#the goal was to feel lonely and faceless and small. :-)

[butchfalin]

country boy, big city

[priestessofspiders]

The Doll

I want to preface this by saying that I am not some sort of creep. I'm not an incel spending all my spare time lamenting that women won't have sex with me because of my jaw structure, and I'm not some sick pervert with such elaborate and bizarre fantasies that real women can't satisfy me. I bought a sex doll because I am, quite frankly, anxious to the point of near-disability.

It gives me no pleasure to reveal that during my 25 years of life on this planet, I have never been so much as kissed. The very idea of being intimate with another human being, allowing myself to open up and express my feelings to another person, deeply terrifies me. I am so utterly horrified of doing something wrong, of making someone angry, of being an inconvenience, that I simply avoid as much contact as possible with other people.

I was extremely lucky to inherit my house from my parents after they passed away when I had freshly entered adulthood. I don't think I could have ever gone through the process of trying to find an apartment, much less find a roommate to split rent with. A cousin of mine at a local insurance company managed to land me an interview for a night shift janitorial position, and even though I vomited twice from stress before the interview itself, I did manage to get the job.

With a modest inheritance, a low cost of living, and no hobbies, I slowly began to acquire a decent bit of savings. Not a lot, mind you, I was still only a janitor, but enough to put some money away for the future. As the years passed, I started to become more and more lonely, with no way to alleviate the feeling.

Did you know that isolation can actually cause brain damage in humans? Long term effects of solitary confinement in prisoners can cause intense psychological and physiological issues, including chronic pain and psychosis. With my parents dead, the closest thing to social interaction I had anymore was passing by the night security guard on my way into the office building where I worked, and he had long since given up on trying to make small talk with me.

I was trapped between a rock and a hard place. I either let myself be driven to madness from loneliness, or attempt to somehow make friends when the very thought of trying to talk to another person made me feel physically nauseous. I won't lie, I did consider suicide as an alternative to both these options at times.

Some will say that the purchasing of the doll was a bit of a drastic measure, and that it would have been better to me to seek therapy or some other, more conventional, way to work through my anxiety. They're probably right, but what you have to understand is that the idea of "just" getting therapy to me felt about as easy as "just" scaling Mount Everest. Besides, the doll itself was never meant to be a complete solution in the first place.

My goal was to practice having some sort of relationship, to inoculate myself to the idea of interacting with a fellow human being until I could eventually discard the object and socialize properly with real people. I didn't even initially want to get a sex doll, at first I was considering just getting a clothing store dummy, but something about their facelessness and obvious artificial nature made me uncomfortable. Besides, I figured I would eventually need some sort of practice with the more intimate side of human interaction.

After a few weeks of scouring the internet, I found the model I was interested in. It cost me about 3,000 dollars, and was equipped with simulated body heat and the ability to realistically breathe and moan. I was most excited at the notion of the simulated body heat and breathing. Just the idea of the illusion of sleeping next to another person made me feel almost giddy, though it was a giddiness mixed with nausea. I vomited once before I managed to click the "add to cart" button.

It sounds embarrassing, I know, but I actually cleaned my house in expectation of my "guest". It was the closest thing I've ever had to inviting someone over, so I felt self-conscious about having the place I live in being a mess. I wanted to make a good impression.

When it finally arrived I hid in my living room for nearly 20 minutes until I was sure that the delivery driver had gone away. I double checked they were gone by peeking through the peephole, before finally dragging the box inside. Using a kitchen knife I clumsily cut open the cardboard to reveal its contents, and after removing the bubble wrap I immediately had to run to the kitchen sink to retch.

The reason for my nausea-inducing anxiety was the following; the doll was not shipped with any clothes. In retrospect it seems like it should have been obvious that this would be the case, but in the moment I felt betrayed and scared. Cutting open the box to reveal a naked human form was far too much for me in that moment, and I had to spend a few hours recovering. I had taken a week off from my work using my generous supply of built up vacation days (thank God for online time-off requests), so I wasn't too concerned about the delay this recovery caused. I had plenty of time.

I grabbed some pajamas from my dresser and set about the task of clothing the doll. It took a while, I had to take breaks to avoid stressing myself out too much, but I did eventually manage to cover it up. With that issue settled, I felt significantly more comfortable.

The doll was a little unnerving to look at, I'll admit that. People often talk about the "uncanny valley", the conceptual zone in which an object looks human enough to be disturbing, but not human enough to quite seem real. Sex dolls generally fall within this valley. They are designed, of course, for the sort of people who would buy a sex doll, and thus cater to this demographic's standards of beauty. Gone are any traces of imperfection, any of those so-called flaws that make one truly beautiful. Instead they are perfectly symmetrical, expressionless, and beautiful only by the standards of one so porn-addicted as to have no standard for proper comparison.

In some ways this unsettling appearance was helpful for my peace of mind. It helped to remind me that, as human as it looked like from a distance, in the end it was only a hunk of rubber and plastic, and that I didn't need to fear it. I decided to name the doll Elsie.

- - -

My first week spent with Elsie was less interesting than you might guess. It was about a day or two before I became fully comfortable talking "with" it. Before purchasing Elsie, my major outlet for my inner thoughts was a digital journal I kept on a cheap laptop, and so I wasn't especially used to saying much aloud. Before this, there would often go by weeks without me saying anything at all, there just wasn't any reason to do so.

However, when I finally did get into the habit of talking to Elsie, it rapidly became addictive. When you haven't had a chance to talk to anyone in literal years, even a life-sized silicone facsimile becomes appealing.

I talked about my job, about every detail of my workweek, from cleaning the toilets to vacuuming the carpets. I talked about my favorite movie (The Last Man on Earth), my favorite book (The Night Land), and what I liked to do in my free time (not much). I talked about my hopes and fears, my dreams and my ambitions. I must have spent hours at a time monologuing at Elsie. By this point I had started to see the doll as a "she" rather than an "it". As the days went on, I began to wish that Elsie could talk back, that her motionless rubber lips would part to laugh, or say something about herself.

It was on the last day of the first week when I finally slept with the doll. I don't mean that as a euphemism for anything sexual, I just mean literally sleeping next to her in the same bed. I'd never shared a bed with anyone before, and I suppose I still haven't, but it was nevertheless a novel experience for me. I pressed the carefully hidden buttons that activated her simulated breathing and body heat, tucked her into bed next to me, and lay there listening, feeling the faint warmth next to me. I slept more soundly than I had in years.

- - -

At first, my plan did seem to actually work. Getting a chance for even simulated social interaction did help to inoculate me against my anxiety, just a little bit. I managed to squeak out a "hello" to the night security guard on my way into work, and though he seemed a bit surprised, he didn't seem uncomfortable or creeped out, he just smiled and nodded at me.

I began to feel, genuinely, a little happier, a little more confident. It wasn't anything extreme though. When I went shopping I still had to go to the 24 hour supermarket right after my shift, when hardly anybody was around, and I still had to use the self checkout exclusively. I was far too scared to interact with a cashier. Once, a few years back, the self checkout lanes were closed for maintenance one night, and I didn't go grocery shopping for a week because I was too scared to call and check if they were up and running again. But now, I felt like maybe I would be able to make that phone call if it ever happened again.

The first sign that something might be wrong happened a month after I bought Elsie. I had left for work that evening with Elsie's hands placed in her lap, sitting on a chair in my bedroom. When I returned, her hands dangled at her sides. At the time, I fully assumed that I had either misremembered how I placed her, or perhaps the position in which I had placed her hands wasn't very stable, and they had slowly fallen down to her sides over time. I was a little scared, a bit nervous, but I was able to rationalize it.

This was just the first of Elsie's slight changes of position. When I came back from work, there would sometimes be slight differences from how I had left her, but at first there was never anything that seemed too unreasonable. If I had left her with legs crossed, they would be uncrossed when I got back. Hands folded on the table would be unfolded. An upright sitting position would become slightly slumped. Nothing that couldn't be explained by the force of gravity and slightly unstable positioning.

The more disturbing development happened when I was in bed one morning with Elsie (my shift was from 7 PM to 3 AM, so I usually went to bed around 4 AM, unless I had been going grocery shopping). I had, as usual, activated her simulated breathing and body heat, as I found it drastically aided in my falling asleep. I was just about to drift off into unconsciousness, listening to the slightly mechanical whirring sound of her breathing, when the comfortable white noise was interrupted with tinny, recorded moans. They were sexual, crass, and wholly unwanted. You must understand that I never actually used Elsie for her intended purpose, I thought about it a couple times, but could never work up the guts to actually do the deed, so this sound was completely alien to me. For a moment I didn't even process that Elsie was the source of the noise, as I had never actually pressed the button which activated the moans before. I leapt out of bed, horrified, and crouched in the corner for a few minutes while I calmed myself down, trying to ignore the lewd sounds emanating from the humanoid figure lying in my bed.

Eventually I pulled myself together and pressed the hidden button that toggled her moaning, causing the noises to cease. I looked to see what could have accidentally pressed it to result in my scare, but I was at a loss. The button was located near the small of her back, and took a fair amount of effort to press. It didn't seem possible that I could have somehow pressed it by accident. I didn't manage to get any more sleep that night.

This was to be only the beginning of the unwanted sounds. More and more frequently when I came home from work I would find that Elsie had somehow managed to turn herself on, and in addition to this the changes in position had become increasingly less easy to ignore. On one occasion her face was turned towards the door as if she had been waiting for me, her chest heaving up and down mechanically as her artificial exclamations of simulated pleasure echoed from her unmoving lips. She had been left facing the wall.

It became difficult to fall asleep. As soon as I would begin to drift off, the pleasant white noise of her breathing would be interrupted with those incessant, unwanted moans. I eventually gave up on sleeping with the doll entirely, wearing ear plugs and moving Elsie into the living room when I wanted to get some rest, despite the lonely sensation of the empty bed making it harder to drift off. In some ways, it almost felt as if I were undergoing an argument with a romantic partner, though I had no basis for comparison.

Even after I ceased sleeping in the same bed as Elsie, the moans didn't stop tormenting me. In my dreams I would be confronted by the doll, the pajamas I covered her with removed, exposing the silicone skin beneath. I dreamed that she chased me through an endless labyrinth of writhing, moaning rubber bodies, melted together to form walls and corridors. I sometimes woke up screaming, the bed soaked through with sweat.

It seems obvious now that I should have gotten rid of the doll as soon as the dreams began, but you must understand that during that period of time before the changes of position and the moaning, it was the happiest I had ever been. I was chasing that high, desperate to believe that I could return to that state of relative contentment again. I knew deep down it wasn't healthy, I knew that whatever improvement to my mental health that I had gained was rapidly being overwritten by this new obsession, but I didn't care.

Once I considered cutting the noise box out of her, or at least permanently disconnecting the button, I was convinced that an error with the button itself was causing the sounds to activate. I flipped Elsie over and pulled up the pajama shirt, exposing the rubber flesh of her back. I held a paring knife in my right hand, as it was the most delicate sharp instrument that I owned. A scalpel would have been better, but I didn't own one and couldn't bear to wait for an online delivery.

I moved the knife slowly towards the small of her back, where the button that controlled the moans was located, but as I did so, the doll's body began to move up and down, the mechanical breathing filling the air with a soft white noise. I dropped the knife and began to sob. I couldn't do it. I knew deep down that she- it, was not human. It wasn't real. But I still couldn't do it. I pulled back down the pajama shirt and placed her back in her chair.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean it", I told her, looking down at my feet, ashamed.

The doll just stared at me, face blank, unmoving. As it always was. As it always would be.

- - -

The final horror occurred only a week ago. I had slept fitfully and woke up late, extremely late. My alarm didn't go off. I scrambled to get ready for work, unable to find my security badge anywhere. I usually left it right on my nightstand when I went to bed, but it wasn't there. Grumbling, I grabbed the backup badge I kept in a drawer and drove off to work.

I arrived to the office building in the pouring rain and scanned my badge at the door, managing to squeak out a few pleasantries to the security guard before getting down to business. I was scheduled to deep clean the carpets that day, so I grabbed the steam cleaner and began work on my assigned task.

I spent the first half of my shift in relative peace, listening to classical music through my wireless earbuds. After the first four hours, I enjoyed a brief lunch consisting of a sandwich and some tea, before heading back to work. As always, the building was calm, still, and silent, aside from the faint music that only I could hear. After the clock struck 11, however, I heard a faint sound. I paused my music and took out an earbud to listen. It was indistinct, but there was some noise that I couldn't quite make out. I turned off the steam cleaner and listened closer. All the blood left my face and my heart began beating hard in my chest when I recognized the sound.

Somewhere in the building, I could hear grotesque, exaggerated moaning.

I abandoned my steam cleaner and began running towards where I thought the source of the noise was located. I was reminded of my dreams, of fleeing through that writhing maze of silicone flesh. I rounded a corner, and caught a glimpse of a vague humanoid shape going down a corridor, its gait awkward and clumsy, like that of a marionette operated by an inexperienced puppeteer. The moaning began to grow fainter, as if whatever was making the sound was moving very quickly away.

I sprinted as fast as I could, desperate to see the source of those awful sounds, desperate to be proved wrong. By the time I reached the corridor, there was nobody there. I listened for the moans, seeking out some clue as to which direction to go next, but all was silent once again. Questioning my sanity, I returned to the steam cleaner and finished my shift, passing by the snoring form of the night security guard as I made my way back to my car.

When I arrived back at the house, I was greeted with further horror. Elsie was nowhere to be found. I searched every room, the closets, even in the attic which I was usually far too afraid to climb up into, even in broad daylight. I found nothing.

I eventually checked to make sure every door in the house was firmly locked, and settled down in bed, locking my bedroom door as well. All the excitement had made me quite tired, and despite my terror I quickly fell into a deep sleep.

I dreamed again of the moaning labyrinth of writhing false flesh, of being chased by the doll. It kept gaining on me, its puppet-like herky jerky motions becoming faster and faster until I felt its unnaturally smooth hand grip my shoulder. The half-living walls moaned in terrible pleasure. I jolted awake, terrified, my heart pounding.

I nearly passed out again when I realized the moaning hadn't stopped when I woke up.

It was coming from under the bed. I grabbed the flashlight I kept on my nightstand in case of emergencies and jumped out of bed, flicking the flashlight on and pointing it under the bed as though the light would ward off what lay there. I unlocked the bedroom door while keeping myself facing the bed, one hand on the doorknob in case I had to run. I started to crouch down, so I could look underneath the bed, the trembling of my hand causing the flashlight's beam to wobble slightly.

It was staring at me. Expressionless, unseeing eyes gazing out from the shadows. The doll's pajamas were drenched with rain, and in one stiff, rubber-coated hand it held my security badge. The chest heaved up and down with a mechanical rhythm as the moaning continued, before finally all sound ceased and the doll's chest lay still once more.

I must have crouched there for hours, waiting to see if it would move, but it just lay there, staring like a decapitated fish head. Eventually I dragged it out from under the bed and on to a blue plastic tarp. I rolled it up around the doll and tied it up with nylon rope, duct tape, and zip ties. When all was said and done, the end result looked disturbingly like the sort of thing a serial killer would use to dispose of a corpse.

I drove out to the edge of town and tossed the package into a dumpster behind a grocery store. I was worried that someone would see me and I'd have to explain myself, but nobody noticed me. I half expected the bag to emit some muffled moans, but it remained silent. I drove home and triple checked that my doors were locked and my windows were closed before calling out sick to work and laying in bed, crying.

I sometimes feel guilty about what I did, especially when I lie in bed those lonely mornings after I've just finished with work. I still see it in dreams, chasing me like some damnable puppet which cut its own strings as I run down endless corridors of undulating plastic flesh, my ears assaulted by the disgusting, horrible moans of simulated false pleasure. Sometimes when I wake up, I swear I can still hear those moans, emanating faintly from just outside my window.

[the-phantom-ender]

SLAMS MY HANDS ON THE TABLE

DREAM SMP TMA AU WHEN?

RIGHT NOW. IM DOING IT RN. A BUNCH OF CHARACTERS PAIRED UP WITH ENTITIES. 

The Buried 

The fear of being suffocated, being trapped in small spaces, being buried alive. manifests as caves, dirt, being underground. 

Skeppy - Most of my justification for this is heheh funny diamond block, but a common manifestation for the buried is being tight on money. Which I think fits Skeppy. I dunno.

The Corruption 

The fear of corruption, filth, disease. Being uncleanly. Often manifests as rot, bugs, or infection. 

Bad - This is very much for the crimson arc. Also because a manifestation of the corruption is unhealthy relationships and, while im not calling Bad and Skeppy unhealthy by any means, it’s certainly fitting with the Red Skeppy stuff.

Puffy - For much the same reason as Bad, as well as her initial goal in the server being to patch up all of the creeper holes and generally ‘clean the place up’.

The Dark 

The fear of the dark, of what’s unseen. Often manifests as shadows, darkness, and cold water.

George - My justification for George and the dark is very much that it’s what isn’t seen. Out of sight and out of mind. As someone who’s known to not be involved with many conflicts, I feel its fitting.

The Desolation

The fear of pain, loss, destruction, burning. Often manifests as fire, wax, heat, and destruction of potential. 

Sapnap - I feel like this one is kinda self explanatory? Local arsonist is afraid of losing a grip on things and literally and metaphorically burns all of his bridges. 

Wilbur - Wilbur falls much more into the destruction of potential side of the desolation, while still playing into that fire motif. He lost everything and decides to ruin himself before anyone else has the chance to ruin him more.

The End

The fear of death itself, the unstoppable. Often manifests as bones, the dead, dreams.

Callahan - The silent wildcard fits the end fairly well. Often times no one really knows where he is or what he’s up to? But when he’s there, he’s there.

The Eye

The fear of being watched, followed, having secrets exposed. Also: the need to know and understand. Often manifests as eyes, security cameras, books, and libraries. 

Ranboo - He’s constantly stuck in the middle, watching all sides unfold. Having no say in what’s happening but wishing he did. Writing everything down in a book. Need I go on?

The Flesh

The fear of animals bred for meat, the realization that humans are just meat and bone. Often manifests as meat, blood, bones, butchers.

Tubbo - The flesh is really hard to pin on a human. Honestly a lot of my reasoning here is for the butcher army thing. Also Tubbo is very much an animal lover. 

The Hunt

The fear of being hunted or chased, being prey. Often manifests as predators, animalistic traits, animal instincts. 

Tommy - The hunt is also really hard to pin on a human! Aggression is a very common trait with the hunt. Someone who feels trapped and lashes out at those around them. 

Quackity - I point directly at the Techno chase scene. That is the most primal reaction to being chased possible. Also the fact that he changes appearance/skin frequently playing into animalistic features. 

The Lonely

The fear of isolation, being disconnected from society as a whole, being cut off. Often manifests as fog, large rooms, faceless crowds, silence.

Techno - It’s the aggression as an intentional way to isolate himself. It’s the pushing himself as far away from people as possible. 

Tommy - In the most literal way possible: he was exiled from his people. He talked extensively about feeling alone and how that loneliness overwhelmed him. 

