the scariest part?

you were starting to like the idea.)

(≧∇≦)ﾉ☆

then, the angst.

because this was mark. not just mark grayson—not just the arrogant, infuriating, beautiful boy who’d somehow carved a place for himself in your chest—but mark grayson, son of omni-man, a warrior to the viltrum empire.

and you knew.

you knew from the moment it all clicked—from the moment you finally remembered why that insignia on his shoulders made your stomach churn. you’d seen it before, burned into the hulls of warships that had glassed entire civilizations. you’d run from it as a child, though you hadn’t known why at the time.

when you’d confronted him, your voice barely steady, mark hadn’t lied. hadn’t hesitated and treated you like you were his equal. he’d looked you in the eyes, his fingers gentle around your wrist, and told you everything. about viltrum. about conquest. about your planet being next.

and like an idiot, like someone who’d forgotten their own damn rules, you’d accepted him.

"you ever think about just… leaving all this?" you asked one night, your voice too quiet in the space between you. the city sprawled beneath the hq roof, lights flickering like dying stars.

mark didn’t answer right away. his jaw worked, his fingers flexing against the ledge where he sat. you could see the war in his eyes—the viltrumite wrestling with something he’d never been taught to name. it's funny, you started thinking about him as a viltrumite more than as a human with superpowers now.

finally, softly: "no."

you laughed, sharp and brittle, the sound scraping your throat raw. "yeah. didn’t think so."

his hand found yours—squeezed, just once, just enough to make your breath catch. his palm was warm, his grip firm, like he was trying to anchor you. like he knew you’d spent your whole life running and was terrified you’d finally learned how.

(and maybe you should have. maybe the old you—the one who put safety first, who always had an exit strategy—would’ve already been halfway across the galaxy by now.)

but your fingers twined with his instead, holding on like you could somehow change the inevitable. that maybe, just maybe... he'd choose you—

mark exhaled, rough, his thumb brushing your knuckles. "stay," he murmured, the word more plea than order.

you closed your eyes.

(you always put yourself first.)

(so why did his empire feel like your undoing?)

3.4k words woohoo!! viltrum mark is lowkey up there in my favourites... like... there's no way i wouldn't have not written a one-shot for him. i'm just surprised he wasn't the first variant i wrote for. could have definitely done more for this one-shot and definitely could have done it better (i had a vision, but unfortunately i don't think i did it justice). will definitely write more for viltrum mark in the future heheh

#lazy-ahh #invincible #invincible variant #mark grayson #viltrum invincible #viltrum mark grayson #male reader #invincible x reader #invincible x male reader #invincible variant x reader #invincible variant x male reader #mark grayson x reader #mark grayson x male reader #viltrum invincible x male reader #viltrum mark grayson x male reader #AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH #NEED THAT INVINCIDIH #are you sure?

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gard3nias · 1 year ago

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Amor tam pulcher | KTH - masterlist

❁pairing: senior!taehyung x junior!oc (Italian education system)

❁description: Daphne moves from the city to the countryside; objectively, a downgrade, but, emotionally, an upgrade. From the urban chaos straight into his warm embrace

❁synopsis:

"Would you go on a date with me? "Yeah." She nodded. "I'd love to go on a date with you." Voice light and teasing. "Yeah?" His eyes widened slightly. "Yeah." "Oh, God. I thought you'd say no because-" "Why?" Then her voice dimmed, shy and hesitant. "I like you."

❁genre: romance, fluff, smut, angst

❁wc: 235.37k+

❁date: 30/03/2024

❁warning: mature content

❁notes: strangers-to-lovers, teen love story, lots of fluff, smut, senior!taehyung (taehyung is like super smart), junior!oc (academic weapon, she loves herself an excellent academic performance), a lil angst, taehyung is head over heels for oc, nature lovers (oc loves flowers, taehyung loves butterflies), countryside (looks like Italy because that is the only type of countryside I know and love), oc has a lovely family, taehyung has daddy issues, jimin and jungkook are taehyung's besties( they also have other two girls as best friends); oc has a girl best friend (childhood best friend) and three boys as best friends); oc is so fucking prettyyy, like girl pretty; cross-posted on wattpad and ao3

❁chapters (status - ongoing) ⇀ updates every Friday, midnight

latest — 09/05

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Rewriting the story of Daphne and Apollo ⇀ «A love that drives me crazy, a lovely crazy, a sexy crazy, an amazing crazy»

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❀ 03 ❛the exploratory stage❜ - 5.48k

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❀ 04 ❛just like old times❜ - 6.70k

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❀ 17 ❛hesperiidae❜ - 6.41k

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❀ 18❛opposites attract❜ - 5.59k

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❀ 19 ❛peek-a-boo (boo boo)❜ - 5.66k

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Standing on a tower, two neurons patrolled the area, binoculars to their eyes. Suddenly, they sighted something. They squinted their eyes despite the instrument in their hands and tried to make sense of what they saw. "Hey, send in the alarm. Prepare the defensive barrier. Do something. Hurry up!" As this one darted away, the other remained still, binoculars back to its eyes. Confusion bubbled in its head. What had happened for the heart to be heading towards the body's headquarters? And what was that army of hormones behind it?

❀ 31 ❛the sun on the horizon❜ - 10.75k

The butterfly had finally found the flower. After travelling across space, it landed on Venus, where a singular ethereal natural being stood erect in its almighty beauty. After the coup d’etat, the heart realised that the situation was bigger than expected. The heat rose up to every part of the body. Butterflies increased and with that the flutters of their wings, which fanned the fire, expanding instead of quenching it. Infatuation at its peak.

❀ 32 ❛the lily family❜ - 7.09k

A new member of the Liliaceae. “You like butterflies, and she’s named after a flower.”

❀ 33 ❛twinkle, twinkle little star!❜ - 12.75k

1905. Annus mirabilis. Three important elements: Einstein, the relativity of time, Planck, quantum mechanics, and Quantum entanglement.

❀ 34 ❛on the highway to Forever❜ - 11.76k

Livin' easy, lovin' free. No stop signs, speed limit. Hey, mumma, look at me. I'm on the way to the promised land.

❀ 35 ❛collywobbles❜

Collywobbles: queasiness, intense nervousness… or butterflies in the stomach.

❀ 36 ❛the Daphne odora❜

A pure white bed. Snow. Then a bundle of grace. Pink petals gathered into a flower. Green leaves held the masterpiece, all in a pure white bed of snow.

❀ 37

❀ 38

❀ 39

❀ 40

❀ 41

❀ 42

❀ 43

❀ 44

❀ 45

... and there's more

❁pinterest board // my main

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smartsmears · 3 days ago

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So I doubt that The Story and the Engine is meant to tie into the wider arc that strongly, but as the RTD2 era is all about looking at television broadly and what Doctor Who means for us the viewers that engage in it more specifically, Im still looking at aspects of this through that lens. Just thoughts swimming through my brain:

-The fact that the theme song and thus, the show proper started through the story window, that at its core Doctor Who is just a story people share with one another

-the discussion about the power of stories in general, that a world dies without the ability for us to pass on stories and tradition to each other

-an explicit shoutout to a Doctor that needs their story to be told one day

-The thought of Doctor Who itself as a never ending story, contrasting Mrs Flood's idea that it's one nearing it's end

-Yet another instance where we view the Doctor's stories through the lens of TV screens, which for me feels different post Empire of Death which very much took that idea and made it more literal. The day is explicitly saved by harnessing the power of remembering Doctor Who stories that meant things to us.

-The barbershop itself, a ship flying through time and space, powered by the stories happening inside of it, with a central figure and companion, who wants nothing more than to not be forgotten, learns that the way to do this is to create new stories to share with those around them after the last person in charge retires and lets them take over.

I'm not going anywhere specific with these thoughts, but these things make the episode feel so in line with the rest of the season thematically, despite being incredibly unique and interesting in its own right

#doctor who spoilers #dw spoilers #doctor who #the story and the engine #doctor who series 15 #doctor who season 2 #fugitive doctor #15th doctor #rtd #rtd2 #rtd2 era #14th doctor #dw musing

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ladymrf · 2 months ago

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I should make a long fanfic out of this idea….

...

clark didn't think much about young just us, when he did it was accompanied by a huge headache from the time the team was active and with every word he heard from Kon about them his life shortened ten years.

when Kon moved to their apartment in Metropolis to finish his last year of high school and later college, Clark didn't think that this meant that his entire team would be stuck in his house often.

it starts a week after Kon moved in, Clark's oldest son (because they were father and son, there was no point in running away from that and they understood that, although it seemed like the rest of the world didn't understand their relationship like they did.) was being a sweetheart in helping to take care of Jon, because Clark and Lois worked irregular hours and yes they could drop Jon off at school in the morning, but who the hell would pick the kid up in the afternoon and watch him until they got home for dinner? Take him to the dentist? The library? To the park to play with his friends? To school events? Well, Kon was doing that and damn Clark loved him so much.

So Kon asks: Hey can I invite a friend over tomorrow?

And of course he could, because it was Saturday, Jon would be home all day, Clark and Lois would be home at noon and Kon needed a break from being an 11 year old boy.

It starts with Tim, Clark arrives to find the third Robin on the couch playing video games with his kids, he doesn't even get scared, half the words Kon says in a day are Tim's name.

So the next week, Jon mentions spending the afternoon with Kon and Cassie Sandsmark at the park one day, having ice cream with Bart Allen the next and that on Friday they all got together at the skate park so Tim could teach him how to skate.

And Clark is fine, they are good kids, good heroes who are being babysat for free just to spend time with Kon and damn what good friends they are.

The following month he finds seven young people and his son making bracelets in his living room on Saturday night, the teenagers spend the night and Lois is simply in love with all of them and Clark too, because damn, they are good kids and excellent company.

Then before he knows it, Bart Allen has dinner with them once a week, Cissie King Jones gives celebrity gossip to the Planet, Tim Drake is at his house so many times a week that he starts helping Lois with journalistic cases (it's scary to see your wife and a malnourished teenager dismantling a corrupt company), Cassie Sandsmark starts talking to Clark about the Titans as if they were bar buddies and Clark complains about the League coming back, Greta Hayes sends them so many good handmade products that Lois drinks a different tea every day during the week without repeating the flavor and Anitta is very good with fashion, they all get exclusive pieces from her future brand.

("Tim will finance it," she told them when she explained why they were all using Clark's living room as a studio in the middle of the week. "But first, I need to get started, so everyone is working." and Clark sat down and helped, because his mother taught him many things and sewing was one of them, he taught Jon that afternoon.)

(He comments to Ma about the children and the woman just shrugs, saying that Kon's friends live on the farm too, she must have forgotten to tell Clark that they run in packs.)

("Except in Gotham, they don't come near Gotham," Ma tells him with a certain serious tone. "They hate that place and everything there that isn't Tim.")

One fine day, Clark is in the Tower on duty and then everything explodes because the Lantern Corps calls to warn that a ship identified from Earth is chasing a troop of mercenaries through space and when the image opens to show Impulse's ship flying by, Clark's first thought is "Damn, they're going to miss the premiere of the Cissie's new movie" and not a loud "What the fuck?" (Wally was kind enough to exclaim for everyone)

He just sighs and tells them to leave the kids alone, because they know what they're doing, the entire League starts screaming.

(Red Tornado looks at him knowingly, he says to Clark: Oh, they got you too.)

(Yes, they did.)

#superman #yj98 #young justice #young just us #jon kent #kon el #conner kent #tim drake #cassie sandsmark #cissie king jones #anita fite #bart allen #greta hayes #clark kent #dc comics

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namelessgakusei · 1 month ago

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Ruler Of My Heart

Mark Grayson x Reader

Warnings: Death, Violence, Manipulation, Mentions of Invincible War

Notes: Gaku torturing Mark. Watch Alien Stage (⁠ ⁠ꈍ⁠ᴗ⁠ꈍ⁠)

Synopsis: Variant!Reader arrives just after the Invincible War, inciting trauma to Mark who recently lost you.

