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sserpente · 3 years

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A/N: Heyho there my lovelies! I’m finally back! I missed posting so much! This Imagine is based on a TikTok I found and what can I say? It inspired me! After this, next up, will be the 20k Special! Enjoy everyone!

Words: 3205 Warnings: colour-blindness

“What if I never find him?” You murmured, glancing at the fruit bowl with a saddened expression. Yellow bananas, green grapes, red apples. To you, they were all different shades of grey. Dull and boring, like you had been sucked into a 30s black-and-white film. Only you didn’t get a cheesy romance out of it.

You had been born with what doctors today would call a ‘remarkably rare, complicated and fascinating condition’, for you had lost all of your colour vision at the age of twelve. You still remembered what the world had looked like before—bright, rich, intense—then someone flicked a switch overnight and all you could still see was grey, grey, grey and greyer. The colours would only ever come back to you once you found the love of your life—your soulmate.

A sigh escaped your lips. Only a few people still existed with this… defect and to make things worse, you had had no idea you were one of them. Not until your twelfth birthday. Society admired and pitied you all the same and yet, being a hopeless romantic, at the end of the day, you longed to finally fall in love.

Tony chuckled. “Heads up. You’re too young to worry about settling down anyway.” He responded cheerfully and pointed at you with a screwdriver in hand. He had been trying to fix the dishwasher for a solid twenty minutes now and for a man who had built himself a pretty much indestructible suit that could fly, it was utterly amusing he couldn’t figure out why it had stopped working.

You were not an Avenger, mind you. The sole reason you were, as of right now, in the Avengers’ kitchen munching on grey chocolate chips was that your best friend, who in turn was friends with Clint’s wife, had managed to flood your shared flat over the weekend. It was utterly inhabitable now and it would take quite a while for the landlord to get it all dried up again—and since insurance would not cover the cost for staying in a hotel, for the time being, Clint’s wife had suggested you’d stay with them—right until Tony Stark had shown up and you had graciously offered you’d come hang out at the Avengers Tower. Okay, technically you had begged him but either way and needless to say, you had jumped at the opportunity and somehow even hoped that you would learn some dirty superhero secrets—but so far, nothing. Nothing but what superheroes did when they were not out and about saving the world. Truth be told, seeing Thor in Hello Kitty pyjamas and witnessing Natasha Romanoff of all people scream watching an Asian horror film had its perks but you had somehow expected for them to be called in for an urgent mission where they required a skill only you had and then they would rely on your help and you would fight and become an Avenger and… your fanfiction had always sounded too good to be true.

“Are you still there? How is that fruit bowl so interesting?” Snapping yourself out of your thoughts, you blinked.

“Sorry. What were you saying?”

“I was saying that…”

“Tony?” It was Bruce who interrupted you two, peeking his head into the kitchen almost timidly. You waved at him and he nodded, yet he failed to reciprocate your smile. Uh-Oh.

“Did something happen?”

The scientist nodded. “You might wanna put on your suit.”

“What happened?”

Bruce pursed his lips. “We’ve located Loki.”

Your eyes were still widened by the time you rushed after Tony even after he had told you explicitly (three times, to be exact) to stay put and hide until he had been put in custody.

The Loki. God of Mischief, Thor’s brother, Frost Giant, the I-tried-to-take-over-the-planet-guy. It was exciting, somehow, meeting a villain and oh, would it fuel you for your fan fiction. You almost bumped straight into Thor when they all came to a halt all of a sudden, his body a wall of flesh and muscle and making you grunt in pain—you might as well have hit a brick wall. With his hammer in hand, he ensured no one would approach his dangerous brother closely enough for him to try anything funky.

But the fact that Loki was even more handsome in person and the first villain you ever saw in person when he turned around the corner with a proud and arrogant expression on his face despite his shackles, was not what startled you to the core.

All of a sudden, there were colours. Everywhere.

Your lips parted, the impact of all the pigmentation around you making you dizzy. Loki’s armour was black, his cape was green, his eyes were blue, and his hair reminded you of the plumage of a raven. And your surroundings... The compound was silver now, the sceptre they had taken from him golden. Nauseous, you held on to Thor’s muscly arm for support. The God of Thunder frowned in concern. His eyes were blue too, his hair blonde, his cape red… too… many… colours. You suppressed a gag, overwhelmed by the sudden return of your colour vision.

“Are you okay?” Thor asked.

“G-guys… I can see colours.”

Every single head in the room, including Loki’s, turned in your direction so fast you flinched. Tony’s face was the first to fall in response.

“You are joking, right?”

Mutely, you shook your head. Your eyes locked with Loki’s, electricity rippling through you when they did. His blue irises froze you from the inside out, like each and every one of your limbs failed to resist the magnetic pull you felt towards him, and your cells longed for you to throw yourself into his arms—despite the fact he was handcuffed... and for a good reason too. Swallowing thickly, you forced yourself to look away.

Loki was your soulmate. That was impossible; and quite frankly, the god in question appeared to be thinking the exact same thing.

You chewed on your lower lip, anything to distract yourself from your predicament all the while everyone was still staring at you like you had grown two more heads.

“Take him to the cells, I’ll stay with her.” Clint’s hand on your shoulder did little to console you. Part of you still barely resisted the urge to start at Loki like a succubus, the other… the other was terrified and meant to hide in the archer’s embrace.

You could feel Loki’s blue gaze still resting on you when he led you away from the scene, staring daggers into your back and rendering you speechless until you were finally out of sight and Clint shook your shoulder gently.

“Are you sure it’s not one of the security guards that helped bring him in?”

“No… no, I saw them first. Loki was behind them. It’s… I don’t know how to explain it but somehow, Loki was in colour first, you know what I mean? First him and then, a split second later, everything else was colourful too.”

“And now?”

“Now what?”

“Do you still see in colour now?”

“Of course I do.” Clint sighed and buried his face in his hands.

“So what happens if you don’t… act on this soulmate thing?”

“Nothing. Nothing happens.” You said.

“So you don’t have to… stay close to Loki or anything?”

“No. Not that I know of. But Clint—“

“Good. Because he might find a way to use you against us. Stay away from him. Thor’ll take him back to Asgard soon enough. All we need to do first is find the Tesseract.”

Your lips were pursed when he turned to check on them and if Loki was wreaking havoc while they were trying to get him imprisoned.

Stay away from him? Of course… it was the most reasonable thing to do. Loki was dangerous, a criminal… but was that right? Now that you had found your soulmate in him?

You couldn’t get him out of your head that night. Screw the danger, you had to see him. And eventually, your curiosity and that inexplicable and strange pull you felt towards Loki got the better of you. With a deep breath, you threw your covers back and let your bare feet hit the cold floor before quietly tiptoeing out into the dark and empty hallway.

Your blood was rushing in your ears, making you hear things your paranoia and imagination cooked up to the point your heart was pounding in your chest so hard and fast you feared it might jump right out of your ribcage. No one could know, of course. Clint would positively kill you—he, along with Tony, somewhat considered himself responsible for you here. You couldn’t really blame them. If something happened to you, they’d never forgive themselves. You were an innocent civilian, after all.

And now you had been tossed into the greatest fanfiction yet. Shivering, for the cold slowly crept into your bare skin and through the tanktop and shorts you were wearing to sleep, you finally reached the corridor leading to the elevator. The prison cells, a rather new addition to Stark Tower, were located at the very bottom, the cellar, or… what you preferred to call it, a modern dungeon.

You found Loki with his back turned to you in his cell, looking pale through the glass pane. Your heart skipped a beat when he suddenly spoke up.

“I expected you would find a way to come and see me at some point. I’d dare say the Avengers have taken quite the precautions to keep you as far away from me as possible.” He mused. He lifted his chin, approaching the glass window.

It was quite ridiculous to assume that this tiny and meagre prison would keep the Trickster at bay after everything he had proven to be capable of. If only he wanted to, he could shatter that glass with but a flick of his wrist or break the heavy metal door posing as the only barrier between you.

If you were to just… unlock that door to touch him… it would be so easy. Blinking rapidly, you shook your head to chase the thought away.

“Who are you?” He asked and for just a brief moment, you believed to see genuine interest and curiosity sparkling in his stunning blue eyes.

“No one, really. You already know my name, I presume but that’s all there is. I’m not special—I mean, I don’t have superpowers. I’m just a regular human with a rare condition.”

“Oh, I see. Surely you had not hoped for a criminal of all people to be your soulmate then? A murderer? A monster?” His expression hardened.

Yes. But you were not going to tell him that. He was still the person to have made you see colours again, regardless of who he was and what he had done. There must have been a connection between you, you felt it after all! And you were certain that he felt it too.

“Thor will take me back to Asgard and the great King Odin,” he continued, his voice dripping with sarcasm, “will surely have me executed. You will never see me again. So do not worry.”

“I don’t want that.” You finally chirped, barely daring to look him in the eye. His gaze was scrutinising and intimidating… almost as if he was able to see right into your soul with but one single glance.

Loki frowned.

“I bet you’re not happy about this, are you?” A desperate scoff escaped your lips. “I’m not sure I am…” You confessed and sat down on the chair in front of the window. It creaked a little under your weight, the unpleasant sound echoing through the empty hallway.

This man right in front of you was not be trusted and yet, the desire to pour your heart out to him was so strong you felt it like a sea of emotions attempting to drown you.

“You know ever since my twelfth birthday I wondered when I would finally meet my soulmate. Who they would be, what they would be like… and then so many years passed I was beginning to worry I might never see colours again. That I’d be alone and grey for the rest of my life.”

Loki licked his lips and glanced up at you, listening intently to every single word you said.

“Now I met you and they all tell me not to trust you. I mean… I know who you are, I know what you’ve done. I can’t say I’m happy about the fact my soulmate is…” You stopped yourself, breathing in sharply. “What was the universe thinking? You are a god and I’m just… me. We live light-years apart!”

Eventually, after a moment of surprisingly pleasant silence between you, Loki hummed. “The Norns do have interesting ways.” He said, locking his eyes with yours, almost as if he was pondering if… if what? If he could imagine being with you?

“So what should we do? Never speak of it again? Pretend we have never met? I can’t just… come to Asgard with you.” You held your breath when you realised what you were considering here. Loki must have thought the same. He smirked in response—not mockingly but bitterly. “Odin would never allow a mortal on Asgard. If I was to survive my trial, that is.”

“Don’t say that. I don’t care you’re a criminal right now, I just found my soulmate, and I don’t want to lose him again right away, regardless of what happens between us.”

With a start, his face fell. “Nothing will happen between us. That would be unnecessarily cruel, would it not? Your life in the nine realms is but a heartbeat compared to mine.”

“So… this is goodbye?”

Loki hesitated. You noticed by the way his lips slightly parted without a single sound escaping them just yet.

“Yes. This is goodbye.”

The fruit bowl had become your new best friend. In the morning, tired and rather absent, you sat at the kitchen table holding on to a steaming mug of coffee all the while studying the different colours of the fruit before you like a complicated Maths formula.

“Did you have a good chat last night?” Clint barked at you when he entered the room, skipping the ‘Good morning’.

“Huh?”

“With Loki?” He probed, raising his eyebrows in an I-already-know-what-you’ve-done manner.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” You said, shaking your head and focusing your gaze on the fruit bowl again. Yellow bananas, green grapes, red apples. In colour.

You flinched when Tony spoke your name. “We saw the footage on our security cameras. You sneaked to his cell last night knowing fully well why you should stay away from him, especially with… with… you know.”

Fuck… the security cameras. You had completely forgotten about those! Of course the legendary Tony Stark would have had security cameras installed all over the damn place!

Busted, you shrugged your shoulders as nonchalantly as you could muster. “I just wanted to talk him. I had to talk to him. I know what you’re all thinking—that he’s evil and brutal and cruel and ruthless… and… and you’re probably right? I… I don’t even know but… he is still my soulmate. I can see colours again because of him for Fuck’s sake! I can’t just… ignore that.”

“I get it. We don’t know what it must feel like. But it’s for the best. We don’t want him to hurt you.”

“I am his soulmate, too. He wouldn’t dare hurt me. You know maybe he’s not the monster you all think he is.”

“Are you saying that because you know him so well after last night or because that is what you want to believe?”

Both. “I just… have a feeling.”

“Right.” Tony clapped his hands. Your name left his lips almost like a plea. “You have to trust us.”

Thor nodded. “Loki is dangerous. You should stay away from him at least until we know he is not still plotting the domination of your planet.”

“What do you mean ‘at least until’? You can stop staying away from him when he’s back on Asgard and out of your reach.” Tony snapped.

“We’re just trying to keep you safe.” Steve intervened. You sighed.

“You know what? I’m getting a headache and I’m still tired, so I’m gonna go back to bed.” That wasn’t even a lie—well, at least the fatigue bit wasn’t. Besides, the blackout curtains in the room Tony let you stay in were heaven-sent.

That was until a loud tumult in the Tower woke you up again, even though you were not sure anymore you had actually fallen asleep once your head hit the soft pillow.

“W—“ Your scream of protest was muffled by a cool palm covering your mouth. You struggled briefly, ripping your eyes wide open in a weak attempt to make out who was assaulting you in the comforting darkness of your room when you suddenly heard a soothing voice shushing you.

“It’s me…”

“L-Loki?” You choked out when he removed his hand again. “Did you… did you break out of your cell?”

“It would seem so. Come.”

“What?”

He tilted his head. “I don’t have much time.”

You stood, throwing the covers back when he already reached for your hand and held it tightly, pulling you with him into the hallway and towards one of the more hidden exists of Stark Tower, a flight of stairs illuminated only by emergency lights.

“W-what are you doing?”

“I am proving to you that I am more than just a criminal.”

“Oh… but… um… where are we going?”

Loki smirked. Your eyes widened when he pulled out the Tesseract seemingly out of nowhere, its blue light glowing brightly in the dark and throwing artistic shadows on his face.

“Hold on tight.”

“Loki…”

The God of Mischief pulled you close, making you gasp. Your chest hit his, his arm wrapping around your waist. With his face only inches from yours, you could feel his warm breath on your lips, and suddenly longed to kiss him.

“You are my soulmate. I am not leaving you behind.”

“What happened to ‘goodbye’?” You chirped.

Loki tilted his head almost threateningly. “You are mine. Don’t you think I wanted to leave this place without looking back?” His expression softened. “But I couldn’t. Because of you.” And you might just be the only woman to ever love me in this way, he added silently.

“B-but… Y-you said Odin will never allow me on Asgard and… and…”

“I never said we were going to Asgard, now was I?”

Your lips parted. Could you trust him? The stranger who had finally made you see colours again? If you told him No, would he let go of you? Would he let you run to Tony and Clint and Nat so they could protect you from him? Swallowing thickly, you met his intense blue gaze and nodded.

Loki smirked and winked. “You are in for an adventure.” And you knew he wasn’t lying. Next thing you knew, you were both hurtled through space and into a shared future.

A/N: ☕

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firefly-in-darkness · 4 years

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Always

Pairing → Dean Winchester x Reader

Characters → Supernatural

Summary → Y/N is feeling insecure and Dean doesn’t help, especially when he forgets a special date.

Word Count → 1.9k

Prompt → “It’s always gonna be you.” (bolded) for the writing event hosted by @tvdspngirl314 - happy early birthday!

Warnings → Insecurities, angst to fluff.

Betas → @writethelifeyouwant // all mistakes are my own.

A/N → I needed some hurt/comfort Dean and here he is. Hope you enjoy it! Oh and Happy Valentine’s Day!

A cough caught in your throat at the words falling from Dean’s mouth. He was flirting with the witness, and even though you tried to reason that it was simply to get more information, the thoughts in your head were screaming that he wanted her. That you meant nothing to him, that you were just someone to pass the time until he found someone else.

You tried to focus on the important parts of the conversation, making notes on the little pad of the details needed to work out what monster was wreaking havoc in a small town a few hours away from the bunker.

But you couldn’t. Any other day, you could take Dean flirting with someone to get information but lately, you’d been feeling a little insecure and you’re not sure when it started. Now, watching him flirt with the beautiful creature sat opposite you was enough to darken your thoughts.

And not only was it hard to listen to your boyfriend, but he was also doing it on your anniversary and the international day to celebrate love, Valentine’s Day. You suspected he’d forgotten when you awoke this morning to empty bed and clothes being chucked in your face, some garbled speech about a case down the road. But now, it made your heart ache.

“Thank you, sweetheart, for all of your help,” Dean placed his hand on the woman’s arm, stroking her bicep and giving her his best smile.

“No, thank you, Agent Bonham,” she responded, placing her hand over his.

Dean produced a card from his FBI suit jacket, “It’s Dean. If you need anything, and I mean anything, call me.”

Your heart dropped into your stomach while saying goodbyes to the completely infatuated woman. How could your boyfriend blatantly flirt and give his number to a witness in front of you? The ache in your heart travelled through your veins, your body turning numb as you kept the tears at bay.

A dark cloud fogged your thoughts as the town disappeared behind them and Dean drove them back to the bunker. The leather of the Impala was cold, even though the sun beamed down on them in all its glory.

Dean reached over and laced his fingers between yours. You hadn’t expected it, especially after the advances he had made earlier and you recoiled, unravelling them and pulling your hand into your lap. You chose to stare out of the window at the scenery disappearing as the Impala whipped down the highway, wishing you were back at the Bunker already, wanting to get out of the FBI costume and crawl into bed to hide under the covers.

“Wanna go to the bar for a drink when we get back?” asked Dean, eyes trained on the road.

“I’ve got a headache,” Y/N quietly responded, “you can still go if you want to.”

Dean acknowledged you by cupping the back of your head, stroking it softly as you settled back into the seat. You closed your eyes and let his delicate touch help you drift to sleep.

You pulled the hoodie over your head and padded down the corridor to the library, knowing Dean had already left and deciding to seek distraction in the form of research. Burying your head in books was not your usual choice but it was the only thing you could do to keep your mind from spiralling.

Sam was sat at one of the chairs, of course, and he offered you a soft smile, “Thought you’d be going out with Dean?”

“Not feeling it tonight.” You had sunk into a chair opposite, “Plus, we need to find out what’s going on over there. I don’t think it’s a witch.”

“Dean told me about the witness, and he thinks she’s innocent.” Sam’s eyes flicked between the laptop and you when you didn’t respond. “Y/N.”

“I don’t think she’s as innocent as she makes out. But it’s not related to the case.” You sighed, hurt ricocheted through your chest.

Sam hummed in agreement, his focus back on the laptop and the book open to his side. You pulled one of the unopened books across and pulled your knees up to your chest, an attempt to cocoon yourself into the words written across the pages.

After the fifth attempt to read the same sentence, you pushed the book away and stretched your arms up before hauling yourself out of the chair. Sam caught your eye, a raised eyebrow as he shut the laptop and folded his arms.

“Are you going to tell me what’s bugging you?” Sam asked.

“What are you talking about?” You pretended to continue stretching your body before settling back into the chair.

“You never do research, especially when Dean suggests going to the bar. You have been staring at the same page for half an hour and you won’t stop fidgeting” Sam looked irritated but then he shook his head and gave you a soft smile, “You know you can talk to me, right?”

You groaned, Sam wasn’t one to let things go and you knew you’d end up confessing to how you felt, “it’s nothing Sam, I’m just wrapped up in my head.”

Sam gestured for you to carry on and you did just that, explaining what happened at the witness’ house. As you finished, you folded your arms onto the table, resting your chin on them and looking up at him with a small pout.

“I know it’s silly. I just don’t feel good enough for him.” You whispered, bringing your hand up to your face, chewing on the sleeve.

“Of course, you are. I’ve never seen the pair of you happier than when you’re together. Dean adores you.” Sam replied.

“He forgot today. It’s our anniversary.” You mumbled through the material.

A flicker of realisation appeared on his features then disappeared with a soft smile.

“What if he doesn’t want to be with me anymore?” You asked, eyes glistening with tears.

Sam looked shocked as if you had grown a second head, “Y/N, that’s ridiculous. It’s always gonna be you for Dean.”

“I don’t know about that Sam,” you replied.

“Well, you should,” Dean spoke from the other side of the room.

You spun in the chair, heart hammering in your chest as he approached with the look of hurt and pain flickering across his features. Words were stuck in your throat and you could feel the tears glistening in your eyes at the sight of your boyfriend.

Dean turned your chair to the side and sat on the one beside you, the legs scraping along the floor as he shifted towards you. The guilt stopped you from looking at him. You realised too late that you shouldn’t have said anything to Sam, and now, you weren’t sure how much of the conversation had been overheard by Dean.

Another chair shuffle across the room caught your attention; Sam leaving the room. Your body sank deeper into the chair, your knees up at your chest once more, chin resting atop to keep yourself safe. From what, you weren’t sure. That’s when you finally looked at Dean.

“Hi,” he whispered.

“Hello.” You replied, voice breaking.

Dean leant forward and cupped your cheek, “Going to tell me what’s going on in that pretty head of yours?”

His soft voice and the warmth of his calloused hand was enough to make you break. In the blur of your tears, Dean knelt in front of you and pulled your legs down in between his thighs, massaging your calves while hiccups punctured the quiet sobs.

It was embarrassing but you couldn’t handle seeing the pity that would be in Dean’s eyes, but you knew that, sooner or later, he’d want an answer. Calming the heaving in your chest, you looked up at him. But what you saw was far from pity.

Your heart clenched at the red rim of Dean’s eyes and the tear-streaked cheeks. His green gaze was glued to yours and his lower lip trembled slightly as he gave a small smile.

“Dean, why are you crying?” You sniffed.

“You can’t answer a question with another question.” He sniffed too, pulling your hands into his large ones, thumbs softly brushing the back yours.

“I thought you might not be interested in me anymore after earlier.” You shrugged, trying to be nonchalant in preparation for Dean’s rejection.

Dean frowned and frustration seeped into his tone with a crack, “what? How could you think that? I lo-”

He stopped before finishing the sentence you so wanted to hear, your mind whirled with the possibility that he was only going to say it to keep you around and that stopped him.