Eret - Has been called names along the lines of ‘The Lonely King’. When a characters arc is being outcasted from all around them, not being able to make amends no matter how they try, it’s very easy to put them into the lonely. 

The Slaughter 

The fear of unmotivated violence, sudden pain. Often manifests as war or murder, those driven ‘Mad with Slaughter’, soldiers. 

Wilbur - Sudden pain and unmotivated violence works well for someone driven mad by war and their nation.

Techno - Blood for the blood god! Need I go on? On a serious note, a lot of Techno’s character leans on a craving for blood and violence. 

The Spiral 

The fear of madness, the world as you know it being wrong, your mind playing tricks on you. The fear of lying or being deceived. Often manifests as spiral patterns, repetition, hallucinations, and illusions. 

Ghostbur - The man who remembers nothing but the good, a ghost of the past. A constant thing of not knowing, not remembering, being unsure of everything. People always smiling is a trope for the spiral, as well, and Ghostbur is always happy.  

Schlatt - Disillusioned in his way of thinking. Schlatt was always a character that was very good at lying his way to victory and saying exactly what he needed to say to cause chaos. 

The Stranger 

The fear of the unknown, the unfamiliar. The sense that something isn’t right. Often manifests as mannequins, wax figures, masks, and taxidermy. 

Karl - Losing track of how you act or feeling as if you have no purpose is very much a stranger thing. Karl’s background character thing plays into the idea of this super well. Things being replaced is super common with the stranger.

Quackity - Specifically possession arc Quackity. Things not being quite right, just a little off. Someone looking or acting just a little different than how you remember them.

The Vast 

The fear of falling, heights, large open spaces. The fear of human insignificance, meaningless. Often manifests as void spaces, falling, infinity. 

Phil - Phil is often called a god. His major motifs are flying and surviving for long periods of time. As the End is closed in the smp, a winged being being bound to the ground or falling from grace is fitting for the vast.

The Web

The fear of being controlled or trapped, doing things against your will, being controlled without realizing. Often manifests as spiders, spider webs, puppets.

Dream - This is Dream’s entire thing. He’s the god of a world and bends everyone to his will, but also feels entirely out of control when someone get the leg up on him and struggles to regain that control.

Tommy - haha being controlled or manipulated, I’ll stop bullying Tommy. 

and just for fun:

The Extinction 

The fear of catastrophic change, destruction of nature, destruction of humanity. Often manifests as technology like computers, code, and radio. Not much is known about this entity. 

Sam - Pandoras Vault. Also the fact that he’s good with building and redstone both, but especially redstone in the case of technology. Technically there are no Avatars of The Extinction because it technically doesn’t exist, but it’s fun to imagine. 

THANK YOU THIS HAS BEEN PHANTOM MIXING HIS HYPERFIXATIONS. 

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

She [5]

Warnings: non-consent sex (series)

This is dark! Steve and explicit. 18+ only.

Series Synopsis: Steve Rogers’ life is turned upside down by a reporter.

Chapter Summary: The reader tries to change her course.

Note: I’m hoping to work on some other fics today and a reminder that I have a new challenge for dark!writers. 

Thanks to everyone for their patience and feedback. :)

I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 Let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!

Reader

The next day you felt more enlivened but no more detached from the mess you’d created. You ducked the hounding press outside your building and ignored the exaggerated speculation about Steve Rogers; about you. Either he was the villain and you were the innocent lamb, or he was the respectable hero targeted by the shrewish report. Either way, they were wrong. You were both just human.

You went to the office and settled into your new desk. Your goal was a sense of normalcy. You just wanted to be the nameless writer again. You needed something other than Steve Rogers. You needed a story of your own.

You opened your browser and went about scrolling through the digital newspapers and headlines of Google. You inhaled the scent of your coffee as you impatiently flicked the mouse wheel.

It wasn’t news to say there was crime in New York you mused at the Times’ small tenth-page blurb. You paused and re-read it; ‘String of Assaults Against Sex Workers Continues.’  It was no Jack the Ripper, sure, but it might be enough. There could be something there.

You needed a pitch by the end of next week if you wanted to keep up. Poppy’s tapping nails sounded in the back of your head and you sent a screen cap of the article to your phone. You clicked onto past issues and traced the story back almost three months. The first report had been almost half a page and featured the image of a particularly sinister streetlight. It was a start.

You continued your search for the hook to catch onto. Anywhere you could start. The red light district would be a start, the attacks seemed to centre around a certain street within it. You filled a folder with reports from various sources; all so distanced and apathetic. Just numbers.

You left in the afternoon. You took your new pile of distraction and headed back to your apartment. When the windows began to darken, you ordered ramen and ate at the coffee table as you sorted through the clutter. The tabletop was covered in clippings and your own notes alongside your open laptop glaring back at you.

You woke on the couch and continued in your narrowed search. You grew more and more anxious as you did. You needed to get your own look at the seedy nightlife but how? You didn’t exactly blend in and you doubted these women were eager to spend their time with some nosy reporter.

Well, you had to at least try. You found yourself watching the clock as you paced around with papers in hand. You stopped to scribble down notes every now and then. Tick, tick, tick.

You were too nervous to eat. You pulled on jeans and a faded plaid shirt. You dug out your old tennis shoes and checked yourself in the mirror. Well, you didn’t look like the stuffy journalist without a clue but you barely looked like you knew what you were doing. You slung the strap of your small purse across your chest and headed out.

It was dark by the time you stepped off the train. You could feel the nerves bouncing around your chest. You kept to the shadows, watching, afraid. 

You watched a woman, not so obvious, approach a car. She wasn’t your typical Law and Order prostitute. Sure, her jeans were tight and her jacket a little short but she looked like any other woman in New York. She got in a dark car and it pulled away. It drove down the street and turned into a lot and your imagination tied it all together.

Several other women went about their transactions. You were shaken as a car honked at you and you waved the man away from the curb, careful to step clear of the glow of the streetlight. The first woman appeared again, her chunky heels echoed on the pavement as she began to her vigil again; a casual strut up and down the pavement.

You continued your observation and added notes in your phone. You edged closer without thinking as the illicit marketplace began to bustle. That same woman, the first you’d spied, surprised you as she stopped you from getting any further. She was tall and slender, her hair carefully bundled atop her head.

“New meat?” She wondered as she leaned against the edge of the storefront. You blanched at her and stepped back. “No, no, definitely not.”

“Uh, sorry,” You said softly. “I was just…” You hid your phone in your sleeve.

“Watching? Getting your thrills?” She chuckled. “Sweet little thing like you.”

You looked down, embarrassed.

“It’s okay. You think we don’t get all sorts.” She crossed her arms. “I can’t charge you for watching but maybe you were looking for more.”

“I’m not-- How much for an hour?” You perked up. 

“Depends what you want.” She said coolly.

“A hundred?” You offered.

“Just out here?” She wondered. 

“No, I…” You glanced around. A shining neon sign caught your eye from down the street. “A drink. I’ll pay. Plus your rate.”

“Lonely.” She mused. “Hiding?”

“Deal?” You ignored her implication.

“A hundred and a drink? I’ve done worse,” She replied.

🖋️

The bar smelled of stale alcohol and piss. The pungent odor drifted from the dingy bathrooms and filled the place. You sat across from the woman at a small round table away from the bar. She ordered Jack Daniels and you had a water. She warned you not to drink it. You didn’t.

“So, honey, what are we thinking?” She leaned on the table.

“I don’t-- I just want to talk.” You said.

“Talk? Mmm, oh you’re one of those.” She purred.

You pulled out your laminated name badge from your purse and slapped it down between you.

“I’m a reporter for Motley Magazine.” You said. “I really just want to talk.”

She sat up straight and her expression turned stringent. She looked around and shook her head. 

“I can’t--”

“Please, just a conversation.” You interrupted. 

“No, I could get in a lot of shit.” She hissed as she grabbed her fringed purse.

“Wait, I’ll pay double. No names, nothing that could give you away,” You stood as she did. “You say ‘stop’, we stop.”

She looked at you and inhaled. She chewed her lip and picked at the wood of the table. She sat slowly.

“One hundred now,” She said. You nodded. 

“If I hit the atm over there, you still gonna be here?” You asked.

“Sure.” She took a gulp of her drink.

You went to the corner, the atm screen was cracked but still operational. You stood as close to it as you could as you slid your card in. You were careful to hide your withdrawal as you crumpled your receipt and neared the table. You sat and subtly offered the folded bills to her.

She counted it and shoved it away. She crossed her legs and leaned into the wall as if to hide herself.

“So…” She began.

You introduced yourself and she reluctantly gave you her name as you assured her it would not be included in whatever came of your conversation. Her name was Rashida but her clients knew her as Ruby. She shifted as the bar door opened and glanced over her shoulder.

“I want to know about these assaults. More than that,” You kept your voice low as she leaned in. “I want to know everything.”

“Everything?” She blinked.

“I’ve been tracking these attacks through the papers. It’s just numbers; faceless women, some men. Relegated to the back sheets.” You explained. 

“For what?” She asked. “To make yourself a name?”

“No, not at all. I want you to be known. All of you. If people can contextualise the faceless, they can empathise, and that means they’ll talk.” You said. “I’m not stupid. The police, they don’t care about you, but they will care about those Upper East Siders who think they’re on some sort of crusade.”

She narrowed her eyes and shrugged. “I don’t know… much. I know Selene got it bad but haven’t seen her much since.”

“I don’t expect you to know everything, I just wanna know what you do know.” You said. “So start with Selene. Were you out that night?”

“Yeah. She wasn’t far from me, we’d talked a little. She was… excited. She had almost saved enough to get her girl into dance. She just needed a few more johns and she’d have it. It was a usual night, guys came and went, nothing out of the ordinary.”

“So when was she attacked?”

“Well, I was on a job and I got back and she was gone. I assumed she’d found her own but I never saw her again that night. I saw the article but didn’t know it was her until a few nights later. Stitches,” She traced from her forehead to her chin. “Works not so good for her now.”

“You know anyone else?” You probed.

“A few girls I see around but me and Selene, we got daughters. We try to take care of each other. Try.” She shook her head. “I… I don’t know.”

“The other girls?”

“Some of them haven’t come back after. Maybe they’re too afraid. Those who have, same thing. Sliced,” She repeated the motion down her face. “So we try to keep track of the weirdos and each other. Some girls are partnering up. One goes, the other waits until they’re back. They got these tracking apps so they can find each other.”

“Mmm,” You typed into your phone as she talked. “So you would say there’s fear?”

“There’s always fear. We see girls one night and they gone the next. It comes with the job but… something about this is so deliberate.” She said. “They’re not just hurting us but our work. Men don’t wanna look at a girl with a fucked-up face.”

“And you? Have you changed the way you work?”

“Well, of course, I’m more aware but that’s always how it is. You take note of everyone, everything. I got a thing for faces, you know? I try to memorize them.” She took another drink. “Even just those walking by. You never know.”

“Mmhmm,” You nodded as she finished the Jack. “Anything suspicious? Well, beyond the usual?”

“That’s the thing, nothing stands out. And it’s hard to tell. Half our customers are strange in one way or the other. Mostly harmless, lonely. It’s the pimps you gotta beware of…”

The hour passed quickly as Rashida spoke and you listened. She spoke more freely as the night wore on and you paid for another round. You were stunned when you looked at the clock.

“Fifteen minutes over,” You reached for your purse. “Extra twenty?”

“Whatever,” She said. “It’s… no names?”

“Promise. No names.” You paid her behind the empty glasses. “Rashida… do you think we could talk again? Maybe during the day? I’d like to get some of this on tape.”

“On tape?” Her eyes flared.

“For my own purposes. It will not be released. I’ll have you sign a waiver.” You said.

She rubbed her forehead and thought.

“I’ll pay.” You offered.

“Do you really think your story can help us?” She asked. “That these fancy New York millionaires will care?”

“I think it’s worth a try.” You stood and stretched a cramp out of your calf. “So?”

“You don’t needa pay me,” She said. “Not during the day. You just tell me where to meet you.”

“Alright,” You flicked through your phone and turned it to her, “Can I have your number?”

“Sure, babe,” She smiled and typed in her number before handing it back. “I’m gonna finish my drink. I’ll see ya ‘round.”

“I’ll be in touch,” You tapped the table as she sat back down. “Be careful, okay?”

She looked at you as she held her glass. She considered you a moment then nodded. “Thanks. I always am.”

You left her and pushed out the door. You were rarely out this late and never in this part of the city. You were suddenly very nervous. Alone. The woman had made you feel safe. She was much braver than you.

As you set off down the sidewalk, you heard your name behind you and the door swung shut. It was Rashida. She caught up to you as you turned back.

“Wait.” She pulled you close to the chipped brick wall. “I got an eye for creeps, I told ya.” She ushered you down past the bar and turned the corner. She stopped you just beyond it and held a finger to her lips and mouthed ‘listen’.

Two, maybe three, minutes and you heard the bar door. The footsteps wandered away and then returned again. She peeked around the building and drew back sharply.

“Carefully,” She squeezed your shoulder. “Look.”

You frowned and inched to the edge. You glanced around at the man in his hoodie. Tall with broad shoulders. He looked up and down the street and walked back and forth once more. He stepped out onto the street and took a slant across to the other side. He was headed for the subway; the same direction as you.

You pulled back and looked at Rashida.

“I seen him when you were hiding in the shadows. He’s better at it.” She said. “Didn’t think much, you know? As I said, the freaks come out after dark but then he came into that bar. He saw you, I could tell, was lookin’ for you. He ordered a beer but didn’t even drink it.”

The hair stood on the back of your neck.

“Following me?” You uttered.

She nodded and reached into her red jacket. She pulled out one of the twenties you’d handed her. 

“Catch a cab.” She said. “And keep your eyes open. He’s good.”

“You think… you think he followed me here?” You wondered as she turned and flagged a yellow taxi.

“All I know is he wasn’t here ‘till you were.” She said. “Too bad I didn’t get a look at his face. He made sure of that.”

You watched the car pull up and you gulped.

“Thanks,” You said numbly. “I--”

“Don’t thank me, babe,” She said. “I was happy enough to keep that two hundred and finish my drink.” She opened the door. “You’re lucky I like you.”

You slid onto the seat and she closed the door. You recited your address as she backed up onto the curb and watched the taxi drive away. You sat back and let out a breath. 

Were you really being followed? If so, how long had they been tailing you?

[askultimateluckytrash]

    They pulled him out of the Neo World Program abruptly.

    For a second, smashed back into his own body against his will, dazed and confused, he staggered and swayed and had no idea where he was or who he was. For a blissful moment, he was nameless with no past and no present. But the illusion was shattered soon enough.

     They berated him, but he didn't even hear it. Their words pummeled against his ears, swollen and distorted like he was underwater. He didn't remember what they said. Why did he care? He felt so horrible already. Surely these people who he didn't like and didn't know couldn't possibly make him feel any worse.

     They took him to a hospital bed and made a full examination. For the most part, aside from the big bump on his head, he was unharmed. A full recovery. No adverse side-effects, mentally or physically. What bad luck.

     They made him wait in the hospital for a while. Then they pulled him from the room and made him wait in a lobby. Then they took him to a therapist, who asked him a bunch of questions, and he gave the best answers he could, dazed as he still was. They took him to a different lobby. He awaited punishment.

     Part of him hoped that they would simply put him back in the Neo World Program, though he knew that wasn't likely. What else could they do? Would he have to stay here for another 6 months of therapy, like before? He wouldn't mind that too much. The island was beautiful, and therapy at least gave him something to do every day, if nothing else. Or would he go to prison this time? Was his clemency finally at its limit? Prison wouldn't be so bad either. He would get chores to do every day, and be distracted with a strict schedule.

     Either way, he would still be gone. That was what he wanted. That was what they didn't understand. He wanted to be gone. Anything they did to him, so long as they didn't send him back home, would still feed into his goals.

     He wanted to be gone. He wanted to be completely severed from his life and his identity, his friends, his past, his disappointing future, his expectations, his responsibilities, his crimes, his guilt, all the people he was hurting, all the things they expected of him, his name and personality, his memories...everything about his life. He wanted it gone.

     The easiest way to do that, of course, was dying. But he couldn't do that. He had made so many promises to so many people-- which was something else that he wanted to escape. Why was there so much pressure on him to live?

      But he hated his life, and all he wanted was to end it. If he couldn't die, he could still end his own life, right? If he severed himself from it completely. Gave up everything, broke it all off, and ran away from everything that made up 'his life'. At least he wouldn't have to deal with the pain of living it anymore, even if he couldn't completely erase it from his mind.

      If they sent him to prison, he wouldn't have to be 'Nagito Komaeda' anymore. He would just be another faceless criminal, with his sole life being harmless jail chores and a rigid schedule. Nothing about Despair, or the Neo World Program, or the 77th class, or Hajime Hinata. And if he stayed here, well...this place might still be connected to his old life, but at least he wouldn't have to see his classmates here, or see Hajime, or be forced to think about his miserable future and be forced to do work to take the steps to make it there. As if a future that tortuous could possibly be worth even sticking around to see, let alone doing so much work for. It was so tiring, and all for what? For more torture. More pain. At least if he didn't go home, he didn't have to face the future.

       He waited. The more he thought about his punishments, the more his head cleared a bit. Either of those was a good option. Already, he was planning how to make himself at home in prison or here. Planning what to do afterwards. Move someplace else, buy a small house, and live out the rest of his days in bored, lonely obscurity? With no one knowing who he was or where their annoying, hated classmate Nagito Komaeda had gone. The idea of the misery gave him pleasure. This will be your punishment, so you can stop feeling so guilty. You'll be truly miserable, but at least this time, you won't get your hopes up just to have them shattered. At least this time, you won't have to see all the faces of all the people you hurt, and love them knowing that they hate you.

      Or maybe they would give him the death penalty, and he could die without knowing that he was letting everybody down.

      When they delivered the final verdict to him, he nearly fainted.

      "What?" He mumbled, his voice numb with disbelief.

      They repeated their instructions, but he still couldn't register it.

      "What do you mean?" He shook his head, getting to his feet a little unsteadily.

       "We'll send someone to the hotel to pack your things for you, and then meet us at the airport for your flight home." The employee explained, glancing at a clipboard he was holding.

     Nagito blinked again. "Home?" He stalled a little and his voice cracked. "You're just...sending me home?"

     Maybe he didn't sound as thrilled as he should have. The two employees exchanged confused glances. "Yes. It will be good for you."

     "No." He disagreed calmly, shaking his head. "I don't want to go back."

     "You have to." They insisted. "The Future Foundation thinks this will be the safest--"

     "I don't want to go home." He said firmly, shaking his head again. "Don't make me go back home. Send me somewhere else. I'll pay for it." He clasped his hands together, crushing his palm between his fingers. The idea of going back home was suffocating.

    "This is where the Future Foundation wants you." The employee matched his tone. "That's where you have to go."

    He grimaced a little. The idea of going back there-- it made his stomach turn. That place is a prison. Don't make me go back there. He could feel his hands starting to shake, so he squished them harder. "I don't...want to." That was the only argument he could give them. How could they possibly understand in any form of words what it felt like to be at home? But he knew that wouldn't be enough. They wouldn't listen to him. They would pack him up and ship him back anyway...He'd rather have gone to prison. Would it have been much different?