"Make me your god, I can give you everything."

This wasn't meant to happen.

You weren't supposed to die like this.

"(Y/N)! (Y/N) stay with me...! Please!"

He thought you were safe. He thought that you got away. He told you to go! Damn it, don't close your eyes!

Mark thought about flying to the hospital, to get you treated, but the way you grasped his suit made him hesitate. You were saying something but he can't hear it due to the blood rushing in his ears. His mouth opened to speak but all he could do was let out a sob as he held your hand close to his face.

"Please... I can't lose you."

Your last moment is kissing Mark, your bloodied lips leaving a mark on his' as you lay limp.

The war lasted for three days. A lot of heroes died, cities were decimated, and people were hurt, all because of those doppelgangers who made a deal with Angstrom.

Mark felt numb during the funerals, he feels like it's all his fault. Because he held back, because he doesn't want to kill, because of that... you aren't here anymore.

He can't even look at your casket.

During the reconstruction, people were understandably wary of him, too traumatized of the recent debacle. He wishes you were there to tell him that everything will be okay, that it'll pass and he's still the hero [Title Card].

A call from Cecil about an unidentified object en route to Earth snapped him out of his pity party, now looking forward to beat the fool who dared to choose his planet. No more Mr. Nice Guy, he'll kill whoever tries to harm the people he loves.

He found a marble white ship floating by the Pacific Ocean, unmoving but he can hear the faint the whirring of machinery. Prying what he can grab open, Mark readied his fist with a snarl towards the intruder but stopped short at the sight.

There you are, unconscious and dressed in white clothes that made you look regal, just like how he remembers.

But you're dead. Who the hell is this??

Initially, he thought that it was a Thraxan who shapeshifted into your likeness like how Nuolzot did with Seance Dog. He was rightfully enraged once the shock passed. Is this a sick joke? How dare they impersonate you?!

But then you wake up and called his name, confirming that this is real. You are real.

"Mark?"

Mark took you home in a heartbeat. It was a foolish decision, really. Who in their right mind would bring home someone who looks exactly like their dead crush? Definitely not him.

Perhaps it was the clarity that came after, when Mark started panicking. Who are you??? Why do you look and act and...

Why do you look at him like how they used to?

Mark needed answers and you're surprisingly cooperative. Then your story starts to get too familiar. You literally retold your whole life story just as he remembers it. Is it really you? Did you somehow survived? No, he saw you die. How did this happen? Some magic or space-time bullshit?

Mark doesn't care, not when you look at him like he's the most important person in the world, not when you smell the same when he buries his nose to your neck, not when you card your fingers through his hair and laugh just how he loves it.

Ah... You're back.

Mark ignores the warnings that his friends tell him. You're not dangerous! You're you! You're back, so what's the deal, Eve?? Oliver, they're not an enemy, stop arguing with him. You agree with me right, Mom?

Even Debbie finds you suspicious. She saw the funeral and saw you get lowered to the ground, so who is this person who wears a mask of your face? She tried talking Mark out of it but he doesn't listen, begging her to understand that you're just disoriented from the previous events.

Mark remembers how he failed to confess his feelings to you back then, and it became one of his many regrets over the days following your death. But it doesn't matter! You're here now and he'll be damned if he doesn't shoot his shot. With clammy hands and a nervous voice, he asked you out in one of your favorite places, hoping for the best that you'll accept.

Holy shit, you did. Well, more like you were confused as to why he's confessing since you two were together since the start, yeah?

What the hell, sure.

You were clingy, always wanting to be near him every second of the day, not that he minds, he's as clingy as you. You kept littering his face with sloppy kisses, marking him while mumbling that he's yours. Whenever someone gets too close or if he spends too much time with someone else, you're dragging him away for a cuddle session regardless of the situation. Okay, a bit too clingy, but it's fine! Mark lets you do whatever you want to him, partly because he doesn't want to upset you in any way and he's still reeling over the fact that he saw you die.

He loves it when you sing to him before you two sleep, he didn't knew you have such a calming voice. You should be a singer or something! You only chuckle and press a kiss on his forehead at the comment, knowing full well that it's what your job is back in the Viltrumite Empire.

You are an entertainer, someone who sings to provide enjoyment to the people under the Empire. Despite your occupation, you hold quite the power, after all, it was you who handed Earth over to the Viltrumites. You don't understand why your Mark snapped at you for joining the enemy. Why wouldn't you? Shouldn't he also join them? They're his own species! Sure, he's half-human, but Humanity hold no flame against the might of the Viltrumites. It's better to join them than fight, so why is he leading the rebellion?

While you climbed the ranks within the Empire, Mark's down on Earth, battling the agents sent to eradicate the rest of the rebels. If only he snaps out of it and finally comes to his senses. It's pointless! If he just accepts how things are, he can join the Empire! With your influence, he can even live a life of luxury, free of stress from fighting!

But he just had to be stubborn, doesn't he? You love that about Mark too. His resiliency, his kindness, his nobleness— you love everything about him. Aahh, if only he comes back to you... Maybe you can arrange it for him to be your bodyguard when he gets caught? The Viltrumites adore you, so they'll probably agree if you press the issue hard enough.

...Mark just got to die, doesn't he? You look beyond the glass from your room as the slaves bring in his body. A Viltrumite suggested that they let you see him one last time before he gets disposed off, since you kept begging for him to be brought to you. He just got to be stubborn in the end, doesn't he? He said he loved you, so why does he have to go and leave you alone?! Why does he have to protect the people who were ungrateful for his service since the start?! Why did he left you for them? Why? Why??

You don't let it affect your performance. You give the Viltrumites what they want while you wallow in your sadness inside your room. No matter how many gifts you receive from them can make you genuinely happy like you were when you're with Mark. Will this continue forever? Will you just survive?

Then Angstrom Levy appeared in your dimension, it was a mistake on his part, not knowing that the Mark of your world is already dead. When he fled by the strand of his hair after he got jumped by Viltrumite guards, you saw his ability. Portals? ...Of course!

If you can't have Mark here, you'll just have to find another.

And so, you proposed the existence of other dimensions to your masters, baiting them with the prospect of expanding the empire. Gullible idiots. It's a wonder how a mere human like you got this far but you're not going to question it.

It took some time, but they managed to recreate Angstrom's ability. It can only activate for a few seconds and it's unknown whether it really works and opens up in another version of Earth, so everyone's a bit reluctant about volunteering.

Not you, though. This is your chance of finding Mark again! If you die along the way, it doesn't matter! Living without him is death already!

They didn't took you seriously when you asked to be the test subject, saying that you're too fragile and that you better get back to your room since you'll be performing later. Your expression might've done the trick, since you saw some of them flinch. So much for being called an "empire".

That leads you to where you are now, with Mark in your lap, practically purring from how your pet his hair. It's adorable. You'll keep him when the Empire arrives the conquer this dimension, perhaps Debbie and Oliver too, to keep him company. All you need to do is activate the signal in this dimension to secure the connection back in your home, then you'll truly be together.

Unfortunately, you need to repair your ship that Mark previously wrecked, and the GDA has it for investigation. Cecil told Mark that it has traces of Viltrumite engineering but he believed you when you said that you know nothing about it. It's not entirely a lie, you don't have much knowledge about how your ship was constructed, but he drank your words like you're incapable of lying. Try all you want, old man, you can't separate us now.

Your requests are questionable at times, machines that you shouldn't know of is what you ask of Mark, and when he tries to ask about it, you only bat your eyes and insist that it's a surprise. He'd like that yes?

Maybe he should've heeded everyone's warnings. Maybe he should've been more logical. He should've known that you weren't the you he loved.

You only cup his cheeks and smile knowingly, like you had won a war you didn't participated in.

The Viltrumites from your dimension invaded his Earth, bringing the all familiar bloodbath with them. Mark was easily overpowered by the stronger soldiers, the difference in skill and power is evident from their varying experiences. And you, you stand atop the ruined city, untouched by the carnage you brought, looking at him with that innocent face.

He should've known. Those pure white clothes, that calm expression, the change in personality— Mark chose to ignore it, no, you fed on his delusions. You're a variant.

It's his fault all over again. He let you in, he protected you, deluded himself that you're the same person.

What's the matter, you ask, as you practically sauntered over him. He wants to glare, to clench his fists and pummel you to the ground for betraying him, for destroying his world, but he can't. Not when you look exactly like them. When he can see a glimpse of them on your face, your expression, your voice, your smile—

They don't smile like that.

Something in Mark snapped and he lunged forward, hands snaking around your neck as his fists landed on your face. He grits his teeth as he beats you up, his mind going overdrive as he sees himself beating the you of his universe. The you who died in his arms all those weeks ago. How dare you play with his heart like that! He loved you! You...

He stops with a gasp as he looked at what he'd done. A broken, bloody nose, a busted lip, and the deranged grin on your face.

Mark was pulled away by some Viltrumite Soldiers by then, pinned to the ground as they retaliate for him beating up their beloved pet. Before they could kill him, and before you could plead for his sparing, multiple ReAnimen swooped in to save him.

Amidst the smoke, you saw a glimpse of Eve carrying a battered Mark as she flies away.

#invincible #mark grayson #invincible x reader #mark grayson x reader #variant!reader #yandere reader #gaku's works!#invincible x alien stage

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muzzlemouths · 6 days ago

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Mermay Day 5 - Space

WC: 2644 // TW: Death.

Beautiful. That’s what they tell you. The sky and its many blinking stars, so vast that its majesty is incalculable. So profound it has held the attention of humanity for millennia. Nebulae strewn across the black horizon like the iridescence of a raven’s wings. Subtle, yet stunning to the eye.

There is no beauty here. No charm to your anguish, no reason for your suffering beyond the selfish whims of an authority that wishes to see you pay for a crime you did not commit. The prisons are packed like sardines and the public wants nothing to do with your blood on their hands, so you are denied a fair trial and a clean death, dressed in the robes of a hopeful explorer, instead, and told to go looking for something that will inevitably find you first.

Three days have come and gone since you were thrust into the belly of a too-small spaceship. Three days since they welded the door shut from the outside, any and all hope for your survival disappearing with that final spark. You aren’t meant to return.

This does not make the inevitability of your death any easier. Your bravery isn’t any more heroic than a spider futilely crawling up the walls of a bathtub. It will never reach the top, and in a day it will be swept neatly down the drain, with hardly a thought given to its endurance to stay alive when it still had a chance. So, too, will your time come to look death in the face and hope that, despite it all, your life was not lived in vain.

But that’s a headache for tomorrow. Today, you are eating dried apricots and watching your third sunrise of the day from your small cabin window, and imagining what it might be like to fly as the stars do.

Inevitability grasps your ship like a bath toy and grinds it to a halt, throwing you across the glorified tin-can carelessly, where you roll and roll and slam into the base of your control deck. Lights flicker, sharing the tremble in your fingertips, then plunge the room into a still, cold, dark.

Heat licks up your spine and draws over your muscles in slow, sore agony. Getting to your feet proves itself to be a nigh impossible task upon the realization that you’ve fractured a rib at the very least; and when you do make it there, hand braced on the control deck for support, it’s all you can do just to keep your legs from giving out on you. It isn’t pain that makes them quiver, but fear. A fear so bone deep and saturating you had spent the entirety of the last seventy-two hours doing everything in your power to ignore dread’s siren call. There is little you can do to run from it now.

The silence that remains is suffocating, ripping the air from your lungs like a tear had cleaved through the sturdy hull of your ship, evoking the abrupt sensation of remorse the same way street asphalt reminds one to wear a helmet.

Your time is up.

It’s just your luck that death is ahead of schedule. You can’t say for certain that the source of your ship’s untimely demise is the same unnamed beast that your persecutors had warned you of, but, given the vast enormity and consequent emptiness of space, it would be just plain foolish to consider any other alternative.

