#they sealed it off with scraps of metal last time i looked

[veroraine]

i miss The Hole at my uni. the one you could crawl through to the forbidden corridor

[swampstew]

It's October! SPOOPY TIME ~ *throws ghost shaped confetti* ~ I am so excited to start this fun event! Reminder that this is a costume contest that YOU can vote in on October 29~ Vote for my mans, he worked really hard🥺

Character: Eustass "The Sexiest Captain" Kid Summary: Kid is going to steal the show away with his costume. He's a known murderer after all, and he's going to slay this contest as this villain everyone loves to hate. Word Count: 1,031

“OI! KILL! Get in here!” Eustass Kid angrily yelled from his room. He stared at his hulking form in the floor length mirror he had stolen from some place or another, eyeing the material laid over his body as he tried to piece together his idea.

The door pushed open as his best friend came through, hauling some pieces of metal behind him. Piling it next to Kid’s desk, Killer finally sized the redhead up, tilting his head as he inspected the idea Kid was toying with.

“When you said you wanted to be Sauron, I kind of assumed you’d go all in with an impressive armor -plated outfit. The helmet is coming out fine and I got the materials for the spikes but…what exactly are you trying to do here?”

Kid rolled his eyes, “It’s a costume CONTEST, Killer. I need to appeal to all of the judges.”

“I see. So you’re going for…skanky horror?”

“More like monstrously fuckable.”

“Well you’re on the right track. I’ll leave you to it.”

With a nod, Kid took the helmet prototype off his head, pulled the metal sheet plates from his body, and stepped out of the floor-length mesh skirt he pinned together.

His plan was to go as his favorite character. The baddest bastard in all of literature – Sauron Thee Lord of the Rings. He already knew the judges had personal tastes and preferences, and if he could hit all of them he knew he’d be the undisputed winner. Alvida liked to gawk, Buggy liked flashy, Mihawk liked weapons, and Crocodile just showed up for the party but had a soft spot for the classics.

The contest was in a few weeks so there was no time to fuck around. With a determined look on his face, Kid gathered his scraps and blueprints, spread his materials on the long work table, and grabbed his hammer to begin flattening the steel.

Strike upon strike echoed in his room as Kid worked. First, he flattened the metal sheets and used his body to shape the plates of his armor around his muscles, making sure to bend the metal to heavily emphasize the contours of his jagged edged form. When all the individual, scandalously modified armor components were formed, he welded the units together to create his costume – it consisted of: an extreme crop top plackart with connecting pieces for the pauldrons, couters, vambraces, spaulders, and rerebraces; tassets and extremely short cuisses that stopped mid-thigh for his groin; greaves for his legs; the helmet and bevor; the mace; and jagged additions to his sword.

Next was making the imposing spiky pieces that decorated the helmet, shoulder plates, thigh plates and shoes. Kid took thicker pieces of metal and manipulated their shapes to his design: long, wicked looking slats that could slice you up if you didn’t watch out. He also made spindly spikes in varying sizes, making much more than he would probably end up needing. Kid then soldered each addition to the base of the armor; the smell of iron, tin, and fire leaving a heavy odor in the air that lingered even with all the windows open.

The weeks passed as he worked on his project a little every day, determined to meet his deadline and take home the prize. Kid poured his sweat and blood into shaping, sanding, buffing, smoothing, shining, painting, and sealing each individual piece of his costume. The only time he asked for help was when he needed Heat to sew fabrics together. Kid might be able to bend metal to his will but not even he could thread something as small as string to needle with his thick, clunky fingers.

At long last the day of the costume contest arrived. The crew was pre-gaming and helping each other dress for the party. Kid didn’t want anyone to see him until he was fully dressed, locking himself in his room to shower and get ready.

With freshly dried hair that he didn’t bother to style, Kid placed his trusty welding goggles on his bed as he looked at his outfit. With a confident grin, the redhead dropped his towel to the floor.

Slipping on the first layer, Kid pulled tight black shorts over his underwear, the ends of the cotton spandex shorts had been sewn together with the mesh fabric to create leggings that he could tuck into his amor-plated sabatons. He pulled on a long-sleeved, extreme crop top made of the same cotton spandex and mesh, which did nothing to hide his nipples. Eyeing the way the mesh made his muscles look, Kid started the next layer.

Pulling up the tassets that were reminiscent of his belted war kilt, the cuisses sat comfortably over his thighs and looked menacing with the slats and spikes, as did his greaves. Over his torso he put on the customized plackart – it ran down to his forearms right over the mesh, covered his collarbones but stopped short just above his pecs. Stepping into the metal plated boots, Kid’s outfit was nearly complete.

With a quick hand, Kid swiped on burgundy lipstick and heavy, smoky black eyeshadow. From the closet he pulled out the new fur cloak he had Killer dye from maroon to black, snapping the clasp in place to hang from the backs of the pauldrons, between where the jagged spikes were soldered into the steel. Brushing his hair back he slid the helmet over his face, the generous gaps in the visor were just enough to show a passing glance of his makeup. Taking a step back, he pulled out a bottle of posing oil to make his exposed muscles gleam, rubbing it deeply into his skin.

For the final touch, Kid picked up 10 pointed claw rings he made with the extra metal he had, sliding each over his fingers where they sat snugly. Grabbing his sword and mace, he walked back to the mirror and gave himself a final verdict.

Frightening. Deadly. Slutty. Scary.

Perfect✨

With a grin and some badass poses, he took a few selfies with the cam-snail before he left the room. Roaring out to his crew, “Alright let’s crash this party Kid Pirates style!”

[meli-writes]

Bitch Devourer - Ch. 02

(Previous)

/// CW: combat drugs, failed suicide mission, sexual references. ///

Another smouldering heap of scrap — spinal armature broken over a dead nation’s border wall. The Devourer dragged a laser cutter across the hatch, over the weld that had sealed it shut, because the ennobled cunts had sent her back in a One-Shot.

It was easy to recruit the poor fucker stuck in one of these — if you got them out in time. They dropped perpendicular into her lap, grabbed the injector cord messily stapled into her skull, pressed her revolver they’d borrowed last time to it, and—

BLAM. The Devourer wiped their lips. It was not the kind of milky, white spurt they preferred. And even a drop was fucking dangerous.

They tore the head-mounted display off, she was repeating herself endlessly, “Fuck fuck fuck. No surrender. Fuck. Won’t surrender. Fffuck. No— no…”

Her pupils were blooming at the overdose. It was supposed to kill her but right now was just fucking her brains out harder than they had. They hauled the limp Cavalier out — sheltered from the rain under her Cavalry's worthless, sheet-metal armour.

“No, no… I— Fuck.” The Cavalier’s eyes kept darting to their own — a dim but obvious recognition. And not scared, but annoyed. “Fuck, fffuck, fuck-fuck-fuck.”

The Devourer tore at a sleeve and turned the inside of her elbow up, searching for a hosepipe to stab into. “You cussing me out, Empire? Keep doing it.”

(Combat Stabiliser — or Moll, or Cavalier Chocolate if you were an asshole. They pump you with 5mg, you focus; make it 20mg, you agree; make it 50mg, you obey.)

“You fucking cunt bitch.” She had four times that at minimum, she couldn’t help but comply with the Devourer’s vulgar command. “Sir,” she spat.

They tried joking to calm their nerves as the laser-guide lined up the massive fuck-off needle. “Cunt devourer, technically. Least in most cases.”

The Cavalier yelped as it slipped in — the Devourer hitting a switch that would gently regulate an antagonist into her bloodstream for the next four minutes. She wouldn’t die, not yet. That wasn’t the Devourer’s choice, much as they wished it was.

“Fuck you — dumb, wetted-trench-eating punker scum.” She’d ran away, from safety and a warm, occupied bed — fled in a half-assembled scout without its bioident to lock her out. “They want me dead, because you didn’t kill me — Sir.”

It was a humiliating downgrade for someone of a noble, if lesser, cadre. A clear warning to a thinning crop of loyal pilots, what would happen if you let yourself be spared. The Devourer was blessed when they’d stopped being able to afford stuffing them with poorly-shaped explosive charges.

“But— but, but, guessing you’d rather I hadn’t made that a simpler scenario.” Venous Dispersal at 25%. They held her steady, flashed a light to check for changing pupillary response. “Hey, Empire— you come from an agri-world, yeah?”

“Yes— fuck off, Sir.” Was she still following that order, or just this mad? It’s always both.

“Bleat for me — like a good, remnant loyalist sheep.” Well, she was mad now — her lips quivering in a deliciously spiteful, reverous manner. Like when she'd returned their 'nomenfavour.'

“Maaaa… Sir.” she bleated, like a good— loyal— little sheep. The Cavalier caught her mouth with an unrestrained hand, maybe blushing would make the serum cycle quicker. It was good she hadn’t realised the lacking bondage till now.

“You’re ordered not to escape — trust me, it wouldn’t be pleasant,” they said, tapping the antagoniser. Dispersal at 50%. “And stop saying sir.”

“Oh, because you’d know what’s pleasant.” Her legs weren’t shaking, for rare, bad reasons, anymore — nerves chemically subdued. “Ah fuck. This looks bad on my review, doesn’t it? On if you don��t blow my fucking head off.”

The Devourer mused; she wasn’t the first one to try it, she was just the first to do it properly. “Makes you look— less malicious, more dumb.”

She huffed, it was a bitter comedy. “Better or worse to be nobility? There is the oblige, y’know.” The Cavalier was supposed to at least try escaping, and had half-assedly a dozen times till she’d been tied down with soft ropes. 75%.

“No one else is piloting your Heirloom.” 3rd Yeoman, 4th Foot. Five generations, and lots of upgrading in that time. Everything in that fucker was bioidented. She had to pilot it. Or it was more scrap than it already was. “The rain’s stopping, we should go.”

She hesitated. “Fuck— not yet.” The moll’s effect was fading, and that hadn’t been a command. Besides, her legs had been locked in a death trap for three days.

“I can carry you — easily — if that’s the issue.” They stared at the digital metre, seconds away from ticking off. The Cavalier looked up at them, nervously, in the pause. “And they’re not going to kill you.”

“Yeah, well fuck you, how should I know?” It was impressive, how dumb they made these ones. Suppose you had to be, to fight for such losers. 100%. They tossed the injector into the dirt, that was a third-generation survivor’s problems, not theirs. “I come from an agri-world, you did not. This shit’s still gonna be wet for an hour— and so am I.”

The Devourer smiled. This Empire was worth saving. If she fucking listened this time. And if the One-Shot hadn’t fucked her legs up, they would.

“So, suck my fucking cock, and teach me your fucking name again— Bitch.”

---

(Masterpost) / (Next)

originally written on cohost 01/01/2024, in response to Making-Up-Mech-Pilots' prompt:

Mech Pilot who gets out when it’s raining for that sweet fog light selfie.

[cf8wrk4u-us]

Ben 10 Trollhunters Crossover

(based on the amazing AU made by @sonicasura , please check out their blog and AUs)

Becoming~

Despite what the songs and sagas would have you believe about Kanjigar, things didn’t come easy for the current Trollhunter. 

He’s had his own share of problems and dilemmas. And might as he tried to carry them on his own, to keep the weight of his responsibility from others there were things he couldn’t solve or dispher on himself.

One example being the current vision that had plagued him.

It had been a long few days of patrolling the streets and forest surrounding Arcadia, negotiating peace treaties between different clans of trolls, and chasing  Bular. The latter of which seems to take sweet sadistic joy in making the current Trollhunter run after him.

He knew Bular was up to something, the Gum-Gum prince hinting as such and thriving on Kanjigars frustration as he struggled to comprehend what.

So yes, it had been a frustrating few days.

That's why when Kanjigar finally removed his armor and collapsed in his and Draals shared den, with Blinky and Aaaarrghhs prompting, he found himself resigned  to enjoy a restful few hours of sleep.

Only instead of being welcomed by a void of nothing Kanjigar was plagued by images and visions he could barely comprehend.

Of an infinite starry night.

A celestial body that was surrounded by a ring of floating rocks. 

Two vessels made of metal that could fly and were doing battle.

Fire and explosions lighting up through the darkness of its space.

A silvery sphere being launched into space, towards a world of bright greens and blues.

His world.

Kanjigar awoke in a panic, stone chest heaving. 

Besides him he eyed the Amulet of Daylight glowing a frantic blue.

“Was this your doing”? He found himself asking “Were these visions of a prophecy”?

Kanjigar knew he would get no answer in this state but could potentially find it elsewhere. Quick on his feet he donned his armor and made his way out of his den.

“Father”?

Kanjigar looked to see son Draal standing by the door way, slug over his shoulder was what sounded like scraps of metal and glass. The older troll found himself warmed that his son would go through the trouble of getting him a snack but realized he couldn’t let himself be distracted.

“I’m off to see Vendel, son” he answered brisky as he made his way to the entryway.

Draal though continued to block his path “But arn’t you supposed to be resting, you’ve gone without sleep for too long-”

“A Trollhunter doesn't always get the leisure of rest”! He snapped before gently but firmly pushing Draal away.

But even as he made his way into the streets of Trollmarket Kanjigar could hear the crash of the bag of food hitting against the wall and the aggravated growl of Draals.

He was only trying to help you, a quite voice whispered.

But Kanjigar shook them away though.

Reminding himself that this was for the best, the farther away Draal was from Trollhunter business the safer he would be.

“And are you sure that's what you saw?” asked Vendel.

The leader of Trollmarket and overall elder of his tribe, Vendel was quite proficient at his craft of deciphering prophecies.

“Yes” answered Kanjigar.

Vendel pulled at his beared thoughtfully as he paced back and forth in his workshop.

“Visions of the stars, flying ships of metal” the troll elder finally stopped “You don’t think….that another visit from the stars is at play here”?

Kanjigar furrowed his brow.

The last time they had been visited from worlds beyond it was to assist the two royals of House Tarron in hiding away their most precious relic. Kanjigar unconsciously tapped his foot on the floor, reminding himself that under their feet is where the great item of power layed sealed away by his own hands.

“I can’t be sure, the last visions of the King and Queen were clear enough” said the Trollhunter “But now…”

A part of Kanjigar wondered how the royal couple has fared these last centuries. He hoped nothing for the best from them, their families, and their people.

 But if the visions were about them….

Kanjigar lightly shuddered as he remembered the devastating attack between the two flying ships. But not seeing the royals in his visions overall did serve to reassure the Trollhunter that the king and queen were well.

Still though.

“I’m just not sure how to make sense of them” admitted Kanjigar.

Vendel only nodded “Visions show so much and show so little” he said “Prophecies of what could come and what danger they present, but still leaving us with so many questions” the elder troll looked to the Trollhunter “But still at least we are presented with one clue”

“Really”? Asked Kanjigar for clarification. 

Vendel huffed “We can already tell where its coming from” before stretching his ancient neck to look to the amber ceiling “We have only to look to the heavens”

______________________________________

Jim groaned as noticed the sun finally dipping over the horizon over the tree-line.

He should be home by now getting meal prep done for tomorrow's lunches and dinners. But  here he was instead, basically searching blind through the bushes for his phone.

The reason?

Psycho Steve.