    The employee shook his head, making it clear that Nagito wasn't going to get his way. "We're sending someone to pack up your things right now. We'll meet them at the airport." He put a hand on Nagito's arm and began to pull him forward.

     Nagito wanted to resist. He started to pull away feebly, out of instinct, and let off a nearly - silent whimper, but he knew there was no getting out of it. He had no right to get out of it. Didn't he have to face the consequences of his horrible actions just like everyone else? He stumbled forward numbly, slipping into a daze again as the employee tugged him along.

     The thought of going home was suffocating. Going back to that place, that house, with all those wonderful memories that were past and gone. Seeing the rooms where he used to be so happy with his family and knowing he would never have that again. He would never have a family, or be safe, or be loved. And seeing Hajime again was equally crushing. He'd be angry and disappointed and hurt, and he'd take it all out on Nagito with his withering looks, his telling silences, a few well-placed comments here and there. Nagito would have to look at the face of the person who used to be his best friend and his hope and know that what he dreamed of was never coming true. Just like with his house. Remember all the good times with Hajime, when it seemed like it could be possible for them to be friends. Remember when they used to talk. When maybe, possibly, Hajime might've loved him. Remember all the dreams he had of then being together, and how happy he would be, only to find out that it wasn't true. His dreams were...stupid and ridiculous. Hajime would never love him. And even if they were together, Nagito still wouldn't be happy. Hajime was never around. He never talked to him. He never spent time with him. There was no relationship there at all anymore.

    Home really was a prison. He was stuck there all day, every day. With no friends to distract him or take him out. No boyfriend present at all. Alone only with the thoughts of all the things he missed and all the things he dreamed of that he would never get. Knowing that nothing would ever get better and that he had nothing left in his future but suffering. It was...helpless, suffocating, stifling, claustrophobic. Like being stuck in a straight-jacket. Constantly alone, with no one to talk to and no way out. Going home was the worst punishment he could ever get.

     He froze in his spot, so abruptly that the employee jerked and glared back at him.

     That was the point. Of course! How had he not realized it sooner? Ahaha! How stupid and blind he had been! Of course this was the worst punishment. Of course that was the one he would get. Obviously. This was punishment. That was the point. This was the punishment he deserved. He deserved the worst possible punishment in the world for what he'd done. He deserved to have everything he wanted dangled in his face, held just out of his reach forever. And if he ever got closer, his hopes would get further away. What a cruel, fitting punishment! What a deserved torture for someone as worthless as him! He should know better than to dare to hope. Hope was for people better than him.

     He cracked a smile and let off a tiny laugh. All at once it hit him how ridiculous he was being. It wasn't his lot to complain about his life. He had no right. What happened to the version of him from the killing game? The one who could take any punishment, any misery, any despair and still smile. Still keep going, perfectly happy, content in his deserved suffering. Why was he being such a baby now?

     Had he spent too much time around Hajime, and allowed his resolve to weaken? That must be it. He had grown too used to being happy. He had been basking in hope so much that he couldn't handle despair anymore. But that wasn't him. His lot in life was despair, forever, until the day he died.

        And he shouldn't be complaining about that! This was a good thing. He was getting the punishment that he deserved. Hope was prevailing. Good was prevailing. He should rejoice in knowing that, in seeing that fact played out every day before his eyes. Every bit of suffering he went through just meant that hope was still winning. Every time he suffered, it should renew his faith in hope. A worthless piece of garbage like him was being punished. And he could take pride in his punishment and resolve. Take pride in going through all this despair for the sake of hope. Because didn't that prove his devotion? And his strength, what little of it he had? And if he got punished for all his horrible crimes, wasn't that a relief? Didn't that ease the guilt? He might have done bad things, but at least he was suffering for them. This punishment was a blessing!

     He should revel in every bit of misery he got. Be proud of every horrible feeling and every instance of bad luck. It was time to be strong again. To stop complaining. To stop being so spoiled. It was time to stop expecting more than he deserved. To go back to being happy and content with his despair. His worthlessness. His misery. And he would go to the airport quietly, and they would see if Hajime would be late to pick him up, or if he would even bother to show up at all.

     Time to smile at despair in the name of hope.

[parkerparts]

My Work is Loving the World

Harley Keener lives alone in Tony Stark’s cabin by the lake. He fills his days with bot-building, AI-coding, garden-tending, and absolutely no spider-killing. It’s fun, sure, but he’s terribly lonely. That all changes when he comes across a red and blue spider in his garden, and to make matters even better, the little fella can understand him.

Truly, it’s a testament to Harley’s sanity — or lack thereof — that he doesn’t run away screaming. Instead, he smiles softly and holds out his hand. “Well then, Peter. Want to come stay with me in the house for a little while? I’m real lonely up there and could use the company.”

The spider Peter doesn’t bother spelling out a response. He just jumps into Harley’s hands, ready to go with him to the ends of the earth.

“Well then,” Harley says again, if only to fill the silence between himself and the nonverbal creature. “Here we go.”

(parkner, 2.6k, no warnings except for fluff and a lil sad boi harley, inspired by this prompt by @offbrand-celestial, title from mary oliver’s ‘the messenger,’ beta’d by the lovely @midorimireio-blog)

Read on AO3 or Keep Reading Below

When he was nine years old, Harley read that killing spiders in a beer brewery was practically illegal. His garage might not be a brewery — though admittedly, he had made moonshine in there once or twice on a whim with a friend or as a dare — but he still outlawed the killing of spiders.

“Why?” his Ma had asked, stepping into the place to bring him a dinner plate. She frowned at the expanse of cobwebs Harley empathetically embraced.

“They’re cool creatures,” he said with a shrug, mouth full with a bite cornbread. “Ain’t done nothing wrong to me, so I don’t see no point in killin’ them things.”

Twelve years later, not a thing has changed. He lives in Georgia now, in the lakeside cabin Tony and Pepper keep as their getaway house. They visit more often as Morgan gets older, needing a break from whatever mess they handle up in the city to spend time as a family — Harley and the other Keeners included. Harley’s Ma lives in New York, has some swanky job in one of Pepper’s departments, but Abbie’s in Georgia with Harley, attending Emory University. Harley, at Tony’s insistence, had finished high school before moving out, though he refused to go to college. He liked living here, alone most of the time except for when Abbie visited from her dorm on holidays and the Starks and his Ma came down every couple of months. He could do as he pleased, tinkering and inventing and regularly blowing things up. He was terribly happy in that cabin by the lake.

He was also terribly lonely.

Sure, he had his cars and his bots and his trusty AI C.I.R.C.E, but they weren’t the same as human connection, something he infallibly yearned for. Some days, when the self-imposed isolation was too much to bear, he’d drive half an hour into the city of Atlanta, stay a night in a hotel, find a bar, and dance the night away with a faceless guy or two before sleeping alone, buzzed but not drunk and temporarily satisfied.

Most days though, he’d just swallow down the loneliness, bury himself in work or bury himself in blankets. It was all the same to him anyway — a hazy blur of sunrises and sunsets and meals he may or may not have eaten, chores he may or may not have finished. The pile of dirty clothes is a testament to that last one, and he spends three days in an engineering binge to create Landry, the bot who lovingly does his laundry for him when he can hardly be bothered to get out of bed.

Some memories in this hazy blur stick out more sharply than others, and they all revolve around the garden.

It had been started by Pepper as a vegetable garden. When its care fell into Harley’s hands, he had lovingly invested in it, throwing as much hard work and passion into it as he did his engineering. Over the years it has grown into a veritable maze — though not an actual hedge maze, which would have been unimaginably pretentious in Harley’s eyes, and much too orderly. He grew nearly every fruit, vegetable, and flower the Georgia climate would allow and spent hours engineering bots to take care of it.

And, just as in the old garage back in Rose Hill, he had a strict no spider-killing rule.

Harley wakes up, sprawled sideways in a chair on the porch. The sun is high in the sky, and a glance at his phone indicates that it’s well past noon. Even then, Harley shivers, the spring air not yet warm enough for his liking. Half a day wasted, though really, Harley muses as he goes inside, he was up all night combing through his AI’s code, so it’s not like he actually wasted time. Just daylight.

“Mornin’ C.I.R.C.E,” he greets his AI, yawning. “How we feeling?”

“Like brand new, after last night’s check-up.”

“Good, good,” he murmurs, rifling through his dresser. At long last he finds a pair of clean jeans, holding them up with a triumphant grin. “C.I.R.C.E., wake Kof-E up for me, will ya? And send Landry in here. She’s been slacking off her duties.”

“You got it, partner.” Tony had been downright scandalized when he heard Harley’s AI’s country twang. Abbie had laughed about the look on his face for days. Harley smiles at the memory as he goes back out into the kitchen, freshly dressed but with his hair as unkempt as ever. His beloved robot Kof-E whirs from his place on the kitchen counter, wheeling closer as Harley approaches to present a cup of coffee. Harley takes it and pats the robot’s head. He heads outside again, slipping on his boots and a flannel as he makes his way to the garden.

He grabs an apple from the trees that line the border of the garden as he walks through, pausing to greet his robots — Go-G and Gerald — by name as they trundle along. Soon he reaches a small clearing by the lake under the shade of an oak tree that’s sure to be over a hundred years old. Here, Harley takes a seat, finishing his apple and tucking and core into a bag in his pocket that he’ll put in composting later.

A flash of light catches his eye, and he stands, moving closer to the source. There, in between the branches of the tree, is a spider web that — if Harley’s not hallucinating — spells out HI.

“Howdy,” Harley says out loud in response, feeling only a little stupid. “Where are you?”

As if it can understand him, a spider skittles out of the shadows of the branches. Harley bends closer to take a look, surprised by the vibrancy of the peculiar red and blue creature.

“Can you understand me?” Harley asks.

He only has to wait a moment before the spider has spun a new pattern, spelling YES.

“You got a name, fella?”

The response takes a little longer this time as the spider spells out PETER.

Truly, it’s a testament to Harley’s sanity — or lack thereof — that he doesn’t run away screaming. Instead, he smiles softly and holds out his hand. “Well then, Peter. Want to come stay with me in the house for a little while? I’m real lonely up there and could use the company.”

The spider Peter doesn’t bother spelling out a response. He just jumps into Harley’s hands, ready to go with him to the ends of the earth.

“Well then,” Harley says again, if only to fill the silence between himself and the nonverbal creature. “Here we go.”

Over the next few days, Harley and Peter figure out how to live together comfortably. All of Harley’s robots are programmed to recognize and avoid spiders and spider webs, so Peter’s safety isn’t much of a concern. Communication, however, is.

They start out with an old-fashioned chalkboard with basic responses, needs, and the alphabet written out for Peter to indicate by crawling on. With that taken care of, Harley sets off on his next engineering binge, with the goal in mind to create a robot that will allow Peter to move and speak.

He begins by programming a new AI called PETER — Personal Equipment for Telecommunications and Electronic Replies because Harley loves is acronyms as much as Tony does — and gives him the voice of a teenage boy or young adult.

If Abbie or his Ma were here to witness this bout of insanity, they’d call him out for his poorly concealed loneliness. Nonetheless, he is alone and shamelessly gives in to his fantasy of finding a best friend, even if that best friend is a spider.

And really, Peter’s not too shabby of a best friend to have. He likes bacon and waffles — really, the fact that this spider liked human foods should have been a glaring clue to Harley that something truly weird was going on — and makes Harley regain a somewhat normal sleeping schedule by wrapping webs gently around his wrists to make him stop working late at night and somehow — Harley has never figured this one out — getting C.I.R.C.E. to play rock music loudly every morning to rouse him awake. He also gets C.I.R.C.E. to wake Kof-E up every morning though, so Harley can’t complain too much. Peter accompanies Harley in the lab, webbing tools over with surprising strength and giving as much input as he can with his limited communication abilities. He accompanies Harley into the garden every evening and listens as Harley speaks, asking questions every now and then with his little chalkboard. Harley can’t wait to build his robot, ready to hear Peter tell him a story of his own.

At long last, after two weeks of work, Harley finishes the robot, affectionately nicknamed “Capslock P.E.T.E.R.,” with Peter’s approval. He guides the spider into the clear container that serves as Capslock P.E.T.E.R.’s head before stepping back with bated breath to watch his genius play out.

“Hiya, Harley,” Peter/P.E.T.E.R. says, and Harley is nearly moved to tears. “I’m Peter.”

“I know,” Harley replies with a breathless laugh. “It’s nice to meet you, Peter.”

“It’s nice to meet you too,” Peter replies, voice full of emotion that Harley had no idea an AI was capable of producing.

That evening, they go out to the garden, back to the clearing where they first technically met. Peter greets the garden robots as he trundles by, voice adorably becoming more enthusiastic as the robots chirp back. Harley just smiles fondly at the spider inside the robot, quietly regretting his failure to give Capslock P.E.T.E.R. a face, if only to see him smile back.

“I think it’s your turn to tell me a story,” Harley says, settling by the lake. P.E.T.E.R. rolls to a stop beside him.

“Okay,” he says. “Well, here it goes.”

Peter had once been Peter Benjamin Parker, a bright, young science nerd living in New York City with his aunt. He worked as an intern for Tony Stark, who found the boy after heavy surveillance of a masked vigilante who liked to web muggers up in a sticky, fluid substance of his own invention. “Spider-Man,” the media called him, though Tony preferred “Spider-Boy.”

Then, in a tragic twist of irony, Peter was actually bitten by a spider and somehow become a spider himself.

“Mr. Stark was beside himself. The whole thing was so bizarre, and he couldn’t figure it out. Dr. Banner thought it was radiation, but he attributes most unexplainable phenomena to radiation,” Peter explains.

Eventually, a wizard doctor guy Tony reluctantly called in a favor with figured it out. Harley wants to interrupt and ask what exactly he had figured it out, but Peter glosses over it and presses on. Apparently, Tony had been telling Harley’s Ma the story and she, remembering Harley’s affinity for spiders, had suggested that Tony send Peter down to Harley’s place. They wanted it to be a secret or for him to figure it out on his own or something, so they discreetly packaged Peter in the latest care package/equipment shipment they had sent down from New York.

“That was nearly a week before I found you!” Harley cries out, remembering.

Peter reminds him that “You had an engineering binge,” and Harley blushes, unapologetic.

Together, they sit in silence for a moment as Harley digests the story, which really was something straight out of a comic book. Then a thought occurs to him and he says, “Hey, what did that wizard doctor figure out?”

“Oh,” Peter says with poorly feigned surprise, as if he hadn’t wanted Harley to remember that little detail he left out. “Yeah, he figured out a cure.”

“There’s a cure?” Harley turns to face Capslock P.E.T.E.R. with excitement. “Peter, why didn’t you so? We have to fix this! Tell me, what can I do?”

Peter is quiet for a moment, and Harley begins to wonder if he’s said something wrong. “See, this curse or whatever is magic. And the only cure is a kiss. A true love’s kiss.”

Harley’s mind goes blank. True love?

Harley doesn’t believe in true love. He doesn’t buy into the whole soulmate idea. He moved out to a cabin in the middle of the woods with a heavily encrypted, unlisted address, condemning himself to a solitary lifestyle. He’s lonely, sure, but he likes it. He likes his space, his bots, his AI …

And Peter. He really, really likes Peter.

In the past couple of weeks, Peter has become an integral part of Harley’s life as his trusted companion and caretaker. He’s listened to all of Harley’s stories, and Harley wants nothing more than to hear all of Peter’s, get to know the boy beneath the arachnid body. As he thinks about it more, Harley can’t imagine a life without Peter in it, and maybe Peter’s not his true love — not yet, at least — but it’s worth a shot.

“Well then,” Harley says tentatively. “What are we waiting for?”

With shaking hands, he frees Peter from Capslock P.E.T.E.R.’s containment, smiling as the red and blue spider jumps eagerly into his hands. Harley raises his palm to his face, closes his eyes, and before he can think any more about it, he kisses the creature.

Immediately, Harley can feel the ripple of magic course through Peter’s body. The creature in his hands morphs until he’s cupping not a spider but the soft cheek of a boy whose lips are pressed gently against Harley’s. He opens his eyes at long last and pulls away, unable to contain a gasp at the sight of the boy-turned-spider-turned-boy-again, whom he’s come to love.

Peter wears what looks like a spandex suit, though it’s probably some fancy Stark tech, red and blue with black webbing all over it and a black spider emblem emblazoned on his chest. Harley assumes that the mask Peter mentioned is missing, but he’s glad for the fact as he drinks in Peter’s rosy cheeks and amber eyes and tousled brown curls that make Harley’s heart ache with yearning.

“Hi,” Peter says nervously in his own voice, not Capslock P.E.T.E.R.’s.

“Thank God you came back wearing clothes, because that would’ve made for a real awkward situation.” Harley wants to take back his words — which he hadn’t actually meant to say aloud, for goodness’s sake — as soon as he sees Peter’s eyes widen, but when the boy lets out a bark of surprised laughter, Harley relaxes, joining in. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that.”

“It’s okay. The first time I met Mrs. Potts, I ran into her — literally — and tried to say either ‘I’m sorry’ or ‘Nice to meet you’ but ended up blurting out ‘I’m sorry to meet you,’ instead. I just ran away. It was so embarrassing!”

Harley can’t help but to laugh again, leaning his head on Peter’s shoulder. Peter leans his head on top of his. They sit there together, in the clearing by the lake, where it all began, feeling completely at peace with the world and each other and their state of being.

“Thank you,” Harley says suddenly, grabbing hold of Peter’s hand.

“What for?”

“The efflorescence of love,” Harley replies, “and the gossamer that holds us together.”

Peter says nothing at that, just squeezes Harley’s hand tighter. Together, they watch the sunset, witness the way the world changes colors.

The world might be forever changing, but at the heart of it all sat two boys by a lake with the knowledge that through it all, they’d have each other.

And it would be enough.

“I died, and was born in the spring; / I found you, and loved you, again.”

— Mary Oliver, “Hummingbirds”

[antihero-writings]

The Only Fight--Young Ben Solo | Kylo Ren/Star Wars Sequel Trilogy fic, Chapter 2 (full chapter!)

Fic Title: The Only Fight

Fic Synopsis: Waking or sleeping, Ben Solo has been fighting the darkness within him ever since he was a child

Chapter 2:

All he knows is he has to kill.   The young man’s breathing is tempered, the cold threatening to bite into him, but he fends it off. Doesn’t falter. The darkness around him is his ally, cloaking him from the light and all things within it which would expose his faceless appearance.   He does not know how long he has been in this snowy woods, searching, hunting. All that is real is this dark intent consuming him, and the blacker faith that set in there.   He is not a patient person. He will not wait for his prey to come to him. He stalks it from shadow to shadow.   Finally, he hears it: breathing. 

The short, frantic gasps of his prey, as if the thing is pleading with the air to rescue him, begging for some coin of relief from this cold, this endless winter chase.

The sound is so small, so pitiful, shallow and without real resolve or reprieve...just the act of inhaling, exhaling, nothing entering his lungs.    And then the breathing collapses, falls into the snow, crashing like a tree wondering if it made a sound when there was only the night to hear it.