This makes it all the more suspicious when you don’t immediately find yourself in the belly of something incomprehensible. Having spent the days leading up to your departure being lectured on the wickedness of this creature, you had been expecting an omen to indicate the end of everything. A snarl, a roar, an explosion of light. Anything. Anything but the deceptive tranquility that surrounds you now.

Somewhere in the distance, a star grants your wish.

Music, soft on the ears, steadily overwhelms the silence. Vintage oldies from decades past catching and scratching like old vinyl; saturn’s rings are a record that spins with every quiet heartbeat.

You consider, ever briefly, that it is the space station’s way of sending you off with one final goodbye. An impersonal show of pity, so they might be able to continue holding your fate at arm’s length and wash their hands of your death when it’s finally over with. This theory reigns for as long as it takes you to realize that the music isn’t coming from your intercom at all. Nor does it stem from your ship’s internal system, her desperate beeps of distress having been silenced long before now. The longer you look for its source, the deeper that palpable fear drives into the pit of your stomach, until you can no longer ignore the answer right in front of you.

The music sings louder, captivating as the voice of a siren, from directly outside of your ship.

A quiet tap against the exterior threatens to drag your spine between your teeth, drawing every hair to stand on end. Its echoed by another, and a final tap after that, punctuated with a beat of silence before the noise repeats itself. Dread pricks at your skin as you realize that it isn’t a tap at all, but a knock.

Somehow, someway, in the tremendous vacuum of space, someone – something – waits for you to open the door.

This is a solitude mission, a suicide mission. You aren't meant to have company. Yet the knock at your door is unmistakable, its volume increasing with each echo, and so, too, does the music swell until it drowns out everything else. The knocks, the heart drumming in your chest, even your own thoughts become impossible to register as each new song goes from overwhelming to excruciating.

Any longer and your head is sure to split, stuffed to the brim with static and voices you don’t recognize. Blood interrupts the stale air in your helmet as it empties from your ears and rivers down your cheek. Louder and louder, still, does the music tear into your soul, driving you up the face of a cliff and running you towards the edge in hysterics, closer, closer, closer–

When had you gone outside?

The notion chills you, but pales in comparison to the weight in your gut when you turn over your shoulder and see, undoubtedly, that your ship has been cleaved in two.

Warmth spreads over your jaw, somehow reaching through your helmet to draw your attention back to the front, where you’re met with something…peculiar.

No, not something. Someone. A misshapen estimate of a human, wrong in many ways, like it had been created on a guess, yet right where it counted; in the eyes which stared back at you like pearlescent mirrors, and the curve of their jaw, which felt especially human, and the gentleness of their hand cradled under your cheek. Their anatomy mirrored yours in that they smiled with crooked teeth and boasted too-wide shoulders, but the resemblance disappears past the torso, which tapers into something akin to the tail one might expect from a fish, a stream of light that goes on for miles, ending not in a fin but in a trail of stardust.

Oh. It isn’t a tail at all, it’s a comet, and it hugs their waist like the moon orbits the earth.

They burned against the darkness of space, casting a beautiful glow like the very stars themselves, like an angel, and like an angel it pained you to focus for too long. Blurs of cerulean and gold bled together, flowing across their body like the tide of a shallow creek rushes over stone. They emit a light so radiant, so abundant with color, so beautiful amidst the emptiness of your surroundings that you hardly even notice that their touch is scorching you.

They don’t allow you the time to realize, rather, you’re swept into the embrace of a dance. Planets rush by as the creature spins you about, waltzing between the stars to the tune of Don’t Be Lonely. Your mind swims back to that spider in the bathtub. If you are the arachnid, that would make this creature the hands that gently guide you into a cup. Their touch is merciful, each movement placed with careful intentions, as though they are intimately aware that the smallest tug could rip you limb from limb.

At any moment you could be thrust towards the nearest galaxy, too. Made to drift through gravity, aimless and lost, until your suit ran out of air. Yet their hold on you is firm, steadfast, and you find yourself forgetting about the inevitable, focusing instead on the charm in their smile and the way it warms your belly, sending giggles up your throat. Your defense evaporates as their tail surrounds you, replaced with a wonderful sense of relief, and, forgoing all former apprehension, you begin to dance along.

You’ve never been much for waltzes. Yet when you’re swept into the dip, and their forehead taps innocently against your helmet, you can’t help but feel like it isn’t supposed to end this way.

The dizzy feeling in your chest is swallowed by an overwhelming sense of dread you can taste in the back of your throat, its weight so crushing it feels as though your body is rupturing from the inside out, and a single thought fights through the music and drifts to the surface, unprompted.

I don’t want to die.

You wake with a start, returned to your ship with little more than the echo of warmth to remember the moment by.

If it was nothing more than a dream, it must have been the best sleep you've ever had. For the first time in years you are warm, you do not ache, you do not hunger, you do not thirst. You feel no fear.

Your coffin remains in a functioning state. Lights, sounds, gravity. The walls are in one piece, and the outside is, once again, terribly quiet.

Against your better judgement, you find yourself mourning the experience. At the very least you can say that in your dreams you aren't so lonely, nor still heading for death, regardless.

"Good morrow," crackles a voice from your intercom. It is instinctively familiar, yet not a voice you immediately recognize. Most certainly, it is not the voice behind those who sent you to die. "Damaged?"

You blink in quick succession, attempting to make sense of the question. After a swift once over of yourself you lean against the control deck and confidently tell the mic that you're unharmed.

Silence answers you before it's followed by the whistle of a note, like that of an old song. You're met with the sensation of something poking you between the ribs.

"Curious little proto. How have you survived?"

Their voice sweeps through the intercom with curiosity and awe, crackling like static. It does little to soothe your confusion.

"What do you mean?" You fiddle with the controls, attempting fruitlessly to find some answers. "My ship lost power for a moment — I think it did, at least. Or I was dreaming?" Words dribble down your chin in a rush before lapsing into silence. Though your heart is content, the feeling that something is terribly wrong remains nearby. "Am I still talking with Mission Control?"

A short matter of breaths pass in silence. That is, figuratively speaking. You find the concept of lungs confusing, and the sensation of a heart no longer beats within your chest. The lack of it scares you.

"It was our hope that this would be easier on you," says the voice, suddenly quiet and meek, "but we cannot stay for much longer."

Your body warms exponentially, as though your very bones now begin to crackle and split like logs on a fire. "This?" You ask, barely a whisper.

The room is distant, your body not your own. The skin you wear itches with unfamiliarity. Panic creeps in past the haze and drives you back, away from the window and the empty, black sky outside of it. Away from the voice, the feeling of hands ghosting over your skin. Away from the answers you so desperately sought out.

"Who are you?" You demand. "What's going on?"

Your shoulder bumps against something stiff.

You swivel on your heel to face it, and are met with the sight of your own corpse, still floating, still aimless.

The scream does not leave your throat. It rattles in your chest, against bones that aren’t there and through a pipe in your neck that feels swollen and raw, ringing between your ears.

"Easy, easy, now." A new voice enters the fray, scratchy like static all the same but shriller. Splashes of gray and blue cross your mind, crashing through your fear like a tidal wave. "Do try to relax, traveler. This is new for all of us."

You will breath into your lungs, yet find none of it. Your heart squeezes around nothing, blood vessels twisting painfully, until every sensation slips away one by one and ultimately fades into nothingness.

"What did you do to me?" You rasp, unable to take your eyes off of the you that looks like it's been here for forever. Even your words are unfamiliar, spilling from between clenched teeth in a voice that isn’t quite your own.

"You weathered the toll of a star's devouring," answers the second voice. "Survived what should not be survivable, endured what most cannot." The voice pauses, mercifully allowing you a moment to try and understand, then, "Now you exist within us."

Your body feels as though it, too, has begun to float. The room around you crumbles, piece by piece, until you see the truthful mangling; entire sections of your ship devoured by the insistent tug of space and gone forever. Your coffin, your prison, your home is devastated beyond repair, and looks to have been in that state for some time.

“How…how long have I been dead?” You croak.

“Four centuries prior,” answers the first voice.

“A blink of the eye to us,” says the second. “So we waited. Wanted to be sure.”

Your throat constricts, finding you lack the spit to swallow. “Sure of what?”

“That you would wake somewhere familiar,”‌ says the first voice, light as air and honey yellow. “But it isn’t safe for us to stay in one place for much longer. We must leave this place, little proto. You are trapped here no more.”

You manage to tear your eyes from the body if only so you can turn over your palms, not finding flesh, muscle, or bone, but blurs of color in its place. Cerulean, gold, and...something new. Something...

You.

“Why do you keep calling me that?”

“Because you are a protostar,” says the second voice. “An infant, by millennium's standards, having only joined us a moment ago.” There’s a pause, then, “Worry not, little star. We will learn to get along.”

You fail to comprehend the significance of what’s occurred, feeling new and raw, still, but you will surely understand in time.

“So…what happens now?” You ask, staring past the body of your ship to stare into the unknown. It no longer looks empty to you. Instead, the sky and its many blinking stars, so vast that its majesty is incalculable, now appears…beautiful.

You might have never known.

“Anything,” answers yellow. “This world is our playground, friend. It’s just waiting to be explored.”

Something new, something dangerous, addicting, stirs within your chest. You think it might be hope. “And you’ll be here, with me?” You ask. “I won’t be alone anymore?”

“We aren’t going anywhere,” says blue, chuckling. “You’re a part of us now, inseparable, invaluable. So tell us, little star…”

In unison, voices thick with static and old, vintage tunes, “…where would you like to go first?”

#DCFPUmermay25 #oneshots #Titanium Heart au #DCA community #DCA fandom #Sun fnaf #Moon fnaf

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bumblebeezer · 1 month ago

Text

Flying Lessons - Din Djarin x Reader

Word Count: ~1760 Warnings: NSFW! Minors, do NOT interact with this one! Reader basically gets edged, and then overstimulated to the point of tears. Mando gets a little rough, but it's all consensual. Prompt: The Mandalorian is teaching you how to fly. He's also being horribly distracting, but you can't say you really mind. Also, we're in the Razor Crest because it was simply the best setting for Din/reader fanfics and canon will have to pry it from my cold, dead hands.

“Wrong. Start over.”

You groan in frustration and duck your head, leaning your forehead against the console.

“Din, c’mon, can’t we just—“

“No,” he grunts out, stopping you in his tracks, his voice crackling through the modulator. “This is important. One of these days, you’ll have to fly the ship without my help,” he reminds, his gloved hand tangling in the hair above your neck, sharply pulling you from your spot against the console.

The act earns another whine from you as you straighten, determined to obey his orders.

As you straighten as best you can with the Mandalorian’s dick buried inside of you, anyways.

Din gives your thigh a little smack, the sharp snap of the leather against your skin sending a jolt though you and demanding your full attention.

Sitting up, you begin again, trying to mimic the usual steps the Mandalorian goes through each time the Razor Crest takes flight. You lean forward, breasts heaving as you pant like a massiff, ignoring the way Din’s cock twitches inside you as you lean over the console, and begin checking the control locks.

Of course, with the Razor Crest in deep space, far from anyone or anything who might interrupt, all systems are go. But for the sake of this…little game of Din’s, you’re meant to pretend that you’re on the ground, preparing for lift-off. But, gods above, it’s so difficult to pretend that anything else is happening with the Mandalorian slowly fucking up and into you, stretching you out with each measured thrust.

It doesn’t help that you’re completely naked, having been carefully and methodically stripped by Din as he pulled you into his lap, his helmet nuzzling your neck as he proposed this bantha-brained idea. The cold vacuum of space seeps into the metal walls of the Razor Crest, perking your nipples and causing goosebumps to erupt along your skin.

