#this art gave me the power to lift a truck

[medichamcham]

HUH

haiiii ^_^

[thekinkyleopard]

The Sagening

A Blythe and Freya Canon Snz Fic

Description: Blythe is saging the new home, cleansing it of any bad energy before the girls settle into it. Unbeknownst to either of them, Freya has a very strong reaction to the smoke…and Blythe can��t ever deny temptation.

Author’s Notes: Figured I’d take the new girls out for a spin since we have had them for a few weeks 😂 Sorry I’m so slow lately guys, truly it’s me trying to get my shit together and being exhausted as fuck but imma keep pumping out fics when I can! Art and Freya by @aller-geez !

Blythe moved gracefully through the rooms of their domicile, the sage smoke trailed behind her like a mystical veil. Each step she took left an ethereal imprint on the wooden floors, infusing the air with a sense of enchantment. Her fingers traced delicate patterns in the smoke, weaving ancient spells of protection and peace into the very fabric of their new home. If there was one thing she knew about, it was evil, and over the years she had gotten incredibly good at the studies of good and evil. This was all apart of her mission to aide in keeping her and Freya safe.

Meanwhile, speaking of, Fry struggled with a particularly stubborn box in the doorway, her nose wrinkling at the pungent scent of sage that filled the air. She coughed delicately, trying to suppress a sneeze as she hoisted the box into the living room, but the feeling was persistent. The effects of the sage on her sensitive senses were undeniable as her eyes began to water and her chest tightened with each breath. “How’s it….” she cleared her throat and tried to put on a brave face. “How’s the cleansing going my dear?” the soft, airy voice connecting Blythe back to reality as she curiously looked over at her inquiring girlfriend.

The succubus grinned, ear to ear before subconsciously flipping her hair from the view of her right eye. Just so she could get a much clearer gaze of her darling girl; the smoke starting to collect and bunch in the vicinity of the approaching women. “Wonderful my peach, I am almost done, just a few more rounds…I want to make sure it sticks,” As the dark haired woman turned back around to return to her previous actions, Freya's eyes darted around the room, desperately trying to blink away the tears threatening to spill over.

She gave Blythe a reassuring smile, her cheeks flushing with a mix of embarrassment and the effects of the sage. "I'll just... go get the next box," she said quickly, her voice slightly strained as she made a hasty retreat towards the front door.

As she stepped outside, the cool forest air provided some relief to her irritated senses. Freya took a deep breath, trying to calm the itching in her nose and the tightness in her chest. She glanced back through the open doorway to see Blythe moving with such grace and purpose, a vision of mystic power and beauty that never failed to leave the fallen in awe.

Ignoring her escalating symptoms as best she could, Freya busied herself with bringing in the remaining boxes from their moving truck. Each trip back into the cottage filled her lungs with more sage-laden air, exacerbating her discomfort.

One by one the woman brought the boxes into the home, trying to leave them in the respective rooms that matched their labels. Dishes in the kitchen, clothes in the bedroom, toiletries in the bathroom….etc. Each trip tested the fallen’s sensitive sinuses to it’s maximum capabilities.

The last box was the heaviest, filled with books Blythe had collected over the years. Freya grunted as she struggled to lift it, her arms quivering under the weight. She paused at the threshold of the cottage, taking a moment to catch her breath. The scent of sage clung to her like a shroud, making her head swim and her eyes water even more fiercely. Trails trickling down her cheeks now as they overflowed. Her nostrils twitched, and she tried to satisfy its craving by scrunching it in tight circles, but it was subpar to the feeling of rubbing an irritated nose with your closed fist.

She was able to slowly trudge her way through the living room as her face contorted and twisted in discomfort before only reaching half way across the space, and pausing again, and the itching, my GODS the itching, it persisted, growing more insistent by the second. Freya's breath hitched as she felt a powerful sneeze building up inside her, her entire body tensing in anticipation. With a sudden explosive force, she let out a thunderous set of sneezes that echoed through the cottage, causing a cloud of saliva to swirl around her. “Iit’shHIEW! i’HKSHIEW!!” it sprayed out from her unhinged maw unexpectantly, but inevitably.

In her startled state, Freya lost her grip on the heavy box, and it came crashing down on her foot with a sickening thud. Pain shot through her body, but before she could even process it, another series of uncontrollable sneezes overtook her. “EHH’TSHIEW! eshh’IEW!” Eyes squeezed shut from impact, the force of the sneezes knocked her off balance, sending her stumbling back until she collapsed onto the couch with a groan. “Owwie…” she whimpered gently bringing her hand up to cover her slickened and slightly dripping nostrils.

Blythe turned at the commotion, concern etched on her face as she rushed to Freya's side, a slight blush spread across her cheeks. "Are you alright, my love?" she asked, reaching out to gently touch Freya's trembling shoulder. The fallen shook her head gently as she broke down into gentle tears.

“I…hurt myself…..” her voice cracked as she tried to get a hold of her large emotions. “The sage…it..sNdff…I can’t handle it…” she spoke softly, afraid to break the spirit of her partner who was just trying really hard to protect their home.

“Oh, My darling….” she gasped leaning down to envelop her girl in a tight, loving and supporting embrace. Freya buried her face in Blythe's shoulder, seeking solace in her comforting presence. The pain in her foot throbbed relentlessly, but it was the overwhelming effects of the sage that truly weighed on her. Blythe held her close, whispering soothing words and gentle reassurances as she gently stroked Freya's hair. "I'm so sorry, my love. I underestimated the strength of the sage on your sensitive senses," Blythe murmured, filled with regret at having unintentionally caused Freya distress.

The angel sniffled, clinging to Blythe as she tried to calm her racing heart and ease the burning sensation in her nose and chest. She knew the demon would never purposefully harm her, but the unexpected reaction to the cleansing ritual had left her shaken. "I know you didn't mean to, Blythe. It's just... it's a lot for me," Freya admitted, feeling vulnerable and exposed in that moment.

The succubus soothed her girlfriend gently continuously running her long delicately thin fingers through her softened pigtails and nodded in agreement. “I know…I know…but my…you did such a good job at holding on, you got all those boxes in before your poor little sniffer esploded?” she giggled tapping the tip of the girl’s nose with a loving playfulness.

Freya blushed furiously at Blythe's playful teasing, a mix of embarrassment and affection coloring her features. Despite her discomfort, there was a spark of amusement in her eyes as she swatted at the woman’s hand with a small pout. "Stop it, you're making it worse," she muttered, her voice still tinged with congestion from the sneezing fit.

Blythe only grinned mischievously in response, clearly enjoying the reaction she was eliciting from her normally shy lover. Her fingers continued to dance along the fallen's hair, the gentle touch sending shivers down her spine. As Freya tried to compose herself, she couldn't help but notice the glint in her girlfriend’s eyes - it was a look of desire, of something more primal stirring within her beautiful partner.

A sudden realization dawned on the Fallen as she caught the subtle shift in Blythe's demeanor. Was it possible that her embarrassing sneezing fit had caused a spark within her lover’s loins?

Blythe's gaze was intense, a mixture of desire and something more primal that stirred deep within her. Freya's cheeks flushed as she locked eyes with the dark-haired woman, feeling a surge of heat between them that had nothing to do with the oppressive sage-filled air. Tentatively, Blythe leaned in closer, her lips just a breath away from Freya's trembling ones. The angel could feel her heart pounding in her chest, the pain in her foot momentarily forgotten as she was consumed by the magnetic pull of their shared desire.

In that charged moment, time seemed to stand still as they hovered on the edge of something hot and exhilarating. And then, with a barely perceptible movement, Blythe pulled back, crushing the moment under her heel before gently brushing a hand across her girlfriend’s cheek. “We need to do something about that foot my dove, I’ll get you some ice, and a wrap…hopefully nothing is broken,”

Freya's heart sank as the moment slipped away, leaving her breathless and wanting. She watched as Blythe moved away to tend to her injured foot, a mix of disappointment and understanding swirling within her. “Okay…” she murmured softly, her voice filled with anxiousness. The injured woman nodded finally, grateful for the distraction from the intense moment that had passed between them.

As Blythe hurried off to fetch the ice and bandages, Freya let out a shaky breath, trying to steady her racing heart. The pain in her foot throbbed relentlessly, but it was nothing compared to the storm of emotions raging inside her. She couldn't shake the electricity that crackled in the air whenever she and Blythe were near each other.

When Bly returned with the supplies, Freya forced herself to push aside the tangled mess of thoughts and focus on the task at hand. With gentle care, Blythe helped Freya ice her injured foot and wrap it snugly, all the while stealing glances filled with unspoken lust-fueled smirks. The air was heavy with unuttered words of desires, each woman equally afraid and intrigued by the intensity of the situation. “How are you feeling now? It doesn’t seem broken so that’s good…” Blythe asked curiously, sliding back next to her girlfriend on the couch.

Freya shifted slightly, testing her weight on the newly bandaged foot. The pain was still there, a dull ache that throbbed with each heartbeat, but the ice had numbed it enough to be bearable. She turned to Blythe, meeting her gaze with a mix of gratitude and uncertainty. "It feels better, thank you," she replied softly, a hint of vulnerability lingering in her words.

Silver eyes softened as she reached out to gently caress Freya's cheek. "I'm glad. I hate seeing you in pain," she murmured, her voice filled with genuine concern. They sat in silence for a moment, the tension between them palpable yet untouched. Finally, the succubus cut the tension in the air with a thick talon. “My darling…I know we just cleared the air for you, and I was gracious enough to give you a moment to catch your breath but…I cant help but think of how sweet the sound of your sneezes were…” The fallen blushed profusely, and averted her yellow gaze to the ground.

“B-Blythe that’s..” hesitating to finish her own sentence, still unused to be so open.

“What my dear? Naughty?” The woman teased as she leaned into to capture the other’s earlobe between two sharp rows of teeth. “I can’t help myself you know, around you, everything is intoxicating…” She inhaled deeply as the strands of Freya’s pigtails tickled at her face, arms pulling the angel closer to her ‘til she was fully in her lap, cradled by the taller female.

Freya's breath hitched as she felt Bly’s embrace tighten around her, the succubus' words sending a shiver down her spine. The mixture of vulnerability and desire warred within her, unsure of how to navigate the overwhelming emotions coursing through her. She could feel the heat of Blythe's body against her own, the succubus exuding a magnetic pull that was impossible to resist. "Blythe, I... I don't know if we should...there’s still unpacking…" Freya's voice trailed off as she struggled to find the right words, her heart pounding in her chest.

But Blythe silenced her with a searing kiss, passion and hunger igniting between them like a wildfire. The angel melted into the kiss, unable to deny the longing that had been building between them in the last few minutes. In that moment, all doubts and inhibitions faded away as they gave in to the primal connection that bound them together.

The room filled with the sounds of their whispered grunts and gentle moans, the smacking of wet lips before eventually the dark haired woman had enough sense to pull back. “If I lit….more sage, would you be the best girl for me?” biting her lower lip and pushing their foreheads together. “Promise to be gentle with your foot…” giggling breathlessly as her fingers trailed loosely up and down the woman’s thighs.

Freya's heart pounded as she gazed into Blythe's eyes, a mixture of desire and uncertainty swirling in her chest. She could feel the weight of the succubus's words hanging in the air, tempting her with promises of passion and intimacy. With a shaky breath, Freya reached out to cup Blythe's face in her hands, her touch gentle yet filled with unspoken longing. "I promise," she whispered, her voice barely above a breath as she leaned in to capture her saucy girlfriend’s lips in a quick, tender kiss.

After breaking away again, the succubus gently moved her lover to the side of the couch, to free herself from under her. Standing up now, she turned back to shoot a quick wink before retreating to pick up her half burned bundle. Rekindling the sage and closing each window as she trailed the smoke around behind her, her long, slender legs peaking through the slit in her dress, Freya swallowed nervously as she watched the other. The woman’s darkened silver eyes never leaving her winged mate, always completely obsessed with the woman, almost impossible to look away in the first place. “You’re going to be so good for me, right?” she asked licking her lips slowly as she watched her prey start to shift, and eyes starting to turn glossy.

“Y-Yes..Ma’am…” the smoke was already starting to fill the room, coiling and twisting in mesmerizing patterns that danced around the two women like ghostly specters. Freya's sensitive nose twitched at the acrid scent, a hint of sage mingling with the sweet perfume that clung to Blythe's skin. She couldn't help but cough softly, the smoke tickling her throat and making her eyes water.

Blythe, on the other hand, seemed unaffected by the thickening haze, a mischievous grin on her lips as she teased her lover with a knowing look. "Can you handle it, my sweet angel?" she purred, her voice low and sultry as she continued to twirl the burning sage in lazy circles. Freya tried to nod in response, her gaze fixated on the demon's every movement, feeling a strange mix of excitement and apprehension building within her.

As the smoke continued to weave its way through the room, casting swirling shadows on the walls, Freya felt a strange heaviness settle as the smoke thickened. She found it harder to concentrate, the room spinning around her in a dizzying whirl. Blythe's voice cut through the haze, low and hypnotic, sending shivers down her delicate spine. "You're going to be so good for me, right?" the words bounced inside her head as the presence of something much more sinister began to crawl its way through. The thicker the room became, the tighter her nasal cavity felt, her nostrils twitching and scrunching as she fought to place it.

“Aht, don’t try to push them away my darling dove, remember, you promised to be good,” Blythe's voice drifted through the smoke, wrapping around Freya like a velvet ribbon, soothing and commanding all at once. The succubus moved closer, her form appearing almost ethereal in the dimly lit room, her eyes glowing with an otherworldly light. Freya tried to speak, to protest, but her words were lost in the heavy air that seemed to press against her chest.

As Blythe reached out a hand to caress Freya's cheek, a jolt of awareness shot through the angel. Her skin prickled with unease as the itching sensation only brought itself forward and she couldnt hold it back any longer. “H-h…” she hitched, her lids squeezing together and her lips parting, drew the other woman in with lust filled eyes staring deeply with anticipation.

Freya's sneeze erupted suddenly, catching both her and Blythe by surprise at how quickly it shot out of her. “H’ihhSHHhhiew!! i’hKSHIEW!!” It was a series of rapid-fire explosions, each one more forceful than the last. The first sneeze sprayed a fine mist of sparkling saliva, like glitter in the air, while the second one sounded like a delicate chime ringing through the room. Blythe watched with amusement as Freya's sneezes continued, “ehh’tnSHIEW! iit’shHIEW!” each one accompanied by a different spectacle - shimmering sparks, tiny bubbles, even desperate gasps in between that floated in the air for a moment before disappearing.

Her amusement quickly turned into fascination as she watched the angel's reactions with keen interest. The sneezes seemingly held a strange power over the dark haired woman, each one more enchanting than the last, drawing her in like a moth to a flame.

Freya's delicate form trembled with each sneeze, her body convulsing in a way that was both mesmerizing and alluring. Blythe couldn't tear her eyes away, captivated by the sight of Freya succumbing to her allergy-fueled affliction. With each sneeze, a new wave of energy seemed to ripple through the room, crackling in the air like electricity, her halo bounced from the force. It brought the succubus closer, and closer. Blythe eventually set the still burning herb down on the ash tray on the side table and loomed over her girlfriend, palms gripped the back of the couch. Freya sunk beneath her, snuffling and sniffling trying to get the mess away from her face, nervously avoiding eye contact with her succubus mate above.

“Don’t be shy…it’s me,” bringing a hand down she tilts the woman’s head up by her chin with a single index and thumb.

Freya's breath hitched as she gazed up at Blythe, her eyes wide with a mixture of vulnerability and desire. The sneezing fit had left her feeling strangely exposed, her body tingling with an energy she couldn't quite place. As Blythe's thumb gently lifted her chin, Freya found herself lost in the depths of those darkened silver eyes, a whirlwind of emotions swirling within her chest.

The room was heavy with the scent of sage and something more primal, a heady mix that clouded Freya's senses and heightened her awareness of the succubus before her. Blythe's touch was both gentle and possessive, a silent command that sent a shiver down Freya's spine.

With a soft whimper, the fallen angel leaned into the touch, her lips parting slightly as she searched Blythe's gaze for any sign of hesitation. But all she found was unwavering hunger and an intensity that threatened to consume her. “I’m..go-gonna..” Freya whimpered her nose scrunching and twisting uncomfortably as Blythe only seemed to inch closer, pressing their foreheads together again.

“Please,” the succubus begged in a whisper as the words caused her angel to shudder once more.

“I-…H—eHH’TSHiEW!” Blythe breathed in heavily, as if the flying particles of spittle that hit her face despite Fry’s attempt to cover herself, were the oxygen to which she breathed.

The sneezes continued to pour out of Freya like fountains, each one more intense than the last. “Eeh’Tshiew!! IIT’TsHiEw!” The room felt like it was spinning, but Blythe only grew more entranced by the sight before her. Leaning in closely, licking the slight dribble of saliva that trickled down that side of her lover’s mouth. The energy that crackled in the air seemed to be building, and she couldn't resist the urge to embrace it. Blythe gripped Freya tightly by her thighs, and pulled her in a swift motion in her lap as she also sat down.

As Freya's sneezes grew more consistent, Blythe found herself losing control. Her own body began to tremble with the anticipation of the next. “Gods you sound so beautiful…” she licked her lips desperately before attaching herself to the side of the angel’s exposed neck. Bly sucked, licked and nipped the area hungrily, her hands and fingers gripping the back of her ass and pulling her mate’s body into her own.

Freya gasped at the sudden intimacy, her sneezing beginning to subside, but the burning sting could never truly leave her so long as the sage was lit, but as Blythe's kisses sent shockwaves of pleasure through her, she couldnt keep her focus on that. Her body responded to the succubus' touch, arching into her grip as though she were a vessel of unending desire. The energy in the room crackled and sizzled, the air thick with magic and longing.

"You're mine," Blythe murmured, her voice a low, whispered promise. Freya could feel her words like a caress, a testament of the bond they shared, the connection that flowed like lightening between them. She could feel the lust flowing through her, the knowledge that she belonged to Blythe, and it was a feeling she never wanted to let go of.

She moaned softly, her eyelids fluttering as the intensity of the moment washed over her. Blythe's hands continued to roam up her tank top, finger tips pinching and gently teasing soft and perky buds. “My girl…your body is my temptation…my sins..I’d die to protect this,” the woman’s voice husky, like melted chocolate dripping onto a soft bed of ice cream. Freya’s bright yellow orbs blinked innocently before she smiled.

“As you’ve always been mine..” the fallen gasped, tilting her head back as her girlfriend found herself busy beneath her jaw, marking the flesh that belonged to her.

Freya's urges were teetering back and forth, as the sage and the energy in the room intertwined. The sexual connection between them was undeniable, and it was written all over their faces. They were lost in each other, their eyes locked on one another as they moved in sync, their bodies melting into one another. Clothes falling off one another bit by bit.

Blythe's grip on Freya tightened, her fingertips tracing patterns over her lover's skin, creating a symphony of sensations that had her shivering. The room was alive with the sounds of their labored breaths, louder and louder that seemed to emanate from their every touch.

Freya's body felt like it was on fire, and yet she craved more. The succubus' grip was a drug, an addiction that she could never get enough of. Their tongues danced, their bodies intertwined, as the room spun around them.

Blythe moaned against her partner’s slickened mouth, pulling away just enough she dipped her hand between her lover’s thighs. “I want to hear more…” The sage still desperately wafting trails and trails of burning herb across their nostrils. Not that it was any a bother to Blythe as she watched intently with her silver orbs while Freya’s features twisted to avoid explosion. “Don’t hide them from me, darling girl, come on now….share with the class,” she wrapped her arms tightly around the woman’s waist pulling her in and rubbing her forehead against the other’s lovingly. She did bring one hand up though, gently caressing and sliding pieces of feather protruding from the others back, through her index and thumb.

Freya let out a series of light but, guttural moans as Blythe's fingers continued to explore her most sensitive spots, the sage's scent now mingling with the intoxicating aroma of arousal. The combination of sensual caresses against her wings and the strong scent of sage slowly burning out was overwhelming her senses, making it hard for her to keep composure. “H’ihhsHHHhIEW!" esHH’iEW!” the angel sneezed suddenly, quickly, and it sprayed across the both of them in a large cloud of misted saliva. The dark haired succubus grinned, toothy and delighted as her hands ran up and down the woman’s sides now.

“I swear, everything you do is perfection…” she whispered seductively between them, her mouth coming up to press gentle pecks against the other woman’s nose, lips, chin and jaw. Freya’s yellowed orbs rolled back in her head as she pressed her body instinctively into that of her girlfriend’s.

“You’re so bad for me…like a poison..” The angel responded to her flirty partner followed with a breathless giggle, and the succubus couldn't help but let out a callous laugh before grabbing the angel by her neck. Their eyes locked in an intense gaze as the woman glared with an amused glint in her silver orbs.

“And yet you’d still take a sip of sin at every chance you get…Tch, dirty girl,” this shot a shiver up the fallen’s spine, her body responding to Blythe’s degrading comments with a building intensity.

“I’d fall from heaven over and over if it meant I could live in your arms for eternity…” Freya whimpered between fighting off the urges ever growing in her sinuses and the succubus’ hands that found their way up her body and lips that continued to decorate her skin. Bly blushed brightly, she never got tired of hearing the words of sincerity, but, was more of a sucker to know she was the thread pulling Freya apart.

“My sentimental little dove…” she responded against the hot, wet flesh of Freya’s exposed clavicle. “Such pretty words while I feast upon your delightful body…” snickering with a teasing resolve, the angel blushed, feeling almost slightly embarrassed, but still her body craved more. Bly’s fingers twisted and pricked at sensitive growing buds discovered on the small mounds that pressed up against her. “You can do better…” licking her lips, whilst both her hands continued to pull and roll sensually skilled fingers across her angel’s swelling nipples. The sensations of her girlfriend’s deviously skilled hands were almost enough to fight off the still ever present itching and prickling of her nostrils. Almost. Sage still clung to the air stubbornly above them, making it almost impossible to avoid.

“I-…Well..H-h…” Freya sniffled, swallowing it and trying her best to fight through the oncoming inevitable. The dark haired woman sought an opportunity and quickly, switched their positions. Bly laid down on the couch, her naked body now in the other’s full view, Freya’s gaze catching a glimpse of her name tattooed on her girlfriend’s perfect figure. Labeled. Hers. The fallen took a deep breath through her watering eyes and ticklish throat, she longed to touch her skin. Yet there was not much time left for day dreaming while Blythe took a handful of her hips and dragged her atop her lap fully this time, still mindful of her injury. The succubus’ head was propped up against the arm of the couch while her gaze was hot against her lover.

“I have a MUCH better view now…please, my personal beauty, continue,” she grinned with her tongue cheekily squeezed between two rows of grinning teeth, her open palms and finger dragging up between her lover’s trembling thighs. The pigtailed woman furrowed her brows and she rolled her black sclera, yellow orbs, but her nose twitched, and scrunched. She was actively trying to fight it and Blythe frowned with displeasure as she took a fistful of each thigh. “Darling? If you would fall from the heavens over and over for me, would you not also indulge me in my pleasures? Hm?” bringing a hand up to grip her chin again between her index and thumb, pulling her head down to meet her pleading gaze. “I promise to make you feel sensational…just let me hear more of that delectable sound…”

Blythe had never really felt this hot before, sneezing from other people or even herself, never brought this sort of feeling out of her, but watching Freya do it? The way her chest would rise and fall through every stutter and hitch…the simplicity of her lips opening and closing as it prepared its release. Her cheeks reddened at the thought while it haunted her, eyes watching ever so patiently.

“Y-Yes, my love…” Freya responded simply, defeated and unable to get much else out as she allowed herself to fall into the feeling, like one fell back on their bed after a long day’s work. “I-..Hi-..H..H’IhSHiEW! Eh’TnSHiEW!” Down came a cascading spritz of Freya’s open sneezes, it landed across the exposed parts of Blythe’s chest, and a few drops across her lips. She watched in amazement from a downward angle as the love of her life twitched and jolted on top of her. The succubus couldn’t supress a delighted groan, her fingers immediately fishing between the woman’s thighs now to meet her quivering loins.

“Fucking Hells…” the dark haired woman’s hazy eyes rolling back in pleasure, Freya let out a soft, sultry moan as Blythe's fingers continued to explore her most sensitive spots. Swirling circles against her delicate bean. The scent of sage and arousal mingling around them intensified, making it hard for her to think straight. But she didn't want to; she just wanted to enjoy the moment, to feel Blythe's touch, to savor the sensation of their sinful desires.

"You are truly a seductress," Freya whispered, her voice husky with desperate lust and a slight soreness from the afflictions of her releases. Her body rocking instinctively into the demon’s touch. "I've never known such intensity in all my centuries before you…”

Blythe smiled wickedly, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "I’m pleased to know I have such an effect..” she pushed her fingers past the woman’s wet, slickened lips, teasing the tips of her digits against her needy hole. “And I think I've found a weakness for the taste of your sneezes…They’re…intoxicating," She leaned up enough to lick Freya's wet mouth, before collapsing back down, shoveling her middle and ring fingers inside her girl. “Now, do continue…” licking her lips as she watched carefully, Freya’s maw falling open at the sudden fullness of her girlfriend’s hand.

Freya trembled with overwhelming desire, her eyes rolling back as her body was consumed by a euphoric high. She whimpered softly, her neck arching slightly as she surrendered to the pleasurable invasion. Her legs quivered as the sensation spread throughout her entire being, her chest heaving with each ragged breath she took.

Blythe's eyes were locked onto the responding reactions of her angelic lover's face, the intensity of her pleasure evident in every twitch and spasm. She was like a predator savouring her prey, ready to pounce at any moment. The sounds of their labored breaths echoed the room while the stick of sage eventually burned out. A thick final cloud of smoke lingering against their constantly moving bodies.

Bly’s fingers glided expertly in and out of Freya, her hips bucking in time with the rhythm, the angel’s ass rubbing up against her own soaking quim, the demon’s legs shaking as she was being consistently edged. Bly’s heart pounding in her chest whilst she held back her teetering orgasm, helping to prolong the moment for both of them.

"More...please..." Blythe pleaded through a pair of clenched teeth, a drop of sweat rolling down her left temple, her jaw flexing from the amount of effort it took to not forcibly grind herself against her lover’s cheeks into completion. While Blythe’s fingers never ceased to pump and twist, her thumb circling and rubbing all in a rhythmatic motion, Freya couldnt deny that there was still one last fit in her.

Through the rolling waves of pleasured bliss, she could still feel that last prickle, the smoke kissing her nostrils, scratching and clawing at the base of her throat. Despite the discomfort, she was desperate to be a good girl for the love of her life, so whether she had to force it or find it, there was no stopping it. “i’HKSHIEW! eSSH’IEW!” Blythe involuntarily let out an exaggerated cackle, ending it in an almost pleasured sound.

“That’s my fucking GIRL…you really do love, me dont you?” she sat up after having allowed another mistral cloud of saliva and spritz decorate her flesh. Once again, the angel straddling the dark haired woman when the succubus gripped her fallen by the back of the neck, pushing their foreheads together yet again. “I’m going to reward you so well for that little dove,” she whispered breathlessly, her fingers pumping faster, curved to hit Freya’s sensitive g-spot amongst her soft, wet walls.

The pink and yellow haired woman rolled her eyes back in her head, her breath hitching as her body trembled under Blythe's ministrations. The angle was perfect, her climax building stronger with each thrust, each pull, each rub. She couldn't help but arch her back, her nails digging into Blythe's thighs, holding herself steady as she rode through the waves of pleasure in sync to the demon’s fingers.

"Oh, my love..." she moaned, her voice hoarse with passion. "I’m..I’m so close.." her hips rocked almost effortlessly, the space between her thighs soaked through as the other pleasured her sensitive quim.

Blythe couldn't help but chuckle, her fingers never faltering in their rhythm. "My favorite sound…look at me when you cum," she commanded of her lover, Freya’s gaze already snapping to meet that of the succubus’ heated one.

As the moments stretched on, the tension inside Freya reached its peak. She could feel the heat building, the intensity of her desire rising. Her eyes squeezed shut, her body trembled, and she ground herself against Blythe's fingers, fingers that were still expertly pumping in and out of her. The pleasure, the undeniable lust, and the connection between them was overwhelming. She could feel herself releasing, feeling the succubus stuffed within her. She opened her eyes, locking gazes with that of intense silver ones, and let out a soft, wanton moan, her orgasm crashing down on her in waves.

The sound that came out of Blythe was almost unrecognizable as she witnessed her lover’s release, walls clenching around her fingers as it sent her in a frenzy. More she was desperate for more. She flipped their positions, emptying Freya who was now shocked and suddenly on her back. “One more…” she huffed with urgency gripping the back of Freya’s lustrous thighs, squeezing her meaty flesh before taking a feral inhale at her lover’s exposed, soaking bits. “Just one more…” before she dove an open mouth against her girlfriend’s swollen clit, sucking gently before rubbing wet circles with her tongue, moaning against the delightful taste of her lover’s juices.

Bly’s hands had a death grip upon the woman’s thighs, keeping them spread apart to her desires, legs pushed up, almost folding her girlfriend completely in half as she consumed her. “B-Blythe…Holy…Holy Heavens..” Freya's voice trailed off into a series of frantic gasps and whimpers as the succubus’ talented tongue continued to explore and tease her sensitive bean. The demon's eyes were wild, filled with a hunger that mirrored her own, and the fallen couldn't help but respond in kind.

"I c-can't take much more of this," Freya breathed, her hips bucking involuntarily as she felt her climax building once again. Her back arched up against the couch, the first layer of skin dampened by her lustfueled sweating. “You haven’t even-..A-Aah~”

Blythe smirked, her eyes never leaving Freya's face, her mouth just barely stopping it’s motions long enough to reply, hot breath teasing the angel’s slickened lips "Oh, darling, don’t worry about me, but I think you can take a lot more," she whispered seductively. "You're mine, Freya. Every last drop of your pleasure is mine to take…and I will have it…I will feast on it,” before completely swallowing her up again, tongue flickering in faster patterns, the angel falling back to her desires, feeding it.

Freya's eyes rolled back in ecstasy as the demon’s mouth continued to please her. She couldn't help but let out a series of soft moans and gasps, her body trembling uncontrollably. The pleasure was building up, and she felt like she was on the edge of a cliff, or the top of a rollercoaster just starting to take its dip. Her breath hitched, and she could feel her orgasm take hold of her.

"Oh, Blythe... I can't... I need to... I need to... Oh gods, I'm gonna..." Freya's words trailed off as her orgasm hit her like a wave, her entire body convulsing with pleasure. She arched her back, thrusting herself against Blythe's face, slickening the woman’s chin and mouth with her bliss while writhing and moaning in delight.

The demon continued to feast on her, sucking and licking every drop of her pleasure, savoring the taste and moment in one. Yet, she was hardly satisfied, hardly full. After the succubus cleans out her girlfriend of every last dripping drop of her delectable sweetness, she lets go of her, she sits up, but then carefully steps above Freya who’s laying on the couch and she smirks devilishly down at her gasping lover.

“My turn,” she inches upward, squatting now, Freya looking up to see her girlfriend’s exposed, slickened pussy as it approaches her face. The angel feels the butterflies of excitement, her own loins pulsating and twitching again, seriously it was like she stuck her finger in a light socket there was so much electricity coursing through her. Carefully, but purposefully, Blythe sits her quim upon Freya’s slowly opening and awaiting mouth.

Yellow eyes widened in anticipation. She'd never done this before, but she trusted Blythe. Slowly, she opened her lips, extending her tongue ready to taste the demon's sopping flesh. The succubus rocked herself onto Freya's mouth, and took hold of each pigtail within her palms. The angel could feel Blythe's hot, wet folds envelop her mouth and chin as she forcibly began to teeter against her, clit pressed tightly up against the fallen’s tongue. She let out a shaky breath. “F-Fuu-ck..” the demon cursed, her head falling astern with a cascading waterfall of hair that went down her back.

Inexperienced, Fry hesitated for a moment, her tongue gently caressing Blythe's entrance. She felt intimidated, but the rush of adrenaline and the intense desire for her lover pushed her forward. With shaking hands, she pressed them at Bly’s asscheeks, gripping them tightly for leverage. The succubus whimpered, the first submissive sound to really leave her lips. “F-Freya…” she whispered with a slight vulnerability that only made the woman fall further for the demon’s charms.

Figuring the angel may be a little out of her element, Blythe tightened her grip upon her lover’s hair and used the pigtails more like a handlebar, forcing the fallen’s tongue to drag and glide against her swelling button. Guiding her. Slowly, but surely, the angel got the hang of her own and enthusiastically, sucked and teased in unison to her demanding woman’s actions. Bly kept pushing her hips into the angel’s mouth, bucking with every thrust, her body writhing against Freya's face. The succubus could feel her orgasm building within, her entire body tensing with pleasure. She moaned loudly into the room, her voice echoing off the walls, drowning out the sound of her own panting.

Freya felt it too, the heat between her lover’s thighs radiating, warming her skin and causing her own sex to throb in response. She ran her tongue over the demon's clit, sucking it gently between her teeth. She could taste the sweet nectar of her love's desire, and it made her crave more. As Blythe felt herself nearing the brink, her rhythm became more erratic, uncalculated as her body was desperate for it’s release. “You’re gon-na make me…A-Ahh~ F-Freya…” The succubus' voice trailed off into a series of unintelligible pleas and moans as her orgasm overtook her, her body trembling, shaking against Freya's face, causing a mix of saliva and her own juices to drench the angel's mug. Blythe's grip tightened around the pigtails, pulling Freya's head deeper into her folds, straining her neck and causing her to gasp in breaths.

The Fallen’s hands, still gripping Blythe's ass, trembled with the force of her lover's climax, and her fingers twitched with the desire to touch herself. The angel's own sex pulsed and throbbed, the dampness between her thighs increasing with each passing second, knowing she was close to her own climax for a third time if she just had a second. Whilst Blythe's hips ground against her face, riding out what was left of her pleasure, The angel quickly reaching down, twisting and rutting her fingers purposefully against her own re-swollen cunt.

“Yeah my love? Can’t get enough, can we?” The Succubus chuckled with a breathless, twitch of her hips again. Without a word, the angel locked eyes back up with her girlfriend still seated upon her face, hips grinding roughly, and desperately into her own hand. “Gods you’re so fucking sexy when I’ve turned you into a mess…”

Blythe's words sent a wave of desire through the rutting angel, and she could feel her third climax building faster with each passing second. The way her girlfriend looked at her with lust and adoration ignited a fire within her that she hadn't felt before, probably how she was so quick to fall apart for her every time. She just knew how to press her buttons. Desperate for more, she began to suck and lick faster, her tongue darting out to tease Blythe's sensitive flesh almost upon instinct, and since it was right there.

Blythe let out a deep, surprised gasp, her hips bucking uncontrollably. "Oh, Freya, that’s it, my dove... feed your desires.." The succubus' hands tightened around the fallen's hair, pulling her face deeper into her sopping pussy. Blythe felt her second climax following close beside the other woman’s third, the angel letting out a crass moan of her own, her fingers still flying against her clit, rubbing and pinching with a fervor that matched her lover. In a unisoned moment the two women found ecstasy at the same space in time, both their bodies rocking simultaneously, eyes rolled back and every nerve ending electrified through their intense orgasms.