The night did hear it.   Now, now that his prey is within is grasp, now that his prey is heaving defenseless on the ground, now the shadow makes his move, stepping before him as if from behind the curtain of this grand show.    His prey is a little boy, feeble and shaking on the ground. His form is so clear; the only thing in this blurred universe that is completely real. His black hair playing monkey in the middle before his eyes, infected with fear, tears tugging his lips.   Hatred surges like a squall. His mind foggy, his reasons clouded behind a wall called yesterday. But when that hatred shoots through him and he knows it is real, even if nothing else is.   This boy is nothing. Nothing. Nothing to him. Nothing at all. Young, afraid, powerless. He could destroy him now, and he would never become anything. Just a broken puppet of fear twisted and mangled on the playroom floor.    But, try as he might to deny it, he isn’tnothing. To the host of darkness he means too much. This is more of a feeling than a knowing too. His presence makes him so angry, so disgusted, so…

So lost. So afraid. So alone. As if this wretched thing’s emotions are ebbing and flowing into his own mind.

Ben Solo.   Just the thought of that name makes his hands curl into gloved fists, his jaw clench behind the mask. He hates the faceless name as much as he hates the face that goes with it, a tag team of disdain and contempt.   He will destroy this boy. That name. He must. If he doesn’t, Ben Solo will surely destroy him.   The darkness stands at his side like soldiers awaiting his command, a finely tuned blade.   He ignites his real blade, the sound of the lightsaber rending the silence like a piece of paper. The red crackles, as if it too is unsure, as if it’s angry like its master is, scared like Ben is, singing a cracked, unfinished aria about lonely heroes falling to the dark, princes chained to thrones, scoundrels saving the day in war-struck empires, all hoping they’ll see light again.   Black. White. Red. The only colors he knows now.

There was a time when he could see other colors. He named them, scribbled them messily on tablets and pages, along with stick-figure drawings of a mommy and daddy who weren’t there for him anymore.

He’s forgotten the hues now.    He could ask Ben how and why he found himself in this snowy woods, he could demand that he leave him alone. He could leave him in the snow to freeze him out. But that wouldn’t be enough. He’s come to break his fragile heart while he still has a chance, in attempts to harden his own. It’s all he must do to become what he is meant to be, all he can do to free himself from the torment in Ben’s eyes.

It’s simple enough.   Ben shuts those eyes, tight, doesn’t let go of the breath he’s holding, as if his own lungs are capable of keeping it safe from the fire.   But after everything, the resolve strumming his heart, the shadows humming beside him, the saber singing sweetly...he finds he can’t just…do it. He can’t just raise the lightsaber and strike him down. Staring at his pitiful face, hatred piercing through him, even so, pity, empathy, and something… else, something like memory, keep him from his goal.

No. That’s not it. It can’t be it. No, it’s just too…easy. That’s all. He’s going to play with his catch before devouring it. Killing him right away is no fun.   “Ben,” he taunts, trying to make the word contain all his hatred, sound as ugly as it tastes. and Ben is so small, so young…or maybe he is just too old, “Oh poor little Ben,” the words drip with a mocking pity, “who will save you now?”   The shadow watches, watches the boy as he rifles in his mind for something to save him.   “My father will come. H-He’ll come to save me.”   The feeble words thrown into the snow catch the shadow by surprise.   He laughs at how ridiculous, how childish, such an answer it is.   And the answer he did provide…well, it’s a child’s answer, to be sure. Still. As much as he tries to deny it something pangs in the back of his chest.   The hatred and resolve redoubles itself. There it is again; this boy’s ability to rummage around in the depths of his soul and bring out the parts of himself he thought he’d disposed of long ago. 

He wants to take this boy and make him feel all the pain he causes him before running him through. Some call it revenge. He calls it destiny.   He powers down his saber now, the red, commanding glow dissipating from the air.

The shadows around demand why? He tells them it won’t be long.   He puts his hand on the boy’s cheek, as if checking he’s real, checking for a pulse, as if checking that he is the thing he was looking for. He doesn’t want to pollute himself with the boy’s fragility, yet he must, he must do this, must hang horror over his head like hypnosis.

There is something barely noticeable that does contaminate the sting in his words, gets in to the gaps in his mask, when he says;   “Poor little Ben…all alone in the world.”   He can see the boy’s adam’s apple bobbing up and down like a game at at the fair— this may be a game, but I’ll never let you back up for air—   And at last he can no longer take the feeling of touching this thing    “You think Han Solo will come to your rescue?” He tries to make the name as venomous as when he spoke Ben’s name, and this time he feels he accomplished that. “You think that arrogant wretch will be your savior?” he laughs, a silly notion after all, the smuggler coming to save this pitiful thing—

—Well, is it funny at all a father would save his son? …Or at least try—

“I am sorry to say”—and he isn’t sorry at all—��he will leave you on your own…everyone will. Han Solo can’t save you.” The words are an echo of something he said once.   The boy’s hands are trembling in their fists, his nails digging into his palm, and the shadow feels a shot of anger go through him at the cry “N-No! NO!” the resolve in his voice almost mirroring his own.    —(If that means he barely has resolve at all.)—   “You’re so sure…why?” and this is the first question he’s actually curious to hear the answer to. Because why would this boy, all alone in these dark and snowy woods, powerless before a monster, hold on so tightly to something so breakable as the light?   “Because…Because he’s my father—”   He instantly regrets the question. He’d been hoping for some real, interesting answer, not some circular, childish reasoning. He snuffs out the conversation before he can continue.   “And that’s what fathers do? Just because he is your father doesn’t mean he’ll always be there. There are some darknesses we must face alone. Best to realize this earlier on…it’ll save you the pain of betrayal later.”   Sometimes he wishes someone had warned him. That he knew what was coming to him. That even those he held most dear would never regard him as something human, rather as a monster to be tamed, appeased, dealt with, sacrificed to. Then again, if someone had told him at Ben’s age…he probably wouldn’t have believed them anyway.   Ben is still shivering, but he knows now the cold and the fear have nothing to do with it. That anger is so familiar to him he almost doesn’t recognize how overwhelming it must feel in the boy’s small frame.   He reaches back and tilts Ben’s chin up, trying to make him feel as weak and powerless as possible.    “You cling so tightly to the light. Wouldn’t it be easier to just give in?”   “U-Uncle Luke says—”   He wants to hit him and say strike two. To wring his neck for even speaking that name in his presence.   “Skywalker.” The last thread in his venomous chord. “I should have known…Did he ever tell you of your grandfather?”   Because that’s who matters in all this, the only one who really matters.              Ben’s silence betrays him.    “What if even your uncle Luke”—there’s that venom again—“isn’t the perfect hero everyone claims he is? If even he were to turn against you one day…what would you do?”   “No…NO! Uncle Luke would never do that!”   Ben is wrong. So very wrong.    But that isn’t what matters anymore, because the shadow’s indecision may have led him to folly. He thought he was alone with Ben in these woods and all the time in the world, but now he feels another presence.

“Quiet!” He paralyzes his prey with the Force, keeping him locked where he can still strike him down, igniting his lightsaber again, the tongues of fire licking the boy’s terrified face.   The figure steps before Ben, trying to shield him from the darkness’ offer. Their face is obscured, but their presence is familiar to him.   “You’re the one who shouldn’t be so chatty.”—And they’re probably right about that—“He’s jut a boy. What do you want with him?”   “What use would you have for him? He is just a boy.”    “Use?” they sound offended, “He’s not a tool, or a toy! He is a person!”   He twirls his lightsaber in the air as if that’s enough of a threat. “He has his grandfather’s blood in him. Someday he could become something great. But not like this; not sniveling on the ground.”   —(And that’s what he wants to kill; the part of himself that’s the thing sniveling on the ground)—   “He could be something great. He will be. But not led by you. Go. Leave him alone.”   “I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

They draw their own lightsaber—such a bright song, one about heroes, and hope, and never giving up—the blades clashing, creating fireworks in the night, their sound reverberating through the silence, and when Kylo Ren feels the lightsaber drill a hole in his chest…Ben Solo falls too.   Kylo Ren awoke in his quarters, drenched in a cold sweat and heaving for breath. He tried to get up and fell off the bed to the ground.   He had forgotten about the dream.

He’d had many nightmares like this one (long ago, now), and everyone always told him they didn’t mean anything.   But he knew they were wrong.    If he had remembered the dream from back then, he would have tried to forget it, as he did everything to do with Ben Solo. To pretend he never was that little boy crying on the ground, begging his parents to save him from the monsters in his head.   And what was he now?    Thirty years old, crying on the ground. The only difference was this time he didn’t have any parents to run to anymore. He was far far away from them, a lost boy trapped behind the second star.   Rage surged like a living thing, infecting his breath, curling his fingers into fists.   He wanted so desperately to destroy Ben Solo, to eradicate the sway he had over his heart, the ability he had to make him feel lost and scared and lonely, the child’s voice inside telling him this isn’t right.   As much as he tried to block them out, deny they were ever real, fragments of memories fell apart in his head and cut his thoughts.    He had killed Han Solo. That thing that caused him so much pain, so much torment, so much guilt. That thing tying him to that boy on the ground—the boy’s hope at rescue, still aching inside him—cutting off his ties to the life boat, ensuring him that nothing and no one would take him back to shore. Assuring him that the dark, the wind, and the waves were all he was, all he could turn to.   And now guilt was an ever-present specter rotting away his chest like maggots. Memories like banshees, screaming, undead in his head.   He sat up, leaning against the bed, telling himself it was only a dream.    He didn’t believe it.   Here he was, the shining, war-struck legacy of Princess, General Leia, Han Solo, of Luke Skywalker, and Ben Kenobi, and Darth Vader…sniveling on the ground. Trying to be everything at once and failing to be one thing at all. Trying so hard to fulfill a destiny…yet coming back with the pieces of dreams. Trapped behind sheens of lies, the ones others told him, and those he told himself.

If only he’d grown up.

If only he’d stopped believing in the light.   If only he could have forgotten, destroyed that boy in the woods.   Then maybe he could convince himself he’s not still Ben.

[sciencespies]

Op-ed | Do not cancel space station’s new culture of commercial cooperation

https://sciencespies.com/space/op-ed-do-not-cancel-space-stations-new-culture-of-commercial-cooperation/

Op-ed | Do not cancel space station’s new culture of commercial cooperation

Is NASA’s ISS price hike a conspiracy to kill entrepreneurial space?

I am not into conspiracies. Kennedy was shot by a lone gunman. The World Trade Center was taken down by terrorists. And yes, we really did go to the moon.

However, the recent move by NASA to essentially gut private sector activities on the International Space Station has me wondering. I am beginning to believe there may be some secret directive in the U.S. government to not only not allow, but to kill off the space frontier’s opening to anyone except governments and their well-established in-house contractors. The announcement of NASA’s plans to end discounted pricing is not just short sighted. It reeks of sabotage — be it intentional or not.

The wisdom shown by setting prices and eating some of the costs of transport and utilization of the ISS had been long-awaited by those who see opening space as the next great economic frontier and those working to create a beneficial partnership between government and the people. It was already producing results as a wave of innovative and possibly world-changing projects, companies, and private initiatives started to take off. From product research in materials, industrial products, and technologies to lifesaving biological research, U.S. commercial space seemed to have finally found at NASA a genuinely supportive friend — rather than a massively subsidized competitor. I also thought for a moment that Washington had at last begun to understand just how important this app development platform on the edge of the universe might turn out to be. Obviously, the projection on and appreciation for such wisdom on the part of those institutions was premature.

It is a long and well-established norm of government that the government will support the development of technologies, systems, and resources in the interest of the nation and its people. This is done through the application of a broad set of tools, including tax breaks, discounts, and subsidies. In most cases, these incentives are kept in place until the needed change or nascent industry is well established, and frankly, as is the case with such breaks and incentives for industries like oil and gas, they are often never removed.

Reporting on this disaster will, of course, focus not on the fantastic and wide variety of industrial and commercial research and product development projects it helped nurture but on the higher-profile celebrity and commercial brands that also benefited. So, rather than try and parse the many judgment calls needed by those who might want to let the government pick the winners and losers of who gets a break to go to space, let me use their cases to help demonstrate the utter stupidity of this move.

Let’s say, for example, that the government believes folks should drive electric cars. The government then creates beneficial legal regimes and provides subsidies to the fledgling electric car industry to help give it a kick-start to support this shift. Meanwhile, at some point word goes out that Tom Cruise has bought one of these subsidized electric cars and cosmetics company Estée Lauder has had one painted with their colors.

Does the government then cancel the subsidies for the electric car industry? Of course not. In fact, any sane and thinking government would promote and hail the acceptance and use of these machines by such influential opinion leaders. They would encourage any and all the other influencers they could find to take advantage of and become advocates for electric cars, perhaps even expanding their incentives to help grow the wave. Sure, Cruise can afford to buy a whole fleet of them, and Estée Lauder doesn’t need the help of the lower costs. Still, in part, it is the fact that the government has supported and endorsed, and by doing so, amplified the marketing of those trying to build electric cars that drew them to become customers in the first place. Meanwhile, of course, the subsidy allows a flood of new customers to participate in the electric car revolution and supports all the suppliers and developers of this new field of automotive engineering. In the end, everyone wins.

This example hopefully shows the insanity of what NASA is doing. Having wisely and finally begun to leverage the taxpayer’s investment in ISS in a way that would catalyze a whole host of new industries and activities in space, in the name of some sort of prurient nickel and dime anti-success oriented procedures, the agency has decided to screw the whole thing.

In the decades since Apollo there have been numerous cases when Congress and NASA have tried to appear as if they had the people’s interests at heart, even as they sabotaged or outright killed projects and plans those citizens developed. Be it former Joe Allen’s Industrial Space facility, murdered with fingerprints in the 1990s, my own project to commercialize the Russian Mir space station, wherein NASA, Congress, and the White House worked together with Vladimir Putin to destroy our plans, moving the goal posts and funding flows on various commercial lunar programs ostensibly aimed at small private companies, the list is endless, and over time begins to add up. 

In an ironic twist on my last point, one of the rationales given by this fiasco’s faceless foisters, is that there are and will be commercial providers who can offer these same services. In a sense, it is as if they are declaring victory on behalf of the visiting team by economically shutting them out of the playing field while they are still in training. I must say that I also have a creeping feeling there may well be some subterranean shenanigans going on here. I sense whiffs of favoritism, inside dealing, and a crude attempt to establish a fait accompli in terms of beginning to force the end of the ISS as a potential home for private sector activities and setting up designated successors.

“But Rick,” some will say, “aren’t you all about free enterprise in space? Shouldn’t we be transitioning to private space facilities and market-based commercial spaceflight?”

Of course we should. But to categorize this move under that heading is disingenuous at best. Again, I refer to my earlier point about catalyzing a new industry. It’s too soon to stop priming the pump. A little bit not earned right now will indeed mean billions if not more earned later. 

I urge anyone who cares about an open frontier in space to step up and oppose this ill-conceived and frankly stupid attack on intelligent planning. Finally, NASA had put in place something that worked, not just for the Tom Cruises, the billionaires, and non-space corporations, but for numerous sincere and someday important American space startups who, though low profile, were clearly benefiting from the low-cost incentives it gave them to consider taking on and developing ideas that might otherwise have never seen the light of sunrise in space.

As I sit here in Texas writing this, I can’t help but compare the actions of Congress and NASA to our state government’s decision to throw out all COVID-19 precautions three months before we get our people vaccinated. Be it exuberance, premature action, or cold political or business calculation, it may look good to some, but it will kill others. In this case, the victims may not be the people, but it will undoubtedly be their dreams.

I believe in our future out there on the space frontier. I believe a well-run space agency overseen by intelligent leaders in the White House and Congress can work with citizens to open that frontier quickly, efficiently, and to the benefit of all. I am surrounded by, and work with others just like myself, in the government and outside of it, who share the same belief. So yes, perhaps I am myself part of a conspiracy — a conspiracy of dreamers.

Rick Tumlinson cofounded the Space Frontier Foundation, Deep Space Industries, Orbital Outfitters and MirCorp, a company that leased Russia’s Mir space station in 2000.

#Space

[goodlucktai]

As good luck would have it

summary:

"The little yokai -- it’s not hurting anybody. It creeped me out, like I said, but it can’t help being creepy, can it?”

Natsume’s eyes narrow. “Nishimura -- “

“I know, I know. But -- they’re not all bad,” he says helplessly. “You have your ugly cat, right? You have friends who aren’t human. They can’t all be bad.”

set in the full circle au

read on ao3

x

They left Taki’s house in a group, all of them with a plan of action in mind and Satoru with the leftover cake in a take-home box under one arm.

It was a school night, which was the only reason Kitamoto didn’t push the issue when Satoru turned down his offer of sleeping over again. He did make Satoru promise to call him if anything happened between then and homeroom -- and Satoru promised easily enough, because, honestly, what could happen?

But at the crossroads between Satoru’s way home and Natsume’s, as the colors in the sky leaned closer to evening than afternoon, Natsume caught him by the sleeve. His eyes were dark in that dying light.

They looked the same as they did hours before, when Natsume said he had a friend who could help -- when he swore he would fix everything, even though it wasn’t really his to fix. Satoru was beginning to recognize that look as a particularly headstrong recklessness that didn’t seem to belong in his gentle friend’s face.

“Is there anything else you need to tell me?” Natsume demanded of him, in as much as someone like Natsume was able to demand of anyone, right there under a buzzing streetlight. “Anything else you think I ought to know?”

Taken aback, Satoru said, “I think we covered everything. I’m not hoarding another curse somewhere, promise.”

But in the name of fairness, he thought it over -- wracking his brain for anything that might fall under his friends’ definition of need-to-know -- because he liked that everyone was on the same page now, he wanted to keep it that way, and no stupid, accidental omission on his part was going to ruin that for them.

“There’s the ghost that lives in my ceiling, and one I can hear singing from inside a house I pass on my way to cram school. And Yumemi, too, the one you brought with you to class that day. But other than that, I haven’t had any close encounters, besides the obvious one. I mostly just catch glimpses of weird stuff.”

Natsume and his cat both stared.

“There’s a ghost living in your ceiling?” Natsume finally said. Satoru couldn’t quite work out what his tone was supposed to mean.  

“Yeah, but it just -- you know, hangs out.”

“That’s something sensei and I can probably deal with. Can we come over tonight?”

Imagining the look on his mother’s face if Satoru were to come home with a guest and a cat, Satoru shook his head immediately. “Sorry. After school tomorrow?”

Natsume looked really upset. “But -- “

“I promise, it’s okay. Honestly, it creeps me out, but it’s never done anything to me. We can let this one sit for another night.”

Which is how Satoru presently finds himself talking to the yokai that frequents his bedroom.

“So,” Satoru says, sincerely hoping Kiyoshi doesn’t walk in during this conversation, “I guess my friend is gonna come over tomorrow and evict you. Nothing personal, but I really need to be able to sleep here, you know?”