His legal name being Steve Palchuck, the schools resident bully and today he had chosen Jim as his target for today. Granted it was Toby that Steve had been trying to aim for, only for Jim to try to shield his friend and call Steve out on his jerky behavior.

“It's ridiculous! Could you at least try being original for a change? You've been doing the same old bully routine since the second grade, Steve! It's tired. Making fun of Toby for his weight? Seriously”?

This had gotten him a furious look from the blond jock before morphing into a sadistic smile. He had guessed he was going to be paid back for the comment in some way, but as the rest of the school day passed he had hoped Steve's neanderthal brain squeezed Jims comment out of his thought process.

But when he and Toby began to bike their way home Steve and his lackeys slid up to them like a shiver of sharks. 

Jim and Toby had hurriedly sped up on their bikes to try to get away, but unfortunately Palchuck and his gang were some of the school's top athletes so it took them little time to catch up to the pair.

“I’m coming for you Lake”! jeered Steve “You dead meat”!

With those words Jim found himself slightly grateful that Steve's anger seemed to be directed on him specifically and not Toby, given that at the moment the pudgy teen was already gasping for breath as he tried to speed up.

Because of that Jim made a quick decision, eyeing one of the alleyways that faced the forest Jim swerved his bike towards it. Steve made a startled sound before it turned into an enraged grunt.

“Get back here Lake”! Jim heard the bully shout.

The pavement soon gave way to more uneven dirt as Jim raced his bike through the slopes of the woods. His bike jostling along but the teen skillfully keeping his balance, unlike Palchuck and his friends.

Jim couldn’t help grinning as he stared back and saw the boys struggling to keep up.

Steve and his friends maybe some of the top athletes at school but Jim grew up in these woods. 

Heck! Him and Toby were Mole Scouts at one point!

“You're dead, Lake”! Steve yelled “When I catch-up to you, your gonna wish-”

But at this point Jim thankfully couldn’t hear him.

The teen didn’t stop till he was at the canal.

Huffing and out of breath, Jim reached for his phone to text Toby that he was okay but froze when he felt his jacket pocket was empty.

He felt around his jeans, but still nothing.

Jim looked to the forest, wincing.

“Oh, no….”

Now Jim was stuck in the woods looking frantically for his phone. 

A part of him reasons he should just go to Tobys to ask his friend for help but was still weary of Steve prowling around. So he grit and beared the task of trying to find his phone on his own. But as the last bit of sunlight kissed the horizon Jim had to accept he might not find it tonight or worse, never.

Jim groaned again, he didn’t want to ask his mom for a new one or use his Vespa savings to buy another, but the hard truth was that he may have too.

It was getting dark and he didn’t want to be stuck in the woods at night on his own, even if he was still close to the urban areas.

It just didn’t feel safe…

Jogging through the growing darkness of the woods to make his way back home something caught the teens eyes.

Squinting up at the dark sky Jim was shocked to see something glowing bright in the night. 

At first Jim guessed it was an airplane or even hopefully a shooting star.

(something he could use to wish on to help him find his phone)

Only for the bright object to worryingly grow in size and intensity as it flew towards him.

“What the-” Jim started only to scream as the “shooting star” zoomed right at him!

The teen dove out of the way just in time for the burning object to race by him, his whole back side flushed with warmth by the speed of the falling thing.

There was a loud crash and hunks of rocks flew everywhere!

Jim stayed tucked under the underbrush, only looking up when the last of the debris fell away. The air was filled with dust and Jim coughed as he slowly sat up. His eyes widen when he saw a crater and curiously the teen took a step forward.

Another gasp left his mouth as he saw the devastation the crash left a good portion of the forest

Peering down into the center of the crater Jim could almost make out a small dark object.

“A meteor”? He asked out loud.

Going back to his sixth grade science knowledge, he heard meteors that crashed to earth usually broke apart in the earth's atmosphere and rarely did they cause any damage of this sizable amount.

Despite the devastation, Jim couldn’t help but be excited at the prospect of finding a real meteorite. 

Imagine the reaction of his classmates if he came to school tomorrow with a real piece of space-rock! 

He be a school legend!

And maybe….

Jim's thoughts immediately turned to a pretty browned-eyed dark haired girl from history class. So lost in thought the teen didn’t know that the ledge he was standing on was beginning to come apart till he was already falling into the crater.

Groaning Jim stood back up, while getting his bearings he came face to face to what was in the crater. 

The item was round and seemed to be made of some dark metal, parts of it platted like a shell or even a rolly-polly. 

Definitely not a meteor in Jims books.

“Is this a part of a satellite or something”? The teen asked out loud.

Maybe it was a piece of a satellite or even a rocket ship, still pretty cool and-

The round object suddenly opened and Jim was engulfed in a bright green light. Inside was a strange looking bracelet or watch, the thing was made up of black and gray material with white lines detailing the surface and in the center was a green and black symbol that reminded Jim of an hourglass.

As if in a trance Jim walked towards it, stretching his arm out when he was only a foot away.

All of a sudden the thing actually jumped!

"Ahhhh"!!! he screamed as the thing wrapped firmly around his wrist, he flayed his arm around trying to throw the strange thing away from him.

"Get off! Get off"!!! Jim shouted over again, he did everything he could think of to get rid of the watch. From trying to pry it off with his hands, rolling on the ground, to then grabbing a fallen branch and trying to wedge it underneath the watch. 

Only for it to snap in half.

   "You gotta be kidding me”! Said Jim as he kneeled down on the dirt.

Jim started at the strange watch again, studying for some kind of seam or lock he could pick at. Looking at the circular center where the hour-glass was, curiously Jim twisted it and surprisingly the watch beeped and a portion of the watch lifted up. Not releasing Jim’s wrist but strangely the hour-glass symbol shifted revealing a vague black figure.

Curious and without thinking Jim pressed on the dial.

The moment that the center of the watch was press though an emerald light enveloped the space around him, blinding the teen.

Jim felt something strange come over him, a strange surge of energy course throughout his body.

He felt his skin crack open, his bones stretched and broadened, a feeling of intense warmth came over him that left his head feeling dizzy!

What was happening!?

What was this watch doing to him!

He gave a gargled choke before everything finally seemed to settle down, by then the light was gone.

Jim cracked his eye unsteadily, the nervously lifted his hand up.

Only to Jims horror his skinny wrist had been replaced with a large bright fiery arm. His skin was cracked and speckled with hot red rocks like magma. His digits a glowing yellow like the embers of a deep furnace.

He..he was..

"I'm on fire" he breathed before screaming, "I'M ON FIRE"!!!!

He slapped at his arms trying to extinguish the flames and blowing on them with his non-existent breath, but nothing worked.

The only reason he stopped was when he didn’t feel the expected agonizing pain that stories his mom told from work warned him about.

Stopping Jim studied his new hands.

Again there was no pain.

“Hey, I’m on fire” he said “And I’m okay”

Feeling a certain pressure on his fingertips Jim flicked his fingers and immediately sparks of flames danced on his palms.

“Check it out”! he found himself laughing “I’m totally hot”!

Jim eyed a tree behind him, then using the same pressure he made a finger gun motion and sent a sphere of fire that practically snapped the tree in two.

“Now thats what I’m talking about”! cried Jim.

Whatever the watch was, whatever it did to him, just made his life so much more interesting!

This was amazing!

Incredible! 

“I gotta tell Toby” he realized

Jim in his new fiery body, quickly made his way out of the woods.

His path was far more illuminated now.

_______________________________________

Kanjigar looked worryingly down at the metal casing in front of him.

Just as Vendel had suggested he kept his eyes on the heavens, leaving Trollmarket he still had doubts in the visions he had received but those all evaporated as he saw something glowing fly through the air and land somewhere in the forest of Arcadia.

Quickly getting his bearings the Trollhunter navigated through the woods to where the light fell.

He found the crater and traveled down into it.

Seeing the casing he studied it and from a distant memory realized this was no material made on earth, but from the stars.

This was his vision!

Only….the case was worryingly empty.

“What were you holding” asked Kanjigar as he lifted the item up “And where is it now”? 

[thygoddessouijathicc]

PHONE DAVE REWRITTEN PROLOGUE

The Saferoom smelled of iron.

A scent so oppressive and unbearable even a man with no nose like Peter had to turn away.

His plan had succeeded, the desperate bid to get rid of the aubergine killer once and for all, it had been simple once he had fired his other employee, although even now he wondered why the man had simply left.

Peter had never thought it would get to this point, that he’d actually KILL a man, even one as sickening as this.

Even when the blood of all the aubergine’s victims was still warm, it was hard to stop hearing the screams.

Peter had not expected screams, maybe he should have, but he had assumed that the aubergine would go down treating even death as just another joke. How he wished that were true. If Dave had joked as he died it would have been easy to push aside in his mind, Dave wasn’t human, he wasn’t hurting.

Peter sat down in front of the body. Dave was moving, staring at him, but he couldn’t stand, the suit was too heavy.

Men came into the room to drag Peter away and all the thoughts he had been holding back spilled out.

“WAIT! DON’T SCRAP ME!!!”

“Give us one reason not to.”

“S-see that body? That’s Dave Miller, the Kiddie Strangler.”

There is a moment of silence.

“Good work Scott, you will be receiving a promotion for this.”

“Good now just let me seal-“

“Grab the body, oh and that other one, the janitor he buried in the parking lot.”

“Wait wh- NO! NO NO NO!!! You can’t!!!” Peter watches in horror as the corpse that had just been in front of him was dragged out and shoved to the back of a truck, followed by the recently buried Jimbo.

“If you send-“ Peter is cut off when he too is shoved in the back of the truck, the door closes to leave him in darkness.

…

“W’s y’rrr br’thr…” a voice slurs from in the truck, Peter looks around, eyes landing on Dave’s corpse.

“What?”

“Reed.”

Reed… that had been the name his employee had identified himself by.

“Reed… Reed is my brother?” Peter asked with some skepticism. The corpse just stares at him, offering no answer. It was a long drive after that.

…

100 feet of stolid steel plating composing a large metal cylinder in the back of the Scott Memorial Machine, in the metal a clear face can be seen, looking as if it were asleep, but could wake at any moment.

Peter stared up at the face in something like awe, or maybe terror.

He had seen Jimbo run through, it took mere minutes.

1000 phones in a single afternoon. That’s what the man had said. It made no sense. Who would ever… need so many? Why was the machine so big?

He looked down at his name tag. He owned it now. The phone who had never wanted to send a single person to the factory now owned all of it.

It had taken hours to strip Dave from the suit, hours more to recover him after h tried to run, but now he was tied down, screaming and crying for any mercy. He deserved none, they all knew that. But they also all knew Peter was a bleeding heart.

There is a phone on the table in front of Peter, purple with white accents. Metal. Heavy. He looks up in confusion at the employees. His employees.

“Sorry sir, it’s the last one in stock. A lot of people have been getting sent in lately and we haven’t had a chance.”

“But it’s metal… it’ll be so heavy-“

“He deserves worse, plus we used to make metal phones back in the day all the time.”

“I… ok… just… put it in the machine and get it started.”

As commanded the employees shoves the phone into a chute, and gives a thumbs up to another employee who throws Dave into the pit.

The same horrible metallic screeches as he had once heard with the departed Jimbo are present again. But louder. Far louder. He hears screams in the machine, it sounds like Dave is trying with all his might to escape.

Peter winces, it’s a hard sound to hear…

Because of all the attempts at escape, what normally takes 3 minutes to complete now took 45 minutes. 45 minutes of Dave screaming and crying in the machine, begging to be let out.

At long last a phone actually comes out of the machine.

Peter stares down with caution, he knows what Dave is like. He wouldn’t be shocked if he went right back to his old self.

The phone sits up, shaking and nearly falling over a few times.

There’s just so much wrong with this phone.

The metallic purple head is pulling the body down, causing him to be constantly on the verge of losing balance. There seems to be an area in the midsection that is barely more than a spine with skin wrapped around it. His entire body has shrunk like clothing in the wash, phones have a height cap. He violated it and the machine went overboard correcting it, he seems to be just observing, silently staring up at Peter.

“Hello? Hello? Hello?” The sound of a voice box pierces the air… what? “I am Model 51_2. How may I be of service?”

[pool-floatie]

Dead by Twilight- Part 3

Sexy vampire fic go brrrr-

Yeah i was gonna post this on valentines but the other one seemed cuter (also this was not done haha-)

📢Just an FYI the next chapter will contain mouthplay and vore elements! None in here though! (but oh god the fearplay 😳)

But here we go, more eepy vampire shit :D

(wren pov)

Dropped into the metal prizon, Wren jumped at the sharp snap that sealed their fate, scooting as far back into the metal walls as they could, they crammed themself into a corner with only their injured leg sticking out.

They stared warily, not sure what the shadowy figure wanted with them.

The cold metal beneath them stung on bits of exposed skin through the rips in their pants, but it felt kind of nice on their injuries, especially their leg.

Their leg... Wren looked at the gash, noticing a decrease in the throbbing pain, and saw their wound was .... Healing? The bleeding had stopped somehow, and all the scrapes they had sustained around the injury were gone as well...

Wren puzzled at this, glancing back to see their captor reading some book, as if their miniature kidnapping victim was second priority, but wren was glad its attention wasnt focused on them for just a moment.

Why were they healing so fast? They'd sustained a pretty shitty injury once when their hand got scraped on their hook, and that bled like a bitch and took weeks to heal! Why now had their miraculous healing powers emerged ?

(Narrator)

Borrowers: small, sentient, magical beings that live inside building walls in small families or communities, feeding on scraps and leftovers from the inhabitants and using "borrowed" material to craft intricate nests.

If extracted correctly their magic can be used in spells, curses, charms and even recipies!

Well, that explained why it was outside a bakery, Lazarus wasnt sure what the "extraction" required, not that he would nessecarily need it.. But it did explain why this creatures taste had been so enticing...

His eyes turned to the little thing, seeming to be focused on its leg.

"should be healing a bit by now, yes ?" he spoke, appearing in front of the desk in an instant.

The borrower jumped at his sudden closeness.

Pausing for a moment, it regained its composure.

Looking up at Lazarus, it spoke.

" wh- why-is.."

"it's just a convenient feature we have.. Helps avoid detection." he said.

The borrower looked even more confused

"what- what are you...?" it questioned.

Oh, Well he supposed they wouldnt know much of other creatures, needing to stay hidden and all that..

Hmmm..

" That is... quite a good question, Dear. In truth, Im not entirely sure myself, Its been quite a long time..."

He trailed off, zoning out for a few seconds.

"..In any case, You may call me Lazarus."

He gave a small bow and waited for a response, when none came he tried to prompt the little thing.

"Would I be correct in assuming you have a name as well?"

He questioned

Oh right- "W-wren"

They stammered.

"Wren.... lovely name, pleasure to meet you, Dear"

Lazarus flashed a half smile down at his captive.

"I still, I kn-ow you- you aren't human..."

"Hmm... "

Lazarus thought momentarily.

"Well,,,, I guess I should explain."

Lazarus pulled out a small wooden stool, plopping himself down.

"You may have heard stories of mysterious 'humans' who roam only at night, clad in dark clothing that partially hides a pale complexion. Some are mistaken as human, smart enough in dress and makeup to pass themselves, others perfer solitude for the most part, not wishing to bother with society.