When the waves of pleasure finally subsided and their bodies became limp, Bly climbing off her lover and the two of them squeezing lazily into the couch together, Freya resting more on top of the succubus than the couch itself. They lay there, gasping for air, still linked together in a bond that could never be broken. The succubus leaned down, her lips finding Freya's, as their silence enveloped them. The Fallen could feel her heart swell, the love she bore for her girlfriend overwhelming her in that moment as the other’s thumb brushed against the top of her soft hand.

"I love you so much, Blythe," she whispered, her voice shaky as only the sounds of their labored breaths echoed the space instead of their pleasured mewls.

The succubus pulled away, smiling softly. "And I you, darling, not even God himself could keep me from you…truly..you make my life worth anything,” The two snuggled closer, practically crawling into each other’s skin. As they lay there, entwined in each other's arms, they knew of all the uncertainties that surrounded them, but they were excited for this new chapter, home, family. Love. Real, unfiltered, unadulterated, no rules, love. The Fallen thought the love of God was unmatched but, this woman she had been assigned to so long ago, captivated her, and loved even the most broken, flawed parts of her. This was true unconditional love. How could it ever be wrong? “And God himself, will not be able to save you from all the ways I’m going to forcibly induce those lovely sounds from you throughout the years, cause, WOWZA,” Blythe began to jokingly tickle and tease her girlfriend that giggled and squirmed in response.

“Hey! Not fair!” They both fell into a fit of laughter, teasing one another as they pushed on the other while enjoying the presence of love, in a home that they conjured up all on their own. Yeah, they could definitely get used to this.

The End

Author’s Notes: AHHH IM SO GAAAY I couldn’t stop, literally it just kept going. They’re so fucking hot 🥵🫠🫠🫠 FJSJALW this is my new favorite I’ve written. Idc idc.

[frogandbird]

Ch 17 - Foot Stamped Portals - Ch 19

“English” ‘TSL’ *Common*

Mikey sat on a ledge, watching some foot tones wander around in an alley.

There was a truck parked in the entrance, boxes and crates being filled into the back. Animals were calling, yowls of cats and screeching from birds. Near two dozen Foot Bruits were in the dark space.

The organic ones, all human, where shouting at each other. Black and orange mingled with black and red, nether of the two factions winning the argument.

The inorganic ones, some with metal faces, some that looked to be art projects, were walking to and from, following the orders of whoever was yelling the loudest that moment.

Finally enough one of the robots powered down, short circuiting from all the conflicting orders. The humans didn’t seem to notice.

A green bug buzzed near Mikey, making him absently swaying it away. She nodded along to an imaginary song, readjusting her headphones.

“We stopping them?” Mikey didn't look up from his observations as he spoke.

“Yes.” El hummed, her arms almost definitely crossed. Karai didn't say a word.

“Cool!” Mikey grinned, glancing directly below him. A firescape lead to a pile of trash and the dumpsters. “See ya down there!”

Mikey swung down the metal ladder, cackling as El sighed.

The foot goons all looked up at his dramatic entrance.

The humans all yelled, finally agreeing on one action. Drawing their weapons on Mikey. The bots and wirde paper ones followed the humans, sliding into attacking positions.

Mikey landed on the dumpster lid in a crouch, hands at their side grabbing around their chucks.

He could hear the soft rubbing of scales down the ladder from El and Karai. The foot grunts however, appeared to have not noticed. All manners of traditional weapons pointed at Mikey.

Mikey spoke, tilting their head as his secondary eyelids slid into place. “Wanna tell me what your doing with those little guys?”

No one responded more than sinking into battle ready positions.

“Oh well. We’ll take them off your hands.” Mikey laughed, slowly standing as his sisters landed near him, both drawing their respective blades.

Mikey lept at the human who looked to be most in charge, one with a single katana.

The blade was lifted to counter Mikey's jump, but he wrapped both numb-chucks around the blade.

The human yelped as she pulled, blade spinning out and being launched at the wall.

Mikey dropped, kicking the human's legs out from under them before they could recover.

He grunted as something lodged itself into the metal plates on their shell, the impact throwing them off.

The human took advantage of the momentary destraction, getting a kick in armed at Mikey’s face.

He pulled back as the foot made contact.

She used one nunchuck to hit the human in the head, spinning to face whoever had hit their shell.

Mikey couldn’t resist the smile that came to his face seeing the assumed assailant already in Karai's grip, her pale scales constricting around them.

Mikey gave her a nod, running to punch a bot that was getting far too close to El.

El had taken on three of the bots, keeping them at bay with little effort. Mikey spotted another bashed into a wall, a slash in its chest.

He kicked one of the ones on Els right upside the head, the metal and plastic almost folding under the pressure.

El gave a small grunt, bringing her swords down on the other two in a quick motion.

The two pressed shells together, surveying the remaining fight.

Karai still had the human in her grasp, two bots lying mangled nearby. Two more humans were running to the truck, all in black and orange.

The bots remained, all making their way to Karai. The weird others, eight of them, were grading the truck, one in it to close the doors.

Mikey grabbed some shurikens, three in hand. They threw them, each finding a home in the probability paper goons.

Mikey yelped as each of them blew up in pink dust, shards of paper falling to the ground.

El made a hissing noise, lunging in Karais direction as there snake sister hiss out in pain.

Mikey lunged at the paper soldiers.

Bringing his chucks down on them, he managed to get three more proofed, crushed paper scraps landing at their feet.

Mikey hissed as the truck began moving, the foot paper soldier attempting to close the door.

He jumped closer to the truck, grabbing the handle on the door. With a grunt she forced it open, hissing at the strain.

The paper soldier made no sound as it lost the battle, being flung at the roof of the trucks back.

He ducked inside, glancing back. The alleyway had been lost in the maze of cars, they were fully in the street now.

Mikey groaned, walking inside and shutting the door.

The truck was one of the moving variety, so no way to reach the cab. She shook out, looking over his arms and legs for any major injury.

With nothing but a few cuts from who knows what, he sighed. Looking around the dark truck Mieky tilted their head at the strange contents.

The crates and cages where all full of animals, many having stopped screaming as the truck began to move. Stacks of paper and states fill the back.

He tilted his head. Must have been for the paper soldiers. With a sigh Mieky grabbed some of the paper, folding it into long rectangles a few times over. She shoved them under the door, jamming it partially open before it could lock.

With that done, Mikey leaned against a wall, pulling out his phone from a pocket hidden near his false shell.

He turned it on, turning on their tracker in the same motion. He pulled up Els' contact, humming as she typed out a quick message.

He glanced at the nearest cage, a good sized dog laying in it.

Mikey looked down at the pup in concern, dropping down to his knees to check up on it. They flipped their headphones around their neck, giving the dog a few pets with his other hand.

The dog barely responded, ears flopping to one side and eyes half open. Mikey growled, getting only a slightly stronger reaction.

The poor things had probably been drugged, hence the lack of reaction. Mikey shook his head, sitting down next to the poor thing as the van continued to move, rubbing at the dogs ears.

—

The van stopped some time later, the low ever presenting rumble of the engine dying as they slowed.

Mikey perked up, several of the animals, mainly the birds, also began to wake, looking around and making some racket.

Mikey moved to stand in front of the door, weapons at the ready. He tilted his head as the engine stopped, doors slamming and voices starting up again.

The drivers had talked the whole trip, and even if Mikey couldn’t hear enough to make out the words, the drum of noise had helped them stay grounded.

Voices from father out spoke, shouting orders. The first two yelled back, then quieted as their footsteps got closer. One more came forward, seeming to stop a small bit away.

Mikey straightened, lifting his face slightly to look down on whoever opened the door.

If he got out, he could at least take a few foot goons out before bringing all the info he got from such a short trip back to his siblings.

Someone made note of the paper in the door, someone else making the comment that it must have been the paper soldiers.

Mieky suppressed a laugh, a wild grin spreading on his face. The door began opening, light spilling onto his feet then legs.

The door finished being pulled up, light spilling on his entire body. Two humans stumbled back, some dude with pink skin and a fire on his head all recoiling with shock on their faces.

Mikey looked down at them. “How d’ you do fellas?”

The humans screamed, the pink one yelling. Mikey rolled his eyes, even if the humans couldn’t see it.

With a grunt, Mikey lunged forward, managing one solid swipe at the pink one.

The pink one glared, bringing an arm up a second too late.

He pushed back, swinging to knee the pink one. The pink one responded by brining a fist at Mikey's head, swinging too wide as Mikey ducked halfway into heir shell.

Mikey grabbed the pink ones first, flipping them.

The pink one recovered, yelling as they pulled Mikey Down.

Mikey hissed as he was slammed into the ground, whatever was in his shell cover digging deep enough to actually cut into his real one.

The pink one picked up on his pain, a swift kick coming to his side.

Mikey snapped up, grabbing the pink one's leg and pulling it out from under them, ramming his head into the others as they came down.

Mikey shuffled back, jumping up. The flame from the pink one's head had spread, embers smoldering on her mask.

She growled, ringing one hand up to snuff the starting flames out. “I liked this one.”

The pink one spoke, startling Mikey. “Who are you.”

Mikey stood up, one hand still on his mask and the other on a cuchk. “Oh you know. Someone who can hold a grudge.”

A human spoke up, the ninja gear they wore more lax than most of the others. “A bug could have gotten in the tuck-“

They were cut off by the Pink one. “With full gear? I don’t think so.”

Mikey gave a wave, pulling his mask off in the process. “dudes, you're like twenty years too late for my mutation.”

The pink one lowered deeper into a fighting stance, making Mikey do the same. They really should think of a name, and not just ‘the pink one’.

Mikey yelped as a shrunken was thrown his way, ducking to avoid the sharp blade. He had enough of those sticking out of them thank you very much.

Mikey came forward, bringing his chucks on either side of the pink ones head, growling.

The pink one ducked under, delivering several blows to Mikeys chest.

Mikey grinned at the lack of strength, kneeing the pink one in the gut and jumping back.

She took the monetary pause to look around.

The truck had been parked in a truck loading zone thing, meaning Mikey was tucking in a well lit warehouse.

Well, what he assumed to be a warehouse. He was in a small ‘room’ that had been walled off by cates.

Mikey grunted as an annoyingly powerful kick was delivered to their side, sending him skirting along the floor.

This guy was on Karai level skill. Well, how it had felt when they were kids. That was only mildly concerning.

Mikey shook out, jumping back as more shurikens where flung his way. They ducked to one side.

The crate wall brushed up against his shell, blocking his exesape.

Mikey whined, not glancing back as the pink one came forward, hands in balled fists.

Mikey lowered his head, something familiar buzzing under their scales as he growled.

She lunged forward again, spinning as to hit the pink one best he could in the side.

the Pink one took the blow, grabbing Mikey's arms.

Mikey yelped as they both spun, not able to wiggle out of the strong grip.

Finally he was let go, being sent into a wall.

Mikey whined at the impact on his head and shell, one arm going over his side to try and reach the shuriken that embedded itself deeper into his shells.

The pink one approached with a too wide grin, head tilted as one of the goons handed them a sword. Small back spots began to dance in the edges of Mikey's vision.

“Seems you are twenty years out of practice turtle. This will be a message to your little friends as well.”

Mikey glared up at them, growling. “Ever consider your just a bitch Bubblegum?” He grinned as he said it.

Bubblegum, as they were now named, brought their arm up, sword in hand. Mikey couldn’t place what kind it was.

Both of them recoiled as something teal flashed down, a shuriken embedding itself in the ground in between the pair. Teal bubbled off of it.

Mikey looked up, grinning as dark spots fought to cover El and Karais forms as the pair dropped down from the now broken roof.

Bubblegum yelled something but his sisters were already moving.

Mikey sat back slightly, whining at the pain in his shell. El brought her katana down on Bubblegum, who was using a shuriken to stop her from actually hurting them.

Karai was spinning around, slashing at paper, robot, and human bruits alike with her now clawed hands. She bit at a few to, snapping a bot in half.

Mikey relaxed slightly as the black spots ebbed away, standing with only a slight shake.

“Woah, angry sister alert.” Mikey laughed at his own joke, grinning as Karai let out a snort.

El just groaned, kicking Bubblegum away. “Let’s just go.”

Something teal glowed in Els' eyes, the shuriken she had thrown now in hand.

Mikey jumped as El cut into Bubblegum with the sharp metal, her other hand swapping her katana for a grabbing hook in one swift motion.

Mikey limped over to her at the same time as Karai, both grabbing their own and sending them to the roof.

Mikey hissed as they reached open air. El came to his side, concern in her face.

Mikey waved her off. “‘Can wait till we get away.”

El tilted her head. “You sure?”

Mikey nodded, standing best he could. “Yep.”

El relented, letting Mikey stand. “Right, then we should go.”

The others nodded, following her down the building and into the tunnels they called home.

— —

Mikey winced as Donnie removed the last blade from his shell, the metal having cut through both metal and bone.

“You ok Mike?” Donnie spoke, the clatter of metal as they dropped the last shurian.

Mikey nodded, flipping the settings on his headphones rapidly.

“mhm.” Donnie sounded unamused.

Mikey didn’t bother responding, letting his sibling remove the metal shell from their shoulders.

“How the hell..?” Donnie spoke as they removed the weight from her back.

Mikey cracked open his eyes, head turning slightly to look at Donnie.

It took Donnie a few moments to notice, but they gave a smile that didn't reach his eye.

“I think it’s just a bruise, don't worry.” Donnie waved their metal hand.

Mikey ignored the worry that made his way into their gut, letting it fade into the numbness that was painkillers.

Donnie set the shell cover down, grabbing a rag that turned out to be soaked in warm water.

Mikey leaned into the contact, humming as the warm water and soft rag scrubbed at the dried blood off his shell.

Donnie laughed slightly at her cat-like actions. They continued the scrubbing as Mikey let themself purr slightly.

Donnie returned the purr with a hum. They continued the work, dropping the rag after many minutes.

Mikey sat up a bit straighter, once again opening his eyes. Donnie gave him a smile.

A slight pressure formed on Mikey's shell. “Did that hurt?”

Mikey shook his head. “Nope. feels like you’re just pressing on my shell normally.”

“Huh.” Donnie pulled back.

Footsteps could be heard, making Mikey perk up slightly. El came into the clean room, a hoodie on replacing her gear and patrol outfit. She came around, sitting next to Mikey as Donnie stood.

“You doing ok?” El asked, glancing at both of them.

Mikey gave a slow nod, what little energy he had left draining as El placed a hand on their arm.

Donnie spoke up, sitting back down. “They should be fine, just an adrenaline crash.” there was a pause. “He’ll be fine after a nap, it's only bad because we haven’t had many fights recently.”

El hummed, Mikey resting her head on his sister's shoulder. Donnie grumbled at the change in position but begna to bandage the cuts.

“What happened anyway? You guys weren’t gone long.” Donnie asked.

“Found the Foot pretty quickly, they had a truck and Mieky went in it. Found a bace though I don't think they will stay there for long.” El responded, one hand now rubbing at Mikey's arm.

“I see. should we be doing anything about it?” Mikey could feel Donnie sit back, apparently done bandaging his shell.

“Raph, Mona, Karai and Casey are already heading that way. April is going as soon as she gets off shift and I just wanted to check in with you before heading out.”

Donnie made an ‘ah-ha’ noise. Mikey hissed as he spread over his sister. He could feel her belt and the wrapps on her heads now that he focused enough to pay attention.

“You ok Mikey?” El asked, her hand migrating to Mikey's head.

“Don’t leave.” Mikey grumbled, head butting Els' chest.

“I'm going to have to bud, if ‘Bubblegum’ is there I don't want to leave them without backup.” El spoke, Mieky could hear the soft rumble of a churr coming form her chest as she spoke.

Mikey groaned in protest, stretching his arms out.

Donnie laughed from behind them. “I got them El, you should go. Take a camera or a spy-roach though I want to see this place.”

El clicked. “Sure. Mike you gotta let me up.”

Mikey hissed, but let her up. El laughed slightly, standing. Mikey flopped onto the pelloied chair she had just been, doing his best to complain without being convincing enough to make them stay.

Mikey could hear El leaving the soft padding of her footsteps fading out quickly as she left for the soon to be abandoned foot hideout.

Donnie said something but Mikey paid it no mind, stretching out enough to get comfortable. With that done he let out a huff, making himself take a nap instead of worrying about his family.

— — —

Oreo stood above the stove, spoon in hand as they stared noodles into a pot of boiling water. Kondescending kitchen was playing on their phone, propped up against the wall.

Onix and Dada were at the table, having some conversation about something. Oreo could only pick up random words as the pair spoke in japanese.

April had made a joke one day that the others should also be able to speak it with how much Dada and Onix did, yet Oreo had never thought about actually learning it. Three languages was enough for her, thank you.

Oreo glanced at her phone, pulling the recipe she was following up. She already had everything measured, so it was just a matter of checking the order.

She grabbed a smaller sauce pan, dumping the milk and cheeses into it with one hand and turning on the burner with the other.

The conversation behind them stopped, making Oreo glance back. Onix was still, say for her head. She was looking around, spikes on her head flaring like she was trying to hear something better.

Dada rested a paw on her arm, “Are you alright child?”

Onix slowly nodded, eyes landing on Oreo for several moments.

“Think so..” Onix trailed off, glancing back at Dada. “Just a weird feeling.”

Oreo glanced at Dada, their ears pinned back with worry on his face. He looked over at Oreo, who shrugged. She huffed, turning back to the stove to sturr her now two hot pots.

“Again?” Dada asked, Oreo paying attention this time.

With the silence from Onix and the sigh from Dada, Oreo could only assume she had nodded.

*What was it this time?* Oreo spoke up. This had happened a few times now, but Onix would always shrug and say adrenaline.

*Anger. *Onix paused.

Oreo looked back. That was a new one. A concerning one too. Dada looked mildly stressed, his sound wrinkled in a concerned scowl.

*Protectiveness over..* Onix trailed off again, her head lowered as she pulled her bandana up. *I think over you?* Onix nodded in Oreos direction.

Oreo tilted her head. *But I'm just cooking?*

*I know, that's the weird part.* Onix gave a sigh, slouching back.

Dada looked even more worried, but shook his head. *We need to figure this out soon hun.”

Onix nodded as Oreo turned back to the stove again, grabbing a spoon to dig out a noodle. She cut off a chunk, popping in her mouth. They opted to ignore Onixs weird emotions, it wasn't something they could change.

Oreo glanced at her phone at the ping it made, a message from Violet popping up. she swiped it away, grabbing the pot of noodles.

Oreo walked over to the sink, strainer already in its place. She dumped the noodles in as Dada and Onix began to speak again.

Oreo tipped the staner back into the now empty pot, walking back to the stove. She turned the heat down on the sauce , stirring it again. They grabbed the salt and pepper, using their tail to mix everything as they added both in. They set the containers down to grab the rest of the spices, adding them in slowly.

Onix kept faltering in her speech, Dada looking more and more worried each time Oreo glanced back.

Oreo sighed, and with the sauce now done she purred it into the bigger pot. With that done Oreo finally grabbed her phone, sending a message to the mutant family chat to summon everyone for dinner.

The twins came in quickly, Violets drawn on eyebrows pushed together in a frown, Sky happily tapping on his phone.

Oreo nodded to the table. Violet grabbed plates, utensils and cups already set out by Onix and Dada.

Sky set his phone down, grabbing the spices and such that Oreo had left out.

With the table fully set Oreo gave everyone their portions, setting the pot back on the stove, making sure it was off before sitting down.

Violet tapped her arm as Sky got hissed at, the slider putting his phone down once again.

Oreo looked over at Violet, food already in her mouth.

‘You alright?’ Violet signed quickly, pausing to take a bite of noodles. They gave a happy hiss.

Oreo grinned, then nodded. ‘Yeah just fine. Why?’

Violet shook their head. ‘Just a weird feeling.’

Oreo sighed. That made two older worried siblings. ‘You and Onix both then.’

Sky leaned onto Violet's shoulder, glancing at once rapidly moving hands.

“Why is everyone having secret conversations without meeee?” Sky whined, though it sounded less annoyed and more like he just wanted attention.

Oreo stuck their tongue out at Sky, then took a bite of her noodles. Sky returned the gesture with a bit more flare than was needed.

Violet rolled their eyes. “For your unneeded knowledge, we were just discussing our current project.”

Sky groaned, but returned to his actual seat. “Your supper secret one that not even Dad can figure out?”

Violet nodded as Oreo snickered. They could deal with overprotective sibling later, for now it was time to drive Sky up the wall.

[liz-allyn]

heat of the moment, pt 6 - carpe diem (finale) [tasm!peter x reader x groundhog day au]

summary: everything ends, eventually.  angst; fluff; humor; final destination vibes; and yes this is in tribute to my favorite episode of television ever written - “mystery spot”

words: 11.6k

warnings: death. a lot of it. repeatedly. in this chapter: tw description of death by car accident, fire, drowning, asphyxiation, self h*rm, mass casualty event.

a/n - don't you hate it when stories just dump a ton of exposition in the last chapter? haha fuck

Part 1. Part 2. Part 3. Part 4. Part 5. Part 6.

The sun had long set as you crouched down stealthily on a roof overlooking an industrial complex next to the Holland Tunnel. It was near the entrance on the New York side of the Hudson River, far from the dumpster you sought out. 

After leaving Claire, you had met Peter across town and inspected the burned-out site tediously. There wasn’t much left behind, save for a few singed sheets of paper nearby. Shipping invoices for an address on the other side of Manhattan. 

Alarms went off in your head at the perplexity of someone dumping their trash all the way over here. You were determined to follow this lead, and quickly. 

Working against time, you were now in pursuit. You gazed out over the street below as you studied the tall, rectangular, art deco-style, brick structure. The exteriors looked repainted and somewhat modernized, part of ongoing renovations to the Holland Tunnel, you figured. Now at the heart of the tallest building, a 50-foot-wide clock face doubled the size of ‘Big Ben,’ with golden dials that added to the aesthetic.

The clock face leered maliciously at you, like a hungry dragon perched on a tower. Like the hands would come alive, and spring out sharp teeth that gobbled you up.

What a way to go.

The face stares down at you, knowingly, like a proverbial ‘Eye of Sauron,’ meeting you at the edge of Mordor. The minute hand lurches past 10:50 to 10:51, reminding you of its quicksilver nature.

You’d never made it past 10:30 PM before. 

You’re deep behind enemy lines. 

Wearing the Spider suit, Peter swung to your position, his feet landing on the roof as gently as a cat’s. He crouched down to your level, lifting his mask from his sweaty face.

“Okay, so something is definitely off with that building,” Peter whispered. “It’s using a ton of power. Way more than any New York City building should.” He noted your distant look and silence, hypnotized by the ominous feeling the clock gave you. He eyed you suspiciously, “Exactly what are we looking for here?”

You pursed your lips, observing the slow crawl of vehicle traffic clogging itself into the tunnel. You could see the lights of a construction crew near the tunnel entrance. You smelled the heavy fumes of semi trucks trickling in between passenger vehicles. You felt the wind chilling the back of your neck, sending a shiver down your spine.

“Something bad,” you replied grimly.

Peter stared at you incredulously, brow furrowed, waiting for further explanation. The humor was beginning to evaporate from his mood, a heavy tension settling in between you. No further explanation followed.

“Okay,” he declared, more firmly now. “We’re done here.”

That caught your attention. He reached for you and you flinched back. “No, wait, we can’t leave!”

“Honestly, this has gone on far enough,” Peter replied with a serious tone, his mocha eyes filled with concern. “You start talking about time loops at breakfast and then you throw muffins at me and ghost me for hours, you won’t answer any of my questions, you can’t just lay shit out like that and not explain yourself—”

“We have to get inside that building.”

“Why?!” he snapped, temper flaring. You knew his frustration was branching from his anxiety, and you had to find a way to diffuse it.

“Something inside that building is affecting your abilities!” you whispered harshly. You were also losing control. “Why don’t you want to find out what it is?”

A deep crease formed in his brow, stubbornness feeding indignation. “Tell me why. Why can’t we just go home right now? Tell me the truth!”

You pulled your eyes away, dropping them to the ground. “We can’t go home, Peter,” you firmly stated, and it sounds like you’re admonishing a child.

“Tell me why right now, or I throw you over my shoulder—”

“Because I never make it back home alive!” you blurted out.

He blinks at you. Eyes narrow. Observes you. Brow furrows. Head tilts. Pupils go wide. Face pales. Heart rate increases. 

“What do yo—” the words trickle off, shrinking away as they leave his mouth. With them, they take the air from his lungs. His shoulders tense. “What does that— what are you talkin’ about? What’re you sayin’?” On reflex, he grasps at your arms. His face searches yours, betrayed.

You reach out for him, gripping his shoulders. It begins to ground him, but doesn’t release the building pressure. You steady yourself. Meet him in his own time.

“Peter, listen,” you softly cooed, “it’s okay. Everything is going to be okay.” 

He exhaled a breath he wasn’t aware he was holding. His eyes looked like he was torn between the urge to argue, and the need to hold you. 

He swallowed hard, his fingers finding yours, gripping your hands like he used to hold his stuffed animals. “I don’t under—”

“What I’m about to say is going to freak you out, but we need to be on the same page about this,” you slowly explained. “Every day for the last... I don’t know how many... several-thousand Tuesdays... I wake up. And it’s Tuesday. And then, somehow, it ends with me dying. And then I wake up—and it’s Tuesday again.”

He stares. Eyes glazing black.

“Stay with me, Pete,” you pleaded, your hands cupping his cheeks. “I think whatever is causing this to happen is connected to something in that building.”

“No,” Peter said. Darkness enveloped his voice. “You’re not gonna die. Don’t say that.” He shook his head. An unsettling firmness crept into his tone.

“I have this feeling,” you explained, “that it’s all connected. The time loop. Your abilities not working right. The dying—”

“You’re not gonna die,” he asserted, with even more resolve.

You pursed your lips, falling silent. For a moment, you let yourself drown in the dark pools of his gaze. They’re like thick, dark storm clouds. Heavy blackness crackling with bolts of lightning. You read his face carefully, choosing your words delicately.

“I believe you,” you answered, finally. It was the truth. He studied your reaction too, and tension released from his shoulders slightly. “But we have to get into that building.”

He nodded once, swallowing back his anxiety, then took you by the shoulders. “But you’re not going in there. You’re staying put.”

You rolled your eyes. “Peter, we don’t have time for this!”

He shook his head, jaw firmly set. “I’m not doing this again.” He wasn't talking about last Tuesday.

“I am not Gwen,” your voice bellowed.

He went silent at her name, still dumbstruck by shame and grief. It was like you slapped him. He dropped his eyes to his feet, sorrow building steadily.

You softened your expression and your tone. “You aren’t the ‘you’ from then, either.”

The sharp, smooth line of his jaw quivered for just a moment, and you brushed your fingers along the freckles there. His lashes fluttered closed at the gesture. 

“I know that you’re afraid of what you’ll lose,” you whispered, featherlike. Like telling a secret. “I know you think it’ll break you. But I’ve seen the best and the worst of you, Peter Parker.” 

He looked up at you, and the utter endearment on your face was enough to take his breath away. It brought tears to his eyes. 

“I believe in you,” you stated. As certain as the sky is blue. “Every day. Forever. Even if you don’t believe in yourself. So please. Believe in me.”

Peter grimaced, fear piercing his chest. He pushed it down. He nodded. “Always.”

You held his gaze lovingly. Despite your predicament, you strangely wished you could freeze the moment.

“Okay,” you smirked, eyes bright. “Let’s do this. Remember, there’s no fate but what we make, right?”

You moved to stand, but he reached out and grabbed you. “Wait.” You glanced back at him, catching the puzzled look on his face. “When did you see Terminator?”

You quirked a brow, teasingly mysterious in your reply. “I’m a sci-fi nerd, now. What about it?”

11:14 PM

After careful effort, and more minutes than you wanted to lose, you made it inside to find your suspicions were correct. 

You were standing inside of a control room next to two knocked out, webbed-up security guards. You closely studied a vast array of CCTV monitors above you. Your boyfriend was hunched over a screen, listening intently to the conversations of plant workers—some of which he’d recognized as former science division employees of Oscorp. You recognized some of them too, from Alchemax. And Horizon Labs. And Roxxon.

“Okay,” you asked, glancing warily at the time. “Do we have any idea why these guys are all in this building? Was there a mad scientist convention or something?”

���Is it weird that I’m low-key, kinda offended that I didn’t even get an invite?” Peter grumbled, shaking his masked head bitterly. “Am I weird for thinking that? Is that bad?”

You gave him an incredulous glare. “I’m sure it’s in your spam folder.”

“It’s fine,” Peter flatly declared. It wasn’t fine. 

He uncrossed his arms to lean his weight on his palms, staring at one of the screens intently. “Here,” he noted, calling your attention to a computer screen visible on the security camera. “These are plans. They’re building something. We need to find out what.”

11:22 PM

Deeper inside the facility, you hid behind the door of a windowless office. Your palms were clammy, and sweat poured out of you. It wasn’t just the tension. It was the heat. A massive source of energy, Peter had explained, from some part of the building.

A bespectacled, bird-like, middle-aged man wearing a lab coat entered the office. You slammed the door behind him. Startled, he turned around and spotted you, a mix of confusion and growing alarm. He opened his mouth to yell just as two red gloves reached down around his head and clamped his jaw shut. 

You looked up at Spider-Man, dropping from his hiding place on the ceiling, as he muffled the screams of the captive. The scientist flailed uselessly in Peter’s arms, overcome with panic. You shuddered as you noted Spider-Man’s grip was little a rougher than normal.

“Spidey,” you soft admonished. He looked up at you and spotted the timid anxiety in your eyes. He took the hint.

Peter turned the captive scientist around and sat him down in his own desk chair. With a couple of webs he was bound to the fake leather padding. 

The man gaped up through wire-rimmed glasses at Spider-Man’s towering frame, his eyes wide with terror. Without being prompted, you reached into the pockets of the lab coat, snatching his ID badge off its lanyard. You pocketed several keys, metal and magnetic. You flipped through his wallet for clues.

Spider-Man kicked his leg up on the seat of the captive’s chair, leaning on his own thigh crassly. “Hey, buddy!” the vigilante greeted with a bright, cheery smile as you searched him. 

You glanced at the name on the scientist’s ID badge. “Joseph,” you supplied.

“Hey, Joe!” Spider-Man corrected. Despite the chipper tone, the muscles in his neck were pulled taught. He looked like a dog about to snap. “Whatcha buildin’ under here?”

Your boyfriend released the scientist’s mouth. His wild eyes darted anxiously between the two of you. ‘Joe’ attempted to calm himself down, stuttering as he sought out what’s left of his courage.

“Do you have any idea where you are?” he spat ferociously. “You two are screwed! You’re not getting outta here. You’re in way over your heads! I’m not telling you anything! You can’t make me talk—”

A web slapped over Joe’s mouth, gagging him. You shot your boyfriend an impatient glare. “We don’t have time for this,” you warned him.

Spider-Man kept his attention on his captive, shrugging his shoulders. “You heard the lady,” he said, almost apologetically. Peter dropped his foot from the chair and sidled up to the man, gripping his hair and yanking his head back. You flinched as you watched him brandish a blade and swipe at the webbing across the man’s mouth with cobra-like quickness. He sliced an opening in the gag, allowing his captive to breathe.

“Since we’re a little short on time, we’re gonna cut to the chase, yeah?” he explained, his pleasant-sounding demeanor coming short of masking the malice in his tone. “I’m Spider-Man. You’re a bad guy. And you caught me on a really weird day. So instead of hanging you by your ankles off the edge of a high-rise, or tossing you off the Statue of Liberty, or webbing you up over Fifth Avenue in nothin’ but your tighty-whities, I’m gonna fast-forward.” 

The vigilante tilted his head down until he was directly in front of Joe’s face, lowering his voice to a serpent’s hiss. “You’re going to tell me what you’re building here, or I’ll end you. Simple as that.”

You flicked your eyes to Spider-Man, shifting your weight between your feet. You squeezed your eyes closed, pushing images of Peter’s rage from your anxious thoughts. 

“Keep in mind, I can hear your heart beat,” your boyfriend sneered, looming over his captive. “I can tell what it sounds like if you’re lying. I can hear my own heart, too. Wanna know what it sounds like right now?”  

The scientist stared back blankly as beads of sweat trickled down his forehead, eyes as wide as saucers. 

Spider-Man tilted his head, lowering the opaque lenses of his mask closer. “Murder.”

The single word hung in the air like the toll of a bell, or the echoing crack of thunder. Thick black toxic smoke that threatened to choke them. Your stomach twisted, recognizing that his teasing savagery was more than simple posturing. You’d seen him like this before. You had experience in keeping an eye on the pressure gauge.

You glanced at the clock on Joe’s desk. 

11:24 PM

“Please,” you blurted out, unsure to whom you were speaking. Maybe to anyone who would listen.

“Here it is,” Spider-Man declared. “The one and only time I’m gonna ask. What supervillain’s new gadget are you building here?”

The quivering man stared at him, dumbstruck, slowly turning so white he’d eventually camouflage into the walls. “You-you got this all wrong...” he stuttered.

“How so?” Spider-Man didn’t miss a beat. “Details, Joe.”

“...Claire?”

Your surprised tone snapped both men's attention back to you. You stood at the scientist’s desk, eyes fixed on a photo frame. You picked it up, gazing down at the faces in shock.

Joe’s demeanor changed instantly. Any sense of bravado he had evaporated. “That’s my daughter’s name,” he gulped, pulse thumping in his throat. “How-how do you know my daughter’s name?”

You stared down at the photo of your beautiful Grim Reaper, flanked by a woman you had come to recognize as her mother and the man currently webbed to a chair. The photo was taken on a bright sunny day, Yankee Stadium in the background. Claire looked much younger than she did now, as did both of her parents. Not just younger—brighter. More hopeful. More alive. 

Your mouth hung open as you glanced up at the captive. “Joseph Rivers? You’re Claire’s father?”

Dr. Rivers looked up at Spider-Man, his face going pale. “Please,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “She doesn’t ha-have anything to-to do with this mess. Leave her out of this. I beg you.”

Peter met your eyes, and although you couldn’t see his face, you knew he was confused. You didn’t tell him about Claire today, or any of the times she’d tried to kill herself.

Your gaze dropped down to Dr. Rivers. “Do you have any idea what your daughter’s been doing today?”

He looked perplexed. “I... I—” 

“Do you know she tried to commit suicide?” you snapped, marching up to his chair. He flinched at the information, a lightning bolt shooting to his heart. You crossed your arms, glaring down at him indignantly. “And where were you?” 

You know it’s judgmental. You know it’s unfair. But this was Claire. And Tuesday had given you enough insight into her life to feel like defensive, after everything.

“I—” Rivers was still opening and closing his mouth like a fish. “I don’t... They don’t let us have our phones—I mean, I-I knew she had troubles before...” His throat tightened, chest constricting, “Is-is she okay?” He looked heartbroken. Terrified. You saw Peter’s shoulders slump, head turning away.

You watched Rivers through narrowed lids, but you couldn’t deny the agony in his question. The fear in his face. “For now,” you answered. “Because I saved her. But she needs real help.” You leveled your gaze. “And so do we, Mr. Rivers.”

Rivers looked back up at Spider-Man, still observing the side of his mask. The masked vigilante was unable to meet his gaze. He looked over at you again, reading your resolve. His eyes dropped to the photo frame in your hands, his chin clenching. Eyes also filled with shame.

“It’s a weapon,” Rivers declared. “They tell us it’s not, but I’m not stupid. We all know what it is.”