It’s the first time he’s spoken to the creature directly. It comes out of the ceiling a little bit, but otherwise just stares at him silently, same as always. Featureless and faceless and little more than a coherent blob of discoloration.

One minute of mutual consideration passes into two. Satoru feels kind of bad.

“I don’t think he’ll hurt you. He’s a really cool guy. But I also don’t have any idea how this works, so -- “ He rubs a hand through his hair, at a loss. “Maybe, if you wanted to leave before he got here, that’d be better. Can you do that? You’re not stuck here or anything, are you?”

It moves forward a little bit more. The only distinct thing about it are its round eyes, and maybe Satoru is projecting a little, but he thinks it looks more curious than anything.

“I shouldn’t be talking to you,” he says sternly. “Last time I got friendly with one of you guys, I ended up in a whole mess of trouble.”

He pulls up his sleeve and shows it his arm. Its eyes move, one going up and the other down by a few inches. It doesn’t have a head or any real form that Satoru can make sense of, but if it were a dog, it would be tilting its head. Somehow, that’s enough to coax a faint smile out of him.

“It’s easier to talk to you than I thought,” he says with some relief. “Maybe ‘cause we’ve spent so much quality time together already, who knows.”

The yokai is lingering in its corner when Satoru leaves for a bath, but when he comes back it’s closer than it’s ever been before. A quiet little lump on his nightstand with big, round, black eyes.

“Oh,” Satoru says eloquently, freezing in surprise. “No, uh -- I think you misunderstood me. The goal here is for you to go away.”

It’s a tiny, tiny little thing. It looked a lot bigger when it was in the wall. He resumes toweling his hair dry, watching it thoughtfully.

“Are you the kind of yokai that was something else before?” he asks it. “Did you used to be alive? Maybe not a human -- you’re so small. Maybe you were a bunny? Or a bird?”

It blinks at him, listening intently. Or at least, Satoru thinks it looks like it’s listening intently. It’s nice to have someone at his house to talk to who won’t lecture him or scold him, and he talks to it while he digs out his homework and struggles through a workbook.

Over the next hour or so, the little thing creeps closer in tiny increments until it’s inches from Satoru’s arm. It watches his pencil move in fascination.

“You’re kind of cute when you’re not haunting the corner like usual,” Satoru says, offering the eraser end of his pencil for its silent examination. “If I’d known you weren’t one of those nasty yokai, we could have talked like this a lot sooner.”

Possibly, it’s stupid to be so friendly with one of these ghosts after what happened last time he got close to one, but -- it’s so small. And it quivers a little when its eyes meet his, as though it’s aware of how big Satoru is, in turn.

And here it is, inching bravely out of the dark, into the warmth and light of the rest of Satoru’s bedroom; all because Satoru finally decided to look at it, and speak to it, and acknowledge the small corner of his home that it takes up.

He knows what that feels like. He’s gone whole days in his mother’s bad books, days she’s fed up with him and Kiyoshi is too busy for him, and he knows what an aching relief it is on those lonely days, to be looked at or spoken to. To pick up the phone and hear Kitamoto’s voice, or get a text from Tsuji reminding him about their homework.

“Poor little guy,” Satoru says quietly. “It’s okay with me if you want to stick around.”

Its eyes go tiltways again. Satoru huffs a laugh, bleak thoughts lifting away, and searches through his desk for something else it might like to play with.

There’s been something shadowed and unhappy living in Natsume’s face ever since he finally got a look at the curse mark on Satoru’s arm. He’s probably thinking all kinds of pointless thoughts, running around in circles trying to blame himself for the stupid trouble Satoru gets himself into when his friends aren’t around.

It isn’t Natsume’s fault, not even for a second. And Satoru has said that already, a couple times. He just doesn’t know how to say it to make his sad, stubborn friend listen.

“The friend I mentioned before is an exorcist,” Natsume says with a pale smile, sitting between Taki and Kitamoto at lunch. “He’s much more experienced in these things than I am. I called last night and he said he would look into it.”

“Let us know when he’s coming,” Taki says sweetly, with buried iron in her voice. “That way we all stay on the same page.”

Natsume looks faintly abashed. He’s quick to nod and say “of course, I was going to,” in a way that makes Satoru think he wasn’t going to until she said anything. Tanuma sighs.

“Well, at least Nishimura and Taki are going to enjoy meeting him,” he says, sounding vaguely like he doesn’t want to be there when they do.

“Wait, you know the exorcist friend?” Kitamoto demands. “Who is he?”

“Uh,” Tanuma says eloquently. He looks at Natsume for help.

Natsume glances over his shoulder at the rest of the rooftop, as if to make sure no one else is around to overhear, which is silly in two parts. One, because theirs is the only group that takes lunch up here, especially on gray days like this one. And two, because he’s acting like this friend of his is a celebrity or something, when, as far as Satoru knows, exorcism isn’t exactly a fame game.

“His name is Natori Shuuichi,” Natsume says plainly, a moment later. “He’s an actor.”

He’s an actor, he says. Like The ocean is salty, or The sky is blue.

Satoru chokes spectacularly on the bite of fish he stole out of Kitamoto’s lunch box. His friend says “Serves you right,” but pounds him on the back helpfully anyway. Taki is bright-eyed with delight, hands folded in front of her mouth, and their loud “Natori Shuuichi?” comes out in perfect, shrill unison.

Natsume is smiling, and it’s one of those smiles that makes something in Satoru’s stomach twist. It’s a smile that says “I thought you’d like this, and I’m happy you’re happy.” He gets it from Kitamoto all the time, sometimes he still gets it from Kiyoshi, but it surprises him to be smiled like that by anyone else.

Natsume explains that he met Natori that time the actor was filming on location near the edge of their town. They were something of grudging acquaintances at first -- and god, Satoru wished he could have seen it, he would give anything to have seen it -- but now they’re good friends, and Natsume thinks highly of him.

“Natori says a lot of things he doesn’t mean, and acts suspicious sometimes, but I trust him with my life,” Natsume says, with the stark certainty of someone who knows how it is to put their life in another person’s hands, and has no idea how odd it is that he does. “He’ll help us.”

“Especially since Natsume is the one who asked,” Tanuma adds wryly. “Natori would adopt Natsume in a heartbeat.”

Natsume turns bright red and denies it fiercely, which is pretty much proof that Tanuma is exactly right, but that’s not so hard to believe. Most people who know Natsume would be thrilled to make him part of their family and care about him all the time. The Fujiwaras totally lucked out by getting to him first. It’s not hard to believe that a famous actor like Natori could feel that way about him, too.

“That’s how you always managed to get your hands on such awesome merchandise!” Satoru exclaims. “Do you guys know what this means? I have connections!”

“Natsume has connections,” Kitamoto corrects him by rote, going back to his lunch.

“Same thing!” Beaming, Satoru says, “I am so getting an autograph.”

Thankfully, Natsume waits until they’re heading back downstairs and the others are a little bit ahead to remind Satoru that he’s coming over after school.

Satoru forgot all about that. He thinks of the tiny little creature in his bedroom, happily puddled by the shiny hundred yen coin Satoru left it, and blurts, “No!”

Natsume stares at him. Satoru tries to think of something that sounds reasonable. Natsume saves him the trouble a moment later, softening.

“Your mom?” he says.

Relieved, Satoru nods. It’s not even really a lie -- his mom is always mad at him for something.

Just as he’s about to go along with it, a nagging little voice in the back of his mind reminds him helpfully that this kind of roundabout thinking was what got him in trouble with his friends in the first place.

Even if it isn’t really a lie, it isn’t the truth.

Satoru rubs a hand through his hair. “Yes, but no. The little yokai -- it’s not hurting anybody. It creeped me out, like I said, but it can’t help being creepy, can it?”

Natsume’s eyes narrow. “Nishimura -- “

“I know, I know. But -- they’re not all bad,” he says helplessly. “You have your ugly cat, right? You have friends who aren’t human. They can’t all be bad.”

“Nishimura,” Natsume says again, just that, an argument in itself. Satoru’s shoulders slump, and he tries not to look dejected when he drops his eyes. The ground is much more interesting than the painfully understanding expression Natsume is giving him.

After a moment, his friend surprises him with a sigh.

“At least let me meet it,” he says ruefully. “Nyanko-sensei will be able to tell if it has bad intentions. I promise I won’t let him hurt it if it really is harmless.”

Satoru brightens, beaming at him. “Deal!”

Natsume smiles back like a knee-jerk reaction, shaking his head. “Most people I’ve met have a black-and-white perspective when it comes to yokai,” he says. “You’re weird, Nishimura.”

Satoru can’t help thinking of Yumemi and the little yokai in his bedroom, mentally comparing them to the creature that cursed his arm. They’re nothing alike, not even remotely. It feels wrong to try to lump them into the same group, even just for argument’s sake.

“That makes me the weird one?” he asks skeptically. For whatever reason, Natsume laughs.

“It’s right in h-- oh, no,” Satoru says in dismay, when his tiny roommate shoots back into the shadow of the wall as Natsume steps into the room. “I think we scared it. It doesn’t know you.”

Natsume looks both tolerantly amused and wary. He hangs back, Nyanko-sensei tucked securely in his arms, and Satoru goes after the yokai.

“Sorry,” he says to the wall, “but I told you my friend was coming, didn’t I?”

It peeks out at him, round eyes unwavering. He gives it a stern look.

“See? I did. You’re all bent out of shape for nothing.”

“Your friend has a deathwish, Natsume,” he hears Nyanko mutter behind him.

Satoru ignores him, standing on tiptoe and reaching as far overhead as he can to offer the little yokai his hands. It considers him briefly, but he’s probably as familiar as the rest of the room is at this point, because it slips into his palm a moment later.

It’s cool to the touch, like dipping his hand into an afternoon shadow. It's a small, solid weight that sits compact in his palms, somehow soft and velvety for all that it’s not really there. Satoru lowers his arms gingerly, bringing the creature in closer as though it's something fragile to be handled with care.

"You won't get hurt if I drop you, right?" he says, with the same uneasiness he feels when there’s a chance one of his relatives might ask him to hold a small child. "You're pretty durable if you're a yokai, right?"

Natsume is staring at him when he finally turns around, but agreeably steps in with Nyanko-sensei to study the little thing. It recoils from the lucky cat, trembling against Satoru's fingers in a way that makes him want to snatch it safely away. "Why is it scared?" he demands, eyeing the cat suspiciously.

Nyanko-sensei sniffs it for a moment, narrowed eyes an unearthly green. Then he huffs, and settles more heavily in the circle of Natsume's arms. "This was a waste of time," he complains, flicking an ear. "This little runt is totally harmless. You owe me manju, Natsume."

Looking faint with relief, Natsume's whole face lightens with a smile. "Is that so?"

"It was just a bird before it died. It must have some reason to cling to this house in particular. Maybe its nest was here or something."

"I wonder why it became a spirit," Natsume says, looking at the thing with a new appreciation now that he knows it won't hurt his friend. His voice is gentle towards it. "Can you find out?"

"It doesn't want to talk to me," Nyanko says dismissively. Just like a cat, Satoru thinks, affronted on his yokai's behalf. "This brat would probably have more luck than either of us would," he adds, gesturing at Satoru with a paw. "It seems attached to him."

"Let me know how it goes," Natsume tells him as he leaves. Satoru promises to, and sits on the bed with his tiny companion still in hand.

"That nasty cat scared you, huh?" he says, patting it with the tip of one finger. "He's all bark and no bite, I promise. He talks a big game, but he won't do anything Natsume tells him not to, and Natsume's on our side. Didn't I tell you my friend was a cool guy?"

It looks up at him while he talks, eyes round and without fear. The trembling from earlier has faded into the quivering anticipation that reminds Satoru of a touch-starved animal. A surge of sympathy brings heat to his eyes, but he doesn't falter petting the little creature carefully.

"So you were a bird, huh? I guess you wouldn't have liked Nyanko-sensei even if he wasn't a jerk. What kind of bird were you?" He leans against the wall, bringing up his knees. "It'd be nice if you still looked like a bird. Then I could look you up and find out."

Kiyoshi is studying in the room next door, and mom won't be home until later. Satoru will see his friends tomorrow, but the hours are long and lonely until then. He looks at the yokai in his hands, still watching him intently.

"It'd be nice if you could talk," he goes on with a sideways smile. "Then we could keep each other company."

It's probably that, more than anything, that causes what happens next.

"hello."

Satoru blinks himself away in the dim light of early morning. There's a weight on his chest that was there when he fell asleep, and he squints as his eyes try to adjust to the dark. He could have sworn he heard --

"hello."

A very, very small voice. Waking up faster with every second, Satoru starts to sit up, and freezes when the tiny needlepoints of claws dig into the front of shirt to keep their grip as he moves. He looks down, into round black eyes. They belong to a bird roughly the size of a small crow, with stark black and white plumage and long tail feathers.

It tilts its head at him, quivering. Satoru's heart flies into his throat. A quick glance into the corner of his room where his roommate usually lingers proves it to be empty. Could this be --

"Uh," he says eloquently, pulse racing. "Hi. Are you -- are you my yokai?"

It tilts its head at him the other way, movements bird-quick and precise. "you are?"

Satoru blinks a few times. It takes him a minute to find any words. "Have I really never introduced myself?" he asks dumbly. "I mean, I guess not. Wow."

It shifts back and forth on its feet, ruffling its wings. Satoru doesn't know enough about birds to know if that's good or bad. It's probably getting impatient with him.

"you are?"

"Satoru. Nishimura Satoru, but Satoru's fine," he says slowly. In part, he wonders if he's going to wake up at any moment to a more normal morning. He's half-hoping he doesn't.

"satoru," the bird says happily. "hello."

[hedgiwithapen]

Antumbra

Antumbra: noun. The area outside the darkest shadow of a solar eclipse.

It was sheer luck that the wide space, part desert, part prairie, sand and sagebrush and yellowed grass, was currently being used for tactical practice when, on a clear summer morning, someone sounded the alert. A bright streak arced across the sky, flaming as it crashed. The D.E.O. agents reached the small pod in minutes.

“What is it?” One asked, peering at the singed metal. “An opportunity,” the squad leader replied. “Call base. We need to get this thing underground. Move it, people.” He watched the pod, the way it lay still, a snake waiting to strike. Not if he could help it. He recognized a few of the symbols, soot streaked from entry into Earth’s atmosphere. They would take no chances with the creature inside.

It wasn’t until after the pod was secured in the nearest D.E.O. base, the occupant sedated and locked away without ever seeing sunlight, that news came that a second ship had crashed, this one larger.

Hank Henshaw glared at the man who’d brought the news. His work was never done, but it would be, eventually. It might take years, but Earth would be safe from alien influence under his watch, someday. Until then, he had calls to make, recruits to replace, and assets to acquire. This new Kryptonian had brought disaster, but perhaps it would be useful as well.

(Roughly three years later)

J’onn J’onzz had worn this form--this face-- for months now, but it still felt strange, foreign. Like he was stretched too thin and squeezed too tight, like one of the large earth snakes from the forest he’d hidden in, growing against dying scales. He wanted to shed it, but he didn’t dare. He’d run out of escape routes.  Even in solitude, he could not risk being J’onn, not anymore. Hank Henshaw. That was his name, who he had to be. The problem was, Hank was only skin deep. Even with all the time he’d had trying to train his thoughts, his gate, to turn skittish fear into anger, he had to remain conscious of the role he played. No part of who he had been could leak out, green tint under dark skin.

But he wanted to, especially here, in this work space underground that seemed to sing to his deepest instincts to run, to fly. He knew without doubt that there were no allies here, not any with power. If his deception, his disguise was ever revealed, even the few analysts that seemed like they had a grasp of ethics wouldn’t dare side with him, and the soldiers never would. The captives, the alien criminals kept under lock and key, would be no better, and J’onn knew that even to save his own life he would never release the murderers from their cells. One of the Faceless Hunters, other creatures from planets far beyond the furthest reaches of Martian travel and creatures closer in, nightmare monsters. He was no fool. He knew he was not the only refugee who had come to this place, but those in the cellblocks were not mere travelers who had lost their homes. These were aliens who had taken the fresh start they might have had and thrown it aside for greed, for violence. He would never allow himself to make that same choice, and he could not risk the lives of innocents by using them as cover. He would just have to be careful. He could not afford the cost of being discovered.

It was exhausting. Being Hank Henshaw was so much more than hiding under human skin, behind human eyes and trying not to flinch at open flames. But he learned. He read the files on the computers, feigning memory lapses courtesy of that last failed mission to bring in the Manhunter. He learned what he could, walking the same path into the facility that Hank had, heavy boots and chin up, as if he feared nothing. This was his fortress, his. That meant, to stay safe, he had to act like it.

He had to honor the sacrifice of the man who had died to save him. Jeremiah. He had been an help to another Alien, another peaceful one.  Superman, the press called him, but J’onn had not yet met him--the same alien that had been the cause, he learned, for the D.E.O’s founding. Peaceful or not, hero or not, J’onn was unsure he wanted to get involved--it was far too risky. And his life was no longer his own. He had promised Jeremiah that he would protect his daughter, and an oath sworn as a life-debt to a dying man was not something that could be taken lightly.  In a few years, the girl would be grown, and if she were as smart as her father had claimed, that one night in the jungle, there might be a place for her here.

This would have to be the goal. To slowly fill the ranks of the DEO with those like Alex Danvers, like her late father, perhaps even like he himself--people who wanted to help, not to seek out and destroy. It would take years, but then, J’onn had time, assuming he mastered the part. He was certain he could.

A few weeks after being fully cleared, fully recognized in this second identity, this false name, J’onn’s careful planning almost fell apart.

He had taken to exploring, having little else to occupy non-work hours. He needed to make muscle memory know each corner of the DEO’s underground base, erase any doubt that he was not fit to lead the organization. He read files, histories that only went back a decade or so, and walked the hallways in his heavy boots that reminded him he had to be human. That flying was never again an option.

He wasn’t certain why he had not been aware of one of the cell blocks on the lowest level, deep in the earth until then, but he found it almost by happenstance, drawn to the thin red light. As he approached, wondering what creature was so dangerous that it would be kept here, what crime it might have committed, he saw a small figure trembling in the corner.

He may have worn a human skin, too close and itching to be shrugged off. He may have pressed down the use of his powers, for fear of become dependent upon them. But he did not need anything beyond human eyes to see the small form flinch, to hear whimpering (Ieiu, Ieiu)  in a language he was certain he had heard before, but could not place.

He left just as quickly, his stomach acids protesting what his mind translated. It was a child. The prisoner in the cell was a tiny child, pale and thin. He had not needed to read her mind or understand her words to know she had been terrified. K'hym. T'ania. The memory of the last time he had seen his daughters seared like flame in his mind. Was some parent out there wondering for the fate of their own child? Had his children huddled, alone and terrified in a dark prison cell?

He wanted to vomit, and so he ran, slowing only to a halt when he reached the upper levels and the risk of being seen.

What crime could that pathetic creature have committed to be left in almost total darkness? What if she was like himself? Not one who had chosen this planet in malice but in desperation, alone and frightened, with no Jeremiah Danvers to chose her life over his?