Now of course, humans love their tall tales- of creatures like them that stalk human prey by night-"

wren gasped

" and hide themselves away in the daylight. They call those individuals 'Vampires'.

Better still, humans are dumb enough to believe that the old myths of bloodthirsty beings were just that, myths,,, though an unlucky few discover our secret~."

Lazarus' gaze drifted back to wren on the last sentence.

"you- you're -"

Wren paled, they were captured by-

"Haha, seems youve caught on then, hmm?"

Wren looked up into the vampires Maroon eyes, the shadowy room shrouding his sharp features made him look even more ghastly, they shuddered.

" are you..." they whispered, taking a breath they spoke up.

"A-re you going- to let me go?

[geminiamethyst]

Running. Chapter 43: Shelter?

Chapter 1: click HERE

Chapter 42: click HERE

Chapter 44: click HERE

The building that Kaito had seen was some kind of old saw mill. Judging by the tench right outside it, the place was abandoned after the river was rerouted to somewhere else or had been blocked up somewhere. The tent was a mixture of green and brown as nature had taken over and grew wildly. The whole building was still standing but looked like it was going fall apart within a year or so. There were already some smashed windows and a few holes in some of the walls and ceiling. The inside was a little worse. Whoever had the place running didn’t waste time in clearing most of the equipment out, most likely for a new sight. The large buzz saws were missing along with larger tools. There were awes, pick axes and some hooks that were left behind. There was even someone’s discarded lunchbox that was rusted over. There were a few barrels that were sealed up, but the dust covering the labels kept everyone from reading what was in them.

Not the most secure of places, especially with limited weapons that could possibly be used, but it’ll have to do for now. The group of four immediately set work to barricading the place as best they could. Taka started to use his ice powers to block the doors and windows, with Mondo watching his back in case the snake would slither inside unexpectedly. Meanwhile, Kaito was gathering whatever scrap metal he could and would hold them to the roof while Maki would secure the plates with whatever nails she could find. It did little to make them feel safe, but there was nothing that they could do. They didn’t know about what could happen until they formed a proper plan.

“Hopefully this will hold.” Kaito muttered, wiping his brow. Maki didn’t say anything. She just focused on sealing the hole up and making sure that the nails were buried and secured them as tightly as they be. Kaito didn’t like that silence. He had a bad feeling that her mind was on what they had discovered. “You okay?”

“I’ve just got a lot on my mind.” Maki tried to wave off, watching as Kaito started to float down to her. She looked troubled. Don’t intrude too much. Kaito had learned his lesson from last time. Still, he had to try something to make her feel a little better.

“We’ll take that thing down. No way I’m gonna let a reptile get the better of us. We work together, we’ll come out on top.” Kaito smiled confidently, giving Maki a thumbs up. Maki smiled slightly, glad to hear his keen enthusiasm and positive attitude. However, her smile faded as she was consumed with her thoughts again. Kaito gently approached her, but kept his distance, just in case. He kept his tone gentle, and remained as calm as he could. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s just…how far is that psychopath-” Maki started to raise her voice. She forced herself to stop talking. Kaito waited as she took a deep breath. “I don’t know what else he has done, but he has imprisoned the Limitless that sought protection, lied, murdered and who knows what else! He won’t stop until he gets his hands on me! I can’t be a weapon again! I just can’t!”

With every word said, Maki started to feel more distressed. Her mind went back to those dark days. Those days when she was forced to kill random strangers and was the most dangerous weapon in the world. She shuddered as she remembered her nightmare. How she had snuffed out so many lives, like blowing the flame of a candle. Her hands flew to her hair, pulling at a few strands as she did. Just the thought and reminder of why she was on the run was the worst feeling imaginable. Even while they were far away from the Underground, Maki felt like she was still there. She felt like a rat trapped in a maze that had no exit. She can’t get out! She can’t escape! She was small! She can’t move! She was locked up! Why can’t she just be free?!

“Hey! I’m not going to let him take you.” Kaito suddenly protested, his voice tearing through Maki’s thoughts like a blade. Maki looked up right at him, looking like she was lost in a daze and was just brought back. Kaito carefully placed his hands on her shoulders, being slow so that she could back away if she wanted. He maintained eye contact, making sure that she could see how honest he was being. “Tanken pretty much confirmed what we already know. Orochi wants you to be a weapon. Like Hell I’m going to let that bastard get his fucking hands on you. I promise, I’ll do everything in my power to make sure that you’re not a weapon. Not now, not ever.”

Maki could see it. She could see how honest he was being and how determined he was to keep her safe. And she was determined to return the favour. She almost lost Kaito a year ago. She wouldn’t know what to do if it happened again and she truly lost him for good. She needs to protect to him too. As Kaito gently pulled her into a hug, Maki started to make promises to keep Kaito as safe as she could. And with Mondo and Taka with them, their chances were very good. They had a chance. Even if it was a slim one, that was all that they needed to fight.

“We should get back to the other two. See how they’re doing.” Kaito suggested, gently pulling away. A selfish part of Maki wanted him to keep holding her, but they had more pressing matters to focus on. After giving a small nod, Maki wrapped her arms around Kaito’s neck as he held onto her waist. He carefully brought them down to the ground floor from the first floor that Maki had been standing on. Mondo and Taka approached them, with Taka slipping his gloves back on and looking a little tired. “How’s it looking?”

“We’ve done all that we can to barricade this place.” Taka informed, his posture as straight as ever. He seemed extremely confident that they were safe for the time being. “We’ll have to take shifts with keeping watch again.”

That seemed simple enough. After all, the group had been doing it the night before and when they had to sleep outside before they reached Tokyo. They’ve gotten used to it by now in a strange way. They’ll need to keep their guard up now more than ever. The ice that Taka used to reenforce the doors aren’t expected to stay permanent overnight, there was a chance of it melting. And who knows how sturdy the fixtures that Kaito and Maki provided? There were high stakes involved here. Again, this place wasn’t the most ideal forms of shelter, but with extremely limited options, what else can they do?

“Something just occurred to me. Who else was in the Council?” Maki suddenly asked. There was this dread that she was feeling and just needed to get these sudden thoughts out.

“It was myself, Kugutsu, Nightingale, Tanken and Orochi.” Taka immediately stated, suddenly looking as white as a sheet. Just being reminded of their gruesome discovery was almost enough to make him sick again.

“I thought so.” Maki mused, biting her thumb nail out of anxiety. “And we haven’t encountered Kugutsu or Nightingale again after their attacks.” You could hear a pin drop at that moment. Maki’s words sunk in so fast that it was like a freight train had hit the other three. The whole situation felt like it had increased tenfold.

“Are you saying that…they were fucking killed too?!” Mondo started growling as the air around him had started to turn hit. “That son of a bitch! If I get my hands on him, I’ll pound him so hard, that even plastic surgery won’t reconstruct his face!” Kaito wanted to say a snappy “get in line” comment but he didn’t know why he stayed silent. Something didn’t feel right.

“I don’t understand!” Taka suddenly started to shout. He was running his fingers through his hair and his body started to shake. “Why would Orochi kill them?! Why would he kill all of them?! How could it have come to this?!”

“Taka! Bro! Calm down!” Mondo immediately said as he dropped his temper. He started to focus more on calming down the other Limitless.

“You’re going to draw attention to us.” Maki added, stepping towards the two. They really need to be careful with that creature lurking around outside somewhere. As this was going on, Kaito suddenly had an awful, gut wrenching feeling. It combined violently to the bad feeling that he had just a moment ago. There was a change, the presence of something. He didn’t know what it was. All he felt was this silent warning, telling him to look up. And he froze in horror as he did.

“Shit!” He exclaimed in fright.

“What, kid?” Mondo asked, breaking the conversation that the others three were having.

“SNAKE!” Kaito yelled at the top of his lungs.

The others followed his eyes, right into the bright green eyes of Dekuhebi!

[skyxskywlkr]

I know it’s not canon so for all the little cod boys get off my dick lemme explain 🗣️🗣️🗣️

What if soap and ghost were close like how they are now in the original cod timeline. It’s getting to the end where ghost’s fate is sealed with shepherd, and before he deploys for the mission he makes Johnny promise him something.

“Soap, a word?” Ghost raised his tone to catch his old friend’s attention. “There’s my favorite Lt!”, Ghost rolled his eyes under his balaclava. “Listen to me johnny, and listen closely. I’m getting prepared to go after shepherd. Roach is assigned with me but I need you to keep me a promise.” The atmosphere was already tense when around ghost, but this was different. This time there wasn’t no drills, no training, no 141, not even no Lieutenant Ghost Riley. This was Simon Riley and he was troubled underneath.

“Look Johnny, we know what we got ourselves into when we signed up for this joint. You and me we ain’t 𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐡 gonna make it.” As much as it hurt to admit Simon knew as well as any other he wasn’t destined to make it out of here alive, and he was okay with that. His entire life he was always ruled by law and order. From a little boy who grew up in a small home in Manchester. Trying to provide for his family by the time he was the age of 6 because they were so poor they couldn’t even afford noodles. Countless nights of hearing his mother scream because his dead beat father would always put his hands on her. It traumatized him for life, and the only thing he thought he could to get away from that was to enlist. Hell, even they didn’t want him.

“Look” Simon’s throat tightened. “Just look out for y/n when I’m gone Johnny. Tell her not to look for me, don’t try to come and find me.” At this point soap was speechless hearing this come from a man who was always stone cold to the bone. “I love her. More then anything I love the hell out of her”. Ghost reached behind his neck undoing his dog tags. “Here” he hands them over to Soap. “Ghost I- “stop” he was cut off by Simon. “Just give these to her. Protect her Johnny if any of us is getting out it’s you.” Simon puts his gloved hand on Soap. “You’re my brother” either the oxygen depleted or soap was on the verge of tears. Either way it was getting really difficult to breathe. “Y’all look out for each other, ya hear me?” It took a moment for soap to collect himself. “Of course brother” both of the boys shook hands. Not in a professional way but in a farewell my friend way. “SOAP! GHOST!” The captain diverted the attention barking across the other side of the base. “Let’s go end this, yeah Lt?” Little did soap know that was the last time he was going to see his old friend.

No, next time he seen Simon he was buried 6 feet underground of dirt with a cross that printed his identity on it. Shepherd will pay for this. Soap was going to avenge his fallen friend even if he had to go down along with the general. Once the service was over and everyone left and payed their respects, Johnny noticed you. Sitting on the concrete bench that sat next to Simon’s headstone. Soap approached you. “Hey y/n” you looked up at soap dressed up in his uniform. He took a seat next to you. Nothing but silence filled the air. “I… I can’t leave him here Johnny” you was on the verge of a mental breakdown. You wanted to scream, cry, yell. You wanted revenge. A sob left your mouth. Soap felt sorry he didn’t know what to do. A tear escaped his eye and he pulled you in for a hug. “I’m so sorry y/n. For all of it” you crumbled in Johnny’s arms. After all this time, did it have to end like this? “I have something Simon wanted me to give you” soap reached in his slacks to pull out a pair of dog tags that printed the name of your dead lover. “Here” he placed the tags in your palm and closed his hands over it. “He would have wanted you to have them” this scrap of metal was the only lasting reminder of Simon Ghost Riley. You clenched onto them. “Why’re you doing this Johnny?” There had to be an explanation behind it all. “Before shepherd’s betrayal. I gave my word to Simon I would take care of you and look after you.” Of course sounds like something Simon would make Johnny promise him. “Right. I’m sure the words of ‘don’t let her go off the rails or don’t let revenge consume her’ was in there as well”. A small laugh left soap. “Yeah something like that” he grabbed your hand and held it with a firm grip that brought your attention to his eyes. “He loved you y/n” you sniffled. The tears making it hard to inhale through your nose. “Yeah. Yeah I know”.

[starks-hero]

Right a Wrong

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Summary: You, Sam and Bucky get to work repairing Sam’s family boat. Turns out the boat isn’t the only thing in need of fixing. But with help from you and Sam, Bucky figures some stuff out.

Word Count: 3,745

Warnings: a bit of a make-out session but not enough to be classed as smut, tfatws spoilers! 1x05

a/n: This is a direct result of watching episode 5 too many times. Spoilers below!

|| Part Two ||

Small waves lapped gently against the dock and the afternoon sun warmed your back as you worked on the old boat.

You were standing side by side with Bucky, crowbar in hand as you attempted to pry off the old metal cleats from the boats side, whilst he expertly pulled rusted pipes apart and threw them into a pile. As if on queue, one of the pipes on the opposite side of the ship burst, hissing and spurting out white clouds of steam. You marvelled at how quickly Bucky reacted, quickly crossing the deck and sealing the leak with an abrupt upward turn of the pipe with his metal arm.

"Where did you learn so much about fixing boats?" You teased, motioning to the now fixed pipe with your crowbar. Bucky dusted off his hands.

"I used to work on the docks in Brooklyn before the war." He shrugged, rolling up his sleeves to the elbow and taking a seat on a crate next to you. "I picked up a few things."

He furthered his point by leaning over and pulling at the cleat you'd been grappling with. It came away from where it was attached to the boat's side with ease in Buckys iron grip. He smirked as he tossed the scrap aside and you rolled your eyes.

"Show off."

Bucky chuckled, sitting back as Sam stepped onto the boat. He was carrying a crate in one hand and shook his head when he noticed Bucky's smirk and your dismissive smile.

"Alright, you two." He placed the crate down and pulled out two green bottles, throwing one to Bucky and handing you the other. "Beer break."

Sam took a seat across from you both and you sighed as you opened your beer, raising it up to Bucky.

His annoyance was discredited by the fond smile that broke through his expression as he begrudgingly clinked his bottle with yours. You reached over and did the same with Sam as the three of you relaxed under the heat of the Louisiana sun.

"It's starting to look good," you noted as you glanced around the boat and Sam smiled.

"Yeah, it's coming together." He took a swig of his beer. "You know, Sarah and I were talking." He started and both you and Bucky glanced up at him. "And we could use the help. Don't suppose you two would consider staying around a while? Just till we get a lead on Karli."

The offer caused a noticeable smile to pull at your lips whilst Bucky shifted beside you at Sam's words. His agitation grew and he stood.

"I've got my plane to catch tomorrow, a hotel room for the night," he said, raising his bottle to his lips to hide his doubt. He really didn't have that much of a plan beyond that.

"You're just gonna set me up like that, huh?" Sam asked and Bucky shrugged.

"Well, I don't want to make it weird for your family."

"Just stay here," Sam said and you couldn't help but nod subconsciously. The truth was you really didn't really want to leave. There was something about staying with the Wilson's and spending the day fixing up an old run-down family boat that made everything seem so normal. It gave you a sense of home, a sense of normality that you hadn't had in a long time. For a while, it even made you forget about the flag smashers, Walker, all of it. It was a much-needed break.

"The people in this town are the most welcoming in the world. They don't care if you wear small t-shirts or if you've got six toes or if your mom is your aunt-"

You laughed and Bucky barely hid a chuckle behind a huff of breath and a bright smile.

"Okay, I get it. The people are nice."

You placed your bottle aside and turned to Sam.

"You're sure Sarah doesn't mind?" you asked and Sam's smile only widened.

"She's the one that offered."

Grinning, you sat back and nodded. "Then I don't see why not."