“Earlier, you were flirting with that woman. You gave her your number and told her that she could call for anything.” You felt meek and vulnerable in telling Dean that this woman made you feel insecure, “she was beautiful, I wouldn’t blame you for that.”

Dean stood up and pulled you up too, “You’re beautiful. The most beautiful woman I have ever seen.”

“Dean.” You whined, but his index finger pressed to your lips.

“You are Y/N. That woman has nothing, nothing, on you. I didn’t mean anything by it, I hoped she’d remember more than she did, and she’d call.” Dean held your face in his palms, searching your eyes for understanding, “For as long as I live, it’s always gonna be you.”

Dean pulled you into a tight hold, chest to chest, his arms clasped behind your back. The warmth soothed the tension in your muscles and your heart. You propped your chin on his chest, looking up to him as he swayed slightly. His lips pressed to the tip of your nose, you wrinkled it in reaction and failed at holding back the giggle.

“I promise to remind you every single day,” Dean whispered, a chaste kiss pressed to your lips before he pulled away again, you followed him and whined at his retreat,

You reached up onto your tiptoes and kissed him then reality came crashing down. He had still forgotten your anniversary and that it was Valentine’s Day. You pulled back and glared at him, untangling yourself from his hold but failed.

“What’s wrong?” Dean frowned at your struggle.

“You forgot.” You hissed, jaw ticking in frustration.

“Forgot what? That it’s our anniversary? And Valentine’s Day?” He smirked.

The tension and your resolve softened as he spoke, but that still didn’t explain why he hadn’t said or done anything. And why the hell was he smirking at you like that?

“I was trying to get you to come to the bar, I was going to make a detour to that diner just out of town. You know, the one with your favourite milkshake.” Dean laughed and laced his fingers between yours, this time you squeezed his hand in anticipation while he led the way to your bedroom. “And because you said you weren’t feeling well, I went and picked it up instead.”

Dean pushed open the door and upon the desk were various food containers, a stack of DVDs and a small box with a red bow on top. You looked through the items, overwhelmed with love and adoration for the man behind you.

His arms wrapped around you from behind, his chest pressed tightly to your back, “I love you, Y/N.”

Butterflies erupted in your stomach at Dean’s words. You turned in his hold, certain that he could feel your erratic heart as it slammed against your ribcage, “I love you too Dean.”

Everything Tag List: @kitkatd7 / @fandomfic-galore / @writerwrites / @thefridgeismybestie / @wedonttalkaboutitenough / @courtneychicken / @persephonesinfernos

Supernatural Tag List: @deanwanddamons / @akshi8278

SPN Fanfic Pond Tag List: @aprofoundbondwithdean / @manawhaat / @thing-you-do-with-that-thing / @nichelle-my-belle-spn-con-blog / @notnaturalanahi / @deanscarlett / @whispersandwhiskerburn / @roxy-davenport / @deathtonormalcy56 / @samsgoddess / @frenchybell / @for-the-love-of-dean / @mysupernaturalfics / @spn-fan-girl-173 / @deandoesthingstome / @jelly-beans-and-gstrings / @fiveleaf / @deansleather / @whywhydoyouwantmetosaymyname / @waywardjoy / @mrswhozeewhatsis / @imadeangirl-butimsamcurious / @kayteonline / @supernatural-jackles / @wevegotworktodo / @quiddy-writes / @babypieandwhiskey / @wi-deangirl77 / @deantbh / @sinceriouslyamellpadalecki / @deanwinchesterforpromqueen / @chaos-and-the-calm67-blog / @memariana91 / @plaidstiel-wormstache / @chelsea-winchester / @becs-bunker / @writingbeautifulmen / @lucibae-is-dancing-in-hell / @castieltrash1 / @supernaturalyobessed / @ohwritever / @ruined-by-destiel / @inmysparetime0 / @winchester-writes / @zombitch-cas / @maraisabellegrey-blog / @faith-in-dean / @winchestersmolder / @bennyyh / @clueless-gold / @deanwinchesterxreader / @melbelle45 / @winchester-family-business / @4401lnc @there-must-be-a-lock / @just-another-winchester / @canadianjelly / @emoryhemsworth / @cas-backwards-tie / @canadianspnhunter / @mostly-shawn / @sierra-grace1227 / @flamencodiva / @kalesrebellion / @emilyshurley / @deanwanddamons / @ellewritesfix05 / @idreamofplaid / @emptycanvasposts / @itstimetogo / @kickingitwithkirk

#Dean Winchester #Dean Winchester x Reader #Dean Winchester Fic #Supernatural #SPN #SPN Fanfic Pond

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fizzingwizard · 4 years

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Episode 28~ Well, I heard this season’s supposedly got 60 episodes total (don’t quote me, that may be wrong) so we’re almost at the halfway point... I’m gonna wait till episode 30 to talk about that though.

This episode I actually rather liked, even though absolutely NOTHING happens other than the important things at the very beginning and the very end. That’s becoming a pattern this season - lots of nothing sandwiched in between hints of big dramatic things to come. Eh. But yeah, I liked it anyway :P for a few reasons that are probably not that objective. It’s not the kind of episode that’s gonna make you want to rewatch though.

Cap of the week!

Look we all know Jou is exactly the kind of 12 year old who folds his clothes neatly even when lost in a mysterious parallel world. Also he brought more textbooks (social studies and Japanese). Aka more ammo for Mimi

More below:

Last week we ended with Patamon evolving to Angemon in what was a pretty anticlimactic moment, despite a big villain being there and a cliffhanger ending. Seemed like a waste after all we went through just to get him.

However, I do think the beginning of episode 28 makes up for it somewhat. Angemon gets to show off how Very Very Cool he is, but it’s also made clear that he’s not up to full strength. Seeing him throw all his effort into the battle to save them even though it’s clear he won’t win was actually pretty great.

More typhoon winds throwing everyone back XD they must have so many bruises

Poor Takeru gets thrown back all by his lonesome

So last episode, I said I thought Darknightmon was gonna go for Hikari and was surprised and somewhat relieved when he stayed interested in Takeru/Angemon. Um... I guess that was a red herring x’D he’s after Hikari after all.

He literally says “I have no use for you” to Angemon LOL sick burn my dude

Hikari: “There is a new cutest child.”

Takeru: “Um, actually the phrase is ‘smallest child’.“

Hikari: “No. Cutest child. Do not interrupt my moment, impertinent one.”

Grogu: “Did someone say ‘cutest child’?”

Angemon’s peeved that Hikari stole the spotlight so he immediately jumps into the way and prevents Darknightmon from grabbing her.

Angemon: “No one treats ME like some washed up has-been!”

But as hard as he tries, Angemon just hasn’t recovered enough. It probably took all the energy Patamon had stored up just to evolve. His wings lengthen and release into millions of shining feathers, and both he and Darknightmon de-evolve.

I really did kind of enjoy this battle! Seeing Takeru be all strong and heroic, and the desperation with which Angemon tries to protect him... me likey.

Next it’s a nod to 99 series! D-D-Digimon!

Yamato screams like he’s at the dentist’s.

There’s lots of freaky black lightning that rains down seeming to give dark energy and empower random Digimon who get hit by it. Just to ensure our heroes don’t get to waste time on any more “breaks”

A single feather floats down where Taichi lands and dissolves. I am not sure what happened to it, if it did anything or if it was what protected them until this point...

Taichi and Hikari wake up and discover they are alone. So last week I thought they’d get swept off into pairs... I didn’t even consider that they’d each wind up alone. Mixed feelings! On the one hand, seeing each kid interact with their partner and their partner only was one of the good things about this episode (except it wasn’t always true, which I’ll get to in a minute). On the other hand, my fears last week were that whoever ended up with Taichi would be overshadowed by him. Turns out, if no one’s with him but Hikari, that means all the plot stuff is with them and the others have nothing in particular to do. -_-; At least not this week. My hope is that it’s coming (and there were a few promising hints this episode so), but next week’s trailer looks pretty Taichi-centric too..

Taichi: “Can I help it if I’m so charming cool awesome and dare I say it adorable”

The impact of everyone being “alone” is cut short by the fact that they can all still communicate via digivice. I would be fine with that, except for what I said earlier - they wind up spending too much time talking to each other instead of their partners. Particularly the ones who like to Plan Things. Eh.

Yamato tells Taichi to protect Hikari, doesn’t even mention that he’s sadly separated from Takeru at this point ;_; He knows Takeru’s okay though because Takeru is also communicating by digivice.

Sora: “Hello yes, it’s in my contract that I get to be awesome X number of times per episode, and I have doubts that you are making your quota.”

I love how Tentomon’s job is basically Koushirou’s secretary x’D “Put my calls on speakerphone Margaret” “Yes Mr Izumi”

The partners really are suited to each other... Koushirou gets a secretary, Jou gets a mom, Mimi gets a gal pal, Yamato gets a therapist, Sora gets a sister, Taichi gets a... preschool child who eats paste... -.-’

takeru and hikari don’t count because they’re Special and their main attribute is Cute

All the kids have ended up alone except for super-charged monsters who want to eat them. Palmon hoists Mimi up a very sheer rock trying to escape Golemon who is not great at climbing but doesn’t seem to know that

Meanwhile Jou... is like “Ohh yeah, you guys have it so rough, I’m trying my hardest too, keep fighting the good fight y’all”

He’s relaxing in the hot springs and freaking studying.

Gomamon’s unusually fine with it though. Because he gets to swim. He says “Let’s invite the others here.” They’re both like YEAH THIS IS WHAT I CALL A VACATION

It’s all fun and games until the hairy guy with the tattoos and veiny arms sharing your hot spring starts staring at your ding-a-ling. Uhhhhhhh.

he does make the “Nanimono?” joke so all is well lol

No matter what form he takes, Patamon is always an Angel 👼

Takeru is alone but he has Patamon... but Patamon is...

... ADORABLE... and conked out. Takeru’s so proud of him though, look at that smile *sniff*

Taichi remembers to ask Koushirou how conditions are back at home. This kid is too organized.

Koushirou: “News and variety shows continue as normal even though the world’s ending.”

I’m not going to get into everything he says but it’s pretty much more of the same regarding the power influx from the human world to the digital world and the way the Zurumon’s attacks are wreaking havoc with electronics...

Taichi almost says “You’re so sugoi!” Almost. He’s grateful anyway. *chews on those Taishiro breadcrumbs till they’re broken down to atoms*

Then... Hikari’s acting strange!

Agumon: “What are you looking at?”

Hikari: “I don’t know.”

Taichi: “You don’t know but you’re looking at it?”

Hikari: “It kind of looks like Steve Buscemi... it’s hard to tell”

Taichi’s not too wigged out by freaky Hikari because he’s lived with her all his life, and she’s always been a freak.

Baby Hikari: “Shteeve... bushemiii....”

Agumon: “Your sister’s weird.”

Taichi: “Yeah but she’s MY weird sister.”

Yamato is fighting, of course. He stops for a moment to be impressed by how well Takeru’s handling himself. Garurumon points it out. I suppose it’s simply time to accept that this season Yamato is just not the disaster boy he was in 99 x’D

Now have some gratuitous adorable Patabutt images.

Patabutt patabutt pata pata butt butt

Um... is it just me or is Patamon kinda... oversized all of a sudden lol...

Takeru: “Did you eat all of my candy stash again?”

Patamon: “I just can’t seem to quit”

Takeru: “That’s it we’re getting you into rehab”

Patamon tries to fly but just can’t ;____; poor baby is totally wiped out. Takeru takes a long time to catch on to that. I REALLY HOPE THIS GOES SOMEWHERE, like Takeru has to protect Patamon instead of the reverse etc... pleeeeease don’t just leave this where it is writers!! The potential for cute is endlessssss

On the matter of Things That Are Not Cute... -.-;

Jou: “Please stop looking at my junk”

Nanimon: “Stop looking at mine”

Jou: “YOU DONT HAVE ANY wait do you wAIT I DONT WANT TO LOOK”

Mimi is much more useful! She discovers a shiny rock!

Theory!

This rock... could be the raw material for their Crests!!! Squeee~!! I mean, it’s about time something about that came up, assuming it’s still a thing. (Since they already seem to have their Crests loaded in their Digivices and got to Perfect level without any talk of values and personal strengths, I don’t know how much of the old Crest legacy remains in this season.) I, uh, did the same thing in my fanfic so I guess I’m just biased... These could totally be Evil Rubies Of Darkness and Terror but I’d rather have Crests :p Of course I would have expected Mimi to find green stones in that case sooo... maybe not.

Anyway she and Palmon are suitably distracted from running from Golemon and go mining instead. I’m sure that will not cause any problems.

We swing back to Taichi and Hikari, who are being approached by a big scary monster...

Taichi: “Watch my Tarzan impression.”

Hikari: “Nooo! I don’t want to be Jane!”

Fortunately Agumon evolves just to catch them in midair x’D Now is not the time for impressions, Taichi, seriously.

They are attacked by Volcdramon, which is a dumbass name.

Voldramon: “I AM VOLCRADMON, THE VOLCANO DIGIMON”

Taichi: “Velcromon the Velcro Digimon?”

Voldramon: “what NO i am Volcdramon-”

Hikari: “Voltronmon? Voldemortmon?”

Voldramon: *sniveling* “why does this happen EVERY time i JUST want to be one of the cool guys youre all such BULLIES”

MetalGreymon and Volcdramon face off, but something’s not right! Much like... the Digimon in the last episode whose name I already forgot *cough*, Volcdramon seems able to absorb other Digimon’s power. This presents a problem because last time it took all of them shooting into its mouth together to overload it so they could win. MetalGreymon is having a hard time on his own as Volcdramon just absorbs all his attacks.

Hikari prays to Jesus to save them. Digimon is approved for Christian families 👼👼👼

ugggghhh I love them

Taichi promises Hikari everything will be okay. His back-and-forth with MetalGreymon here is kind of cool. Every time MetalGreymon takes a hit, Taichi’s encouragement and coaching?? I guess keeps frustration at bay.

Buuut eventually they’re both feeling pretty desperate :P It was hard for me to take this battle seriously since, after all we’ve seen MetalGreymon capable of, it seems weird that he should be struggling this much. But obviously they don’t just want to make him invincible. And this problem makes sense: the ability of Digimon to absorb attacks and turn them into energy is definitely a new problem.

The question is, how do we solve it?

Apparently it helps if you have a little sister who’s some kind of super battery.

Taichi: “Nothing shocks me anymore with Hikari. She could announce she’s been Beyonce this whole time and I would believe it”

WarGreymon appears (again) as his goldeny vision self, defeats Volcdramon, then promptly de-evolves back to Agumon.

So the question is, why is this happening... From earlier episodes we know Agumon & co are some group of legendary warriors who have had their memories tampered with (??) to some extent (because they do still know each other, or at least Agumon and Gabumon remember knowing each other). Omegamon’s a given for that of course so I suppose that’s why. Hikari seems to be the key to unlocking the legendary warriors, maybe with Takeru. That’s my guess. Of course, Tailmon’s probably already in the bad guys’ clutches, much like Patamon was. I hope she’s still working for them. I want more double agent fun times. Also ANGST

Hikari: “Thank you, Agumon-” *disappears*

Taichi: “GEEZ I can’t eat, can’t sleep, can’t even breathe without something bad happening anymore, like excuse me for BLINKING”

Yeah so... Skullknightmon appears and abducts Hikari like it’s nothing xD

Skullknightmon: “What’s under arm number two? Iiiiit’s your sister!”

Taichi: “Aw damn, I wanted the sports car”

Taichi quickly gives chase. I assume Agumon’s pretty exhausted after that and probably can’t evolve now. Bad timing. Oooor maybe this is all how Skullknightmon planned it...

Then... the unthinkable! Hikari looks at her brother rushing desperately to save her... and turns away!

Taichi is SHOCKED! Le GASP!

Taichi: “But but but I’m the MAIN CHARACTER”

Hikari: “Not anymore bitch it’s my show now”

Yeah okay jokes aside! This bit was AWESOME. Like, I’m sure it’s obvious that she can tell the voice that “called” her to the digital world is with Skullnightmon. Or at least, her heart’s telling her she has to go with him in order to meet that person (Tailmon, duh). I’ll be surprised if that’s not what’s going on. But... to so coldly just turn her back on her brother... I mean, maybe she also thinks she’s protecting him... but SHE JUST GOT HERE... holy crap...

To think we spent so long theorizing that Takeru would be the one abducted but no it’s Hikari... In retrospect should have been obvious. She’s 1) a girl and therefore a damsel, and 2) the one who was abducted in 99 xP

But I really like her semi-willingly going off with Skullnightmon. Much better than just screaming as she’s whisked away King Kong-style. In 99 she also got abducted voluntarily (I mean, it was coercion, so... that’s not voluntary, but you know what I mean). So they kept that in this season and I like it.

That’s it for this week’s episode! So the bits that I liked were the individual moments with the kids and their partners, of which we had more than usual but still not nearly enough. Nowhere near. In the end it was still a Taichi episode.

As a Taichi fan... it’s not like I’m ever sad that he gets more focus. But I love ALL the kids and they’re NOT getting development. We do keep getting hints about them but it’s so, so, so slow. To be fair, it’s not like we know THAT much about Taichi either. He gets so much focus because he’s always fighting. This season doesn’t seem concerned with personality and character bits like the 99 one, and I am gonna compare them for that. Because I think that was the heart of the 99 show. Without it, it’s missing something. I keep hoping it’ll come back, we keep getting those hints and special moments here and there, but the plot is such a distraction... if it was like a really good plot maybe I’d care less but...

Next week... as far as I can see, it’s another Taichi episode xP But I do think they’ll do the same as this episode and intersperse Taichi’s battle with what’s going on with the others too. If that’s how they do it, I won’t mind. It might even be better. Fine, Taichi can fight, as long as the others are showing us more about themselves and getting other things done in the meantime. Mimi and Jou both look promising. Takeru too. Sora and Yamato, not sure..

Koushirou better not just sit at his computer the whole time -___-

Le owch.

Taichi: “Look being the main character’s not all it’s cracked up to be. I have three concussions and six broken bones. Also I can’t feel my toes anymore”

hang in there bud im cheering for ya

#digimon adventure 2020 #digimon adventure:#digimon adventure reboot #digi spoilers #digimon #fizz watches digimon 2020

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michelles-garden-of-evil · 4 years

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Quiz: Which Desmond Hall Character Are You?

SPOILER WARNING FOR DESMOND HALL ARCS I AND II

Last week, I was going to work on finishing my next review, but then my muse pulled me aside and ordered me to write a Desmond Hall personality quiz while threatening me with a conjure doll and silver pin. Not every Desmond Hall character is in this quiz, only the ones that I thought would be the funniest to write. Enjoy!

1. You have just arrived at an ancient manor house enveloped in darkness that rests atop a sinister network of haunted caves. When you learn this, how do you react? A. Lie in bed for several days while writhing in agony. B. Accept it and keep myself busy while pining for my voodoo island home. C. Act insufferably smug, because soon the house will belong to me. D. Go search for creatures in the caves to alleviate my boredom and satisfy my compulsion to do random disturbing things. E. Barely react at all because the writers have forgotten that I have a personality. F. Swan around while talking to myself about how the manor looks like something out of a storybook. G. Wish that I could live there again, because I've been trapped in a trippy magical closet for months.

2. The daily newspaper arrives and the headline reads, "GIRL BRUTALLY MURDERED.” What is your response? A. Retreat to my bedchamber and panic loudly about how I hope no one discovers that I’m the murderer. B. Get the body buried and all evidence concealed. C. Observe a moment of silence for my former doxy, then promptly forget she ever existed. D. Cut out the photo of the victim's face, suspend it from a papier-mâché gallows tree, and display it prominently in the foyer. E. Feel moderately concerned for my safety, but not too much. My ghost boyfriend will protect me...maybe. F. Scheme to blackmail the killer into marrying me. G. Wonder, "Was that my brother again?"

3. Your hobbies include: A. Moping around the manor house in fancy suits and contorting my face as though trying unsuccessfully to relieve myself. B. Reciting dramatic monologues with bits of scenery caught between my teeth! C. Plotting murder, robbery, and the corruption of young maidens while sipping sherry. D. I wander. I visit. I'm here and there. I'm a kind of ghost of Desmond Hall. E. I used to enjoy rebelling, flouncing, and bickering, but I've lost my taste for those. Now I prefer hanging out with old people in a cottage that smells of strange spices. F. Talking to and stroking my sweet little snake. (By which I mean "reptile with no legs and a forked tongue." Get your mind out of the gutter.) G. Necromancy.

4. Your favorite foods include: A. Bubbly eggs cooked in champagne. Definitely not kippers. B. The cuisine of my native island, before the evil of THE DEVIL JACQUES ELOI DES MONDES made all the plants poisonous and killed all the animals! C. My spouse's hors d'oeuvres--but only when I don't have to eat them off the floor. D. Sugar, strawberries and cream, and the very best...*checks Teleprompter*...butter. E. Muffins laced with magical herbs. F. The delicious misery of the man who tried to strangle me and of all the other women who want him. G. I don't eat anymore. I'm a ghost. Food passes right through me--literally.

5. What turns you on? A. A lover who is unpredictable but not murderously crazy, and who likes to wear lacy nighties. B. I would not know! I have not felt those urges in three hundred years! C. Money. D. Anyone from my preferred gender who actually wants to spend time with me. E. A ghost who behaves like Edward Cullen. F. Jean Paul Desmond! He is the sexiest male character in the history of television. G. Submission and unquestioning devotion. Also, lesbians.

6. What is your signature look? A. Highly flattering mod suits combined with an unflattering combover. B. A long black Victorian dress. C. A stodgy gray/green suit, which is probably in desperate need of Febreze after being worn three days in a row. D. Turtlenecks. E. Bleached blonde hair and faddish early ‘70s fashions. F. Long pointed fingernails, false eyelashes, and a creepy grin. G. I once hung from the ceiling with my shirt torn open. Does that count?