“Sir? Director Henshaw?” a young woman asked, voice clipped. An intern, of sorts, the lowest ranking of the already highly ranked officials and agents permitted to work here. “Are you well?”

“I am fine,” he told her firmly. “I need to check our records for any discrepancies. There’s another audit coming up.”

She winced. That meant budget reviews, an endless stream of meetings if not everything was perfectly documented. “Of course, Sir. Understood.”

He waited until she had scurried off, no doubt to let everyone know to be careful with their paperwork, before sinking into his chair and digging deeper into the files. And there it was, plain text. Project KR Eclipse.

A Kryptonian pod had been found, only miles from the crash site of Fort Rozz, with a lone occupant. Unlike the being that had been labeled the ‘Man of Steel’ by Metropolis’s reporters, this one did not seem to possess that same invulnerability, or strength. Notes from Director Henshaw, the real Director, whose face J’onn now twisted in revulsion, filled the screen, conclusions drawn from what files had be salvaged from Fort Rozz and from tests they had run on the child. Blood tests, brain scans, pages of lists that dated even during the time Henshaw had been dead. Nowhere did it list a crime committed, and the mugshot showed only a pale face, dirt marks on her cheeks, dishwater hair mussed and tangled. J’onn closed the files, closed his eyes, and cursed inwardly. He could not compromise his cover. He could not show kindness or weakness (or the weakness that was kindness in the eyes of humans) without risking being discovered. Then what would be his fate, to die on a steel lab table or languish for centuries in a dark cell until he forgot even his own name? His oath--.

He had abandoned platitudes like “everything happens for a reason” when the White Martians had torn his beloved from his arms. Now he wondered, if this was the reason he had been spared the fate of his people, if this was why the old Director himself had been the one to confront him, if this was why he still breathed when Jeremiah did not. Was this how he was meant to pay forward his debt, a life for a life, one refugee to another?

He had lived more than 300 years, his family was dead.

He took his coat from the hook, and started for the exit.

~~ break ~~

J’onn knocked on the door of the large house, feeling awkward standing on the white-painted porch without his uniform on. As much as he loathed wearing it, being Hank Henshaw with all his weapons, it was a measure of safety. Security. But he stood on the porch in civilian khakis and waited for the door to open.

The blonde woman, whiter than she had seemed in the photograph on file, looked at him, the exasperated smile folding into a tight frown, fear and anger lining the creases around her eyes. She paused, as if trying to find words. He spoke first.

“Mrs. Danvers. May I come in?”

“Doctor,” she corrected as if out of habit, and then realized. “You--No. Get out, get away, leave us alone.”

“Dr. Danvers,” he said, formally, no emotion slipping through to the mask he wore. “It’s urgent. I need to speak with you.”

She shook her head, moving to close the door. He stopped her, but only because desperation demanded it.

“It’s about your husband.” It was, in a roundabout kind of way. “ You got my husband killed.” She did not stumble or stutter over the word. J’onn nodded, solemn. “This is not a conversation for your porch and neighbors to hear, Dr. Danvers,” he said, though there were no neighbors near enough to hear or watch the confrontation.

She opened the door wider. “Come in, then.”

As soon as the door was closed, J’onn closed his eyes. He could not back out now. He needed this woman.

“Your husband was not the only expert on Kryptonians, was he, Dr. Danvers?” She stepped back, shaking her head. “No. No, I will not work for you and your sick organization. I won’t. You took my husband, isn’t that enough for you? That you took him from me, from us, that I had to lie to our daughter, about why he never came home? Now you want me, too? Jeremiah gave you his research, and I don’t know any more than that. Now, get out, Henshaw.”

“My name is not Hank Henshaw,” J’onn said softly. Even if he managed to free the little Kryptonian, he could not give her a home, not when it was so certain he would be trading his own life for hers. She would need someone trustworthy, someone safe. Someone who would protect her.  “Your husband died to save my life. I have to pay that forward, and I need your help. Please.”

He held out a photograph, the one he’d risked printing out. Eliza Danvers took the picture, looking at the girl’s tear and dirt smudged face, then up at J’onn. Slowly, she nodded. “What do you want me to do?”

~~ break ~~

J’onn had done his best to get most of the agents out of the underground facility, dispatching teams as far as Ojai on carefully laid trails after more Fort Rozz escapees--perhaps finding some of them would delay the discovery of a betrayal and an empty cell. More agents he had temporarily assigned to the other bases, or loaned to the military to assist on various projects (and spy on the new General, Sam something or other.) Only a skeleton crew remained, and now, in the hour or so before sunrise, was the best chance there would be. He had done what he could. The rest would be up to H'ronmeer, or Rao, or fate.

The cell door opened under his hand, and the disheveled figure flinched, scrambling backward until she hit the wall, arms raised in defense. In the dim light and shadow, J’onn’s vision faltered for a heartbeat, the Kryptonian girl’s face replaced by T'ania’s before reverting back to her own, bone white, with wide, dark eyes.

"Zha,” she whispered, “Khap zha sem, eiahm sem rraop.” He didn’t understand, exactly, but he didn’t need to to see how terrified she was.

He crouched and held out a hand. “Voi,” he said, the word Eliza had told him meant “safe.” She startled, looking at him, trembling. The fleeting glimpse he had had of her, the picture, had not been much, J’onn realized. She had not just been locked in, but chained, like an animal. Like a monster. Her bare feet looked cracked and bruised, but it may have only been the poor lighting. She looked to be perhaps fourteen, if that, thin and pale. Her eyes were haunted, but she kept her head up. She was brave. A fighter. She would have had to be, to survive here, for so long, but she was tired, leaning against that far wall for support as much as for protection.

She chewed her chapped lip, then whispered, “Voikirium?”

“Voikir--voikirium,” J’onn hoped it meant the same as ‘Voi,’ that she would trust him. They did not have much time. He stepped into the cell, and she did not flinch as he used his master key to undo the manacle at her ankle, watching him silently. He gestured to the door, holding out his hand again. She took a breath, and then his hand, her skin icy against his. He led the way up the least used stairs, the narrowest hallways, grateful for his determination to know every inch of the base. It may not do him much good after today, but that would be alright. The girl stopped short as they reached the last doorway before the final stretch of hall that lead out. She looked up at him, and again he could have sworn that the fluorescent lighting gave her his daughter’s features. He opened the door, and walked quickly, tugging her along. Eliza Danvers would be waiting just beyond the perimeter. He only had to make sure that the child reached her.

No one spotted them as he opened the doors, predawn light spilling in. The girl gave a tiny squeak of fear, but he squeezed her hand. The air was dry, smelling of rabbitbrush and sage, as familiar to J’onn as the scents of the rainforest in Peru had been. But she stopped, breathing in as though her lungs would never be filled, staring up at the pearly sky, her mouth open, her ragged clothing shifting in the faint breeze. Tears glimmered on her cheeks, but she did not move to rub them away, only let them fall.

Over the lip of the mountain in the west, the sun started to rise, golden and warm.

~Fin~

~

The following are loose Kryptionese translations, I did my best with a limited dictionary and grammar rules I tried to learn in like 30 minutes so)

Ieiu - Mother Zha - No

Khap zha sem- I do not want (literally ‘want no I’)

eiahm sem rraop - I beg you (literally ‘beg you I’)

Voi- safe, secure, all right Voikirium - deliverer, rescuer, savior

[riannagraphics]

RPG Maker and Pixel Games

After learning about 8-bit video games and learning how to create simple pixel graphics, I wanted to explore the genre of RPG Maker Games. These are games created using programs RPG Maker, first created by the Japanese company ASCII. Most versions of the program use a tile set based map editor, a scripting language for scripting events, and a battle editor. With newer versions creators are able to use their own tile sets and characters. RPG maker has been used to create games both free and paid for, and is also used by students learning mathematics and programming. 

Why does this interest me?

RPG Maker games interest me for many reasons, the first being how accessible they are. As I previously mentioned, many of the games created are published online for free. This along with them usually being small files makes it easy for anyone to play them without needing lots of money and equipment. I first started playing these games because I couldn’t afford a powerful computer or a new console, and got hours of enjoyment and inspiration from them. Compared to a lot of games, RPG maker games are very minimalist and the focus isn’t as much on the graphics as it is the story. Some of the most famous of these games are horror, and rely on building tension and using mystery to create fear instead of just using jumpscares and grotesque imagery. 

YUME NIKKI

Yume Nikki is arguable one of the most famous RPG Maker games and has inspired a collection of spin offs, as well as a re-imagined version in 3D that was released earlier this year. Released on June 26 2004, it revolves around the dreams of a hikkomori (a Japanese term for a reclusive young person) named Madotsuki. The objective of the game is to collect items called ‘effects’ which change the way Madotsuki looks or moves, and sometimes gives her access to new areas. The game uses a lot of surrealist horror imagery, and lacks a clear storyline which allows players to interpret it in their own way. Many theories have been created by players, creating a sense of community over the unanswered questions players are left with. Yume Nikki is probably only enjoyed by a certain audience. Lacking a story and set goal makes it confusing at first, and the large repetitive areas are easy to get lost in. These are elements I could use in my own creations, but would probably make what I create liked by less people. This makes me ask myself, is it better to appeal briefly to a greater audience, or on a deeper level to fewer people?

Themes of Yume Nikki:

Isolation - Madotsuki is obviously a very lonely person. While she is awake she is not able to leave her room. Being able to explore worlds while she is asleep may imply a desire to explore the outside world but being too scared to do so. Most NPCs ignore Madotsuki, except for the hostile ones. This implies a feeling of being ignored by the people in her life, and the only interactions she has with real people being negative. There are other characters in the game that also seem isolated. 

There is a blonde girl named Poniko who lives alone in a place called ‘The Pink Sea’. Poniko doesn’t interact with Madotsuki and has an uncaring look on her face which fans have speculated means Poniko is an unrequited love of Madotsuki. Living alone in a land by herself implies that, like Madotsuki, she is isolated from the rest of the world.

Poniko also has a 1 in 64 chance of turning into Uboa, a shadow-like creature whose face resembles a Noh mask, a mask used in Japanese theatre. If inteartced with, the Uboa transports Madotsuki to an inescapable world, where the only way to leave is to wake up. People think Uboa may be Poniko’s true form (as he replaces her in her room), or could be an annoyed version of her. Uboa was also most likely the inspiration for the character Gaster in the game Undertale. He also looks similar to the character No-Face from the movie Spirited Away. 

Anxiety - In the worlds Madotsuki visits you can often see eyes following her around. There are also places with hands that seem to be reaching out to touch Madotsuki, which could imply that Madotsuki doesn’t like being touched. 

Body Imagery - As well as hands and eyes there is a lot of other body imagery. A character called KyuuKyuu-kun (seen above) is considered phallic by many fans, and is reached by going through the ‘Zippertile’ in the Number World. This has been interpreted as a symbol for rape. Disturbing imagery like this appears often through the game, and this scene in particular is incredibly unsettling. There are also multiple characters in the game with the condition strabismus, a condition where both eyes cannot focus on something at the same time, leading people to believe Madotsuki might have this condition while she is awake.

Japanese Folklore - Creatures and characters from Japanese mythology also play a part in Madotuski’s dreams. This could imply that she is interested in Japanese mythology, but it could also just be because she is Japanese and grew up hearing about these creatures. 

Yuki-onna is an npc found in the Snow World. She is based after the Yuki-onna spirit, a spirit who often associated with snow and winter. In the game she gives Madotsuki the Yuki-onna effect. 

Nopperabou Ghost is an npc found in The Sewers. He gives Madotsuki the Nopperabou effect. In Japanese mythology, The Noppera-bō is a faceless ghost or creature. They are typically harmless, and usually just frighten humans. 

8-Bit Renditions of the Yume Nikki Effects by The-Fry-Bat on deviantArt

IB

Ib was released Febuary 27 2012, and is about a young girl called Ib who visits an art museum with her parents and is transported into the creepy world of the paintings. While trapped in the painted world she meets a man named Garry who becomes a guardian like figure to her, and a mischievous girl called Mary. The game has gained a cult following and is often compared to other games in this genre, such as Yume Nikki and The Witch’s House. It is also one of the games that made the genre of RPG Maker games popular. Compared to Yume Nikki I defiantly prefer Yume Nikki’s artstyle, which features a larger variation in colour and style, as well as creepier imagery. 

The game also has multiple endings that depend on the choices made throughout the game. Overall there are four endings. The game focuses on puzzles and exploration instead of battles, making it easier to play and more accessible. 

Imagery and objects:

Roses - The roses symbolise the lives of Ib, Garry, and Mary. Their roses are red, blue, and yellow (in that order), and when the characters are injured their roses lose their petals.

Vases - Vases are used to restore the roses to their full health. Most of the vases disappear once you use them. 

Dolls - The dolls are usually seen when the player has control of Garry, who is scared of them. They can sometimes be enemies, but are sometimes just obstacles blocking the way to certain places. 

Headless statues and mannequin heads - These begin as art pieces in the museum, and throughout the game become enemies that can chase and hurt the characters. 

THE WITCH’S HOUSE

The Witch’s House was released on October 3 2012. It’s about a girl named Viola who wakes up in a forest with no way to escape. Her only option is to go inside a forest located in the middle of the forest. She is locked inside the house and, accompanied by a talking black cat, Viola must find a way to survive and escape. The game uses 16-bit graphics, and mainly focuses on puzzles, exploration, and jumpscares. This game is a personal favourite of mine as I really enjoyed the story, characters, and (true) ending. The true ending has a twist that changes the whole story, which is something I like about a lot of different games. There’s also a lot of different, sometimes very unexpected deaths, adding a fear of exploring and interacting with objects because anything in this house can kill you.

///

MAD FATHER

///

///

Sources:

http://yumenikki.wikia.com/wiki/Theories

http://ibgame.wikia.com/wiki/Ib_Wiki

http://blog.rpgmakerweb.com/tips-and-tricks/rpg-maker-horror-games/

http://emertainmentmonthly.com/index.php/look-artists-mind-rpgmaker-horror-games-ib/

https://www.pcgamer.com/the-surprising-explosion-of-rpg-maker-on-steam/

[cannedcrabs-blog]

I may need help.

I have just cut open my neck. I do not know why. I am not bleeding to terribly much, at least not enough to harm my overall health.

I have not slept in days. Maybe weeks. I have effectively lost track of how long it has been. The vermilion tinted sky, dark as it is, gives me no bearing on the passage of time. There are so many things I must do. Such an incredible array of tasks set forth in front of me seemingly for no other reason than to overwhelm. I don’t believe I have slept since the previous winter solstice. I have had no dreams since before the events leading to the decision to end my life was first made. Nearly a decade without dreams, just empty, restless sleep.

My mind grows weary, yet my body seems to disagree. I have pulled out my hair for no other discernible reason than because I was compelled by my subconscious. I have clawed away at the skin on my neck and arms. I torture myself constantly with the idea that maybe, just maybe, I can find a way back to before everything went wrong and set it right. I look at others and grow paranoid that they will hurt me, or worse, I will hurt them.

Nothing I once found joy in can colour my days in the beautiful warmth of excitement. Those I once cared about are slowly fading into faceless memories to be sifted through with mild indifference. I seem to be forgetting something important. A purpose or goal. Perhaps I have forgotten what little meaning was in my life as I tried to find it. I have lost that something that is essential to being human, I think. It is possible that this is what giving up feels like. What it feels like to die inside as you disconnect from the reality you believed in. I feel lost at best. At worst numb to my desires.

I have failed. I have lost. I have given up it would seem, without even realizing it.

My blood has stopped flowing from the wound I gave myself. I wonder if it will scar. Somehow I doubt it. No damage to my flesh has scarred as far back as I care to remember. Looking any further into my past leaves nothing but a ashen taste in my mouth. I hurt him so much, I hurt him and could never bring myself to apologize. I don’t think I can do anything else for now, other than try and try and try to understand why. Why am I so venomous? Why do I speak with a voice steeped in burning tar and hate? Why do I pawn off the shining silver lie “It will be all right, don’t worry.” when I am incapable of seeing it as a truth? Why do I wander the darker parts of my mind when I only wish to be happy?

I think I only ever fight what I fear. When I am attacked I fight back. Yet I seem to fight my self the most. It is possible that I am my own greatest fear. Just a person. Capable of equal parts kindness and cruelty, wanting to keep what is mine safe while destroying all who would oppose. Just a selfish little human, full of spite and love and pain and curiosity.

I wish to disappear from this world so often. I want to venture to a world of flowers like trees and stars like butterflies in the wind. A world so small it could only be for those who truly need it, yet so huge that one could wander forever and never set foot in the same spot twice. Somewhere where the borders between reality and imagination are nonexistent. A place of magic if you will.

I have been told quite often that no pain is permanent, however I think that there is one that lasts long enough to be analogous to eternal. The pain when “forever” and “never” are the same thing. The pain of loving someone who hates you more than anything. The pain that comes with not being able to forget what once happened so long ago. The pain of losing important people not to death but to life, and knowing that in reality that is much worse. My soul hurts so much that my body and mind feel it just as much.

My emotions are nearly worn out. My joy is so quiet I can rarely ever hear it. My sorrow so dulled that it can no longer even pull out tears. My wrath so cold that the embers are losing their light. My love is so twisted and torn I keep it hidden so that even I may not see.

I feel so alone and afraid. As lonely as the last one of a species. So full of fear, fear of being alone forever. Fear of rejection, of being unneeded, of losing those I see as important once again. So very afraid of losing more people from my life. So afraid of being completely on my own again. Without anyone at all.

I am having trouble with doing just about anything. I want to watch my movies, but I can’t seem to be able to bother. I want to play my games, yet I don’t want to put any effort into them. I want to draw and at the same time I want to throw out all my art stuff. I want to work on my book however when I go to type on the computer the words for it just wont come. I think that I may be depressed. More so than usual too. I have lost a simple thing, just an object of little importance and even that is to much  for me to handle. there are so many little problems that keep cropping up and slowly overwhelming me. I want to curl up and disappear. I wish I could send my consciousness back in time, to help me fix my mistakes. Maybe if you die of old age, beat the game and get to the end credits, you get a new game plus. A run through your life where you remember what you regret and can change it so things go better. I wonder what I would change. I think maybe I would be more outgoing and open. Maybe start things sooner. And not give up so easily, or at all. I wouldn’t do much besides be someone else.

I could have been better to him. More honest with her. I could have stayed instead of running away. Maybe I could have never hurt them at all in the first place. Maybe I could have been happy. But I think I may have fucked up much to much for that. Perhaps all that’s left for me is to muddle on like a golem of flesh and bone, only able to do as I’m told, with no direction of my own. I want to feel hope again. I want nothing more that. I want nothing more than everything. But I still want nothing at all.

My blood has dried. All that is left is to wash it away and be done.

Sometimes I feel so alone.

I want to go home but I don’t know where that is.

Why is it that I can fix any machine but I can’t repair myself?

I never wanted to hurt anyone.

If I could take it back I don’t know if I would.

I never feel lost when I wander but when I know where I’m going I can’t seem

to find the path.

I rarely want to die but I often want to disappear.

Do you ever think that the stars look like tears?