"See?" Sam pointed to you and then Bucky. "Just stay, man."

Bucky shuffled his feet for a moment before finally answering with a begrudging, "Okay. Alright." He didn't say anything else as he turned and walked down the boat.

"He'll come around. He probably just wants his space." You said, picking up your beer. Sam nodded, taking a swig of his own drink.

"I hope you're right."

You woke up feeling more refreshed than you had in a while. Your hands and back hurt slightly from the tiring work on the boat, but it was a dull ache compared to the constant throbbing that came after a mission. Your cheeks were warm, surely as a result of the hours spent out in the sun the day before.

Both you and Bucky stayed the night. Sarah had offered you the spare room and after a solid fifteen minutes of bickering, you finally conceded to Bucky and agreed to sleep in the guest bed. He took the couch.

The sun was just beginning to rise up over the water when you and Bucky both headed back out to the boat. Sam joined you not long after. You worked until mid-afternoon, reluctantly taking short breaks. You fell into a quick rhythm as you worked around the boat. Surprisingly, the three of you seemed to make a pretty decent team off of the battlefield.

"Hey, can you pass me a 12-300?" Sam asked from under the boat's control panel. Bucky reached into the toolbox and placed the wrench in Sam's outstretched hand. A few seconds later Sam was rolling out from under the controls and glaring disapprovingly at Bucky.

"What?"

"I asked for a 12-300," Sam stated plainly. "This is a 10-250."

"No, it's not." Bucky bit back.

"Yes, it is."

"No, it's not!"

"Hey, geniuses." You cut their bickering short as both men turned to look at you. You held up the grease-slick wrench that had been misplaced and tossed it to Sam. "You left it below deck when you were working on the engine."

Sam muttered a quiet 'thanks' as he got back to work. Silence settled over the three of you for a few minutes until Sam decided it was getting awkward.

"So, are you still planning on leaving tonight?" He asked from under the station and Bucky nodded, before realising Sam couldn't see him.

"Yeah," he said loud enough for Sam to hear. "I'll be out of your way soon."

You could hear Sam's sigh from beneath you as he clambered back to his feet and stood between you and the super-soldier leaning against the wall of the cabin.

"Well, there's no hurry."

Sam didn't say anything else as he cleaned the oil and grease from his hands with a cloth and stepped off the boat. Bucky sighed and let his head fall back behind him.

"Go," you ordered plainly and he looked up at you.

"What?"

"Go," you said again, nodding your head towards where Sam was walking away. "You both need to talk. Bucky, whatever you're not saying, it's getting to you. So go talk to him."

Bucky hesitated, chewing on the inside of his cheek. He glared at nothing in particular but his gaze softened when it found you and he muttered a quiet, 'fine.' You stepped aside as he made his way past you and stepped up onto the dock, heading after Sam.

"And don't be a smart ass!" You called after him. He didn't reply, but you could only hope that Sam and Bucky's conversation would be somewhat constructive.

"Nice shot!" You retrieved the football from the back of the goal as Cass, Sam's eldest nephew, celebrated his score.

Once Sam and Bucky had left the boat, you had headed back to the house, helping Sarah with any errands or chores, doing anything you could to help out. Sam and Bucky had been gone a little over an hour and you didn't know if that meant their talk was going very well or very not. You'd been sitting rather uselessly on the couch, waiting in anticipation, when Sam's nephews had invited you to play a game of football. And how could you refuse?

You tossed the ball back to the boys who eagerly pounced at it. You were stood in the small goal, allowing both boys to take as many shots as they wanted. AJ stepped forward and kicked the ball, groaning when it flew off to the left, a few meters away from where you were standing and missed the net entirely. He glanced down at the ground, disheartened.

“Hey, it's alright, AJ.” You smiled as you ran to grab the ball and passed it back to him. “Come on, try again.”

With encouragement from his brother, he took the shot and this time the ball planted itself in the top corner of the goal. Both boys cheered as they celebrated and you smiled. You dusted yourself off, your knees and hands covered in dust from the football game as you turned to head back inside the house. Both boys protested as you left but you promised them you'd be back. The more time you spent with AJ, Cass, Sam and Sarah, the more you didn't want to leave. There was something about staying with the Wilson's that made you feel content. It was homely and offered a sense of normality that the last few weeks had caused you to miss.

You entered the kitchen and poured yourself a glass of water. Sarah had told you over and over again to help yourself to anything in the kitchen. You leaned against the counter, glass in hand and just basked in the feeling of not having to worry about donning a suit and risking your life at a moments notice. It was something you could get used to.

“That was adorable.”

Your head snapped up at the sound of a voice and you found Bucky joining you in the kitchen. He was smirking fondly.

“You and the boys.”

You chuckled softly and shrugged. “They're sweet kids.”

Bucky nodded, pulling a glass of his own from the shelf and filling it with water from the tap. It furthered the sense of domesticity that you were really starting to love. He took a seat at the table across from you.

“So,” you started as you placed your own glass aside. “How did it go? You and Sam.”

Bucky chuckled and you couldn't tell if it was sarcastic or genuine, but something about the grin that lingered on his lips had you banking on the latter.

‘‘Not bad,” he admitted eventually with a shrug. He hesitated for a moment before continuing. “We talked. He said if I'm going to fix anything, if I'm going to get what's left of him out of my mind.” Bucky subconsciously ran his hand across his temple. “I'm going to have to put in the work. Help the people I wronged instead of just saying sorry.”

You nodded, silently making a note to thank Sam later on. He always had a way with words, he could always get through to people. That's why he was given the shield.

“He's got a point.”

Bucky scoffed and hung his head at your words. “I should have known you'd be on his side.” There was no hostility in his words. He just sounded amused, and maybe a little tired.

“I don't think this comes down to whose side I'm on, Bucky. We both want what's best for you.” You answered honestly and Bucky glimpsed up at you. He anxiously toyed with his hands as you spoke, looking vulnerable, and slightly lost despite how hard he tried to hide it. You knew Sam had already spoken to him, but it couldn't hurt for you to say something as well.

“Look Bucky, telling yourself that you're okay and that everything that happened doesn't matter anymore because you've made 'amends' isn't going to help.”

He sighed, shuffling his feet against the tiles of the kitchen floor. “I know,” he admitted quietly.

“And I know you're probably tired of hearing this but, you're not him anymore, Bucky. You're not the winter soldier. Everything you did whilst you were him wasn't your choice. Just because you remember it doesn't mean that it was your fault. It's not your responsibility to fix it.”

Bucky sighed but didn't interrupt. He was listening. This wasn't like the therapist that he was forced to sit in front of and lie to every other week. This was someone he trusted, someone whose words he valued. Someone he honestly believed could help. He sighed but nodded to show that he was still listening.

“I think Sam’s right,” you said. “It might not be your responsibility to fix everything that went wrong but trying could help. It could give you that closure that you keep chasing after. You need to let go, Bucky. You need to forgive yourself. Maybe you just need the people who are hurting to forgive you first. Then you can learn how to do the same.”

Bucky's expression was unreadable. So many emotions flashed across his eyes you found it difficult to pinpoint just one.

“How do I start?” he asked quietly. It just seemed impossible. There were so many people he'd hurt, so many people he'd wronged. He'd left children as orphans, wives as widows and parents childless. How could he possibly start trying to fix or make all those people feel in any way better?

You smiled softly at his question. “Small. One at a time,” you said simply. “Then just keep putting one in front of the other.”

Bucky considered your words, glancing down at his hands as he thought. Before long, a small smirk pulled at his lips.

“I can't decide who'd make a better therapist. You or Sam,” he joked and you laughed, shaking your head dismissively.

“Well, Sam did council veterans so I think he takes that title.”

“I'd say it's pretty tied,” Bucky said, walking across the kitchen and standing next to you as he washed his glass, drying it off and placing it back on the shelf. The room fell into a comfortable silence.

“Thank you, Y/N.” He said after a moment, his tone sincere and his expression genuine as he looked at you. You nodded, gently placing your hand against his shoulder.

“Don't mention it. You know I'm always here if you need to talk.”

The sound of a football colliding with the wall dangerously close to the window followed by two voice's loudly shouting, 'sorry!' in unison drew a quaint laugh from you both.

“Duty calls.” You grinned, patting Bucky on the back as you passed him. “Team Wilson is missing its goalkeeper.”

Bucky chuckled, watching you go. You crossed the kitchen but his voice stopped you just as your hand reached the doors handle.

“Y/N?”

You turned back around to face him and couldn't help but notice that he seemed a little more apprehensive than he had before.

“Yeah?”

He exhaled slowly, willing himself to tell you what was on his mind.

“I was just thinking things over and you know, I’m leaving today,” he hesitated slightly before glancing up at you. “And I guess I was wondering if you’d come with me?”

Your hand slipped from where it was still holding the brass handle of the door. You tilted your head as your mind fully processed his question. The shock must have been evident in your expression as Bucky rushed to continue.

“I know you're planning on staying here and I get why.” He pulled a tattered red book from his pocket which you immediately recognized as Steve’s. He began absentmindedly turning the pages, running his fingers over the paper. “I want to try and start fixing things, making things right. But truth is I have no idea where to start. I thought that maybe you could help me with that?”

“I thought you wanted your space," you admitted after a moment.

“No.” He shook his head. “That's the last thing I want.”

You thought it over, resting your back against the door. Bucky trusted you, evidently a lot more than you thought he did. Not only was he comfortable enough telling you how he felt and admitting he didn't know what to do next. But he also wanted you with him. It was clear he was holding back, not wanting to overwhelm you by admitting just how badly he wanted you to go with him. But the way he eagerly watched you as he waited patiently for your answer was a dead give away.

You wanted to help Bucky, you wanted to be there for him. If that meant helping him right his wrongs and staying with him during that trying time, at least until Sam got a lead on Karli and the Flag Smashers, then you were more than happy to comply.

“You're sure about this?” you asked and Bucky pushed off the counter and crossed the room, stopping just in front of you.

“Absolutely.” His voice dropped down to a hushed whisper. “Come with me.” His hand gently caught your wrist, his fingers running up your arm. His face was inches from yours now, your breaths mingling. “Please?”

His lips pressed to yours before you could answer and you immediately kissed back. Your hand fell against his shoulder, the other laying gently against the nape of his neck. He groaned quietly against you, his arms finding your waist as he gently guided you backwards till your back met the wall. He pressed into you, his hands roaming up your body and you moaned as he deepened the kiss.

“Yes.” You answered when he pulled away slightly and he smiled against you, relieved. Neither of you said anything else as Bucky sighed and pulled you closer, his thigh slipping between your legs as he pinned you to the wall.

God, he'd wanted to do this for so long. Wanted to kiss you, to feel you against him. He wanted you. Your hand slipped into his hair and you pulled him closer, smirking against him. You'd wanted this just as bad. And you both only had your own stubbornness to blame for taking so damn long. It didn't matter now though. Not as he gently bit down on your lower lip and you slipped your hand under his shirt and felt up his chest. It all felt so natural, so right.

“Ten minutes.”

Both your eyes flew open at the all too familiar voice, Bucky pulling away from you so quickly he only barely avoided falling over a nearby chair.

“I left you two alone to talk for ten minutes,” Sam repeated from where he was standing on the other side of the room, his arms crossed. You tried to subtly smoothen out your clothes whilst Bucky ran his hand through his tangled hair.

“We were,” Bucky said, clearing his throat. “We were talking. We...talked.”

Sam nodded, entirely unconvinced, and smirked. He reclined against the counter, showing no sign of leaving anytime soon. A painfully awkward silence settled over the kitchen as Sam continued to shift his knowing stare from you to Bucky.

The humiliation of the entire situation seemed to get to Bucky first as he clasped his hands together after less than a minute.

“You know, what? I'm leaving in a few hours and I've got to pack so I better just go-” Bucky rambled as he shot you a subtle apologetic look before turning to Sam, who was nodding along in faux agreement to his pathetic attempt of an excuse.

Bucky quickly crossed the kitchen, Sam harshly patting him on the back as he passed him and left the room. Leaving just you and Sam alone. You turned to your friend and found that he was still grinning at you with that same mischievous look in his eyes. You felt like a deer in headlights. In an attempt to act as though Sam hadn't just walked in on you and Bucky making out, you tried making normal conversation.

“Sam, there was actually something I wanted to tell you. I know I said I was going to stay for a while but I guess there's been a change of plan. I-”

“I know.” He cut you off and his smile only widened when you looked at him in utter confusion. “You honestly think he would have asked you to go with him if I didn't tell him to get his shit together first?”

Your confusion slowly melted away and was replaced with a look of disbelief. You laughed despite yourself. You should have known Sam had something to do with it. ‘‘How long have you been playing cupid?” you asked jokingly and Sam chuckled.

“He needs you, Y/N. More than he wants to admit,” Sam said, tone now more serious than before. “Things will be fine here, I'll call you as soon as Torres finds us something to work with. But right now, he needs your help before that hole he's stuck in gets too deep for him to climb out of.”

You sighed as the weight of Sam's words set in. He was right, Bucky really did need you. That wasn't a responsibility you could afford to take lightly. Not that you planned to.

“Thanks, Sam,” you said genuinely and Sam smirked as he crossed the room and pulled you into a hug. He could tell you needed it.

“Anytime.” He pulled away and offered you a warning glare. “But I swear, if you two making out the minute I turn my back becomes a regular thing I'm going to kick both your asses.”

“Got it,” you nodded, barely stifling a laugh.

Sam's scowl melted into a smile and he motioned towards the stairs. “Go on, get your things together. You've got a plane to catch in a few hours.”

You smiled and headed upstairs after Bucky. Sam leaned against the counter with his arms crossed and a satisfied smile. Getting you two together had taken more work than he'd thought. But he knew it would be worth it, you both needed each other. Whether you were willing to admit it or not. And Sam was confident that if there was anyone that could help Bucky and offer him that sense of home and peace that he was so desperately craving, it was you.

tag list: @bakerstreethound​ @miraclesoflove​ @doozywoozy​ @kealohilani-tepise

[patrickswhore]

Karl Heisenberg X male reader

A/n: i couldn’t find any gifs of my daddy so I made one 😂 also sorry for not updating for a while, schools been tough but I’m in self isolation so I have plenty of time to write 😂 also light smut towards the end.

I stood at the back of my house, chopping wood for the burner. The snow fell heavy, making the wood crunch as it hit the cold ground.

I could see my breath as I breathed out in exhaustion. This winter was gonna be tough for me and my family. As the only man in my household and newly turned 21, I was just waiting for my sisters to play match makers and find me a young lady... hopefully that would be a while. In my village, being attracted to the same gender isn’t really a thing. So I’ll just have to suck it up, marry and have kids... you know, conform to society.

I walked inside with the lumber, shaking to get the snow off me like a wet dog. I placed it by the fireplace and threw a few blocks on the fire.

I hung my jacket on the coat rack and walked to the living room where my sister was sitting, chatting with a friend and drinking tea.

“Where’ve you been, (Y/N)? Fooling around with a lady?” My sister asked sarcastically, making fun of my lack of luck with women.

“Very funny, Paula” I rolled my eyes and walked into my moms bedroom, knocking softly on the door before entering.