7. Everyone has a skeleton in their closet. What is yours? A. Although I want to reach out and help the beautiful young women who come to me, instead my hands reach out to kill! B. I single-handedly cursed my employer's family by signing his grandfather’s (misspelled) name on a pledge to the Dark Lord. C. I am a black widower. D. I used to participate in necromancy rituals with my dear cousin. E. I stole a piece of my mother's jewelry and sold it at a pawn shop. F. I am a priestess of the Serpent God. G. Funny you should mention skeletons. My closet has a literal one hanging in it.

8. If you had to guess, which of these personages were you most likely in a past life? A. A freebooter possessed by the Devil. B. Myself. C. Henry Seewald--who looks exactly like a toddler version of me--transported back in time via the 49th hexagram. D. Someone named Claude. E. A young girl sacrificed by a priestess who looked like my mother. F. Ophelia, if she were real. G. My great-uncle with the same first name as me, who was allegedly disowned for being a poet.

9. Your favorite Dark Shadows character is: A. Barnabas Collins. B. Magda Rakosi. C. Nicholas Blair. D. David Collins. E. Carolyn Stoddard. F. Angelique Bouchard. G. Quentin Collins.

10. What from 1970 Dark Shadows do you believe was most likely inspired by Strange Paradise? A. The character of Judah Zachery, who is highly reminiscent of THE DEVIL JACQUES ELOI DES MONDES. B. The use of a retcon to completely change Angelique's backstory. C. The name Desmond Collins. D. The implied reincarnation in the Summer of '70 arc that (sadly) never got explored as much as it should have been. E. The subplot about Quentin falling in love with Daphne's ghost. F. The Leviathan cult's use of snake iconography. G. The carousel in Tad and Carrie's playroom.

If you answered mostly A, you are Jean Paul Desmond, richest man in the world and master of Desmond Hall. Tall, dark, and incredibly handsome in spite of his receding hairline, Jean Paul is the victim of two self-imposed curses, one of which causes him to strangle people when the Mark of Death appears on his hand (which is totally not a reflection of some repressed or hidden part of his personality, having formerly displayed megalomania and control freak tendencies on his island). When not under the effects of this curse, he is the living embodiment of charm and sweetness and attracts would-be partners like moths to a flame. Logically, the same must be true about you, because online personality quizzes are never wrong. ;)

If you answered mostly B, you are Raxl, daughter of the Priestess of the Serpent and winner of the Canadian 1969 and 1970 scenery-chewing contests. Far older than she looks, the Desmond family’s housekeeper may not be as loyal as she appears, depending on the whims of whomever wrote the plot outline for the final arc. She is an expert on all things occult and supernatural, from tarot cards to the Egyptian Key. Even after her retcon, she is awesome.

If you answered mostly C, you are Laslo Thaxton, husband of Ada (Desmond) Thaxton and master of Desmond Hall in the absence of Jean Paul and Philip. I would say that you are an unscrupulous, greedy Devil-worshiper like Laslo, but I’ve always hated those personality quizzes that make moral judgments about people just because they share some traits in common with the villain. Therefore, I’m just going to assume that you are most likely a decent person who only got Laslo because you happen to love money and Nicholas Blair.

If you answered mostly D, you are Cort Desmond, twenty-something cousin of Jean Paul and Philip. Eccentric and erratic but oh-so-adorable, Cort is a polarizing character loved by some fans for his good looks and (often unintentionally) funny lines, but hated by others for being somewhat of a spoiled brat. Like Hamlet whom he idolizes, he seeks justice for the death of his father, along with the inheritance his Dear Stepfather Laslo wants to steal from him.

If you answered mostly E, you are Holly Marshall--or, rather, what Holly has become since her creator Ian Martin left the show. Formerly a spitfire with a high IQ, a low boiling point, and a love for outdated slang, Holly has become a shell of her former self under the new writers. She spends more time unconscious and hypnotized than not; when she is conscious, she wastes her time pining after an unsuitable love interest who treats her like Edward treats Bella in Twilight. I hope this doesn’t describe you, because, if it does, you should seek help. Don’t be like Desmond Hall-era Holly!

If you answered mostly F, you are Agatha Pruitt, a young seamstress obsessed with Jean Paul. While the master of Desmond Hall has attracted many suitors, none are as strange or disturbing as Agatha, who blackmails him into letting her live at Desmond Hall after his failed murder attempt and proceeds to wreak havoc there along with the Serpent God (who may or may not be Raxl’s Great Serpent) whom she worships.

Finally, if you answered mostly G, you are Jean Paul’s brother, Philip Desmond (not to be confused with his cousin Philip Desmond, or either of the two Philippes des Mondes). A secretive figure largely mysterious even to his own brother, the handsome Philip dabbles in the dark arts and other mysteries, which ultimately leads to his disappearance into the caves beneath Desmondton and reappearance as a ghost. His character alignment is unclear--he may be evil, or just chaotic neutral--but one thing is clear: whoever messes with Philip has the Devil to pay.

#strange paradise #desmond hall arc i #desmond hall arc ii #dark shadows #quiz #justforfun #i'm cort by the way #although i thought i would be agatha because of my answer to question number 5 #a lot of people think of sp as a ripoff of ds #but in truth the copying and inspiration went both ways #case in point: the carousel which sp introduced several months earlier #also you're welcome for that bad ada subtitle

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ghostsofruefell · 5 years

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Can we get some Bookie Loving? maybe a 22 “I’ve seen the way you look at me when you think I don’t notice.” or a 46 “Hey, have you seen the..? Oh.”

(Yes, I’m still doing this. Doing 22 with an AU where Brooklyn is a friendly rival witch in college (if MC had gone), just for fun. It also got long but I can’t put this under a cut, so we’re all just gonna live with scrolling past it.)

The library is a sanctuary. So imposingly big with polished mahogany bookshelves embroidered with gold (possibly even real!) reaching all the way to its high ceilings, so vast it needed a second floor with spiral staircase climbing up and up. And each shelf filled to the brim with books. It intimidated you at first but you soon grew to learn its true nature: It’s a haven and once you embrace it for what it is it, too, shall embrace you and allow you to find the comfort it can provide. So big you’ll never be disturbed. So full of books you’ll have knowledge right at your fingertips, so silent you can lose yourself in the absolute peace of a stress-free environment.

…Or that would be the case, normally. But, as you brush past bookshelves-turned-layers-of-walls, you can hear that obnoxious rattling that’s grown just too distinct for you not to put a name to.

Finally coming upon one of the many long tables laid out for students studying or doing their homework, you see him. Yep, that’s him. Of course.

Brooklyn Jones is seated at a chair half pulled from the table, one leg folded over the other. His eyes are closed, back straight, as he shakes a cup filled with dice, looking so very peaceful in the noise with which he’s filling the once silent library. As if just to make it worse, the dice hits against the rings that decorate the fingers held over the opening of the cup, causing the full-bodied clanking to be interspersed with a ringing ‘tink’ sound.

You can’t help but slide a step back a ways, better hiding yourself at the edge of the books as you observe his actions.

There’s already a 12″ circle carved into the table in front of him, a measurement made for witch students practicing divination. However that’s more often considered a side hobby or as insignificant as a morning routine while a witch practices their real craft, yet Brooklyn—Bookie, as he’s known by others—seems to have made it his sole craft. He’s an eccentric but likable sort so no one has had the nerve to admit their opinions in front of him, but you’ve certainly heard the whispering behind his back. How he must be a very low powered witch, his connection to the After shamefully frail, and he ought to consider rethinking his desire to be a full witch… But then they go on, saying he must be doing his best to be as far removed from his “pitiful druggie brother” as possible. That the true pitiable one is Bookie himself.

Your jaw clenches as you hear once again those voices drift through your mind, not just students but a teacher even said that! Those obnoxious… they’re noisier than the dice in that cup and not even half as useful.

“You can come out, little witch.”

You’re jolted back to reality as that voice calls out, breaking the silence you hadn’t realized fell already. You swallow back those biting memories and cautiously step into the light.

The three dice now lay scattered in the circle. Brooklyn’s not looking at you, but elbows on the table and fingers laced under his chin, his scrutinizing gaze is fixed on the dice.

He doesn’t say anything as you wander over to stand on the other side of him.“You sure spend most of your time on Astragalomancy.” The comment comes on impulse and instantly you want to kick yourself. Sure, that didn’t sound snarky at all… Ugh, you’re no better than those rude gossipers, are you? Why does Brooklyn’s presence alone get your tongue all twisted? Everything just comes out all wrong.

“No one’s as good at it as me,” he answers, tone so casual, but words so arrogant. You can’t help but let out a light laugh. However, the retort dies in your throat as you finally get a look at the piece of paper sitting on the wood finish.

These… predictions… These aren’t normal.

You almost stop short of touching the paper, like it’ll burn you… or worse, but you push that paranoia back and slide the paper a little closer to the edge of the table. Brooklyn eyes the movement but you’re not looking to find any emotion in his face.

“4. Lucy Leilin will finally be found.”

“7. Headmaster Fairset’s affair will be exposed.”

“11. The truth about the gargoyle is revealed. Someone(?) is arrested for her(?) forbidden magic.”

And number 13 simply says, “November 3rd.”

This isn’t how you were taught to divine. This is too specific. These are predictions of someone with True knowledge, the kind given by… the After.

Maybe what he said really wasn’t a joke.

You swallow hard around the nerves now bundling in your throat. It’s an effort, you don’t want to, but your trembling gaze finally tears itself from the paper to the dice.

But Brooklyn swept them away before you could see the result. His eyes are locked on your face, emotion carefully guarded in them. They snap away a moment later. The silence digs its claws in your shoulders and weighs you down.

Finally, Brooklyn slides the paper away. “I’m just trying to freak you out,” he says, nonchalant.

You kind of thought he’d let it pass awkwardly, like you’d both pretend you didn’t see what you just saw. At least he’s not running from it and… for some reason, that really lifts the tension from your shoulders. You shake your head.

“Yeah, you seem like a snake like that.” You flash him a smile as you finally take the seat beside him. He scoffs in response, placing an offended hand on his chest.

“I am an innocent human being,” he declares. “A pitiable witch, isn’t it?”

He takes a leather binding from his bag to slip the paper in among a small stack of others, attaching the small satin bag he put the dice into, and snaps it closed. You lightly chew at your bottom lip. You know what he’s referring to. He knows you know what he’s referring to.

“…You’ve heard before, haven’t you?”

An idle smile plays at his lips even as venom seeps into his timbre

“About? Oh, that gossip whispered when my back is turned. Oh yes. Those two-faced brats aren’t as quiet as they think they’re being. Or maybe I just know too many things. There’s a lot going on behind my back. I’ve heard the things they say about me when they think I can’t hear.”

He pauses, staring down at the closed binding sat in front of him. It’s like a switch flips inside him as a smirk slowly grows on his lips. He runs his thumb over his bottom lip as those light green eyes zero in on you.

“And you know what else?” That smirk is starting to make you nervous. “I’ve seen the way you look at me when you think I don’t notice.”

You blanch.

“I… don’t know what you’re talking about.” Your voice wavers, but you mean it. You and Brooklyn had some sort of simultaneous friendship and rivalry since you were freshman. Although, anyone could agree you’re the more powerful witch, the “better” witch, as it were. But… That paper flashes in your mind again. No… maybe not anyone, not anymore. Besides that, you’re sure you’ve never looked at him in... any way. Not that you’re sure what way he’s referring to.

The chair groans against the old wood of the floor as Brooklyn rises from his seat.

“Maybe you don’t know it yourself.” He draws closer, shadow creeping over your still seated form and his lean frame now towers over you. You lean back as he leans forward, until your noses are nearly an inch apart. Those eyes, those sharp eyes that know too much seem to just stare straight into you, finding with ease every deep, dark corner. Ready to draw them into the light. Expose you. Make you naked. Those lips wear that growing smirk well, those thin lips with so many secrets sitting on them, ready to be told and wreak havoc magnificently. Those lips… that are inching ever closer to yours… that might…

“So, I’ll wait until you do,” Brooklyn whispers. Then straightens up. Just like that, the moment bursts as he slides on the sunglasses he’d leaned over you to retrieve.

Gathering his things, he tilts his head to regard you over the top of his shades. Only, now those lips form his usual friendly, disarming smile like nothing happened.

Then he turns and departs before you can even process what just happened, with one last call over his shoulder.

“See ya around, little witch.”

#ask meme #(still need to rename that tag)#Brooklyn #I finally fucking wrote something

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izanyas · 6 years

Text

In Normalcy’s Good Name

Happy birthday dearest @fozzie <3<3<3

Rating: M Words: 15,000 Warnings: misogyny, implied domestic abuse, some uh... organ stealing.

In Normalcy's Good Name

It's rarely earlier than four when Ratchet's night shift ends. In summer those hours mean that the sky glows pale and blue over the desert, feverish with the coming of dawn, by the time he makes it out of the hospital. He feels that light in his chest and forehead as his steps drag against the pavement. The nearest open diner is a garish place with mediocre food and worse coffee, but it beats going home on an empty stomach. If he attempts it, he knows he'll wake up shaking with hunger.

He won't touch the coffee anyway. He's twenty years past that kind of caffeine tolerance.

The bright yellow lights inside the diner hurt his eyes and make his headache flare fiercely. He feels sticky all over, with sweat and other, more unmentionable things, hands dry from too many washings and clothes soaked in antiseptic. He wants a shower like he has never wanted anything—considers for a moment making use of the place's bathroom to clean up—but he sits down at the farthest and darkest corner, pain beating at his temples and eyelids burning from the light, and he knows he won't get up again.

The girl who approaches his table a minute later wears an orange apron. There are food stains over it, ketchup and coffee yellowing at her hip. She looks as tired as he feels even as she greets him in a strident voice and lifts a notepad to take his order.

Her voice is almost disagreeable enough to make him snap at her. "Scrambled eggs," he manages, not quite adding please at the end for a semblance of politeness. "Some water as well."

She doesn't seem bothered. His jaw clenches at the sight of her chewing gum lazily. Considering the sort of company she must get at this hour of night, he figures an overworked pediatrician with not enough energy for small talk is a blessing. "Comin' up," she replies as nasally as before.

The place is almost deserted. Ratchet massages his temples fruitlessly, thinking of Optimus's wide hands and how much better they are at easing his aches away. He'll be sleeping when Ratchet gets home, or if he's lucky, perhaps at the edge of waking up. Sometimes they can sneak in a few minutes of affection this way. Sometimes Ratchet comes home and Optimus shifts in bed when the mattress dips under his added weight, and one of his arms tugs Ratchet close until he is caught between hard shoulder and soft flesh; sometimes Optimus kisses his forehead and his lips, and sometimes Ratchet opens his mouths and welcomes his husband's morning breath as he would freshwater. This the most they can manage when their working hours are so misaligned.

The waitress brings him a plate and a glass some few minutes later. There are fingertip smudges on the latter, and the former bears an unappetizing mush of eggs he thinks he could manage better with his eyes closed, but he thanks her anyway. He refuses the coffee pot she lifts in his direction, and she shrugs, saying, "All right."

He pours generous amounts of salt and pepper over the dish before even attempting a bite.

This isn't the first time he comes here, so there is nothing to ease his boredom as he eats. The plastic tables and chairs look the same as in every other crappy diner he's been to, and the jukebox in the corner is thankfully silent, as none of the clients seem to care for music. There are a couple burly men in one corner hunched over their third cup of coffee. At the counter, a boy of student age pours over homework, looking distressed. No doubt a late essay to finish before classes start at the neighboring college where Optimus works. The last customer is an elderly woman reading yesterday's newspaper, gold rings glinting around her thick fingers.

Then the door opens with a chime.

The woman who comes in looks almost as garish as the décor. She stumbles her way to the counter in a yellow ensemble of shorts and a cropped tank top, the material of which shines under the light like lacquered wood. The groan she lets out when she trips over her own high-heeled boots echoes painfully in Ratchet's ears; he almost wishes, viciously, that she hadn't caught herself on the counter and managed to stay upright.

"Hey," she says once she catches her breath. The lone waitress of the establishment must have gone back to the kitchen—the woman bangs her fist on the counter, dislodging one of the student boy's papers, and shouts: "Hey! Customer here!"

The waitress comes back into the room lazily. Ratchet is treated to the pitiful sight of the new customer's attempts to sit on one of the bar stools—she slips once, twice, before managing it, and in that time Ratchet notices with a flush that her shorts' hem has risen far over her backside and looks away.

He's not the only one to have noticed. The two men in the corner are ogling her, their low-voiced conversation long forgotten.

"What'll it be?" the waitress asks, frowning.

"Whiskey," the woman answers.

The waitress frowns, nose twitching. "I think coffee," she replies, turning around to grab the pot.

"Fine. Fine, all right, coffee."

She is thankless when she grabs the cup handed to her. She doesn't touch the sugar and cream on the counter, simply sips with a grimace, saying, "This is disgusting."

"You're free to go," the waitress sneers.

The woman mutters something under her breath that sounds not at all pleasant. She dismounts the stool with at least some elegance, but her gait wavers as she grabs the cup and heads toward a table. On the way she must notice the looks she is given, for she stops in her tracks—coffee spills over the fingers she holds the cup with—and snaps at the two burly men, "You want my picture, perhaps?"

Neither of them answers. Ratchet supposes that her attitude makes her lose some of her appeal, though he would prefer to think that her obvious drunkenness be enough of a deterrent. Anyway they both turn back to each other and murmur again, and the woman turns around and continues her search for a seat.

Very unfortunately, she seems to think Ratchet's corner is where she ought to go.

He looks back to his almost-empty plate as she approaches, resisting the urge to stare when he hears her stumble. She sits at the table next to his with another loud groan. Immediately, his nose fills with the sick-sweet smell of alcohol, and his headache worsens. He can't resist the urge to throw her a dark look.

She catches it. "What?" she spits at him.

Ratchet looks away and grunts, "Nothing."

She puts her feet over the chair facing her. Fishnet stockings run up her legs and reappear on her stomach, catching against the jewelry that hangs from her bellybutton. It is almost swallowed by the folds of her skin in this position, but even so, Ratchet can count the ribs on her.

This is a world he knows nothing of, he thinks idly, finishing his water. She must be coming from the club he sees on his way to and from the hospital; he can't imagine that she dresses this way for everyday business, or at least, he hopes she doesn't. The perspective is tinted with disapproval.

The woman shakes her complicated hairstyle over a shoulder as she drinks, and Ratchet sees that her hair is sticky in places, too. His nose twitches faintly.

"Been looking enough, old man?" she asks suddenly.

Ratchet's face burns.

"I wasn't—" he tries, but can't finish.

The woman laughs. It is a cruel and joyless sort of laughter, one obviously meant for mocking. "Getting your hopes up?" she says, finally looking at him. Her brown eyes look almost black under the harsh lighting. "I've been felt up enough tonight, so I'll have to decline."

"I was not getting my hopes up," Ratchet replies curtly, hoping to pour enough disgust in his voice for his message to come across.

The thought alone would be outrageous even if his preferences leaned that way.

He knows he should leave it at that, but he adds: "I was simply thinking that you should learn some manners."

Ratchet has always been a spiteful person. Twenty years of Optimus's kindness were not enough to fully wash this out of him.

The woman's smirk wanes. "Oh, yeah?" she replies. Her feet leave the chair she has put them on so she can face him fully.

Her eyes are bloodshot. He wonders distantly if alcohol is all that he should blame it for, if perhaps she has more substances in her system wreaking havoc on her judgment. The yellow light of the diner turns her brown skin almost pallid; it is difficult to try and see if anything in her complexion is amiss because of it. Her hands, at least, do not shake.

"Is that what you are?" she asks lowly. "A teacher? You wanna teach me manners, huh?"

Ratchet realizes what situation he is in with the strength of a door slamming in one's face.

What is he doing? He's just come out of work. He is exhausted, bone-weary, almost unable to stand. He doesn't want to be having spats at five in the morning with drunken women young enough to be his daughters.

What he wants is to go home and lie in bed next to his husband. What he wants is Optimus's arm around his ever-softening middle as he slowly, finally, falls asleep.

"Never mind," he says roughly.

The woman blinks in surprise, but he is already standing up and turning away from her. He drops money on the table, heedless of just how much he actually needs to pay and tip and hoping it is enough. If not, he'll come back tomorrow and apologize, he thinks. When the angry woman next to him is not glaring at him hatefully.

It is this hour before dawn when summer heat finally lets up; when coolness spreads over the desert and turns living into an easier task. Ratchet walks quickly to his apartment building, leaving the darker part of town where the hospital stands and heading between lower houses with gardens. He hears the sound of running water near one of the only houses whose neat lawn hasn't burned. Now he knows how grass has stayed so miraculously green on that side of the road.

Optimus is asleep when he comes home. Ratchet showers quickly, keeping the water cool, sweet-scented shampoo making him sneeze once or twice. He brushes his teeth and lathers cream over his hands to fight off the dryness caused by too many gloves and too much scrubbing.

When he finally slips into bed, he has all but forgotten the rude woman in her skimpy yellow outfit. Optimus hums when Ratchet kisses his cheek, rolling over to his side so he can press them close together and murmur, "Good morning."

"Good morning," Ratchet replies. "You can still sleep a little."

Optimus shakes his head. It drags over the pillow so he can be close enough to push their lips together. It is awkward and infinitely chaste, the furnace of Optimus's body under the sheets rendering any thought of actual desire null, but it is enough. Ratchet chuckles low in his throat as he pulls away. He rubs a hand over Optimus's shoulder, content to feel skin with his palm and nothing more.

It is enough. This is enough.

He's found his happiness long ago.

Ratchet goes two weeks without seeing the woman again. She isn't on his thoughts at all; he meets his fair share of odd strangers every day he works in the ER, and he's long learned to let live and let go.