A primal sound leaves your lips, swollen with your constant biting and parted with exertion, as you try your damndest to focus on the flight controls in front of you. But if Din is bothered by your frustrated groan, he makes no indication of it. “After checking for control locks, I…I check the—the fuel,” you pant, tapping the circular gauge with your fingertip, the tap tap tap sound giving you something to focus on instead of the slick and, frankly, obscene noises coming from the apex between your thighs as Din continues thrusting in and out of you. “Good,” he praises, rewarding you with a deep thrust, pulling you back until you’re flush against him, the back of your thighs and the plush globes of your ass pressed against the canvas of his flight suit and the cold beskar making up the armor plates covering his strong thighs. “What’s next, cyar’ika?” His voice pulls you from your reverie, bringing you back to the task at hand: learning to fly a fucking starship while a Mandalorian leisurely ruts into your cunt, expecting you to have very little problems focusing in spite of the very distracting circumstances you’re in. Groaning, you move ever so slightly against him, just barely rolling your hips backward, sighing in relief as the tip of his cock hits your sweet spot just right before he’s slapping your thigh again, a silent reminder to focus. “What’s next, cyar’ika?” He repeats, his voice gruff and unforgiving. “If you stop, I stop,” he reminds, the warning in his voice very real. Huffing, you lift from his lap on shaky legs, swallowing a whine of disappointment at the loss of him, and take hold of the yoke, thankful that the steering has been disabled and that the auto-pilot system is currently flying the ship for you.

“Next, I’d prepare to lift off,” you huff, unable to keep the pout from your voice. Typically, Din might chide you for your petulant moue, but he must be feeling merciful today, because all he does is offer a pleased grunt and another languid thrust. “Mhm,” he slowly murmurs, and though you can’t see his face, you’d be willing to put credits on the fact that he’s smirking beneath the beskar, reveling in the way you’re struggling not to squirm on his dick. He knows you well enough to be aware of the fact that you’re close to breaking and outright begging for him. As a matter of fact, he’s surprised you haven’t done so already. Proud, too. When you continue without his prompting you to do so, he hums again, rewarding you with another deep thrust as you point to the different meters and dials, dutifully explaining each one’s function (even if you pant and whine through each explanation).

“Good girl,” he coos from behind the beskar, his gloved hands gripping your hips, appreciatively eyeing the way your flesh yields beneath his leather gloves. “My clever little cyare, hm?” He’s teasing you now, and you can hear the grin in his voice, and it takes all of your effort to refrain from glaring at him from over your shoulder.

It seems he knows you all too well, knows that you’re pouting through the Crest’s windshield, staring angrily at the stars beyond the transparisteel, because his gloved hand is gently tangling itself in the hair at the back of your head once again, silently urging you to turn and meet his gaze through the imposing t-shaped visor of his helmet. “Are you pouting?” He coos, voice mocking and teasing and pleased all at once. “Don’t be like that, cyar’ika, you’re doing so well…”

In an instant, your irritable facade breaks and reveals the desperate state you’re really in, your hips rolling back against him, earning an appreciative groan from the Mandalorian. “Din, please,” you beg, eyes half-lidded and glazed over with want. “I—I need it—need you-” you whine, your hands gripping the edge of the Razor Crest’s console, nails clawing at the metal paneling in an anguished attempt for something to cling to. “I need to feel you, need it f-faster…I’ve been so…so fucking close for so long, Din, please-”

With a smug grunt, the Mandalorian grips your hips and hauls you back against him, all but slamming into you. You’re suddenly pulled away from the console and into his lap, your bare back against his beskar chestplate as he thrusts upward, pounding into your mewling, trembling form. His gloved hands move to your thighs, holding your legs open as he pistons into you, the wet noises forming from your joined bodies echoing throughout the cockpit, mixing with Din’s grunts and your moaning, all melting together to make one pornographic symphony.

“Take it, cyare.”

His voice is a rough mutter between harsh pants and deep groans of pleasure. The beskar of his helmet, cold and unforgiving, digs into the warmth of your neck as you lay your head back against his shoulder, as if he’s trying to nuzzle you. His cowl remains tucked beneath the chestplate and swirled around his shoulders, and it’s surprisingly soft and warm, a sharp contrast to the beskar digging into your skin, creating an intoxicating polarity.

A particularly well-aimed thrust has you crying out, your back arching off of his chestplate, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t give you any time to recover before he’s continuing, ramming into you, prodding at that sweet spot over and over and over and over until tears of overstimulation sting your eyes.

“Din,” you gasp, hands finding and grasping at the inside of his forearms, careful not to grab at his vambraces. “Fuck, I’m close!”

Your whimpered warning spurs him on, and he somehow becomes even more primal, rutting into you like he’ll die without your release. “Kriff—let go for me, cyare,” he grunts, one of his hands moving to your mouth, a leather-covered fingertip pressing into your mouth. “Bite down,” he orders, pulling his hand free from the glove when you do so. His hand, surprisingly soft, hurriedly moves to the apex between your thighs, his middle and ring finger hurriedly rubbing at your clit. It’s sloppy and uncoordinated, a far cry from the usual finesse he has with you. But it’s enough to have your cunt clenching around his thick length, earning an involuntary growl from the Mandalorian.

“I’ve got you, cyare,” he mutters through gritted teeth, face screwed up with pleasure beneath the beskar helmet. “I’ll catch you. Just come undone for me—” As if on command, your body obeys Din’s rasping demand, squeezing around him, rhythmically clenching and relaxing as your orgasm crashes over you in a wave of pleasure. You cry out, your back arching against him, and as your body is wracked with sensation, Din comes undone with a grunt of his own, thrusting up into your cunt one last time, spilling into you with a hoarse cry.

As you come to, you suddenly become aware of the fact that you’re trembling. Din murmurs soft praises in Mando’a, gently dipping his chin and pressing the forehead of his helmet to the top of your head—the closest thing to a kiss he can give.

You gladly accept it, turning to press your own forehead to his helmet, your breath fogging up the shiny metal as you pant with exertion, bare chest heaving as you catch your breath. With a soft grunt, Din slips from you with a slick sound. Your shared release drips from your cunt, staining the pilot’s seat as Din gently places you back on the chair. With his bare hand, he brushes your hair from your forehead, and hums appreciatively at the sight of you so spent and satisfied, his cum staining your plush thighs.

“...You alright?” He murmurs, a fond smile evident in his voice.

Nodding, you offer a soft ‘uh-huh,’ blinking dazedly up at him, lips plush and parted.

He returns your nod with a definitive one of his own. “Good. You did well, cyar’ika,” he murmurs, unable to help himself as he bends to give you another Keldabe kiss. “Think you could really pilot the Crest?” He teases, his voice a soft hum of amusement.

“Sure,” you pant, eyes fluttering closed. You’re still stupefied from the sheer overstimulation, you’re only half-aware of what he’s asking you.

“Good,” he repeats, brushing the hair from your face before straightening. “Then I expect you’ll be able to pilot us out of here while I get our bunk ready for round two.”

He’s already brushing past you when his words finally register, your eyes widening as you straighten in your seat. “Wait, what?!”

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vwoop-prince · 1 month ago

Text

the electric kiss of hoarfrost

little (long) thing based on my halfa death defying idea (also on ao3)

Dick waves Bruce and Tim out his bedroom door, a dull smile slowly slipping as the door closes behind them. It'd been a week since the mission, and this was the first time they trusted him to be alone.

Well, as alone as he can be, with an emergency button strapped to his wrist, Alfred staying in the Manor instead of aiding in the Cave for patrol, and Cass somewhere around the bedroom wing. Even Babs was in the Cave instead of her own apartment or the Belfry or something!

Dick's not even sure when he went from the Watchtower's infirmary and its gnawingstretchingcoldbiting window into emptyvoidpainanguishdeath space to his childhood room in the Manor. He can't remember if it was him or someone else that got him back on solid ground.

The two beating sources in his chest always direct his attention elsewhere whenever he tries to focus on it.

His heart was beating slower than it ever had before his brain swelled—barely making forty beats a minute. The heart monitor Alfred hooked him up to only caught its namesake and not the other... thing beneath his sternum.

It was like a small jawbreaker, shifting up and down beneath the bone. Its beat was offset from his heart, and Dick thinks it changes based off what he feels; Sometimes, it's slow enough to fill in the empty beats of his heart. Others, it was faster than it—vibrating his body like it was being shocked by his own escrima sticks.

Dick pulled the blankets over his head, trying to drown out whatever show Tim had put on his TV. It seemed so loud even though Dick had watched as the volume went down and down to single digits before Tim placed the remote on his bedside table. He didn't want to reach out to it, didn't want to grab it, didn't want to feel cold.

Though Steph had bullied Alfred into setting his fireplace ablaze, it was still too cold in his room. Cold, cold, always too cold. It's been hours since Steph was even here—surely it was meant to be warm by now?

It just reminded him of there. Grabbing hold of the souvenir, using his left foot to try and kick himself up regardless that the ship was slowly sliding out the airlock, his right ankle broken beyond use and his lungs screaming at the air rushing past him faster than he could breathe. How the cold crept up it like a reverent lover. Slowly—so slowly—making it burn in numbness. Taking over his whole leg, then his other ankle, then his hips, then his navel before he couldn't hold on any longer.

The flying of the vastcoldyawningcoldwarpingcoldencompassingcold. The helpless feeling of protectsaveaidsavesurvivesavelivesave. The need to see his colleagues, his mentors, his friends, his family—ensure they're alive and safe—make them stay that way—protect them—save them—

His healing-much-too-fast ankle itches and burns and feels cold against the freezing bandages and he tries to kick at his mattress to unravel it and get it off but—

Dick turns his head more than he should be able to. His bed—blue sheets, five different sized pillows in the colors of his family's symbols, the metal frame he had to beg Alfred to get to replace the intricate and clunky wooden one when he was nine—it was all as he left it the last time he crashed in the Cave and woke up in it. Except it was distinctly three feet away from his horizontal body.

The yelp he lets out makes his lungs and throat spasm. He turns back into the blankets, coughs tearing through his body, hoping that this was another awful hallucination. Like the Lazarus green around his family, concentrating in blob-like shapes around his head, spiraling in certain parts of the Cave and Manor that Jason liked to frequent.

Like Jason himself, on lonely, rainy nights patrolling Blüd. Like Wally.

Who is still alive.

Dick swallows, shoving the coughs back down and not caring how it still makes his torso twitch. The blankets are pushed off his face slowly, everything tense in anticipation of the cold air of his room. It makes his nostrils flare, but he's more focused on how the ceiling is so much closer than it should be. He looks down at the bed over his shoulder and sees that he's even higher than before.

Okay. That's... fine. This is fine. He can just... fly, now. Or... hover? Either way. It's fine. Surely. Everything is. Fine.

He sits up easily even with nothing to push off of. He stands easily, gravity pulling the blankets down and Dick is grateful he was slow as he watches them land in a roughly neat position. But he was still four feet above it. He didn't even need to extend his arm all the way to touch the ceiling.

Everything. Is. Fine.

Dick steps to his right and dips a whole foot at the nothing beneath him. His ankle was hurting by how tightly he kept it in a standard standing position. Should he just... let it hang? Pointe? No—even the thought of that was making his brain melt.

He slowly raises in the air and takes another 'step'. Only a few inches, that time. And he was actually shifting to the right. Flight as a whole.

Dick closes his eyes and imagines moving to the foot of his bed, past it, over what he thinks should be the armchair. There was a slight breeze tousling his hair throughout the stillness. He cracks one eye open—

"ACK!" He falls hard, no time to land properly even if he wouldn't be tangled in wires. The chair was another foot to his left—stupid, stupid, of course it was, he had flown to the right before going forward—

His back hurts. His ass hurts. His ankle felt worse than it had whenever he was actually still in bed. Everything tingled as the jawbreaker under his sternum beat faster and twirled and sent singing electricity through everything and suddenly he felt so much better—

The door banged open and Dick yelped again, flinching so hard he fell on his side. Delicately firm hands take hold of his shoulders and ease him up before they lightly dance across his face, his sides, and his ankle.

Blinking the starburst from his eyes shows Cass's scarred face pinched in a way he rarely sees. She finishes investigating him and turns her dark eyes to his face, eyebrows scrunched in confusion.