Mother was laying in bed, looking at the ceiling. I knelt by her side, taking her hand. Ever since father passed away she hasn’t been the same, she lays in bed all day, not talking nor eating much.

“How are you feeling, mother?”

“....”

“I haven’t found a job yet.. but I promise I’ll find the money for your medicine, mother.... I promise”

She didn’t answer, she just kept on staring. I sighed and walked out the room, closing the door softly behind me.

“(Y/N), one of the neighbours came with this letter for you when you were out”

My sister handed me a letter, my name on the front in a crude handwriting. I opened the letter, it had a beautiful wax seal, decorated with a horse. The letter read:

Dear (Y/N)

Congratulations on your 21th birthday. You’ve been selected to come work for Karl Heisenberg at the factory on the outskirts of town. You’ve been selected because of your high grades and physical attributes. Please report to the factory as quickly as possible.

Kind regards, Karl Heisenberg.

My heart skipped a beat, Karl Heisenberg was asking me to come work for him. I couldn’t believe it, I rushed to me and my sisters room, quickly putting on some clean clothes and my prayer shoes. I ran into my mothers room, kneeling besides her once again.

“Mother, great news! I’m gonna go work for Lord Heisenberg...”

“.....”

“I love you mother, I’ll be back soon”

I rushed out, giving my sister a peak on the forehead and storming out the front door and into the freezing weather.

I walked up the hill to the metal doors, the factory was up and running, making a hell of a lot of noise. I banged on the heavy doors before it slowly opened on its own, revealing a room filled with scrap metal.

I heard the cracking sound of an intercom before hearing a low voice speaking.

“Ah! (Y/N) great you’re here so quickly. Please make your way to my office, all you have to do is make a left where you are and walk straight. It’s as easy as that, I’ll be waiting”

That must be lord Heisenberg speaking. I straighten up and walked as I had been instructed to. The condors were cramped and dimly lit by red lamps. I felt like the further into the factory I got, the more a putrid smell started to emerge. I finally reached the door, knocking two times.

“Yeah come on in!”

I slowly pushed open the metal door and was pleased that the wretched smell was now being overpowered by the scent of cigar smoke. There he sat, his back turned to me as I slowly shut the door. His hair was long and rugged, and he was toying with a small knife between his fingers.

“It’s great to finally meet you, (Y/N) (L/N). My men has had their eyes on you for a while, but you’re more impressive in person” the man stood up, he was taller then me to start with, but also physically more pumped. I was kinda scrawny, but the winter without my farther had put some meat on my bones.

“It’s an honor to be able to work for you, lord” I bowed my head slightly before looking up and finding him much closer then before. He put a finger under my chin, inspecting my face from different angels.

“My men were right, you surely are a very beautiful man”

My breath hitched in my throat.

“I beg you pardon?”

“Oh don’t play dumb with me, boy... we both know what you are”

“So that’s why you brought me here... not for work”

“Well a special kind of work, if you catch my drift”

“....”

He let go of my chin, moving a step back. I couldn’t deny it, he was extremely hot, but the thought of not being able to sustain my family drove me mad.

“Don’t worry, you’re getting a job at the factory too, and I’ll pay you handsomely for your services.. I know how much your family needs the money”

A stone lifted from my heart. What had I done for mother Miranda to gift me with such fortune? A well paying job and a handsome boss, who could ask for more?

“When do I start?”

“Well, immediately. But first, I have a question” he asked walking closer to me, slowly pushing me against the wall behind us. One hand on the wall besides my head and the other on my waist.

“Do you find me attractive?” His head was inching closer to my neck. His smell was intoxicating, a mix of sweat, cologne and rusty metal. I couldn’t get enough of him.

“Yes, very much”

“Good, because I need you to fix something for me” he grabbed my wrist with the hand from my waist and guided it to his crotch. I cupped his growing bugle as he made a low growling noise, almost like a dog. I started to softly stroke it as he removed his head from my neck, setting his hat on a nearby table before going back to my neck, kissing and biting along the side. I softly grabbed his dick, sending a shockwave through his body. He pulled back, looking at me through his sunglasses, I could slightly see his eyes which were full of lust. He put both his hands on my waist before moving me to the table, turning me around and bending me over it.

“You like that? You dirty man” he huffed, grinding against my ass, a hand on the back of my neck and another under my shirt on the small of my back.

“I’m gonna fuck you so hard, you hear me?” He gave my ass a hard slap, I cried out in pleasure and surprise, gripping the edge of the table.

I could hear his belt buckle being undone as I waited. Suddenly a voice over the loud speakers outside.

“All four lords, report to the castle immediately. Glory be to mother Miranda”

“You have to be fucking kidding me, what does that super sized bitch want now?” He huffed in annoyance buckling his belt again. I stood up, sitting on the table which I had just been bent over.

“I’ll be back very soon” he placed himself between my legs and gave me a passionate kiss, I of course, kissed back.

He put on his hat before storming out the door. I sighed and hung my head. Fuck...

Bonus:

“You’re late, Heisenberg” Alcina snapped as Karl stomped inside.

“I was in the middle of something”

“In the middle of what? You’re such a-“ she stopped dead in her tracks as Karl sat down, completely forgetting about his huge bulge.

“Oh.. I see, you’ve gotten a bit too happy for one of your experiments again”

Karls eyes widened as he swung his jacket over his lap, covering his crotch.

“Shut up bitch, and stop looking at my dick”

“ watch your mouth, child. Moreau, wanna bet on how long this one is gonna last until he kills him?”

Moreau giggled before getting hit in the back with a sheet of metal.

“Not this one, freak!.... this one is different”

“Mhmm, let’s see about that”

“I’ll rip your fucking over sized head off, you stupid bitch!” The hammer flew into Karls hand before Miranda interrupted.

“I’ll fucking show you... he’s the one”

[armory-rasa]

This week in “Gremble Goofed Up :(”

Two cautionary leatherworking tales for you, my friends, one with a happy ending and one without -- and how to avoid these tragedies yourself.

Story #1

So when I’m tracing my pattern pieces onto leather, I usually use a fine-tip sharpie:

(Behold, three simultaneous pairs of Wonder Woman greaves in progress, from back when that was a Thing.)

Many people use a scratch awl to trace their patterns, so they’re actually pressing and leaving an indentation in the leather, but I prefer not to -- ink is easier to see, pens are easier to control than awls, and I can change the arrangement of the pieces if I find a more efficient way to orient them, whereas if you’ve pressed lines into the leather, those lines are there to stay. Since most things I make get dyed black anyway, it doesn’t matter if a bit of the ink marks are visible on the edges (and beveling them usually shaves off all the remaining ink anyway).

Except this time I was also making Link’s bracer from Breath of the Wild (which is brown), and I accidentally left a different piece face-down on it when I was casing them. For all that sharpie is a “waterproof” ink, it does bleed some, and I wound up with the outline of a Loki bracer right smack in the middle of my Link bracer. 🤦‍♂️ I didn’t think to take a picture of it, but here is the goof recreated with scrap leather:

BUT! I remembered the time when I was making the Anders brigandine, and I had painstakingly numbered the backs of the plates in sharpie so that I would remember how to arrange them -- only for the alcohol-based dye bath to completely strip the sharpie away. So this time I decided to use that to my advantage, but I did want to make sure it would work before I sunk any more time into the bracer. Before doing any tracing or carving or stamping, I took the damp leather and submerged it in dye --

And then the rare I’d been camping in WoW suddenly spawned, and I accidentally left the bracer sitting in the dye bath for fifteen minutes. 🤣

S’all good. The dye bath is very dilute, so by the time I remembered to take it out, it was a nice rich brown, and the sharpie outline was gone.

BUT there’s a reason why you don’t dye until after you’ve done your tooling -- because the leather isn’t dyed all the way through, and the undyed core will show when you start carving lines with your swivel knife:

S’okay! I knew that was going to happen, we can fix it in a later step. And even though it looked kinda funky, it hadn’t been sealed yet, just dyed, so it still behaved as veg-tan ought to, and took the stamping just fine:

And after applying antiqueing paste to it, and getting it into all the undyed crevices, it came out indistinguishable from a Link bracer that had been done correctly from the start:

TA DA! Happy ending. 😊

~

And then the costrel. 

Yep, that’s right -- I fucked up on the very last step, let it overheat in the oven when I was melting the wax to make it waterproof, and it is now permanently ruined. 

The melting point of beeswax is 140-150 F; the polymerization point of leather is around 200 F, which means that you’re walking a fine line between getting the wax hot enough to soak through, without overshooting and killing your leather. Because when leather polymerizes, it shrivels, and there is no fixing that, or ameliorating it, or walking it back. 

(This is why I hate waxing -- because it’s the final thing you do to a project, and it runs the risk of destroying the whole thing. I know it would be less stressful if I were better at it, but waxing leather isn’t something I get a great deal of practice with, so I am behind the curve on this particular skill.)

My mistake here was not putting adequate padding between the costrel and the metal tray it was resting on -- I had put down a couple sheets of butcher paper, but what I should have done (wound up doing for the rest of it) was crumpling up some paper towels for it to rest on, to keep it elevated from touching the metal.

Live and learn. =/

I did go ahead and finish it, for the sake of getting more familiar with the process -- and the costrel did indeed turn out waterproof and completely functional. I’m just mad at myself for making a mistake that cost me a day and a half of work, and ruining a project that came out otherwise perfect.

[thebookworm0001]

"Don't look at me like that" for the prompt ask? :D

Thank you so much for the prompt!!!

This went silly, then sexy, then silly again. Enjoy!!

ao3 link: here

Ellana avoided looking at the heavy door that led to the rotunda, hoping her purposeful gait would ward off any stray visitors or companions from catching her attention before she found her way into the undercroft. Neither Dagna nor Harritt were in their customary spots, a fact which Ellana breathed a sigh of relief over. Both the old blacksmith and new arcanist were fine enough company, but she worried that one of them might somehow read her thoughts if she spoke to them. Especially Danga. She wouldn’t put it past the dwarf to have made a device that would let her project another’s thoughts into the air as an amusing side project in-between curing the Blight and designing an enchantment to permanently seal demons in the Fade. Though Ellana had a sneaking suspicion she was working on other, less world-altering projects in the Herald’s Rest. Something that involved honey, if not bees themselves. Hopefully it would keep her occupied long enough for Ellana to spend her day unnoticed.

She made her way to the weapons forge, where raw supplies and discarded scraps lay scattered from the past days’ work. Harriet had been experimenting with new designs for the inquisition’s warriors with little success. Ellana, at least, had a schematic in mind - a new attempt at a war hammer for Bull. It needed to be sturdy, so the Reaver’s preference for Dawnstone wasn’t an option, but she figured finding a suitable metal with enough pink to satisfy her friend would take her the better part of the day. An alloy, perhaps. Or a plating if possible.

Ellana was deep into her calculations to determine how she might combine molten silverite and drakestone into a suitable whole when the door to the undercroft lurched open, and she nearly jumped out of her skin at the sound.

The unfortunate servant apologized profusely, but insisted their message was urgent. Ellana had thanked him, glanced at the still-warm seal on the letter, and decided if it were urgent enough another messenger would find their way to her. It was a sentiment which proved true enough, with several servants from various parts of the castle arriving with missives, each of white she directed to deposit their envelopes and pieces of parchment onto a nearby work-bench. When it became clear none were returning to request a more timely response, she settled into her work. She began shaping the weapon itself, determining weight and composition and balance, and left the growing pile of papers to speak for itself.

By the time the setting sun began to tint the sky beyond the undercroft’s balcony pink and orange, Ellana had long since grown deaf to the opening and closing of the heavy wooden door. Neither Danga nor Harriet had returned, occupied by whatever obligations they held beyond the forge’s walls, and so when the door opened again, she paid whomever entered through it no mind. But when they cleared their throat, a polite and apologetic noise, she froze. Then her whole body turned hot.

“Inquisitor,” Solas greeted her stiffly. “I was wondering if we might discuss what you experienced in the Fade last night.”

“I-“ If it were possible for her face to become more flushed, Ellana was certain she rivaled dragon fire for color. And heat. She set her tools aside and stretched her fingers. She kept her gaze focused on the way she bent each digit back against the muscle memory that ached to curl them against her palm. “It wasn’t as though I planned to- even with the anchor and the exercises I can’t control-”

Images of her dream flashed across her mind. The innocent beginnings. Haven’s courtyard. A conversation so like the ones they’d had in the Inquisition’s early days. The sun was warm on her face and bringing a light to his that she’d so rarely seen. Solas glowed. New freckles forming on his cheekbones and the deep-set lines fading from his face. She couldn’t help herself from reaching out to touch. And when she had, he’d caught her thumb between his lips. She’d pulled back, startled, then suddenly found herself caught up in his arms, pressed tightly against him in a way… it had been years. And the warmth then was different. Calmer, more languid. This was a new warmth. Insistent. Needing. It made her grasp at his sides and her thoughts silent to everything but his mouth against hers. And the distant fact that his bed lay mere feet beyond the doorway behind them. Nearly as soon as that knowledge made its presence known, she had found herself inside. The edge of his mattresses pressed against the back of her thighs, and her stomach flipped at the way his hands slid down her body to cup her ass.

Then the air had shifted, little more than a breeze off the mountain, and her attention was drawn to the figure who had appeared in the now-open doorway. The world froze, floor and furniture alike icing over, when she realized it was Solas. Solas who was watching her, cheeks pink and lips parted, as she’d practically flung herself at an imitation of his form. The spirit, for that’s what it had been, sighed, then dragged itself away from her. Tendrils of desire clung to her as it dissipated into the blurred edges of her dream. Then she, blessedly, woke herself. Only to find the dream still lingering in her body and mind and her spirit too wracked with embarrassment to do anything about it one way or the other. 

She had successfully avoided Solas, and this conversation, until now. 

“I will try to ensure it does not happen again.” 

“That is not necessary.” He spoke quickly, the words tumbling out of his mouth in a rush. Ellana’s gaze shot to Solas, whose eyes were wide as though surprised at himself. She sat, frozen, as he cleared his voice. “What I mean to say is,” he said, slower now, “dreams of that nature, lucid or otherwise, are not unnatural. Spirits of Desire are some of the oldest and strongest beings in the Fade. In my journeys, only beings of Pride rival their number. To be visited by one is rather common. Though I understand you may have less experience with them than some.” He shifted his weight from foot to foot, but gave no other sign of emotion. “I wanted to assure you that there was no harm in exploring such… encounters. Given reasonable boundaries.” He nodded his head once, an action that seemed designed to reassure himself of the end of his lecture rather than signal any sort of approval on his part. 

“Reasonable boundaries,” she squeaked. She could have slapped herself. Creators, why couldn’t she have just thanked him and gone back to pretending like she didn’t exist. Or spontaneously combust. Blame it on a demon and be done with the conversation. 

“I- yes.” He wet his lips. “A spirit is no more a dangerous partner than any made of flesh. So long as all parties are not pushed into actions they would not otherwise take, there is no harm in letting a dream take its course. Should the dreamer be aware, there would be other considerations. But as you said, you were not conscious of your actions.” Solas’s cheeks turned pink, the color spreading from his face to his ears and neck.