There is a new patient in his ward, a little girl with awful asthma called Jacqueline. "Jack," she says every time a breathless fit strikes her and he has to run to the small room she shares with Rafael. "My name's Jack."

"Jack," Ratchet agrees, because he knows how children work and he knows, feels, that this is important to her. "Now, Jack, please take your pills."

The boyish little girl beams at him through her sweat-drenched, red face, and obeys.

Jack is a problem child in all the ways except those parents would recognize. She isn't boisterous or loud or rude in anyway; in fact she is one of the sweeter patients he has, hardly ever in need of authority from the nurses and other staff. Compared with Miko, whose room is next to hers, she is a harbinger of peace. But Jack has the kind of asthma that common medicine cannot fix. Several interviews with the girl's mother inform Ratchet that she has already been tested on for new and more powerful drugs. Some worked, others did not. It is up to him to figure out how to help this time.

Jack is the last person Ratchet sees before leaving that night. Sometimes she doesn't wake up through her attacks at all, and it is the case that time. Bee comes running for Ratchet at almost half past three, guiding him to the girl's room, where in her sleep she suffocates.

It is never easy to see children in pain. It doesn't become habit no matter how many years Ratchet works himself to the bone. Jack is not one of those he will see leave for the morgue downstairs, but watching her struggle to breathe because of heat and pollution and other such factors he cannot in any way control makes his heart heavy. Ratchet is still thinking of her when he leaves an hour later, walking through the chill of early morning and watching the sky turn grey. He enters the diner without a word. He asks for toast and marmalade despite his own doctor's advice against eating sweet things—tonight, today, he needs it.

The person behind the counter is a boy this time, younger and more polite than the girl he saw there last. He smiles and talks with a chirp, putting his best effort toward pleasing Ratchet and earning himself a tip. Ratchet wants to tell him that there is no need, that he should keep his energy for more difficult clients; he always tips.

He only sees her when he is halfway to his usual corner.

Her outfit this time is a tad less exuberant than the last. There is no crisscrossing fishnet over her legs and middle, only bare skin and denim shorts and a wide-open pink shirt. She's knotted it over her midriff to show the jewelry there, and Ratchet sees despite himself how low the open collar dips before it meets black cloth. A tank top, perhaps, or simply underwear.

She's seen him too. He can feel recognition in her squinting glare, and he considers turning on his heels and heading for a different table at the other side of the diner, but that would be akin to admitting defeat. That would be like painting himself as one of those people to whom youth is cause for fear.

Ratchet is fifty-two years old. He's not scared of a woman who looks thirty at most and must weigh less than half what he does.

So he sits at his usual table—right next to hers—and starts spreading jam over his burned toast. It doesn't quite erase the bitter taste of blackened bread when he bites into it, but at least there is sweetness. He eats deliberately slowly, washing down the bitterness with mouthfuls of orange juice, feeling all the while that he is being stared at.

He's almost done with his plate when she speaks. "Back again," she throws his way. Her voice this time is almost kinder.

Ratchet looks at her. There is an untouched glass full of amber liquid in front of her, the ice in it almost completed melted. It has separated into tiny slices over the surface of the drink, floating idly round each other.

"I made an impression, didn't I?" she asks when he gives no sign of answering. "Am I tormenting your dreams, old man?"

"I'm married," Ratchet replies dryly.

The woman laughs. Her shoulders widen with the movement; she throws her head back, loud and mocking as he will never be used to, pink cloth shaking over her heaving chest. "Like that means anything these days," she says at last, wiping tears from the corner of her eyes in one theatrical motion.

Ratchet clenches his teeth reflexively.

As it turns out, she iscin a talkative mood. Though the width and hazardousness of her movements tell him that she has already drunk enough, she seems more clear-headed this time. Her tongue is less sharp with her insults. "I hate that stupid club," she says to him, pushing her glass around with one bright-red nail. "Can't go take a piss without some sweaty guy trying to grope me."

He has no idea what to say to that. He takes another sip of the juice, noticing that the glass is almost empty now. The boy at the counter is eyeing him with an enthusiasm that borders on despair.

"I know what you're thinking—you're thinking, oh, she dresses like a slut, she just loves to complain." Ratchet's glass hits painfully against his teeth in surprise—the woman doesn't wait for him to retort either in assent or denial, she simply goes on, "Well, I'm supposed to dress like this, you know? That's just what you do in sorry places like that. You think I like caking myself with makeup that no one's going to notice anyway since it's so goddamn dark?" She marks a pause. "Scratch that, I love makeup. I could still do without the groping."

"I'm," Ratchet attempts. He clears his throat. "Well, of course. I… don't think anyone would enjoy it."

She stares at him oddly. She must have as little idea what he means as he does himself. "Yes," she says anyway. "No one does. But my boyfriend goes there for business, and since I work with him, I have to go too."

Ratchet hums and hopes it is enough of an answer.

"I work so much," she moans. She pushes her glass away on the table and lies her head over its surface. Ratchet is half-tempted to tell her about how unhygienic that is, but she seems so happy smudging her cheek against the cold plastic that the will leaves him at once. "Lord, I work so much. Never get a moment's rest. Who does he think is keeping this whole business afloat, huh? It's certainly not him. Hey," she calls suddenly, startling him. "What kind of job do you have? Why're you always out so late?"

"I'm a pediatric surgeon," he replies before he can think better of it.

She stares at him with wide eyes. With her face crushed sideways over the table, it gives her a strange, owlish look. "I wasn't expecting that," she says. "I was thinking maybe a pimp, but for those really high-end escorts, you know. You're sort of posh."

"Excuse me?" Ratchet splutters.

"But you're actually a doctor," she continues, unhindered. "Pediatric… that means kids, doesn't it. You take care of kids?"

He's still in the middle of coughing out the spit he swallowed the wrong way. He looks down at himself in something of a panic—he's wearing brown slacks and a white shirt, nothing unusual at all, nothing he thinks would pin him as involved in anything so… so tasteless.

"Right," he answers at last, his voice shaky. "I, yes, I take care of children. At the hospital."

"Night shift?" At his nod, she adds, "That's tough. At least kids sleep at that time—must be quiet."

"Sometimes," he says wearily.

She gives him a curious look, but he doesn't elaborate.

"Well, my job's nothing as glamorous, but it pays well," she declares. "Didn't need to bury myself in student debt to get it either. I'm good at what I do," she adds angrily.

Ratchet has a feeling that she's not addressing him anymore. "I'm sure," he mutters.

"I'm the one who has to find those contractors and make sure we don't go bankrupt and stand there and look pretty while they drool over my ass," she says. "What does he do? What does he even do? He'd be nothing without me. He can—"

She stops herself before finishing that sentence. With one hand she pushes herself off the surface of the table, her cheek parting with the plastic stickily, and then she grabs her glass and downs half of it in one go. Ratchet watches with something like apprehension as she turns toward him again. There's a red circle on her face where it was stuck to the table.

"I'm not useless and I'm not a stupid little bitch," she tells him, looking furious.

"Er," Ratchet replies. "I suppose not."

"When I leave his sorry ass, he'll be begging for me to come back."

"I'm sure."

"Good," the woman says. She takes another sip of her drink, slams the glass over the table loudly, and repeats: "Good."

Then she turns sideways on her chair until she is fully facing him, legs and all, and she says: "Let's fuck."

Ratchet's mind goes entirely blank.

"I—I'm sorry?" he lets out what feels like an eternity later.

The woman rolls her eyes at him, he thinks. She's rising from her chair and approaching his with swaying steps. "You and me," he hears distantly. "I know he's cheating on me anyway, I might as well do the same."

Her hand rests on his shoulder, nails like claws digging into the cotton of his shirt until he can feel them on his skin; she bends down over him with a smile, her pupils blown wide open, the corner of her eyes smudged with golden eyeliner. The line of her top dips lower over the swell of her fabricated breasts.

Ratchet pushes her away a little too roughly. She stumbles back over to her table, her hip hitting the corner of it and making her grunt with pain.

"Oh, shit, I'm," he says in a panic. "I'm sorry—didn't mean to—I'm married. Married!"

"And I'm taken, whatever!" she replies, looking more offended than ever before. "What the hell is wrong with you? Fine, let's not fuck then." She sits down again with her back turned to him this time. "It's not like I wanted to get freaky with some old man anyway," she adds, but he can see that her ears have turned crimson.

He's still a little winded himself. In his hurry to get away from her he has almost slipped out of his chair, and it is with a burning face that he rights his position and grabs his glass. There's nothing left in it, but it gives him something to do. A quick glance around the room tells him that they are the only customers, that the waiter from before is nowhere to be seen.

He takes a shaky breath. His heart beats too quickly in his chest. Once he is sure that his voice will be even, he says, "I apologize. I didn't mean to hurt you."

The woman waves a hand without looking at him. "Whatever."

"I'm married," he repeats. After a brief second of hesitation, he adds: "And I love my husband very much."

This gets a reaction out of her at least. She looks slowly over her shoulder until their eyes meet again, and hers have a shine of understanding in them that makes her look older and younger at once. "Husband?" she asks.

Ratchet nods tensely. His thumb rub slickly over the rim of his empty glass. "Married for five years, but we've been together for almost twenty," he replies. "But I have to say, even if—well. You're much too young, I would never—you shouldn't be… propositioning—"

She starts laughing again as he struggles for the kinder way of telling her not to have sex with random men twice her age. It is a different kind of laughter than the one she used before: softer and deeper-voiced, something almost private, he feels, as he sees her whole face flush. Though the angry lights above still wash her skin out of color, this way at least she looks healthy.

The waiter comes out of the kitchen with a fresh pot of coffee in hand. His eyes shine as he sees them talking, and he walks their way with a spring in his steps, cheerfully asking if they'd like to order something else.

"Get me a cup of that," the woman says, gesturing to the pot he holds.

The boy nods eagerly. "Sir?" he asks, turning toward Ratchet.

Ratchet opens his mouth to decline, but a look in the woman's direction quiets him.

Her stare is void of the mocking and disdain it held before. He can see that her lips are sealed tight—he can sense that she would not say anything if he chose to pay and leave now without another word for her, but there is something else as well.

Something small. Familiar. Something he finds in Jack's eyes when the girl tries to smile through her fits so that her mother won't worry; something in the ever-empty chair by Rafael's bedside that makes the boy look at him in painful yearning, that made him accidentally call him dad more than once.

Loneliness, he thinks. A disease he cannot fix by himself, though he tries.

Oh, how he tries.

"I'll have some coffee as well," Ratchet says.

The woman's mouth relaxes. She doesn't smile at him, she doesn't thank him, she says nothing at all. But Ratchet knows the many ways that a person can say thank you, and he sees one in the loose hold she has around her burning cup.

Optimus is awake when he comes home.

Warmth already seems to make the temperature inside difficult to bear. The sun is up in the sky and burning bright over the city. Ratchet makes to turn on the ceiling fan in their bedroom when he sees Optimus's open eyes—it is an old and loud thing that neither of them can sleep well with—but Optimus says, "No, leave it."

"It's too hot," Ratchet complains, approaching the bed.

He's still fully-dressed and probably smells of alcohol wipes and bad coffee. Optimus pulls him close with a deep chuckle; his hands are very warm on Ratchet's bare forearms. "Good morning," he says after a while of simply holding him. "You're late today."

"Something came up," Ratchet replies sleepily.

As crushing as summer heat is in this part of the country, as hot as Optimus's body always runs, he will never not find comfort in their proximity. Already his armpits dampen and the folds of his knees become slick, but Ratchet doesn't pull away. The circle of Optimus's arms shrouds him in warmth and drags all the sleeplessness out of him. He is left a limp shell of a man, barely hanging on to consciousness.

"Sleep well," he hears Optimus murmur—feels him press full lips to his forehead and stroke strands of grey hair away. "I'll see you for lunch."

"Mmh."

It must be recompense, Ratchet thinks, for a past life spent in asceticism. He is not the kind to believe in karma, but one would be hard-pressed not to picture a higher power of sorts in the face of such happiness. Every day he falls asleep in the arms of the man he loves. Every day he gets to see Optimus smile and to feel his arms around him.

As sleep takes his last thoughts away, he finds that they are all about the woman at the diner: her haughty words, the broken heels of her shoes, the smile she gave when Ratchet talked of Optimus that he doesn't think she meant to.

He wonders if she feels how he does about the man who shares her life.

He doesn't know how it becomes a habit, meeting her.

Ratchet is still on night shift most of the time. Jack's stay at the hospital is extended because testing takes time; most nights, she wakes once or twice in a fit of helpless gasping, and Bee or another of the nurses calls for Ratchet to come comfort her. He can see the toll that this is taking on the little girl. Her energy dwindles every day.

Ratchet runs from sick patient to sick patient for hours each day and night, trying his best to remember all their names and stories, to communicate with them in a way that shows he cares. Miko is a world of trouble, but she can be surprisingly quiet when he lets her sit in his office while he fills paperwork. Rafael waits eagerly each evening for Ratchet to pat his head and tell him he did well.

They are his in a way, these children, whether he wants them or not. They are his for the trust that their families put in him to cure all of their ills.

He arrives at the hospital as the sun sets and comes out before it is risen, and more often than not, his steps take him to the small diner with the bad food and coffee.

More often than not, she is here.

She isn't always wearing a flashy outfit, which makes him believe that she is actually going out of her way to see him. One day she shows up in bright-green heels and a dress so short it can hardly be called one; another she is nursing coffee in an expensive grey suit, sober as the dead and still as mean-tempered. Ratchet doesn't hesitate anymore to sit in his usual corner. She takes the table next to his and talks, or stays silent, or asks questions he tries not to answer too much. She never sits at his table.

As much as she speaks—as many grand declarations as she likes to make—she doesn't say much about herself. Ratchet glimpses true unhappiness under the harsh words she uses to describe her boyfriend. He feels that the insults she mockingly directs at herself are ones she has heard out of the man's mouth before, and he doesn't know whether what he feels about it is pity or something more.

She's lonely. He knew that the first time he outstayed himself in this place, so it is no surprise to witness it over and over again, but still Ratchet finds the knowledge difficult to swallow. She is young still despite the shadows that age her, no older than thirty, but she acts like someone younger. Her brashness and vitriol form a very poor defense, the fabric of which is holed, stitched up, holed again. In her colorful outfits and shiny jewelry, she looks like something fragile repeatedly slamming into walls. He wonder how many more hits she can take in one piece.

He learns that her boyfriend's name is Megatron by pure accident. She is drunker than usual that day, and already sunlight is pouring in through the windows of the room—it's late, very late, much later than Ratchet usually stays. But the woman is angry and almost black-out drunk and he doesn't feel good letting her leave on her own.

"I'll call you a taxi," he tells her when she tries to grab her purse and stand. Even this much effort makes her wobble in place; Ratchet catches her elbow before it hits painfully against the backrest of the chair. "Sit down."

"Don't order me around," she tries to bite back, but she is so mellowed that he can hardly fear her. "Stupid, fucking," she says, grabbing for her glass. She hasn't noticed that Ratchet hid it away minutes ago; she blinks at her empty hand sleepily and adds, "M'not here to be ordered around like, like trash."

He wonders what to say to that. He wonders if he should say anything.

"Never a goddamn thank you," she says. Her eyes are unfocused when they look at Ratchet. "'Thank you'," she parrots, "not so hard now, is it? Is it?"

"No, it's not," Ratchet replies placatingly.

She smiles. It is nothing kind at all. "You think I'm crazy," she tells him. "You all do."

"I don't think that at all."

"Hah! Liar. That's fine, though. At least I know you're not just waiting to jump me."

He can feel himself flush; she tends to bring the embarrassed teenager out of him, somehow. "Indeed," he agrees. "Here, drink some water." He puts his own half-empty glass on her table.

He places a quick call to a taxi company while she holds the glass, unhappy to hear that no one will be around for another half an hour. When he hangs up and looks at her again, he sees that she hasn't touched the water at all.

"You should drink," he says again.

She'll be in a world of pain if she doesn't. She must know it too, judging by the number of times he has seen her in a degree of inebriation, but all she does is stare emptily at the glass. "Will you tell me more about your husband?" she asks then.

Ratchet tenses.

It's not that he isn't used to such questions. The children at the hospital are curious about him too: they ask if he has children, if his wife is very beautiful. His more distant colleagues have assumptions of their own as well. He can get away with lying to them because age has made him resistant to guilt, but this woman already knows. He has already come out to her in a spur of embarrassed honesty.

Her eyes are bright under the haziness of drinking. She always seems younger when the subject arises, her words kept firmly away from scorn no matter how hurtful she can be. He can find nothing but curiosity out of her.

"If you drink," he says at last.

Her smile is absent. She drags the glass to her lips and sips, slow and deliberate, almost cat-like.

"Optimus and I met at a wedding," he starts.

She snorts loudly. "Romantic."

"Well, yes. It was, very." Ratchet has to take a moment to compose the rest of his words; those memories are old now—decades old—and he doesn't often revisit them. He has no need to hang on to past happiness when every day by Optimus's side feels like a first meeting. "He was the groom's best man," he says. "I remember the suit he wore—a very nice and elegant grey. He had a white flower in his breast pocket."

"This is boring," she sighs.

Ratchet smiles weakly and adds, "I remember because I spilled wine all over it."

He hears her breathe in, sees the corner of her lips shake almost into a smile.

"I was so very awkward. Back then… well, let us just say that I was better off hiding my preferences than disclaiming them. The bride was a distant cousin of mine—I didn't know her very well—but Optimus was going around talking to the guests, and eventually he came to talk to me. The party was beautiful, they had rented a whole wine cave for it and hired a decorated chef for the food. He came to talk to me—I was standing alone in a corner while everyone danced—and I became so flustered that I dropped my wine over his jacket."

She laughs her mocking, cruel laugh.

Ratchet can't quite stop himself from smiling either. It is surprisingly easy to narrate this to her, drunk though she is. Part of him hopes that she will not remember a word of it, but a bigger—better—part thinks, Even if she does, it's fine.

He tells her of Optimus's booming laughter when the wine spilled and Ratchet hurried to clean it with napkins. He remembers falling in love with that laughter and smile more than the rest of him at first; he recalls the warmth of his handshake, the sight of their hands linked together in the dark of the wide room as couples danced on the ground not very far away.

"I would love to meet you again," Optimus had said.

Ratchet had kissed him that same night on the side of the road, after most of the other guests had left. The sun was rising over the horizon, crisp and springly, paling the fields around to blue. He had stood on his tiptoes and put his lips to Optimus's.

"A first kiss on the first night," the woman says, toying with the empty water glass. Under her heavy sarcasm, Ratchet senses envy. "I would've thought you'd make him pine for months, you're so proper."

Ratchet blushes at her words. "Things were different back then," he replies.

"How lucky. What a boring, romantic story."

There is no sign yet of the taxi he called. The waitress at the counter—the same one as the day Ratchet and the woman met—is bobbing her head to the rhythm of a song, earbuds sticking out of her ears, her apron stained with coffee. They are alone in the diner. It feels like they're alone in the world.

The woman next to him says, "I wish I'd met Megatron like that."

It is an odd name, Ratchet thinks. "How did you meet him?" he asks carefully.

She snorts again. "How do you think? At a party. We had sex in some bedroom and he said he wanted to see me again." She pauses and adds, "I said yes."

He doesn't know if he hopes or dreads to hear regret in her voice. He doesn't know what it is he hears, instead.

"Forget I said that," she says then with a sort of calculated nonchalance.

"What?" he replies. "I didn't—"

But he meets her eyes and falls silent.

There are things she isn't telling him. A great many things, about herself, about her job—about the boyfriend she so loves to dislike. He sees a warning in her eyes that makes her look more sober than she truly is, and it is enough to stay his words.

He thinks about the name again in the days that follow. The woman doesn't show up for a few days, and Ratchet is alone when he eats his eggs and drinks his water and tips the waiters of the diner overly much. Megatron; an odd name, a name that makes him think of bulky handymen in action movies or smirking villains in leather armchairs.

He realizes that he has never asked for the woman's name.

He tells her so the next time he sees her. She looks at him in silence for what feels likes minutes before answering, "Starscream."

"What kind of name is that?" he scoffs.

He expects her to laugh, to snap at him. Instead she puts her chin into the palm of her hand, her long black hair falling over her shoulder, and replies, "It's a name, and I like it."

Her tone is absolute.

He doesn't understand what she means by it for a long time after that. Starscream continues to show up sporadically over the next few months; sometimes she arrives before him, sometimes she shows up as he is about to leave. Sometimes she is drunk in her sharp suits, sometimes she saunters in on needle-like heels and with all of her legs bare to the light, and she is stone-cold sober. He can't figure out what she wants from him, and at the same time, he can. He can't understand why she sometimes enters the room with an elegance to her that makes heads turn around, and why she sometimes stumbles in wearing torn tights and broken shoes, her hair matted with liquor.

The first time he sees a bruise on her, they have known each other for two months.

It is nothing serious, nothing requiring attention except maybe some over-the-counter salve. It could almost be innocuous. But Ratchet sits at his table with a plateful of beans and eggs and cannot stop looking at the dark spot over her wrist. He feels deeply unsettled, he realizes, and even more so when she greets him and he understands that she is drunk once more.

He sees no other signs of violence on her. He never has. No, all the violence is in her voice and attitude; it is in the words she uses about others and about herself, in the way she so clearly thinks to have reclaimed power over them, even as she keeps twisting the knife.

That night Ratchet asks her, "Why do you stay with him?"

He feels unbelievable foolish in the second that follows. This is perhaps the poorest, least thoughtful question he has ever asked someone—really, Why do you stay with him? Isn't he a doctor? Hasn't he seen enough of those women in emergency rooms, silent and skittery while a husband watches from the corner and Ratchet applies gauze, applies lotion, sutures wounds? Hasn't he seen those children before—does he ask them why they stay with their families?