Dick smiles a crooked thing and ignores the mind-melting revelation in favor of his old Lady Shiva training, hoping to at least redirect Cass's attention elsewhere.

~~...~~

There was a man in the mirror, and it wasn't him.

He looked like Dick. He copied Dick's movements. He never did something Dick didn't do, never did anything weird or wrong, and followed him even as he pulled out his phone, turned around, and tried to watch the man behind his back.

The man was his reflection.

Dick turned back to stare at him head-on, the lights of his bathroom bright and piercing and doing nothing to dissuade the differences.

He had Lazarus green eyes, and his hair was like the edges of electricity. It was still the sloppily groomed middle part that Dick's had for years, but it was white. He wasn't even wearing Dick's grey tank-top and dark blue sweats.

It was his Nightwing suit, but wrong.

Anywhere black was now a blinding white. Anywhere dark grey was now a lighter variant. The blue undertones to the dark colors had shifted yellow-orange. His symbol was a yellow-orange.

It was wrong.

Dick backs up until his back hits the window. The reflection does the same, but the moment his body jostles with the force of his retreat coming to a stop—

All the yellow-orange and green turns blue.

Not the blue of water. Not the blue of cold ice. Not the blue of the sky.

Nightwing Blue.

Something blue trails up from his right ankle. Dick stares at the reflection and watches as arms—vines—spider legs—lightning climbs higher and higher until there's a weird tingling sensation on the left half of his body, the reflection's lightning jumping to the left leg at the same time.

Dick looks down, further and further until it's his own body taking up his vision.

And the blue lightning trailing across his limbs.

There's a knock on the door and he blinks. "Master Dick, are you alright?" Alfred calls before a weight makes the handle shift but not turn.

The lightning was gone. Dick looks at the mirror and doesn't see the wrong suit; The white hair and green eyes were gone. It was just him. Sweaty and disheveled after a too-short routine on the trapeze.

"Fine, Alfred!" he yells, shaking his head and catching it on the tank-top he tried to yank off at the same time. "Just—got lost in my... scars!"

Alfred hums to block a chuckle. "You can always do that after you're clean and in bed, Master Dick. Though, I suggest you do so in the morning, when the others are home. They are more successful in dragging you out of your memories than I."

Dick almost slams his head into the shower door. He turns the faucet on and the cold has him hiss. "Will do, Alfie!" His shoes clicking further into Dick's bedroom sound, and he sighs.

With one last look in the mirror, Dick steps into the lukewarm water, ignoring the way his eyes flashed green and his skin burned.

~~...~~

He was finally back in Blüdhaven after two months of monitoring and small patrols in Gotham to shake the rust off. Barely able to convince B that he doesn't need a chaperon in his own city.

Nightwing was alone, for the first time in too long.

The jawbreaker-sized thing beneath his sternum sent electricity surging throughout his body. One blue bolt of lightning formed on his right foot, the white of his boot slowly creeping up his suit. He stomped both out quickly.

It's been too long since Nightwing flew through Blüdhaven, and Dick doesn't want him to be any different from the last time he patrolled. Double-checking his equipment, Dick smiled his Robin smile and did a flip off his apartment's roof, laughter bouncing through the connecting alleys in a haunting way.

He started early. The sun wasn't even fully set when he began weeding out the criminals, the goons, the bad and the evil, the monsters, those that dare to make His unsafe.

It was freeing.

It was intoxicating.

The scum festered under His Family's watch, who were too hesitant to create a power vacuum in politics they did not know. There were so many out tonight. Murderers, kidnappers, rapists, dealers—even middle school bullies roamed the streets in the supposed 'safety' of darkness.

Not anymore.

Not if they harm those who are Nightwing's.

Hours passed. Oracle and Batman and Robin and Spoiler all asked him questions, and he vaguely remembers giving clipped answers every single time. Busting a deal here, taking down a gang there—always moving, always busy, always fighting. He thinks some of them apologized for the mess they semi-knowingly created. He thinks one or two offered to help. He knows he denied it.

Nightwing didn't want to put His Family in Harm's Way.

At some point, Oracle signed off. At some point, the horizon started to bask His City in reds and oranges of a dawning day.

Around that time, his escrima sticks ran out of charge. But he was still moving. Still busy. Still fighting.

Nightwing cracked someone's knee, sending them to the ground in an undignified heap. He punched another's diaphragm before kicking them in the head, down and wheezing. He flipped over the last, swept their legs out from under them, and heard their gun skid against the concrete.

Escrima sticks planted into their back without conscious thought. Lightning barely danced at the edges of his vision before the goon beneath him was electrocuted.

Dick gasped and ripped his escrima away. The goon—person—groaned in pain before their breathing evened out, a little stuttery but oh so clearly alive.

He doesn't know what happened. He doesn't know why he did that. He doesn't—

Dick looks around the alley, trying to find something he recognizes. Anything.

Since when was he by the docks?

The sun crested the waves and blinded him. He hadn't even noticed the sky's shifting hues in his search.

Everything ached. His suit was cut in spots and there was blood around them. And some blood not near his wounds.

What the fuck was any of that?

Dick sent an anonymous tip to the least corrupt cop in Blüd and grappled onto the nearest warehouse. His apartment was a good thirty or forty minutes away at top speed. Citizens were going to see him.

Gritting his teeth, Dick grabbed his spare grapple and did something Batman tried to beat into his skull was an awful idea:

He used both at the same time, threatening shoulder dislocations and tangled wires.

There were times in his mad scramble to get home where his grapples weren't attached to anything. Weren't pulling him forward, momentum long since meant to make him drop. And he was still going forward. The wind in his hair. Gravity but an illusion to him.

He had to remember to use the grapples in case someone took a picture of him.

Dick was home in seventeen minutes, jawbreaker thrumming and singing a buzz into his shoulders that had popped disconcertingly on his last roll.

~~...~~

It's been three hours, and Dick can't sleep.

The Blüdhaven news was filled with relief that Nightwing was back, with slight surprise at how brutal some of his take-downs were. Witnesses actually came forward to express their own surprise, but every single one completely understood.

Nightwing wasn't there to protect them for a while, and was making up for lost time. Maybe something had happened for him to be especially brutal to some criminals, everyone speculated, but they weren't going to complain. He deserved to 'let loose' on the really bad guys, some declared.

Even his last 'fight' was talked about. The woman he had electrocuted with his blue lightning had to be checked on by a professional when she didn't even wake up in transport.

She was fine. Bruised, a bit dazed, and grumbling about a fast blue bitch... but fine.

Dick still couldn't sleep. Especially when the white tried to creep up his boot again. Especially when he leaned his head against the chipped tiles of his shower and saw the off-white glow green. Especially when he tried to put a bowl on the counter and it shattered like the many times a young Conner tried to set the table in Mount Justice.

Like he forgot his own strength.

It made no sense. Dick wasn't strong enough to do that accidentally. He wasn't a Meta. He wasn't an Alien. He was just... Human.

He shouldn't be able to make blue lightning, have white hair and green eyes, or fly, either.

Through gritted teeth, Dick breathed. He picked up the pieces of the bowl with his hands and threw them away. He grabbed another bowl and used his pinky as a cushion to gently set it down.

The milk was placed beside it. The tiny pantry door was opened and he reached for the cereal—or not, as he didn't even need to extend his arm like normal. Dick grabbed the door handle with his free hand and tried to gently set himself back onto the floor. He went too fast, too hard, into the floor. He could feel pieces of tile cut into his bare feet and the jawbreaker in his chest sing.

What. The fuck. Ever.

The pieces re-cut into his flesh with every step, but Dick just filled the bowl with Cinna-Bolts cereal, topped it with milk, and tried to grab a spoon from the drawer twelve times. His fingers kept fucking going through the metal, the plastic separator—even the fucking drawer itself!

Giving up, he just leaves the drawer open and goes to grab the bowl.

And there Dick stands still. Contemplating.

He was hungry. That's why he made this. But with every weird thing that happens to him, he can't help but think back to the day he die—

The day Dick learned Wally was still alive.

The offer he agreed to.

The price of his agreement.

It's been two months since then. Dick hasn't paid the price in all this time. Was this all happening because he was trying to ignore it? Ignore the powers, and the price needed to use them? Was this his own body—his own soul—backfiring on him and his suppression?

Dick grit his teeth to the point they squeaked.

He just wanted to be Nightwing, again. He just wanted to be with his family, again. He wanted to save people. Wanted to get his friend back.

The hand drops back to his side as he sighs a heavy thing. It doesn't matter what he wants or wanted or will want. What matters is what's already done.

"For the, uh—" Dick starts only to immediately stop. He didn't know anything about the Being—The Ghost King—that gave him these powers. No name besides Ghost King. No epithet, no proper prayer or offering incantation. Not even when to offer something, or if he could get anything else in return. He just shakes his head and decides to do his damned best.

"For the Ghost King. I... need a bit of help."

For a moment, nothing happens. For a moment, Dick feels insane. For a moment, he wants to collapse to the kitchen floor, dig his injured feet into the ground, and sob.

Then a Lazarus Portal opens in front of the counter.

Dick takes a step back, body tense and thoughts running through how absolutely idiotic it was to not even have his weapons on him, holy fucking hell, how stupid can the Boy Wonder be.

A blinding white hand inches out of the Portal. It hesitates before reaching further, an all-absorbing black arm following it. Dick half forgot the King wears a skin-tight hazmat suit.

If this was the King.

The hand grabs the bowl and Dick only now pays attention to how inhumanly long the arm is. He blinks and shakes his head to get rid of the melting feeling in his brain.

As the arm retracts, something comes out of the Portal. Dick bites his lip to keep his focus here.

It was the King, thankfully. Snow white hair, glowing green eyes, a crown of frozen fire floating stagnant above his head. His galaxy-cloak was on and, possibly, longer than he remembers.

The King focuses on the cereal with a curious tilt to His head. Dick somewhat remembers the Human form the King took before, and can see how little the King changes between the forms.

Blue-tinted tan skin. Messy hair floating in a nonexistent wind, the top half longer than the bottom. Half-lidded eyes shifting between pure green and white sclera. His jaw was bold, but not sharp enough to kill a man. Nose was straight and the slightest bit crooked. Lips were bigger than Dick's, glistening a light blue-white, and slightly parted to show nothing but green within His mouth.

Dick shakes his head and feels his own lip give way to his teeth. The coppery blood was refreshing, if a little... changed.

Like a sour crown melon.

The King tips the bowl and its contents into His mouth, throat not even swallowing but nothing spilling past His lips. It was the strangest thing Dick's ever seen.

The bowl was placed into his sink with not a drop of milk left. The King turned His attention to Dick, a content smile on His face. "It's been too long since I've had cereal. Thank you for that."

"Uh—no problem, man—ah, Ghost King..." Dick smiled a shaky thing, wanting to beat his skull into the nearest wall. All of Diana's lessons on dealing with royalty! Out the window the moment he sees a too-pretty King!

The King's face twitches and cringes and Dick wants to just run to his room and curl up and die—"No need for the formalities, Nightwing!" The King states with an echoing laugh beneath His words that does not match with His face. "Just call me Danny! Phantom, if you really must."

It was like a record scratch happened to his brain. He didn't dare focus on it.

"Of course, Phantom, my apologies. Feel free to call me my civilian name—it feels like an imbalance for anything else." Phantom stares at Dick for just a moment too long and he can't help the way the jawbreaker beats faster and faster, wondering if he offended the King by not saying his civilian name because He doesn't know it—

"You're an odd one, Dick." Phantom tilts His head too far for whatever bone-like structures surely must be in His neck—The crown and the cloak disappear and a weight lifts off his shoulders. Dick didn't even notice when it appeared. "It's almost refreshing, though I guess the overly-formal tone's just gonna stay for a bit, eh? Anyway, what'd you need help with?"