Ellana shifted her weight from foot to foot, lowering her eyes from his gaze. It was some consolation to know he was equally as mortified by his observation as she. But that didn’t dismiss the yawning pit in her stomach. Or the thought that perhaps jumping from the retaining wall of the undercroft was, in fact, an appropriate way to avoid ever encountering Solas again. Though she doubted anyone would be inclined to agree with her. Instead, she tried to find the words that would release them from their discomfort without simply walking away. They deserved the dignity of a half-assed excuse, surely. One would not come to her, however. Instead, she continued staring at the floor like a da’len caught thrown on their ass by an angry halla. 

In the end, she decided she would simply say farewell and nurse her injured pride in a cold bath. But when she managed to meet his eyes again, embarrassment was not the only thing she saw there. His pupils were wide, darkening his soft gray eyes into a deep black where a familiar hunger lived. She had seen it before - when she had kissed him in the Fade, and he’d responded by pulling her onto his leg and returning her stolen pack with a fervor matched only in Cassandra’s smutty literature. The idea that Solas was embarrassed not for intruding on her lurid dreams, but for something else entirely… 

Somehow the thought made her stand up straighter. In the past, such kinds of attention had made her shrink. Or, given from Anhen, culminated in evenings which she was glad to share with him, but could not find it within herself to seek out on her own. The instinct to press forward, to pursue, had never been natural to her. But the spark of it caught, somehow, and her curiosity of where it might take her seemed enough to put aside her thoughts of fleeing. 

“And,”  she said, turning her head and looking up through her lashes, half-hiding behind the stray locks that had fallen from her braid, “If I had been conscious?”

The air grew thick around them, and Solas swallowed. His lips parted as he searched for words, then closed. He lowered his brows and lines of concern decorated his forehead. 

Shit.

She shouldn’t have pushed. New feelings aside, he had asked for time. This, whatever this was, was not time. And this was not the time or the place or Creators anywhere close to the appropriate circumstance to bring up that conversation again. She cursed herself again, and readied an apology. 

She did not have the chance to utter it.

“I suppose it would depend.” He took a step toward her, and she had to lean her head back to see his face.

“On?” she breathed.

“Whether you were seeking an encounter with a spirit.” His fingers wrapped around the tail of her braid. “Or the imitation of another’s company.” Ellana’s hair stood on end as his fingers ghosted over her skin. “If it is the former, that would be between the spirit and yourself.” He tilted his head as if examining how the tendrils of her hair fell over his hands was his singular focus. He tangled his fingers in the ends of the leather cord that held her plait together. She wondered if he would untie it. “If it is the latter…” His gaze traveled up, and landed on her lips. “There are occasions, rare as they may be, when the Fade alone cannot do the waking world justice.” The long delicate lines of his fingers traveled up her neck and rested beneath her chin. His thumb teased her lower lip, the very edge of a time-worn callus tracing its outline. Light from the setting sun bounced off the mountains, scattering droplets of rose and gold along the high plains of his face. It was though the gold leaf he favored in his murals found a new canvas to adorn. In her mind’s eye, she reached out to brush the gilding from his cheeks. And in the waking world, her body followed. 

His face was so very close to hers. Slivers of the soft purple in his eyes shone in the dusk light. And his lips. When she turned her gaze to them, she could not pull it away. How could she have not recognized she was dreaming? The spirit has achieved the broad strokes of him but had not managed the details. It had not managed the gentle curl of his ears or the slight hook to his nose. It had not remembered the bags under his eyes - fine circles won from age and experience rather than a lack of sleep. Nor did it remember the small split in his lip, newly pink and healed, from their last excursion to the Hinterlands. She hadn’t seen him take the blow that caused it, only the bloody aftermath. He’d allowed her to attempt to heal it, an improvement from the last time she’d asked to practice her meager skills in that kind of magic. Her hand had hovered over his lips, a pale blue light tinting his face, and the wound had knitted itself shut. It had taken her too long to pull away. But he had not moved away either. 

Warmth bloomed on her waist, and a lithe hand urged her forward. Solas spoke, a string of elvhen whose meaning was lost behind the rush in her ears and the way the whole of her attention was focused on the way he cradled her jaw in his hand. But his words were delicious. Foreign as they were, she knew that much. And she wanted to taste them. To swallow them as he spoke and learn their meaning from his tongue. His mouth was mere moments from hers. If she tilted her chin just so…

Ice doused her body as the ancient creak of the undercroft door sent adrenaline pouring into her veins. Ellana sprang backwards, heart hammering in her every cell, only to be held tight by the sudden shift of Solas’s grip to her hand and neck. His fingers dug into her flesh, seeking the center of the Anchor and her pulse. The tension in his skin and the glow of the magic in her palm turned his fingers a sickly, pale green. 

“Oh! Goodness!” From the corner of her eye, Ellana saw Dagna light up. “Are you studying the Anchor? It’s incredible, isn’t it?” Her arcanist was ever cheery. And apparently oblivious to the nature of the scene she’d interrupted. Otherwise Josie had managed to overlook quite the diplomatic resource. Regardless, Solas gave no indication that his presence was anything more than professional.

“Indeed,” he said, eyes fixed to the center of her palm. “Beautiful and dangerous in equal measure.” His fingers slid across the delicate skin on her throat to the back of her neck, a movement easily written off as a shift of his grip as he measured her pulse. But it left his thumb resting on her pulse, a placement that made it all too easy to confuse another’s heartbeat with one’s own, and his fingers had found their way into her hair. He still did not look at her.

“I know; it’s amazing! Like a little piece of the Fade is stuck in her hand.” She let out a small, excitable noise. “Since you’re here, do you think I could take more samples? The first ones already told us so much - I can’t imagine what we might learn from how it’s changed over time.”

Solas’s lip twitched. “I suppose,” he said, “that would fall to the Inquisitor. I see no harm in it. And she has been exceptionally generous with herself as of late; I doubt you would find her much opposed.” He looked at her finally, his eyes shining with mischief, and it took all her willpower not to stare at him open-mouthed. 

“You have been pretty helpful lately, Inquisitor. Sera says you’re starting to stretch yourself a bit thin actually.” Dagna scrunched her brow and pursed her lips. “Maybe another time then. We should be getting to bed anyway. Can’t save the world with a tired mind!” 

“Well said,” Ellana managed, and cleared her throat as the arcanist disappeared into the darkness now masking the undercroft’s landing. She dipped her head, trying to ward off the incredulous smile that threatened to overtake her face. Solas, meanwhile, had no such reservation, an amused smirk capturing his mouth. Ellana rolled her eyes.

“Don’t look at me like that.” Solas released her and placed a hand on his chest in false ignorance. 

“I’ve no idea what you mean.” He smiled widely. The sun dipped below where the horizon could reach, and the darkness enveloped them both. His eyes flashed, and the sconces lit with veilfire. Before they settled into a warm orange glow, though, she swore she saw figures dance and entwine in the flames. “Sweet dreams, Inquisitor,” he whispered, lips brushing the edge of her ear. She turned to grab him, but her hands grasped nothing but air. The door creaked, and she was alone.

Creators, she was screwed.

[zinzinina]

Don’t mind me, just serving myself a warm little slice of catharsis pie because canon didn’t.

So, consider: Rex and Echo standing on the edge of the Venator, watching the fog roll over Bracca.

The last several months have aged Rex. There's a little less softness in the expression lines of his face; deeper hollows under his eyes. Echo's memories have him smooth-faced; standing with a towel over his bare shoulders as bleach coats his freshly-buzzed hair. His proud expression brooks no humour as he barks at Fives to finish up shaving and step aside from the locker room basins. Kix eyes himself shrewdly in the mirror, turning his head from side to side to assess the symmetry of his own shorn head, and there’s the low, smooth sound of Tup singing in the tiled showers. Now, the dark shadow of regrowth in the captain's hair is peppered with real silver.

“It might have been different.” Echo doesn’t look at Rex as he says it, but he knows he’s listening. “If I’d been there… I know it would have been different.”

He’s thinking of the cycles of binary he’d intercepted on Skako Minor, skipping through his subconscious somewhere between waking and dreaming. The encoded GAR reports had felt almost indistinguishable from his own memories. The Marshal Commander’s grim findings handed down from Umbara. That time he and Fives switched armour, fooling precisely nobody and earning them both double overnight watch shifts from an unimpressed O’Niner. A brief, bare-bones summary of a medically-induced friendly fire incident involving CT-5385, then another with CT-5555. He’s thinking of that Jedi kid’s face contorting in terror. The sound of his master screaming run, run, as her voice is drowned under blaster fire.

Rex sounds just as weary as his face looks, but he still holds the easy, confident lilt of command. “There’s no use following that line of thought. Won’t do you any good.”

The older man raises a hand to clap his breastplate, and Echo flinches before he can catch himself. The gesture is too familiar. He looks away, grinding his teeth. It’s not Rex’s fault. It’s not. But it doesn’t ease the tense spike of heat that prickles all the way down to the phantom fingertips of his right hand.

The dry, seedlike patter of rain begins around them, the sound stretching out across kilometres of scrapped metal. Echo doesn’t raise his voice, but he’s standing close enough that it doesn’t matter.

“I would have believed him.”

And there it is. Rex’s posture stiffens, but he doesn’t say anything. They both watch the dimness thicken, moisture beading their skin. When Rex nods to himself, turning to go, Echo finally looks up at the expression on his face. There’s no anger, or hurt, or even regret. Just more tiredness.

“The offer’s still there, whenever you want it.” He turns his bucket around in his hands, the weld-lines green with age under the worn blue paint. “If things go downhill with the squad here, you know how to get in touch. You have a place with me, vod.”

Rex doesn’t wait for Echo’s answer. His helmet seals engage with a clean little snick as he turns to pick his way carefully over the slippery metal, posture as upright as always. He disappears fast; armour the same shade as the mist.

managed to screw this up the first time, let’s try again:

@kaorikoizumi @bvcketfvcker @saradika @mandaloriandin @whatanoof @thiccumz @rexsjaigeyes @sgtdogmastyle @phoenixhalliwell @just-fics-i-read @tacticalsparkles @alucas528 @chromia7567 @herb-welch @sithwitch-crosshairs-toothpick @cannedsoupsucks @clanoffetts @delusionsxfgrandeur @bobas-missing-codpiece @ladyopress @writeforfandoms @pinkiemme @justanothersadperson93 @fuckyeahbeskar @hyperfixation-archives @bedky @parkotedarasuum @space-b33 @14mcmd1122 @justanotherstarwarswhore @vaderthepotater @dangerousstrawberrypie @infinity-mars @the-grey-jedi @jakiejellybean @meabravo @coruscant-commander @wecallhimbrowneyess@smoldjarin @techposting @shuttlelauncher81 @galacticgraffiti (shoot me a msg if you want on/off)

[bibliocratic]

clear the area jonmartin, post-MAG200 content warnings in the tags

They earn their ending. A happy-ever-after beyond the gaze of any eyes.

Jon endures his abdication. This world has no Archivists, has need of none, the thankless crown of Knowing finally unburdened from his shoulders. The blood washes off Martin’s hands with soap and scrubbing and scalding water. They live.

The end. In conclusion. Fin.

-

Jon’s new scar, the packaging of his skin split ragged from collarbone to sternum, fades like sun-caught paint. A maw of red pursing to a gummy primrose pink, settling into a rough cartography of white.

The first few months are hard. Brimstone flare-up silences and ice-pick shouting, open-handed forgiveness and closed-fist weeping. They drain themselves to husks with anger and worry and grief until there is enough space for better things to grow there in their stead. Jon’s nightmares were a nightly stormfront to bear, sweated sheets and dawn fanfares of panic and dread, but he is learning now, with the space for his ribs to expand, that it is ok for them to breathe here.

Jon digs up the garden with a rusty trowel until it is a bumpy canvas of mulch and soil, dirt tucked under his fingernails and decorated with smudges up to his elbows. He hums while he irons their shirts in front of the television, thoughtless and senseless with tune.

Martin has tried to, but the sound goes down the wrong way.

-

Martin is happy.

-

It isn’t the sight as such, that might sit as a film over his vision to tinge his waking sepia. The reddest thing they own is a terracotta plant plot brimming with raggedy thyme that lives a precarious cliff-top existence on the kitchen windowsill. He observes Jon’s face in all its variations, even pained – when he snags splinters in his fingers, when he stubs his toe on the stone front step and swears damnation – and his response is sympathy tempered by admonishment.

It’s not the sensation, not really, that might tremble on his skin. Martin’s palms tend to dryness inside their homely bubble of creaky central heating, hemmed in by boisterous coastal winds. He handles bread knives and butter knives and steak knives and carving knives without the muscle memory of other blades, and he thinks he might be getting pretty handy with his oven experimentation.

It’s the sound. It wakes him, the noise lingering like the echo of a slap.

The slick punch of metal into muscle. A tooth-bared, tense-jawed gasp.

Resurfacing to shocked consciousness, he would be seized by a frenzy, to know, to check. His scattering hand scrabbling for the lamp with such force he hit it off the nightstand to roll in a giddy clatter, throwing off the covers to rapidly pollute both of them with the outside air. Jon would be rocked from sleep, groggy, panicked, and Martin’s words would not come, a train of thought trying to race full steam where no one had laid tracks, so it would be just the two of them, exhausted and upset and amping the other up in misery.

Now, upon his rousing, Martin knows not to turn on the light. He does not check. The aftermath of punch-gasp curls in his ear, and he inhale-exhale-inhales with the ferocity of mantra, and clamps the threatened tears in the clench of his teeth.

He does not wake Jon.

-

“How did you sleep?”

“Oh, you know me. Like a log.”

-

He is happy. He is. Why wouldn’t he be?

--

Jon rumbles like a rusty mechanism with snoring whenever he drops off on his back, and he mumbles accusatory when Martin coaxes him to his side. Martin finds black hairs on his pillowcase, in the shower plug. Jon is a vista of experience since the Eye left him, who gets hungry and tired and grumpy and drunk and silly and fed-up and giggly. Jon searches him out with the surety of magnets, and loves him, loves him, loves him. He seals kisses to Martin’s new landscape of extensive scars. Their disagreements, when they surface, are as meaningful and lasting as stones skipped on water.

Martin wanted this. He wants this. The rhythms of domesticity fading to foam on an untroubled shore.

He is out of practise with happiness, that’s all. It doesn’t come to him like breathing. He needs to till the earth of it, shelter its seeds from a thousand circling crows until it bears harvest.

He just has to try harder.

-

Night-time.

An episode or two of something simple, Jon nodding off like a capsizing ship before the credits. Encouraging him up in grousing, unwilling increments, rubbing out the nettle sting of pins and needles up his own arm. Check the locks, the light switches. Brush teeth. Pyjamas. Put his phone to charge, read until Jon succumbs to sleep. Click the light off, pushing Jon onto his side so his mouth doesn’t dry. Jon squirming around like a fastidious octopus until he has at least half his limbs hooked over Martin.

The dark creating shadow play. In the absence, Martin colouring in the gaps with lurid shades of disaster.

A creak – the rattle of a door downstairs, an intruder unfastening the back door, transferring their weight upon the staircase. A unfamiliar scent – the recollection of smoke-stench in his nostrils, the acrid promise of gas, the ferrous pungency of blood. The rain will flood their house to drown them. The wind will blow their roof in. Jon hooks his leg around Martin, the skin void of hair where Daisy’s mouth had almost torn it off, and all he can envision is the ways this could be destroyed as he watches.