“What kind of weapon?” Peter asked, facing him again.

“You ever heard of Havana Sickness?” Rivers asked him. “Well, that was version one.” 

Your eyes ping-ponged between the two scientists. “Can somebody translate?”

Peter explained, his gaze fixed on Rivers, as he provided you context. “Few years ago a group of diplomats started getting sick in Havana. Nausea, dizziness, ringing in the ears—all the way up to sudden, unexplained pain and trouble with cognition. Nobody ever found out what caused it. Some people think it was all in their heads, others think it was some kind of staged attack.”

“A directed energy weapon,” Rivers revealed, his voice grave. “And now it’s been perfected. This one is far more advanced than anything that’s ever been built. Electromagnetic waves charged by plasma. Its power is unprecedented.”

“Sounds rad,” Peter snipped flatly. “Probably worth a pretty penny to the highest bidder. Speaking of which. Whose bankrolling this, Joey? Is it Fisk? Is it the Osbournes?”

Rivers let out a bitter laugh. “You’re joking, right?” He stared at you incredulously. “You think you’re dealing with some greasy, mob boss? Some corporate shenanigans?” 

You and Peter glanced at each other. 

“Look around you, kids!” Rivers spat. “We’re in a secret underground base underneath the Hudson River, for godssake. This whole operation is run by Uncle Sam. It’s the fucking C.I.A., you dimwits.”

You stared at him, stunned and silent. 

Peter threw his arms in the air in exasperation. “I don’t believe it! Seriously?” He spun in a circle, hands landing on his head, then faced Rivers again, jabbing his finger in his face.

“Okay. Number one. Rude," he said, clipped. Just because I wasn’t invited to your little World of Warcraft campaign doesn’t make me an idiot, got that?” Your shot a withering look at the back of your boyfriend’s head.

“Second:” he continued, with a disgusted tone. “Billions of dollars and almost all of the greatest minds in the world and the G-Men are using this—for what—a new toy? What, did Santa not bring you guys enough guns for Christmas?!”

Rivers argued, “Technology like this would make nuclear war obsolete! It could stop any intercontinental ballistic missile—safely—miles above the Earth’s atmosphere.”

“Could also burst the eardrums of some unruly protestors,” Peter criticized with disdain. He crossed his arms, glaring down at the scientist suspiciously. “Destabilize a few unfriendly governments?”

“Burn the tiny hairs off a spider?” You asked, finally interrupting the quarrelling men. Rivers and Peter gave you a look.

You sighed, “This is exciting and all, but I can’t reiterate how much time for this shit I don’t have!” You glared at Rivers impatiently. “Congratulations, Doc. The weapon you’re building also tears a hole in the space-time continuum. Well done. Now would you please just tell us where it is, so we can pull the plug?”

The older man glanced back and forth between you. “You… can’t…?”

“It was a figure of speech, man,” Peter snapped at him. “She doesn’t actually think there’s a power cord—”

“No, what I mean is it’s already been built,” Dr. Rivers explained. “You’re too late. It’s on a truck leaving now.”

11:41 PM

This is the stupidest thing you’ve ever done. You’re certain of it. 

And it may very well be the last thing you ever do. 

You watch helplessly as the box truck carrying the Weapon of the Future is driven into the tunnel. Your boyfriend (who left you behind to stay put) is attached to the top of it, in an attempt to steal it. 

You think on that again. 

Your boyfriend, Spider-Man, is going to steal one of the most advanced weapons the world has ever known, from the C.I.A.

This is only the second stupidest thing he’s ever done. The top spot was recently awarded when he webbed you to Rivers’ desk and left you behind. For your safety. 

As if you didn’t have your own pocket knife on you, to free yourself from the webbing.

You had run outside just to see the unmarked white truck entering the tunnel. There was no way of catching up to it on foot.

So. Here you are, contemplating the stupidest thing you’ve ever done. 

You see a stationary police cruiser, brake lights on, engine running. Waiting in line to enter the tunnel. You recognize the single occupant in the front seat. 

“Y’know, Cage,” you declare as you saunter up to the open drivers’ side window, “you really gotta stop working doubles.” The rookie officer flinched at the sound of your voice, turning towards you in utter confusion. “Just because your wife threw you out doesn’t mean you don’t need sleep.”

He gazed at you, jaw falling open, white as a ghost. 

You reached forward and gripped the back of his head, slamming his nose into his own steering wheel. 

He hissed in pain as you opened the drivers’ side door and reached down towards his belt. You unclipped his service arm pistol, pointing it at him. Like you’d done it 1,000 times before. 

Officer Cage froze in horror, staring up at the barrel of his own gun, stunned at your speed and dexterity. Doing that never failed to give you a rush. 

“Out,” you ordered.

Hands raised, he pulled himself out of his seat and stood awkwardly next to his car. You hopped in the drivers’ seat and flipped the switch to turn on the emergency lights. 

Like you’d done it 1,000 times before. 

Perplexed, Officer Cage watched you incredulously, as you leaned out of the window and tossed his weapon back at him. 

The second it landed in his hands, he’d accidentally pulled the trigger. But no bullet was fired.

“I emptied it,” you explained. 

He looked at you like you were a witch. 

“Maybe spend some more time on the range first?” you offered gently, shifting the car into gear. “And maybe in some therapy, too?” You stepped on the gas pedal, leaving him in the dust. 

You swerved, driving around the heavy congestion of vehicles, entering the tunnel. Sirens wailing.

11:43 PM

Peter held on tightly to the roof of the cargo hold as the truck drove around the traffic, allowed by the tunnel construction crew to pass. He honestly started to wonder if the tunnel was really under construction at all, or if it was all some elaborate hoax.

Maybe you were right, he thought. Maybe everything is connected and therefore nothing is nothing and we’re all pawns living in some sort of simulated plan.

“God, I really need to touch some grass,” he groaned through gritted teeth, as he ducked his head beneath the overhanging signs of the tunnel. 

11:44 PM

You saw the truck ahead of you. You toggled the police car’s sirens, switching it to a piercer effect. 

The short bursting yelps must have caught the driver’s attention, because you saw brake lights flash. Then, they turned off as the truck sped up. Your stomach sank.

“No, no...” 

You could see the lanky limbs of your boyfriend flail as he struggled to get a better grip on the roof of the vehicle. You sighed, biting your lip with trepidation. The device wasn’t even on and already he was becoming less sticky. The truck dashed on, weaving around vehicles, disappearing from sight. You stepped on the gas and tried to catch up.

What you could not see, what Peter could not see, and—tragically— what the truck driver could not see, was the debris in the road. 

A six-inch steel ratchet that had fallen off of one of the construction trucks.

For any speeding vehicle, running over it would’ve resulted in a missing hubcap and a bent rim.

For a 26-foot box truck weighing 15 tons, traveling at 67 miles per hour through a crowded construction zone, the result was catastrophic. 

You watched, wide-eyed, as the truck jolted in front of you. 

It was simple math. 

Peter was knocked loose as the vehicle swerved like a serpentine from left to right, side-swiping vehicles on both sides. 

Every variable locked firmly in place.

Spider-Man was thrown into the hood of a stalled vehicle. You screamed as you watched his body crush the windshield. You slammed on the brakes. 

The unchanging constant. The outcome was inevitable.

Everything else that followed was like a choreographed dance.

A symphony written by fate. Every note falling into place, crescendoing to a deafening disaster.

The truck swerves. Pitches. Thrown off balance.

Road construction workers turn and shout. 

Another truck is stopped in the path. The cargo filled with flammable gasses.

There’s a collision.

A spark. A bright light.

A shockwave.

11:47 PM

Outside the tunnel, Officer Cage pauses from his frantic shouts into his radio. He turns and sees a bright light shooting out of the entrance. The shockwave that follows jolts cars, bursts glass, sets off alarms, and moves the Earth beneath his feet. 

The clockface of the Holland Tunnel ventilation tower is jarred, the hands jerking loose. The arms drop.

The time now says it’s 1:21. But it's wrong. Everything about this is so wrong.

There is no time left.

Cage turns pale as the tunnel entrance crumbles like a sandcastle, sealing all the vehicles inside. 

Another burst of light erupts. This one from the middle of the river.

11:47 PM

You’re gripping the steering wheel, and then you’re upside down, slamming into the roof. You taste blood and glass and metal.

Everything is white. You reach up to shield your eyes, but you can’t.

The light is blinding, shooting through your flesh like an x-ray. You can see right through your hands, observing every bone, vein, and capillary. 

Then.

Darkness.

“It was the HEAT of the MOMENT...”

No.

“...Tellin’ me.  what.  my. HEART meant...”

No, no, no, I need more time!

“...The HEEEAT of the MOMENT…

Showed in your EYEEEES…”

Your eyes pop open as you are viciously ripped away from the darkness. They burn instantly from the smoke.

Your senses are assaulted by the smell of blood and gasoline and salt water. Screams and sirens invade your ears.

“It was the HEAT of the MOMENT...”

Your bleary eyes struggle to adjust to the shadows, dark shapes taking form. You see an orange flickering glow. Punctuated with flashes of red and blue. Flames. Voices call out. Echoing. Steady horn blasts. Car alarms shrieking. The shrill cacophony of dozens of personal safety alarms—PASS devices, as Tuesday had taught you—magnify as they bounce off the concrete. 

There’s a roaring sound, too. Like a train passing. 

A sheet of crushed glass blocks your view. It looks like ice and snow, like you could reach out and wipe it off the windshield. 

You remember that you’re in the police car. 

You’re on your chest. You know your ribs are broken. You’re used to the pain.

“Tellin’ me.  what.  my. HEART meant...”

Peter. You have to find Peter.

“The HEEEAT of the MOMENT…

Showed in your EYEEEES…”

You hate this fucking song.

You push yourself up, crawling over the inverted dashboard, pulling yourself along with bloody fingers. You kick the shattered windshield out, feeling the sharp heat of crushed glass cutting into your leg. It’s no matter. If you have air left in your lungs, you have to find Peter.

When you crawl out, you’re drenched in freezing water. Your feet slosh in it as it crawls up your ankles. You take a shaky breath, and immediately sputter. Your ribs are definitely broken. And the air burns your lungs when you breathe.

You look up, trying to get your bearings. Look around. 

This is the worst, you think. This is the absolute worst. 

But no one will ever have to take your word for it, you realize. 

History will be more telling.

Around you, it’s pandemonium. 

The lights in the tunnel have gone out, save for headlamps and flashing lights of work vehicles. The red and blue police lights from your overturned cruiser are among them. And there’s fire, all around you, at both ends of the tunnel. Pockets of blackness in between the bonfires. 

It reminds you of war. Of war movies depicting the aftermath of the Blitz. Of grainy film footage of napalm swallowing a landscape, like somebody took the Sun and poured it out on a jungle.

The smell is awful and it makes you want to gag. Burnt rubber. Burnt hair. 

Dozens of cars and trucks, some of them crumpled like empty soda cans, all of them burning thick pillars of black smoke. The smoke looms across the tunnel ceiling. You can’t even see the ceiling tiles. Above you, there’s a boiling sky of black clouds. 

You hear the chorus of shouts. Shrill shrieks reverberating off the cement and tile. It sounds like people are being tortured. Like giant Grizzly bears must be ripping people apart. Disembodied voices screech for help, for God, for missing loved ones. You think you can hear an infant crying. Selfishly, you just want them to be quiet.

In the distance, the deep rumbling roar continues, like standing next to a jet engine. You also hear the echo of a synthesized keyboard riff, the wailing of an electric guitar. Asia rings out over the tinny squawk of car speakers from a battered minivan nearby. 

Because of course it fucking would be.

Massive chunks of concrete and twisted steel litter the broken asphalt. The whole roadway is flooded. A steady icy current claws at your calves, threatening to push you off balance. 

Immediately, you hear shrieks at your left, louder than the ones in the distance. You spot the figure of a man who has just woken up from the blast. 

Awful timing on his part. 

He’s engulfed in flames, burning alive. His lower half is pinned beneath an SUV. He looks like the squirming wick of a candle. The screams tear at your soul. You yank your eyes away. Your first instinct is to look for a rock to put him out of his misery. He’d thank you for it. 

Another sound jars you, the crumbling collapse of a wall nearby. You hear several sharp pops. You struggle to see through the dark. Melted bodies clad in safety orange glow clothing are right beside you. The water crests over them.

You look up towards the popping noises. Ceiling tiles, you realize. Water shoots into the tunnel under the immense pressure.

You squint beyond the dark, your eyes stinging from the acid clouds. Through the smoke and shadow you can see a wall. It’s moving. Your heart nearly seizes as you connect it to the roaring sound. 

It’s the sound of the Hudson River, pouring into the tunnel, waves crashing into the new underground cavern.

“Peter!” you shriek. Eyes darting around, remembering that you saw him fall. You turn around towards the opposite end of the tunnel. There’s nothing but rock and ash and burning metal behind you. And more screams, echoing in the dark. 

The tunnel must have collapsed, you realize. You wonder how many cars were buried beneath the rubble. Could be hundreds.

Your heart slams in your chest. You wonder if Peter is buried among them.

“Peter?” you scream, more panicked. 

Your voice cracks, and you know you’re not hoarse yet. You know it’s the carbon monoxide, the formaldehyde, the cyanide—the fatal cocktail of poison billowing around you. You can taste it in the air. You have minutes maybe.

It’s getting harder to see. You don’t want the darkness. The hellish chorus bouncing off of the cave of the tunnel. You’re struggling to hear his voice. You don’t want the quiet. 

You hear your name. Like a ray of sunshine.

You hear it again. Your boyfriend’s voice rings out.

“Peter!” you call out to him. 

In the shadows, a lanky figure stumbles out. You can barely make out the red-and-blue of his suit. His mask is off, he clutches the remnants of it in his bloody fist. It looks like he’s been dragged underneath a vehicle. The space shuttle, maybe.

He limps, his suit filthy and torn. A mix of sweat, blood, and soot coat his face and hair. 

But you can see his eyes. Black holes ripping galaxies apart. You feel a rush of relief as you wade through the water towards him.

“Peter!” you sob, unaware of when you started crying.

He spots you, and he might as well have dropped to his knees with tearful praise. “Thank god,” he gasps. He darts to you, sloshing through the water with his limp. As soon as he reaches you, he grabs ahold of you like he’s never going to let you go. You don’t want him to. 

His hands expand around the sides of your face like blinders, blocking out horrors that he didn’t want you to see. “You’re bleeding,” he exclaims, studying you carefully.

Blood streaks down the right of your face from a gash at your hairline. It’s not as bad as it looks, but now you’re aware of the pain. You don’t mind it too much. You’re mystified by his freckles. Your thumbs idly come up to wipe away the mud on them, wiping away some of his tears as well.

“Bug, look at me, are you okay?” Peter pleads. He’s still searching your face, unaware of how bad the damage is. 

The terror in his throat snaps you from your daze. You nod, salty tears stinging your wounds, as you bury your face in his chest. Your voice shakes. “I thought you were gone—”

He pulls you upright, his hands planted on the sides of your head as he steadies you. “I’m here,” Peter declares. It’s a promise. “I’m gonna get you outta here, alright?”

Your eyes widen, remembering the futility of your situation. You glance around, sparing another look to the chaos around you. 

Peter lets go of your cheeks to grip one of your coat sleeves. With a yank, he rips the fabric of the arm at the seam, clean from the shoulder. You watch in a haze, as he rolls the torn sleeve off of your arm, dipping it in the water below.

“Put this to your mouth!” he instructs, handing you the wet fabric. He has to shout over the roar of the water. “It’ll help with the smoke. We’re downwind right now. We gotta get below the flames.”

You know that’s a gross oversimplification of your current predicament. And you want to protest, because what about his lungs? But you follow his orders.

You glance from left to right, as does he. It’s pitch blackness away from the fire and water. You’re pinned between rock and river.

He holds your hand, tight enough to hurt. The shouting has begun to diminish now, which brings you no relief. You realize you can’t hear the baby anymore. You can't stop crying. You wonder what Peter must be feeling, and hope that his senses are still dampened. 

“C’mon,” he pulls you closer to the water side. That way leads further underground, but you understand the physics of it. Smoke rises, and the tunnel is acting like a chimney. Choosing to instinctively go back the way you came, to try to dig through the mass of rubble closer to the exit, would mean death by asphyxiation in less than two minutes.

You sludge through the frigid water. It’s waist-deep now, swirling around you. The further you descend the higher it gets. Peter grips you tight. It’s the only thing that keeps you from losing your mind. 

“Please help! Somebody help!”

You freeze in your steps and need your whole weight to keep Peter from pulling you along. You search frantically, recognizing that voice.

“Please, somebody help! I’m stuck!”

You see a crumpled taxi tossed on its side, teetering dangerously on a pile of rubble. Water bubbles up around the cab. Chewed fingernails with chipped polish reach out through a small gap, waving frantically. 

“Claire,” you breathe, stunned. You watch with wide eyes as the woman you saved earlier that Tuesday flails, trapped in the crushed taxi. The steel cages her in. Black water steadily creeps up around her. “Claire!”

“Help, please, I can’t move! I can’t—!” You hear coughing, gargling. 

“Peter, she’s stuck!” You point, and look up at him. The look on his face breaks your heart. He’s overwhelmed. He’s terrified. He looks at you, looks at the cab. He’s being torn apart inside. You’re asking him for too much. 

You pull away, “C’mon, help me!” Reluctantly, he moves with you, releasing your hand. He moves faster than you through the water, standing taller in the depths.

You reach the taxi as Claire’s screams become more panicked. The car is beneath boulders of concrete. You attempt to climb up on the cab. 

“Stay back!” Peter tells you. “This whole thing’s unstable!” The water is swarming, rising. Boiling, frigid, black death threatening to swallow the cab up. 

“Please, please, please,” Claire is babbling. You can barely see her bloodied face between the bars of her cage. “I-I can’t move my legs, please… I can’t—”

Peter works quickly above you to clear the rubble. “Hey, it’s me!” You tell her, your voice bright and placating. “Remember me? It’s okay. We’re here. Spider-Man’s here and we’re gonna get you out—“

Claire’s voice is weak, she’s barely able to speak between giant gasps of air. “Please, don’t—donwanna die… don’t wanna die, please I don’t want—”

You grip her hand tightly in yours. Tears sting your eyes. “Peter!”

“I’m goin’ I’m goin’!” He’s using his whole body to lift and loosen the rubble from the taxi.

The ground beneath you quakes. A rumble. Suddenly, you drop. You fall backwards to the water as the mound that the taxi is teetering on collapses. The taxi drops beneath the waterline. 

A web snatches your shoulder, keeping you above water, though the vacuum of air caused by the displacement threatens to drag you under. Peter plucks you from the water, suspending you by the web. 

“Be right back,” he huffs, like it’s nothing. He dives back in after the submerged taxi. 

You watch him disappear into the blackness, and can’t help but feel overwhelming horror at being left alone. It makes you feel ashamed. After the longest few seconds of your life, he reemerges. A body with sopping corn silk hair flops over his shoulder. 

He climbs back up to you and you drop from the web onto the hood of a floating car. The space between you and the ceiling is dramatically lower. You’re barely able to see him through the smoke. He hoists Claire up and lays her on the floating car, and you crawl towards her, putting your face to hers.

Her eyes are wide. Still. You have to be inches from her face to be able to see her terror-stricken look. 

“She’s gone,” Peter tells you, his heart breaking a little more as he says it.

You’re leaning over her dead body, seeing her bluish face for the 10,000th time. And you’re shrieking her name. Sobs wracking your body. The whole tunnel vibrates with your howls.

And that song. The notes melting away. The chorus drowns as its pulled under the river.

“C’mon, we gotta go!” Peter pleads. He grabs you by the arm. It’s not a request. He’s getting you out of there. Somehow. “We gotta climb—”

A horrible groan roars above you. You look up to see a piece of the ceiling moving downwards. It’s hurtling towards you, like a giant asteroid. Your extinction is imminent.

Peter pushes you out of the way.

You plunge back into the water, and it feels like a thousand needles pricking your skin. You open your eyes, which was a mistake, because you’re nearly blinded by the chemicals and salt water. You kick for your life. Your shoes feel like bricks, but you kick until you break the surface.

You gasp and choke and sputter. “Peter!” You gag and cough. “Peter!”

You open your eyes and you're still in Hell. Only blurrier. Darker. So quiet. No more babies. No more anyone.

You hear your name again. His voice chirps out. You look up and see the devil in question. The sight of him reels you in like a gravitational pull. You crawl over broken glass and rock and metal until you’re beside him.

Despite being half dead, your heart flutters at the sight of him—a glowing freckled face. Sparkling amber eyes. Messy crown of brunette hair, sopping wet with saltwater, motor oil, and blood.

He looks at you from the side, deliriously dazed and huffing with exhaustion.

Once he sees your face, he grins wide. Soft. Reminds you of the bright warmth of your bedsheets.

“Sunflower…” he breaths. He sounds dreamy. He sounds exhausted. His smile dims. “You’re bleeding...”

“I’m okay,” you sputter and cough, trembling from the cold and adrenaline. You're higher up now, near the ceiling of the tunnel. You can feel the water creeping up your back. Your eyes scan his face, attempting to see his freckles through the building smoke. You wrap your hands around his face just to know he’s there. “I’m okay, I’m okay... We have to get out of here, baby—Are you okay?”

“I’m good,” he nods, but he isn’t moving fast enough. He looks so tired. “Need— n-need explos...ves.” He shutters, the cold piercing him. “C-cop car. Look—look in the trunk. Needa... explosion. Flash grenade. R-road flares...” He grimaces sharply. You can’t take your eyes off the softness of his lips. “Ch-check f-for pressurized can-canister—”

“I don’t understand what you’re saying—”

“Need to create an explosion... at the ho-hole, wh-where the water... C-create a vacuum—”

“There’s nothing, Peter, there’s no cop car, it’s underwater—”

“You need to go,” he states, and you fall silent. You stare at his lips. Blood tints them. You shake your head. Pull at his arms.

Your whole body shakes. Your eyes are hard. “We don’t have time, Pete. We have to get out—c’mon, we have to go—”

Your icy fingers grip at the warmth beneath his chest. They tug at him frantically. You mean to pull him up with just your thumbs if you have to.

“Bug,” he blinks at you. Tears fill in his eyes. 

Your hands are warm. Burning hot. You look down. And that’s when you see the spear lodged in his side. A half-inch wide black, twisted piece of rebar piercing his chest. Your mouth falls open at the sight. It’s needled through his ribcage, piercing the back, slicing through his lung in a way that you can physically feel. Phantom pain from past experience. 

Peter Parker’s blood coats your palms. You can’t handle this pain. It’s too much.

You look down at him, head shaking furiously. He silently mouths your name, a hopeless apology. You don’t even know what he’s apologizing for.

“You ha-have to...go,” he chokes out. There’s more blood spilling from his lips. It’s harder for him to breathe. The water creeps up your shoulders, and threatens to drown you both. He’s going to drown before you, you realize, in his own blood.

“Pl-Please,” he says, voice breaking, “please ge-get out of here. Pl-please g-go.”

You shake your head. You grip his hands like holding onto the edge of a cliff. You hold tight, as if that could keep him with you. As if it could bring you more time.

“Ba-baby, please go... Please just go... Please, pro-promise me... you’ll get out of here...”

He’s fading, you realize, and you want to scream into the void. You want to headbutt the rebar and lodge it through your eye socket. Your chest heaves. You squeeze his hands tightly.

You nod your head. Realize that he doesn’t know what you know. He hasn’t seen what you’ve seen. There’s no way out of the tunnel. There’s no saving you. Either of you.

You nod. And he relaxes. “Just go... without me,” he pleads. His hard to hear him over the roar. You nod silently, tears roll down your face. 

“Mmm—m'sorry... so-so sorry—”

You’re still nodding as he fights to keep his eyes open. You pledge with your gaze. You promise him that you’ll survive. You lie. 

The light is gone. In his eyes, and in the tunnel. His grip loosens in your hold. The water crawls up your chin, and your head hits hard rock. You don’t want to let go. You don’t want to look away.

The water takes him, but you’re still holding onto his hands.

“It should’ve been me,” you cry. To yourself. Alone. In the dark. Underwater. It's the last thing you get to say.

You’re fighting to keep your eyes open, to see through the murky depth. You want to remember every freckle on his face, even as they’re drenched in tears. Darkness settles in anyway.

It’s hard to see how beautiful he is in the dark. 

Your lungs burn. There’s nowhere to go.

It should’ve been you. Not Peter. 

Every cell in your body screams at you, telling you it should’ve been you. You open your mouth to scream back. A heart-wrenching yowl. Water fills your mouth and your lungs.

You want to wake up. You want to go home. You want to go back. You want anything but this. 

Why aren't you waking up?

Elsewhere, above the Hudson.

A clock turns.

11:59...

TUESDAY, 7:00am

Your eyes popped open as you were viciously ripped away from the darkness. Music invaded your ears, your senses assaulted by a toe-tapping tune.

“It was the HEAT of the MOMENT

Tellin’ me.  what.  my. HEART meant

The HEEEAT of the MOMENT…

Showed in your EYEEEES…”

You opened your mouth wide and let the air fill your lungs. You can still feel the heat. You can smell the water. You gaze up at the stark white of your ceiling as giant tears flood your vision.

Tuesday.

Tuesday again.

You laid there. Shook with an odd mix of horror and relief. It was like waking from the most vivid nightmare of your life. Visions and sounds latched onto you like leeches. You cried silently like a child, cradled by your soft pillows and bedding. The only thing that keeps you from screaming out hysterically is the grounding feeling that comes with faith. Unquestionable. Undeniable.

You will die today.

It’s gospel. Inevitable. You’re supposed to die today. Not just you, you know now, through divine revelation. So many others. 

Regardless of how you meet your fate, nothing will prevent that horrific weapon from leaving that facility. The truck will drive into the tunnel. It will hit that debris. It will crash. And everyone in the tunnel will die.

Including Peter.

That is how the day ends, should you be alive to see it. That’s how his life ends. 

“Mornin’, Sunflower!” a pleasant voice rang out from your en suite bathroom. A moment later, Peter Parker’s head poked around the corner. His expression serenely naive of your gory last moments. 

Your heart shattered at the sight of him—a glowing freckled face, his sparkling amber eyes, a beautifully mischievous smile, and a messy crown of brunette hair. 

The memory of his dead face sliced through you. 

You looked away, grimacing. Sat up in bed, tears welling in your eyes.

You know what’s going to happen and you know what you have to do. No matter how painful. 

Today is the last day of the end of your life. 

“Babe?” he questioned, appraising you with a fading smile. He sensed your distress. He could smell your tears. “What’s the matter? You okay?” 

You stared at the blankets for a long while, your weight leaning back on the heels of your palms. You remained still, contemplative. The silence goes on longer than he is comfortable with.

You turned your face toward him, eyes sorrowful. 

“I’m breaking up with you, Peter.” 

It was quiet at the top of the Empire State Building. That’s why it was his favorite spot. Hair slicked with sweat, cheeks damp with salty streams of tears. Tragically, only sort of drunk. Peter’s mask was discarded beside him, next to an empty 3-liter bottle of McCormack’s. 

He took a swig from an identical bottle, nearly empty as well. Sourness set heavily on his tongue and it made him even more bitter. He couldn’t even afford the good stuff.

Fucking loser.

He swallowed down the acid water with disdain and self-contempt.

In his other hand, he toyed with the velvet box he kept hidden in his bedside drawer. Today, of all days. 

He was past the shock. Past the denial. Past bargaining. Somewhere between anger and depression. Actually, he was a mix of all of the emotions. 

You’d killed him. Crushed him. Murdered him in less than 100 words. A shot straight to the heart, without batting an eye. You were the deadliest assassin he’d ever known. You were savage, the cruelest villain he’d ever faced. 

You were his everything. He was the problem. 

That’s what you’d told him, swinging the axe down and cutting your ties. He was always gone. He was always late. He was always Peter Parker. 

Peter Parker would always be Spider-Man. 

And that was the nail in the coffin. That was reason enough. The killing blow.

As stunned as he was, he was almost… relieved. He knew this day would come. He knew you were too good for him, too good to be true, and this was a natural progression of that.

He always knew would lose you. He was grateful that at least he wasn’t standing over your grave this time. 

He didn’t know how long he’d been crying. He wasn’t sure what time it was. Time was meaningless.

The buzz of his phone was the first thing that broke him from his pity party. He flinched as he frantically dug for the advice.

Shamefully, he prayed that you were calling him to tell him you changed your mind. Or your conversation this morning was part of an elaborate hoax. The world’s greatest ‘punking.’ Ashton Kutcher springs out of nowhere. He’d happily laugh it off. He’d chuckle like a fool and rush home to scoop you up in his arms. Sick burns and all.

Fingers fumbling, he accepted the call and slapped the phone to the side of his face.

The whimper of his voice was pathetic. Truly. “Bug?” 

Fucking loser.

“Peter?” A middle-aged woman’s voice shattered his hopes.

Confused, he pulled the phone away to look at the screen: KIM MANNERS.

Fuck. Your mom had his number. He knew it was a risk, reaching out behind your back. She’d been calling him all week, adding steadily to the pressure of his upcoming proposal. No wonder she drove you crazy. She’s probably wanting details about when he was going to pop the question. 

Fuckkkk.

“Peter? Are you there?”

He put the phone back to his ear, and briefly considered throwing his phone off of the Empire State Building. 

With a flayed voice, he replied, “Hi, Mrs. Manners.”

“Peter? Where are you? What’s going on?” She sounded like a parrot. A parody of a typical New England voice. “What happened?”

Fuck fuck fuck fuckidity—

“Sorry, Mrs. Manners, I-I was gonna call—”

“Peter,” your mother interrupted with a sultry tone. If he wasn’t such an idiot he’d recognize the cougar purr of her voice, “you know I told you to call me Kim.” 

He squeezed his eyes shut, his head pounding. Not just from the alcohol. “Ugh, yeah—” He tried not to make it sound like a gag reflex, but it crept out anyway. “Yeasshh, I, uh, sorry, I gotta little tied up—”

Ew! Gross, noo, fuckfuckfuck.

“Now’s not a good—”

“Is my daughter with you?” 

FAHHHHHK… She doesn’t know? Of course she wouldn't. She's not subscribed to the 'Watch Peter Parker Get Fucked Again This Week' Newslet—

Ahh! No! Gross! Ew! “Uhm… no, I—”

“Do you know where she is? She’s not answering her phone.” 

“I… I-I don’t think she wants to talk right now—”

“I think something weird is going on,” Kim blurted, still oblivious to the fact that Peter had spent the last few hours sobbing on roofs of several New York landmarks.

The concern in her voice pricked the skin on the back of his neck. He stiffened, his spinal column locking in place. Peter shook his head confusedly, “I’m… I’m not sure what you—”

“Peter, listen to me, I know my daughter. I think something is wrong.”

Peter felt faint all of a sudden. “Waddya mean? What’re ya—what’re you sayin’?”

“I think she’s in trouble,” she explained. “She left me a weird message. She can be so moody sometimes. She gets that from her father. I can sense these things, y’know. I’ve always told people I have a sixth sense about this stuff. You know, my grandmother said she could—”

His heart is pounding, threatening to break through his chest. “Wait, wait, wait, what do you mean ‘trouble?’ What message? What did she say exactly?”

Silence on the other end of the line. Peter felt like he was going to vomit.

“She said that she loved me, and she was sorry,” Kim finally said, with an exasperated tone. Equal parts embarrassment and concern. “And that she forgave me.” She said the last part with a growing sense of dread. 

“And she called me ‘Mom.’”

Peter’s mouth hung open, every cell in his body alerting him. Something was wrong. He pulled the phone away from his ear, glancing down. 

He also had a voicemail. From you.

This was the stupidest thing you’d ever done. But damn was it thrilling. You should’ve been a car thief in another life. 

“Hey, Peter,” your voicemail recorded a few minutes ago said, “I realize it’s probably hard to listen to this message, but it’s important that I say this, so I need you to listen...”

You’d hotwired the box truck carrying the weapon and detoured away from the tunnel. You stepped on the gas pedal, increasing speed steadily. 

Fifteen minutes before, you’d found Dr. Rivers. You told him urgently that his daughter was going to hurt herself, and that you would tell him when and where she could be found, and that information you were going to give freely, because it was the right thing to do. That despite his past absence, his daughter needed him more than ever. They both deserved a second chance. 

Everyone did. And that’s why you needed him to tell you how to destroy the weapon safely.

And he did. 

“I’m sorry that this is how things need to end. It’s not what either of us had planned, but life is like that. This isn’t your fault. You really need to know that. In fact, I have to thank you.” 

Now you were running. Driving a hot wired truck carrying one of the most powerful weapons ever created, stolen from the C.I.A. You pushed the gas pedal all the way to the floor. 

“You’ve taught me the meaning of life, how fragile and precious it is. How important. I want you to know that what you do matters. Even when it feels like it doesn’t.”

You glanced in the rear view mirror, seeing a flurry of red and blue light behind you. Sirens wailing. You smirk. You wonder if Officer Cage is among them.

You switched on the radio.

“It was the HEAT of the MOMENT…”

Your smile widens. You fucking love this song.

“You have no idea how many lives you touch. Including mine.” 

The pier is ahead of you. At the end of it, your watery grave. You were pleased as pie, knowing that at least you were taking this bitch down with you. 

You sang along, “Showed in your eyeeeeeeeeeeees—”

The pedal is on the floor. The truck launches off the end of the pier. Curves in an arch. Collides with the water. The windshield crumples in front of you as the frigid water pours in, surrounding you, submerging the truck, sinking the weapon. 

You feel so alive. Your heart is pounding. Your body is sizzling with energy, even as you’re dragged into the water. 

“Did you know that you have the prettiest fucking smile? I can wake up to that smile 10,000 times, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything. I’m so grateful for every second of it. Even the painful parts.” 

It’s getting dark. It was beautiful today. And now, darkness. Rising steadily. Coming up to cradle you in its arms as you sink further below. This is how it ends. You’re certain.

You look up out the window, enjoying the rays of sunlight poking down from the surface as they get further away. Your chest is burning, like a flaming sword through your heart. Lungs aching. Ribs threatening to implode. The pressure is unbearable. But you don’t mind. You’re used to the pain. 

It’s worth it. Just to say goodbye to the rays of sunlight. To thank them for keeping you warm. For rainbows. Sunsets. Sunflowers and pineapples. For lighting the eyes of the man you love, casting them in a golden hue. 

“Live your life. Be better than you were yesterday. And don’t be too hard on yourself, because you can be better tomorrow. Do good things.” 

Speak of the devil. A figure torpedos through the surf, descending lower. You see him in the murky haze of the water, the familiar red and blue catching your eye. 

Peter’s eyes widen as he recognizes you in the passenger seat. His mask is off. You smile at him. You wave, as water shoves itself down your throat. 

“And don’t worry about me. I think everything is gonna work out.” 

It’s time to go home, you think. Safe and warm. Where your ancestors await you. You’ll see Nana Manners there. You’ll see your old cats there. Your grandparents. Your parents. Maybe you’ll finally get to meet Gwen. Meet Uncle Ben.

Peter will be there too, one day. You’re certain.

“One way or another... I’ll see you later.”

Peter swims up to the window. He’s scared, but he needn’t be. You can still move your arms, even though they’ve gone heavy. You place your hand on the glass.

“Goodbye, for now. I love you. Forever.”