Starscream was in the middle of yet another tirade about this man, this Megatron, whose name she has never pronounced again. She stops mid-word and looks at him, flushed with alcohol and irritation, brittle under the flickering light. Then the light shifts again and she is once more solid as a rock.

"Why not?" is her reply. She shrugs with one of her nasty smiles on. Ratchet eyes the bruise on her wrist, thinks that it must be almost invisible in regular daylight. Thinks that if not for the neons above turning her skin lighter, she could bear many more bruises of the kind with no one the wiser.

He doesn't realize how much he has come to care until that thought makes his hands shake.

"He is obviously unkind to you," he tries.

This is a lost fight, he knows; but he tries.

"Forgive me, but you don't look like you love him very much."

"It isn't about love," she sneers. She touches one long nail to the rim of her glass. Today, her pink polish is flaking. "Not anymore anyway. Plus, there's a lot of advantages to being with him—and he'd come running if I left, so why bother? It's not like it's always bad. He's done some good things."

Textbook answers. Predictable answers. Ratchet feels like he is reading out of one of the pamphlets on domestic abuse that his colleagues from the psych ward leave in their offices. It's five in the morning on a Saturday, and he wants nothing more than to order whiskey for himself.

"What good things?" he asks again.

Starscream marks a long pause before replying, "He paid for my surgeries."

The question is on the tip of Ratchet's tongue with simple strength of habit. He looks up from the bruise to observe her face and finds her looking deliberately away. He shuts his mouth. He thinks, pauses. Realizes. Blushes.

He forces out: "I see," in the most neutral tone he can manage.

He suddenly wants to hit himself for judging her on what he once noticed of her cosmetic surgeries.

Starscream snorts. "Oh, please," she tells him in obvious attempt to unburden the air. Her hand is not as assured as always when she waves off the silence; Ratchet hears the rings on her fingers clink loudly against glass when she grabs her drink again. "If you start making a big deal of this after telling me about your tragically boring homosexual love story, I'll really have to drink myself to death."

"We wouldn't want that," Ratchet says mutedly.

"No," she replies. "We would not."

He orders whiskey.

Optimus says nothing when he slides under the cover that morning. Summer is slowly abating, the crushing desert heat withering down into milder temperatures. They can sleep close together without Optimus kicking the sheet away for air. They don't need the loud ceiling fan anymore. Ratchet knows he smells like alcohol and smoke—Starscream walked out with him into the rising sun, a long Camel hanging from the corner of her mouth, freshly-reapplied lipstick leaving stains on the filter. Ratchet stayed long enough by her side before their paths diverged for the scent to cling to him. He knows what he smells like, he knows what this looks like, but Optimus embraces him and says nothing.

Ratchet murmurs, "I met someone."

"Mmh."

"I'm not having an affair."

Optimus chuckles. "You come home hours late and smelling like a woman," he says. Ratchet blushes into his shoulder and pinches the soft of Optimus's belly. "I know you're not having an affair, Ratchet," his husband says against his forehead. "I trust you."

"Good," Ratchet replies. "Good, because you're the only oaf in this world that I want."

Once, there had been doubt.

Optimus is a wise and kind man, the kindest Ratchet has ever met. He fell in love at the age of thirty-two watching this marvel of a man smile at him, and he has never fallen out since then. But one cannot control how someone else feels, and there was a time someone else came to feel for Ratchet in the same way Optimus does.

Wheeljack was young and handsome. Full of energy, determined to have his way. Ratchet could never have kept up with him even if he had wanted to. But it had been the first time anything threatened his relationship with Optimus so, and Optimus, like any other man, had felt jealousy. The experience at least had the benefit of washing away the very last of Ratchet's idolizing.

He rubs his forehead against Optimus's shoulder. Optimus's hand runs over his back once, twice, and again.

"Tell me about her," he says.

He is attentive as Ratchet speaks. He never interrupts him except to ask questions. He listens to Ratchet's frustrations and worries, shares the heavy weight on his heart about the bruise and the harsh words, about the drinking and smoking. He presses his thumb to Ratchet's shoulder when Ratchet berates himself for not noticing sooner and tells him for the thousandth time that he is not Atlas, and that the world is not to be born upon one's shoulders.

"You sound so old when you say that," Ratchet tells him.

"It makes my student lower their defenses," Optimus replies. "It's easier to surprise them that way."

They laugh into each other's face. They spend those languid morning hours in each other's embrace.

"You should invite her for dinner," Optimus declares as Ratchet is freshening up in the bathroom. His voice carries over the length of their apartment smoothly, deeply. "This Starscream."

"You must be joking, Optimus. She's nothing like any acquaintance of ours."

The thought is preposterous—Starscream, here? He tries for a moment to imagine her sitting at their table, in the middle of their antiquated furniture. Starscream looks at home in that garish diner and in her bright makeup and jewelry. Her too-sharp knees and elbows would shatter his plates and flower vases. Her too-sharp tongue would damage the peace he has built here painstakingly.

Optimus appears in the frame of the bathroom door. All those years he has managed to keep some of build he sported when they met, though his shirt falls open round his middle without revealing quite such a jutting hipbone. Still, he is beautiful. Ratchet fills his eyes with him as he brushes his teeth; he thinks of an hour ago, when his fingers were running over buzzed, frizzy hair, when his knuckles dug into soft skin and hard muscle.

"You like her," Optimus says.

Ratchet can lie, but not to him.

Starscream is more jittery than usual when he meets her a week later. She comes into the diner dressed in that same awful yellow outfit he first saw her wearing, looking sober but frayed at the edges, her makeup mostly gone. For the first time he notices the thin white scar that runs vertically right above her left eyebrow. It is usually masked by concealer.

She sits next to him in silence at first. This is not unusual—she is always the first to open their conversation, and it sometimes takes a while for her to do so. Ratchet eats his breakfast slowly, staring idly at the couple other customers in the room. One man has not stopped stealing glances at the girls sitting next to him, though his eyes deviate every now and then in Starscream's direction. The two girls he observes are deep into their own conversation, drinking coffee and laughing.

Finally, Starscream seems to relax. She sighs and says, "Sorry I haven't been around. Something came up at work."

Ratchet glances at her arms and legs quickly. He finds no sign of any other bruise. "That is fine," he replies. "It's not like we ever set a schedule."

It makes her laugh in a somewhat defeated way.

Talking is easier after that. Today's target for Starscream's vitriol is not Megatron but another man, whom Ratchet understands out of her disjointed complaining is a business opponent of sorts causing her some trouble. He nods when she looks like she is waiting for him to, shakes his head when her monologue turns ruder than he appreciates. She calls him an old prude and smiles.

"What's with you today?" she asks an hour later, when the pace of their conversation has turned slower. "You should've called me foolish at least twice by now."

The diner has emptied out. The man and the two girls are gone, replaced by some early risers with dark circles under their eyes, one of whom has a small service dog at his feet.

Ratchet clears his throat and says, "I'd like to invite you to dinner." Immediately he flusters and adds, "That is, Optimus and I would like to have you for dinner. If you would like."

Starscream falls very silent.

He is not discreet in staring at her, he knows. She must feel his uncertainty from a mile off, ruthless as she is, and it is a wonder that she does not immediately make use of it to torment him, to mock him for his attachment. But she is looking down at the cup in her hands unblinkingly, silently, her face paler than even the bad lighting warrants. She doesn't look happy.

"Starscream?" he asks softly.

It is the first time he calls her directly by name. She seems startled for a second before her smirk wipes it away. "Dinner," she says. "At your place?"

He nods. "Yes, whenever it suits you."

After another silence, she asks: "You told your husband about me?"

"I've been coming home late without explanation for months," he replies. "Of course I had to tell him about you eventually. I don't lie to him."

"That must be nice," she says. "Not lying."

He doesn't know what to say to that.

Quiet stretches between them. Ratchet has nothing left in his plate and two empty glasses in front of him. He fingers the outline of his phone inside his jacket. He never thinks of taking it out whenever he is with her, but this silence is heavy, uncomfortable. The need to distract himself from it beats like headache at his temples.

"You don't have to," he says at last, but she cuts in, "No."

"No, I'll come. It's fine. When?"

She still doesn't look happy. Ratchet makes plans with her for the following Wednesday evening, when he is not on shift and her own schedule matches—he gives her his address and his cellphone number—but she doesn't smile except to mock. She doesn't laugh except to deride. It is rare that he feels warmth from her, or any kind of true affection, but he expected it for this at least. Her loneliness has always been the most obvious of her plights.

"I should go," she says almost as soon as she has pocketed the paper on which he scribbled his information. He is tempted to ask if she would rather he send it to her via text—he is a doctor, and his handwriting suffers from it—but he has no time to. She stands from her seat, drops a couple bills over the table, and adds, "See you Wednesday."

Then she is gone almost as quickly as she came.

Optimus is curious when he tells him about it, but not worried. "She's a young woman," he says, sounding very wise. "Of course she is worried about spending dinner with two older men she doesn't know."

"She knows enough to know neither of us is interested in taking advantage of her," Ratchet replies dryly.

He's been talking and arguing and drinking with her for months. Always at the same crappy diner near the worst club in town, always in the middle of the night. Whatever her issue with the invitation is, Ratchet doubts it has to do with his and Optimus's gender, or with her going alone somewhere.

"I shall invite Arcee too," Optimus grunts, rolling to the other side of the bed so he can grab his phone. "Perhaps her presence will help Starscream feel more at ease. It has been a while since you two saw each other as well."

"I'm sure she misses me terribly."

"I have always said your sarcasm is one of your least attractive qualities."

Ratchet gives Optimus enough time to finish his text before pinning him to the bed.

For the following hour he thinks nothing of Starscream, of her cutting edges and bruised wrist, of her smile like a million needles. He kisses his husband as if he is still thirty, makes love to him in approximation of what their first night together was. Optimus's laughter and moans waft hotly over his face. Sweat slicks the sheets they are laid in as Ratchet moves over and in him, kissing everywhere he can reach, pressing his palms over black skin and twisting his fingers in black hair. He is almost fifty-three years old. He is almost fifty-three, but although his back aches with the exertion of lovemaking as it did not always, his heart burns out of the same flame.

He doesn't see Starscream at all until Wednesday. He half-expected her to abuse the trust he has put in her by giving him his number, but there is no sign of any unsolicited texts or calls. It makes him nervous for reasons he can't fathom. He finds himself thinking of her during his longer working nights, in-between Jack's coughing fits and Rafael's sleeplessness. He sits in his office filing paperwork and sees sharp smiles in the shadows.

He and Optimus cook together all of Wednesday afternoon. It is anything but quiet; they have put on music, turned on their TV. Their hips knock together when they work side by side. Ratchet forgoes his suit jackets in favor of a pale blue cardigan which he knows Starscream will make fun of and Optimus will say compliments his eyes.

Arcee arrives at six o'clock sharp. "Optimus," she says warmly the second she crosses the threshold, her thin arms embracing Optimus tightly. Then—"Ratchet. You look older."

"So do you," Ratchet grumbles.

She doesn't. Arcee is a knife of a woman, unbothered by her early-greying hair or the laugh lines around her face. She shows up now wearing the same kind of sharp suit she presents to her students and occasional lady loves, face bare of any makeup and hair cut overly short around her ears. She laughs at him good-naturedly and embraces him too; Ratchet puts up a front of hostility, but he knows she can feel him soften in her arms.

They talk easily, cheerfully, as they wait for Starscream to arrive. Arcee is curious about her of course. Optimus fills in the blanks that Ratchet is reluctant to—"They have an ongoing affair of having bad coffee together at five in the morning," he declares, and Arcee replies, "I'd be worried if I were you, Optimus. Ratchet's rarely met anyone he approves of."

Time passes. Six turns to six-thirty, then seven. Ratchet starts checking his phone for missed calls or texts a little too frequently. A fifteen past seven Optimus breaks the appetizers out, entertaining Arcee with mild conversation but shooting him worried glances.

"I guess she must have been held back," Ratchet says when the clock strikes eight. "Let's eat, you must be famished, Arcee."

The food is excellent. In all ways, this is a pleasant evening: Arcee and Optimus satisfy each other with stories of their students, none of whom overlap because physics and philosophy are too-far-removed majors—"A shame," Optimus says, "for they have much in common"—and Ratchet finds, occasionally, the mood to laugh.

His throat is tight by the time dessert comes. Optimus delays Arcee's departure in gentle and unobtrusive ways. If she notices, she makes no comment at all. Yes, in many ways, dinner is a lovely affair.

Starscream never shows up.

Miko shakes with energy for the whole duration of his next night at the hospital.

Three different times a nurse comes to fetch Ratchet from his office, frayed and worried because she is not in her room, or not in her bed, or nowhere at all. On the third offense he finds her playing with old dolls in the third floor waiting room; she cries, "Doctor Prime!" at the sight of him, her small fists waving the broken arm of a toy his way, her face somehow smudged with dirt.

He scolds her. He has to drag her back to her room in spite of the ruckus she makes that wakes many more patients. This is the oncology floor, he tries to explain to her, the men and women here need as much rest as they can, but she won't hear a word of it. She yells and twists her small hand in his grasp and tries to run back to the toys. Bee has to bring an armful of them to her room for her to finally calm down, and then again, she doesn't sleep. Ratchet knows that her medication is the cause for the surplus of energy. She is just a child, not even seven years old; she cannot understand the full scope of her own actions, or why they might be a bother to him or to others.

He apologizes to the people she has woken up in person. Some smile indulgently despite the stark weakness that chemo keeps them in and which necessitates as much recuperation as they can handle. Others lecture him, and Ratchet sees the circles under their eyes, the underskin ports at their clavicles or the scarves they wear to hide their shaven heads, and cannot find it in himself to indulge in frustration.

"This is hard for you," the hospital head tells him when four o'clock rolls around. She is the administrator on duty for the night, and she has come in half an hour ago to oversee the admittance of a crush injury patient requiring immediate surgery. Ratchet greeted her when he came out of Miko's room—she took him aside for a talk. "You've been on night shift for too long."

"It's nothing unexpected," he replies, trying to keep fatigue out of his voice. "If it weren't me it would be someone else."

She hums thoughtfully. "Someone expressed that they would not mind switching to night shift on this floor," she says. "How would you feel about working regular hours again?"

Ratchet thinks of waking with the sun, of preparing breakfast for Optimus and driving him to university. He thinks of lunch breaks taken together in Optimus's paper-strewn office, of reading by his side in bed until their eyes tire out.

"I'll think about it," he replies tightly.

"Please do. You can take a few days to give me your answer."

He isn't thinking of Starscream for perhaps the first time in days when he enters the diner, which is reason enough, he supposes, for her to be there and waiting.

He has no clue how to feel when he sees her hunched over his table in their usual corner. Not her table, but his. The plate he is holding is hot to the touch—just coming out of the washer—but he forgets the discomfort in favor of trying to experience anger, or disappointment, or worry.

"Starscream," he says coldly when he reaches her side.

She lifts her head at the sound of his voice. It only takes one look at her face for Ratchet to forget all about scolding her.

He drops his plate and glass on the table in a hurry, almost spilling his eggs all over it. "What happened?" he asks, extending a hand toward the ugly purple bruise on her cheekbone that she hasn't managed to conceal fully.

She slaps his hand away. "It's nothing," she replies. "So, how was work?"

He knows he is staring at her with his mouth open like a fool. She doesn't look back—she is too busy examining her own nails in boredom—but the effect is broken by the rest of her. Her outfit is as skimpy and colorful as ever, her hair styled into a complex bread over her nape, but her eyes are bloodshot. She smells of liquor. The side of her face is swollen.

"Did you go to the hospital?" he asks, sitting down in front of her.

She rolls her eyes. "It's just a bruise," she sneers. "Not the end of the world."

"It could be more than a bruise. You could have a fractured cheekbone—"

"Oh, shut up, will you? If I wanted to see a doctor I'd see one. I can speak, I can eat, it doesn't bother me."

There is true aggression in her words, not simply the fake kind she likes to harbor around him. Ratchet's lips thin in frustration.

"Did your boyfriend do that?" he asks lowly.

It is the first time he asks so directly.

He has known, he knew, that she was living dangerously. He has not forgotten the bruise around her wrist so worriedly shaped after a man's hand, or how carefully she avoids citing any names, any places of employment. He knows she has money. He knows she holds some sort of responsibility-heavy job. He knows that at least twice a week, she comes out of the shady club two streets over and does nothing but complain about it, which has led him to believe that she never goes there of her own free will.

None of it paints a picture he likes to consider in full. "Is it him?" he presses. "Megatron, was it?"

"I told you to forget that name," is her scathing reply. "God, you're so annoying."

"You need to get you face checked by someone. It's still swollen, how long ago—"

"Ratchet!" she snaps.

Some heads turn in their direction. The waitress behind the counter takes out one of her earbuds and looks at them sideways. Ratchet doesn't realize how tense he is until he is left alone in that silence, heart beating against his ribs and shoulders throbbing in a solid line of pain.

"I didn't come here to talk about this crap," Starscream says. "Shut up already."

Now, of all times, he experiences resentment.

"Is that why you didn't come to dinner?" he asks. Half of him is tempted to take her hand in his as he would one of his patients; but Starscream is not a patient and not a child. He finds he doesn't want her to think him patronizing. "Were you hurt?"

"Dinner," she says. "Right. I completely forgot about that."

It is worked and rehearsed, the way she picks at her nails and puts on disinterested airs. Ratchet wants to snap and call her out on her façade. He wants to shake her, to make her realize how absurd her stubbornness is.

But Starscream is not one of his patients. She is not a child. She is an adult in full capacity of deciding things for herself, and she has never shown any appreciation for him trying to butt in on her business.

Ratchet forces his tension to abate. He toys with his food, all of his appetite gone. "We could schedule another one, if you want," he says. "Optimus would really like to meet you."

"Thanks, but I'll pass," she replies.

She sounds so matter-of-fact about it.

For a long while neither of them speaks. Ratchet forces some breakfast past the tight knot of his throat, but even freshly-pressed juice tastes to him like nothing. Starscream takes out her phone, an expensive and sleek thing in pale gold, and taps on its screen with the tips of her long nails.

He gives up on eating before his plate is even half-empty. Starscream hasn't ordered anything, no coffee, no drinks.

"I'll be back on day shift soon," he tells her.

Her nail taps against plastic. "Oh?"

"Someone offered. I'd like to spend more time with my husband."

"Good for you," she replies spitefully.

"Starscream," Ratchet says.

She pushes her chair away from the table. Now everyone is looking at them, he feels, and the spell of that corner of existence with her seems to lift at last. He can see just how ugly her expression is under all the makeup and under the purple bruise; he can see just how disgusted she looks by him and everything around her.

"I was thinking it's time I stopped coming to that mediocre place anyway," she says, shoving her phone inside her purse. "See you around, old man."

"Starscream, please wait," Ratchet says, rising after her. "I never said I wanted to stop meeting you."

"Because you so want to be spending your time sitting around this place and waiting for me to show up, is that it?" she retorts.

Ratchet hesitates. Starscream's eyes narrow in cruel pleasure.

"It was a nice enough way to pass the time," she says, slow and deliberate. "But I've got better things to do than meet your husband and play nice. I'm never nice."

"I would know," he replies between his teeth.

She huffs and turns around again. Her heels clacking against the ground as she crosses the room are the loudest noise around; the chime rings for a long second when she pulls open the front door, and in a gust of cool wind, she is gone.

Ratchet makes no move to stop her.

The children are happy to see him during the day. They are surprised at first—so little is enough to perturb their habits—but they adapt quickly. Miko takes to leaving her classes and other activities every time she sees him roam a corridor so she can follow after him. Rafael likes the opportunity to talk to him instead of dozing on and off in his company. Jack's asthma becomes more manageable with the trials she is running, and soon enough her mother can take her home.

It's a somewhat tearful goodbye. Ratchet hadn't realized just how close those three have become in the ward, and the sight of Rafael and Miko sobbing on each other while Jack hides her face in her mother's jacket almost tugs a tear out of him.

Bee, of course, is openly crying. Ratchet finds him in the nurses' office with a half-empty roll of paper towels and says, "For God's sake, get a grip, Bee."

Bee nods and rushes to his work again. When the other's back is turned, Ratchet quickly wipes his eyes.

Living a diurnal rhythm is such a comforting thing. As expected, Ratchet wakes with Optimus every morning. He lunches and dines with him every day. The tired stolen minutes of affection between them bloom into endless hours of comfortable silence, the both of them reading or watching TV together or going out at night for movies and theater.

On the nights he is on duty and cannot escape driving to the hospital, Ratchet doesn't linger. He files paperwork at his desk and performs first diagnoses for some of the emergency patients. He goes out in the dark of night and walks past the diner on his way, and he doesn't look inside.

Three months pass like this.

He doesn't think about Starscream.

He has become so good at not thinking about her, truly. At first any woman of roughly the same appearance caught his eyes no matter what she wore or where he went; a flash of bright clothes on dark skin, long black hair, too-long nails painted fluorescent. Now Ratchet can go days without even thinking her name or looking for her face in the crowd.

Why should he find her by accident now, after all? The city isn't small. If their paths never crossed before that one night and if now she wishes to stay away, there is nothing he can do to stop her. He never thought to ask for her own number. He doesn't know where she lives or works, and he would be unwilling to step foot into the club she frequented even if she had not told him that she has no wish to return there.

So he doesn't think about her. He fills his mind with thoughts of the new patients in his ward, of Optimus's latest literary love, of what bracelet or watch to get him for their coming anniversary. Arcee unwittingly helps him by arranging for a surprise party of sorts—Ratchet snorts at the idea, telling her they are way past the age of surprise parties, at least until Arcee puts Bulkhead on the phone to shut him up.

"It'll be quiet," Bulkhead swears in a not-so-quiet voice. "Come on, Ratchet."

Ratchet has never truly been able to refuse them.

It does promise to be a rather tranquil thing. They rent the back room of a nice restaurant near the main avenue, somewhere draped in old-fashioned red and gold which Arcee cannot stop herself from commenting will 'look as lovingly ancient as you two'. Ratchet reminds her dryly that she is only seven years short of hitting her own half-century.