Who will I be tomorrow? I don’t even know who I was yesterday let alone today.

Why is it that the memories that hurt the most are the happy ones?

All I seem to do is sleep yet I feel so tired.

I miss you so very much.

I am falling apart and I can’t quite remember why I should care.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

the webs we weave

For @jitsukawaa as requested for a Raffle prize!

Warnings: noncon/dubcon elements (oral, intercourse)

This is dark! (aged up) Peter Parker x Reader and explicit. 18+ only.

Summary: The reader is a journalist at The Bugle but she finds not all her co-workers are what they seem.

Note: This is a bit of a long one but I got a bit carried away. I tried to fit the request as much as I could. Anyway, hope y’all enjoy. Leave some feedback, like and reblog if you can <3

Another late night. Those were common as of late. Early mornings, too.

Given the content of your days, the stories, it was expected you’d be sleepless. A string of assaults across the city. All of them women. The perpetrator, according to the limited input of the police and the hesitant interviews of the victims; a man, masked, faceless. The descriptions varied, skewed by fear, by trauma. Neither you or the authorities had a concise picture of the suspect.

The first few incidents were reported by a senior report, Colin Rusk. But once the novelty ran dry, Editor-in-Chief Jameson, redirected Rusk to ‘more pressing’ stories and dropped the serial assaulter in your lap. 

You were new with little more under your belt than lifestyle articles and the occasional fluff piece on fleeting fads. Your inexperience made it difficult, if not impossible, to say no. And despite your resilience, your ongoing investigation, the cases would likely go cold and be shoved to the back of the paper until there was no room left for them. Your singular goal was to prevent that cynical end. Making your name as a reporter was secondary.

That morning, you raced down to the latest crime scene. A woman, blonde like most of the others, sat with her legs hanging out of a police car as she gave her statement. Visibly shaken and with bruises on her face, she was just the latest in a string. You’d not be permitted to speak with her until the police took her to the station and filed their report. For the time, you documented the scene as it was.

You were pulled back to your desk. It was almost as if you could still feel the dampness in your bones. It rained overnight and the streets had been slick and shiny in the afterglow. You pored over your notes, the little diagram you’d drawn of the alley way. The minimal details gleaned from the officers on sight. It was all so grim. And sadly familiar.

The attacker had a pattern; a demographic. Lone women, unsuspecting, vulnerable. Blonde, or light brunettes, small enough to be overpowered. You sighed and rubbed your eyes. There were thousands of women fitting that description in the city. Impossible to predict the perpetrator’s next move when it could happen anywhere.

You closed your eyes and leaned back. If the police couldn’t solve this, you surely couldn’t. But that didn’t mean you stopped. It didn’t mean you quieted the voices of the victims as so many others had. No, you kept going. Kept writing their stories down.

You were jolted as a folder slapped across your desk. Your eyes shot open and you looked up into the warm brown eyes before you. Peter mirrored your fright and gave a nervous smile. He pulled his hand away from the folder he’d just laid before you.

“Sorry, I thought you heard me,” He said. “I figured I’d give you a print of the photos I got this morning.”

“Really?” You reached for the folder and peeked inside at the glossy paper. “Thank you.”

“No problem.” He preened. “Jameson won’t want them anyway. Just the ones of the fire on the next block.”

You nodded and set the folder down with your notes. You ran into Peter by chance. He was passing by on his way to his own assignment. He stopped and snapped a few shots, made his usual awkward small talk, and moved along. He’d only been full-time at the Bugle for a year; before he’d been a freelancer throughout his schooling. He was a kid, even compared to you.

“Jameson doesn’t even want this,” You scoffed at your messy desk. “I swear, he’s just trying to force me out. I mean, I guess it’s better than writing about the mayor’s new wallpaper.”

“Jameson’s an idiot but you’re a good reporter. Besides, the Bugle is just your beginning. I know it.” He smiled. He was always so optimistic. It made you feel old.

“Easy for you to say,” You shook your head. “I’m almost thirty and just starting out. You’re still a kid and...Sorry, Peter. I’m just frustrated.”

“Hey, it’s okay. I might be young, but I know how you feel.” He leaned on your desk. “You know, everyone thinks I’m a kid and they just don’t take me seriously but I’m not, you know, a kid. Age is just a number, not a deadline.”

“Peter, I didn’t--”

“I know you didn’t mean it like that. You’re not one of them.” He shrugged and pushed himself straight. “Not like Rusk.”

“Rusk?” You wondered aloud. 

The man was stern, business-minded. A tenured writer. But you’d never had much issue with him yourself. In fact, he’d been most helpful in your early days at the Bugle. You might be picking up his scraps but it was far better than writing a tenth of a page on a dog show.

“Yeah,” Peter blinked at you. His smile changed, as if he knew something you didn’t. “Oh, alright.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Peter.”

“Well, I...you’re not that naive, are you?” He asked.

“Am I? What do you mean?”

“Rusk never worked for his job, he’s the son of an old friend of Jameson’s. He came on full-time with top billing from the start.” Peter lowered his voice, cautious even though the office was empty.

“Oh, but...I mean, he’s still a good reporter.”

“Good but not entirely...professional.” Peter scoffed.

“Do I sense jealousy?” You teased.

“Me? Jealous of him? No.” Peter’s smile fell. “I’m doing just fine and the Bugle definitely isn’t it for me. I’m starting school next year and then one day, I’m out of here. I don’t wanna be a camera jockey forever.”

“I don’t know, this might be it for me.” You said. “A little late to be starting over a third time.”

“It’s never too late. Just don’t let yourself get sucked in by Rusk and his cronies.” Peter urged. “They’re no good.”

“Thanks, Peter.” You said lightly. 

“Really,” His face darkened. “I mean it. He has...a record in this office. With the women. And I’ve seen how helpful he is with you.”

“Peter, it’s not--”

“I know, I know, I’m young, clueless,” He raised his hands defensively. “I get it. Just...advice. You don’t have to take it but it’s there.”

You nodded and tapped your fingers on the folder. You thought for a moment on your work with Rusk; his insistence that you take over his story; the way he offered to proofread your back page drivel. Peter might be young, but he was smarter than his age belied. There was nothing wrong with being cautious.

“Thanks, Peter,” You flicked the corner of the folder as you looked up at him. “These will help a lot.”

“Really, it’s nothing.” His smile resumed. “Let me know if you ever need a lens. I’d be more than happy to help.”

“You’re too sweet.” You said.

“And you’re too humble.” He tucked his hands in his pockets. “And it’s late so...I’ll leave ya to it and see ya tomorrow, maybe?”

“Yeah, maybe,” You chimed. “See ya, Peter.”

“See ya.” He slowly backed away. “Oh, and let me know if Rusk gives ya any trouble.” He gave a comical flex. “I got your back, newbie.”

You laughed and he did too before he turned away entirely. You turned back to your desk and sighed. How was it that he made you feel young and old all at once? You shook off the cloudlike feeling and grabbed the folder. You’d go through the photos and call it a night. Hopefully, the morning wouldn’t bring a new victim.

🕷️

Your door was open. The chain was snapped and the lock busted in. Worse, you hadn’t even heard the disturbance. Hadn’t even sensed the intruder as you slept in the next room. A rude awakening as you got up and found the door ajar but your apartment otherwise undisturbed.

You called the police and waited in the hall. When they arrived, they asked you their usual questions, the same they asked the women you’d been documenting. Then they investigated you apartment. Nothing was out of place; nothing taken or moved. It was all very peculiar. Almost, the insinuated, as if nothing happened.

When they left, your landlord arrived. You stood by as he called the maintenance man and a locksmith. By the late afternoon, your door was repaired but your wits were fractured. Weeks spent tailing a monster had you paranoid. In your overwrought mind, you wondered if perhaps their attention had turned on you. It all felt too circumstantial. Too farfetched.

You locked yourself inside and submitted your write-up from home. You spent the night on the couch, sleepless, listening for any movement from the other side of the door. Nothing. Exhausted and nervous, you fixed your coffee and dressed. You set off for the day, though the sound of your lock sliding into place gave you no reassurance.

There was another assault. You spent five minutes at the office before you were back out on the street. This one happened only a block from your building. Was that another clue? A confirmation of your outlandish suspicions. You shrugged it off as you came upon the police tape; the scene all too familiar.

You went through your usual routine. Rebuffed by the police as you examined the sight for any clue. Listening to any morsel that slipped carelessly from officers and onlookers alike. You finished your notes and tucked them in your bag. You took one last look at the dumpster, the shadowy fire escape, and the cracked pavement. The image was burned in your mind. An omen of your new fear.

When you returned to the office, you were shaking. You didn’t realize it until you were sat at your desk with your bag in your lap, staring at a dead screen. The voices and typing all around you buzzed in your ears and you shuddered as you hugged you leather bag to your chest. The bright fluorescent bulbs burned your eyes and it felt as if they were watering.

“Hey,” You snapped your head up as Peter greeted you. His face was creased with concern. “You okay?”

“Ye-yeah,” You stuttered and let your bag slip to the floor. You kicked it under the desk and hit the power button of your computer. “Just...thinking.”

He didn’t look convinced. “I didn’t see you yesterday.”

“I...had to take a personal day.” You signed in and shuffled through the papers on your desk. “I’m here now, though.”

“Are you?” He asked. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Fine, just...it’s a heavy story, ya know? Starting to get old.” You bent down to reach into your bag blindly, awkwardly craning your head up above the desk as you fished around.

“Hey,” A voice had you sitting up quickly. Peter’s eyes narrowed as you turned to Rusk. He wore his usual striped button up and skinny tie. “You rushed out this morning. I didn’t get a chance to ask you how you were?”

“Hmm, I’m f-fine.” You stuttered. “Just fine.”

“Yeah? Heard about the break-in. Scary stuff.” He put his hands on his hips. “You need anything, to talk, an escort, let me know.”

“Really, I’m fine.” You insisted. You glanced between Rusk and Peter; the latter watched you closely. “It was nothing.”

“Well, just know, I’m here for you. Whatever you need.” Rusk winked before he turned away and you watched him stroll back to his office. 

You sighed and looked to Peter. His eyes were on Rusk’s door. You’d never seen him anything close to angry but he scowled dangerously after the writer.

“Break-in?” He said as his eyes drifted back to you. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I...I don’t even know how he found out,” You sniffed. “Really, the police didn’t even take it seriously. There was nothing stolen, they didn’t touch me. I don’t --they think it was a drunk or something.”

“It doesn’t matter. You should be safe.” Peter insisted. “Look, I don’t blame you for turning away his offer, guy’s kinda a skeez, but let me walk you home.”

“I take the subway.”

“Then let me ride with you.” He said. “I know I don’t look like much but it’s better than being alone.”

“Peter, you don’t have to--”

“I want to.” He asserted. “Just humour me.”

“Why?”

“Because...we’re friends, aren’t we?” He asked. “Haven’t got many of those around here.”

You considered him and leaned on the arm of your chair. “Yeah, we are, Peter.” You grabbed your mouse and looked to your screen. “I hope you don’t mind staying late.”

“I’m a night owl,” He assured you. “Have to be in this line of work.”

🕷️

Peter was true to his word and waited for you until well after office hours. You were quiet as he walked you to the station and sat with you on the train. He didn’t hide his glances over his shoulders and his fleeting eyes, as if he expected to catch your intruder then and there. It was almost endearing.

You were tired. You needed sleep and were ready to doze on the train. Peter nudged you awake at your stop and followed you out onto the platform. He let you lead him up the steps to the street and you stopped at the corner.

“I think I can handle it from here,” You said. “Building’s just across the street.”

“No, I insist. For my peace of mind, please.”

“Peter.”

“What’s a few more steps?” He prodded.

“What if I’m worried about you getting home?” You teased. 

“I don’t live far.” 

“Still. It’s late.” You chided. “You didn’t have to come all this way.”

“I did.” He said. “I’ve been out much later than this.”

“Ah yes, I forget. Youths.”

“I’m not much younger than you.” He insisted.

“Young enough.” You remarked. 

The street light glared in his eyes. For a moment, you were taken aback. The way the shadows cast his face. The innocent boy looked almost sinister.

“I’m an adult. I can take care of myself.” He said. “So let me walk you to your door.”

“Alright,” You relented. His tone was disconcerting. So unlike the carefree upstart. “Come on.” 

He walked with you across the street and you bit your lip. You could feel the tension rising off of him. Was he mad at you?

“Peter,” You turned to him just in front of your building. “I’m sorry if I--”

“Sorry?” He looked genuinely confused. “For what?”

“Uh, nothing.” You shook your head. “I’m tired. I thought--Thank you. Really, I feel a little better.”

“Not at all,” He smiled. “You good?”

“Yeah,” You replied. “Good night, Peter.”

“Night,” He said sweetly. “Just…” He hesitated before he could step away. “...remember that you’re not alone.”

“Yeah, thanks,” You nodded and took your keys from your pocket. “See ya.”

You listened to his light footsteps recede as you unlocked the front door. Inside, the elevator bore a staunch out of order sign. You grumbled and headed for the stairs. Ten floors up and you were out of breath and even more exhausted.

Your lock was still in place. That was slightly reassuring. Inside, it was dark and you didn't bother to flip the light. Too tired despite your paranoia. You dropped your bag as you neared the bedroom. There, you flipped the light switch and felt an unusual breeze across your front.

The window was open. The curtains stirred as the air washed in and your heart clutched. You rushed over and slammed down the window with a defeaning bang. You twisted the lock into place and turned back to the room.

Your top drawer hung precariously from your dresser. Your panties were messed, as if they'd been rifled through, and you felt the bile in your throat. 

You ran back into the front room and turned on all the lights. Nothing else had been touched. It all stood as you left it and no other sign of your intruder remained. Not a speck of dust out of place.

You searched high and low; in each closet, beneath the furniture, even behind the shower curtain. Nothing. You were alone, but you didn't feel it.

Should you call the police again? Let them laugh at your paranoia? As it was, you were certain they'd tossed away their last report. 

You went to the kitchen and grabbed a knife. You sat on the couch and pulled your knees to your chest. You hugged them as your eyes flitted nervously at each shadow. The knife shook against your leg as you counted the minutes until daylight.

🕷️

The morning saw you at the office, bleary-eyed and baffled. The night seemed a haze to you; dreamlike and distant. Before you was the final draft of your latest article on the city's terrorizer. The words were real, the events real, and the letters read bolder than before.

Your habit of spacing out at your desk once more had you jumping in your skin. Colin Rusk stood beside you. His grey-blue eyes peered down at you as he clicked a pen casually in his hand.

"You got a moment? Need to see you in my office." He asked but it wasn't a question.

"Sure," You stood and he reached past you. He leaned so close you could smell his cologne as he snatched the article off your desk. 

"I'll take this." He spun with the papers in hand and led you across the office. 

You glanced around as you walked between desks. Peter's brows were high on his forehead as he watched. He frowned and you turned away to follow Rusk into his office.

He closed the door after you. He waited for you to sit before he did. When he faced you, he was nonchalant. He dropped your article on his desk and smirked.

"You've done some good work." He said. "You should really be proud of yourself."

"Uh, thank you." You gripped the arms of the chair. Tired. Ready to keel over.

"Really. You're coverage is thorough and compelling. Riveting…" He huffed as he smiled piteously at you. "You're a good writer but this story isn't going anywhere."

"No…" You breathed weakly.

"Jameson wants it cut. Three months and no leads. Police are close-lipped as nuns."

You frowned. You couldn't help your disappointment.

"But I've got you a new assignment." He announced. "A grassroots movement in the ghetto. Silent protests. Real underground."

"Really?"

"As long as you don't mind sharing. It's kinda my story but I could use a hand." He offered. "That sound okay?"

"Y-yeah." You smiled. "I'd love--" 

His phone chirped and his brow arched. He grabbed it and checked the screen. He shook his head and slowly stood.

"Pardon me. Jameson." He waved his phone. "Right back."

He rounded his desk and passed you. You watched him go then sat awkwardly in his office wringing your hands. Your eyes bounced from corner to corner. Awards framed on the wall, a plaque on his desk, fancy pens and a leather folder. 

His bag sat on the table against the wall. Unzipped and on its side. Papers threatened to spill out and a shock of cornflower blue. You tilted your head at the familiar shade. 

You peeked over your shoulder. The door was open a crack but you saw no movement on the other side of the frosted glass. You stood and cautiously neared the table. You looked again. Nothing.

You lifted the bag to peer inside and ripped your hand away. It was as if you'd been bit. Those were yours, at least they looked like yours. You shook and heard footsteps near the door. You lifted your head and pretended to read the framed certificate on the wall as Rusk entered behind you.

"That was my first year here," He preened as he neared. "I'm sure you'll have one of your own soon enough."

"Uh, yeah," You stepped away from him slowly. "Um, can I... think about it?"

"Huh?" 

"Sharing the assignment."

"Sure. Only a day though. I, rather we, have a deadline," He reached out and pulled a string loose from your sweater. "That enough, sweetheart?"

You watched his hand a nodded. You bristled on the nickname and backed away. "Anyway, I'll let you get back to work." You sidled along to the door. "Thanks."

"No problem," He purred. "This could be it, you know? You're big break. Your name next to mine."

"Mhmm," You skirted out quickly and closed the door behind you.

Peter was at your desk. You didn't notice at first and stopped yourself from sitting in his lap. He watched you curiously. You held back a yawn and leaned against the desk.

"Peter." You crossed your arms.

"What was that about?" He asked.

"Just…my assignment got pulled."

"Oh?"

"But Rusk offered me a new one. Dunno if I should take it." You played with your mouse.

"Sorry, I'm in your seat." He made to stand.

"No, no, it's fine." You waved him off. "I don't really have anything pressing, do I?"

He considered you a moment as he swiveled in your chair. He stopped and sat up. "You okay?"

You blinked. After a moment, you nodded. You pushed yourself off the desk and rubbed your forehead. "I gotta use the restroom."

You walked away hurriedly and almost tripped over the loose laces of your heeled oxfords. You quickly hid yourself inside the restroom and tried to rein in your reeling nerves. You were crazy, you had to be. 

Rusk definitely hadn’t broken into your apartment. That was ludicrous. Maybe it was a pocket square or a random sock. It wasn’t your panties. That was just...creepy. You were just paranoid.

You couldn’t believe entirely in your own delusion but you had to push it aside. You had work to do, albeit not much. You breathed shakily and swallowed down your anxiety. Just be normal. Just relax. Act like it was nothing and it would be.

You pulled open the door. You almost crashed into Peter as you stepped into the small hall between the restrooms and the office. You caught yourself against the wall.

“Woah.” You squeaked.

“Sorry, I...just wanted to make sure you were alright.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m...just disappointed.”

He narrowed his eyes. He didn’t look so innocent anymore. He looked as if he could see right through you. “What is it?”

“It’s nothing.”

“I know you think I’m blind but I can tell when you’re upset.” He prodded. “I swear, mum’s the word.”

You sighed and looked out into the office. You turned back to him and pointed down the hall. You sidled along with him and lowered your head. Your stomach flurried wildly as you mustered the words. How could you say this? You’d sound crazy.