There’s a message written on your palm. You hope he can read it. Hope he sees it. Takes it to heart. Holds it there. Believes in it as you believed in each other. Forever.

Three simple words.

'SEIZE THE DAY'

The light fades from your eyes. 

This is how it ends.

Or so you’d thought.

Round, mellow notes fill the air. Clean, thick strings, weaving together. Vibrating with warmth. Delicately rising, like steam from a hot spring.

Over the hum of a vintage, six-string, acoustic guitar, peppered with banjo plucks, and the crisp ring of a distant electric hardbody, the gentle crooning of John Denver filled your ears.

“He was born in the summer of his 27th year

Coming home to a place he'd never been before

He left yesterday behind him, 

You might say he was born again

You might say he found a key for every door...”

Your eyelids creaked open, as dim lights swam in your vision. Your eyelashes fluttered. The ceiling foreign. The room cast in shadow. A machine steadily beeps, off-tempo from the music. Your eyelids are heavy. 

Why?

“...When he first came to the mountains his life was far away

On the road and hanging by a song...”

You drew back the curtains of your gaze again, going crosseyed for a moment as they attempted to adjust to the light. You focused on a single, blurry shape, willing it to be still and come into focus. 

You squinted, your head aching. Your chest felt sore. Like you’d worn a vise as a bra. Or spent a day as a shake-weight in a gym for giants.

Your vision sharpened. It’s Peter’s eyes—doe-like, dreamy, warm, and so, so tired—that pulls you from your slumber.

He’s so pretty, you thought, and your lip stung from the grin that stretched your face. He sat in a chair at your bedside, dressed in wrinkled clothes that were a little too worn to be clean.

You blinked a few times and really took in the sight of him. 

Dark circles colored heavy bags under his eyes. He’s even more pale than usual, you noted. His skin looked dry, like all of the moisture had been squeezed from his body. Through his bleary eyes, you assumed, observing how bloodshot they were. 

Peter was worse for wear. 

But he was so damn pretty. 

Your heart ached at the sight of him. And seeing your eyes illuminate had a similar effect on his. Despite looking utterly exhausted, like he’d been awake for a few millenia, his cheeks pinched up and he could no longer hide his teeth behind his lips.

He smirked at you, then glowed as he drank you in.

Despite this, there was a melancholy in his red-rimmed eyes.

You gazed around at your surroundings. A darkened hospital room. You were in a hospital bed. 

You remembered where you’d been and realized you weren’t where you were—the jarring discrepancy confusing and overwhelming you. 

“Hey, hey, hey, shh, you’re okay,” Peter whispered, leaning forward out of the chair. Instinctively, he reached up and brushed a lock of hair from your face. He shifted his body closer to you, scooting in the chair, like he was magnetically charged to gravitate to you. 

“You’re okay,” he cooed. “You’re in the hospital. You’re safe. You’re... you’re gonna be okay.”

You were dead, you recall. 

You were sinking, lungs filled with water, brain shutting down.

You glanced over to see an outdated clock radio plugged in on a table nearby, this one with a 30-pin dock meant for a first-generation iPod. You gaze at the retro white device, recognizing the music.

“...But the string’s already broken and he doesn’t really care

It keeps changing fast and it don't last for long...”

You blinked. Your jaw hung open. Tears pricked your eyes. 

“This song,” you breathed, and probably sounded crazy. You felt giddy. You felt like laughing and crying and screaming at the top of your lungs. “It’s... it’s not Asia...”

“Uhm, no,” Peter replied. He rubbed the back of his neck. “It’s John Denver. Sorry. It’s lame. I, uh, I didn’t get a chance to make a playlist, or anything—”

He swallowed hard, his shoulders tense. He looked away from you—to the wall, to the floor, to the space on the pillow next to your head. His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. It looked painful, like a rock is lodged in there.

“Wha-what day is it?” you stuttered, gazing up at him. You’re still trying to decide if you’re dreaming. If this is Heaven.

Peter’s brow quirks suspiciously. “Wednesday,” he replied, and you take pity on the exhaustion in his voice. “You’ve been out for almost 20 hours—”

You laughed. “It’s Wednesday?”

He stared at you, his concern growing. “Y-yeah...?”

You giggled uselessly, relishing in the sensation of hot tears streaking your cheeks. “It’s Wednesday!” Your chuckling grew louder, until your throat trips and you cough. Your lungs feel like paper mache.

“Easy, take it easy,” Peter softly admonished you, as he brushed his hands over your face possessively. He didn’t take them off this time. You don’t want him to. “You need to rest,” he replied. “You... got banged up... pretty bad...”

You gazed at the redness of his eyes, and realized what must have happened. You’re stricken with guilt. “I’m so sorry, Peter,” you muttered, but you couldn’t stop smiling.

He shook head, refusing to make eye contact. “S’okay. You’re okay.”

“No, no—”

“You’re alive,” he bit off, a little more firm than he needed to be. “You’re going to be okay. That’s all that matters.” 

His thumbs rubbed circles into your jaw. You sensed that he was at war with himself, debating between pulling away from you and stapling himself to you. His fingers gripped you with a compulsive anxiety. A phobia that he would be forced to let you go, and this time, lose you forever.

“I’m so sorry I hurt you.” You looked up at him like you were staring through pearly gates. Like you could see souls being formed with the stars. “I didn’t mean it, didn’t mean any of it—”

“It doesn’t matter,” he repeated, but the tears welling in his eyes told you the opposite. “None of that matters,” he stammered, still unable to look at you. 

He felt so far away. You needed him closer. You needed to be wrapped around him, smothering him like a koala. 

You giggled and pulled at his arms, squirming in the hospital bed. The movement made you wince. You felt your pulse in your head. 

“Just relax,” he fretted, pinning your shoulders down gently. The weight of his palms felt divine. “You gotta rest, Bug. Doctor’s orders.”

He pinched his face, like he’d bit his tongue. That caught your attention. You stared up at him, noting the discomfort he was failing to hide from you. He hadn’t looked at you yet.

“Bug, listen. There’s—” He winced again. “You were out a while. The-the doctors, they ran some tests, and... um, they... Somethin’ came up on the MRI.”

You study the brown of his eyes. It reminds you of whiskey. Of chocolate. Of mahogany. 

He struggled to speak, failing to keep his voice calm. “They, um... They s-said there was, uh, a-a shadow of some kind. On your brain.”

You curved your eyebrow as you focused on his mouth. Simultaneously listening to the words on his lips, and watching how his lower lip quivered. You wanted to kiss it. To steady it with your own. Your fingers ached to pull him in.

You must have been squirming again, because before you knew it, Peter grasped your hands up in his, holding them tightly to his chest. He hovered over you, practically whispering in your ear.

“You were already under,” he quickly explained, the rest of the words tumbling out at once. “The-they did a biopsy. Just a little cut, and-and they said they were going to send the tissue off for a-a lab test. And... and when it comes back, we’ll know more about it, but... but the doctor said, he said it was good, whatever it is. Good that we caught it early. He said—” 

Peter’s voice broke, and then his eyes met yours. They welled up with tears. He looked deeply shaken, pulled taut. Like his limbs were made of matchsticks and he would crumble or go up in flames at any moment. 

He looked so afraid. 

He looks as scared as you should be. Your brain moves like molasses to catch up with the fact that it nearly caused your ultimate demise. 

Your mind spun with what-ifs and destiny and alternate universes and higher purpose and you have to stay focused on the chocolate of his eyes because that’s the only thing that mattered to you. 

Peter swallowed hard, digging out his voice. “They said that you coulda had an aneurysm any day now. Like, you’re there one minute and just... you’d be gone.”

You gazed up at him, spotting the tremor in his chin again. He bit down, to keep it steady. You wanted to pepper his chin in kisses for the next 100 years, or 100 minutes, or 100 seconds. Whatever you could get.

“I, uhm,” he struggled to continue. “I don’t know what I woulda done if... you... if you’d...”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. He can’t, you realized. 

“Pete,” you softly replied. 

He looked up at you, and he’s so beautiful, it hurts. 

You gazed lovingly at him and showered him with adoration. Looking at you is too much for him. 

His brow creased with sorrow as he buried his face in your joined hands. Shoulders shaking. You felt him sob into your skin, tears soaking your hospital gown. 

“It’s okay,” Peter said with a sniffle, for both of you. He pulled himself upright. He was trying so hard to stay strong. “S’gonna be okay. You’re going to be okay. I-I promise, whatever happens. I’m not gonna leave your side. We face it together. I don’t care if I’m not with you, or we’re not together anymore. It’s—-this isn’t about me. I’m there for you. ‘Til the end, okay? I swear to you. It’s going to be okay.”

You watch him like you’re watching a sunrise. Like a rainbow is forming behind him. Sunlight piercing heavy rain clouds. You’re in exactly the right place. Exactly the right moment.

Time is meaningless. Time is priceless. Time is everything.

You cried happy tears. “I know.” 

If he asked you to marry him right now, you’d say yes in a heartbeat. 

You couldn’t help yourself—you ran your fingers through his hair. Across his chin. You wanted to map every freckle with your fingertips. Draw invisible lines in his skin. “I know it will, baby, I know. I believe you.”

His expression softened at your smile. He let himself get lost in it. Letting waves of hope crash over him and pull him along with the tide. His lips curved gently, and he returned it. The muscles in his body relaxed slightly.

“We’re gonna be okay,” you promise him, with no real way of knowing.

No way of predicting the future. 

And yet, no doubt. 

“Because today is Wednesday,” you explain, heart floating in your chest, swelling with gratitude. “And we have today.”

The End.

A/N: Thank you for riding with me for this story. I hope that it brings you peace and healing and happiness.

Take care of yourselves!

Did you like this story? Please share your thoughts with me via comment, ask, or reblog! Thank you for reading, and thank you for supporting fandom and fandom writers!

[felassan]

Mass Effect development insights and highlights from Bioware: Stories and Secrets from 25 Years of Game Development

This is the Mass Effect version of this post.

[In case you can’t read it the subtitle in the bottom left logo above is “Guardians of the Citadel”]

Note: Drug use is mentioned.

Cut for length.

Mass Effect 1

ME began its life in a vision document in fall 2003

Codenamed “SFX”

Conceived of by Casey Hudson and a core team from KotOR. Its genesis was the intention to create an epic sci-fi RPG in an original setting that BioWare owned (so they could have full creative control), and in a setting that was conceived of first and foremost as a video game

Initially players could control any squadmate, but they wanted it to be about Shep and for players to be focused on Shep being a battlefield commander, rather than on switching bodies

By the start of 2004 its story was shaping up. Initially humans landed on Mars in 2250 and discovered evidence of an ancient alien race and a powerful substance, Black Sand, which rapidly advanced tech to the point that FTL travel was possible. (My note: obviously now the Prothean artifacts on Mars & associated mass effect force tech enabled this in the final canon, but I wonder if aspects of the ‘Black Sand’ naming-type & powerful substance stuff was rolled into red sand from final canon) Humans were suddenly capable of travel to multiple star systems and made contact with a multitude of other species. At the start of the first game, these species together with humans had a fragile peace, with focus placed on the political center of the galaxy, a hub known as Star City, later renamed the Citadel

Multiplayer was a vision for the series as far back as 2003. The plan was for ME1, an Xbox exclusive at launch, to take advantage of the platform’s online components. Early designs saw players meeting in one of the central hubs to interact and trade items in their otherwise SP adventures

By 2006 it had the name ME and the story was more specific, with the theme of conflict between organic and synthetic lifeforms. The story’s scope now stretched across 3 games and included scope for full co-op MP

They tried to do MP in every game, discussing it from the get-go, but it always just fell by the wayside. “When you’re trying to build something that is a new IP, on a new platform, with a new engine, you’ve got to really focus on the core elements of the game.” 

The conversation system prototype was made in Jade Empire, and some of ME’s earliest writing was done in an old JE build. At first there was no conversation wheel. Paragon was “Friendly” and Renegade “Hostile”. In the prototype Shep was a silent unnamed Spectre. Many conversations in the prototype about the player’s choice in smuggling a weapon through Noveria made it into the game

In said prototype a merchant referred to themselves as “this one”, though the word hanar never appeared. The PC in it also had the option to end a conversation with “I should go”. In the prototype also, Harkin was voiced by Mark Meer

An early version of the Mako got used as the krogan truck in ME2

Early concepts of the Citadel were drawn in pencil by CH. A piece of concept art of its final design was painted based on a photo of a sculpture near Aswan, Egypt

As with any new IP naming it was a struggle. They put out a call to all staff for ideas, did polls, made a name generator that combined words that they liked in random ways and made pretend logos of ones they liked in Photoshop to see if they could make themselves love the name or find visual potential in it. (Some of these names are in the pic at the top of this post.) CH liked “Unearthed” as it was a reference to Prothean ruins dug up on Mars and humanity’s ascendance going away from Earth. They knew the game would have a central space station featuring prominently so some of the ideas were based on that - “The Citadel”, “The Optigon”, “The Oculon”. “Element” was another one they had in mind due to the rare substance in the game 

CH: “I was a big fan of John Harris’ book Mass, which had epic-scaled sci-fi ideas, so that was a word that came up often. Many of the names came from the idea that the IP featured a fifth fundamental physical force (in addition to the known four of gravitational, electromagnetic, strong nuclear and weak nuclear) so the word ‘effect’ came up pretty often.” Ultimately none of the ideas really felt right. One Monday morning they were going over the names and Greg Zeschuk said he had an idea on the weekend: “Mass Effect!” CH: “I said, ‘I don’t hate it’, which in the naming process is a high compliment. And it stuck!”

CH on Shep’s Prothean vision from the beacon: “It was hard to imagine how we would do this. CG was - and is - really expensive. Instead I wanted to try doing it through photography and video editing. So I went to a local grocery store and bought a few packages of the weirdest looking meat that I could find. Then I set up a little photoshoot in my basement, complete with some electronics parts and some red wine for juicyness.” He used these props to create a video sequence where the photos were rapidly cycled and blurred, along with production paintings, to create the scary vision an organic/machine experiment on the Protheans. These mashups were also used as inspiration for concept artists and level designers who were working on these themes

Tali used to be called Talsi

On the licensing side they often joke that they’re licensing N7 not “Mass Effect” due to N7′s popularity

There was a confidential internal guide to the IP in 2007 to help devs along and summarize/synthesize the vision etc. Some excerpts from it are shown in the book and this is the first time the public have ever seen them

Early versions of Asari had hair

Asari were designed as a nod to classic TV sci-fi (with human actors wearing obvious makeup and prosthetics to play aliens)

The turian design guideline was “we want them to be birds of prey”. They also wanted a range of alien types, some close to human like Asari, while others were to be a lot further away, like turians

BioWare patented the conversation wheel, which was a first for them. CH had been frustrated with reviews of Jade Empire that said that the actioncentric game was too wordy [with its list dialogue]. “I’m like, story is words. [...] What is it about our games that is making people feel like they’re wordy?” Then he thought “In a game you kind of need to feel like you’re continuing to play it. Maybe you should continue feeling like you’re playing it actively into the dialogue.” “[The wheel] kind of gave a new experience with dialogue when you did start to react based on emotion, and that’s ultimately what we’re trying to bring out in our games”

The original krogan concept was based on a bat “with a really wide squidgy face. We just used its face on top of this weird body and it kinda worked”

Geth musculature was based on fiber-optic cables, with flexible plates of armor attached

The vision for the IP was 80s sci-fi inspired space opera

The concept art of Saren lifting Shep by the throat inspired a similar scene in-game. The staging wasn’t planned til designers saw that art

A squadmate with Shepard on the way to meet Ash in an old storyboard was called Carter. Early name of Kaidan or Jenkins?

Bono from U2 was kinda instrumental in bringing us ME lol

Finding the right cover art for ME1 was notably tricky

Matt Rhodes got his start drawing helmets for ME1, including one which would become Shep’s “second face”. He estimates he drew between 250-270 different ones

Some of the sounds in-game were people smashing watermelons with sledgehammers and sticking fists into various goos

The audio team had fun trying to slip the iconic main theme into unexpected places throughout the MET. “We were very aware of how powerful that track was for the fans and it was tempting to overuse it for any moment we wanted to make really emotional”.

The theme was creatively repurposed in ME3: slowed down and reworked as the ambient sound for the SR-2. “If you listen to it for a really long time, just stand in the Normandy and listen, you’ll actually hear the notes change slowly. It doesn’t sound like music, it sounds like a background ambiance, but it’s there.” (My note: Well no wonder the Normandy feels so much like home?? 😭 sneaky..)

Bug report: “Mako Tornado”. There wasn’t enough friction between the tires and the ground, causing testers to lose control of the vehicle and send it spinning into the air like a tornado. “As it turns, the front end comes up, and then it starts spinning and spinning and spinning and spinning faster and faster and faster until it just flies up in the sky” (My note: Sounds like a regular day in the Mako to me)

Cerberus originally had a bigger role in this game. It was cut but they had a whole explorable outpost. “I called it Misery,” says Mac Walters, “It was this planet with a little outpost that said ‘Welcome to Misery’”. Everything on the outpost was shit - dirty worn stuff, no windows, no kitchen, the vehicle bay was open to the elements etc

The Reaper sound is literal garbage. Some audio designers went on a recording trip to a national park. One of them got fixated on a garbage can, “a metal bear-proof receptacle with a heavy lid that creaked horribly when opened”. “It was like, ominous, spooky, tonal and almost musical. I decided to throw a mic into the garbage and record it moving. I didn’t know what it was going to be until later”

They were making lots of noises to record like throwing logs and rocks around. An old couple peered at them through the window of their camper van in the woods and must have called the cops because then the cops showed up, pulled them over and told them to stop. The cops towed their car (the driver’s plates were Cali plates and expired), drove them to Edmonton outskirts and then the audio producer Shauna got a call and had to go pick them up “like three little boys”. “We got a stern talking to”. Once back they were playing around with the garbage sound, editing it etc. Casey heard it and proclaimed “That’s the sound of the Reapers”

Preston Watamaniuk: “There are things I could have done to Mass 1 to make it an infinitely better game with better UIs” and some simple cuts and changes. “But when you’re living with it, it’s very hard to see those things”

BioWare Labs

As social media and smartphone games exploded, BioWare dedicated a small team dedicated to exploring opportunities here - BioWare Labs

Mass Effect: Galaxy used a unique graphic art style and static visual presentation common in visual novels. It has the distinction of being the only iOS game BW have made during their first 25 years

Scrapped ideas were a 3rd person space shooter called Mass Effect: Corsair and 2 DA titles - a strategy game and a top-down dungeon crawler starring young Wynne. (My note: Maybe the corsairs stuff was rolled into Jacob’s backstory in 2, the Alliance Corsairs)

Corsair was a very short-lived project that never got its feet under it. It was a spin-off on Nintendo DS featuring a behind-the-ship perspective and branching dialogue. At one point it had MP. The idea behind it was basically “ME: Freelancer” - fly your ship around, do missions, get credits. It had a limited branching story but was a gameplay-centered experience intended to fill the gap between ME1 and 2. That gap ended up being filled by Galaxy

Galaxy and Corsair’s smaller screen allowed concept artists to use bold colors and a simplistic character design style to help those games stand out from Shep’s story

Nick Thornborrow did some art for Corsair but was worried his art style didn’t fit ME. He moved to DA where he feels his art style fits better

Lots of BioWare VAs and even a lead writer and the VO director are drawn from Edmonton’s local community theater scene, which is vibrant. Think this is how Mark Meer got involved

Mass Effect 2

Player choices carrying over was a first for BW

Dirty Dozen-inspired plot

Its plot is a web of conditionals (see Suicide Mission)

Was more of a shooter than anything BW had made since Shattered Steel

There was 2 camps on the team, those who wanted to push combat and systems forward and redefine the ME experience and those who wanted to make a true sequel, with the same gameplay and systems but a new story. Karin Weekes: “I think it ended up being a good push-pull. It felt like a pretty healthy creative conflict”

“ME2 was a game you could hold up to someone who argues that games aren’t a serious medium and go ‘Oh yeah, then why is Martin Sheen in this?’” Sheen was their first pick for TIM

The idea for TIM came from a mash-up of concepts CH had collected over the years. The name “Illusive” originally came from his pitch for naming DAO’s Eclipse engine, a word inspired by Obi-Wan’s line “It’s not about the mission, Master. It’s something... elsewhere. Elusive”. “I thought, what if we called our next engine 'Elusive', but used an ‘I’, and then it’s like ‘Illusion’. [...] I still really like the word with an ‘I’ and what it conjures”

When ME1 DLC was in production, CH had been watching a lot of CNN, specifically Anderson Cooper. “How is one guy travelling to all these places and never looking tired and always being able to speak with clarity?” CH says it seemed almost superhuman. “What if there was someone who is the absolute maximum of the things you would aspire to be, but also the worst of humanity?” Cooper, though not evil, became an inspiration for TIM down to the gray hair and piercing blue eyes

Inspiration for TIM’s behind-the-scenes role pulling political strings came from Jack Bauer’s brother Graem in 24. Graem “can call up the president and tell him what to do and hang up, because he’s so connected and so influential”. Sheen had played a president and his performance brought gravitas and wisdom to the role. He had quit smoking, but the character smokes. He didn’t want to fake it, but he also didn’t want to smoke, “so he actually asked for a cigarette” to hold so he could stop his words to take drags with natural cadence

Writing was still pushing to write and revise lines hours before VO started. A series of problems like injury and some writers leaving for other opportunities left it so that Karin, Lukas Kristjanson and editor Cookie Everman hand to land the story safely, with PW helping where they could. Lukas: “We took over the writing bug and task list, and I can’t stress enough how much [Karin and Cookie] did to get ME2 out the door. There’s no part of that thing we didn’t touch”. Karin: “That was the most dramatic 2 weeks of my life”

Initial fan reaction when they started promo-ing ME2 was very negative because people didn’t want to know about new chars like Jack and Mordin. “[fans were like] ‘Get them out of here. We want our characters from the first game’. But then when they played them, those became some of the most popular chars [of the series]”

Concept art of Thane has an idea annotation saying “Face can shapeshift?”

At one point when designing Thane concept artists sent multiple variations of him to the team asking them to vote on which was the most attractive

Most of the Normandy crew was written by lead level designer Dusty Everman. Lukas gave him advice in the evenings between bugs

BioWare Montreal made ME2 and 3 cinematics

CC for Shep was based on tools used by char designers to create in-game chars. Under the hood similar tools existed to create aliens

Aliens were much easier to animate than humans. When something is human it’s very difficult to make it look realistic and you can see all the mistakes and everything

Over the holiday period in 2007 CH worked out a diagram on a single piece of paper that would define the entire scope and structure of the game. The diagram is included in the book

Bug report: “I shot a krogan so hard that his textures fell off”. At one point shotgun blast damage was applied to each of the pellets fired, and shot enemies ended up with just the default checkerboard Unreal texture on them after their textures got blown off

Blasto was meant to be 1 step above an Easter egg but his fan popularity prompted them to bring him back in ME3

They rewrote chunks of Jack 2 days before she went to VO. She was the only one they could change because all the other NPCs were recorded. They redesigned her mission by juggling locked NPC lines and changing Shep’s reactions by rewriting text paraphrases to change the context of the already-recorded VO

Lukas snuck obscure nods ito ME2′s distress calls. In the general distress call for the Hugo Gernsback, there’s BW’s initial’s and Edmonton’s phone number backwards. In a fault in a beacon protocol there’s the initials and backward phone number from Tommy Tutone’s “Jenny”. In 2 other general distress calls there’s initials and numbers from Glenn Miller Orchestra’s “Pennsylvania 6-5000″ and initials and numbers from Geddy Lee and Rush’s “2112″ respectively 

Mass Effect 3

“The end of an era marks the beginning of another”

ME3 “marked the end of Shep’s story”

Saying bye to Shep was as difficult for devs as it was for players

JHale’s final VO session included Anderson’s death and romanced Garrus’ goodbye. “We were in the session and we both just started crying”, Caroline says. “I couldn’t come on the line to give her notes because I was crying, and she was crying. And so there was just this minute-long pause of like, nothing, nothing, nothing - just silence through the airwaves. And then I came on and just told her that I was crying and she said ‘I’m crying!’” They talked about these anecdotes also here on the N7 Day reunion panel

The Microsoft Kinect voice support required devs to teach Kinect hundreds of commands in a variety of accents across multiple languages. The result was useful but made for some awkward moments. Numerous players accidentally said “geth” or “quarian” while making a particular decision and accidentally killed Tali

MP chars were voiced by cops and military people

The helmet on one of the MP chars was originally designed for cancelled project Revolver

The payload device at the end needed to attach to the Citadel while essentially serving as a giant trigger. “It ended up becoming quite the engineering feet just to visualize how this thing would move and connect to the Citadel”

Concept artists explored creating an anti-team, where Kai Leng was almost an anti-Shepard essentially, with an elite squad to counteract your team. This idea never went beyond concept phase

ME3 Special Edition was released on Nintendo Wii U exclusively. This exclusive version of the game includes Genesis 2 (a sequel to the original Genesis comic) and unique gameplay features that took advantage of the touchscreen GamePad. For years Sonic Chronicles: Dark Brotherhood had had the honor of being BW’s only game made for a Nintendo console

FemShep regrettably didn’t feature in major ME marketing til ME3. Later releases like DAI, MEA and Anthem have taken increasing care not to gender their protagonists in cover art

To capture combat sounds they took a trip to CFB Wainwright, a military base southeast of Edmonton. They got a big tour of it and were allowed to record anything they could find. The tour ended with them getting to drive and shoot tanks (real shells). The force of doing that sent waves through Joel Green, he felt his whole chest compress when it went off; the perfect sound for the Black Widow! After the trip the soldiers let him keep the shell he fired and it’s been passed on like a torch to various devs since

Kakliosaurs began life as a joke in the writers’ room after John Dombrow placed a Grunt figure on a t-rex toy he had on his desk. Lore was brainstormed to justify the mash-up before someone asked, “Why don’t we put this in the game?” They loved it so much Karin had custom coffee mugs made

Bug report: For a while Tali’s final romance scene would fire when she was supposed to be dead

“Balancing combat: how designers in ME3 entered an ‘arms race’” - the solution to players feeling OP vs players feeling frustrated by really strong enemies is to find a good middle ground, but for designers Corey Gaspur and Brenon Holmes, it was war. Brenon designed enemies, Corey designed guns. Corey “was obsessed with bigger, heavier guns. We had this sort of informal competition where he’d make this crazy overturned gun that would just murder all the enemies, and then I tuned some stuff up to compensate”

Brenon had to invent new ways to “stop Corey” and this led to the Phantoms. Corey had in turn designed consumable rockets that could wipe out entire waves of enemies. He must’ve figured this would make short work of Brenon’s space ninjas, but Brenon had other plans: “I had just added the ability for her to cut rockets [when Corey was playing MP and he was watching]. She cut the rocket in half... Corey just turns and looks at me and is like: ‘Really dude? I just shot a rocket at this Phantom and she’s fine? Not even damaged? Zero damage?’” 

This friendly rivalry helped elevate ME3′s gameplay. Corey had a knack for making a gun feel so good to fire it had his fellow designers scrambling to keep up. It was his version of balancing. Before Corey sadly passed away he mentored Boldwin Li in all things weapon design and the arms race continued

Corey designed the Arc Pistol. It was causing problems for enemies because it was too powerful. It seemed hell bent on staying that way, Boldwin would tune down all its stats and it was still doing 3x the damage it should have been doing. “I was like ‘What the hell?’, and then I looked closer. It secretly fired 3 bullets for every pull of the trigger! Corey, you sneaky jerk”

The day it launched there were midnight launch parties across North America including one near the BW building. Numerous devs sat at long tables greeting fans and signing autographs as the fans picked up preorders. When midnight struck the line was long enough that it took several hours for some fans to get their game. One particular fan is remembered: “It was 3am. Some guy drove up from Calgary with his friends. He was like one of the last people in line. I think he was sort of tired-drunk. He threw himself across the tables, pulled up his shirt and shouted ‘Guys, sign my abs!’ And like I did, because he waited so long. It felt impolite not to. So I hope he enjoyed his copy of ME3″

For designing Protheans concept artists had free reign to design something that read as ancient

Before the concept art team had the story of the game to work toward, they explored wild ideas of their own including an image of the crew stealing back the Normandy to go after the Reapers

Jen Cheverie was testing scenes and was initially excited to be testing Mordin scenes, til she saw she was testing the Renegade version of his death. “This is even before like all of the audio and everything was in, so you didn’t even have the sad music. I remember sitting at my desk and my hands just went to my face when I saw that the gun Shep pulls on Mordin is the gun he gives Shep in ME2. I burst into tears and was crying for the rest of the day. People are waving to me as they walk by and I’m like, ‘It’s ok, I’m just killing my best friend’” 

There’s a segment called “Shepard’s story ends”. Casey on the ending: “There’s a whole bunch of things that come together to make it incredibly tense and emotional for players. I think the biggest one was the sense of finality, that whatever it was that happened in that very last moment... was it.” 

Wrapping up the story was a massive feat. In a way all of ME3 is an ending. Its final moments were the players’ last with a char they’d been with all the way from Eden Prime

“And while the critical reception of the game was extremely positive, many fans were unsatisfied with the ending, which became one of the most controversial in the history of games.” CH: “We were, on one hand, at the end of a marathon trying to finish the game and the series. But as devs we also knew that there would be more. We knew that we would continue to tell the story. In retrospect, we didn’t fully appreciate the tremendous sense of finality that it would have for people”. He envisioned an ending that posed new questions, something in the tradition of high sci-fi that left players dreaming about what that particular galaxy’s future could hold. “Frankly, there’s a lot more that we could have and should have done to honor the work players put in, to give them a stronger sense of reward and closure”

AAA games are massive undertakings with a million moving parts. Somehow they come together but even the best-planned projects don’t turn out quite like devs hope. From start to end video game production is a series of compromises. It’s rare if not impossible for devs to ship a game they’re entirely happy with. “I think that people imagine that when you finish a game, it’s exactly the way you wanted it to be. But whether people end up loving or hating the final result, we work hard to finish it the best we can, knowing that there’s a lot we would have wanted to do better. I think that’s true of any creative work”

As the dust settled after the initial reaction to the ending and later its epilogue, meant to show the wide-reaching ripple effects of Shep’s final choice, “players emerged mostly asking for one thing”. CH: “Now, most of what we hear, after both ME3 and MEA, is ‘Hey, just go make more Mass Effect’. And that to me is the most important thing. Knowing that players want to return to the ME universe is what inspires us to press on and imagine what comes next”

Mass Effect: Andromeda

By creating a new ME in a new galaxy the team was challenged to put their own visual stamp on the game while keeping it true to the franchise

Being the first ME game on a new gen of consoles meant for more detail

“Massive transport ships called arks populated with salarians, turians, humans, asari and quarians” made the risky jump to the Cluster

MEA was the first time BW had truly codeveloped across 3 studios: Edmonton, Montreal and Austin. The bulk of the work especially early on was done in Montreal, which was composed of a handful of Edmonton expats and heaps of experienced devs who joined from elsewhere specifically to bring a new ME experience to life. Series vets in Edmonton then came on to contribute writing, cinematics, design and QA, along with leadership from creative director Mac Walters and the core Production team. Austin writers and level designers also joined the fray

“It took a new team to take ME beyond the Milky Way”

Mac: “A lot of people in Montreal joined BW as fans of the franchise, so they just had this passion, and it felt like it was more like the days of Jade Empire, where a smaller younger team gets to do something for the first time. Even though it wasn’t necessarily a new IP for me, it felt fresh and new because of that. The team was just super excited to be working on it”

Early plans had the player exploring hundreds of worlds, procedurally generated, allowing for a nearly infinite variety of experiences. But as development wore on, it became clear that the game narrative required more specific, hand-touched level design on each world to keep the story focused and the experience engaging. “The plan was to give players numerous uncharted worlds to explore. Designers worked hard to come up with procedural elements that would make such planets special. Eventually the team made the difficult decision to abandon procedural planets in favor of more memorable hand-touched alien worlds, each with a specific story to tell”

One challenge was defining what ME meant without Shep. Care was given to include many of the MET’s key species. “Ryder recruited turian, asari, krogan and salarian followers”. Like Shep Ryder represents humanity’s hope for a peaceful coexistence among aliens who had long operated without human contact

Beginning with MEA the team decided that with few exceptions vehicles in ME have 6 wheels. Early Nomad concepts were bulkier. Later ones focused on its ability to move over its ability to protect itself from hostile fire, underlining the themes of exploration

German concept designer and auto-motive futurist Daniel Simon was contracted to create the Nomad and Tempest. The Tempest’s final design took inspo from the Concorde 

Concepts for angaran fighter ships have the following notes: “Two doors swing open, wings rotate down to function as landing struts, the landing struts split open. It has a spinning turbine engine 

Despite being set a galaxy away and some 600 years after Mordin’s death, there was a time when he had a cameo. It wasn’t cut due to running out of time however, it was cut due to drug references. John Dombrow explains: “One day I had to write a small quest for Kadara. I thought it’d be amusing if these 2 guys living way out on the fringes in a shack were growing plants for uh, medicinal purposes, and needed Ryder’s help with it. It occurred to me, wouldn’t it be amusing if Ryder had the option of actually trying ‘the medicine’ to see what would happen? And I thought, what if it turned into some hallucination that somehow involved SAM - like maybe SAM would sing? But why? How could I motivate that? Then it hit me. Who else in the ME game sings unexpectedly? MORDIN. As a nod to him I wrote SAM singing Modern Major-General. It got even better when our cine designer John Ebenger wanted to take it even further. Bless him, he came in on a Saturday to do a special hallucination showing Mordin himself. It was great. Til the fateful day we were told MEA had already been submitted to the ratings board. That’s when you declare things like drug references in your game. Mordin fell under that category which meant it was a no-go. We were too late”

Ryder’s white AI armor contrasts Shep’s iconic dark armor (intentional design)

Concept art for Ryder involved experiments with cloth (cloaks, ponchos, capes - “Pull here to release cloak”) and asymmetrical design elements

For alien design, there’s a few exceptions but humanoid figures are the ME standard and this persisted into MEA

Kett and angara concepts explored striking lines and textures 

– From Bioware: Stories and Secrets from 25 Years of Game Development

[lackingspace]

Incensed (Bo Sinclair x Reader)

Rated: Explicit 

Word Count: 2.5K

Summary: Bo is having a shit morning and you’re not making it any better. When some tourist wander in his irritation spikes exponentially. Why the fuck would you think flirting with one of them would be ok? 

Warnings: Bo being an irate ass, Possible offensive language, Punishment, Degradation, Spanking, Dirty talk

A/N: Ok, not my typical content, but its House of Wax day and I’m thirst af  I love those boys, so I wanted to celebrate. Angry Bo just came out, so that’s what y’all get (╯°□°）╯ ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ

AO3 Link: Incensed

You were goddamn doing it again. Bo was so fucking fed up. It’d been a shitty morning of waking up to a blaring hangover. Breakfast had Lester and you chattering like incessant little birds while Vincent's mute ass self was somehow still being too damn loud. 

He’d snapped when you laughed in the high twinkling pitch that usually hit him somewhere uncomfortable in his chest but now split his brain in two. “Jesus Christ, shut the fuck up!” Everyone stopped to stare over at him, even Vincent mid-bite, turned to stare him down. 

You had a disgusted and offended look on your face that almost made him want to feel bad, but he couldn’t, wouldn’t when his head was splitting and only getting worse. You spat at him in annoyance, “What the hell, Bo?” 