Family comes. Not from Ratchet's side—they have never quite forgiven his lack of interest in women—but from Optimus's. His mother cries on the phone with him, speaking of how happy her late husband would be, asking after Ratchet's health and eating habits. It is nothing he didn't expect from her, but Ratchet has long lost his own mother. Her concern means something to him that he cannot name.

Optimus must be suspecting something if only for Ratchet's insistence on spending their anniversary night at home, but he plays along. He is delighted when Ratchet tells him to wear something nice and drives him to the restaurant. His smiles are wide and warm when he greets Bulkhead and his mother, when he embraces Arcee.

They eat. They laugh. Optimus tells stories of how a few of his students learned mysteriously about the anniversary and prepared fake essays in his honor; he reads two of them with a seriousness that drives Bulkhead into spilling his first wine glass of the evening.

Ratchet smiles into his own drink. The night is the right side of cool when he steps outside for some fresh air, deep black and welcoming the way only late winter can be. His is pleasantly buzzed from wine and food and company. He pictures by his side the lit end of a long cigarette, held between two painted fingers.

His phone vibrates against his thigh. He takes it out with a fumble, almost dropping it to the wet ground before he manages to firmly catch it. The number on the screen is not one he recognizes, which drags a faint frown out of him. It is way too late for people to be trying to sell him things.

He picks up the call anyway. "Hello?" he greets, rubbing a hand over his hair.

Silence greets him.

No, no quite silence. There is the sound of static and some feeble, watery noise, like something moving in a sink or bathtub. He is about to end the call when something else reaches him—a deep, raspy breath, the kind he hears from patients coming in with chest injuries.

"Hello?" he repeats in a tenser voice. "Can you hear—"

"You're a doctor, right."

Ratchet's mind blanks out.

"Starscream?" he all but shouts into the receiver.

"You're too loud," she replies nonchalantly, as if this is just another night at the diner, as if she isn't calling him after months of silence and sounding like she is injured—"I need a doctor. I think."

"Where are you?" he asks. "I'll call an ambulance right away—"

"No ambulance," she cuts him off. "This isn't fucking worth it."

"Please tell me where you are," he begs.

His fingers hurt around the case of his phone. He has pushed his back off of the wall without realizing, and stands now as if ready to run whichever way she tells him to. Hearing her chuckle at him in her usual, cruel way does nothing to reassure him.

"I'm home," she says. "I think… God, this is going to sound stupid, but I think I've probably lost a kidney."

"A kidney," Ratchet repeats weakly.

"Yes. So, you might want to hurry up."

"Where are you?"

She is silent for a moment before answering, "Don't call an ambulance. Just come over."

He agrees because he feels that if he insists she will simply hang up. "Don't move anywhere," he tells her after feeling his phone buzz with her incoming text. "Don't move, please."

"Fine, but hurry," she breathes. "It's goddamn cold."

Ratchet stumbles in his hurry to reach his car and read the address she sent at once. It's not far, not far at all, somewhere he could run to in less than ten minutes and which will take him less than two by road. He calls for an ambulance right as he turns on the ignition, and then he drives with a ferocity he has never shown before.

Starscream lives at the top of a tall and sleek apartment building. The woman in the lobby watches him punch in the code with wide eyes, but Ratchet doesn't listen at all to the words she tries to shout at him—he eyes the opening doors of the elevator up front and pushes the people coming out of it from his way, pressing three times on the button to the highest floor as if it will make him rise faster.

He is all but ready to break his own shoulder forcing open her door, but there is no need. The handle moves under his shaking hand and opens easily.

"Starscream?" he calls as he steps into the dark living-room. His eyes pick up the glow of a lit flatscreen TV and shelves full of various books and trinkets; there are coats on the hanger behind the door, some of which he recognizes for having seen her wear them, but Starscream herself is nowhere in sight.

"In here," she calls.

Her voice comes from a hallway behind the white leather couch. Ratchet makes his way there running; an open door almost at the end of it lights the way, and he pushes it open with no warning.

She is sitting in the wide bathtub inside, her face entirely bloodless. For a terrifying second he thinks she will not move at all, but then her head turns around to face him, making her wet hair drag over her shoulder darkly. "Hello," she greets feebly. "Er, I'm naked, so—"

"Don't move," Ratchet orders again as he sees her try to shift in the water.

He crosses the distance between them in two steps. The water in the bath looks clean enough, only slightly pinked by her left side, where botched stitching closes a recent wound. It is cold when Ratchet touches it; there are still some ice cubes floating at the surface, which tells him that at least whoever did this had some idea of what they were up to.

"Can you at least grab me a towel or something?" she seethes, and he realizes then that she is, indeed, entirely naked.

He turns around without even the strength to blush. "Fine, but don't let it touch the wound," he replies.

He doesn't actually let her hold out her arm to take it—he places the towel over the tub for her privacy's sake and nothing else, not even allowing the fabric to wet itself with the water's surface. Who knows what sort of infection Starscream already risks.

"What happened?" he asks in a rough voice.

"That fucking bastard Silas happened," she spits out with as much viciousness as if she were not halfway into shock. "When I get my hands on him he'll learn what fear tastes like."

"Did they—"

"I just woke up like this," she cuts in. He can see already that she is working to avoid his questions, to avoiding giving too much away. "Didn't feel a thing. It hurts now, though."

"I bet," Ratchet replies weakly.

He starts hearing sirens in the distance a second or so later. Starscream's face goes hot with anger; Ratchet has to restrain her with both hands to prevent her from bolting out of the tub. "I told you not to call an ambulance!" she yells.

"What do you think this is?" he shouts back. "You think I can just show up and be ready to deal with someone missing a kidney? Who knows if that's even what they took, if they took anything? You need a fucking ambulance, you need a hospital and proper equipment," he roars, "and you're gonna sit here and accept it for once in your life."

Starscream stares at him with her mouth wide open.

He feels so tired all of a sudden. He collapses against the side of the tub, his forehead hitting cold porcelain and his breaths coming in short bursts out of his chest. There is an ache where his heart is beating off-tempo, something close to the feeling of breathlessness after running too quickly and for too long, though he hasn't even run that much. He almost jumps out of his skin when a wet hand touches his shoulder.

"Why're you dressed all nice?" Starscream mumbles from above him.

Ratchet's chuckle feels like a sob. "Today is Optimus and I's twentieth anniversary," he replies. "We were celebrating."

"Oh." She thinks for a second before adding, "Sorry about that," sounding not very sorry at all.

"I didn't even tell him I was leaving," Ratchet says.

He huffs and pushes himself away from the tub. Starscream meets his eyes for a bare second as he picks his phone up from his abandoned jacket—when did he take it off?—and sends a text to Optimus. Emergency, it simply reads.

A few seconds later a reply comes: Understood.

Footsteps echo through the empty apartment. Ratchet finds enough of a voice to call and guide the emergency team to the bathroom. He stands aside quietly as they pull Starscream out of the bath, covering her in something less hazardous than a regular towel to preserve her dignity and laying her onto a stretcher.

"Are you family?" a woman asks him in passing, and Ratchet answers, "I'm a friend."

It doesn't mean anything to her. It is simply a note at the end of a piece of paper, something to notify the police whenever they will get involved. Ratchet would like to think that this is all it means to him as well, but Starscream is watching him from the stretcher, shivering now that they are trying to keep her out of hypothermia.

It has never been just coffee, just luck. It was never another note at the end of his days, something to turn over and forget when fate shifted the pace of his living.

He thinks—he hopes—that she understands this as well.

Starscream's room is located two floors beneath the pediatric ward. It is oddly uneventful to go to work that Monday knowing he can see her whenever the fancy strikes him. He doesn't hesitate to, either; Starscream tries to keep him out with her words and attitude the first few times, only to abate with evident relief when she realizes that he is not about to give up.

"It was so pathetic of you to lie to me," she tells him, ignoring all but the lit screen of her phone as she types in quick strokes.

"You'd be dead if I hadn't," Ratchet replies, which always shuts her right up. "Be grateful you can even see me now."

As it turns out, she is indeed missing a kidney. It is not the first time Ratchet is exposed to the aftermath or organ trafficking, but it has never struck so close to home before. Starscream is an unusual victim as well—the opposite of dependent or in need of money, as well as a poor donor in light of her frequent alcohol intake. Ratchet has the satisfaction of witnessing her horrified expression when her doctor explains that she will never again be anything but sober. It's already a miracle that her remaining kidney seems to be functioning just fine.

Since Starscream's kidney is of very little value to whoever stole it, this must be an act of revenge. Ratchet doesn't forget the name she uttered in her shock, Silas, but he doesn't question her about it. He knows how fruitless that endeavor would be. In a way it is enough to see her spend so much time on her phone, working remotely, wearing the visage of a Hollywood villain.

He doesn't envy the person who is about to bear the brunt of her anger. Thankfully, he thinks with satisfaction, this isn't him.

Oh, she tries often enough. She drags animosity out of her lungs like air, insults and targets and spills acid at him. But Ratchet is becoming better at recognizing when her innate inconsideration is at play and when she is simply flustered. He makes an iron wall out of himself and waits her out.

Two days after Starscream is admitted into the hospital, Ratchet arrives to her room, only to find the door opening in his face. The man who emerges is of a height with Optimus; broad and thick and somber, dressed in a grey suit so rigid that not a crease can be seen on him. Ratchet lets him through without thinking, and the man only gives him a dismissive glance before going his way.

Inside, Starscream looks in a worse mood than usual. "Who made the mistake of smiling at you now?" he asks, throwing a pack of sugar-free gum at her. She's been requesting them, saying they help her with the nicotine cravings.

She remains oddly unresponsive. "Thanks," she says. "Now get out, I'm busy."

He looks at her for a long moment before leaving.

The man can't have made his way out of hospital grounds yet. Ratchet descends into the underground parking lot and finds him walking toward a car the same expensive color of his clothes, inside of which a young woman waits.

She looks very young. Perhaps no older than twenty, twenty-five.

"Excuse me," Ratchet calls.

The man turns around. Ratchet wasn't absolute before but he is sure, now, that he must be at least fifty. He is not at all what Ratchet imagined in the rare days he liked to try and put a face to the name—his thoughts had wandered to movie-like images of brutes with little mind and too much muscle, but although this man looks imposing enough, his eyes are sharp. In another life, perhaps Ratchet himself would have found him handsome.

"Are you Megatron?" he asks once they are face to face.

He can see from the corner of his eyes that the girl inside the car has stopped staring at her phone and is listening in on them. "Who asks?" Megatron replies with very familiar disdain. His voice is deep, elegant, poised.

Ratchet smiles thinly.

He punches him across the jaw.

Starscream can hardly stop laughing enough to breathe. She holds the side where her stitches are in one hand as she chokes on her own amusement, tears spilling out of her eyes and undoing the black eyeliner she put there. It runs into the creases at the corners of her eyes and makes her look half-mad.

She tries to calm down several times, but every look at Ratchet sends her into another fit.

"If you're quite done," he mutters some ten minutes in, wincing when his hand flexes by accident.

Bee's splinters are always good, but a sprain hurts no matter what, especially in fingers.

"This is the best day of my life," Starscream cries. "Oh, Lord, that hurts."

"Then stop laughing!"

At least, Ratchet thinks with some shame, Megatron was too stunned to do more than watch him wobble away, holding his own hand in pain. He didn't have time to rise to his feet and give chase, and Ratchet hopes—hopes—that no professional killers or other agents of chaos will be sent after him in retaliation.

"Don't worry," Starscream heaves after another highly pleased look at his face, "he won't do a thing. He'd rather die than admit some puny doctor landed one on him in front of arm candy."

"Aren't you worried about yourself?" Ratchet spits back.

It is perhaps a little harsher than the situation warrants, but his worry isn't unfounded.

Starscream's smile lengthens. "He can't do anything to me," she says. "I'm the rightful leader of this whole damn organization—any step the wrong way and I can, truly, get rid of him. Not like that," she adds, seeing the shocked face he pulls. "What do you think I am? Anyway, I'm done with him. He won't come talk to me unless it's business-related."

Ratchet bites the inside of his cheek before answering, "Good."

There is something almost gentle to the look she gives him then. It is immediately replaced with mockery, but Ratchet feels warmed all the same.

A knock comes at the door. They both turn their heads to look, and Ratchet is halfway out of the chair he occupies before the next second has passed, surprised to find his husband standing there with flowers in his hands.

"Optimus," he says. "I didn't know you were visiting."

"Student protests," Optimus replies. "My classes were canceled for the afternoon." He gives an inquisitive glance to Ratchet's bandaged hand, but doesn't ask.

Starscream has fallen oddly silent. Ratchet can't read any of what she feels at the sight of Optimus, but her hands have gone still over the covers of the bed.

"This is Starscream," he says to break the silence. "Starscream, my husband Optimus Prime."

"Good afternoon," Optimus greets in as deep a voice as he ever uses. He places the bouquet on Starscream's bedside table before holding his hand out to her. "Ratchet's told me so much about you, it's a pleasure."

"Pleasure's mine," she replies. Another long second later, she shakes Optimus's hand.

Awkwardness fades as Optimus lingers, as it is wont to do. Starscream never quite becomes the loosened version of herself she is around Ratchet alone, but she comes close enough with Optimus's conversation. Optimus himself never comments upon her wounds or anything so untoward; he delights her instead with stories of his students or of Ratchet himself, who huffs in indignation but allows it.

He leaves only when visiting hours come to a close. Ratchet cannot linger for the whole afternoon—he has work to do, patients to see to and surgery to prepare for the coming days—but he passes by often enough to see Optimus and Starscream deep in conversation. He comes back as the sun sets outside, walking inside as Optimus finishes, "… hope to see you again soon."

"You too," Starscream replies with what almost sounds like sincerity.

Optimus squeezes Ratchet's hand on his way out. "See you tonight," he murmurs.

The hospital has gone quiet. Many of the families around are leaving too, some with bright faces, some wearing heavy frowns. This is daily habit to Ratchet, not something he attaches too much attention to, but Starscream looks for a long time. She stares at the wives and husbands, the children, the friends. She stays silent until night crawls over the city and forces Ratchet to reach for the nearest lamp's switch.

She blinks at the sudden light. "Well, what do you know," she says. "Your husband's hot."

"Yes," Ratchet replies with pride.

"I was picturing some little old man with no hair."

He blushes, knowing she is once again referencing his own receding hairline. "Glad I could prove you wrong," he retorts frostily.

She chuckles.

Taking her hand in his feels so very easy. She doesn't even twitch when she feels his blunt fingers around her own, when he closes them and strokes over her bloodless knuckles. It is as though Ratchet hasn't thought of doing this so many times before, only to hold himself back.

Her grip is very tight.

"If I invite you to have dinner again," he says softly. "Will you come this time?"

She doesn't reply. She is looking through the window and at the dark city, the light of which shines on her skin. She has put gold glitter at the highest of her cheekbones today; when she moves her head this way and that, her face glows like metal.

"Did you mean what you said?" she asks.

He doesn't have to think before replying, "Yes. Of course."

It doesn't matter if she means all the times he was rude to her, all the times he was uncouth and grumpy, or all the others. The dry comments over bad coffee. The cold smiles driven out by cold laughter. Looking at her wounded body laid on a medical stretcher and calling himself her friend.

He has never been anything but honest with her.

Starscream takes her hand away from his, patting it twice in condescension.

"Then ask me again."

#transformers #transformers prime #ratchet #starscream #fic: in normalcy's good name

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aghostpost · 6 years

Note

So glad you are taking requests, I've missed your writing! Would love you to write some smut with Frank as you always include so many kinks. How about one where Frank's been gone for weeks and the reader thinks tonight is going to be just her alone again, so she decides to enjoy some self-loving, Frank turns up and watches her until she realises he's there and smut ensues?! Bonus points if he gets her to taste herself off his fingers/tongue and lots of praise kink!

A/N: I loved this request! I was already writing something similar to this (as far as Frank being gone forever and what not) but I didn’t have an ending, so this worked out great! It’s only slightly different from this request but I think it worked out perfectly. And as much as I tried to chop it down it issssss a bit lengthy hehe whoops. Hope you enjoy~ ♥

The duffle bag slung over his shoulder was heavier than it looked, but I still managed to grab it with both hands to set it beside the apartment door. I looked him up and down while his eyes looked directly past me. He seemed fine. No bleeding, no bruises on his face, or at least no new ones. Seemingly there was not one reason for him to have been avoiding me the last nine days, and judging by the way he refused to make eye contact with me, I’m sure he knew exactly what I was thinking.

I turned and headed back to the kitchen. “Go shower; dinner’s in fifteen.”

I continued stirring the green beans I was preparing as I listened to the shower stream in the bathroom. Suddenly I felt stupid and even angrier for throwing on one of his t-shirts after my shower earlier… For days I was worried sick wondering what the fuck happened to Frank. Where was he? Did he finally get caught? Even worse, was he dead somewhere in an unmarked ditch courtesy of some local mafia chapter? Then I saw him on the news two days ago and saw he was just the same as ever, wreaking havoc and dashing around the city like a mad man. That night I started using that spare key he gave me to come and wait for his return, fuming and ready to let him have it.

But seeing him now, I was dealing with a different kind of anger. It was the kind of anger where words couldn’t even begin to express how upset I was. I saw his face and felt a wave of heat radiate off me and shake through my body.

He was lucky I prepared extra food to have for lunch the next few days. I heard the shower stop running as I pulled the baked chicken from the oven, and moments after placing two prepared plates on an old crate Frank used as a coffee table he walked out of the bedroom still toweling his head. Frank Castle was by no means a salad eater but not only did he need the greens, but I used the moment to be petty because I knew the last thing he’d do was not eat every crumb on that plate. No way he’d risk getting even further on my bad side.

No words were exchanged between us as we ate. I sipped at my third glass of wine; I like to drink while I cook. I bet he’d be thankful knowing the wine was mellowing me out, but of course not entirely.

I reclined against the sofa with my plate in my lap, feet propped up on the crate and ate as I would look at him sitting on the floor. He was hovering over his plate and shoveling food into his mouth like a barbarian; I wonder what his last good meal was… I looked at Max as he made his way over to Frank, looking for a snack and probably glad to see something other than the fifteen-pound bag of kibble Frank left tipped over for him in his absence. I’m surprised he didn’t eat himself into a doggy coma.

I watched as he went to tear a piece of his chicken thigh. “Wow. Wish I got a treat for you leaving me for over a week.” He continued chewing, dropping the meat for Max to catch before giving him a rub. “I didn’t spend all evening in the kitchen to give you half my lunch for the week so you could give it to Max.”

“He’s not allowed any of our food anymore?”

“Sure, if you wanna spoil him rotten and fatten him up.”

“You never had anything to say about it any ot-”

“-Well I have something to say about it tonight. If you want I can just scrape your plate into his bowl?” He said nothing more and also didn’t give Max another bite. “Don’t forget your vegetables,” I said with a tone of warning. He quickly diverted his fork from his mashed potatoes to the salad and picked up a heaping amount, finally looking me directly in the eye as he took a bite. I rolled my eyes and focused on my own food.

It was quiet in the room save for the sounds of forks tapping against the plates and the occasional crunch of a crouton. Once Frank finished, salad and all, he rose and washed his dishes while I scrolled through my cell and continued taking my time with dinner. He stood against the wall leading out of the living room and to the bedroom hallway with his arms folded.

He waited patiently for me to finish, not moving or saying a word.

Because what could he do or say to fix this?

I placed my mess in the sink before pouring one final glass of wine, taking some sips before making my way to the bedroom. As I passed Frank he unfroze himself to take hold of my upper arm before I immediately pulled away. “Don’t.” Without warning he took my wine glass from me before bending and wrapping an arm around my thighs, lifting me from the floor and walking to the bedroom. He set the glass down on the dresser before dropping me flat on my back on the bed.

“Git. Go on, go,” he ordered, shooing Max from the room as he closed the door. This is what he usually did when we were gonna have sex. Max liked getting into bed with us so he made a habit of closing the door before things got heated up.

I rose from the bed and went to go open the door, but his massive form blocked me before I even made it halfway there. We stood there, staring at each other momentarily before I reached for my wine glass. He said nothing as he watched me gulp the entire glass, some of it missing my mouth and running down my neck. Without hesitation he moved forward to wipe the mess away, his eyes not breaking from mine. I turned from his hand and backed up two steps, staring him down before hurling the glass on the corner of the room. It was in that moment I realized a lot of my anger was based off fear.

I had been scared.

“Fuck you.” At those words he began a slow march forward as I walked backwards to the bed. When the back of my legs touched the rickety frame I sat down, watching his steel gaze as he inched closer to me. When he stood before me he dropped to his knees and looked me directly in my eyes. “Did you hear me Frank?” I spoke with bite but there was still a slight slur in my speech. “I said. Fuck. You.”

“I heardja.” Were those the first words he spoke tonight? I couldn’t remember. All I knew was hearing his voice felt like someone had finally turned the lights on in my head. Like I was staring into darkness and suddenly a camera flash went off right in front of my eyes. Suddenly I felt myself turn to stone as his hands reached my hips.

It was always odd to me when he was gentle.

I reacted the only way I knew how: with a slap.

He stared at my waist as his hands rested, but his thumbs moved in slow circles at my hip bones. “Stop it,” I spoke softly, my eyes getting heavy and my head swaying. I sighed and went to pry his hands from me. He simply used the opportunity to intertwine his fingers with mine and pull my body closer to him. “No.” He pressed his nose to the base of my neck and inhaled as he moved upward towards my ear. I was still trying to free my hands but his grip was tight and unwavering; at every movement his hands constricted mine. His stubble grazed my cheek ever so lightly and my eyes snapped shut, my hips suddenly motioning towards the edge of the bed one time to get closer to him. “Let go!” In my head I demanded it but it came out as more of a plea.