Bundle Jon close. Ignore the rain, the itch at the bottom of his stomach, the queasy roil of his fear. Drift into unkind sleep populated with its garden of earthly terrors.

-

Martin is… not happy. Not exactly. And that’s fine. It’s fine.

-

Jon is happy.

-

Jon, rubbing at the compression lines around his hips, the accusatory splay of the top button refusing to budge closed:

“I can’t fit into my jeans.”

Martin enfolds him from behind, planting his palms over the slight paunch of Jon’s stomach, filled out through sensible eating and small indulgences and a hunger that will never be ravenous but has restored its human qualities.

“Hmm. It’s a good look on you. Healthier.”

“Or it’s middle age.”

“Or it’s eating things that aren’t tea and meal-deal sandwiches.”

“Or other people’s terror.”

“Oh yes, you’re right, I completely forgot about your subsistence diet of eldritch and unbidden horrors in a luscious wholegrain wrap, forgive me.”

Jon laughs at that. The sound has not yet lost its novelty for either of them.

He shifts, turns, his arms a buoy around Martin’s stomach.

“You’ve lost weight.”

“Must be all the clean air,” Martin quips. “All that healthy living.”

-

Punch. Gasp. Exhale.

Martin wakes up.

When his heart has wound down from the pace of its gallop, he extricates himself from Jon’s grip. It is a laborious task to find the places where they’ve joined in the night and pull them apart, like separating fabric snagged on rosebushes.

He gets some water from the cold tap in the kitchen. Sits heavily on the sofa, the room cossetted by the gloom.

Punch. Gasp. Exhale.

His hands shake.

He doesn’t go back to bed.

-

He isn’t happy, but he could grow to be. He could. He could. He just isn’t trying hard enough.

-

Some days, he feels like he’s waiting for the ice to give under them.

Check the passers-by as they walk. Anyone familiar, any teeth filed too sharp, anything animal or blood-shot, any eyes that glance too deep.

Check the oven. The gas knobs are angled to off but a leak is not impossible in a house this old, their alarm might malfunction, they might fall asleep and some spark from a plug socket could catch and incite a conflagration.  

Check the window latches. The opening wide enough for a body to squirm through, the claws of a Hunter marring the sill. Wriggling infestations that invade through the letter box, the keyhole, the gap under the door where the wind can whistle through.

Check. Check. Check.

-

Jon is happy. Jon has a job, work friends, a hundred small luxuries that he has struggled to earn. Jon is happy, so why can’t he be? He went through so much less, the blood washed off easily with soap, what the fuck does he have to cry over –

-

Martin has always crafted his masks from scrap, tongue out in concentration, piecing things together in low light, a make-do-and-mend of his own devising. His early efforts, the paper mâché and glue easily cracked before he learned to shore up his constructions. He has a small collection garnered over years.

The quiet-voiced, muffled-stepped, muted-smiled creation of a Good Son.

The zipped-mouth, no-refusals-no-complaints-yes-of-course-how-high earnestness of the Good Employee, the desperation sanded off the edges so no one could see.

The I’ll-get-the-first-round friendliness, the open-handed, open-hearted, too-naïve Good Colleague.

This new mask forms in increments, in the same way a rising mound of dirt marks the extent of a grave being dug.

He doesn’t mean to. It’s just he’s better at not talking about things. He always has been. And it is an ugly, easy comfort, to slip back into bad habits.

And Jon is happy.

All the things Martin does not wish to permit the light to touch he compresses inside like shaken soda. The rot in him deepens structural, the places where he papers over moulds and fungal speckles with the distraction of their new life. His smile parades simple, contented, cheeky, teasing, and there is a meticulous artistry in each. He sketches interest, paints joy, manufactures irritation out of the clay of nothingness that he allows himself to feel instead of the overwhelming rush of everything else.

I love you, his mouth murmurs, laughs, sighs, groans, and that at least is always true.

The mask of a Good Partner slips on tailor-made.

-

They find their nine-to-fives. Jon’s job is uneventful, boring, and nowhere near an Archive. He works in a registry office for the council, filing and organising and he’s cheerfully lied on his CV in order to get it. He gets the bus and texts Martin grumpy faces and GIFs summarising his mood when he gets suck in the commute or some idiot parks in a bus lane, he has a couple of colleagues he likes and a greater number that he tolerates, he gets a hot chocolate from this universe’s overpriced multinational chain on his lunch hour. When he gets home, he complains with delight at the mundanity of his dissatisfactions, regales Martin with tales of meagre drama.

Martin gets a cleaning job at a school. It is monotonous, dull and safe. Martin loses track of the time easily, quagmired in his musings. The children are wary of him and his visible scarring but it doesn’t bother him as much as he thought it would. The teachers are friendly enough, as well as the other cleaning staff, but he does not make friends. They’ll have to move anyway, if anything finds them here, if the Fears emerge again.

Martin tries not to feel like he’s waiting.

-

He wants to have a good night’s sleep.

-

“I’ll have breakfast at the school, don’t worry.”

“There were some leftovers from the canteen, so I’m kind of full.”

“It was one of the teacher’s birthdays, you know, Denise? Heh, might have had a bit too much cake. I’ll pop this in the fridge for later though, it’ll keep till tomorrow.”

“I’m just not that hungry tonight, Jon.”

-

He feels sharper when he doesn’t eat. It is uncomfortable, a scratched-out, hollowing sensation, but things focus more. He can control nothing else but this, and it feels good, to have this mastery over himself when so much is beyond him.

He drops down notches on his belt and tells Jon it’s all the walking he’s doing.

-

The world continues to happen to them. He goes to the cinema with Jon and picks at popcorn and encourages Jon’s outraged opinion. He meets Jon’s mildly interesting work friends and plays nice and excels at small talk, and he drinks half a cider that he nurses over the evening because it’s making his head fuggy. His body communicates its sharpness to him and he gains grim satisfaction from ignoring it. He goes to work and goes home and doesn’t sleep and goes to work and goes home and doesn’t sleep.

Martin does his best at living, and his mask doesn’t slip.

-

“You seem tired,” Jon pries his words out carefully, picking them out of his teeth as one would scraps. “Is… is everything ok?”

“Yeah, sure it is. Why?”

“…  you seem a bit down today. Recently. Is anything… is there anything you want to talk about?”

“I’ve just been working too hard. Been a while since I had to do double-shifts, heh, I’m not as young as I used to be.”

“If you’re sure?”

Jon shifts to a different position where he’s sat on the sofa, his legs tucking up under him. Martin endures his questioning gaze with practise.

“Yeah, I’m all good.”

Martin delivers a hand-crafted smile that’s gilded heavily with guilelessness and reassurance. He watches as Jon believes him and hates himself.

-

“You know… You don’t have to if you don’t want to, but you can – you know you can talk to me, Martin?”

Martin’s eyes focus on Jon’s chest at the point where a knife once sunk in, and doesn’t reply.

-

Punch. Gasp. Exhale.

Martin wakes up.

Jon has twisted over onto his back again, rattling like a chain-smoker’s cough with his snoring. They were quiet that evening, tangled up in their own thoughts, but there is none of that distance in sleep. During the night, Jon’s wormed himself out of the covers with a single-minded determination, his restless legs squashing the duvet to the bottom of the bed on his side, encouraging Martin’s to follow suit.

He’s shirtless, his top chucked off to pile unceremoniously on the floor. The temperature is ripe with a burgeoning summer heat, and Jon tosses and complains if he’s overwarm, and Martin didn’t think he’d get to feel the drudgery of another lived summer. He’s shirtless, and the room is palled in sweltering dark that softens the vague shapes of the wardrobe, the chest of drawers, the knickknacks of the life they’re building together. He’s shirtless, and Martin cannot see where the scar is, the only scar of Jon’s he has ever thought ugly, but he knows it is there. That he put it there. That he could just as easily be waking up alone.

His body pains him to live in it. His stomach tight and bottomed out empty.

He is so so tired.

Martin’s heartbeat does not slow down. His chest constricting, and he swallows, a sharp sound hiccupping in his throat. He stifles it with a forceful sniff but more come as a painful spasming wave, and he has to sit up if any air is to dribble into his lungs.

He should get up. He has to get up, do this in the bathroom, doubled-over the sink, stifling his weakness where it cannot be witnessed. He cannot do this here.

Punch. Gasp.

His burning face is soaked as he bunches up his sleeves against his reddening eyes. A calming exhale drains out shaky, moulds itself into another loud sob. He plants his hands over his mouth, screwing his eyes closed, and this will pass, he’s fine, this will pass…

“Martin?”

I’m sorry to wake you, he thinks to say. It’s nothing, go back to sleep, stop looking at me Jon, I’m fine, I’m fine, it’s nothing, it’s nothing…

His shoulders start to shake.

“Martin?” Jon repeats slowly. And the ice creaks and cracks and Martin gasps and then it breaks, and the force of his damned-up grief is tidal, catastrophic and he sobs into his hands.

“It’s… it’s alright – it’s… it was a nightmare, that’s all, ‘s alright…”

“It’s not!” Martin bubbles out, the words mashed to a wail in his hands. “It’s not, it’s not, it’ll ruin this…”

“Hey.” Jon brings his arm around Martin and he buries his head in the bony crook of his shoulder because he does not want to meet Jon’s eyes. “What do you mean? Martin?”

Jon rubs at his back. Martin’s body betrays him in a hundred ways as it collapses around him. His weeping wrings him out, dry-mouthed and headachy and trembling when he subsides into shivery breaths.

“Talk to me,” Jon says. “Please.”

“You’re so happy,” Martin sniffs out. “I-I want you to be happy, god, o-of course I do. Things are, they’re good, they’re good and we won, s-s-so why does it feel like I’m still holding my breath? I-I go to bed and I’m frightened of every noise, and I wake up and I’m terrified that someone somehow could take this all away, and I can’t sleep, and I-I’m tired, Jon, I’m tired of holding my breath, and it’s all – it’s all so much a-a-a-and I can’t – ”

“Oh, Martin – ”

His words fail him then. Jon holds him up and his arms do not loosen.

“We-we’re going to fix this,” Jon says after a long while. “I promise you, together, we’ll – we’ll talk to someone. You aren’t alone in this. Together, alright, we’ll do this together. We’ve survived – everything else, we can get through this too.”

“I don’t know if I can believe you,” Martin says, too drained to avoid honesty.

“…Maybe not yet,” Jon says after a pause. “That’s OK. I can wait.”

I’m sorry, Martin attempts to say but Jon presses a kiss to his forehead.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Jon says. He strokes Martin’s sweat-soaked hair.

“… Can we talk? Tomorrow? You don’t have to tell me everything, but… I’d like to be there for you, if you want me. If you’ll let me.”

Martin nods because he doesn’t trust his gummed-up throat. Jon takes that as an answer.

Dawn comes in slowly enough but they see it in together.

[butwhyduh]

A Date to Remember

Damian Wayne x Superman’s daughter reader

Damian is 20, reader 19, Jon is her little brother at 18 and Kon acts like an older brother to her.

Warning: angsty and kidnapping

You’d always told Damian that the sunset on the Kent farm was the best in the world. Damian smiled a little as he drove down the long road to Smallville. Damian had thought about classic dinner date in one of Metropolis’ fanciest restaurants but you insisted on meeting him in a barn.

He felt underdressed. Blue jeans and a flannel shirt. Why did he let Jon help him get dressed? He felt ridiculous but at least he wore sensible shoes. But deep down Damian knew you world like it. And he was certainly willing to feel a little foolish for you.

Clark was off world and Lois was on a mission. Jon had his own date in the city so it was the both of you alone tonight. How long had it been since the two of you were alone without someone around? Between his half a dozen brothers and your family with literal super hearing... yeah it’s been tough. So being 50 miles from everyone was kind of a dream.

Damian pulled in the driveway with some flowers and walked up to the house. He knocked on the door only for it to swing open. Damian noticed the splintered door frame and his heart sped up. He called your name. Act like the rich billionaire son while working like Robin, even though he wasn’t quite sure he still wanted the name.

He scanned every surface and he noticed a small scratch near the back door after looking through every room. Most people wouldn’t even notice it. You weren’t there. He looked closely and saw drag marks in the gravel path to the barn. His heart was thundering at this point. You weren’t in the barn either.

You were half Kryptonian but the genetic inheritance was complicated. Jon had won the lottery with having most of his father’s powers and not being as sensitive to Kryptonite. You had lost it. Hypersensitive to Kryptonite and only some speed and increased hearing and strength. Barely about the average human. You weren’t a fighter.

Damian pulled out his phone to call Jon.

“Bit busy here, Damian,” Jon said, sounding far from amused. Damian could hear kissing noises in the background and frowned. He didn’t want to hear that.

“Your sister is missing,” he said and he heard a lot of movement on the phone.

“What??”

“The door jam was kicked in and there are scrap marks of her being dragged away. I think she’s been kidnapped,” Damian said. His voice felt tight. He, son of Batman, let his girlfriend get kidnapped. “Whoever it was clearly waited until she had no other Kryptonians around to grab her. It wasn’t a coincidence that she was taken tonight. Can you get out here? I’m calling father to try and trace her. Her phone is missing too.”

“I’m leaving in 5. Damian, if Luther has her, she can’t handle Krytonite,” Jon said, worry bleeding into his voice. “It’s like it poisons her.”

“I know. But we don’t know who has her. Let’s hope they don’t know she’s part Krytonian,” Damian said, already mentally moving on to his next step. Contact Bruce. Get the bat computer to trace her. Look for more evidence. Don’t freak out completely that she might be poisoned by Kyrotonite.

“Okay. I’m about to fly. I’ll see you soon,” Jon said before hanging up.

——————————

You woke up with a cough. You head throbbed and your stomach rolled as you laid in a bed? Maybe a couch? It was a horrible feeling but you knew exactly what it was: Kryptonite. You couldn’t forget what how that stuff made you feel. You tried to look around to see it but the room was completely dark. Night vision would be nice but you got human eyes. Your slightly enhanced hearing heard nothing but the wind outside. Okay, you were ground level or higher.

You tried to twist in the cuffs that bound your hands only to cry out. There was the Kryptonite. It was on the outside of the cuffs and you almost threw up at it touched your skin. You were cuffed with Kryptonite to a hospital bed, you figured. What other bed had areas perfect for cuffs? Your legs were equally restrained and you felt so exposed in the dark room.

Your dad was off world. He wouldn’t hear you if you called for him. But Jon might. But if you yelled, someone might come in and who knows what they would do. You’d wait a little bit longer. You wanted to fall asleep. The Kryptonite made you feel so dull. Like the first time you were exposed to it.

You were all of 4 years old. Your dad had brought you with him to the Justice League meeting. Relatively safe and Batman promised Robin would watch you. Dick was so excited to be a babysitter. You had hugged him tight enough to hurt before running to the climbing wall.

“Hey!” Called the 16 year old. “I brought games instead!”

You warily walked back over to him and card games and board games fell out of a duffle bag as he opened it. Half the stuff you were far too young for. You bent down as he scooped up his gameboy. You pulled out some games and open a side pocket to grab a small metal box. Dick sat down his gameboy carefully before turning back to you.