He grabbed his coffee cup and grunted, “Can a man drink his fucking coffee in peace? Y’all are being so fucking loud with your bullshit.” You crossed your arms and leaned forward against the table, “No, not when a ‘man’ is gonna be a dick before 9 am.” You’d said, ‘man’, so venomously he felt a tiny spark of pride because that surely was something you’d picked up from him. Regardless, he ignored it because his temper took precedence. White-knuckling his cup he took a sip before hissing at you, “The fuck did you say?” 

Vincent and Lester were both looking at you now. Vinny's gaze concerned, worried, while Lester put a hand on your shoulder saying your name. You looked away from the ass at the counter and back to your friend, “Just don’t, s’not worth it.” You looked at Vincent and he shook his head, so after pursing your lips you sighed out, “Nothing.” 

Bo took another sip as his anger simmered down, “S’what I fuckin thought.” He saw your jaw clench. And that felt fucking good. So when you’d followed him out to his truck after breakfast he was surprised. You walked to his passenger side and let yourself in before he could say anything. Getting in himself he turned to you, “Can I fuckin help you, princess?”

The look you gave him was like a mocking taunt, “Nah, but I could probably help you.” Bo wasn’t in the mood to play games, so he just cranked the engine and shifted gears with an eye roll, “Suit your fuckin self.”

You’d been so fucking annoying too. Following him around, commenting just enough to get under his skin, but not enough to make him want to glue your mouth shut. But God, was he contemplating it...be a waste of your pretty lips though. You’d started questioning him on mechanic things and fuck was it annoying, but they seemed like genuine questions and damn if it didn’t feel nice to have someone admire his skill for once. 

But when some jock ass pricks rolled up asking for some car help, well, the side-eye you’d given him, screamed trouble. The little asshats had thought you were the receptionist, that made Bo laugh as he thought to himself, ‘receptionist my ass’. But you’d been nice and accommodating to the boys. Leaning on the counter showing them some ample cleavage that made Bo ready to say fuck his brother's art and gouge out their eyes himself for looking. 

But you kept it up and he was about ready to strangle someone when you decided it was a good idea to start flirting with one of the fucks. He fucking hated when you got in a mood- you were stubborn as all get out and it never worked out in Bo’s favor when you got like this. He knew he’d been an ass earlier, but any small amount of guilt he’d had quickly evaporated. Not when he could tell you actually fucking thought one of em was cute. It wasn’t just a fake blush you were giving the twink.

Bo groaned in disgust when you laughed at something stupid that’d been said. He caught your gaze and gave you a glowering look that said ‘fuckin cut it out he wasn't in the mood.’ but the smug little smirk you returned said something different. 

His mood darkened quickly when the asshole actually put a hand on you. Fucking touching you wasn’t gonna fly. Not with the morning he’d had. The little prick was on the top of Bo's shit list in an instant with your name right under it. If the little twit moved his hand any lower on your back Bo would have reached over and broke it. Instead, he didn’t and just left it so you’d realize how absolutely fucked you were. 

Wiggling out from under the tourist's arm you giggled an excuse and walked back over to where Bo was. Inside you were sweating because he hadn’t stepped in like you’d thought and that spoke to how pissed he was. How fucked you were. It wasn't like you didn’t know he was mad. And, sure, you’d known what you were doing. Stopping way earlier was probably smarter, but you never claimed to be a genius, so when flirting presented itself, well, it had seemed perfect. 

You’d been annoyed at him this morning, and maybe had wanted some payback. Wanted to annoy him because he’d been such an ass not only this morning but all damn week. It wasn’t fair for Lester and Vinny to constantly have to walk on eggshells when Bo was just fucking ornery.

And ok, you'd admit that you’d pushed a little too far here though. Especially with how possessive Bo was. He’d even get pissed when you tried to drink some of his coffee. So some random guy, not his brother, putting their arm around you was like a death wish. And God, was he standing beside you deathly silent-- it had you fucking sweating for real. It wasn’t the guy you were worried about, he was dead either way, but you'd maybe just fucked yourself royally. Bo's punishments were unpredictable- very good or very bad. You’d consider yourself lucky if he just ignored you or bitched for a few weeks until you were finally privileged enough for a spanking. God, there was something sick in you though because you still wanted it even if he edged you for a month before forgiving you. 

He gave some excuse to the group through clenched teeth that he'd be able to work on their vehicle, but needed to take care of something downstairs first, and that they should go out and find something to do. They'd accepted his answer and left the shop none the wiser. 

You'd never felt his hand grip the back of your neck faster in your life. In a deep growl, “You little bitch.” He tightened his grip, “ You’re fucking coming with me and don't even think about making a fucking peep. If you wanna be a slut I'll show you what sluts get." he kept to a slow walk until the both of you were out of view, then he all but pushed you down the stairs leading to his playroom. 

He didn't even bother opening the door, just pushed you against the wall next to it-- your cheek smashed against it he invaded your space, "Think you're real slick trying to play with that little bitch in front of me?" you whined out an "I'm sorr-" but he cut you off, "What’d I fucking say?” 

You cut your whine instantly, “And see, you're not sorry. You'da stopped when I fucking told you to if you were." He leaned in closer and you could hear the growl- the anger in his voice directly in your ear, "You were too busy bein a filthy fucking attention whore. Good thing you didn’t let him grab that ass otherwise I don't give a fuck how sweet that pussy is, you'd be out too. Vincent can have a hissy fit later." 

Shit, you knew he was pissed, but damn this was pissed. You tried to actually apologize, "Bo, I'm s-" But his hand came up to lift your face off the wall to grip your cheeks tightly, "Nuh-uh, Don't you fucking Bo me. You're gonna shut the fuck up while I give you something to be sorry for." He pushed against your ass as he leaned over to open the door and God, he was half hard already.

Dragging your through, he made it to the edge of the bed “You're gonna sit that little ass over my lap and I'm gonna make it so Vinny’s gonna have to fucking ice it for a week." You groaned because fuck, you knew this was supposed to be a punishment and it was definitely going to hurt, but damned if you didn't need it. Him being actually pissed was hot as hell and even if you couldn’t sit for a week you really couldn’t find it in you to be mad about that. The man didn't know the power he had over you when he was pushing you around like this.  

He sat on the edge of the bed and pulled you roughly over his lap. His hand on the back of your neck slid up to grip a tight fist of your hair pushing your face into the mattress. His other ripped off your skirt and panties all in one go, "You’re gonna fuckin count them you cunt and thank me for each one." You tried to nod but the fist didn't allow any movement so you let out a muffled, "Ok, yes sir." His fist tightened in preparation as your breath hitched and delivered the first rough smack to your bare ass. Your muscles tightened at the sting, "One, Thank you, sir!" he grunted and gave another just as rough-- you winced and jolted up, "Two! Thank you, sir!" 

On it went until you were sobbing in his lap from the pain and how much your clit ached. “Twenty! Thank you, sir!” He hadn't gone easy, wasn’t about that. Not even a little. Taking all his aggression out on your ass and you really couldn't say you were mad about it. Sure it hurt and would probably leave some bruising, but damn it really was a good hurt. 

Even when he soothingly ran a hand over the area your ass stung, "Don't give me that crying, I can tell from your sloppy pussy how much you liked this." he slid a finger through your drenched folds, "It's like Niagara falls down here. You're a little slut for this, aren't ya?" You shook your head in denial, not wanting to give him that if he was gonna be an ass about it. He slid a finger back through your folds and your hips lifted off he lap in want, "Look at that. Can't even fucking help yourself."

A swift smack shocked your system back into pain, "Don't fuckin try to take what I'm not giving, whore." You rubbed your face into the mattress trying to get yourself under control as you squeezed your thighs together. With a deep breath, “I'm sorry, sir” He laughed, "You’re really fuckin not. But I'll let it slide because I'm feelin generous.” He slid a finger into your pussy and you instantly clenched around it, but tried to stay as still as possible, “This just want you wanted, huh? My fingers in this whore cunt of yours? Think I deserve a fuckin apology after all your shit today.” 

You could tell he was calmer now, but that meant dangerous. Too bad dangerous also meant sexy. And you’d give this asshole whatever he wanted as long as he’d keep sliding his fingers in and out of you, “I'm waiting, Princess.” and he slipped a second finger in scissoring them, you groaned, "I'm sorry! Ok, Bo?! I'm so fucking sorry! I shouldn't have! I knew what I was doing and that you weren't in a good mood, but I did it anyways. God, I'm sorry Daddy, please don't be mad!" you were shaking in his lap and fuck, wait...oh fuck you'd never let that slip before. Shit, you felt yourself tense up just as his cock twitched under you. Fist still in your hair pulled your face up, "What was that?!" You stayed silent and he gave a hard jerk, winching in pain, "I'm sorry....Daddy" he groaned, "Too fucking right, baby girl."

He’d started his fingers back up, roughly pushing them in and out of you, “Bein a bad girl pushing Daddy’s buttons like that. But you did so good taking that spanking.” with a twist of his hand you felt him brush up against that spongy area inside that had your hips jerk up into his hand and sobbing out a moan, “Daddy’s gonna be real sweet to you and fuck this cunt open.” you moaned again at the idea. He was so hard against you and damn did you want it inside you more than anything. You didn’t have to wait long because after another twist of his wrist he pulled his fingers out, swiped them through your folds, and gave a circle to your clit before pulling away completely. You whined, but felt him move the two of you, “Keep that fucking face in the mattress and ass up.”

Pulling your legs underneath to prop yourself up in the position he wanted, “That's right, baby. Now spread yourself open for me. Show me that pussy.” Your face burned, god he could be so nasty, but you loved it and did as he asked. Reaching both hands back to spread yourself open for him. 

You heard him shuffling before you felt a hand settle on your lower back. “Look at that red ass and wet little hole.” He smoothed a hand down a cheek before he gave it a much lighter smack. You groaned and felt yourself pulse around nothing, “Look at that slutty pussy clench.” He ran a finger from the start of your ass down through your folds, coming to a stop at your clit and gave a few circles to it. 

“Don't worry, sunshine, Daddy’s got somethin to fill it up with.” His hand moved away and then you felt the length of him slide up through your folds. You couldn’t stop the moan that fell from your lips as he smacked it against your pussy a few times, “Feel that? I’m gonna stretch you open real good, darlin’.” Sliding his cock back down to press the tip against your clit he brushed it back up to rest at your opening, “You gonna be a good girl and take it like a whore for me?” 

Drool had steadily been falling from your lips but you couldn’t find it in you to care. Your hair was a mess and face felt on fire, but the only thing your existence came down to at that moment was the way his cock was just breaching into you- just teasingly stretching you. Slowly his words filtered through your brain to which you rapidly nodded and whined out a “Please!” 

He slid in slowly before the last syllable left your mouth. 

[louuieferrignojr]

title: long story short

summary: alex wants to go on an adventure and takes michael with him (inspired heavily by that vlamburn piggyback photo - thanks guys! lol)

AO3 LINK

“Alex, do you think this is a good idea with your prosthetic?” Michael asked as he carried a big duffel over his shoulder, watching as Alex got out of the truck and closed the passenger side door.

Alex lifted his head to glare at his boyfriend, ignoring Michael’s worried eyes before his eyes softened and he ambled over to him. Taking in Michael’s curls and eyes full of love, Alex leaned forward and kissed him on the lips before pulling away and taking Michael’s face in his hands. 

“I’m fine, and I will be careful.” 

“You’re lucky you’re so cute,” Michael said, rolling his eyes, and Alex smirked, giving him a quick peck on the lips.

“I know,” he stated matter of factly, and the laughter that came out of Michael made his cheeks turn a lovely shade of pink. 

“Now, I have my crutch and the basket of food, and you have the duffel with the blankets and first aid kit in case I get a splinter,” Michael sent him a look at the comment, and he looked away to look at the surrounding area before he continued. “I think that’s everything we need. I heard from Greg that this area near the reservation has an incredible view. We just have to go up that hill,” he pointed to the landscape in front of them. 

“Alex, are you serious?”

Ignoring the look Michael was giving him, he started walking, mindful of his leg, slow enough for Michael to catch up with him. 

“Why couldn’t we just have a nice dinner at a restaurant for our anniversary?” Michael suggested, moving small rocks out of the way of Alex’s path with his mind.

“Because I want this to be an adventure. It’s a beautiful day, and I want to enjoy nature and this amazing view,” Michael snorted as he saw Alex looking at his ass.

Amazing view all right.

“I hope you’re right about this, Manes,” he muttered before grasping Alex’s hand, feeling the other man squeeze it as they walked up the path. 

“I really don’t want this day to end, so let’s take our time. It’s only 11 in the morning anyway; we have all day,” Alex suggested, letting his face break into a rare smile.

Michael looked over at his boyfriend, seeing the happy glow around him, and he brought him close to his side to kiss him on the head. “I love you.”

The declaration didn’t go unheard, as Alex looked over at him and went to say the words back.

“I love - OW!” Alex’s pained cry made Michael freeze, wondering what happened. Looking down, he noticed that Alex’s prosthetic was fine but noticed that Alex’s left foot was not.

Michael mentally cursed himself as he realized him focusing on Alex took him away from focusing on Alex’s path and noticed that Alex’s left foot was at an odd angle. He saw a surprisingly big rock in their path that Alex walked into. 

“Alex, please sit down and let me look at that,” Michael suggested looking at Alex who was biting his lip to keep from whimpering in pain. The other man could only nod in response, and Michael helped him over to a giant boulder that was just outside the path.

Michael carefully and slowly took Alex’s foot out of his hiking boot and grasped it gently. Alex let out a wounded noise, and Michael looked like he was trying to see how they could continue this hike that Alex was looking forward to while keeping Alex’s foot elevated.

“I have an idea.”

“You’re not going to levitate me, Michael,” Alex stated.

The curly-haired man just snorted before shaking his head.

“Piggyback ride?”

Alex looked up from his ankle swelling up, after watching as Michael carefully put wrapping around it from the first aid kit that he quickly brought over with his powers, and let out a smile.

“Are you sure?”

“I carried you when you were 17. I can do it again.” 

Alex looked on fondly, remembering when they were teenagers, and Alex tore a muscle in his leg in gym class. Michael was the only one in the class that would go near him after hearing him curse up a storm in the middle of the gym, and he suggested how he could help him to the nurse. Alex had laughed, not realizing how serious Michael was. When Michael just looked at him, Alex shrugged and let Michael bend down so he could get on his back.

Twelve years later, he looked at the same boy who turned into the man he loved and would do anything for him.

“Okay, but I still have to carry the basket somehow.” Alex knew that they had too many things and now fewer ways to carry them. This trip was turning into a disaster.

“I have an idea,” Michael replied, getting the gears turning in his head to get some type of plan to work.

About 10 minutes later, Alex was on his back trying to hold on while Michael held his duffel and the crutch in one hand and the basket in the other.

“You good?” Michael asked, feeling Alex’s soft breaths on his neck. 

Alex nodded before realizing Michael couldn’t see him. “Yeah, let’s go.”

--

“Isn’t this view incredible?” Alex asked as they reached the top of the hiking trail, where a flat area was set up perfectly for a picnic for anyone. Shocking to no one, Michael was barely breaking a sweat before he dropped everything but Alex on the ground. 

He unzipped the bag and let the blanket fly out of it, laying it on the ground using his powers. He gently let Alex down on it, mindful of his injury, and watched as Alex leaned forward to kiss him on the nose.

“Thank you,” Alex said, expressing his gratitude, before opening up the picnic basket. 

Michael watched as Alex grabbed the plates, plastic utensils, and the sandwiches before pulling out the milkshakes from the diner and the chocolate covered strawberries that Rosa had given him with a wink the day before. Michael moved the basket towards his duffel, which was a few feet away from the blanket to get it out of the way.

“I didn’t get to say what I wanted to earlier,” Alex cleared his throat, “before I injured myself like an idiot.”

Michael let a grin slowly appear on his face, “Oh yeah, what was that?”

“I love you. I wanted this trip to be something special. It could maybe be something that we do like every year for a day, just to get away from all the noise and people? Just us and nature. It’s all I need, really.” 

Michael looked at him with eyes shining bright before he grabbed Alex’s face with one hand. 

“Yeah, I think that’s a great idea. Just need to make sure you don’t get injured again.” Michael kissed him on the lips, and it became a much deeper kiss before Alex sneakingly grabbed a chocolate-covered strawberry and promptly smashed it into his cheek. The airman broke into hysterical laughter at his actions, noting that Michael froze in his spot.

Michael didn’t know whether to look more affronted at the kiss ending or the chocolate now on his face before noticing Alex’s giggling, which caused him to break out into his own laugh. 

“You think you’re funny, do you?” Michael asked, letting his smile turn into a smirk as he grabbed his own strawberry and smashed it into Alex’s face. The chocolate dripped down Alex’s face, and he licked it as it fell to his lips.

“Tasty,” Alex replied, “I think you blinded me with that chocolate though, can you get me a napkin from the basket, oh lovely boyfriend?”

Michael snickered before turning to get the basket.

As he looked through the basket, he pulled out a pile of napkins and went to hand them to Alex. When he turned around, he came face to face with a ring box.

Alex was standing up on his one good prosthetic leg, trying to balance on it and not show any sign of pain, and looking down at him with a ring box that was now being opened.

Holy shit.

“Michael Guerin,” Alex started, looking at Michael with tears in his eyes before he continued. “I knew that when we met in high school and you stole my guitar and helped carry me to the nurse’s office that you’d be the person I’d want to spend the rest of my life with. You’ve stolen my heart and I don’t want it back. My heart is yours. You have helped carry me through all the pain with my dad...war...and all the baggage that came with being with me and helped me soar. I hope I have helped you along the way, but I don’t know if there’s anyone else who could ever make me feel this way, and I don’t ever want to. I want to spend the rest of my life with you…” Michael looked on speechless before Alex asked the big question. 

“Will you marry me?”

“Alex…” Alex looked on, biting his lip before Michael realized he really needed to answer. “Yes, yes, I’ll marry you. A hundred times, I’ll marry you.” 

He let Alex put the ring on his finger before he slowly pulled Alex down to the blanket again so he wouldn’t have to stand in pain.

“I love you so much,” Michael grabbed Alex’s face and kissed him with an intense passion that almost had Alex falling backward. 

As they broke apart, they looked at each other with a hunger that was more appropriate for the bedroom than this outside setting. Alex looked at Michael, smiling, “I have a little something to commemorate this occasion. It’s in the side pocket of the duffle. I snuck them in there before we left.”

Michael looked on confused before he quickly grabbed the duffel, unzipped the pocket, and pulled out two baseball hats. Before he could get a good look at them, he gave Alex an even more puzzled look. 

Alex just smiled before pulling the hats out in full view.

“Just engaged,” Michael read in bedazzled art on the front and back of the hats.

“Isobel and Rosa helped put it together.”

“Did everyone know you were going to propose?” Michael asked, bewildered. 

“To be honest, they thought I was going to propose a year ago after you got taken by Jones, but I never thought it was the right time. I came up with this idea and let them know. Max, Isobel, and Sanders gave me their approval.”

Michael snorted, “Did Sanders scare you? I only care about his approval.”

“He told me even with one eye, he’d always be watching me to make sure I took care of you. Kind of creeped me out, in a sweet way.”

Michael let out a cackle. “The old man is harmless, don’t worry.”

“Now, we need to take a photo, and we need to get a good angle and I can’t stand. I promised Kyle a photo.”

“Kyle?” Michael raised an eyebrow, and Alex rolled his eyes.

“He wants to see proof that I am truly happy with you.”

“Fine, fine. We have to look real cute, though. Let me get you on my back again, and I’ll put the timer on the phone camera and put it on the tree over there. Its branches are at a good spot so that the phone won’t fall.”

Michael ran over to the tree and set it to take the photo in 20 seconds. After getting that all done, he ran back over to Alex, who was wearing his hat backwards, and quickly helped him onto his back. Alex placed Michael’s hat on his head, and Michael looked straight ahead smiling as Alex looked on laughing.

SNAP.

Alex got off Michael’s back and went back to sit on the blanket as Michael went to get the phone. He was looking at the photo and smiling before handing it over to Alex.

“Oh yeah, we are definitely the cutest.” 

“No, you’re the cutest,” Michael said, before pulling Alex into another kiss.

[angelicichor]

Wait. Requests are open? Fuck yes. Then I request Thomas bending me over stuff and fucking me into next year! Art or words man it don't matter. Its gonna be fantastic either way .My U R G E S are out of this world right now.

U… I like you. I might actually do some more….. F I L T H Y art of Tommy-boy, but I ain’t home now so that’ll have to wait. For now however… 

N//SF//W

Thomas being a bit too eager… but in a good way.Female reader for this one… sorry folks.

Enough

Summer has been a bad season in Texas, for obvious reasons - heat, dryness and dust, oh god the dust, it was everywhere, sticking to everybody’s sweat covered bodies, making it unbearable to go shirtless, but also impossible to go with anything more prude on.

In a way you had a hate-love relationship with this season, you’ve always lived in colder places, so the warmth of the sun was murdering you and seeing Charlie with his big ol’ belly pouch and old man tits out, covered in white, untamed chest hair was an ENORMOUS problem, but at the same time tis’ was the season for drinking refrigerated sodas and eating copious amounts of ice cream that Luda Mae made herself and gosh darn it was delicious.

But the most amazing stuff wasn’t any drink or a snack, no, it was the full-blown dinner date that was Thomas, abandoning his usual shirt and tie to don a simple black tank top, that clung to his chest almost perversely, showing off his robust bicep, beautifully shaped triceps, as well some of the powerful muscle of his back, his tan skin glistening with sweat as he bent over a car’s hood, opening it to check what in tarnation was wrong with Hoyt’s sheriff car, the old man being too damn lazy to do it himself, god bless him for that.

With the apron gone you also had a wonderful view of Tommy’s firm legs and thick ass, stretching the material every time he’d bend over to reach inside the machine. It looked so damn squeezable, but you knew better than to interrupt the man at work, knowing that Luda would be over you in a second, scolding you for not working yourself. You loved her, but how could she NOT understand that her son was a god damned gem and you NEEDED to take a closer look at him.

He seemed oblivious to your hungry gaze coming from the porch, unaware how his form made your heart flutter and your gut heat up thinking of all the wonderful things that behemoth could do to you and that fact made you FURIOUS. It’s not like you didn’t try to initiate things either, just every time you tried anything Charlie would bring in some new meat or Luda would need her son to go to the station with her to help unpack some deliveries or Monty needed to be carried off the sun, too tired from the heat to move on his own.

Little to say, you were frustrated, but a chance to take revenge on this beautiful, dark haired bastard was coming and oh so very soon.

The thought brought a devilish grin onto your face, an expression that made Charlie go “You alright, girlie?” above you and you snapped to attention. “Ya lookin’ at my nephew like he the next one in line for dinner.” He laughed and you puffed at him, standing up with a slight blush, dusting off your jeans.“Sorry, sir, just thought of something funny.” you lied and he cocked an eyebrow, not really believing you.“U-huh, sure, darlin’. Ya ready to go into town? Got the money?” he asked and you smiled warmly, lifting your purse up and shaking it slightly. “Good, let’s go.” 

With that you almost jumped towards the old pick-up that waited right next to Hoyt’s sheriff car. Not able to resist the urge you took a swing and slapped Tommy’s perked butt, making him rise in shock and hit his head on the metal above him. You laughed, before getting into the truck and closing the door, so he wouldn’t pull you out. He most likely still could, but instead he rolled his eyes, massaging his head and shaking it shortly in disbelief before going back to work.

Once in the town you quickly parted with Hoyt, running to find a decent, still functioning clothes store, a woman on a mission.

Your plan wasn’t enacted until the next morning, however. For once you’ve been happy that Thomas always woke up way before you, leaving you to your own devices. That was his biggest mistake yet.

The day was pleasant, even with the sun shinning down on all of you mercilessly, there was a nice breeze going through, something you all hoped would be there to stay. You were very helpful right from the morning, shining with enthusiasm when told to hang the laundry, feed the chickens in the coop Charlie and Thomas installed some time ago, and then come back to help Luda Mae make some cookies.

And you probably though you were cute, wearing that baby blue summer dress that was just a bit too short to be innocent, with a bow in front, slightly to the side, as well as those stockings that hugged your tight just right, making it look so squeezable, with those flat sandals that made you look just so much shorter and more adorable. 

And you’d also think you were being sly, brushing your hand across Tommy’s forearm while passing him on the way to the coop in a rush, as if the chickens were going to escape, or when you heard his boots stop in from of the kitchen entrance and ‘dropped a fork on accident’, bending down with only your back, giving him a peek at your white, frilly underwear, and acting like you totally didn’t mean to lick that batter of the spoon in such a seductive way.

But he knew what you were doing, realized it the moment he has seen your outfit and those hungry eyes you gave him unconsciously, but Thomas was a patient man. He let you play your game, refusing to give in to your advances, so you’d be forced to come to him and ask properly for him to take you, enduring the constant sting of arousal building in his body when he would notice you, going around, completing your tasks, acting like you don’t notice him. He was doing a fine job, too.

That is, until you up and tripped, falling to your knees right before him and looking up at his masked face with those huge, bashful eyes, a blush creeping it’s way onto your cheek.

And Thomas could swear he heard something in his head snap. 

You tried to get up, but before you could rise one leg you’ve been swooped up by your neck to met his eyes. There was an anger to them, but it wasn’t what made you shiver, it was the true, unfiltered, primal lust that resonated from them, as well as the sweet smell of hormones and frustration making your head spin and leg pull up slightly, as your hands helped the rest of your body not suffer from the Butcher’s hold.

The next time you blinked, your whole body has been shoved onto the kitchen table, Thomas’ free hand throwing multiple objects onto the floor, creating a lot of noise that made your anxiety spike, but he couldn’t care less, leaning into you, one hand still keeping you in a choke-hold, the other gripping onto your tight, giving it a good, firm squeeze. His forehead pressed onto your lightly, his eyes focused on yours, a small smirk rising on his lips, followed by a hungry lick, delight hitting him hard when you shivered just at his hot breath hitting you.

With a rushed motion he pushed one of your legs away, the other giving way for his muscular tight, pressing onto your heat, you hips bucking against it in reflex, wanting to feel the man’s warmth.

His free hand shifted from your tight to your chest, rising with your heated breaths, stopping at your right tit and massaging it roughly, pinching your nipple the moment it started hardening, a quiet laugh moving his body when you squeaked at the sensation, your hands moving form his forearm to your mouth, pink painting your cheeks. With that the hand holding you down moved, trailing your body down, until it reached your heat, then pressing against it and rubbing it up and down slowly through your already soaked panties, his index finger pressing them in to reach deeper inside you. 

Your hands stifled your whimpers and moans as he teased your chest and entrance, seemingly not phased by the fact that anyone could walk in on you two at any second, that Luda Mae was supposed to come back to resume making the baked treats, but you were slowly forgetting about all that too, too focused on how good his hand felt on your covered cunt, how his eyes pierced yours, so close, warning you not to move a muscle if you wanted him to be nice and you feared what would happen if you disobeyed. 

Soon enough one of his fingers slid your panties to the side, making you feel vulgar, even more that you already did, exposed to the world on the table, but all the anxiety you felt melted into nothing, as one of his fingers slid inside you, unannounced. It moved slowly, parting your walls and teasing your nerves, making you tremble at the feeling, insides clenching with need, allowing him to please you, even more so when a second one joined, picking up the speed, already making you feel almost full with how thick and rough they were, hitting you exactly where you needed them. 

Your trembling fingers kept collecting your sounds of pleasure, hiding your face from him once he lifted his head away from your face, to look down at your squirming form and he wouldn’t have that, leaving your breasts and pulling your hands above your head, your lips pressing in a line as a reaction and you saw the satisfied smile on his face. 

A third finger squeezed it’s way inside you, making your head loll back in shock, a weak moan leaving your lips and that was enough for him. 

Slowly he pulled his fingers out of you, making you whimper at the sudden emptiness, eyes closing just for a second, just to look back at him with a small pout, silently telling him how rude he was to do something like this to you, but his devilish smile let you know that he didn’t care, bringing his fingers, still covered in your slick to your face with a silent order, to which your lips pressed together in an act of rebellion. 

An act that he quickly ruined, pushing his hips against you, spreading your legs further to accommodate his width and making you gasp with the pressure of his hardened erection, still covered with his jeans, on your needy cunt. The moment your lips parted his fingers slid in and his eyes warned you not to bite, so fearfully you obeyed, letting your tongue collect your wetness, with a deep flush on your cheeks. 

Finally his fingers retreated, leaving you panting below the giant, eyes closed in shame. 

You heard a clack and some shuffling and just seconds later something warm and slick pressed against your entrance, forcing your eyes open, wide in terror as you struggled to get your hands free, but to no avail with Thomas’ hand still holding them down like an iron shackle. 

“No, no Tommy!! Somebody will see, please not he--!” ignoring your pleas he shoved himself into you, the power in his thrust making you scream out, moving the table slightly. Your legs pressed up to your chest, spasming slightly, as the thickness of his cock spread you wide, making your muscles tighten, a long whimper escaping your mouth, your body unable to relax around him, your only saving grace being your wetness and you scolded your brain for bringing the phrase “curiosity killed the cat” to your head.

The pull of his hips burned, sending spiking pleasure throughout your whole body, mixed with a hint of pain, and the second thrust was not kinder, again earning him a sweet whimper, as you desperately tried to stay at least a bit quiet, but as his speed slowly picked up, reaching a steady rhythm, making the leftover things on the table clatter, you couldn’t handle being silent anymore. Every time he hit your end, you moaned, screamed, cried for him to go faster, harder, and he happily obliged, making you see stars over and over again, your hands struggling in his grip, body lifting off the table in a fit of pure ecstasy, letting him ravage you, use you however he wanted, you brought this upon yourself, after all, and now you were going to pay dearly for your teasing.

Just as your mind was becoming a mess you heard a crack and panic returned to you, making your walls clench against his dick sharply, making him groan, his free hand pressing onto your hips, hard enough to leave bruises, but you noticed another crack and realized something horrible.

“To---Thomas!!” You screamed and his eyes shoot up to yours, making your skin errupt in goosebumps at just how feral he looked. “Th---The table!! The table’s gonna!!” You warned and he growled, both of his hands lifting you up to his chest, still kept full of him, until he pulled out just to slam you on your belly onto the kitchen counter, kicking the breath right out of your lungs, and plunging right back into you, his furious hands reaching to the walls as he kept himself steady, pounding into you aggresively. One of them pressed your head to the wooden surface, before grabbing your hair and forcing you up and into an arch, the other following to keep you steady by your waist, forced to look him in the eye.

You felt your climax building, quickly and he didn’t protest when your fingers found your swollen clit, circling it furiously, desperate to reach that peak and you saw him smile, his lips mouthing the word “COME” and with your eyes shooting wide open you did, your walls collapsing on his cock in an almost painful manner, but he forced them away, seeking his own release, ridding your orgasm out as you screamed his name repeatedly, only strengthening his desire to destroy you, finding the strength to pound you harder, fuzzing your mind, making you a babbling, begging mess, moaning as your head was slammed back onto the counter and adoring the dizziness that came with the sudden motion.

His fingers digged into your hips, keeping you still and the stutter in his last harsh thrust was the only thing that warned you of his collapse, warm strings of thick come filling you up, making you moan in a higher pitch, your insides twitching against him, reaching another, smaller orgasm alongside his and your body gave out, trembling, shaking, exhausted, whining when he pulled out, cum slowly dripping out of you and onto your oversensitive thighs. He didn’t move you, instead putting his dick back into his boxers and zipping his pants back up, buckling his belt and letting you get up onto your shaking arms before wrapping his strong arms around you, his leather mask pressing onto your neck, so he could kiss it’s nape and you could swear you heard something similar to the words “I win” escape him, but he wouldn’t... Yeah, no, he would and you elbowed his belly weakly in protest, to which he rumbled a laughter, nuzzling into your hair, both of you covered in sweat.

Then again you felt your body being lifted and eased onto his shoulder, your hands shooting back to your skirt to cover your slightly exposed pussy as he carried you out of the room, grabbing one of the already prepared cookies off the counter and biting into it with a cocky smile.

“Tommy!” you heard Hoyt’s voice from the living room and you hoped he couldn’t see you, one of your hands covered however much of your face it could. “Ya done fucking over there, ya bastard?” The old man laughed and the embarrassment of being caught made your shake in Tommy’s grasp, even more so when he just.... NODDED. “Good! Get me some meat when you’re all cleaned up, boy! We need to get dinner started.” Hoyt replied and you died slightly inside, knowing damn well that you would not survive this evening, mentally.

It didn’t help that after the shower your body refused to function, protesting to the treatment your monstrous man has given it, so Tommy had to carry you down to the table, his chest just swelling with pride and you HATED IT.

Still, even with Hoyt’s rude remarks... It was worth it.

[petri808]

A Sun-Kissed Getaway

My artist partner @reishichi beautiful companion piece to my story. Rei was awesome to work with, sweet, go check out her art!!! 💜💜 This was for the @todomomo-mini-bang-2020 

The scent of the salty ocean air held hints of life and notes of esoteric mysteries swirling through the breezes that wrapped along the sun-kissed beach they stood on.  He couldn’t have picked a more perfect spot to bring his wife Momo to.  Secluded and peaceful compared to the hectic city world they lived in.  The skies were radiant with different shades of blue as far as the eye could see and embraced at the horizon into the covetous waters like a lover returning home.

But as beautiful as this landscape was, it didn’t hold a flame in his heart like the gorgeous woman before him.  Her dark raven tresses float behind her in gentle wisps and flurries, only tamed in part by the loose clip that binds it up.  He watches her pause and bend down to pick up a shell, turning it in her hand before placing it back where she’d found it.  Always the curious bookworm, cultured and mindful of her surroundings.  She turns her attention to the ocean and closes her eyes.  

He smiles at her upturned expression as she soaks in this entrancing milieu.  It was one he could understand and appreciate too.  

Their work as heroes was a daunting task at times.  Not just physically taxing but emotionally draining when you’re dealing with the dregs of society.  Villains and the victims left in their wake.  Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if these degenerates could just stick to battling with the law rather than dragging innocents into the mix. But he digresses.  This was not the time to brood upon the negatives of their chosen professions.  

“Shouto,” a soft melody crosses his hearing, and he shifts his focus to its source.  He sees her outstretched hand, beckoning him to her.  

He smiles once more and closes the gap between them, taking hold and entwining his fingers with hers.  She squeezes and runs her thumb soothingly over the skin, wiping away the dissolution as if it’d never taken place.  This is why he loved her so much.  With just a tender touch, she could send away the weary and brighten his world anew.  He lifts her hand and places a chaste kiss to its back.  “Shall we,” he questions, gesturing to the stretch of coastline.  She smiles with a light blush filtering onto her cheeks and nods in agreement.    

They walk along the beach hand in hand in mellow conversation.  The warm white sand speckled with various shades from corals of long ago cushion each step they take.  It was nice, like a massage for their bare feet, and he appreciated that nature was kind enough not to burn today.  No other souls were around to disturb them, except for the occasional call of a seabird or the skittering of a hermit crab.  Just the tranquil roil of the waves ebbing and flowing against the sand or the shifting leaves of the trees that dot the edge of the shoreline.