He couldn’t win this easily. He couldn’t leave me and have my mind running a mental marathon of the absolute worst series of events and come here and have me any and every way he wanted. I snapped to and while he held my hands, yes, my legs were entirely free. I rose from the bed quickly and he followed, finally releasing his grip to rip his shirt off in record timing. I couldn’t make a run for the door before he was pushing me flat on the bed, body between my legs and hands making quick work of my pajama shorts. I was too busy staring at the cuts and bruises healing on his body; long bandages meant cuts, small squares meant bullet holes. He began slowly rubbing my thighs as he stared at me. I looked back at him for a moment, anger still very present, before deciding to get rid off his jeans. I ripped his belt from the loops and unbuttoned them as I stared back into those obsidian marbles in his head. It wasn’t until I released his zipper that I broke eye contact and pushed him off of me so he could manage the rest.

“I hate you.” The words managed to trip out of my mouth with very little sting, of course because I didn’t mean them. At times yes, I hated how Frank treated me; being left to wonder whether the prick is alive or not for extended periods of time just for him to casually waltz through the door? Didn’t exactly incite warm thoughts about the guy. But did I hate him? No. I should, but I didn’t. All I could think of was how he was the exact opposite of the man my parents would want me to invest any time into. But fuck it. If I was going to be stupid enough to waste my time with Frank the very least I could do was get toe-curling sex while I was at it.

“I hate you,” I repeated as his fully naked form hovered over me like a beast ready to pounce at my slightest movement. He grabbed my arms and pulled me upright to get his beaten up black shirt over my head. My hands flew to the thick curly mess on top of his head and forced him down to me, his mouth hungrily finding my breast. Good thing I was braless; I didn’t have to wait a single second to feel this. While normally my mind would be completely wiped of anything outside of this moment, I still felt anger. More importantly, with him being here now, I realized exactly how much I missed him, and how afraid I was I’d never see him again. “Touch me.”

He trailed his mouth to my neck and pressed just below my ear. “Where?” he growled.

My hands gripped the roots of his hair as I had my first orgasm of the night. I kept quiet as a mouse and my reactions to a minimum; the last thing I needed was Frank bragging and teasing that he could make me cum with his voice alone. I guess I missed him more than I thought. No matter how infuriated I was with him my body wanted what it wanted, and it was always in the mood for some Frank.

God, that was so fucking annoying.

He was still waiting for an answer when I mustered all the strength I could to push him off of me to the foot of the bed. “Jesus Christ.” He stared at me blankly, hesitating briefly before moving to make his way back to me. “No!” I shouted, stilling him instantly. I stared him down as I gathered the flattened excuses for pillows he had and the one good pillow I brought here for when I slept over, propping them up behind me. “You don’t get to do whatever you want with me,” I told him as I reclined, resting my feet on the bed so my legs were propped up, giving him a perfect view of what rested in between. I reached a hand to feel the soaked spot in my panties before pulling them down as best as I could, only managing to free one leg as they dangled around my left knee.

I sighed as the wine hit me like a wave and looked at him as I placed a hand at my wet lips. “You think that’s okay? Making me worry about you like that?” I asked, gently rubbing myself without breaking eye contact with him. I continued that way until I needed more; punishing him was slowly beginning to punish me. “Look at what happens when I miss you,” I teased, slipping my middle finger inside myself while running my left foot delicately up his thigh, then his chest to rest pointedly on his shoulder. “You drive me crazy, you know that?” I felt his body tense slightly under my foot as my eyes fought to stay open.

I watched him, my eyes slack as I pleasured myself. I challenged him to move. I had every right to be upset and find him undeserving of fucking me, no matter how badly we both wanted it. I was a treat, and Frank was deep in the doghouse. But I say this knowing I’ll end up under him before the night was over; like I said, my body wants what it wants. Still, I could milk a docile Frank Castle while the moment lasted. “I… I needed you… Why’d you leave me, Frank?” I pulled my bottom lip between my teeth. He shifted forward slightly before I pressed my foot down on his chest, signaling him to stay right where he was. “Sss, what? Didn’t you miss me?” I moaned, my eyes closing as my head rolled back into the stack of pillows behind me.

He lunged for me and this time I didn’t stop him. I was ready, and more importantly than that I needed him. His hand grazed just behind my knee and my back arched as he pulled my panties from around my leg, tossing them behind him. He slowly pulled my hand to replace it with his, which was great because now I could grip the sheets for dear life. His fingers were thicker, and knew what I needed just as much as I did. Hell, they probably knew better. Two fingers filled me as his thumb gently massaged my clit as he leaned forward, his growing facial hair brushing the side of my face. “Lemme show you how much I missed ya.”

I moaned at his words, his voice getting to me again. I reached down with my hands to grab his wrist as he kissed along my jawline. I felt him pulling his hand out, begging him not to and trying to hold it in place with mine until he replaced it with his fully erect cock. “Oh, God,” I mewled, my legs wrapping around his waist instantly as I guided him deeper into me. “Show me. Sss- Please, please show me.” He grabbed my chin before gently rubbing his thumb against my bottom lip.

“Look at me,” he demanded. My eyes managed to open and I saw him staring at my mouth before before his eyes looked into mine. “I’m sorry. I shouldna left you worryin’ the way I did.”

“No. You shouldn’t have.” We stared at each other little longer and that big dumb puppy look on his face warmed my angry heart enough; at least for now. I held the sides of his head, my fingers playing with the thick hair that grew from the buzzcut he had when he left. “Kiss me already.” Instead of obliging he pulled his hand to his lips, taking in his fingers coated in my slickness as he held eye contact with me. “You dirty dog…” He winked before bending down to finally kiss me for the first time in what felt like years. And I knew exactly what he was up to, he was just too afraid to ask; knew he was skating on thin ice with me. I laughed to myself in my head as I pulled his bottom lip into my mouth, still moist with my essence. A deep growl rumbled in him and pushed himself both deeper into the kiss and into me. I released his lip to let out a small cry of pain. I wasn’t sure if I’d ever get used to Frank’s full size, but I’d damn sure try every time he wanted. I gripped at the roots of his hair and pulled, my back arching to take in more of him.

“Ya like tastin’ yourself on me?”

I rolled my eyes. “Not as much as you like making me do it.”

He cracked a crooked grin. “But yer just so good at it,” he teased, nipping at my neck. “So good at a lotta things.”

I felt my face warm up, partially from the compliments and partially from sheer arousal. “I am?” The question poured softly from my lips.

He pushed himself off the mattress to rest upright on his knees, rough hands grabbing my waist to slowly work his way in and out of me. “Amazin’,” he grunted. “Ya taste how sweet you are?”

“Mmm, like candy.”

“An’ look how good ya take me…” I placed my hands over his, holding them in place as his grip on my waist tightened, the pads of his fingers digging deep into me. He was vocal tonight, more vocal than I’ve ever heard him. I wasn’t complaining at all though, but I never really got complimented much during sex like this. It was making me feel bashful which was foreign for me. “Ya think I didn’t miss this?”

I used my hold on his wrists to pull myself up before slinging my arms around his neck, wrapping around him and burying my face in his neck. “Tell me you missed me,” I begged before I ran a hot tongue on the outer shell of his ear, gently biting it between my front teeth.

“Everyday,” he grunted. I pushed him backwards and rode him for dear life, missing the feeling of being filled to the brim by this man.I stretched my body reaching for my head, and his hands flew to my breasts, roughly palming and squeezing them. “Aren’t you a fuckin’ sight…”

“Sss, fuck, Frank…”

“That’s right, Y/N. Ride it just like that.”

I wanted more. I needed to feel him at full force. I grabbed his hands, interlacing his fingers with mine and allowing him to squeeze them. “I need you.”

“Whaddaya need? Tell me whatcha need.”

“I… I need you t-to fuck me.”

“C’mere,” he ordered, pulling me down to him. Our hands still glued together I outstretched our arms and kissed him with as much passion as I could. He growled lowly into my mouth as my tongue invaded his, bucking his hips and causing me to cry out.

“Shit!”

He never took his mouth from mine as he shot up and forced me into a straddling position. He then lifted me up and turned me around; I got on my hands and knees and grips the sheets to brace myself as best as I could, though I already knew nothing was gonna prepare me for Frank when he was on a mission. I assigned him a task and now he was going to perform and complete it. A burly arm snaked its way around my hip and a hand slid southward, petting my pussy a few times. “My eager girl.”

“Fuck you. Wouldn’t you be eager after nearly two weeks?”

He chuckled to himself. “Who said I ain’t?” he question, slowly inserting himself into me from behind. “I’m eager for ya after two hours.”

“Sss, liar,” whispered through clenched teeth. I spread my legs and bent forward until my tits were planted into the mattress, my back concave and my ass perched to the ceiling. I looked back at him over my shoulder with my eyes at half mast, drunk from both the wine and the overwhelming lust for him, seductively pulling my bottom lip between my teeth. “Make me a believer.”

And after only a few minutes he did exactly that. I looked over an noticed the bedroom window was cracked, but unfortunately I couldn’t shut my mouth or even attempt to lower my volume. I wonder if this would be the time that my neighbors would complain, but even the prospect of that couldn’t stop me. Things only worsened when he pulled my arms behind me and gripped at the elbows, forcing me to damn near fold as my back concaved even deeper. “Jesus Christ!” He continued that way for a bit before snaking his arms around me, running over my stomach, in between my breasts, and hand at the base of my neck. His touch exploring me felt like a lake of lava running all over me and leaving a smoking trail of black ash in its wake. ”Sss, ah! Oh… G-God, help me,” I rushed in one hot breath.

“Ya feel that?” he grunted as he bent beside me to speak into my ear.

“Yes!”

“Ya like that?”

“I love it, I love it- Ss, fuck me, I love it!”

“I betcha do. Listen to ya,” he spoke too many octaves too low before leaning back to slap my ass. I cried out even louder than I had already been which I didn’t even think possible. “Lemme hear ya,” he demanded, slapping my ass again. “Ya still love it?”

“Yes!”

“Can’t hear ya.”

“Ah! Sss, I love it, Frank. Fuck- Yes yes yes!”

“Nasty girl…” He began fucking me like a wild beast, grunting and growling deep with each stroke. His firm hand held my neck as he pulled my back to his chest, his other arm around my waist. He pulled my head backwards and moved directly next to my ear. “A very good girl, but a nasty one.”

“Oh, fu… Fuck!” My hand flew to my pussy to rub the orgasm outta me as soon as I could, since I couldn’t imagine going like this any longer before I snapped in half. I felt like I was going to pass out as overwhelmed as I was, and for the life of me couldn’t remember what I was even upset with this man over. “I-I can’t-”

“-What can’t ya do? Hm?”

“I’m gonna cum!”

He forced me to make eye contact with him, his grasp still firm around my neck. “So beautiful… comin’ from that pretty lil’ mouth.”

My hand left my clit and flew to his hair, clenching at he dark, thick curls and pulling him to me for a kiss. Well, if you wanted to call that. It was more of me trying to drain him for every drop that was in him, and him exorcising one of the top three orgasms I’ve ever had from my body. His tongue overpowered mine as my whole body turned to jelly. I tried desperately to get away from him and his overwhelming touch, but he held me tight and close to his body for a few final pumps before climaxing himself. He collapsed on top of me, his breathing like he just ran a marathon, my arms sprawled on the mattress and my face turned to the side to avoid suffocating.

We remained silent and catching our breath momentarily. I closed my eyes and focused on the sound of cars outside, late night drunks leaving the bar a block away, Frank’s breathing. Finally he rolled off of me, walking into the bathroom to relieve himself and wash up; this was his routine and he never veered off from it even once. I sighed and did the same, walking past him to grab the baby wipes I kept under the sink to clean myself up. We caught each other’s eye in the mirror above the sink and held in smirks, no one saying a word to the other.

Once we were all clean and for the most part clothed, at least we put our underwear back on, Frank returned to bed on his back with an arm outstretched for me to rest my head on as I lay next to him. I liked more than anything that Frank and I could have comfortable silence. But we didn’t remain that way long; there was only one thing I needed to say before our night ended with well deserved recuperation sleep. “Don’t ever do that to me again.”

“What? The sex?”

I rolled at my eyes and looked up at him, waiting for him to meet my gaze. “Frank… If this happens again-”

“-Alright alright, c’mon now- We don’t gotta make threats, hm? I hear ya.”

“I’m serious. Frank?” He sighed and tried to turn his head back to the ceiling but I redirected him to look at me again. “Never again.”

He stared at me, not a tone of playfulness in my eyes, and nodded his head. “I’m so-”

“-Ah ah… Never. Again.”

“Ya got my word.”

“I wanna hear you say it.”

“Never again.”

We stared a moment longer before I gave him a smile and a kiss on the jaw; soft, nothing that would get us going for a round two.”You better not. Don’t think I’d take Max if you disappear either, my place doesn’t allow dogs.”

He huffed a small laugh through his nose. “Let me in there just fine.”

I rolled my eyes. I always hated when he talked down on himself. “Shut up and go to bed.”

He grinned to himself and got comfortable, closing his eyes with an arm still situated around me shoulders. “Yes, ma’am.”

#asks #request #frank castle #frank x reader #frank castle imagine #frank castle x reader #frank castle fic

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wardencommanderrodimiss · 5 years

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As everyone who has me added on Discord can see, I’ve spent a shitton of the weekend playing Stardew Valley because my brain feels like scrambled eggs, and anyway, my first/main farm I’m playing as one of my Pokemon OCs, Rose, because I asked myself “what character do I have who would be most likely to become a farmer?” and Rose was my answer. And I’ve decided since I started that this is going to be the way that her canon story goes, in that in my Pokemon universe, she does end up becoming a farmer once she’s burnt out on saving the world.

And while my brain is still scrambled eggs, I wanted to write about that, and when my brain is scrambled eggs but wants to write something, I find it’s best to go with it and write it, so here’s 1200 words no one asked for of a character study for three of my dumbass Pokemon OCs because....I wanted to. Even though there’s obviously a lot of unexplained “canon” behind anything I write about any of my ‘mon gangs. But here are the dipshits from Unova. (Actually Rose is from Sinnoh originally, it’s complicated, go figure, it all is complicated.)

After the funerals for Rose’s grandparents, Zoe and Toshiro don’t see her again for six months. They don’t see each other again for six months either, because the thing the stories don’t say about fire-forged friends who come together in the face of crisis is that once the fire is gone, they can fall back apart.

Which strictly speaking isn’t how welding works -- the entire point of it is that it holds up when the heat is taken away -- but she thinks the metaphor is a good one anyway and then makes the mistake of using it in conversation with N, who only likes math analogies and criticizes every metaphor she’s ever said through the lens of literalism, and that makes her feel like she’s sixteen again and they just met and she just pondered to Toshiro and Rose whether she should punch that fast-talking green-haired string bean if they ever meet again. She didn’t, which is probably for the better in the long run because she’s come to learn that back then she couldn’t throw a punch to save her life and she would’ve just embarrassed herself trying.

But the point is about Rose, and that she and Zoe and Toshiro have a friendship the way that Zoe is friends with her classmates from school, which is that they talk to each other because of circumstance (in this school analogy, that being the 8 am calculus class that Zoe flunked) and are friends when they are together within that circumstance (in the case of Rose and Toshiro, that being when Team Plasma is threatening the world again), but with that scaffolding taken away, they are no longer. It is a friendship that lacks object permanence and once they are out of sight of each other, or at least in separate countries, Zoe can go weeks without exchanging a word with them or knowing what they’re up to.

They call each other in crises, which is why she and Toshiro came to Sinnoh to provide emotional support to Rose through the losses, because object permanence aside they’re all still the only friends they’ve got, and then six months later Rose texts them both and asks them if they can coordinate a time to meet up in Sinnoh. Naturally, go figure, Zoe is not anywhere near Sinnoh and instead is in Kalos at that time, but she needs a break from mangling the French language, so she says sure, and Toshiro was already in Sinnoh, just on the other side of the mountains, and he of course says sure, and they meet up in Hearthome City and Zoe is ready for a crisis and instead they get brunch and mimosas.

Rose likes brunch and mimosas because it’s a socially acceptable excuse to drink alcohol at socially unacceptable times, and Rose hates being judged but doesn’t believe in the limitations of socially unacceptable timing because she doesn’t believe that time is real. It’s not even that she says time is relative, like some people do, which is a thing Zoe doesn’t care to understand either, but it’s that she thinks time isn’t real. It’s a bold declaration in a country where ten years ago numerous credible sources attest that Dialga was summoned, but Rose also did a stint in the Distortion World where neither physics nor time were actually real, so Zoe can probably give this one to her. There are worse things, and Rose has also done those, too.

So over mimosas Rose tells them that she owns a farm. This is not a crisis, which is confusing because Zoe doesn’t know how to interact with people when not in a crisis, and she just kind of nods and Toshiro asks the actual questions that need the answers about how and why Rose is a farmer now. “My grandparents owned it,” she says, while clearly pondering the social acceptability of stuffing an entire pancake in her mouth in one go. “Out near Solaceon Town. They only ever lived here in Hearthome when I was a kid, but they’d never sold the farm, and now they’ve left it to me.”

“So you’re becoming a farmer,” Zoe says. “Because you want to, or because you think you should?”

Rose’s primary driving factor is guilt, which is something that Zoe wouldn’t say except that Rose said it first, and predominantly the guilt is about running away from home and losing out on an entire decade that she could have spent with her grandparents. And Rose frowns and looks like she knows exactly what Zoe is getting at. “I can’t change what I did, or the years I didn’t have with them, but I did get these past six years with them to make amends.” She shoves the pancake into her mouth. It takes her about thirty seconds to chew it. “So yeah maybe there’s shame because I am never not ashamed of something but I also want to be a farmer. Settle down. Grow some berries. Get a couple miltank.”

“Huh,” Toshiro says. “I wouldn’t have figured you for the type.”

Rose shrugs. “The life of perpetual adventure is a rough grind,” she says. “So I’m gonna bow out of it now that we’ve saved the world a couple times.”

Zoe didn’t choose the life of perpetual adventure -- it foisted itself upon her when an ancient dragon appeared out of a white brick in her hands to stop a dumbass and an evil lunatic from ruining the world as they knew it -- and she’s pretty sure she can’t bow out at this point, so she doesn’t say anything about that and just listens to Rose explain her plans for the property. It’s apparently entirely overgrown, which is something Zoe can say something about: “Do you need help clearing it?”

“Don’t sound so eager,” Rose says. “You mean, like, fire clear?”

“Yeah,” Zoe says. “Reshiram is very good at that.”

“It makes me nervous whenever you make jokes about how your dragon and your predecessor burned down our entire country,” Toshiro says.

“Not all of it,” Zoe says. “Zekrom did half. Lightning strikes cause fires, too.”

“I think I would like to keep the lumber as lumber instead of just scorching it all down to ash,” Rose says, “but thank you for the offer.”

Zoe has doubts about whether she actually appreciates the offer. Usually she would be annoyed when people imply that she is responsible for the crimes of the ancient hero who she’s pretty sure she’s not even a reincarnation of -- like it would be one thing if she were, but she’s almost positive that there’s no relation -- but Rose knew her long before events started getting mythologically weird and saw the havoc that she and Emboar wreaked, so Rose’s assessment of her is fair. No one else’s is, though.

“So that’s what I called you here to talk about,” Rose says. “I’m becoming a farmer and it’s for once a major life change not brought on by existential crisis!”

“I didn’t know that was allowed for us,” Toshiro says.

Zoe would agree. It definitely doesn’t sound like anything that any of them should be capable of, doing things they want to do for the betterment of themselves. But Zoe can’t agree at that moment because she’s decided that better than pondering the impending existential crisis that’s about to kick in but probably won’t even bring about a major life change is seeing if she can fit two pancakes into her mouth.

#i think i'm mostly posting this for bucket who likes roasting Rose at any possible moment but yeah #my pokemon ocs are so hard to do anything with because there's so much of my canon it would take years to lay out fully #because i did in fact spend years creating all of it. woo.#oc: angel rose #oc: zoe von brandt #oc: toshiro macniadh #i should prob have one overall tag for all my mon oc stuff because for some reason i don't. i'm good at things #anyway everything i write about my pokemon ocs is the continuing saga of idiot teenagers growing into their 20s #and trying to understand what hte FUCK to do with their lives #so it's me having most of them grow up as i've grown up basically. it's fun. and by fun i mean they're suffering. and so am i.

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brerediddy · 6 years

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more than survive - chapter 16

The entire afternoon was spent with notebooks strewn across the bedroom and laptops open with reckless abandon. Michael was lying on his stomach, pondering his phone screen with his eyebrows creased and his head aching. Jeremy was resting his neck on the small of Michael’s back, eyes closed and heart racing.

“Are we still against running away?” Jeremy sighed in exaggeration.

“Still going to be a solid no on that one, dude. We can figure this out. Look, I have a plan. Or maybe it’s more like half of a plan, but it’s coming along.”

Jeremy sat up, leaning forward to examine Michael’s notes. “What are you thinking?”

“So, I asked the fanpage for help-”

“The what?”

Michael looked at him as if he was maybe a little dumb and said, “Jeremy, did you forget that I made a whole-ass fanpage for you?”

Jeremy felt his cheeks heating up. Oh. That. “No, I didn’t forget, I guess I just. Just blocked it out, or something.”

“What, are you embarrassed?” Michael said with a teasing edge to his voice. He loved to egg the other boy on and see how cute he was when he got flustered.

“No, it’s just...I have fans. That’s a little scary.”

“Well, don’t get too cocky. They aren’t Jeremy Heere fans, they’re Spider-Man fans. They don’t even know you exist, dude.”

“And that’s the way it should be,” he responded with a small laugh. “Anyway. What was your point?”

“My point?” Michael had forgotten entirely. He turned onto his back and propped his head up on his crossed arms. “Oh, right. The plan. I asked the fanpage for help tracking down information on the SQUIP. I thought that three-thousand minds would be better than two.”