Even still being in this Ghost form, Dick can't help but relax and see more of the Human form in Phantom. Nothing even changed besides the removal of the crown and cloak. "Well, I—I finally had some time alone, and the—er—your powers kinda started going crazy—" Dick waves a hand flippantly, turning away from Phantom to hide the blood rushing to his cheeks. "—and something happened on patrol, and I used blue lightning on a Human, and I was scared she was hurt but she's fine and I don't remember wanting that to happen—and I've been flying when I don't want to and breaking things and my hand went through the drawer—"

His hand—the right one—gets grabbed in Phantom's left. A bolt of blue lightning passes between their jointed hands. Suddenly, green Lichtenberg scars appears all across Phantom's left half. Originating from the very hand keeping Dick's from moving. It crept up Phantom's arm, up into his torso where it thinly splintered off to the rest of the body.

Except his heart and neck and eye—

The branching figures focused on those areas like bees to nectar. Swarming, concentrated, ravenous.

Dick almost doesn't notice the burning cold winding its way through the right half of his body. It started in the hand Phantom still has a hold of, but it absolutely raced through him, pooling and spreading up from his right ankle.

It swarmed. It was concentrated. It is ravenous.

It... wasn't that bad.

Phantom looked at him for a few more seconds in pure silence, flickering eyes jumping from Dick's ankle to his hand.

Dick doesn't need to look down to remember the panic he felt on the Watchtower when he awoke to medics and friends alike gasping and shouting at his injuries. He doesn't need to look to remember the time Alfred used a cloth to clean him up the best he could and Dick, the dumbass, got curious about his injuries.

He doesn't need to remember how even the coldest setting of his shower's water hurtsburnsstabspeels at the creeping, trailing patches of purple-black skin.

"You're going through a more prolonged adjustment period than I did for the initial powers," Phantom gently states, rubbing his lightning-burnt fingers over Dick's frost-burnt knuckles. "Maybe because you knew what to expect and unconsciously suppressed them. Maybe because that's just how Ectoplasm works with you. Maybe it's because of the powers you're developing first.

"The specifics don't matter. I'm glad that you felt comfortable enough to give me a call. I'll teach you how to use these powers. And about Ghost culture and instincts." Phantom stops rubbing Dick's knuckles and he nearly whines as the dull pain he's had since reviving comes roaring back. "I-If you want me to, that is..."

"I'd love that, Phantom," Dick whispers in his still apartment, the forenoon sun breaking through a spot of clouds to light it up. The way Phantom's—Danny's—hair glistens in the natural light was hypnotic. "Anything to protect Mine."

Danny smiles a toothy thing and bends near his waist—Dick didn't even realize when his legs had turned into a tail, but his brain doesn't feel like its pouring out of his ears, and he wonders how well he could fly with that. A cold pair of lips graze his knuckles in a chaste kiss. It overpowered the purple-black of his joints, and yet Dick couldn't help but want more of Danny's cold over his own Death Cold.

The crown and cloak re-materialize and the pressure comes back, but it's... different in a way Dick can't even grasp. Danny Phantom—The Ghost King—looks up at him through floating white curls. "I look forward to our time together, Dick Grayson."

Dick is ridiculously glad that he doesn't have downstairs neighbors when he suddenly falls through the floor, Danny's startled eyes and exclamation cut off halfway before he follows Dick and grabs him halfway through the next floor.

Yeah. A teacher would be great.

#vwoopis posts #death defying ship #death defying #dpxdc #dp x dc #dp x dc crossover #dp x dc au #dick grayson #nightwing #danny fenton #danny phantom #halfa dick grayson #dc x dp #dc x dp crossover

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vroomvroomcircuit · 1 year ago

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You pulling in made me wish your Dad pulled out

(A/N): Thank you to @foreveralbon for workshopping this fic with me with this prompt. I don't know what to do if you weren't my muse.

Summary: Charles pissed off his neighbor with his parking. Her answers are notes taped to his car window. How can evolve more out of that?

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x female!reader

Wordcount: 1.6k

🏎Masterlist🏎 ________________________

(Y/N) knows that she isn’t the most professional car parker. She should never start a career as a valet for sure. After all, she needed a second attempt on her own practical test to attain her drivers license.

But there is this one neighbor of hers. She doesn’t know what he looks like, what his name is or where he even lives. But (Y/N) knows one thing for sure: He is a shit parker.

Like, he is the worst person at parking that has ever walked the world. If he could, he probably would park his oh so expensive car onto other cars. But she tries to not let that get too close to her. After all, we just talk about parking spaces and it’s not worth getting her blood pressure up over it.

But (Y/N) found her tipping point.

Her whole morning has been a shit show. Her alarm went off, but she accidentally turned it off instead of giving herself another five minutes of sleep. Five minutes turned into 45. That meant the young woman had to rush through her usual morning routine and she is 90 % sure that she put at least one clothing item on the wrong way.

But it’s ok, she is still on time. She just needs to get out of the car par-

This is where (Y/N) last thread of patience with that neighbor snaps in two like a potato chip, crisp and unclean. This person parked the front half of his car in a way that completely blocks (Y/N)’s rear end from exiting the car in a way that does not hinder the sidewalk.

It takes a solid seven minutes to get out of her spot, trying not to scratch hers or another car. Arriving a few minutes late at work because of that and receiving a reprimand from her boss is really the young woman’s last straw. On her lunch break she does some snooping on the internet and comes across a really fine find. It’s worth the price and shipping cost to her.

Actually, she can’t wait for the week it is supposed to take to arrive at her doorstep.

But the time between that particular day and the day of arrival do fly by when you use it getting madder and madder at the dickhead that is unable to park like a normal person.

The next occurrence doesn’t take long after (Y/N)’s package finally arrives. She wanted to park her vehicle in her usual spot when Mr. Ferrari already took his and her own too. How can one person be such an asshole?

(Y/N) takes one of the business card sized cuts out of her glove box and puts it in the slit of the black car’s window. Satisfied with her work she steps back into her vehicle and looks for a different spot, ending up walking several minutes back to her apartment building, having to look somewhere farther away.

Charles can see from a distance that there is a card at his car’s windowshield. Which makes him suspicious. Surely no one thinks that he wants to sell his car for cheap, so it can’t be one of those car handler’s business cards. Maybe it’s a new ruse of thieves, trying to get him to stand long enough at his car to read it and be able to steal his car. Or they are kidnappers. Anyways, he makes quick work of putting the card into his pocket and drives off at a neck breaking speed.

When he arrives at his destination, the Monegasque pulls the piece of paper out and reads it. “The way you pulled in makes me wish your dad pulled out”, he reads aloud, laughing a little to himself.

He has to admit that he might not be the best at parking. Who is he even kidding, he would win the world championship at being the worst car parker possible. But the thought of someone getting that angered over his non-existent skills.

It’s something that makes him happy throughout his entire day. Which is his main reason to try and look how much he can piss that particular neighbor off even more.

So Charles starts parking even worse. If he also starts on the habit of watching out of his window more often now, he would claim it is just a coincidence. But something in him wants to meet that neighbor.

That person that gets more and more creative with their insults. One time they called him an obstacle to evolution. The other day the business card said something along the lines of him belonging to the asshole club now.

Another, a handwritten, note asked him not to reproduce. The neighbor even left a condom for him. This made Charles laugh so loudly, that (Y/N) looked out her opened window.

She just finished one of the worst shifts she ever had since starting that job and all she wants is just a quiet evening to come down from the stress. Just the noise of the laugh is enough to set her off again.

Seeing her handsome neighbor from under her apartment pocketing the note and condom she left just minutes earlier isn’t what she expected. Watching him opening the car, sitting down and driving off is even less on her list.

It kind of destroys her world view, realizing that hot neighbor and asshole parker are the same person. In the last couple of weeks (Y/N) started to get some fun out of the mean comments she left at the black Ferrari’s window. This also could be her chance to finally make a move on him.

The young woman waits for the brunette to return with his car and stays seated on her couch for another couple minutes, for extra measure of course. After that, she leaves the apartment building with her prepared note and tapes it to the car’s rear window.

Charles on the other side stays glued to his window as soon as he enters his apartment. He finally wants to catch the person that gets angrier and angrier each time he parks in an outrageous way in the act.

Seeing the beautiful neighbor, who lives above him, sticking another note to his car makes his heart flutter in an unexpected way. For some time now he wanted to get to know her and if everything went according to his original plan, ask her out on a date. But maybe he can now use this to his advantage.

As soon as the beautiful neighbor is back in the building Charles waits an extra couple minutes before he once again makes his way to his car.

Running over his vehicle with a pep in his step, Charles is kind of excited about what insults or threats await him now. He has to admit, he actually parked pretty decently. Or as decent as he is able to. So the note has to be at least a little bit nicer than the previous ones.

“Hey neighbor. I thought instead of shitting on you and your parking skills even more, I want you to help and get better. I may not be a driving teacher, but helping you wouldn’t make your skills worse. Just text me with the times you are available at ;)” signed with (Y/N)’s name and number.

It’s kind of funny to explain to the press later how Charles met (Y/N) and became her boyfriend.

"Yeah, well I know that my driving has become sort of a, a meme,” he answers when asked a week after his announcement on instagram, “And my neighbor wasn’t too fond of it either. So she started to leave me these really funny, but also really aggressive notes at my car. One said something like I won the inconsiderate Parker Price. Which made me quite proud.” This entices a laugh out of the journalist. “Yeah, (Y/N) has a really good way with words, I fear. But in the end she offered me some parking lessons.” Charles smiles and thinks back to them.

He had texted (Y/N) immediately and they set up a date for the lesson two days away. But they still continued to text non stop and by the time they met up, it felt like they had been friends for years.

Which didn’t stop (Y/N) raging at Charles after his fifth failed attempt of parking his car according to her instructions. “I don’t believe you anymore. With the way you park you are not from Monaco but the deepest and wildest parts of Italy! Your Ferrari seems really fitting now!” This drew a laugh out of him until she graced him with the meanest look he didn’t expect her to be able to muster up.

“How about dinner as a thank you and apology?” He asked sheepishly, trying both to diffuse the situation and make his move. Why not shoot his shot right now?

Luckily the young woman agreed.

“In the end my parking skills weren’t enough to win her over, but my charm was what scored me a second date.”

And a third. A relationship. After some more funny parking jokes and him kneeling down on one knee with a ring and the promise to take lessons to keep their future family safe he even scored himself his unexpected forever.

#charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc #charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc x you #charles leclerc fanfic #x reader #reader insert #charles leclerc x female!reader #x female!reader

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ew-selfish-art · 1 year ago

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DPx DC Au: Might as well be brothers. Young Justice hears about a regional hero disappearing, and while they've never met the guy, Red Robin's contacts say that Ra's is hunting him for afterlife/immortality related reasons.

Tim drake hates the annoying white uniform he's wearing but breaking into this place is crucial to his 24 hour plan to rescue Phantom. He'd never even heard of the guy until a week ago when Pru came to him with info that Ra's was looking into Midwest Real Estate, and then Tim stumbled down the rabbit hole of Ghost conspiracy theories until he saw an article demanding that local officials speak on the hero's absence of 10 days. 10 days was short enough that Tim might find a sign of life and well, another federal agency being hacked by Red Robin is nothing new.

So now, he's walking down the halls with these stupid fucking glasses and this stupid fucking suit while Kon listens from the comfort of the surveillance van. He takes a turn and sees the track suits that the illegally detained inmates are wearing, and pivoting the plan, makes his way to a locker room to get one and get changed. It does take him an extra second and he considers that this might bite him- but Tim knows the place inside and out. He's scoured all their data, and sue him for being cocky, but he has a literal alien ready to tear the place apart waiting for his heart rate to jump above 80 bpm. which is a pretty low heart rate all things considered.

Tim gets exactly where he's meant to go, and waits only a few minutes before he see's the science team extract Phantom from the high security room.