It takes about an hour for them to make it to the end of the beach where a sheer cliff face rises up an unknown amount of stories and blocks their way.  This beach was carved from a valley and only accessible with four-wheel drive.  Of course, for those with a quirk like he had, travel to a remote location wasn’t so much of an issue.  But to make it a day when they could forget about their quirks and just be normal for once, he’d borrowed a friend’s truck to get through the forest trail.  

With no reason to hurry, they simply turn around and enjoy the stretch of paradise, making their way back to their little camp for the day.  It was almost lunchtime and his wife had prepared bento meals for them to fuel their day off.  Along with an oversized blanket and small cooler with drinks, it was the perfect set up for a relaxing picnic by the sea.

How unexpected, he mused as she produced a kitchen knife and began cutting into a small watermelon.  It was the perfect refreshing treat for this warm summer day.  He makes her a small table of ice to cut the fruit on and lay the pieces out to chill.  “Lunch was delicious Momo, thank you,” he kisses her cheek as she finishes chopping.

She blushes lightly in a smile, “you’re welcome Shouto.”      

He was a lucky man that his wife was such an amazing cook.  Cooking was one skill that he could never master no matter how many times his sister Fuyumi tried to teach him.  But he’s always been just a simple man, nothing fancy required, and content with a cold plate of soba.  His wife was a different story.  Raised to be the perfect balance of elegance and sophistication, used to the finer things in life, yet never pretentious or snobby.  

Though they’d come from the upper echelon of society, their families couldn’t have been more different from one another.  It was strange to him at first.  She was so settled and worldly compared to him, a top-ranked student and yet adorably self-conscious.  While he came from a broken home life, an overbearing father, while still managing to develop his own identity.  But he digresses.  They did have one thing in common.  He leans back on the blanket and closes his eyes to the memory.  

All through high school they’d been completely clueless, and it wasn’t until after graduation, with the help of their friends pointing out the blaring reality of their feelings for one another.

“What are you smiling about?”

Her voice pulls him back.  “Just you,” he takes the piece of watermelon she holds out to him, “and how happy you make me.”

“Aww,” she giggles and hides her smile behind her hand, “you make me happy too.”

Even after all these years he could make her blush with the simplest of compliments.  Her bright smile and the twinkle in her eye whenever she laughed or giggled always made his heart flutter wildly despite the stoic expression on his face.  She’s the only woman who could pull these emotions from him.  Others had tried and failed in the past, and maybe it was with that realization that he was finally able to process their friend’s words all those ages ago.  ‘You love her…’  

‘Yes, I do…’  It was because of her kind encouragement that he was truly able to forgive his father for all the man had done to their family.  Her support gave him strength and her love gave him fuel to be the best hero he could be.  

He feels a weight on his shoulder.  It was Momo resting her head against it while she nibbles on a piece of watermelon and stares out over the ocean.  He kisses her temple and wraps his arm around her, leaning his head against hers.  This would make a for a perfect picture, but he couldn’t bring himself to spoil the moment by pulling out his phone.  That was okay, such memories will always live on within them.

A light sigh and a shift by his wife to further wrap her arms around his mid-section.  She was so content it was a shame that they would have to leave this beach soon.  One didn’t need a watch to know the time, as the sun slowly made its trek across the sky towards the horizon, and the shadows from the tree line washed over their picnic spot.  He of all people understood the power of the elements, yet in that moment, even the roar of the waves was but a peaceful undertone to relax away all the painful toils of their lives and send them away to the depths of the sea.  

“So beautiful,” the words wisp out from Momo’s lips as she stared at the sunset.

How often do they ever get to enjoy this natural phenomenon, and today seemed even more spectacular than he remembered?  The reddish orange ball of fire sent colored heat waves stretching out along the horizon, like a distorted image on a television screen, and darkening the further it settled below the sea blue threshold.  But above it, the colors blended wildly with the sky to produce brilliant purple and blue hues broken up between the spattering of pink orange clouds travelling across the heavens.  

“It’s time to go,” he kisses his wife and gives her arm a gentle squeeze.

“I know,” she sighs.  

“We’ll come back again.  I promise.”

She smiles, “thank you for today Shouto, I really needed this.”

He leans his forehead to hers and closes his eyes, cradling the back of her head.  There was nothing he wouldn’t do for her.  She was everything to him.  “No.  I’m the one who’s thankful,” he leans in and places a lingering kiss on her lips.  “You make me the happiest man in the world.”

“I love you Shouto.”

“I love you too Momo.”

And as they make their way over to the car, he wraps his arm around her shoulder to guide her, taking one last look at the expanse of sand and sea.  Growing up, he’d never expected to be as happy as he was with moments like this one.  Nevertheless, just like that setting sun, old childhood wounds dissolve away into the abyss, leaving just the starry skies that blink of possibilities.  There may not be any photographic chronicles of their adventure today, but the memories will forever be ingrained in their hearts and the love of a woman who helped him get here.  

❤️🤍❤️🤍❤️🤍❤️🤍❤️🤍❤️🤍❤️🤍❤️🤍🥳🥳 Bonus Birthday add on: @reishichi​  Happy Birthday!

As he lay there in the early morning hours, the sun’s rays were just barely peeking through the sheer curtains. Shouto smiles as he gazes lovingly over his wife’s face imagining how lucky he was to have her in his life. It had been a few weeks since their little beach outing, and oh how he wished they’d had more time for such moments. To relax and pretend all the cares of the world had disappeared. If he could spin their world into a perfect utopia for her, he would do it in a heartbeat.

He gently brushes away the stray ebony hairs that have drifted over her face, careful not to wake her. Momo’s shift the evening prior had been a long one, and he wanted to let her sleep in as long as possible. She looked so peaceful lightly curled against his side, trusting of his protection. Her porcelain skin coming alive with the light of the sun.

There was only one thing he could think of to make their lives better than it already was, but it was something that brought trepidation and fears along with the excitement and bliss. He was afraid to bring up the topic of starting a family. Was he ready, were they ready? Oh, who was he kidding, Momo would be an excellent mother. It was he and his poor childhood that caused him the greater pause.

She would probably tell him the opposite, Shouto you’ll be an amazing father… he chuckles in his head as he remembers the long-ago recertification exam. As the baby of the family, he had no experience dealing with children. They were like strange creatures to him that he couldn’t understand. Some people take to parenting naturally, but he just knew that wouldn’t be him. And yet despite those concerns, the desire to have a child with Momo outweighed those fears.

Imagine it… going back to that beach with a little one in tow. Watching him or her scurry after crabs or chasing the waves as they ebb and flow along the sand. Building sandcastles and napping under the sun after a yummy lunch prepared by his wife. A picture of pure bliss that he would love and cherish and give the child all the love he never received growing up with his own father. Bet his siblings would be thrilled to be an aunt and uncle.

When the time feels right, he’ll broach the question. He kisses Momo’s forehead and rests his chin amongst her tresses, closing his eyes with a smile. Sleep my love, as we dream of a sun-kissed future.

[clarste]

Sorry if you've been asked this explicitly before, but what are your thoughts on Penguin Logistics, specifically in comparison to the other organisations/factions in Arknights? I recently started and managed to grab everyone within a few pulls, except Sora (and I guess Mostima, unfortunately.) and I think they're easily my favourites. Would love to hear your thoughts. Cheers.

No one's ever asked me that, but they probably should have since I've gone all-in on Penguin Logistics ever since I pulled Exusiai and Croissant early on. I then proceeded to never pull any of the others, forcing me to buy Texas and Sora in the shop and much later dump all of my accumulated gacha currency getting Mostima. Anyway, my goal in life is to use the entire team and also max them all out. PL4life!

Anyway, my initial impression of them was that they were the cast of a 90s anime like Cowboy Bebop or Bubblegum Crisis (...Tokyo 2040). Like, they're an eclectic band of hyper-competent misfits working for a small company operating at the edge of the law. “Penguin Logistics” itself sounds like a euphemism for being, like, smugglers or something. "We'll get your package where it needs to go, no questions asked." Then Code of Brawl came out and I was totally right except they are also very dumb in a funny way. Like, they accidentally got into a turf war with the mafia, but apparently that's just business as usual.

Anyway I want to talk about each of them individually now so apologies if this starts rambling.

Texas is pretty clearly the main character of Penguin Logistics, and you can tell because she's the hub of their whole relationship wheel on the in-game chart.

She's also kinda Spike from Cowboy Bebop, although less laid-back I guess. She's a former mafia assassin on the run from her past, but her past won't leave her alone. Incidentally, "mafia" in this case refers to the various wolf families from the fantasy Italy equivalent in this setting, although they make some interesting comparisons to wolf packs in the profiles. However, Texas's family is dead, which should make her a "lone wolf" that will supposedly never have another place to belong. Except PL itself is proof that that's wrong.

Theoretically she’s just the team’s driver, but because PL is always getting into ridiculous anime fights she’s also good at that part too, using dozens of little... lightsabers(?) that she throws around willy nilly. It would probably look super-cool to see in action, except this is not that kind of game so we’ll just have to wait for the anime or whatever. It’s noted in her profile that her fighting style shows that she unconsciously sees as the only purpose of a weapon as being to kill, and heck, she’s right.

She's cool-headed, adaptable, and the serious one you can always count on, but she's not above getting into friendly(?) brawls just to take out her frustrations out.

Her name comes from the extinct subspecies of Texas Wolf.

Next up is Exusiai, the angel who loves nothing more than guns, god, rock and roll, and apple pie. In that order. In other words, a stereotypical American. Even though she's from the fantasy-Vatican. Basically she's a cheerful, friendly, laid-back person who never really fit in back home where people are expected to be more serious and orderly. Not enough to be, like, shunned or anything but she's always been a weirdo. All angels have guns though, that’s like standard issue. She wishes she could have more though.

She's also super religious, but interestingly never brings it upon her own. I feel like she probably realizes how uncomfortable it can make people who don't share that religion to suddenly bring up Jesus all the time in casual conversation. Like, she's not ashamed of it or anything, but she won't shove it in your face either. Personally, I find that a pretty cool characterization for a fictional religious person.

Which is also sort of a hint that beneath her goofy exterior she's a thoughtful, deliberate person who doesn’t let anyone in by accident. Texas notes that they're exact opposites in this respect. She also has an extremely interesting relationship with the next person.

Her name comes from the Greek word for the order of angels in Christianity often translated as "Powers."

Mostima... where to start...? I guess first of all she’s a fallen angel, apparently because she pointed her gun at her own kind under MYSTERIOUS CIRCUMSTANCES. Probably related to the whole war in Kazdel thing, where many of the other MYSTERIOUS CIRCUMSTANCES in this game took place. Long story short, stuff happened in the war, she pointed her gun at another angel, Exusiai’s sister is dead under mysterious circumstances, and Mostima gave up her gun and now wanders the world delivering long-distance packages for PL. But that’s mostly an excuse for to be alone as much as humanly possible. She can also use time magic because I dunno why not. MYSTERIOUS.

She’s friendly enough, talkative even, and has a hobby of visiting new places and trying out the local food, etc, but her real defining trait is that she just doesn’t need other people. She’s explicitly aromantic, saying she has no interest in love, but she also has no need for friends or family or apparently coworkers either. Because of the way the world is, she spends most of her time driving through the endless wastelands between cities, with nothing but a truck, some packages, and her thoughts. There’s something... romantic about that (in the other sense of the word), but even she admits that the romance of watching the sun set in a desert with no one else around for hundreds of kilometers gets old after a while.

I feel like I should note that she has a very “best friend of her big sister” relationship with Exusiai, by which I mean she’s known Exusiai since Exusiai was a kid and to her Exusiai will always be that kid. Also Exusiai only joined PL in the first place to hunt her down and get answers about her sister’s death, but Mostima just laughs it off and leaves town for another year or five. 

Her name is probably a corruption of Mastema, a rather infamous fallen angel in mythology.

Croissant is... well, to be honest everyone past this point is more of a minor character. Which is actually a weird thing to say since none of these people are actually major characters in Arknights, but I guess these are less important people even within the group?

Croissant’s gimmick is that she’s always trying to make money by selling stuff. I guess she’s a merchant? But not, like, a formal one who runs a shop, she just gets her hands on stuff through her connections and sells it. But in like, a friendly down-to-earth way, it’s even said that she lives paycheck to paycheck. She’s a girl trying to get by with a second job, I guess is what I’m saying.

Team-wise, she’s the muscle of the group, being a minotaur and all. She lifts the heavy packages and also smashes things with her MAGNETIC HAMMER which I don’t know why I find that name so amusing. Gameplay-wise her special move can knock all the enemies around her halfway across the map and I smile every time she does it.

Her profile notes that she’s really just living her best life as a normal-ish person, and that helps make everyone around her feel normal, and that’s important in a setting where half the people around you are dying of magical cancer (no one in PL is Infected though).

Her name comes from the French word for Crescent and also a type of Pastry. Leaning more towards Pastries in my opinion.

Sora is an idol singer. Because, to be perfectly honest, what ragtag band of misfits is complete without an idol singer? She can’t really fight, but I guess Texas must have saved her life at some point or something because she bullied both her agency and PL into letting her work there part time. And also she is obsessed with Texas. I guess saying it like that makes her sound kind of annoying, but she really isn’t, she’s just an earnest girl chasing her dreams.

There’s also this interesting thing where a lot of her basic information is censored by her agency in order to protect her privacy (”do not dox the idol”). Even including her race. She presents as a wolf, but her promoted E2 art has her as a rabbit, which raises some interesting questions that don’t really get answered.

Her name comes from the Japanese word for Sky.

Lappland is not really part of PL, but she’s PL-adjacent enough to be worth mentioning here. Basically she’s an old acquaintance of Texas from back in their mafia days, and she’s obsessed with hunting her down and... fighting her? Killing her? But in, like, a sexual way? She’s kind of a crazy psychopathic killer. Maybe. She can also be very calm and polite when she wants to be, although with a taste for gallows humor. That just makes her scarier because you don’t know when/if she’ll snap.

There are two kind-of explanations for her being like that: A) her family is dead and she has no “pack”. As a wolf, the stress of living without a pack is supposed to be maddening. B) She’s infected with Oripathy (magic cancer) and there are crystals growing in her nervous system. Which... can’t be good. The answer is probably a combination of both.

But the most important thing about Lappland is her base skill and how it interacts with Texas. Basically, in your base there are various jobs you can assign people to and different characters get different bonuses for them. Most people in Penguin Logistics get bonuses for working the Trading Depot, for obvious reasons. Lappland gets a “bonus” where if she’s in the depot at the same time as Texas, she loses morale slower but doesn’t actually get any bonus to productivity. Meanwhile, Texas gets a bonus to productivity when Lappland is around, but loses morale way faster. In other words, Lappland is slacking off and making Texas so uncomfortable that she works twice as hard just to get the job over with so she can leave. This is their relationship as defined by game mechanics.

Texas also has another bonus where she loses morale slower if Exusiai is there, which completely cancels out the penalty she gets from Lappland. In other worlds, Exusiai being there too calms her nerves enough that she doesn’t feel the need to immediately escape.

Oh yeah, I forgot to talk about Emperor, who’s the owner of Penguin Logistics. He’s a world-famous rapper wearing a Tupac shirt and also literally immortal.

[nightmare-chaser]

Living In Interesting Times

Could everything stop happening for a few minutes? 

There are riots on the street. They are in the right but they are being attacked and murdered, because in the power’s eyes there are no right riots. The police, those we are told swore to protect us from criminals, have in fact sworn no such thing. They wield power as a weapon against those minorities they cannot stand. They dress in disguises and start violence so they have a reason to attack the peaceful.

I saw a post where a black woman said she no longer allows people to say “They did that because you’re black,” and instead corrects them to “They did that because they’re bigots.” Before I had seen that post, it had not occurred to me the difference in wording, it had not occurred to me how the blame was shifted on the daily. There is something unflinching about the response, and while I am not being attacked, I flinch still. How had I not heard?

We have a facist in the white house, except the facist is too sensitive and thinks “facist” is a strong word. He tells us anti-fascist sentiments are treason, are terrorist ideas, as he puts families in cages and calls them illegal. The cages are filled with disinfectant, flooding the air and causing burns on the people, and somehow the people will not condemn it as gas chambers, because those should have died with Hitler. Those should have died with Hitler, not been dragged into the modern era out of spite for a condemnation of the poor conditions of the victims.

We have only a few months to get the fascist out of office, or else he stays for another four years. The fascist’s name is Donald Trump, and the idea that he would ever be president was so laughable that the simpsons made a gag over how terrible he would be. When he won the presidency, his campaign staff treated it like a funeral, for he did not want the job. Why did we give the job to a fascist who did not want it? We need him out. If we do not get him out, if we must live with him killing us for another four years, then we will have to live with him appointing two more justices to the supreme court, and he will continue to kill us for many, many more.

There is a country that is about to be extinct. It’s name is Yemen and I cannot point it out on a map. My geography, my history classes have failed me. It’s been in a civil war for six years and I did not hear a peep about it. I could not tell you it’s culture or it’s people or it’s language or it’s art, and it’s dying. It’s healthcare collapsed under the strain of the pandemic and the people are starving to death. An entire country is about to die, but I cannot even watch in horror because the news is silent on it.

Can we stop living in interesting times? I heard the Greeks used to wish interesting times on another as a curse, and I understand why. I live in helpless fear as things happen miles from me that I cannot effect. I live in fear as the things nearest to me are ruled by a powerful few. I do not know what tomorrow will bring, but it nearly certainly promises to be worse.

I am white. I am middle-classed. I do not fear for food or money, not right now. I am privileged and I am growing more aware of it by the day, and by the day I grow more ashamed of it. I did not make this system, but I profit from it with my mere existence and I do not know how to change it.

There was a black man shot dead by police in Atlanta, even though he was cooperative and polite. I do not know his name, and that is my own failing and a failing of the system. There was a black nurse shot dead in her own home by police, and her boyfriend is being charged for it. Her name is Breonna Taylor, but I do not know his name. There was a man named George whose last name I cannot spell whose neck was kneeled on by police until he suffocated. There are enough names of murdered black people to fill the back of a shirt in a dense paragraph of words, but I do not know them, and I do not know whether that is my personal failing or another of the system I find myself entangled in.

I learned in sociology class that society is more than the sum of it’s parts. I learned that even though we are all gears in society, society is also it’s own separate living organism. I did not understand it then, not fully. I understand it now, as I watch movements be born and gather members and fight to kill the rotten parts, as I watch things stay nearly the same anyway. Society has become a dragon to be defeated, but our knight is sickly or missing. The teeth are batons, it breathes tear gas, and it roars lies and “fake news” as it eats us alive.

There is a pandemic occurring, but the restrictions on movement and gatherings are being lifted. I wear a face mask to work to protect the customers from myself, hyperaware of how the customers do not care to protect me and will not cover their faces. Recovering from COVID-19 can leave you with conditions that you did not have before, ravaging your lungs and body until they never work quite right again. My grandmother texts me to complain that we should open faster and I’m struggling to explain to her why we cannot. The morgues in New York needed refrigerated trucks to hold the corpses in, and now we’re opening for the second wave. We did not flatten the curve, not enough. We are not prepared to open, but the facist leading us says we are and lies to our faces. 

The fascist ordered teargas and swat teams used to remove peaceful protestors from in front of a church so he could have a photograph without them ruining it. He promised us a racist and xenophobic wall built on our border, and instead built it around the white house to protect himself. He removed the qualified specialists from their positions and replaced them with bigots, then worked to make listening to specialists a political opinion instead of common sense. 

I am queer. There has been talk of how to remove gay marriage. It died quickly, at least I hope that’s what the silence means, but it existed. Poland is close to electing a leader who will outlaw queer ideaology in public places, as though love is an ideaology and not intrinsic to our being.

Is there any way we can skip this part? I’m tired and I’m scared. I’m ready for it to be tomorrow. The police defunded and public services grown, the pandemic gone and us healed, systematic racism dismantled and fascism erased. I wish I could wake up tomorrow and we’d’ve fixed everything.

That’s too simplistic. The riots have to happen. The protests, the petitions, the struggle. The deaths, the outrage, the fear. We must live through all of this if we wish to see that tomorrow, or else tomorrow is just another day to die in silence.

I am scared, though, and I am tired.

I am not doing anything. I do not know what to do. I do not know where the protests are, or when they are organized, and I do not know how to safely find out. I have no emergency contact I trust enough to tell if I go to a protest, and I am too scared to go without. I do not know how to protest, how to safely engage.

I am in college and I cannot imagine my future. I am told repeatedly that I need to decide, that every day gone is a day wasted. I am told repeatedly that I need to act, to take life by the horns and make something of myself. I am given resources to do so, but how can I? The world is going up in flames and I’m expected to choose a major and a career.

Society does not care for me. I am one more gear in it’s machine. I am one for snack for the dragon to eat. My mother tried to get me to ask for a raise at my job and did not understand that corporations do not value employees. I work minimum wage and I am disposable to the higher ups. The virus gave us extra business and I broke down crying from the stress twice. My coworkers have also cried and it is not a surprise. The corporations use us as gears and use us until we break, then they replace us with a newer model. Unions are still the bad guy in all the gossip. Our nation has a history of union busting that I am forcibly reminded of often.

The world is ending, somehow, someway. I cannot tell if what is dying is a free world, or a cage. I cannot tell if tomorrow will come with the dawn of a new golden age, or if we will all be silenced and in chains. We are living through history, and the generations after us are watching us now, and I do not know what they see. The victor will always write themself as the hero, and I don’t know what hero that distant future sees.

I saw a post by a school counselor. She said the teenagers are depressed. She said young people used to dream big, dream of being astronauts or movie stars or changing the world in a significant way. She said the teenagers of today are hesitant to say they might own a house. They are afraid to set even the lowest bar.

I should be doing more. The world is falling down around our ears, but I do nothing. The people scream in defiance and I whisper. I am afraid and I am helpless. I used to dream of being famous, when I was small. Today, I am scared of the future, and I feel small.

I spread the awareness posts to my few followers. I sign the petitions. I give donations, fives and tens to the various organizations. I play on the internet and try to forget the world outside of my room, just for a bit. The days fall through my hands like water, unused and wasted. It feels like dying.

I survive. I click another link. I watch a world die.

[nightwolfomega]

Heart of a Lycan  Chapter 2

                                                Joyful reunion

    Lycus was pissed, in fact he was more than pissed. He was downright furious. Getting a call from Peter at the Autumn Valley’s Forest Ranger Station that someone has moved into a cabin deep in the forest and to get them checked out to see if they were a hunter or not. 

It wasn’t the issue that it was part of his job to check since he was a forest ranger and all, the real problem was that it may cause some complications for him and his family since they lived deep in the forest also.

He was already on a drive by patrol to check if there was any large roadkill that needed to be dealt with. but when he was radioed in, about someone recently moving in a cabin that sounded familiar to him Lycus stomped his foot on the gas taking very little time to get there. Driving down the stony driveway he saw the cabin was close and immediately had his hands gripped on the steering wheel tightly as his lips curled into a scowl growling lowly. 

When he remembered where the address was it only fueled his anger more, who had the nerve to even dare move into that cabin that gave him his most cherished memories, he loved that place.  It was when he would spend most of his time with...her. 

His angry demeanor softens and now frowns sadly, a sigh escapes his lips. “Olydia…” he spoke out pulling the truck over and just crossing his arms onto the steering wheel with his shoulders slumped.

 “I wish it was you that moved there.” whispering softly to himself pressing his head on his arms making his hat tip upward. It’s been six years since she moved away, six years he didn’t see her. 

Back then he only had a house phone number and not much else for communication, he did manage to buy a laptop and phone but even with that she wasn’t on any social sites that he knew of. 

But she was still on his mind, always had been and always will be. 

Olydia did more than become his friend during that rough time in his life, she taught him how to become human again. Hell, she even welcomed Lycus into her home to hang out and befriend her whole family. 

It gave him comfort trusting someone when he didn’t know how to at that time. understanding him when no one else did or even tried to. 

He cringed at how cliche that was but it was true, even the therapist he had during that time wasn’t much help since he couldn’t be fully honest about the entire time he was with the wolves at that young age.

His mind drifting to a memory of when they would sit together on the cabin porch just looking at the stars and crescent moon together, wrapped up close together in a blanket and just having her snuggle up close to him. 

Then remembering the first time he met her, offering her time to read him the stories she had written. Getting that warm welcoming hug, it was at that moment he knew deep down in his very heart and soul.

Lycus knew that Olydia was his mate.

He never told her that of course, how much he loved and wanted her to be his and only his. Lycus was too afraid that it would ruin what they had at the time and make him look creepier than he already did.

Snapping out of his blissful trip down memory lane, He takes his cap off to fix his long and wild pony tail after doing so he pulls the truck back into drive and continues his way up to the cabin. 

When he finally gets there he notices the silver car parked close by. Lycus hummed to himself this was definitely not a type of vehicle to use for hunting but he had to make sure. Stepping out of the truck he takes a view of the cabin, the smooth oak and trimmings still had it’s earthy charm even after all these years.

 His mind was almost overtaken by the memories that were flooding in. 

Shaking his head vigorously. Lycus had a job to do and walked up the spacious porches steps to the front door and gave it three firm knocks and waited patiently for this person to come at the door.

Lycus took a deep breath and sighed something caught his nose of the familiar scent of autumn scented candles, his ears catching the sound of footsteps coming to the door. At that moment he thought to himself “Please god, please let it be her that opens that door…” he prayed. Even though it was very likely it wouldn’t be her, didn’t hurt to wish for it right? 

With a swift click of the lock and a twist of the doorknob it opens, When his eyes locked onto the woman's his heart skips a beat.

It was her. The woman that made him feel happiness and joy every time they were together, The same woman that gave him love and comfort despite how he was. The coffee brown short hair and long bang that covered some of her left face, those beautiful grayish blue eyes and lovingly kind smile. 

It was Olydia, his love, his mate, his everything.

She looked at him for a long moment “Lycus?” she blurts out in disbelief, Was this really him? The once lean shy boy that was now a hulkish large man? Lycus’s breathing stifled  “Olydia.” he replies as a cooked grin forms on his lips.

In a matter of seconds Olydias eyes widen as her entire expression shifted from curiosity to pure jubilation “Lycus!” she shouts practically tackling him as her arms wrap around his torso in a tight hug that even caused him to stumble back for a second.

Lycus was in shock looking down at her, it almost felt like he was dreaming, seeing and holding her again after being apart for so long. Raising up his arms he hugs her close to his chest “I can’t believe it! You’re back, you're really back!” he spoke out cheerfully. Doing everything in his power not to become a ball of wild hyper energy to lift her up in his arms and spin around.

They stayed like that for what felt like an eternity until she slowly pulled back “This is absolutely crazy I was just thinking about you just an hour ago.” she spoke, Lycus felt his face flush clearing his throat “R-Really? Heh to be honest I was thinking about you too on the drive up here.” he replies rubbing the back of his head.

She took a moment to study the clothes he was wearing, it was a ranger's uniform “Oh my good gracious are you a forest ranger now?” she asks happily looking up at him. Lycus looks away bashfully “Yeah, The job fits me really well.” he replies shyly adjusting his cap. 

Olydia jumps up and down clapping her hands “I’m so proud of you Lycus!” giving him another quick hug. “Please come in, we have to talk now. I need you to tell me everything!” reaching out to grab Lycus hand and pull him inside the cabin, his feet aimlessly follow suite after her.

“Sorry about the boxes and stuff i’m still in the process of unpacking.” walking him over to the couch with him. “It’s alright don’t worry about it.” he replies, taking a seat. “Would you like anything to drink? I only have water and some juices since you know I don’t drink soda.” she laughs. 

“No thanks I’m good, besides I already know where the cups are anyway.” giving her a coy smirk. “Well I just wanted to make sure I was being a proper hostess.” getting a quick sip of water from a plastic cup she already had poured. Olydia rushes back to the couch and sits next to him.

“Okay, Tell me everything. I wanna know how you became a ranger and how you look so darn fantastic!” Olydia spoke trying to contain her excitement with her hands curled up to her chin.

 Lycus tries gathering his thoughts where would he even start? He pondered to himself rubbing his full but well trimmed beard “Well it happened a few months after we graduated from high school there was a job application for a forest ranger and luckily I snagged it up asap. Did a couple of training courses and bam, here I am.” he chuckles giving her the short and sweet of it.

She nods giving her his utmost attention “That’s just awesome I’m so happy for you Lycus you did good.” she spoke grinning, Lycus felt a little blush on his cheeks hearing that, it made him feel proud.

“So why’d you come here? Did you think I was someone that was gonna cause trouble?” she spoke in a cocky tone, Lycus snickers “Well to be completely honest yes, I wasn’t sure if there was some mysterious stranger staying in your cabin.” moving his fingers eerily. Olydia shook her head, chuckling as she rose her hand to her mouth.

“Alright you asked me about some of my life stories so what about you? How was college and when did you come back here? I’m still surprised to see you here in front of me.” gesturing his arms to her.

“Well I had a nice learning experience with the amazing classes I took.” She spoke leaning back on the couch “ My favorite professor was Mr. Mosire. He was a cool and creative dude and always had a good story about his life with art, one time he told us when he sketched portraits of the nurses when he was recovering at a hospital during the Vietnam war. It was so cool, I think you would have liked him” She spoke looking over at Lycus. 

“The college however couldn’t give me the right number of classes nor the promised time they say I could graduate. So I had to leave and guess what happened after that? The dang place close down.” busting out laughing “How ironic is that? But I still had an astounding time and made a few good friends in the process.” 

“Wait what? So what did you even do after that?” he asks concerned, She looks at him with an arched brow “Tried looking for a job, managed to get some of my work published and some commission work to get me enough money to get supplies for here.” 

“And to be honest, I missed this place. Just watching the leaves change so early and enjoying the gentle cool breeze. The festivals they would hold and how much fun it was when it would be October. It’s just nice coming back to see familiar faces” Olydia spoke smiling up at him. 

He nods “The town is nice like that.” turning his view to the fireplace he notices the picture frame. “Is that?” he spoke, getting up from the couch and walked over to get a better look “Oh jeez it is.” carefully grabbing the photo. “We were so young...” his expression became sour “I looked like such a emo dork.” he laughs. 

“You did not, ya big silly head.” Olydia retorts getting up also from the couch, striding over to look at the photo too. “I always had a wonderful time reading with you, it would make my day better regardless of how good or bad it was.” Lycus spoke shifting his eyes over to her. 

Olydia smirked, leaning her head onto his arm “Me too, I wouldn’t trade those times we had for the world.” Lycus felt his heart flutter hearing that, nibbling on his lip to keep himself from saying something he’ll regret. 

Taking a look out the window “It’s starting to get late now,” he spoke as it was getting dark outside “Wait are you still on the clock?” she asks worriedly. Lycus chuckles “Yes, but this was well worth the time.” he replies. “I’ll report back that there’s nothing to worry about.” giving her a light touch on her nose. 

She chortles, “Well I would certainly hope not at least.” crossing her arms. Lycus' face softens becoming serious “But really Olydia, I’m really happy to see you back.” he spoke in a caring tone. 

Olydia couldn't help beam feeling warmth in her heart when he said that, “I’m happy to be back too.”

when Lycus turns about to leave she manages to jump in front of him before getting a chance to open the door. 

“Are you busy tomorrow?” she asks him curiously. 

He places his hands on his hips “I get off at ten in the morning since I usually do night shift. Why do you ask?” he already knew the answer to that but he wanted to hear it from her. 

“Would you like to have lunch with me tomorrow and have a little walk in the town since I’ve been gone for such a long while?” She asks, giving him the puppy eyes. 

Lycus grins with a soft sigh feeling his heart melting as those beautiful eyes used his signature move that he would pull on her. “I would like that very much.” 

Olydia jumps up and down clapping her hands “Huzzah! This is going to be astonishing. It'll be just like old times.” 

When he heard that his eyes stung a little with tears slowly building, he blinked it away to keep himself from looking like he was about to cry. But it wasn’t from sadness, it was overwhelming joy. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow then at the Moonrise cafe then.” he spoke as Olydia opens the door for him “I look forward to that.” She replies as he exits the cabin.

She gives him a little wave “Drive safely, have a good night.” Olydia calls out, Lycus turns waving back “You too.” and with that she closes the door. 

Lycus walks steadily back to his truck and enters inside, in a matter of seconds he lets out a loud howl shouting happily making a fist pump that his mate had finally returned. 

Turning on the headlights he drives home at the appropriate speed limit grinning ear to ear that Olydia was back and he was going to spend the day with her tomorrow, this was something he had to tell his family when he got back home.

[sergeanttpoliteness]

➹one make out session, please➹ (peter b. parker x reader)

The sad and divorced man who's become a regular for the past year is constantly spilling his emotions to you, his favorite bartender. This wasn't something new; you can't count with both of your hands the times you've heard someone recount the odyssey of their life. But these flutters in your stomach were definitely something you didn't experience with your customers, and you definitely did not end up making out with them at the end of the night. Maybe Peter B. was your only exception, though.

(PART II) 

word count: 7.1k (sorry)

a/n: i tried like 8484 times to add a gif but tumblr wouldn’t let me so ((:: hello @ whoever’s reading this tho!! love how i went from 2k to 7k words lol, i’m sorry about that i don’t know how it happened. feel free to help me out w ideas and send requests if you want (: hope u enjoy !! Tiresome was a massive understatement when it came to having to describe enduring the same routine most nights. Not that you slept peacefully like a newborn baby all the time before taking a job as a bartender at the bar; but once in a while, when you returned home and watched the bright red numbers of the clock switch to 5 o’clock in the morning since your brain was punishing you by not giving you your well deserved rest, you sure did miss those simpler times when you didn’t work at night. Yes, at first it may be amusing to watch a drunk customer go haywire as they try to understand the meaning of life, and it’s nice listening to the story of how someone ended up drinking five shots of tequila that evening. You relished listening to other people’s problems, their stories, their lives— perhaps because, as much as it ashamed you to admit it, you didn’t make much out of yours. However, two years of the same old passed, and soon enough, every conversation and dusk began to blur together; everything became a monotonous daze, like an old movie replaying endlessly every week. The obvious route would be to quit your job as a bartender before you lost your mind, but the old lady who owned the bar paid somewhat generously considering the career— both with affection and money— and, despite how cocky it might’ve sounded, you knew well that the customers would be lost without your glorious daiquiris and margaritas. You’d also grown fond of the few people there and the new friends you made once in a while; you didn’t have the exact explanation as to why, but whilst you were in that hazy trance, you were quite the charmer. 

Every night was just like that: nothing more than a few more hours to your life, until a man who you guessed was probably nearing his forties and with a really, really nice nose (what could you say? You had an appreciation for the art of beautiful noses), dropped on the stool directly in front of you with a heavy sigh.

“One whiskey served over ice, please.” He muttered, resting his chin on the palm of his hand. You didn’t think much about it as your hands got to work and moments later handed the man his drink. You later spent your time trying to distract yourself with the preparation of other beverages, yet your eyes were drawn to him momentarily once or twice. Even as you talked with a tourist— a woman from Croatia asking about the best restaurants and stores in the city— the image of the guy itched at the back of your head, and you couldn’t figure out why. He was attractive, you decided, in spite of his rugged looks; he honestly appeared as if a train had hit him. Whether it was a physical or emotional train, you wouldn’t be surprised if it had been both.