“Don’t open th-“ he started before you pulled open the box to show a bright green stone. Followed by you throwing up all over his bag of games. You dropped the box and sat on the floor. Dick quickly closed the box with the piece of Kryptonite and put it in his pocket. He had boroughed one of Bruce’s bags that apparently wasn’t fully unpacked.

“Dad, I don’t feel good,” you said as Clark ran over. Dick looked at you so guiltily.

“I didn’t know,” he swore. “I’m so sorry.” Bruce stood by quietly.

“We need to talk later,” Clark had told Bruce and yeah, they were mad at each other for a while.

——————————————

Jon arrived shortly in a dress shirt and slacks and he looked at Damian just as weird as Damian looked at him. They had basically switched clothing.

“Not to judge but that’s date clothing? You told me to not wear flannel,” Jon said accusingly.

“That’s because your sister wanted me to wear this,” Damian said back. “Let’s focus on finding her. Father’s calling me now. We’ll change in a minute.”

“Hello, you’re on speaker phone,” Damian said.

“Her tracker is showing a warehouse owned by Luthor Corp in downtown Metropolis,” Bruce said. “Do you need help? I can see if Dick is nearby.”

“No thanks. Jon will help me. Thank you, father,” Damian said before hanging up.

“Luthor. I knew it,” Jon said with a frown. “Wait, you put a tracker on my sister? Does she know?”

“Now is not the time. Let’s get to Metropolis,” Damian said, changing the subject while both got dressed. Jon nodded and offered his arms. “I’m not being carried like that. I’ll hold on your back,” Damian said. Jon rolled his eyes and nodded again.

As they flew over corn fields and pastures, Jon began to question Damian. “So when did you put this tracker in? Does she even know? Where is it? Do I want to even know?”

“It’s sub-dermal in her forearm and I haven’t told her yet. And it’s irrelevant right now as it might save her life,” Damian said and Jon looked disgusted. “We need to focus on saving her and then you can be her angry brother.”

“Wow...”

————————————

You moved and the cuffs burned your skin. You gasped and screamed “Jon! Kon!” You called out to them hoping one of them would hear you.

“Dad!” you cried frantic. There was no way he would hear you. “Damian! Jonathan! Conner!”

You panted and your head pounded. You were so tired. You’d lose consciousness if no one saved you. Then who knows what they would do to you.

“Superman!” You screamed desperately before finally passing out.

——————————

“Did you hear that?” Jon said as they flew towards the Metropolis skyline.

“No all I hear is wind. What did you hear?” Damian said.

“Y/n. She’s calling for us,” Jon said speeding up.

“Is she okay?” Fear bled into Damian’s voice.

“I can’t tell. I’m trying to hurry,” Jon said flying quickly towards the industrial area of the city. He landed on the roof of a warehouse. Jon’s eyes glowed as he looked through the building.

“7 men. 4 posted outside the door to the room that’s she’s being held on the 2nd floor. Her heart rate is steady and she isn’t screaming any more. Almost sounds asleep,” Jon said after his analysis.

“Probably tranquilizer. Father’s data said this building is used for research purposes. Does that fit?” Damian asked.

“Uh more like research subject holding. Maybe a small lab on the first floor but other than cameras everywhere, there isn’t much science stuff that I can scan. But also the basement is sealed off,” Jon said.

“How?”

“Lead bound. You can check it out while I rescue her. 4 guys is nothing,” Jon said making a fist.

“Hold on. Luthor would probably have her surrounded by Kryptonite. Just in case one of you look for her. And that’s the last thing we need,” Damian said. “I’ll rescue her and you look for the basement. Knowing Luthor, it’s probably an entire facility of experiments below. He just hadn’t gotten her room ready yet.”

Jon looked frustrated. “Fine. You rescue her but be careful. She is the weakest of us. She’s not invulnerable to bullets or anything.”

“Most of the people I rescue aren’t either,” Damian reminded him. “And I’m certainly not taking a chance with my beloved.”

Jon looked over to respond but Damian was already gone. Just like the rest of the bats: silent goodbyes. Jon quietly moved down to the first floor. He was working but at the same time, his ear was trained on his sister’s heartbeat. Jon might be the younger sibling but she didn’t have powers and he felt so protective.

—————————————

Damian rolled his eyes at the 5 ways he could see that the security sucks in the 3 minutes he hung out the window before climbing in. Large rafters and guards who didn’t bother to look up. Not to mention the fact that they let there be a solid wall between the set of guards which meant that Damian was easily able to jump down to knock them out in pairs without the other set knowing. If the security was any worse they would leave the door unlocked.

The door wasn’t unlocked but it was a deadbolt that Damian easily disabled. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say it was on purpose. He gulped before opening the door. What if you were really hurt? Or dead? Ignore and get in there.

Damian opened the door and he felt white hot rage. You were tied to a bed and were unconscious. You were in a nice dressy shirt and sweatpants. They’d clearly taken you while you were getting dressed. Damian wanted to kill them. He had to take a breath to help you. Jon was taking them out and Damian was on rescue. He had to stay level headed.

Even the cuffs on your wrists were inadequate. If they had attempted to restrain Damian, he would have gotten out in 3 minutes. When he was 6 years old. The Kryptonite had left nasty red burns on your skin and he clenched his jaw at the sight. Jon better be punching extra hard.

Damian picked you up bridal style and you groaned a little before turning your head against his chest. The farther he got you from that fucking Kryotonite the better you were. He took you to the roof and you started waking up.

“Damian,” you said softly and a little confused.

“Hey you’re awake. How are you feeling?” He asked looking all over your face for injury.

“Kryptonite. I hate that stuff,” you said. Damian grabbed your hand and you hissed. He looked to see bright red knuckles. You’d clearly fought at some point. He certainly knew the signs of punching someone.

“You fought back?”

“Yeah and hitting someone in a helmet and body armor sucks. I got just a few in before they pulled out the damn rock. I throw up every damn time,” you said shaking your head.

Before Damian could comment on how brave and stupid it was to punch body armor, there was a huge crash down on the first floor as someone flew in the building through the window. You grabbed him tightly.

“What the hell is that?”

“Kon. Conner’s here. I’m up here,” you yelled.

Conner flew up to the roof. “Are you okay? What’s going on?”

“Kidnapped. Damian and Jon saved me. He’s still down there actually. Can you check on him?” You said. Damian suddenly stood up.

“What if you were a distraction and the real problem is downstairs?” Damian suddenly said with clarity. The Kryptonite alone was enough to hold you down. The half ass security was to hold their attention when they rescued you. Jon was already flying back down before Damian could say more. Damian weighed his options: leave you alone, bring you with him, or stay out of it and while the last sounded nice, he’d have to go in case of more Kryptonite.

Before Damian could decide, Kon was back on the roof. “You’ve got to come see this.”

Downstairs was a lead lined basement. That alone had you nervous. Jon stood by the door. Little spattering of blood could be seen on his hands. He had a hard look.

“Warning: this is going to be messed up,” he said and you were even more worried. You walked in to see cages. Kids. Unconscious adults lay around in the hallway. “They were experimenting on them.”

You felt nauseous.

“My father is on the way. This is much bigger than I thought,” Damian said messing with his comms. His free hand was on your shoulder protectively.

There were 8 kids in cages. Bruce was running tests on their blood and investigating the area as you helped to get them out of the cages. What a terrible Valentine’s Day.

“Beloved, let’s get you home. We can stay at the farm tonight. You need sleep,” Damian said worried. You looked at him distracted.

“They’re just kids.”

“Come on. Let’s go. Kon is going to stay there too. Just for the night,” Damian said helping you up. Kon flew you both back to the farm.

“I’m going back to help. You okay, kid,” Kon asked as Damian inspected the house.

“I’ll be alright. Just help those kids,” you said.

“Yeah, of course,” he said ruffling your head. You rolled your eyes. “But seriously, the way you screamed I thought you were being murdered.”

You stiffened. “I’m fine. Thanks.”

Kon knew when to quit. Something he had learned from Tim. He gave you a big hug and flew off towards Metropolis.

“Hey. I made your bed so you can sleep,” Damian said quietly. “And a change of clothes.”

You nodded and went upstairs. Damian helped pull off your shirt and put on a sweater. He looked at the marks around your wrist and red knuckles but didn’t note any more bruises or cuts. You pulled on sweatpants and climbed in small twin bed that Lois kept for guests. The pink and yellow flowery quilt felt warm and comforting on your skin. Damian lay beside you after changing and looked at you seriously.

“What is it,” you asked.

“I was so scared tonight. I have been doing this for years and I’ve never been so worried,” he said softly and you looked down and flushed. If you weren’t so freaking sensitive to Kryptonite this wouldn’t have happened. Damian gently lifted your chin and you looked at him.

“I was scared to lose you,” he said running his thumb across your cheek. “I’m going to drive you absolutely mad because I don’t want to take my eyes off of you.”

“Yeah?” You said with a little smile.

“Uh hm. But first sleep,” he said and your body certainly agreed. You curled into him and rest your head on his chest. His arms held you tightly before rubbing your back. You fell asleep to Damian staring at you. He stared at you all night, not even sleeping when Kon came in a few hours later.

———————————

“I have to know what all that was, Bruce,” you said at the Batcave the next day. “I was in there.”

He looked at you for a minute. “They were experimenting with meta DNA. All of those kids have gifts and they wanted to take you too. There were even plans to inject those kids with your blood to see if it would affect them.”

You shivered a little at the thought. Lex Luthor and his obsession with Kryptonian DNA.

“All the records were burned. Most of the warehouse too. Your brothers were.... thorough. And Clark will be home in a few days,” Bruce added.

“Really?”

“Yes. And he’s furious at Luthor. Probably will call soon. He wanted to let you sleep earlier. We’re just running programs here. Why don’t you and Damian go upstairs,” he suggested.

“Bruce Wayne,” came a stern voice behind you. You turned to see your mother, Lois Lane, looking like she was going to beat up Batman. “You put a tracker in my daughter without her permission?”

“You what?” You said.

“Actually that was Damian. Though I want to point out that it helped save her life,” Bruce added. Lois slapped him soundly across the cheek. Bruce just blinked and rubbed his cheek.

“Damian, you put a tracker in me?” You asked shocked. You’d assumed Jon had heard you or Damian’s detective work brought them to the warehouse. Not an invasive tracker in your body. “What the hell?”

“Well I can explain..”

[maxikha-ffxiv]

The First

In the ever patchwork of Maxi's RP story, here's another writing. This time, DRK Maxi gets yoinked across shards because her powerful summoner wife accidentally the Exarch's thing

Maxi lowered herself into the rubble at the base of the Syrcus Trench. She hadn’t intended to be here, but Tataru somehow found her. And if there’s one thing everyone knows, it is that you don’t ask how Tataru knows, or ignore her requests. Maxi was quite surprised and impressed when the lalafell somehow had tracked her down, having disappeared from both the scions and her other duties for the better part of a year after the fallout of everything. One day, she may need to get some tips from Tataru on how to do that.

Maxi poked about the rubble a bit, her eyes scanning for anything interesting. As per usual, Tataru had no idea what Maxi needed to look for, all she knew is that Maxi needed to find something there. As she was really the last lingering connection to all of those who disappeared, as well as the Scions lack of souls issue, Tataru needed Maxi to do some research around the Crystal Tower. There’d been reports of weird activity with the tower and surrounding areas at the same time as the Scions began to go down, so folks started to put two and two together. Of course, what Maxi was looking for, no one actually knew.

“Explain to me why we are here now?” “Fray, not now, I don’t need you second guessing me today. And if you’re going to be loitering about, help me look.”

Fray, like always, showed up at the worst possible moment, as Maxi did not feel like dealing with them right now. 

“Well what am I looking for then lass?” “Fuck if I know, just anything that seems odd or out of place with the general rubble.” Maxi was poking through a pile of rocks, not even sure herself what’s there that isn’t rock or crystal. The next bit of time was spent with Maxi searching about, poking at rubble piles, scouting about trying to see if there was anything useful that she could give to someone so she could leave. Eorzea was full of bad memories for her, and she preferred to move on at this point in her life.

“Lass, what’s that over there?” Maxi turned, and in a pile nearby, something not crystalline glimmered. She walked over, and found what was a small piece of metal in it. In the center of the scrap, the logo for Garlond Ironworks was quite visible, although it was quite odd to Maxi. The metal it was engraved on was clearly a couple hundred years old at least, but the Ironworks had not been around for at most a couple of years at this point. Unless Cid had re-used his logo, this made no sense at all.

All of a sudden, examining it, a sharp pain shot through Maxi’s head. She clutched it, and staggered for a second. And just as suddenly, her Eternity Ring, broken and still hanging around her neck, glowed bright. Maxi felt a great pull, something had grabbed her. Her surroundings lit up, a glowing seal appearing below her. As everything went to bright light, Maxi heard Fray’s voice in her head, like always.

“Fray, what’s going on…”

“Not my doing, I don’t know either. Stay sharp lass, I don’t like this at all…”

Maxi put one hand on the giant sword on her back, closing her eyes and bracing for whatever was coming on the other side of this beam of light. She felt her feet leave solid ground, and she was flying. She opened her eyes, and was shocked. It was almost like Maxi was in the aetherial sea, flying past crystals, showing her memories. Painful old memories. And after what felt like an eternity, she saw what could only be her destination. A land of purple and white, and bright bright light. Before Maxi could do anything, she landed, knee hitting the ground, hand on her sword. And all she heard was a voice, so familiar, but one she hadn’t heard in ages, yell out to her. “WATCH OUT!” Out of instinct, Maxi’s sword flew up and she parried the blade that had come down at her, the impact striking the flat of her sword. She pushed the wielder off, and stood up, the inky tendrils of shadow pouring off of her like water as she glared in the direction of her now opponent. The man who had attacked her was older, but it was clear he was a fighter,and he considered maxi a threat. 

Maxi looked behind her quickly, to see who shouted. One look answered more than she knew. There stood her former comrades, friends and fellow adventurers. The twins were there too, as was Thancred and a younger girl she didn't recognize. But the figure standing there that shook Maxi the most was Mirna. Looking nearly the same as the day they fought and she disappeared, injured and with a look of concern on her face. It was very clear that she didn’t intend to summon, let alone summon Maxi. Maxi turned away, and closed her eyes for a second.

“Alright, what’s going on here?” It was quiet, but stern. Maxi opened her eyes, glaring at the man who had attacked her.

“I am Ran’jit, captain of the Khol-” “Can it, I wasn’t talking to you.” Maxi looked back at Thancred. 

“Catch me up. Keep it short, I sense someone doesn’t like me being here.” “We’re on the First, shard of our world. Everlasting light, threatening to doom us all. This is Minfillia, or rather a reborn version of her. And the man you so eloquently told to shut up is Ran’jit, the leader of the Kholusian military, who want to take her from us.”

“Let me guess, trying to run away from them?” “That was the plan yes, until we bumped into your wife and her comrades.”

Maxi instinctively flinched at the word wife, expecting Mirna to correct Thancred on that. After nothing came, she took a more ready position. The darkness swirling around her thickened, almost as if it became a second set of armor on her. Her eyes narrowed looking at Ran’jit.

“Then get going, I’ll stall them.”