“I think you were right about Rusk,” You kept your voice soft. “He...He offered me to share an assignment but I don’t think he really cares about the story.”

Peter blinked. An exaggerated bat of his long lashes as he huffed. “I won’t say it.”

“I know, you told me so, but Peter…” You looked over your shoulder before you continued. “Peter, weird things have been happening. Last night, after you left, I went upstairs and...my window was wide open and...I don’t know. My dresser-- someone was there. Someone broke in again.”

“Did you call the cops?” He asked.

“No, I-I was embarrassed. I thought...when I called them the first time, they were laughing at me. They thought I broke the lock myself, I know it.”

“You should’ve called them.”

“Why? So they can mock me?” You caught yourself before you could raise your voice. “Look, that doesn’t matter what matters is...I think it was Rusk. I mean, it’s stupid but, I think he has...something of mine. Something that would connect him to the break-ins.” You gulped. “The more I think of it, the more I think of how he passed this story off on me about all these attacks, I wonder…” 

“You don’t think it’s him?” Peter asked.

“Of course not. I just think, maybe, he...might have gotten an idea or two.”

Peter’s eyes were wide. He looked as frightened as you felt. “Can you confirm that what you saw, that what he has is really what you think it is?”

“I didn’t notice it missing but I didn’t really look. I was too scared.” You confessed.

Peter’s jaw set and his eyes darted down the hall. “I’ll walk you home again and we’ll see if you’re right.”

“You don’t have--”

“I do. Don’t you realize how dangerous this all is? How do you know you won’t walk in and catch him in the act? Or maybe he decides to visit while you’re home?” He gently touched your elbow. “You’re leaving on time tonight and I’m going with you.”

You scratched your head and looked away. You were embarrassed. You were being comforted, protected even, by this boy. Well, maybe you should drop the ruse. He was braver than most men you knew. And he was technically an adult and you really weren’t that much older. That became even more obvious when he was with you.

🕷️

The subway ride was long. Silent and tense. You fidgeted beside Peter, embarrassed and reassured by his presence all at once. He sent you small glances; stifled smiles meant to calm you. But they only served to remind you of why he was there.

Up the concrete steps and across the rush hour street, you had to stop at the front door of your building to catch your breath. Your chest felt as if it was being crushed.

Peter patted your shoulder and said softly, “It’s okay,” and you carried on.

Your apartment door still bore signs of the previous break in. The new lock was shiny against the flaked paint and torn wood. You slid your key in and turned. You opened it slowly as you peeked inside, certain you’d find your tormentor within. Nothing.

Peter followed you in and chained the door behind him as if to assuage you. You looked away ashamed. “I’m crazy, aren’t I?”

“No.” He said. “I don’t think so. Just scared, and why wouldn’t you be?”

You nodded and turned away from him. Warily you walked across the front room and glanced around. Nothing seemed out of place. Peter followed closely as you neared the short hall that led to your bedroom. You spun back to him. 

“I’ll go see if--if I was right.” You stopped him. “Wait here.”

“Wait here? Shouldn’t I--”

“I’ll scream if I need you.” You replied. “Okay?”

“Of course,” He relented. “I’ll be here.”

You left him there, a concerned furrow in his brow. You entered the bedroom, the dresser drawer was still open but the window was locked and in place. The sight reassured you. You slowly walked across the room and stopped before the drawer. 

You sifted through the messy contents, your hands growing frantic as the cornflower panties were nowhere to be found. Next you checked the hamper, maybe you’d worn them that week. They weren’t there.

You stumbled back out to the hall numbly. You felt hollow and worn. You caught yourself on the wall before your legs could give out.

Peter was by the coffee table. You watched as he reached for the knife you’d left there and he lifted it to the dim light peeking in through the windows. He turned to you with a question curled in his lips.

“It’s not there...he took it.” You pushed yourself straight and stepped fully into the room. “I can’t believe--It can’t be, Peter.”

“But you do believe,” He said and he turned the knife in his fingers. “You must. I mean--” He gestured to the blade. “You wouldn’t be so scared if you didn’t believe.”

“Should I call the cops now?”

“You could but...You’ve corrupted the scene, right? It’s been what? A day?” He set down the knife and sighed.

“So what do I do? I--Jesus, why am I asking you? You shouldn’t be dealing with all this.”

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to deal with it.” He assured you as he neared you. “There’s only one thing you can do. You have to wait for him to try again.”

“What?” You reeled. “What if--”

“With me.” He gently reached out and took your hand. He squeezed it as he spoke. “You can’t stay here. Not alone. So either you come stay with me or I’m staying here, but I can’t let you be alone.”

“Peter, you’re too nice. You shouldn’t--”

“But I am, so I’m either going to settle in or you’re going to pack a bag.” His grip tightened on your hand before he released you suddenly, as if recalling that he was touching you.

“It’s too much.” 

“Anyone would do it. Anyone who cared.” He shrugged. “So what’s it gonna be?”

“I can’t sleep here.” You said.

“Alright,” His jaw set determinedly. “So, grab a change of clothes and let’s go.”

You nodded shyly and let your leather shoulder bag fall to your elbow. Your lips parted to ask if he was sure and he tilted his head sternly.

“Come on,” He intoned. “I’m hungry. Once we’re outta here we can grab something.”

“O-okay,” You gave a weak smile and he mirrored it.

You turned away and dragged your feet back to the bedroom. Every time you entered, you were reminded of the open window, the ghastly breeze, and the stab of fear deep in your gut. You went to your dresser and blindly grabbed for a set of clothes to shove in your shoulder bag. A night away from this place would be good; safe.

🕷️

Peter’s apartment was small but cozy. Lived in but neat. It was almost endearing. The Playstation controller on the coffee table, the throw still curled in the shape of his body on the couch, posters of his favourite comics on the walls. He apologized for the mess but you assured him, you seen worse from men older than him.

He was courteous. He took your bag and led you to the bedroom. He insisted on taking the couch. He dug out his second set of sheets from his closet and placed the piled neatly atop with a promise to fix up the bed after you ate. He didn’t listen to your protests, merely brushed you back through to the living room.

You sat beside him on the couch. You felt welcome but uneasy. You always found it awkward to be in anothers space. Peter pulled out his phone and tapped the screen with his thumb.

“Sorry, I’m not much of a cook.” He chuckled. “You like pizza? Chinese?”

“I’m not picky,” You replied.

“Easy to please?” He ventured playfully.

“In certain ways,” You squinted at him. “How about Mexican?”

“Sure,” He scrolled on the screen and turned the phone to you. “Here. Pick something.”

You took his phone and browsed the menu. You realized you hadn’t eaten since the day before; nothing more than your usual morning coffee. Your stomach growled and you restrained yourself to a vegetarian dish. Overdo it and you’d wake up in agony. Thirty loomed closer every day.

You handed his phone back and he quickly picked his own dish and hit confirm. You rubbed your hands together nervously. You looked around his small apartment. It reminded you of college; of the useless degree hidden in the back of your closet.

“I’ll send you the money.” You offered.

“You won’t. My treat.” He insisted.

“But...you’ve already done so much.”

“What’s a couple bucks?” He shrugged. “So, you like video games? I got a second controller around here somewhere.”

“Does Tetris count?” You teased.

“I have Tetris,” He smirked. 

“I was kidding.” You took the controller from him as he handed it to you. “But no, I don’t play very much.”

“That’s okay.” He grabbed his own controller and switched on the t.v.  “I’ll take it easy on you.”

“Oh yeah?” You challenged. “You wouldn’t be talking shit if we were playing Tetris.”

“We’ll see who’s talking shit at the end of the night.” He jibed as he sat beside you. 

You shook your head and laughed at him. You could almost forget that he was the upstart kid with his oversized camera. Or the break-ins. Or that you were here hiding. The fear seemed to dissipate when faced with his perennial optimism.

🕷️

After you ate, you found yourself even more tired than before. You didn’t recall dozing but Peter woke you with a nudge and helped you up. He showed you to the bedroom where he’d made up the bed for you. You thanked him groggily, your fatigue catching up to you, and he left you with lingering good night.

When the door closed, you grabbed your bag and clumsily pulled out the loose tee and pair of booty shorts. You changed and draped your worn clothes over the bag and shoved it aside. You got up to turn off the light and stumbled back to the mattress, landing stomach first across it. You hugged the pillow as sleep beckoned you forth.

It hit you all once. You slept so deeply your head felt full of sand. Your body too. Your mind was murky. Shadows rose from the depths but never fully formed. You forgot your existence, the open window, the missing panties, and Rusk’s open bag. Hours passed like seconds and eternity felt possible.

You awoke to fingertips on your cheek. Gentle as they coaxed you back to the surface. As you emerged from the depths, your chest clutched. Your eyes fluttered open, your lids heavy and lashes sharp. There was a dim light in the room, soft and eerie. A shadow laid beside you, its fingers traced the line of your jaw as it watched you awake.

Your vision cleared a little at a time. You recognized Peter through the haze. His warm brown eyes were dilated and dark. You reached up and caught his hand as he pressed his body against yours.

“What are you doing?” Your tongue was thick and your words awkward.

“Shh, it’s okay,” He pulled his hand away and dragged his fingers over your lips as he leaned in to smell your hair. 

“P-Peter,” You grabbed for his wrist. “Stop.”

Your hand missed his and hit his shoulder instead. You shoved against him but he didn’t flinch. He was stronger than he looked. You tried to sit up but he caught your neck and held you to the pillow.

How long had you been asleep? How long had he been there?

“Peter, please,” You reached for his hand as it stretched across your throat. “What--”

“I won’t hurt you. I only want to keep you safe.” His breath was hot against your cheek as his lips brushed your skin. “Don’t you want to be safe?”

“Let me go, Peter,” You squeezed his wrist. “Please, you’re scaring me.”

“I’m scaring you?” His hand didn’t move but he pulled back to look you in the eye. “I’m protecting you.”

Your hand trembled as you pleaded again. His name died in the air.

“From the city.” He breathed. “From Rusk.”

“You-you are,” You rasped. “You’ve kept me safe, but...this...don’t you want me to feel safe. This isn’t--”

“You can’t see it. You aren’t safe. This city is dangerous and you need me.”

“I do need you, okay?” You bartered. “Of course I do, Peter, but...I need sleep, too. I’m very tired.”

“You don’t have to be afraid of me.” He shifted closer and your body tensed. “I’ll take care of you.”

“Peter--”

“Let me take care of you.” He moved lithely over you as he pulled your hand from his. He framed your face with his fingers and held your head in place. “Why won’t you let me take care of you?”

“Peter,” You exclaimed as the tears threatened to rise. This felt like some horrid nightmare. “W-We’re fr-friend, aren’t we? Friends don’t do this.”

He blinked. He glared at you and his face slowly softened. “Friends...no, we’re more than that.”

“Wh-what?”

“You’re mine. We’re meant to be. Can’t you see that?” His thumbs ran along your cheeks as his breath glossed over your lips. “In a city this big, to be brought together, it’s fate.”

You stared at him. Stunned, horrified. You didn’t know what to say.

“I’m not like him.” He hissed as his eyes turned dark. He focused on your lips hungrily. “I won’t use you, like him. Manipulate you.” You gulped as his lips hovered just above yours. “Violate you. Invade your space...steal from you.” 

He pressed his mouth to yours and you squirmed beneath him. Your hands were caught under him. His torso was bare and the heat of his body shrouded you. You struggled to breathe as he kissed your forcefully, as he crushed himself against you. You felt his arousal as it poked you and your eyes rounded desperately.

He pulled away at last. His lips made a trail along your cheeks as he spoke between little pecks. “Can’t you see how much better I am than him? Than anyone?” 

You wriggled under him but it only seemed to encourage him. You slipped your arms from beneath him and pushed against his sides. He drew his hands away from your face and caught your wrists. He pulled them up beside your head and pushed himself up as he pinned them to the mattress.

“Who does that, hmm? I’m better than him. I’d never...take your panties like some pervert. I’d never--”

“Panties?” You croaked and his eyes flashed. “How do you--Peter?”

“He’s just a pervert, don’t you understand? But I love you. I love all of you. I want all of you.” 

He squeezed your wrists and you watched the muscles of his arms draw taut. His chest was broader than you imagined and his torso was finely lined. You stopped your eyes before they could venture further. He was naked.

“If you love me, Peter, you’ll wait. Wait for me, won’t you?” You cooed. 

“Wait? I’ve waited.” He sneered. “I’ve watched you fawn after Rusk and I’m done waiting.”

“Peter, I don’t care about Rusk, I swear, but I’m not ready. I’m tired. I need... sleep. Can’t you wait for me…” You stared up into his dark eyes. “I-I--” Your nerves flurried wildly. You’d never been so afraid. “I love you, too.” You lied. “So won’t you wait?”

He exhaled and his lips parted. He blinked and a smile crawled across his lips. “You--Say it again.”

“I-I love you,” You whispered. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” 

He bent and kissed you again. This time harder, deeper. He didn’t stop until you were out of breath. Until your eyes were damp with tears. He sat back and straddled you between his thick thighs. You quickly looked away from his hard cock. He let go of your wrists but you didn’t move. You were too afraid.

He lifted himself slightly as he tugged the hem of your shirt free. He inched it up, his fingers feeling along your skin as he did. Your strength returned and you caught his hands before he could bare your chest. You were shaking.

“I want to wait, Peter.” You begged. “Don’t you love me?”

“I do, I do,” He rocked atop you, almost frantic. “I do but I can’t. I can’t wait. I need you. I love you so much.”

You whimpered as he twisted his hands away from you. His thighs pressed against you and reminded you of his strength. You closed your eyes as your arms fell to the mattress. You were so weak. So afraid. And you could do nothing.

He shoved your shirt over your chest and you heard the gasp fall from him. He pulled the fabric past your head and tossed it aside. He bent over you as he cupped your tits, his thumb circled your nipples. “Beautiful,” He groaned as nuzzled your skin. 

His lips tickled along your cleave and the curve of your chest. His tongue teased your bud as his fingers played with the other. He closed his mouth around your nipple and teethed it softly. He purred and you bit your lip. 

His touch stoked something within you. It wasn’t him, just the basest of your instincts. A carnal reaction long withheld. 

He kneaded your flesh with hand and mouth. He tended to you as if you were delicate and yet so firmly you could not resist. You couldn’t think to. Was it fear? Was it weakness? Was it a latent desire you refused to accept?

Then he moved lower. His lips and teeth made the treacherous crawl along your stomach. The dread built as he moved further and further, as he lifted himself from your waist and his fingers tickled you. As he slid your shorts down your thighs and legs. As you let him.

You still didn’t move. You pressed your legs together but he easily wrenched them apart. Another confirmation of your helplessness.

His nose brushed along your vee and his warm breath crested your pelvis. His hands slipped up and he pressed his thumbs to your hip bones as he settled between your legs. You closed your legs around his head in an effort to keep him away but you only welcomed him closer. You looked down at him, eyes sparkling as he gazed back. Then slowly his focus descended.

He dipped his head and you writhed. Tried to get away but it was just as futile. He rubbed the tip of his nose along your pussy and his tongue followed shyly. He dragged it slowly along your lips then back down. He pushed between them and flicked over your clit. 

You spasmed and his hands squeezed your hips. He repeated the motion and you cried out in surprise. His tongue was cool against your warm folds. It felt good even when your head told you it shouldn’t. He swirled around your bud and pressed his lips around it. He sucked and lapped then slipped his tongue down again. He drank you in and savoured your taste.

You covered your face as your other hand clawed at the blanket below. You whined, weak and wretched. You felt the rise. The ripple as it rolled along your spine. The buzzing in your thighs. The pulsing of your core. Every nerve wound together and his tongue untangled them all at once.

You rocked your pelvis into his face as you came. Wanting him to stop but not. You needed more. The release was overwhelming and left you dizzy. And he kept on. He teased your overly sensitive clit so that you squirmed. Until another climax rose and you bit into your hand to keep from screaming. And still he kept on.

You were breathless and baffled when he finally lifted his head. Your sight was blurry as you shyly looked down at him. His lips glistened as they came into focus and he crawled over you. He kissed you; wet and warm. You could taste your sweetness as he forced his tongue against yours. 

He snaked his arms up under your back and hooked his hands around your shoulders. He pushed his thighs to yours as he lifted you. He sat up with you against him. You hung from his grasp as his lips wrestled with yours. He kept you aloft with one arm as he felt around between you.

You flinched as you felt his tip against you. He grazed your clit and you twitched. He pressed along your folds and stopped at your entrance. He pulled away from your lips and looked into your eyes as he pushed his head inside of you. You grabbed his shoulders and tired to shove yourself away from him. His arm clung to you tightly.

He eased into you until he bottomed out. He sighed and his hand grasped your hip. He began to rock you against him, his own pelvis tilting with yours. He hummed and kissed your jaw, nibbled along your neck, and bit into the flesh of your throat. He sucked as he moved you against him. And you were horrified as you let him.

He felt good. He shouldn’t, but he did. You slung your arms over his shoulders without thinking and chased the peak before you. He moved you faster, harder against him. You felt your juices spreading between your bodies. His hand slid down your back and he stretched his fingers across your ass. He guided your body and you followed his lead.

You were panting, desperate for another orgasm. Your clit rubbed against him with each rock of your hips. With each thrust, you moved faster, eager to reach the pinnacle. You gasped and groaned. A voice told you it was wrong but it didn’t feel wrong. 

Peter buried his head in your chest. He hummed as he took a nipple in his mouth and bounced you against him. Your fingers dug into the muscles of his back and you threw your head back. You came with a sharp cry. Your body shook against his and the world dissembled. The worries in the back of your mind drowned beneath the waves.

He fell forward until your back was to the mattress. He thrust into you as your legs curled around him. His hand was at your chin again, cradling your face as he lifted his lips to yours. He kissed you, consumed you. 

He moaned into your mouth and his hips stammered. His motion turned erratic and he lifted his head to grit back a roar. The tension squared his jaw and drained from him all at once. He sank into you as deep as he could go, long soft strokes as he came. 

He dropped down over you, his head beside yours as he panted. He shuddered and groaned. His body went limp atop you, his fingers lazily caressed your cheek. The glow sloughed away and the room grew darker. The lines were bolder, the shadows more sinister, the colours greyed. 

You pulled your arms back and pushed on his shoulder. He didn’t move. Didn’t even react. You tried again and slowly he lifted his head. He pushed himself into you as deep as he could go and you whimpered.

“Can’t you feel how much I love you?” He didn’t relent. Didn’t pull back as your walls strained around him. “Can’t you?”

You nodded, unable to speak. He was stabbing your cervix painfully and you just wanted him away from you.

“I can feel your love.” He thrust and poked you again. You squeaked. “You love me.” He began to move steadily. “You love me.” He repeated with each tilt of his hips. “You love me.” You closed your eyes as the mantra filled the room. “You love me.”

“I love you,” You croaked through your tears. “I love you.” 

But he didn’t stop. He wouldn’t. 

You were trapped in the spider’s web. Live prey paralysed as he wrapped his legs around you. As he devoured you entirely.

🕷️ 🕷️ 🕷️