The tourist sadly ended your conversation, distracted by the game on the TV, but you took it as an opportunity to comply with your desires and approach the man. You see, you liked to believe you possessed powers— useless ones, to say the least: just by a quick scan, you knew if a person needed a good talk; it could’ve been after their third drink, maybe even when they’re still sober. Suddenly, though, your bartender-senses abandoned you along with your charm and you simply couldn’t find a way to spark up a conversation with the guy. Really? You thought to yourself. Right now, when a cute older dude is sitting right in front of you, probably in need of your comradeship? Yeah, he was most definitely older than you, perhaps by some ten years, but did you really care? 

You were stuck, unable to crawl out of the crater until, eventually, he asked for his third drink. Showtime, you breathed in, the confidence hugging your entire body. “Just saying, but I could already sense this third drink once you walked in through the door,” You tried to joke.

He huffed through his nose, a hint of a smile on the corner of his lips. “Do I look that bad?” He asked, a playful tone in his voice. A lopsided grin found itself onto your face and you slightly leaned over to wipe the surface next to where his hand rested.

“The opposite, actually. You’re quite the handsome guy.” Oh, there it was. He didn’t seem repulsed, which could’ve been a good sign, except that he didn’t look like anything— his expression was unreadable.

He raised his glass up to his lips. “Yeah, well, don’t really feel like it right now,” He said before taking a swig of his drink. You picked up a wet empty glass and dried it with your towel, like the true bartender you were.

“Well, do you feel like talking about it?” His eyes darted up to you and he lifted a brow. “There’s obviously a reason why you’re sitting here right now, no?”

You waited for an answer, but he swallowed his entire drink before he set the dry cup on the bar. “Maybe another time, kid.” Ouch. Kid? Really? You thought this was over once you turned twenty-three. “But I gotta get going now.”

That was the first conversation you two shared, and you bit the inside of your cheek as you watched him leave, disappointed that it also could’ve been the last one. You should’ve learned by now, though: this wasn’t the first time you made a “friend”, hoped that they would drop by again in the future, only to never see their faces again. You took in his appearance one last time then, cherishing the fleeting buzz in your head. But you were lucky when two weeks later he entered through the same door again. Nonetheless, not lucky enough, since he arrived the only day your shift ended early.

“One whiskey served over ice, please.”

You didn’t realize he was there until you heard that scratchy voice, the one you thought you’d never have the pleasure of hearing again. Your head jerked up and you didn’t miss a beat before gladly serving him— there was no way you were leaving without interacting with the older man, regardless of how small and brief the action was. It was a Greek tragedy in your eyes: saying goodbye to the back of the head of the attractive man in his thirties. You jokingly (but not really) warned your coworker to not make a move on the man; and, of course, you asked him to update you the next day if he mentioned you even just once. The next day (or rather, night), the first thing you obviously did was pester your friend to spill all the juicy, if any, details.

“I don’t know, he didn’t really say anything. He so checked you out when you left, though. Like— okay, maybe not check you out, but he definitely stared at you for a few seconds.”

You deflated. Anyone else would’ve cheered, but all you needed to hear was the first part; your friend had the poor tendency of overanalyzing and exaggerating every small detail— you learned that when, after some customers had a lousy argument, you both recounted the event to your boss during your monthly coffee session. What had probably happened was that the man merely breathed in your direction and your coworker’s eyes jumped out of their sockets. You brushed away your discontent, though, reminding yourself of your principles: you never hooked up with customers, especially since your boss was adamant about that after an incident with another bartender, and you didn’t want to endure new job interviews for as long as you could.

But the rush made you want to have fun with this guy.

Another entire month went by; no sign of mystery guy, no whiskey served over ice. No drops of your stomach, until one evening you couldn’t believe your eyes when you saw that beautiful mess of a man, a scratch on his forehead you didn’t think much about since you’d seen much weirder things, sat in front of you. “Would you look at that! We meet once again,” He smirked. You placed your hand on your hip, biting your lip.

“Thought I’d never see you again. Tell me, do you want to try out something different tonight, or your boring, usual—”

“—whiskey served over ice. Yeah, please.”

Whiskey served over ice was quickly becoming your favorite order.

You didn’t exchange any other words— you were too engulfed into the breaking news playing on the flatscreen: a poor quality clip— something that still occurred even if it wasn’t 2005 anymore— of Spider-Man stopping a truck before it crashed into a hurt kid in the middle of the street. You grabbed the remote control and boosted the volume a bit, deciding you could perhaps multitask for a while. “So,” You started while maintaining your attention on the screen, catching his own. “You ever met Spider-Man?”

An odd question which made him snort as he turned his head to watch the screen. “No, not really. Wouldn’t want to, though, he’s kinda overrated.”

Your eyes went round, and you had to unstick your view from the TV to search for any sign of playfulness in the man’s face. He seemed dead serious. “Overrated? Full offense, but I can’t let you say that about Spidey, an actual superhero.”

He rolled his eyes, amused and defensively holding up one hand. “I’m just tired after hearing about him for the last twenty years. Can’t believe he’s not going around with a walking stick yet.”

You returned to your previous position, your forearms resting on the counter as you continued to observe a recap on a football game of the night before. “Yeah, I won’t argue against you on that. I remember watching him swing on TV back when I was seven-years-old. Big part of my childhood, the guy.”

He inclined closer to you, his brows drawn together. “What’s your age?”

“Twenty-nine.”

He let out an ‘oof’. You would’ve been insulted if it weren’t for the exaggeration in his tone. “You’re getting old. Soon you’ll be complaining about how much your back hurts and wishing for the sweet release of death.”

You chuckled, eyeing his appearance. “Ah, well, too bad because I already do that. How old are you? You’re acting like you’re sixty when in reality you’re probably just like forty, or something.”

“Eh, close,” He grinned, and then took a deep breath. “I’m thirty-seven.”

“And you’re calling me old?!” You exclaimed, earning a laugh from him. “You’re basically almost on your deathbed. Age doesn’t hold me back, though.” You winked jokingly and he bit his lip, his eyebrows raised.

“Is that so?”

“Yeah, you know— more experienced, sometimes wiser, sometimes more of a gentleman…” You mused, drawing patterns on the bar. You didn’t notice him giving you a once-over. Someone called for your attention, and you let out a disappointed sigh, pouting at him. “Gotta go! Duty calls.”

“Have fun,” He raised his drink, bowing his head. As you walked away, you allowed your face to pale with terror and you began to wonder if the air-conditioning suddenly malfunctioned, for you were too heated for your comfort. You took as much time as you could with the rest of the clients, too frightened to face the man after your shameless flirts, dreading the repercussions. But you were finishing the preparation of a mojito, wishing you could down it yourself, when he lifted his empty glass and whistled at you. You nervously glared at him, motioning for him to wait before you served the finished beverage to its rightful owner and you met him once again.

“Tell me,” You began as you poured the liquid in his cup, trying to change the subject and mask your trembling hands. “I’m tired of thinking of you as the whiskey man. What’s your name?”

He let out a short laugh, thanking you before he took ahold of his drink. “Peter. Peter… B… Parker,” He moved his head along to each word and you sang out an impressed ‘ooh’.

“Peter B. Parker. Catchy. Giving me some boy band vibes.”

“Boy band vibes?”

“Yeah, like, ‘pretty boy in a band who’s a total teenage heartthrob’ type of vibes. You definitely fit the description.” Goddammit, you did it again. Just this once, you wished, just this once shutting your mouth would make everything easier for you.

Peter, his face finally having a name, licked his lips after sipping the alcohol. “So you think I’m pretty?” He inquired, a crooked smile on his face. You were good at holding back the tingling that wanted to suffocate your cheeks, the way you wished you could with your words. You hummed, surveying him quickly.

"Well, I did say you were handsome last time, didn't I?"

"Yeah— yeah, I remember that," He squinted his eyes, pointing his finger at you. "And you're...”

“Y/N.”

“Well, Y/N…” He took his phone out from his back pocket and frowned down at it with concern. “Can you help me? There’s something wrong with my phone— it doesn’t have your number in it.”

Oh, my God.

You glanced down at his cracked screen and then back up at his face. Snorting so loudly it hurt your nose, your hand flew up to cover your mouth. “Oh, my God. I’m sorry, I’m just—” You pinched the bridge of your nose, wheezing. “I can’t believe you just did that. That was so cheesy, oh my God.”

“Are you gonna fix it or not, though?” He smirked, offering you his device. “‘Cause it’s a real problem.”

He got your number. After you returned his cell phone, you noticed his yet again empty glass, wondering how he downed it in just the time you were adding your phone number to his contacts. You grabbed it and poured more ice, seeing as the previous had already melted. “Since you successfully made me want to walk away from you and stroll around the place to try and heal myself after that awfully cheesy pickup line, this next round is on the house.” You declared as you opened the bottle of whiskey. He declined, emphasizing his refusal with the flutter of his hand.

“That’s not necessary.”

“Whatever, I’m gonna do it anyway,” You slid the alcoholic beverage towards him, and his eyes softened along with his entire face, too.

“Thanks.”

Your conversation continued the entire night. You talked non stop— so much that you might have forgotten about the existence of other customers. But it didn’t matter. Despite their annoyed expressions, it was worth it. You heard the story you had so desperately yearned for him to tell; he reminisced about his dead aunt and uncle— the lovely angels who raised him and the ones he looked up to the most. But your heart cried out when Peter sorrowfully stared into his whiskey, and you first heard the name. MJ. His ex-wife. The owner of his love for the longest time, the woman who crushed him a year ago. The one whose heart he broke, too, though, all because he was too terrified, too much of a wimp to take the next step, ‘not enough’, he said. You remained silent, realizing your flirtatious exchanges earlier were solely a way to muffle Mary Jane’s memory in his mind. Nevertheless, your hand reassuringly rubbed his shoulder, the action alone speaking the comfort he needed.

It wasn’t the last time it happened. After that, he began to show up at the bar more frequently, once a week. And whenever he did come, he left until your shift neared its end.

“Like, what type of father would I even be? Look at me!” Peter pointed at his head, stirring the whiskey with a finger of his other hand. “I’m a mess, I can’t even take care of myself— how could I take care of a child?! I just… I don’t have the time,” He sighed, laying his head atop the bar. You frowned as you prepared a second margarita for the mother of one of your classmates from high school, which was what initiated the conversation of parenthood and such in the first place.

You shrugged, aggressively rattling the shaker with your two hands. “I don’t know, maybe you’re underestimating yourself,” He peered up at you, doubt in his expression. “And you do have the time to come here every week, though,” You pointed out, wiggling your arms from how sore they were.

“Yeah, but you’re… this is different, this is…” He slurred, waving his hand. “Whatever. Work always ruins things for me. It has ever since I was a little tot.”

“Damn, what is your work?”

Peter began to gulp down his entire drink after your question and seconds later slammed it on the table with wide eyes, attempting to digest the liquor. He cleared his throat, rubbing his eyes. “It’s… it’s, uh, I-I work at the Daily Bugle.” You opened your mouth with astonishment, stopping in the midst of rubbing a lime on the rim of the glass.

“The Daily Bugle?” You asked incredulously. “That one newspaper with the dude who’s obsessed with Spider-Man? J-something-Jameson?”

“Yeah… yeah, that’s my boss.”

You grimaced, instantly comprehending his daily fatigue and he nodded, agreeing with you. “What do you do? Write?”

“Nah, I’m a photographer.”

“Ooh, so you’re a photographer? That’s hot,” Moments ago he’d been complaining about his marital issues yet there you were, calling Peter hot. You might have slipped the compliment right before you left to give the margarita to your ex-classmate’s mom in fear of his response, therefore missing the faint heat that overwhelmed his cheeks and ears. 

“Is… it’s nothing, really,” He dismissed your words, being all humble and shit. You placed your elbows on the counter, coming closer to him.

“Could I ever see any of your pictures?”

He threw a block of ice into his mouth. “Mm, thure,” He said, his mouth full. Your mouth twitched in amusement, and you decided to sit down considering the night was particularly slow. Your boss lectured all the time that there was never time to sit down and there was always something to do; keeping that in mind, you still ignored the four dirty glasses, instead choosing to spend time paying attention to the man with ice in his mouth. “I’m boring, though— tell me more about yourself. There’s gotta be more to the attractive barista who works at the bar near my apartment.”

You were taken aback, both by the fact that he considered you were good-looking and that he was pushing to hear about you. “Me?” You blinked. He nodded, looking at you expectantly. You lowered your head, picking at the skin around your nails— damn past you for cursing you with the habit and, consequently, terrible nails as well. “This is… weird. I don’t really talk to customers about my life. They even tell us to not do that specifically.” You laughed.

“What? Why?”

“Well, because you don’t want to hear about me: my childhood and the drama in my life, I guess,” You said with an obvious look. He scrunched his brows together.

“But I do.”

You despised the way your heart missed a beat. “Alright, well… I don’t know, what do you want to hear about?”

“Were you born here? In New York?”

You shook your head. “Nah, I moved here after finishing college. I thought I was gonna be a successful artist and stuff.”

Peter gasped with wonder. “Artist?! Cool! What, what type of artist?”

“I paint,” He whispered an adorable ‘whoaa’ and your shoulders shook with laughter. “It’s really not that cool. I do paintings once in a while. Pays well and can help with the bills if someone buys them.”

“I’d buy many if I had the money.” 

“Nah, I would paint you one for free,” You smirked, leaning closer to him.

“Oh, sweet— you can paint me naked. You know, like one of your french girls.” He hummed, a goofy grin breaking out on his face. You quirked a brow, giggling.

“That’d be interesting.”

“I know, I’d be a great muse. Tell me more, though, you got any friends? Family?”

You hesitantly nodded. “Yeah, except they’re all back home. The only people I’ve got here are at the bar, my boss basically adopted the few people who work here.”

“Wish my boss was like that,” He grumbled, grasping more ice. “Well, now you’re stuck with me too, though.”

You gripped your knee, your lips pressed together to retain the beam threatening to appear. “Is that so?” The ice he had shoved into his mouth was too big for him to speak without drooling all over his chin; so with his chipmunk cheeks, he moved his head up and down. “Is this us officially becoming friends?” You waggled your brows teasingly, your lips now stretching widely.

“I thought that happened the second you gave me a free round of drinks.”

Three more months passed by. You realized your nights weren’t a blur anymore. No— now they were Peter B. Parker, his weary brown eyes, and his whiskey served over ice. You couldn’t help the scrunch of your nose and your slight smile whenever someone else ordered whiskey, since, as ridiculous you knew it was, those words were Peter. You held yourself back each night you two shared from leaning over the bar and tasting the cold liquor in his tongue. You wondered if, perhaps, that’s what Peter Parker tasted like. But it didn’t matter how strongly you craved to find out; you couldn't be anything more than a friend to your customers, you constantly reminded yourself. Not that it even was a possibility with Peter, anyway— it was evident he still cared about Mary Jane. It was clear she lingered in the fog of his memory, despite how much he drank or how hard you attempted to take her place with every conversation. You tried to convince yourself that it was alright, and it wasn’t working, but you hoped someday it would.

It was a Saturday night— or more like the early hours of Sunday— when you went to joyfully take Peter’s order after he sat down, only to be met with an awful bruise on the bridge of his nose. You winced, unconsciously reaching out to touch his face, but drawing your hand back before he noticed. “Pete, what the fuck happened to your face?”

“That’s not a nice thing to say about someone.” He simply responded, evidently trying to disguise the swelling with his hand, but sighed after seeing your scowl. “Fine, it’s embarrassing. Like… really, really embarrassing—”

“I’m listening.”

He squirmed, his gaze moving to his right and his voice coming out high pitched as he searched for a way to explain himself. “I tripped.”

Something you’d learned throughout the past months of weekly meetings with Peter Parker was that the man was not subtle. Far from it. And this wasn’t the first time he arrived with a scratch or sort of bruise, which truly clutched at your stomach in the wrong way, but although he’d talk about anything— from what he ate for breakfast that day to confessing a pestering fear in his head, he never ever talked about how or why he got hurt. He always managed to steer away from the subject; the sneaky bastard, you’d think to yourself when minutes later you two were thoroughly discussing the best ways to eat an egg. You never budged, though, for you couldn’t bear to lose his trust or him getting mad at you; which hadn’t occurred yet, and you wished to keep it that way. You questioned your decision, however, as you grabbed the box of bandaids hiding under the counter (the bartenders there could frequently be quite clumsy), and grasped one with your fingers. You opened it, detaching the paper from it.

“It’s really nothing,” He continued insisting, trying to erase the creases between your eyebrows. “I just gave the ground a real nice smooch—” He stopped talking when you leaned over to touch his face, your hand cupping his cheek as you smoothed the plaster over his nose.

“I… what?”

“Sorry, it just looked really gross,” You lied, truthfully concerned about his well-being. “You couldn’t go around walking like that.”

“But I can go around walking with a…” He inspected his reflection on the cupboards, squinting to make out the pattern of the bandaid. “Spongebob bandaid on my face. And how is that supposed to heal a bruise?”

“I’m sorry—”

“No, it’s alright. I… I like Spongebob. One whiskey served over ice, though, please.”

You scoffed, picking up a glass from the cabinet. “I’ve held myself back from asking, but…” You shut your mouth as you continued preparing his drink, doubt winning its battle again. He tilted his head.

“But?”

“But… how come you’re always getting hurt in some way? It’s kind of concerning,” You laughed nervously, not wanting to reveal how much it truly worried you. He shrugged one shoulder.

“I guess I’m just really clumsy.”

“This isn’t clumsy, though,” You argued, your forehead furrowed. “This is… getting beat up type of stuff. Is that it? Do you get into street fights or something?”

“No! No, I, uh…” He hesitated, avoiding your gaze. “That’s not it.”

“Then what is it?”

Peter searched for words, his mouth ajar. He closed it and rolled his lips. “I want to tell you, I really do, but now is not the time. I promise I will in the future.”

You prepared to question him more, until a tune filled your ears. You raised your hands up to your head, your palms squeezing your temples as you gasped. Peter raised an eyebrow, entertained. “I fucking love this song,” You explained as ‘I Wanna Dance With Somebody’ by Whitney Houston played on the TV. Peter sat still as he paid attention to the music, confusion glinting in his eyes until he recognized the melody and his body lit up.

“Wait, so do I—”

“Clock strikes upon the hour, and the sun begins to fade…” You shouted, your head jerked back. Peter put his fist against his mouth, embarrassed by your hilariously terrible singing, but at the same time holding himself back from joining you in your performance. “Still enough time to figure out how to chase my blues away!” You sang, pointing your finger at him. He muttered an ‘ohmygod’ under his breath, his face beet red.

“I’ve done enough ‘till now, it’s the light of day that shows me how!” You dramatically laid back on the counter, true singer-like style, holding an imaginary microphone up to your mouth. “And when the night falls, loneliness calls…” You turned your head to face Peter and booped his nose, an action which you would undeniably regret once the euphoria of hearing one of your favorite songs ended.

“Ah, fuck it…” He whispered, beaming at you and grabbing your fist to sing into the invisible mic as well. “Oh! I wanna dance with somebody! I wanna feel the heat with somebody!” He cried out, his eyes passionately closed and his hand pressed flat against his chest. You scream-laughed at him, holding your torso. However, you quickly rolled onto your stomach, your faces now in close proximity.

“Yeah! I wanna dance with somebody! With somebody who loves me!” You both sung into your clenched hand, incredibly out of tune. “Oh! I want to dance with somebody!”

“I wanna feel the heat with somebody...” A customer in the background yelled out. You two exploded with laughter, your head pressed against his cheek and Peter gripping your hand tight.

That night, you sang with somebody you loved.

The end of the year arrived too quickly, and you were disconnecting the plug of the Christmas lights adorning the windows of the bar as you wondered whether you should get Peter a present for the holidays or not. Some new sweatpants, you considered; they were his favorite piece of clothing, you had come to learn, and in the times that he wore a pair, you noticed it was always the same. But you also questioned if it would be bizarre to hand him a gift— you only saw each other at the bar, after all. There weren't any instances where he called you to meet up for lunch, or something similar; and once in a while, you hoped to hear your blaring ringtone and to answer your phone to him. That never happened, though; your relationship would never evolve from the occasional text throughout the week. To make matters worse, you hadn’t even seen him for three weeks, three days, and counting. And, my God, did it sadden you that you knew that. Every time you’d type a greeting along with a question about his whereabouts, you’d stare at the screen of your cell phone for far too long and eventually delete your words— the exact process repeating over and over again. Maybe he’s with his friends or remaining family, you concluded. Hanukkah did end yesterday, stop being so obsessive.

A knock on the door provoked a startled squeak out of you. You jerked your head, confused, because who in the world was knocking on the door at three o’clock in the morning? Your terror was fleeting, however, for behind the foggy glass existed Peter B. Parker’s guilty smile. You exhaled and headed to open the door to shelter him from the violent and raging winter wind outside. He barged in, the tip of his nose the color of raspberries, most likely a repercussion of his poor clothing coverage for the season. “Hey,” He greeted you, rubbing his hands together.

“Wow, I think you got here a little too late,” You teased, folding your arms across your chest. The bags under his eyes were particularly prominent that night, not that it surprised you in any shape or form. He leaned against the wall, resting the back of his head on the timber.

“Yeah, sorry about that,” He apologized and you shook your head. It was useless. You were aware that there was no chance you could be mad at him for finally visiting you; in fact, you were ridiculously elated to be seeing him at such late hours, in spite of your bed crying out for your company. “I guess I lost track of time.”

“What are you doing here, anyway? I haven’t seen you for three weeks and when you do show up, it’s at three A.M.”

“I don’t… know.” You quirked a brow, wondering if he’d had a few too many drinks. “I sort of just walked and my feet got me here.”

“Are you drunk? And did you get in a bar fight or something, because you’ve got a bruise forming under your jaw and it looks too animalistic to be a hickey,” You asked with a gesture of your hand toward his face, relieved the jealousy didn’t bleed through your voice if the latter turned out to be more than a mere speculation. The scarlet on his nose spread to his cheeks. “I hope not, because that would mean you cheated on me by going to another bar.”

He chuckled, rubbing a hand over his stubble. “Nah, I wouldn’t ever do that to you.” You walked up to him and patted his shoulder, congratulating him for his great response but also to move him away from the window to check if it was closed. “I’m just tired.”

“Long day?”

“Awfully long.”

You still didn’t get an answer to why he was out so late, but you didn’t have the energy to continue budging. “Yeah, same.” You whispered, lifting a chair to place it upside down on a table.

“Wanna talk about it?” You looked at him confused. “Your day?”

“I would, but, uh, I kinda have to close this place. Y'know, it’s the holidays, so we’re not open 24/7 because my boss likes spending time with her family,” You explained, hearing his understanding hums. “Everyone already left and I didn’t have anything to do, so I promised her I would do it for her.”

He moved to stand opposite to you and copied your actions of setting the chairs atop the table. “That’s not safe— you being here alone, I mean. I can help!” He offered, as if a random spike of energy flourished in him.

Your brows drew together. “Shouldn’t you go home?”

He paused in the midst of reversing a seat, the furniture cradled in his chest like a baby. “Yeah, but so should you. It won’t hurt to sacrifice one hour of sleep just to help a friend,” He smirked, shrugging.

You allowed him to give you a hand in arranging the place, not that you had much of a choice, anyway; he would’ve done it nonetheless despite your refusals. Thirty minutes later, you were standing outside, your body aching tremendously. Peter noticed your soreness and, before you could even react, he was lowering the roll-up gate. “I could’ve helped with that,” You mumbled as he wiped his hands on his sweatpants. “Don’t want you breaking your back, grandpa.”

He laughed, shoving his hands inside his jacket’s pockets. “I’m a cute grandpa, though, right?” He asked with a flirty smile. You rolled your eyes.

“Hm, yeah, a total gilf.”

“Gilf?”

“Yeah, you know, like a ‘dilf’ but instead of a dad it’s a grandpa.” You both giggled as you began to walk to who knows where, visible breaths leaving your mouths like small dragons puffing out smoke. 

You stopped in your tracks, gripping the straps of your backpack tightly. “Oh snap, I forgot!” He turned around with a questioning brow. “My car broke down, so I have to take the subway back home.” You explained, nudging your head back at the green stairs heading down to the metro station. He tilted his head, frowning.

“Y/N, it’s four in the morning. I don’t think going to the subway this late is such a smart idea.”

You rocked on your heels. “Yeah, but… how else am I gonna get home? You want me to sleep in the bar?”

His gaze shifted as he pondered, grunting. “Do you, uh… do you want to go to my place?”

Your stomach clenched, your heart starting a run when you heard his suggestion. He doesn’t mean it that way, you idiot,  you scolded yourself. Yet you wished he did. “...Your place?”

“Yeah, it’s just a few blocks away from here, like a ten-minute walk.” There was a prolonged silence as you entered deep in thought, making him panic and stutter. “T-that’s if you want to, though. Don’t want you to feel pressured—”

“No, Pete, I…” You stopped him, grinning. “I mean, you sure?”

“Yeah,” He clapped his hands and held them together up to his chest. “Why not?”

“I guess I’ll take you up on that offer.”

“Cool! Uh, cool.. just… c’mon,” He pointed his thumb over his shoulder and you began your trek to his apartment, your shoes thudding lightly against the concrete of the sidewalk, wet due to the rain two hours ago.

“Thanks…” You started, wiggling your fingers, numb from the bitter cold, but to wake yourself up as well. “I actually am sort of terrified of taking the train, so I’m glad you offered. I’ll sleep on the couch, don’t worry—”

“What? No! No, I’ll take the couch, you’re the guest.”

“No, no, no, I insist—”

“Y/N.” You looked up at him, a teasing smile on his face. “You keep the bed. Plus, the change of place will be nice.” You groaned, your eyes closed.

“You’re such a great dude: offering me to sleep at your place so I don’t get mugged and shit, and here I am, stealing your probably comfy bed.” You then moaned, your eyes going blank. “Bed. God, just thinking about sleeping really turns me on right now.”

He huffed softly, bumping into your side. “What… what’s happened, though? We haven’t seen each other for a hot minute.”

You looked heavenward, your mouth ajar as you tried to recall your previous three weeks. “Mm, well, I honestly can’t even remember if I had breakfast or not— oh!” You exclaimed rather sleepily. “Well, this pretty boy working at a Taco Bell I went to asked me out on a date.”

“Oh?” He scrunched his brows together and you hummed. “And what did you say?”

“No.”

“No?! Why not?”

“I just…” Your eyes darted up to his curious ones, your face softening after inspecting him for a while, but not long enough to embarrass yourself. “I don’t know. Wasn’t feeling him, y’know?” He nodded comprehensively. “What ‘bout you?”

His entire mood shifted. His shoulders slumped, and he nibbled on his bottom lip, his jaw tightened. “I… I saw MJ today.” Your heart broke.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Wh-what, like, you two met somewhere?”

“No, more like ‘saw her coming out of the coffee shop while crossing the street and then a pedestrian yelled at me because I was standing in the way’.” He grumbled. You didn’t know what got in you, but you grabbed his hand and squeezed it. He glanced down at your linked hands and then up at you. That’s when you instantly let go, your pinkies still connected for a bit until completely detaching. You were too busy ogling the ground to see his fingers searching for yours.

“You’ll be alright one day,” You cleared your throat, a bashful smile on your face. “You’ll figure this out.”

He prevented you from continuing with your walk with a hand on your shoulder. You hesitantly turned your body to face him, gulping. Oh, no— you worried, your heart picking up its pace again— did the hand holding make him uncomfortable? Is he now gonna question me? Why am I such a damn idiot? But then you saw his dilated pupils, and your mouth went dry. “I…” He began.

“You… okay?” You questioned when his stare lingered on you. He blinked, his arm dropping by his side as he coughed.

“Yeah, yeah. Sorry, that was weird. I’m just—”

“—tired.” You finished for him and he scoffed, giving you a half-smile.

“Wow, you know me so well,” He joked, and scratched the back of his neck, pointing at the building you two stood in front of. “Uh, this is where I live.”

“Oh!” You spun around, studying the apartment complex. It appeared simple: not too big or small, modest-looking. “That was faster than I expected.”

“Yeah…” He muttered as he climbed up the stairs, holding the door open for you when he reached the top.

The man’s apartment was tiny, somewhat too messy, you decided; there was an empty pizza box on his bed, and he awkwardly dumped it in the trash can when you two walked in, apologizing for the mess. You sat on his bed and he stood at your feet, stroking his neck. "Do you want some clothes? I can give you a shirt or some—” You stopped him when he turned to go to his dresser, gently pulling his arm. “What?” You continued to wordlessly tug on his sleeve until he sat next to you, sighing deeply. Slowly, you leaned backwards until your back bounced on his mattress. Peter’s confused by your actions, but you simply patted the area behind him. He got the message and lied down on the rumpled sheets. 

You looked at each other, a few inches apart, yet for some odd reason, you felt closer to him. Perhaps you could blame the different location, or the way in which your silent gazes stayed on each other. Somehow, you were both alright with it. No discomfort took ahold of either of you as you remained like that for a while, no words or sounds other than the city outside, both later with your eyes closed. To your embarrassment, you were on the brink of dozing off, but you couldn’t help it; you drowned in tranquility, and the exhaustion of your body cooperated— it was surprising you hadn’t fallen asleep yet. You could hear Peter’s steady breathing, and his voice brought you back to consciousness when he spoke. “Y/N?” It was soft, softer than your pillows back at home. Softer than your lonesome bed. You acknowledged him with a mumble, opening one eyelid. His eyes were almost shut, but you could still see the glimmer in his dark eyes. His whiskey eyes. “You’re really nice.”

Your eyes sealed closed again. “You’re really nice too, Pete.”

“No, but…” His sentence died out and he did not continue for a long period. You believed he had fallen into a slumber until he talked again. “You’re really nice. Like that hot chocolate I had in the morning while I was freezing type of nice.”

“I… I don’t know if it’s because I’m about to pass out, but I don’t get it.” When you blinked your eyes as wide as you could, he was closer than before. Closer than ever. You took the chance to discover, note every part of his face more closely, every freckle, every lash, his growing stubble. Everything.

“What I mean is that… you really bring warmth to my life, Y/N. Not to sound too cheesy like I usually do, or anything. But everything’s a mess and you’re there, and I’m glad about that.”

“You’re just tired.”

“Yes, but a drunk man’s words are a sober man’s thoughts.”

“You’re not drunk.”

“There’s really no difference.”

You could now feel his breath on your face. It was as if with every flicker of your eyelids, he had managed to inch nearer to your body. “Pete…”

“Y/N…” Your lips were roughly touching. You felt his arm slip around your waist, his fingers ghosting over your prickling back.

“We can’t do this.” You said, regardless of your hand cradling his neck. Your foreheads were now touching.

“Why not?”

“Because…” You tried to claim that he was your customer, but you truly did not care about it anymore, and you never did. “What about Mary Jane?”

He hesitated for a moment. “What about Mary Jane?”

“You still want her back.” You breathed out, your body quivering as his eyelashes tickled your cheeks.

“I can forget about her just tonight.”

You kissed. Your lips remained interlocked for a few moments, the both of you too tired to move them. It was like sixth-graders kissing for the first time— a lingering peck on the lips. But an energy sparked within you, and you moved your lips. Soon, you were on top of his body, your shirt almost completely off except for one of your arms still inside one sleeve, your fingers desperately tangled in his greying hair, his crooked nose bumping with yours. He didn’t taste like whiskey or ice, but he did taste like a year of laughing with each other in the bar, and him not noticing as you slowly fell for him.

[themockingcrows]

Companionship Through Circuitry Ch. 3: Uploading

Not all uploads are created equal. Bro/Hal Also available on AO3!

    Upload me, Bro.

    “Don’t you need a stronger interface than that? Would you even work with that thing?”

    I was designed to functionally overwrite data when necessary, and if that means re-writing the code of a simple wrecker then so be it. Upload me.

    Bro sighed a bit. He had his reservations now that he was starting to get used to Hal’s voice and attitude, and the concept of potentially losing him because he didn’t want to take a lengthy detour was kind of obnoxious. But hey, what did he know, he was just a post-war guy taking directions from an AI who seemed to know his own capabilities far better. Against his better judgement, Bro took the shades off of his face and fished out the connection cable, following Hal’s advice to locate where an entry port could be positioned based on the make and model of the machinery at hand.

    The massive structure was meant to replace cranes for more basic movements, the continuous track treads far superior to wheels and the mobility vastly improved. The behemoth whirred to life a few moments after Ambrose finished the upload cycle, glasses still gently dangling by their cord till he ducked forward and tucked them somewhere less conspicuous. The droid moved its appendages, orienting itself as Hal took control and sussed out the operational maneuvers for each piece. It was a strangely human motion, the sensors of the face looking down at the pincer hands before giving them a whirl and twirl, clicking them together a few times to gauge the pressure.

    Right. Step back.

    Thank fuck this was temporary. Hearing the modulation of Hal’s voice was jarring, booming and decidedly electric from the audio core even with its damage and residue. When he stood fully upright, many times taller than Ambrose, it was with the soft screech of abused metal and rust. This wasn’t going to last forever, but it should last long enough to move a few barriers out of the way. Hal whirred forward excitedly and clasped both pincers into the edge of a stacked vehicle long since crashed, tugging it a few times before the body gave way to motion and the entire pile began to move. Ambrose wasn’t certain what all would be beyond where they could see, but he had a feeling that getting through the blockade would open up some options.

    Or, you know, trap him underground to die a horrible death. But who’s keeping track of anything, right?

    With much whirring and churning metal, Hal eventually moved several wrecked cars that had acted as a barricade between them and the rest of the bridge that seemed sturdy enough to cross as far as he could see. So the asphalt was gone in a few places, the girders and skeletal aspects of the bridge were still plenty intact for a man and a pair of sunglasses to pass unhindered so long as they didn’t gain too much attention. Or at least got away from the ruckus of attention they were currently causing right now.

    I changed my mind, can I stay in this longer?

    “No. You cleared the junk and I can cross now, get back in the glasses so we can leave,” Bro said, already sensing where this was going.

    What if there’s more junk on the other side of the bridge? Or in the center? Wouldn’t it be handy to have someone who would be able to move it easier? Hal asked, giving his hands another whirr for emphasis as if Bro could have somehow forgotten the difference between a set of pointed shades as a fully fledged wrecker droid.

    “I said no. How much power does that thing have left anyways?”

    Enough to enjoy getting over the bridge in style.

    “And if I don’t feel like travelin’ with a gigantic fuckin’ target on my back?” Bro asked. “What then, hm? Everything in a mile prolly heard all this noise, you’re not exactly dainty with your maneuverin’.”

    I believe you’d benefit more from me in this shape for a while. I’m enjoying having hands, that’s a bonus. And being able to move where I want to, Hal said as he backed up and did a quick turn as he could on the tracks. I could serve as a shield if required, or lift things to be a shield for you.

    Bro ran his tongue over his teeth. The offer DID sound kind of appealing when put like that… but he knew it’d bite him in the ass just as soon, knowing his luck. He shook his head and went over towards the shades, tapping them with his fingers.

    “Nope. In you go.”

    But what if I just followed along behind you.

    “And if we get separated how’m I supposed to get to your body then, huh? Want me to get there on my own, without you, and put somethin’ stupid in there?” Ambrose asked with a smirk. “The best body they could have created for you, the body your creator dude wanted for you, all goin’ to waste so I have someone to play Pong with.”

    Hal was silent for a moment before the massive droid looked down with a creak of metal. He could practically hear him squinting.

    You wouldn’t dare.