Phantom doesn't make it clear if he notices Tim, but he's basically being dragged by the couple, so Tim decides to beat them to their destination. The experimental wing had shown up in their reported data not long after they made it extremely obvious that they had Phantom in their data output.

Tim's already in the room when he starts to notice that it's not exactly a room... more like a mechanical space. The way the corners curl in the room make it almost tube like... Portal like.

Phantom is thrown in and Tim grabs him the second the scientists leave, but the kill switch key Tim made to get them out isn't working for this door like it did all the others.

"Not... Not a door."

"We're in some sort of device aren't we? Something of their own design that the government isn't aware they're funding?"

"Portal. You've gotta get out, even if you get caught, you gotta get out now."

Tim's comm comes alive in his ear, its Kon responding to Tim's heart rate rising- and Tim is hesitant to call him in but ultimately tells him to start flying over for extraction.

Then the portal goes off, and while he feels pain, he doesn't feel different. Bright light subsiding, Kon's arms around him with a confused voice, and lots of lasers being fired his way... Tim wakes up to see a much younger Phantom looking at him from the other side of the young justice couch.

Kon, Bart and Cassie are all fighting at a white board that's been wheeled in but Tim can only yawn and blink his way into consciousness enough to give a shit.

Black haired and blue eyed, button nosed with large ears, a wry thin lipped smile... Tim realizes that Phantom looks incredibly similar to his younger self. And then Tim looks at his much smaller hands and realizes that he probably looks a lot more similar to his younger self than normal.

Taking in the scenery once more, the white board is divided on the traits Tim has to the children sitting left and right on the couch. Kon didn't know who was who. That meant that maybe... the government didn't either.

Phantom turns out to be a pretty chill dude despite all the trauma, and he's incredibly prepared to both fuck with Ra's and the government in their newly found childhood twin-ship.

One of the twins is scarier than the other, and despite Danny literally haunting them, its always Tim.

(Okay now its some one else's turn :D )

#dcxdp #dpxdc #dc x dp #dp x dc #danny phantom #dc crossover #dp crossover #long post #dc universe #tim drake #red robin #twin au #or lol they just look very similar because little kid features are difficult #deaged au #wait until the bats arrive and are equally unhelpful in determining the correct twin #danny and tim silently agreeing that its for the better plot if they don't make it obvious who is who #danny has shit to process about being phantom and just wants to be a kid about things for a lil while #tim can function with any disguise and his whole family will take so long to figure out he's been deaged bc his reports come in on time #kon feels so guilty about not knowing who is who #kon grabbed them both in his panic and in the scuffle of the explosion and the lasers being shot out totally mixed them up

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hollyskywalker · 6 months ago

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The wrong one

Pairing: Qimir x Seer!reader (hinted future Qimir x Seer!reader x Osha) Warnings: none

Seer!reader who, no matter what she did to try and make it stop, kept getting visions of dark figures and ominous shadows since she was a youngling. She’d always been prone to Force visions, but as she got older, the visions became darker. It scared her.

Seer!reader who told her master, trusting they would help her. She didn’t expect the wary glances that followed. There were plenty of Force users who had glimpses into the future, but for some reason, hers were the only ones filled with darkness and death.

Seer!reader slowly getting shut out by everyone. Distrustful gazes followed her wherever she went. She slowly came to the realization that they believed the darkness she saw wasn’t from the future but was coming from her.

Seer!reader not being able to take it anymore and leaving the Order. She waited for the guilt that would follow, but it never came. Taking a ship and traveling for days until something made her stop. She didn’t know what it was, but she knew she was meant to find it.

Seer!reader traveling to a planet she’d never been to before and hiding the ship deep in the forest. Spending days trying to pinpoint where the feeling came from before ending up close to the coast, just as her rations were about to run out.

Seer!reader spending the next few hours watching the view, finally feeling at peace—even with the unknown pair of eyes burning holes into the back of her head. Someone was watching her, and though her brain told her to hide, that the presence was shrouded in darkness, her instincts told her she was exactly where she was supposed to be.

Seer!reader catching glimpses of something silver between the rocks. Almost like a helmet? She reached out with the Force but found herself blocked from sensing the figure’s thoughts. She decided to let the masked figure come to her.

Seer!reader watching a ship fly in and a man walk out, almost tripping over a rock before his gaze met hers and his eyebrows raised in surprise. “Oh, hello,” he greeted. He had pale skin, brown eyes, and greasy black hair, which hung down both sides of his face. “Did you get stranded here?” he asked. “There aren’t many people who know of this planet, let alone visit it.” She shook her head. “No,” she said simply, looking between him and the place where the masked figure had been earlier. Something was off.

Seer!reader figuring out Qimir’s persona within minutes, catching him off-guard. He had been immediately suspicious of the woman who looked lost but perfectly calm at the same time. When she explained to him why she was there, he scoffed. The future was always changing and nothing is permanent. He had no use for her and told her as much. He thought for a moment she might punch him but she pressed her lips firmly together, torn between offense and amusement.

Seer!reader refusing to leave, setting up camp close to the coast to give the stranger space but still staying near him. She knew he was watching her, suspicious of her. But unlike when her old mentor and fellow Jedi had done that, it didn’t bother her. She could feel him breach her mind multiple times a day, trying to catch her off guard and reveal anything incriminating.

Seer!reader slowly gaining his trust. Any questions he had, she answered honestly. She knew what he was, and was learning bit by bit who he was. She never judged him, never questioned his goals, never doubted him. By the time he allowed her to stay in the cave with him during a storm, she had become a vital part of his life without even knowing what that really meant. Her visions didn't lessen but the darkness didn't scare her anymore.

Seer!reader being the one to kiss him first, feeling nervous for the first time since arriving on the planet. Slowly pulling away from the kiss and anxiously studying his face for any reaction. Before she knew it, his hand was on the back of her neck, hauling her mouth to his. She stayed with him in the cave from then on.

Seer!reader knowing something was missing. They belonged together—she knew that much. But it was like trying to light a fire with no air. Like having a solar system of moons and planets but no sun. They were missing that one specific, final piece of the puzzle.

Seer!reader meeting Mae, a vengeful girl with a strong connection to the Force, and immediately disliking her. Mae couldn’t know Qimir’s true identity, and she was glad to protect that secret. She waited until the aspiring acolyte was gone before draping herself across Qimir’s lap, mumbling, “She’s the wrong one.” Qimir asking her to explain, but she simply shrugs and repeats her statement.

Seer!reader barely tolerating Mae’s presence and being glad any time she left for missions The Stranger gave her. The only downside was that when Mae left for a mission, so did Qimir—disguised as an unassuming former arms smuggler for the Hutt clan, supplying Mae with the intelligence and equipment needed to defeat her foes while keeping tabs on her.

Seer!reader watching Qimir return from Mae’s mission to kill four Jedi with an unconscious girl in his arms. It wasn’t Mae, though they looked exactly alike. A smile pulled at her lips.

“You found her.”

#qimir x reader #qimir the stranger #the acolyte #star wars #jedi #sith #seer #qimir x you #qimir x oc #qimir imagine #star wars imagine #the acolyte x reader #the stranger #osha aniseya

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thehydromancer · 4 months ago

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Needed to get some Lego out of my system, after getting back into Space Engineers. Probably done a variant of this build a dozen times over, not sure how many of them made it to the posting stage. Thinking of doing a whole blue theme fleet.

---

The Howl class frigate was the backbone of the infamous, short lived Rost Defense Fleet. With the capture of the Highmoon shipyards above Rost, the newly minted Free Rost Republic sought to move beyond the converted mercantile, cargo, and utility ships that formed its ragtag space combatants. The Howl class was intended to be a highly maneuverable, opportunistic platform that would ride the coat tails of better armored assault ships. The entire super structure was built around supported the alternating fire of the two bow mounted heavy railguns, and was intended to be so nimble as to be able to over fly a target, only to rapidly flip on a dime to fire into the enemy's less armored rear. History would prove that such lofty aspirations worked better on the drawing board than in reality, and with only two PDGs and light armor paneling the Howl class would mostly not survive the colonies future conflicts with the Solar Union and Ijad, forcing the remnants of the free colonist forces to rely more heavily on the converted civilian hulls the class was meant to replace after being displaced from Rost.

#lego #mfz #mf0 #mecha #mobile frame zero #bricklink #lego studio #digital art #intercept orbit #spaceship #scifi

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phantom-of-the-501st · 21 days ago

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Forget Me Not

Omega hears a new name and of course she's intrigued

Did I get inspired by @the-bi-space-ace post about seeing Echo laugh? Yes! Did this turn out how it was originally supposed to go (or anywhere even remotely in that ballpark? Errrrr… no comment.

Enjoy! :D

Omega pushed another box into the hold of the starship and walked back to the pile a few steps behind her. Echo and Rex had needed a hand shifting some cargo and with the others held up with various tasks around Pabu, Omega had offered to lend them a hand. It wasn't the most exciting work, but it was something to do, and she wasn't going to miss an opportunity to hang out with her two older brothers. With them being away so often, it opened up an opportunity for them to talk. How things were going with the Rebellion (usually answered by “that's top secret” and a wink), if Omega was up to anything new and interesting (flying lessons with Tech were going great and they shouldn't listen to anyone who told them otherwise) and if Crosshair was still brooding over the cheeky comment Echo had made about him on his last stop by (did Crosshair ever stop brooding?).

She grabbed the edge of the next crate and went to pull it towards her only to find that it barely moved. She tugged at it again. Still nothing.

“Rex!”

“Yes, Omega?” The captain appeared from behind another stack of boxes.

“Can you help me with this? It's too heavy.” She jabbed it accusingly with her finger.

Rex chuckled. “Sure thing, kid.” He dragged the crate off the pile and took it to the ship. Omega pouted slightly at how easily he'd managed to move it.

Echo came over and rested his hand on her shoulder. “Don't worry about it, Megs.” He said playfully. “Keep helping us out and you'll be stronger than him in no time.” He lent down to whisper in her ear. “Not to mention Rex is getting old.”

“I heard that!”

Omega failed to stifle her giggles.

“I don't know why I continue to put up with you.” The captain said pointedly at Echo, though the comment held little actual anger. “But he's right. Keep working at it and get your strength up. It's better to ask for help than to try and prove something and injure yourself.” He rolled his eyes and grinned. “I had enough of that with Fives.”

Omega felt the hand on her shoulder tense. She looked up and saw that Echo's smile had disappeared. She glanced back at Rex. “Who's Fives?"

She felt the hand slip from her shoulder as Echo walked over to where he has originally been working. His eyes skimmed over a datapad though it didn't appear he was actually reading it.

Rex looked stunned. “You haven't told her?”

Echo's hand was gripping the edge of the table, knuckles likely turning white under his blacks. There was an awkward pause and Omega's gaze flicked back and forth between her brothers. Eventually, Echo turned back around to face her. He observed Omega for a moment, with a look that she knew meant he was hoping for someone to change the conversation, but Omega was still confused. Who was Fives?

Echo could clearly see the question was still hanging, waiting for an answer. Omega's brows were furrowed. He sighed.

“No-one.”

And with that he picked up the datapad and left the room. Omega stared at the door, not entirely sure what to say. She hadn’t expected for Echo to walk out like that. Dance around the question a little and crack a joke to distract her? That was more likely. But to just walk out…

She glanced at Rex. If he had looked surprised before, he looked downright shocked now. His jaw was almost on the floor and he was still staring straight ahead. But what stood out the most to Omega was his eyes. There was a sheen across them, almost as if he was about to cry.

“Rex?”

He blinked a couple of time before shaking his head and looking at her.

She swallowed. “Did I say something wrong?”

“What?” Rex's brain hadn’t quite caught up with him yet. “Err-” He shook his head again. “No. No. You didn't. It's just-” His sentence was left unfinished. He chewed his lower lip nervously before clearing his throat.

“Err, do you mind shifting some more boxes for me? Just do what you can. I'll go and talk with him.”