    “Spoken like someone who doesn’t know me very well,” Ambrose said with a shrug, both hands lifted up for emphasis at how helpless he was in the situation overall. “You think I wouldn’t kill to have a good quality droid be my butler and play stupid games with me? Dude, my kid left for the city already, who’s gonna fill the void for me now if not that or a bitchy AI.”

    The droid looked towards the bridge again, sensors trying to run how he’d normally run to assess risks before realizing the hardware just wasn’t up to spec to do what he wanted to do. This body was made for moving things, for lifting and toting, for sorting, not for detecting stealth routes a companion could take to an objective. Ever so slowly the droid bowed down and let its arms go limp, the shades chiming and beeping a short time later to alert Ambrose it was time to remove the connection and put him back on safely. While Ambrose wouldn’t say he missed having the weight on his face and the shade over his eyes, there was no denying a bit of fondness for the habit. It was nice not having his retinas toasted.

    “I see my offer was too much to resist.”

    You’re a bastard. I’ll not have my body sullied like that. If it does something foolish it will be because I will it to do something foolish, not any other way.

    “Sure thing,” Ambrose said as he started up the bridge, pulling his blade out to keep it at the ready, grip light. He resisted the temptation to spin it or do bored tosses like he would while at home or doing detail work on it, keeping his hands ready to put lethal force behind the steel at a moments notice. The bridge itself seemed like it had been used in the past as shelter, or a lookout point. Chairs were arranged beneath a sheet metal roof with a standee wall against the side of a toppled truck, and garbage lay strewn about the broken glass that crunched beneath Bro’s boots. At every turn there could be a human being or worse.. yet all seemed quiet for now. Abandoned. Empty.

    Packrat by nature, Bro took a moment to peer into different cars that they passed to see if any of them had been used as more shelter, or used to store any spare belongings that nobody would miss. There didn’t seem to be much on hand, however. Spent shells, empty cans and bottles, ragged blankets, clothes that reeked of sweat and in one car the sweet sickly smell of feces. One front seat had a few gadgets that slowed Ambrose’s steps to peek however, grinning in amusement.

    “Oh, hey, I remember readin’ about these things,” he mused, reaching through broken glass to pick up a blocky hand held game system with a melted looking cartridge. The screen was cracked, but the buttons looked well worn. Must’ve taken a lot of abuse to wind up like that, those things were supposedly indestructible in their time. He dropped it back onto the seat it had come from and the bit of bones that rested here and there as well. The original owner? An art project by some bored creep? Hard to guess honestly and not really his place to wonder about.

    There’s something else there, Hal pointed out, zeroing in the target t’s to direct Bro’s attention to the keychain looking item shaped like an egg. He reached again and plucked it up, rubbing a thumb over the dirty screen with a hum. A flip over and he nodded a bit.

    “Some other kinda game I guess..? Looks like it’s self contained and takes a smaller battery. Doubt it’s like yours, is it?”

    No, most likely that type of device ran on a watch battery. Do you not know what it is?

    “Is it not a game?”

    It is a game where you are tasked with keeping a small creature alive by meeting all of its needs and wants.

    Bro snorted. “I’ve raised a baby, I think I can live without a game reproducin’ the experience.”

    Yet.. it had been some of the best years of his life. Boiling water to make sure it was safe for Dave’s baby bath, washing hair so fine it was barely there. Messy cheeks in the high chair as he figured out how to feed himself, skinned knees and bandages, late night visitors to his bed whenever there was an electrical storm outside or when the winds screamed out over the desert like hungry dogs. Those big red eyes in the dark asking if it was safe when people came too close to their hidden home, listening to the distant explosions of deterrents and traps going off left and right. Those same red eyes staring up at him for the tenth, the hundreth, the thousandth time he’d knocked him down to make him get back up and keep fighting.

    Bro swallowed hard for a moment, throat suddenly uncomfortably dry. He knew it was wrong. He knew deep down it had been too much, but there was no choice. Not when the world wouldn’t hesitate even a single second before putting a bullet in his head if he didn’t take the initiative and attack first. He could tell himself that a thousand times and yet it didn’t change anything.

    Bro closed his hand around the toy and stuck it into his pocket without a second’s hesitation.

    “Might make for a fun project later though. Maybe I can re-program it, give it a better battery. Somethin’ simple like a time waster to take the edge off should be easy.”

    How many pet projects do you intend to keep on your person?

    “As many as I feel like, considerin’ one is already on my face. What, suddenly attached to the idea of being an only child?”

    I am not a child. If anything, I would prefer if you spoke to me like an adult instead of like one of your wards. Keep it in mind, Bro.

    “Yes Mom.”

    That is not what I meant when I sai-

    “I’m kidding,” Ambrose said as he fished his hand back out of his pocket and continued to walk, suddenly less interested in browsing the potential second hand belongings than he was about getting off the bridge and continuing Northwards. He’d dallied too long as it was, and while things seemed plenty deserted up here, he didn’t want that to stop being a thing any time soon thanks to their broadcast position.

    You know, I don’t think I’ve mentioned this before. But I have radio functionality, if you would enjoy to listen to something as you walk.

    He snorted. “Yeah? The same ten stations, no thanks. Propaganda, interviews with dumbasses, or the same fifty songs over and over. Nobody knows how to find decent music, and the songs that’re any good get played so often you get sick of them. Nobody makes anything new either.”

    I also possess some selections Dirk enjoyed, if you would prefer listening to those. They may prove to be something more to your taste, he was particular about what he listened to.

    “Particular how?”

    He was particularly ardent in enjoying what he liked and stubbornly sitting through what he didn’t like before deleting it from any device he listened to it on. Let me play a sample, Hal offered before going quiet and chiming softly to signal he was changing focus.

    Bro stopped walking when the music started, quiet near his ears to not block out incoming noise but loud enough to hear the quickly pronounced words and heavy beat, the tempo driving into his skull enough that he tapped his foot in time with it. Soon he was bobbing his head, catching the tune even without knowing the words, and smirking in amusement.

    “Not quite what I’m used to, no. But it’s nice. Feel free to keep’em coming while we head on, yeah? Turn them off if you detect something approaching,” he instructed.

    But of course, Bro. I’m not an idiot, said Hal in a more modulated voice than usual behind the thrum of the music.

    When he began to walk again, the beat added a new cadence to his step and made the walking go by quicker than before. In no time at all he was over the bridge and on the other side of the water, taking in his surroundings with the same eyes of the curious and the mildly kleptomanic. Every new venue was a new opportunity, especially when there were what looked like stores in the distance. Hell, now that he had his new pet project he’d need a few parts, wouldn’t he?

    “...Mm. Hal, that sign says ‘Toys’ in part of the name, right?”

    It would seem so. It was likely a location of the Time For Toys brand from before the war, Hal offered. It could potentially be something else, but the orientation of those letters makes the likelihood of it being anything else quite low.

    “Perfect. Let’s go shoppin’.”

    Giving another glance to the toy in his pocket, guessing what size of batteries to keep an eye out for adjustments sake later on, Bro strode towards the building bearing the toy slogan and let himself inside without a second thought.

    Perhaps he should have thought twice. There were few places as unnerving as an abandoned toy shop that had sat this long through destruction and disuse. Rows and rows of figurines, dolls, moth eaten soft toys, accessories, and toy cars rested on the shelves and from dangling sorting rods that stuck out at even intervals. Everything was silent save for his footsteps, and Hal kept focusing the t’s on various rodents that were startled by the sudden invasion. As far as humans went, it seemed most had stayed clear. There just wasn’t much use for toys after the war he supposed.

    ...Okay, bullshit, he kind of wished he’d known this place existed when Dave was a baby. He probably would have loved a lot of these things, instead of making do with the things Bro could make him. Smuppets were amazing, and so were the other puppets and the electronic things, but sometimes a kid just needs a teddybear. He poked one with blue button eyes and sawdust stuffed feet, its floppy soft arms resting alongside its torso with fabric claw tips resting alongside its thighs. The bear fell over with a soft whump and a bit of dust in the air, leaving Bro free to quietly explore the graveyard of toys.

    Past a section of toy balls that had long since deflated, baseballs and mitts, were electronic toys. Dollies that talked and horses and dogs and cats that made realistic noises seemed to be all the rage, but along with them hung more of the egg shaped toy he had in his pocket in different colors, still in the package. Whistling softly, still nodding along with the tempo on the song Hal continued to play, he grabbed several of the packages and batteries from the end of the display cap to stuff into his bag.

    That was when he saw it. Soft, fluffy, and apparently capable of movement and speech. The small creature was hard to decipher at a glance species wise. It had a beak and two big eyes that could apparently blink when they weren’t staring into your soul, a small sensor in its forehead, and two massive ears. Two fat, pudgy paws rested at its base in front of a set of wheels that offered free movement.

    Furby.

    An apt name, Bro supposed. The little thing was furry as hell, soft to his rough fingered touch and fairly sweet looking with its black and white fur pattern. The external fluff seemed to safeguard a sizeable chunk of electronics from what he could guess thanks to a testing squeeze. ...Interesting.

    What are you so distracted by now.

    “You think you’d be capable of driving one of these?” Bro asked curiously. “It’s got wheels and seems like it can maneuver around on its own from an AI. Talks too.”

    I’d rather die. So there is your answer.

    “But it’s possible,” Bro continued. “You were able to work that droid back there just fine. Think of how useful this would be for checking out crowded buildings.”

    Wouldn’t an RC car be more useful for exploration purposes.

    “Hey, I never said I wouldn’t mod this thing,” Bro said as he continued to feel the edges of the furby before turning it and cutting the edge of its fur open, removing the skin messily to get a better look at what lay beneath. “Look. See? A lot of these guts’re useless. Could take them out, put better power and mobility, maybe add a weapon.. Maybe connect the innards of a walkie talkie in there too, or some radio parts to keep in contact.”

    It was a whole new project idea. The egg toy was one thing, but this. This was something entirely new. And the fact that Hal hated it so much on sight was kind of appealing.

    Are you implying you plan to weaponize a furby.

    “Yes. I’m also implyin’ I’d like to see you pilot the damn thing if I can make it work how I want it to. Could set you loose on a floor and let you roll around doin’ your own damn thing, keep shit off you left and right, let me know what you see. You’d be able to help me out.”

    And the reason I couldn’t do that with the big droid is…?

    “Batteries, bein’ inconspicuous, and portability. I can stuff one of these things in my bag easy, and nobody would expect one of these to be anything important,” he hummed, mind already going wild. Dave would love it.

    No, Dave would probably hate it and say he was taunting God but Dave wasn’t here right now and Bro was itching to customize. He glanced back the way he’d come before putting his tongue between his teeth, thinking.. and then grabbing another furby identical to the one he’d de-skinned. He’d need to strip it cleaner, treat it nicer, figure out how these fuckers ticked. Manual was probably in the box somewhere, but even if it wasn’t how hard would it be to figure out a children’s toy?

    “I think I know where we’re campin’ tonight. Lemme just grab a few things and we’ll find a spot to nest down.”

    I’m never touching that thing, I have no idea why you look like a child with a new toy.

    “Because I’m a man-child with several new toys,” corrected Bro as he wandered the aisles, looking for radios or walkie talkies. Paydirt came in the form of a pair of ‘authentic army navy walkie talkies’ whose authenticity he seriously doubted even with their rather pretty camouflage patterning just based on the materials he felt beneath his fingers. These casings would be easy enough to pop with his hands, let alone with his tools, they could really have stood to make these sturdier. He’d kill for a good blowtorch though, maybe make some kind of a shell underneath the furby fur to-

    You’re a maniac. You do know that, correct? I can’t hear your thoughts but the things you’re looking at are alarming when placed with the potential logic.

    “I think you mean genius, thanks. Shoosh now, I’m tryin’ to find Frankenfurb some more parts,” Bro hummed, tucking the walkie talkies beneath his arm before finding a shopping basket. There. Much better. Like a pre-war man he wandered the aisles, snagging things that looked useful or interesting or, in the case of his eventual sleeping, soft. His sleeping spot back behind the main register ina  protected circle of countertops was soon piled high with plushes and surreptitiously dotted with his electronic findings and various tidbits he planned to use for parts. Doll clothes, while overall worthless to him, still had elastic bands inside of them and the fabric wasn’t flammable. Useful. He even found a child size pair of sunglasses he’d already made plans for, so long as he was able to control the melting properly.

    Peeling off his boots and settling back with his supper, Bro opened his bag and set to work toying with his new toys. First everything had to be opened and examined, taken apart, and in some places scrapped entirely down to their base components until he had a small pile of tidbits at his disposal. The toy from earlier seemed to be damaged even when he tried to power it on, but the new packaged replacements just needed to have their old battery removed and replaced with something new to turn on. He already knew how he wanted to update it, especially since there seemed to be a data port that would fit Hal’s cable to it. He failed to say it, but it would be a good emergency backup for transportation should anything ever happen to the shades.

    The furby would be his prize. Off went its two toned furry skin, out came its voice box and innards, and in went an assortment of new parts.. Including a salvaged port from one of the extra egg toys Bro had grabbed. He’d worked well into the night by the time he put the skin back on and proudly wiped the beak clean before adding the tiny shades, grinning proudly at it.

    “Might need some more tweakin’, and I wanna get a proper laser to put in the thing.. But for now it should be able to move around easier and communicate back to the matchin’ walkie talkie,” he said, gesturing over to his creation with both hands and a wide smile.

    It’s hideous.

    “You’re gonna be in there eventually, Hal, mark my words.”

    If it comes down to being a matter of life or death, I consider my life to have been a full one until you can repair me properly.

    “You’d rather be dead than have some mobility and autonomy while helpin’ me out?” Bro asked, rummaging in his bag for some water to quench his thirst, using a bit more to wipe his face with now that sleep was settling into his brain.

    Did I fucking stutter.

    “All I hear is someone who’s bitchy and in denial about the frankenfurb.”

    Bro’s vision faded briefly to display those red eyes once more, though this time they were giving a decided roll before his vision faded back in.

    When a furby is on the line, Bro, I will be as bitchy as I please.

[angsty-nerd]

Fictober 20

#20. "You could talk about it, you know”

Roswell, NM fanfic

Three conversations: 1. Liz & Kyle; 2. Rosa, Maria, & Liz; and, 3. Rosa & Max.

Beneath the cut for length!

1.

It was nearly midnight when the light knock on the front door of Max's house pulled Liz's attention from her reading. She groaned, frustrated by the interruption, but there was no one else to answer the door. Isobel had gone home, and Rosa went to bed at least an hour earlier. Michael was probably picking a fight with some rednecks at the Wild Pony. He seemed to prefer bruised knuckles over actually doing anything useful these days. It made Liz want to strangle him...except she didn't have the time or patience to fix him too right now.

She didn't even try to hide her irritation when she opened the door to let Kyle in. It was clear that he had come straight from work. He was still wearing his surgical scrubs, although he had at least ditched his white coat.

"What is it?" Liz demanded. "I'm busy going through the Project Shepherd files."

"You find anything?"

"Not yet."

"You want help?"

Liz sighed. "I mean…you can backcheck me if you want. Make sure I didn't skip over something important. But I want to see every page of this myself. I don't want to risk missing out on a single clue that could be the key to bringing Max back."

She turned and went back to the couch, hoping that Kyle would take the hint that she wanted to work, not talk. Of course, he didn't, which just increased her frustration.

"Liz, how long has it been since you slept?"

"I'm fine, Kyle. I just need answers."

"Have you eaten?"

"Yeah," Liz replied, distracted as she opened the next file and started reading. "There's leftover pizza in the fridge if you want some."

"I'm worried about you. You're not going to do Max any good if you destroy yourself on the path to healing him. He wouldn't want that, Liz."

Liz froze, a sharp pain rising in her gut, and before she could even fight it, tears were falling from her eyes. The file folder she was reading slid from her lap, forgotten, as she stood and began pacing around the room, trying to calm herself down. It was impossible though. It was Max's house. Everywhere she looked, everything she saw, reminded her of him.

It was like she was surrounded by all of the best parts of him...his books, so many books, which were like his incredible mind and imagination. There, in a corner, sat his white cowboy hat, part of his uniform. It was like a symbol of his honor and his dedication to working hard to do the right thing, to make up for the scars that haunted his soul. In a corner was a small framed family photo...loyalty, love.

Liz dropped down on the bench in front of his bookshelf, now openly weeping, while glaring at her hands. Her stupid, useless, human hands. Max's hands were like magic...gentle when they touched her, electric with passion and the literal energy from his powers. His hands worked miracles. They were weathered and calloused and absolutely perfect. She loved his hands.

Her hands were soft. Weak. Ordinary. Human. Her hands could flip pages of a file, or mix chemicals in a lab, but they couldn't wake the dead.

They couldn't save him.

An incoherent moan of agony escaped from her lungs as she just sat and fell apart. But within moments, her useless hands were encompassed by larger, warmer ones.

"It's okay to fall apart," Kyle murmured. "Just let it out, Liz. It's okay."

"No," Liz cried. "It's not okay. Nothing is okay. I need to keep it together."

“You could talk about it, you know?” Kyle suggested. "It might help you cope if you stop bottling everything up inside. I can listen, you know, if you want me to."

Liz sniffled and wiped her eyes, looking down at Kyle, who was kneeling in front of her.

"It's just...the pressure is getting to me and I feel like I'm all on my own here. Michael's a mess and Isobel's got her own shit to deal with. I feel like it's all on me, and I don't have any superpowers. I'm just...human. And sometimes I'm just so pissed off at Max for putting me in this position. But then, when I see Rosa's face or hear her voice, I'm so happy to have her back. It's so complicated and hard to reconcile this incredible pain and incredible happiness all mixed up together."

Kyle nodded and gestured for her to keep talking. And the floodgates opened.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

2.

The future was kind of weird.

And really, was it even the future, if it was also the present? These were the kinds of complex questions that would get caught in Rosa's mind, cycling around and around like a hamster on a wheel, until she gave herself a headache and felt like she was going crazy.

The world was full of contradictions now. She lived in both the future and the present. She was both Liz's big sister and younger sister. Izzy both was and wasn't her murderer. Papi both was and wasn't her father.

Some days it all made her so dizzy that she just wanted to lock herself in a dark room and hide out. No stimulation at all. Strange how her brain craved that now. Did it have something to do with being a former dead person? Is that what death is like?

At least it was better than what she used to do when she got overwhelmed. Back in the day she would have drunk herself into a stupor, maybe gotten high, and then released her frustration through some good ol’ fashioned vandalism.

Well, the vandalism part, at least, she still had a taste for. She always wanted to try to get a little tagging in on the rare occasions when she could convince someone to let her leave the house. Somehow though, they always managed to figure out what she was up to when she tried to sneak away. Everyone was so afraid that she'd be seen, and no one had quite figured out how to explain to the town how Rosa Ortecho had been resurrected from her grave.

So the night that she dug out a hoodie large enough to hide her face, and snuck out late at night to wander the town and maybe leave some street art in a few key locations, she knew that if anyone noticed she was gone, she'd be in deep shit. But she didn't really care.

It was freeing, walking alone, breathing the cool, fresh night air. On the edge of town, she couldn't resist leaving her classic UFO graphic on the backside of a convenience store that she used to be able to count on to never card her. But she knew that her old art would leave too many clues for people to find her, and she had already developed a new graphic to spread her fingerprints all over this town.

A ghost.

She left a ghost on the back wall of the Crashdown, and one on the side of the J.P. Wright building. She placed her mark on the Mexican restaurant and the high school.

Her mistake was when she was working on the dumpster behind the Wild Pony.

"Hey!" An angry and familiar voice shouted. "Maybe you could lay off the vandalism on my property. I can get Deputy Evans over here in a flash to arrest you."

Rosa froze. She had been begging to go see Maria, but Liz refused. No one could know, she kept saying. Not even Maria. The less people who knew, the safer she'd be. Maybe deep down, that was the point of this whole rebellious excursion. Maybe she just wanted to get caught, right here, right now, by her former best friend.

Liz was going to kill her.

"You can call Max all you want. I guarantee he's not coming to arrest me. He's not doing much of anything these days."

Slowly, she turned around, keeping her head low so that the hood continued to block her face.

"What are you talking about?" Maria demanded to know.

Rosa lifted her head and locked eyes with her best friend. "You really are out of the loop, aren't you? I knew there had to be a reason that Liz wouldn't let me see you, but I didn't realize that you didn't know anything at all."

Maria dropped the bag of trash in her hands and took a step backwards, fear and shock emanating from her.

"Rosa?"

"Hola!" Rosa greeted her with a wiggle of her slightly paint-stained fingers.

"I don't understand. How is this possible?"

"Liz said the same thing when she first saw me, and she at least knew enough to put the pieces together. The short version is that I died. And then Max Evans decided that Liz was better off having me in her life than him, and now I'm alive and he isn't."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Rosa followed Maria into the Wild Pony where they spent about an hour talking and catching up on Maria's life while Maria finished cleaning up the bar for the evening. Once she was done, Maria led Rosa out to her truck and drove her back out to Max's house.

Liz was pacing the house, frantic with worry when they walked in. She gaped at the sight of Maria with her sister for a moment, before starting to unload about how upset she was all over Rosa. But right when she was getting to her rant about how irresponsible Rosa was, Maria held up a hand to silence Liz, who immediately complied.

"Liz, do you know what Rosa was doing when I found her?"  Liz shook her head. "She was painting a ghost onto the dumpster at the Wild Pony. From what she told me, she left ghosts all over town. Why do you think that is, Liz?"

Liz sat down, head in her hands. "Because that's what Rosa feels like. Because she's not really living. Because I'm keeping her on lockdown."

"Sure." Maria agreed. "That's part of it. But I don't think that's all of it. Rosa died, Liz. She was dead for 10 years. And now she's not. That's got to be a hell of a weird transition."

Rosa nodded. "I don't even know if I belong here anymore. And I can't find out if I'm locked in all the time."

Liz looked at her sister thoughtfully. "You know, someone pointed something out to me recently. It's really simple, but it is so logical and it helped so much. And I'm not sure it would have worked if he hadn't said it to me." Liz paused and smiled up at her sister. "You could talk about it, you know? I'm here to listen. And if you don't want to talk to me, you can always talk to Maria, or Kyle. Whoever."

"I know that, Liz," Rosa promised. "Just give me some time.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

3.

"You know, we might be the only two people on earth that have died, and been raised from the dead. We're like, a crazy social experiment with unknown consequences that has never happened before and might never happen again."

"You're right," Max chuckled, giving Rosa a wry smile. "It's one thing we'll always have in common at least."

"My sister should put that science nerd brain of hers to work and, like, document this shit. Write a research paper or whatever on us. I mean, obviously she can't publish it or anything, but at least she could, like, bury it in a time capsule so that at the end of the world or something, someone will know that this crazy thing happened."

"There's just one problem." Max mused. "There's no control for comparison. And human to alien can't be compared like apples to apples."

"Point." Rosa agreed. They fell silent for a moment, but suddenly Rosa's eyes widened as a solution popped into her brain. "Well then, maybe instead of Liz documenting it as science, you should use your book nerd brain and write it down as if it were fiction!"

"Hmm…" Max pondered. "Not the worst idea."

"Maybe it would help you…" Rosa suggested carefully. "You know, with the nightmares."

Max's eyes shot up to meet hers. "Liz told you about…"

"Yeah, sorry." Rosa admitted. "She's worried, Max."

"There's nothing she can do." Max argued. "She's with me. She's comforting me when I wake up. She's...she's doing plenty, Rosa. This is my problem to work through."

“You could talk about it, you know?”

"What?"

"It doesn't have to be with Liz," Rosa reminded him. "You could talk to one of your siblings if you want. Hell, you could talk to me, if you want Max...the only other person in this world that somewhat understands what you've been through."

Max found himself wondering why they hadn't talked about it yet. He and Rosa did have a shared experience of sorts, and yet it had been a month since he woke up, and yet, never once had they talked about their deaths and ressurections. Of course, they also rarely spent time alone together like this.

"What was it like for you?" He asked her gently.

Rosa looked at him thoughtfully for a long moment before replying. "It was like time travel." She explained. "One minute it was 2008 and the next minute it was 2018. All of you were suddenly older than me. Technology has changed. And I was a living ghost."

"No, that's not what I meant." Max clarified. "Not the adjustment period. What was it like for you when you were dead?"

She searched his face, a worried expression in her eyes. "That doesn't change my answer, Max. It was like a snap for me. I was in that cave arguing with Izzy...Noah...whoever…and then all of a sudden you were dead next to me. The ten years I was dead? It was just...nothing."

Her answer shocked him, but he was grateful to hear it. It was easier that way. Easier for her to adjust, to live a life now. She was lucky.

"Max, please...tell me that it was the same for you." Rosa begged.

"I wish I could do that." He admitted apologetically, "But I can't. I mean, there was nothing for me too. No light, no feelings, no sound...but the one thing that was there was time. I felt every minute, every day that I was dead. It was like suffering in a lonely, empty, dark world with the absolute certainty that this was going to be the rest of your existence. Waiting alone for anything to break the never-ending monotony. I don't think I've ever been so relieved in my life as I was when Liz pulled me out of that place. I've never been so happy to be alive."

"But sleep reminds you of that place," Rosa realized.

"Exactly." Max confirmed. "I would love to get to a point where I can sleep and dream in peace again. And I think I will, with time. Having Liz next to me helps more than she could possibly know."

"Oh, Max," Rosa cried, reaching over to give him a hug. "Consider me here for you if you ever need an ear. Just call me your ghost-zombie therapy buddy. We’re both gonna be here to help you through this.”

[tilltheendwilliwrite]

Blue Sky Eyes... teaser

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x OFC

The beat up truck rattled terribly as it made its way toward his house. Between the rust and the blue smoke of burning oil, Bucky was surprised it ran at all, but behind the spider web of cracks through the windshield, he could just make out the image of the woman driving.

Shy of five am by all of ten minutes, he arched an intrigued brow and leaned on the rail of his homes wrap around porch. The old farmhouse had gone through many reincarnations throughout its life, from one bedroom to two, from a single story to one and a half, and finally into what Bucky had envisioned for it all his life. Open plan, wide plank hand scraped hardwood floors, lots of glass, plenty of chrome and stone surfaces. It wasn't a typical ranchman's house of walls of wood and animal heads, but then he'd never professed to being the typical rancher. Unlike plenty in these parts, he had money. Not buckets of it, but enough to buy back the family ranch and make of it what he wished. 

Still, he didn't know anyone with a truck that old or a face that pretty. When she finally pulled up in front of the house, the dogs that had been barking at the barn had made it to her door and were barking at her window.

He tilted his head and watched her stare at his two Wolfhounds and three Russian Hounds in fear before her eyes darted back to him.

Bucky let out a piercing whistle and called the pack back to the porch where a soft word of Russian had them all settling to lay alertly at the base of the stairs. He returned his attention to the woman and gave her a nod. In all honesty, they were friendly. It would take special command or act of aggression to have the hounds tearing into a person. And when she pushed open the shrieking, rusty door of her dying pickup, Bucky knew he'd never want to see his dogs sink teeth into her milk-pale skin. She clung to the door, and he noted the pink colouring her shoulders.

This was not a woman used to being in the sun. Or anywhere near a ranch if he judged her by her footwear. Flip flops were not appropriate anywhere around the grounds.

She'd yet to step out from behind the truck door, and Bucky finally called out, “Help you, ma'am?”

She took a limping step forward. “I'm… I'm looking for Mr. Barnes? Mr. James Barnes.”

It had been a lot of years since he'd been called James. Not since his mama was alive and giving him hell. “That depends on if you're lookin’ for senior or junior. If you're after senior, you missed him about six miles back when you passed Our Lady of Mercy Cemetery. If its junior you're after, you're lookin’ at him.”

She took another limping step, still clutching the door. “I suppose its junior then. I hear you need a cook, Mr. Barnes.”

He straightened and tipped his hat back. “That I do, ma'am, but I'm not one to have this sort of conversation across thirty feet of lawn. C'mon in the house and we can discuss it.”

He turned to head for the door when she called out, “Wait! What about the dogs?”

“They won't hurt you long as you ain't got a mind to hurt anyone else,” Bucky said frowning a little.

“They won't jump up will they?”

Bucky peered at her for a long moment. In the rising sun, her hair was a glow, a halo of platinum that couldn't be natural. She stood clinging to the door in a white peasant blouse and long jean shorts, her right leg slightly bent and hidden behind the door frame.

“They won't bother you if you don't bother them,” he assured her.

She looked skeptical for a moment before limping back to the pickup and pulling something from within. It wasn't until she swung the door shut with a slam and the pole landed that he realized why she'd been worried. The silver forearm crutch caught the light and sent it flashing back at him as she made her way slowly across the grass.

“Myesto. Tikho,” he murmured to the dogs, telling them to stay and to be quiet. They wouldn't move without his express permission now, no more than to catch her scent as she went by. Then he made his way to the bottom of the stairs and waited for her. When she arrived, he held out his hand.

“I know how to climb stairs,” she said still eyeing his dogs.

There was no heat in her statement, and he figured she was used to people offering her pity, trying to do everything for her because of her disability, but that wasn't his intention. “And I know a handrail would make all the difference in assisting you with that, but as I've yet to get around to puttin’ a rail up on these extra wide steps, my hand will have to do,” he said softly, his tone without condemnation or pity.

She looked up at him, and Bucky felt a fist punch him in the stomach. Her eyes were the bluest he'd ever seen. They were blue. Sky blue. Like the vast expanse above them. Big sky eyes. The kind you could drown in. The kind a man could lose himself in.

She seemed to search his for a minute before she took his offered hand. “Thank you, Mr. Barnes. I'm not used to simple kindness.”

“It's Bucky, and thanks isn't necessary if I can get your name.”

“Maybe.”

He gave a small smile. “Are you a fairy that givin’ up your name gives me power over you?” he asked, teasing her just a little.

She gave a disgruntled sigh and finished the last uncomfortable step. “No. My name is Maybe. Maybe Cole.”

That put a full smile on his lips. “Well, Miss Maybe. Welcome to Red Star Ranch. Let’s head inside, and we can talk.” He led the way and held the door before calling softly, “Faina.” One of the wolfish looking Russian Hounds lifted her head and then came to his side. “Vernut'sya v saray,” he said to the others, sending them back to the barn and to guarding his livelihood while he kept the sweet bitch with him. Out of the pack, she was the calmest yet the most fierce when it came to protecting what Bucky claimed as his.

He had a feeling about Maybe. A feeling he hadn’t felt in years. One that stirred his protective instincts while setting an alarm bell screaming. The woman was trouble with a capital T. He just didn’t know why yet.

She’d stopped to gape in amazement a few feet in the door. “Wow. This was not what I expected when they said your ranch was looking for a cook.”

Bucky chuckled softly and walked across the open expanse of living and dining room to the granite and maple kitchen where he took down a second cup and poured her a mug of coffee. “I like my living state of the art. I’m citified that way.”

Faina bumped his leg with her nose, and he took a dog biscuit out of a jar. “Sidet’.” She sat and waited patiently until he handed her the cookie. “Good girl.” Bucky scratched her ear and watched fondly as she trotted off with her treat to flop on the big pillow by the window and munch.

When he looked up, Maybe was still standing by the door. “Would you be more comfortable on the sofa?”

She seemed to shake herself awake from watching his dog and made her way across the room, her limp prominent. “Counter’s fine. I’m sorry, I’ve never seen dogs like yours before.”

“Most people haven’t. The three reds are Russian Hounds. Great for guarding and hunting. The two big greys are Irish Wolfhounds. Excellent protectors. The keep away the predators.”

She sat and nodded, accepting the coffee he nudged her way. “So… about the job?”

“Who sent you?”

“Mary, down at Sherman’s Dinner. I went in looking for work, but…” She lightly shook her cane. “People have a hard time hiring cripples.”

“Can’t image waitressin’ would be easy with only one hand.”

She frowned at him, likely trying to figure out if he was making fun of her or being serious. “I went in for a cook job. I can work just fine.”

“I’m sure you can. You taught yourself to drive with your left foot after all.”

She looked surprised before a small smile flitted across her face. “Yes, that I did.”

“What qualifications do you have?” he asked.

A shadow flitted over her features. “Big family dinners where I learned to cook at my grandmother’s elbow. I went to culinary school in New York, worked a couple of different restaurants in the big city before deciding that life wasn’t for me. Struck out west, moved around a bit, wound up in Easthallow and they sent me out here.”

“At five am?”

She shrugged. “It’s a ranch. I expected you to be up and started early. I didn’t want to interrupt a day in progress. Figured it was best to catch you at sun up.”

By the look of the bags beneath her eyes, she hadn’t been sleeping anyway. Bucky took in her face. It was delicate, elegant, like fine but brittle china with sharp angles and edges. There was a whole lot of bravado happening, but he could tell she was exhausted. Tired of life, of running, of continually being scared. He’d seen it all before. Some he’d seen on his own face when he’d looked in the mirror.

But her shoulders were straight, her spine stiff, and her blue eyes never wavered. They made her appear like the fairy he’d named her, as did the white blonde hair that matched her eyebrows. She was a bit otherworldly in her appearance.

“I’m feeding a crew of fifteen at the moment.”

“I can handle that,” she murmured.

“Just lunch though. Breakfast and dinners are only gonna be seven. I’ve five crew that live on site. The other ten have places in town. You’ll need to stay here. I can provide you with ground floor accommodations. There’s a ranch truck you can use for grocery runs. The store in town knows to put it on my tab.” He took his cup to the sink and rinsed it out. “Have a look around. If there’s anything you need, write a list. I’ll see it gets ordered in, or have someone run over to the Walmart in Gainesville. We’ll want good, hearty meals. None of that skimpy New York plating.” 

“What would you know of New York plating?” she asked.

“You’d be surprised. I told you I got citified enough to do this to my house,” Bucky chuckled.

Maybe sat quietly for a moment, just observing him, her mind working hard and only Faina’s chewing to break the silence. “You’re not going to ask for references?”

“Nope.” He shook his head. “Though you’ll be gettin’ the chance to audition when you make lunch for the hands today.”

Her brows shot up to her hairline. “And my leg? You’re not at all curious?”

Bucky cocked his head to the side. “You’ll tell me when you want to. I do have one question though.”

“Shoot,” she nodded.

“Is the thing you’re runnin’ from gonna come looking for you here, and if it does, will it be dangerous?”

The blood fled her face. “It shouldn’t,” she whispered. “But if it does? Yes. There will be danger.” She rose and looked away, shame paling her further. “I shouldn’t be here. I’ll go.”

“Maybe.” He stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. She immediately stiffened causing Bucky to release her. “I didn’t tell you to go. I’m only asking to be prepared. You stayin’ in town?”

She shook her head. “Everything’s in my truck.”

“Let’s get your stuff. I’ll show you where you’ll be staying, and you can start on that list. And if you don’t have boots, you’d best add those to the list. You can’t work here without boots.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Nah, doll. It’s just Bucky.” He held the door open for her. “Sir was my pops, and he’s not around anymore.”

“Alright… Bucky,” she murmured, a smile curling her lips. “Thank you for this chance.”

“We’re gonna make you work for it, darlin’. My men eat like elephants.”

“That’s okay. I’m used to feeding the masses.” At the stairs when he held out his hand, she took it without hesitation. “My disability really doesn’t bother you?”

“Not one bit.”

A genuine, full smile broke on her lips. “Thank you.”

“Maybe,” he grinned at her, “if your cooking is half as strong as your determination, I’m gonna be thanking you come lunch time.”  

***

That’s it. The plot bunny in progress. When I have more put together, I’ll start the story.

T~