Omega just nodded weakly. Rex gave her a small smile, hesitating for a second before he left. She stood still for a moment, watching him disappear through the door Echo had vanished through, before she finally reached out and grabbed another box.

------

It turns out Rex didn't have to go far. He found Echo sat just outside of the building, hunched up on the floor with his knees to his chest. He was picking at the end of his scomp, the datapad discarded next to him.

“Echo?”

His brother looked up before hastily wiping away a stray tear he didn't want the captain to see and looked down. Rex sighed and slid down the wall next to him. Neither of them said anything for a little while. The only noise was the slight rustle of leaves in the breeze and the sound of Echo's nail picking at metal.

Rex turned his head to observe his brother. Echo still refused to look up.

“You okay?” Stupid question. Rex already knew the answer, but he was hoping he could nudge something out of his brother. No response.

Rex chewed his lip and tried again. “She doesn't know about him.” Less of a question and more of statement. With Echo, it usually helped to be direct.

“I don't talk about him much.” The response was mumbled and barely intelligible but it was something.

“I gathered.” Echo didn’t continue so he tried again. “Any particular reason?” Rex knew the reason. It was Echo. And Echo had a habit of keeping certain feelings bottled up somewhere and guarding them from anyone he stepped a little too close.

Once again, the question bore no answer. So this is how it was going to be, huh?

“I didn't think you cared so little.”

That got a response. Echo’s head shot up, his eyes narrowed. “What the kriff is that supposed to mean?”

“I'm just saying. I thought Fives meant more to you than that.”

“Of course he did.”

“It didn't seem like that to me.”

“He was my twin.”

“I'm not the one that said he was no-one.”

Echo's face dropped. Whatever anger he had felt dissipated immediately. He opened and closed his mouth a few times. When nothing came out, he hunched up, drawing his arms around himself tighter and resting his chin on his arms.

There we are. Rex thought.

He'd known Echo long enough to understand that coaxing him out never really worked. You needed to rile him up, push at his weak points until eventually the dam burst and all of his emotions came out in one go. Maybe not the healthiest way of dealing with things, but that's how it was with Echo.

The captain didn't say anything else. He would let Echo stew with his thoughts until he eventually grew too uncomfortable with the silence to not do anything about it.

It took several minutes, but eventually Echo uncurled slightly and leant against the walk. He tilted his head back until his headpiece made a small clunk against the concrete.

“I didn't mean it.”

He turned his face until his eyes met Rex's.

“He's not no-one.”

“I know.”

Echo's eyes grew watery. His lip trembled and his voice cracked when he spoke.

“He's not no-one.”

“I know.”

Rex wrapped his arm around Echo's shoulder, drawing him in. His brother collapsed against him, shaking with unrestrained sobs. The captain gently stroked the curls on top of his head and held him tighter. “I know, Echo. I know.” The I miss him too went unsaid.

This wasn't the first time the two of them had ended up like this. It was less frequent now, but it didn’t mean it had gotten any easier either or them. It was a loss that had hurt them both deeply.

Rex squeezed his eyes shut, trying to hold back his own tears. He made an attempt to swallow but there was a lump in his throat. He didn't want to break down too, lest Omega came out to find both of them in a wet heap on the floor. He wrapped both arms around Echo and rested his chin on his head, breath stuttering.

Over time Echo's sobs turned to whimpering, which gave way to sniffles and then deep breathing. He pulled away from Rex and wiped his cheeks furiously.

“Kriff.” He never liked crying in front of the captain and Rex new that. Echo sighed deeply and slumped back against the wall.

He began to pick at the end of his scomp again.

Rex also tried to compose himself, clearly his throat and running a hand over his own head, letting it rest on his neck for a second before dropping it back into his lap.

“I miss him so much, you know?” Echo's voice still wavered. “It's just… I never know how to talk about him.'

Rex raised an eyebrow.

Echo huffed a little in frustration, trying to piece together his thoughts.

“I… I never feel like I can do him justice. It's like… whatever I say just won't be… him.” He waved his scomp aimlessly. “It will just feel like some fanciful version of him.”

“That's not true. You know him better than anyone.”

“But it is!” Echo was frustrated. “Fives was just so… Fives. Whatever I say about him will never capture that. I'd be telling stories about someone, but it wouldn't be him.”

“So you think it's best if the world forgets about him then.”

“What? No!”

Rex looked at Echo pointedly. “But you realise that that's what's going to happen, right?” Echo's eyebrows furrowed. “We never truly die until the stories people tell about us cease to exist. We live on in people's memories for as long as those stories are shared. If we never speak about him, then his life ends with us. Do you want that to happen?”

“No. Of course not.”

Rex put a hand on Echo's shoulder. “Then tell people about him.”

“But-” Echo but the inside of his cheek. “But it won't be him.”

“Yes. It will.” Rex's voice was gentle. “Look at this way. I don't tell Omega about all of the banthashit I have to put up with when dealing with you, otherwise I'm not sure she'd think of you so highly.”

Echo glowered at him.

“But.” Rex squeezed his shoulder. “It doesn't meant that anything I say about you is any less true.

“Don't let the world forget him, Echo. He deserves so much more than that.”

Echo nodded. “Yeah. Yeah he does.” He smiled at Rex. There was still a sadness in his eyes, but the worst part of the emotional storm seemed to have passed.

The two men sat in silence for a bit, listening to the leaves shuffling in the wind.

Echo turned towards Rex. “Do you really tell Omega stories about me?”

“Of course I do.”

“Please don't tell me you've spoken about the early days.”

“Of course I have.” Rex grinned. “That's the best bit.”

Echo groaned.

“Not that that's the only thing. I've told her about your ARC trooper days, too.” He waved a hand. “Of course, I had to glaze over some things, paint you in a better light. If I told her about the real you, she'd fly away and never come back.” He smiled cheekily at his brother to let him know that he wasn't serious. That earned him a shove to the shoulder.

But it also got a small chuckle out of Echo.

“Err, Rex?” Both men looked up to see Omega poking her head around the door.

“Sorry. It's just, I've finished loading the shipment.”

“Thank you, Omega. You've been a great help.”

Omega smiled nervously and kicked the dirt. She glanced at Echo. “I'm sorry about earlier."

The corner of Echo's mouth twitched. “It's okay.”

“It's just… I didn't know and I was curious and I just wanted to ask and-”

“Omega!” He stopped her ramblings. “It's okay.”

“Are you sure?”

Echo held out his arm, inviting her to sit down next to him. When she was huddled up next to them, he pulled her into his side and rubbed her shoulder. “Everything's fine, Kiddo.”

She buried herself even closer to him. “I'm sorry I made you sad.”

Echo stroked her hair. “It's okay, Megs. You didn't know.” She hummed in response. He ran his hand over her hair a few more times before he spoke again.

“Do you mind passing me that datapad?”

Omega reached over and picked it up off the floor, handing it to her brother. Echo didn’t say anything as he flicked through several folders. When he found what he was looking for, he held the device out so that Omega could see the screen.

Two 501st troopers stared back at her.

Rex smiled.

#intends to write something happy #end ups writing angst instead #who's surprised lol #older brother rex just makes me soft :')#if there's two things i will always take tbe opportunity to do #it's put echo in an angsty situation #and have rex in big brother mode #also a little bit of omega in this one too :D #star wars #the bad batch #echo #rex #omega #arc trooper echo #captain rex

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she-who-paints-with-fire · 2 months ago

Text

OVER DRINKS

Ship-watching was always an interesting experience, because it always brought so many more questions than it did answers.

Despite all their years of experience watching ship after ship dock in Eris V's bays, though, nobody—not a single soul, from the oldest and best-travelled to the youngest and most-rooted—could make heads or tails of the ship currently slipping into the docking bay.

Living in a port meant familiarity with certain types of ships. That was just a fact of life. Sure, each one had its little quirks, but deep-space haulers all more or less followed the same design philosophy; large fuel tanks, plenty of cargo space, and some guns for self-defense. The same was true of port cargo tugs, starliners, the rare corporate-flagged pleasurecraft, and almost anything else. Older souls, the ones around when Harrison Armory first started sniffing around Eris V, remembered the designs of pirate ships—cannons on gimballed turrets, fearsome decals painted onto heavy armor plating, and oversized thrusters to chase down fleeing traders—and in the modern day most knew that this was generally true of military vessels, too.

She was small, as ships went; barely half the length of the docking bay. She had no obvious windows or airlocks and was painted almost completely matte black. Cowling covered her engines, which still seemed to hum with more power than they should've been able to harness, given their size—but they didn't cause heat distortion. She didn't fly a flag where anyone could see. Her silhouette seemed to flicker like a hologram as people watched.

The only people in the galaxy that loved rumors more than sailors were dockworkers, so whispers quickly began to fly from mouth-to-mouth. Was the new arrival a ghost ship? The oversized casket of a rogue NHP? A mobile base of operations for a HORUS cell, or some coherent nanite cloud created by the Maw? Was her appearance even real? Every type of theory, from "secret Harrison stealthship" to "personal ride of an Eidolon" began to circulate, becoming ever more ridiculous as people began to exaggerate, bit by bit drawing further away from the truth.

And, in all the confusion and rumor-mongering, nobody noticed a short woman with tan skin and a panther tattoo slip out of one of the hidden airlocks.

Sasha "Jadwiga" Bonifacia took a deep breath of recycled station air and began making her way out of the docking bay. Her dyed hair was hidden behind the hood of an inconspicuous grey jacket, stripped clean of any identifying marks; a knife was hidden at the small of her back, and a more obvious pistol rode her hip. In almost every respect she looked like just another tired spacer as she made her way into the tight hallways of the station, occasionally overhearing a bit of idle chatter from the dockworkers.

"I heard it's the black horse of RA itself! That moon is probably on its way here already, to make us all into NHPs!" Sasha shook her head at the idea and laughed to herself.

Sailors and their stories...

The sound of her boots clicking against the scuffed metal deckplates was lost in the hubbub of ambient noise. Beneath her hood, Sasha's eyes flicked back and forth, assessing threats and finding paths, trying to find her way towards the bar that Pinkerton had said they would meet up in.

Terminal, terminal, terminal... ah, there. Map terminal... oh, that's actually pretty close by. Just a brief step out onto the Concourse.

The crowds had, so far, been thinner than Sasha had expected. There had been people, sure, and a lot of them, but she had been able to maintain personal space. Not so on the Concourse. The crowd was thick—Sasha had a bare few millimetres to herself as she followed the tide of people along. The conversation was deafening. Above the tide of people, dozens of bright neon signs advertised pleasures that you could not afford, and should not rent; tables at high-class casinos, racing ships that could touch significant fractions of lightspeed. Open-front restaurants and bars let the scent of a half dozen cultures mingle in the air. Spice, heat, alcohol, berries... the list went on, and on, and on. And the temperature; the heat from too many bodies pressed into the Concourse. It felt like the room was at least five degrees hotter than the dock.

Someone jostled Sasha as they passed, dressed in all-white robes. A trio of Volador gave her a small wave, and she returned it. For a place that could've so easily been lifeless, Eris V felt... almost homely. Packed, bustling, and chaotic, but homely.

There we go. The LosMech.

She slipped out of the crowd like a fish leaving a river for a tributary, and pushed past the heavy wooden door. A pleasant chill ran over her skin—the bar must've had an air conditioning system. The bartender gave her a nod as she walked in, so she gave her a friendly wave and slid into a seat at the bar.

"Have not seen you before," the bartender noted. A jade-green bird was tattooed on her collarbone, just barely visible beneath a black leather jacket, which she wore open.

"I'm new here, meeting a friend," Sasha replied.

"I see," the bartender nodded. "You might wanna grab a booth. What's your poison?"

"Whiskey sour, if you'd please," Sasha answered, settling in for the wait.

( @shot-glass-speedloader )

#doj/hrposting #lancer rpg #lancerrpg #lancer ttrpg #lancerttrpg #lancer rp #oc rp

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