“There are three-thousand fans? Are you shitting me, Michael?” Jeremy put his head in his hands. “So those are all the people I’m in danger of letting down?”

“It doesn’t matter because you aren’t going to.” Michael reached up to pull Jeremy’s hands down from his face and held them gently in his own. “Hey, when I said I believed in you, I meant it. You got this. We’re going to fix this together.”

The smaller boy let out a breath and shrugged. “Fine. Okay. Whatever you say.” He leant down for a quick kiss, which Michael happily obliged.

After they broke apart, he went on to explain his plan once more. Michael sat up to level himself with Jeremy. “So the fans were able to track down this guy named Sebastian Iscariot. Apparently, he was a scientist who used to work for the SQUIP. He went rogue a while back and he’s been trying to get some sort of message out, but the SQUIP keeps blocking him somehow.”

“Sebastian Iscariot? Were you able to find him?” Jeremy asked with great intrigue.

“I tracked him down. I sent him an email but I haven’t heard back yet. I asked him what he knew about the SQUIP and the pill he was interested in developing.”

“So, what now? We just have to wait and see if he responds?” Jeremy wasn’t especially fond of the concept of sitting around and doing nothing while the SQUIP was out wreaking havoc.

“I don't know what else we can do. I mean, if this Sebastian guy is devoted to getting his message out, I’m sure we’ll hear from him.” Michael cleared his throat and added, “Besides, I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to go out there without knowing what the SQUIP really wants.”

“Maybe I could distract him. Keep him occupied, y’know?” His blue eyes lit up and the prospect of actually doing something and he began to ramble. “What if I caught up to him and used myself as a block? He’d have to get through me before he could even begin to worry about the pills.”

The bigger boy shook his head. “No, Jeremy, listen,” he begged. “Do you hear yourself? You just want to go up against the SQUIP as a simple distraction? Not as an end to this fight?”

“Whatever I have to do to give you more time to figure this out.”

“No, Jere. No.” Michael let out a long breath and met Jeremy’s eyes. “I’m not letting you fight him again without a plan. He almost killed you. You could be dead right now.”

“But I’m not—”

“He almost killed you, Jeremy. Do you understand? I can’t lose you. I can’t.” Michael took off his glasses to rub at his eyes for a moment. “If you insist on confronting him with some impulsive vigilante action, that isn’t going to work. We need to be smart about this.”

Jeremy sighed. He knew Michael was right, as much as it pained him to admit it. He was itching for a fight, itching for this to be over. But it was true that if he just started throwing punches, that wouldn’t solve anything. They had to have a plan.

He needed to stop being an impulsive teenager and start acting like a superhero.

“Sorry. You’re right,” he amended, taking Michael’s hand in his own. “You’re so smart. If I had let you in sooner, you could have solved all of this by now.”

“I doubt that but I’ll take the compliment,” the other boy grinned, pressing a small kiss against Jeremy’s pale cheek. “I know you’re anxious. We just need to wait on this final puzzle piece before making our move, okay?”

“Yeah, okay,” he nodded. Jeremy ran his free hand through his hair and said, “Michael?” At his best friend’s hum of acknowledgement, he said, “Thank you for helping me.”

“I’d do anything for you, you know that,” Michael said sincerely. The sweetness in his voice made Jeremy’s stomach do aerobatics.

In the middle of the moment, Michael’s laptop produced a ding! Both of the boys stalled completely to look over.

“Do you think that’s—”

“It could be,” Michael said, fumbling to put on his glasses and open his email at the same time. His eyes scanned the page frantically. “It’s him. He wants to Skype and gave me his username. Says he can’t risk sending anything over email.”

“Oh my god, call him, call him,” Jeremy spoke.

“On it,” Michael responded. He was already frantically typing the scientist’s information into his computer. A moment later, the line was ringing. Jeremy and Michael arranged themselves into a respectable seating position, with their legs folded underneath them. The line rang and rang and rang and then:

A man picked up. The first notable feature was his wild blonde hair, wisps sticking up all over the place. He had bright green eyes and laugh lines, but the dark lighting of his room made both of those things seem much more sinister than they were. He was younger than Jeremy had been expecting. However, maybe that was just the fault of pop-culture for instilling a very different idea of “mad scientist” into his brain. Sebastian was wearing a gray sweatshirt and held onto a file folder in front of the webcam.

“Mr. Iscariot?” Michael ventured, looking for a response.

“Mr. Mell, nice to meet you. Prove to me you aren’t working with the SQUIP,” the man responded instantly. He didn’t blink.

“Um,” Michael said.

Jeremy cut in, “I’m Jeremy, sir. I recently...crossed paths with the SQUIP. He tried to drown me.” He could almost feel Michael stiffen at the mention of the incident. However, it seemed to appease Sebastian. He studied the two closely for another moment before his posture relaxed ever-so-slightly.

“Why?”

“Um,” Jeremy began uncertainty. “I’ve been...in his way, recently. I took one of the pills.”

“You took one?” Sebastian’s eyebrows raised towards his forehead. “And you’re okay?”

“Apparently,” he shrugged. He looked to Michael, who was eyeing him with suspicion.

“Why wouldn’t he be okay? What’s the pill for?” Michael prompted.

Sebastian licked his lips, eyes shifting to each corner of the room. “I started working for the SQUIP years ago. He needed my help in developing a completely new technology. He said it would change the way the world works. I-I didn’t know any better at the time. I was young, I had just gotten my first job in a lab. I thought I should just do what he wanted.”

“What did he want?” Jeremy asked. He chewed on his lower lip nervously.

“He wanted something akin to, well, mind control.”

Jeremy sucked in a deep breath and Michael’s brown eyes widened. “What do you mean, mind control?” Michael asked.

“The SQUIP wanted to put a piece of himself in this pill, part of his being. We used a bit of his DNA and supplemented with some of his cognitive processes. The other part of the pill was a neurotransmitter. Something to send and receive messages.”

“The SQUIP had you build a mind control device and you just went with it?” Jeremy asked indignantly. His hands turned to fists out of view of the webcam, his eyes narrowing at the man.

“I didn’t want to. It didn’t feel right. Around the time that he started bringing in test subjects, I backed out. I couldn’t do it anymore. We never perfected the technology, though. I never helped him finish it.”

“But I did,” Jeremy mumbled, unfurling his fists. He could scream. He couldn’t believe he had been so stupid. “I helped him with his tests. I was his willing subject.”

“What are you talking about, boy?” Sebastian asked, his green eyes darkening.

“I’m Spider-Man,” he blurted out. Michael pawed at Jeremy’s hand, trying to warn him to stop, but he didn’t. “He was blackmailing me and he had me work with him. He would make me show him how my powers worked and how much I could do. Then, he made me take a pill. He said I would be his test subject. Nothing happened, though, and I think that’s what pissed him off. After that, he tried to kill me.”

Sebastian tilted his head, analyzing Jeremy through the screen. It was uncomfortable. It felt all too vulnerable. Then, he spoke. “Good.”

“Excuse me?” Michael questioned with an edge in his voice.

“If I had to guess, I’d say he knew his mind control doesn’t work on you because of your powers. I imagine that’s why he was so interested in learning about you, so he could figure out how to beat you. But it still didn’t work, even when he updated the technology and made you try it. He wouldn’t have been so invested in getting rid of you if he didn’t think you were a threat.”

“I guess that makes sense. If he could get rid of me, then it wouldn’t matter whether or not the pill worked on me.”

“Precisely.” Sebastian squared his shoulders and said, “I’d wager that he was hoping to turn you into a soldier for him. Someone as powerful as you, under his command? He’d really be unstoppable. When that didn’t work, he had to figure out a new plan.”

Jeremy swallowed. He could have been turned into some mindless drone. He shook away the thoughts and inquired, “So, what do you think his plan is?”

“Oh, I know what his plan is. It’s been his plan from the start,” Sebastian said darkly. “I was just too stupid to see it. He wants to distribute the pills as some kind of supplement. Control the masses. Then, he can control the city.”

Jeremy countered with, “Who would be stupid enough to fall for that?”

“Oh shit,” said Michael, having worked it out for himself. He stood up quickly and ran to his desk, rummaging through the stacks of paper on top of it. He found a newspaper from the day before and held it up, flipping through the pages quickly. “Shit.”

“What is it, Mr. Mell?” Sebastian intoned.

“Here, right here,” he pointed out the article to Jeremy. “Some hot-shot doctor is offering a free sample of a new vitamin. He swears by it, says it improved his life. He personally vouches for it and...so does the FDA? They’re working on pushing it through the necessary trials. Why would they do that, if they know it’s not a vitamin?”

Jeremy raised a brow and said, “The SQUIP’s threatening them, I’ll bet.”

“A bunch of federal employees are scared of one guy?”

“He can be very...convincing,” the smaller boy said, the words caught in his throat. Michael noticed and rested a hand on his shoulder to comfort him.

“Where is this free vitamin being distributed?” Sebastian asked.

“Town Hall Center. During the Inventor’s Expo,” Michael read aloud. “Holy shit, it’s happening this afternoon. They’re unveiling the pill at the end. All of New Jersey will be there.”

Sebastian sighed. “Looks like Spider-Man will be, too.”

Jeremy nodded. “Thanks for all of your help, Mr. Iscariot. I’ll put an end to this.”

“I know you will. It’s too bad that you’re a kid, though. God, I thought Spider-Man would be an adult.”

“Tell me about it,” Michael quipped.

“This shouldn't fall on your shoulders. I’m sorry it does, Jeremy,” Sebastian mused. “You’re a much braver man than I was back then.”

“Thank you, Mr. Iscariot.” Jeremy gave a solemn nod.

The call ended and Michael turned to Jeremy. He wrapped his arms around the lanky boy, burying his face in his neck. “God, Jeremy,” he breathed. “I can’t believe this is your life.”

“Me neither,” he said softly. He squeezed Michael a little tighter and added, “Guess I better go suit up. I need to take this guy down before the Expo is over.”

They broke apart and Michael perked up. “Jere, what if your plan earlier was actually on the right track? The whole distraction technique?”

“What do you mean?” Jeremy asked, tilting his head in the way that the other boy found adorable.

“What if you distract him long enough for me to get a message out?”

“Are you talking about the fanpage?”

Michael nodded enigmatically. “If I can warn three-thousand people and tell them to pass it on, we may have less of a problem than we thought.”

“You’re a genius,” Jeremy complimented before kissing him. “You do that. Make sure no one takes the pill. I’ll take care of the SQUIP.” He turned on his heel to leave but Michael caught his arm easily.

“Be careful, please,” he requested, a tinge of sadness to his voice. “I want to see you in one piece when this is all over.”

“Of course,” Jeremy promised. “Anything for you.”

One kiss later, he was suited up and heading for Town Hall Center.

#meremy hell #boyf riends #bmc #be more chill #bmc spiderman au #my post #my writing

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b-beeprichie · 6 years

Text

Eddie Is Spider-Man pt 2 ????

Title: Killer Clowns From Outer Space

Paring: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier

A/N: this is a drabble i found in my notes from awhile back, it’s connected to this one. there’s no real rhyme or reason i wrote this, i just really love marvel and the idea of eddie being spider-man??? anyway a couple ppl wanna see it, so here ya go. should i turn this into a series of some sort?? it’s un-beta’d and all that jazz, but at least it’s not hiding in my notes anymore! sorry for all the mistakes!

Warnings: Blood, Evil Toddler Clowns

Since teaming up with the Avengers became a somewhat regular thing, Eddie's discovered that bad guys come in all different shapes and sizes.

There's the usual petty theft criminals that Eddie honestly misses at times like these.

Why can't anyone simply rob a bank these days?

Or commit a mugging?

There are plenty of old ladies with oversized purses just begging to be snatched from unsuspecting liver spotted hands, it’s a real travesty.

Instead now everyone has mutant powers, the technology to blow Eddie through a building, or both. The bad guys are growing more advanced, more dangerous. Including these nasty, drooling, toddler sized clowns.

They wreak havoc throughout downtown, massive heads with extendable jaws, snapping viciously at anything that comes within reach.

Eddie will never look at the circus the same way again. "Guys?" Eddie called out to the nearby Avengers. "I don't know how much longer I can hold these things off, they’re chewing through my web like it's cotton candy and they have no respect for dental hygiene." Eddie bundled another group of clowns together, sticking them to any and every surface. They’re fast, even Captain America is having trouble keeping up with them, snatching one off his back and smacking it into a wall with his shield were it landed with a disgusting splat.

Oh yeah, they exploded into blood red slime, this was literally the stuff from nightmares. "I-I don't know w-where they're coming from." Cap said in frustration, only stuttering when things were going down hill.

From the way one of the clowns was currently trying it’s best to chew its way through Georgie's metal arm, things were going downhill fast.

Who knew they would need all hands on deck for small army of clowns.

At least Hulk was enjoying himself, stomping viciously on the redheaded critters, flinging slime every which direction with giant green fist. It never failed to surprise Eddie that the massive green Hulk in front of him, who was having far too much fun literally stomping demonic toddler clowns to death, was Mike Hanson. The same man who sat in a lab with him pouring over different scientific formulas. Eddie's life is so so weird. He's in the middle of rescuing a family trapped inside a car when a boot clad figure dressed in red drops down on the hood.

"Spidey, you didn't tell me Ronald McDonald had kids! You know morally, morally I can't hurt kids." Deadpool jumped off the car, katanas pulled out of their sheaths. "But I think I can make an exception for these squirmy clown fucks."

Things end very quickly after that, child sized body parts go flying as the herd of clowns Eddie had previously contained broke free and swarmed the remaining Avengers. It's a bloody massacre, Eddie's jaw is dropped in both shock and amazement as Richie sliced unnaturally fast through clowns starting burst after burst of exploding clown slime. By the time Richie is finished every clown is dead except for the one Captain America managed to capture.

The entire team is covered in thick blood red gunk. Including the family inside the car, windshield wipers starting up almost comically except for the fact it was smearing clown slime out the way. The kids inside are going to need therapy for the intense phobia of clowns they're most likely to develop after this.

"Fuck yeah, fuck yeah, fuck yeah! Did you SEE the shit." Richie grinns behind his mask and walks over to Eddie.

Eddie is covered in clown slime, he can feel it clinging to his suit, thick and gelatinous. He wants to throw up, oh god he's actually going to throw up. Life's hard when you're both a hypochondriac AND a superhero, this has happened more times than Eddie would like to admit. Some things didn’t go away with the bite, and his fear of germs and questionable substances is one of them. He’s working on it.

Eddie lifts the bottom of his mask, just enough so he's not blowing chunks inside the suit. The thought alone makes him gag even more, choking on the smell. He's taking the world's longest shower after this, and a nice long walk or two through one of Stanley's decontamination chambers. "Oh no, Spaghetti!" There's a gloved hand on his back rubbing gentle circles low on his spine, a little too low. "Are you seriously trying to cop a feel right now!" Eddie yelps, spitting the remaining bile out and swatting away Richies wandering hands. Only it's too late, when Eddie stands up to pull his mask back down the rest of the Avengers are standing around with various expressions of what the fuck. "Come on Spidey you know I can't keep my hands off you, have you seen you." "I'm literally vomiting!!" Captain America coughs loudly, and when Eddie looks over Iron man is standing next to him with his face plate drawn up. "Deadpool." Bill said sternly, which was much nicer that what Stan follows up with. "What is he doing here." Stan said pointedly.

It’s ridiculous how sassy and disappointed a red and gold metal suit can look. "Uhhh..." Eddie started, honestly not sure how to answer that question. What was Richie doing here?

"You didn't tell them about us?! This is no way for me to meet your dads! Look at them!" Richie gestured vaguely in the teams direction.

"Wait, you guys are together?" Hawkeye pointed between the both of them. Eddie wanted to die, he was covered in clown slime and sweat, everything smelled like vomit, he needed to shower, and now the Avengers thought he was dating a wanted criminal. "No!" Eddie shouted both hands up in defense. "I don't even know this guy!" Richie gasped dramatically, and okay that was a lie. "I mean I know him! But not like that, he's been following me! But we're NOT together!" Eddie turned towards Deadpool. "And they're not my dads, we're the same age! Except for Captain, hes old enough to be all our dads, but he's not our dad!" "He's been following you." Black Widow chose to speak up, all of the Avengers taking a defensive stance.

Richie takes a step back, sticking his katanas back into place. "Well this little family meeting has been nice and all but I gotta blow this popsicle stand. I hate clowns you know, very terrifying. This whole ordeal has been very traumatic for me and that’s really saying something, I've been through a lot." A large hand palmed the top of Eddie's head, and for moment his heart stops thinking Richie would pull off his mask. Instead Richie kissed the top of his head, making Eddie flush and shove away from him.

Richie laughs in response, running off into the slowly forming crowd.

"Should I go get him?" Ben questioned, crossbow aimed and ready to fire at what Eddie believes to be Richie’s ass.

Bill held up his hand and pinched the bridge of his nose, a sign to both hold off and express frustration.

"No, b-but you." He pointed at Eddie. "We need to have a serious conversation later, you're going to tell us everything."

Eddie whined but nodded.

Fucking Deadpool.

Fucking killer clowns.

#eddie is spiderman??#marvel/IT crossover #eddie kaspbrak #richie tozier #It (2017)#fanfiction #reddie #should i continue?

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emberpendragon · 6 years

Text

The Forbidden Stories

Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three, Chapter Four, Chapter Five, Chapter Six, Chapter Seven, Chapter Eight, Chapter Nine, Chapter Ten, Chapter Eleven.

Chapter 12: It Depends on my Mood.

When your eyes opened, you found you were in the biggest master bedroom you have ever seen, with the softest silk for sheets. When you turned to your side, you saw Tony was already awake. His short was off, he hadn’t actually got out of bed yet, but he was tinkering with something.

“What is that?” you asked, tilting your head.

“A web shooter,” he answered.

“Fine then, don’t tell me,” you chuckled.

Getting up you heard Tony’s phone buzz. He growled when he saw the notification.

“Reindeer Games is here,” He shook his head.

“Don’t call him that!” you snapped at Tony, almost making him drop his machine.

Turning on your heals you walked to your closet in a huff and started to get ready for the day. You guessed this was again your anniversary so you picked out a gown to wear. Tony was behind you in a second. His arms around your bare waist.

“Look baby I am sorry, but why does he always watch the kids, he destroyed New York you know?” Tony whispered.

“You know he wasn’t in his own state of mind! Plus he is good with kids!” you shot back.

Tony huffed in defeat, “Fine, at least let me keep my nickname. I won't say it to his face.”

“Or around the kids!” you added.

“Fine” he huffed.

The scene shifted to you and tony walking down the stairs. Your single daughter sitting next to Loki as she showed him her new video game she had been playing. Loki looked up and smiled at your while your daughter ran into Tony’s arms.

“Be good for Uncle Loki okay,” you said to your daughter as you walked to loki, giving him a hug.

“Yes mommy, I promise.” Your daughter answered, giving you a hug.

“Thank you Loki, for everything.” you suddenly said.

“It’s my pleasure darling.” he laughed.

With another Scene change you were in the same field as the last dream. This time walking with Tony. Clint and Natasha ran up to you this time, pulling you away from Tony in excitement. The three of you sat at a table for a while, gossiping over what is happening with the new recruits for the Avengers.

Looking around, you find Thor again, who does the same thing he did last time. But you also find Steve, his arm around who you assumed to be his wife. But when he looked over at you, you saw nothing but sadness and longing in his eyes, it made you feel sad. He didn’t talk to you all day.

Yet again, you thought, So much for being there for me.

You woke up again in the same bed with Tony. This time he was old, and grey. He looked at you and sighed, pulling you close to him. You sat there together in the darkness, not speaking, it was like the two of you knew what was happening, and you were trying to figure out how to stop it. How to go back and do all the things you didn’t.

Your sight went black again, Fate standing in front of you.

“Tony was so mean to him, why did Loki stick around?” you asked.

“He wanted you to know that you always had somebody, even when Tony wasn’t there,” She explained.

“Steve wouldn’t talk to me?”

“His pain never faltered.” she sighed. “Are you ready for Thor?”

You nodded, as you held his goat to your chest.

This time you awoke to a golden room, with lighting marks all over it. The gold shattered in some places with a light blue gem. You felt Thor’s large arm around you, holding you to him and making you feel warm. You turned your head gently and kissed him awake. You kissed him gently until you felt his hand move behind your back and push your head closer, making the kiss grow passionate and deep.

It only stopped when your heard the pitter patter of little feat running across the gold floor. Soon Thor was tackled by two twin boys, both of them exactly like him. Thor smiled and wrestled with them for a second. Meanwhile a little girl crawled on top of you and hugged you.

“Momma,” She asked, “Why are boys so violent?” She asked.

You chuckled, “it’s only our boys sweetheart.” You kissed her on the head and smiled.

“Alright boys,” you heard Thor boom, “Go find Uncle Loki and ask him to find you guys a babysitter for a day.”

All three children groaned, making you giggle.

“I know I know, But your mother and I are leaving today and I can’t have you wreaking havoc across all nine realms.” he demanded.

The children groaned and left.

The Scene changed to You and Thor walking across the rainbow bridge. Soon accompanied by Loki himself.

“Loki! Your coming too?” you gasped, turning and giving him a hug.

“I couldn’t miss my own brother and sister’s tenth anniversary could I?” he smiled and winked at you.

Again you opened your eyes to the same green field as the other two dreams. The three of your mingled for a long while. Until of course, Clint came up and picked you up fireman style, making Thor laugh.

“Clint!” you screamed.

“You know the rules (Y/N), either you say hi to me and Natasha at the front door or we have to try again.” He laughed. Soon setting you down right outside of the party.

You Turned around slowly, smiling at the two of them, “Hi there Clint, hey there Natasha.”

“Hey (Y/N)” they said in unison. The three of you laughed together. Standing in the grass as if nothing else was happening.

When you looked at Steve, he seemed to be better, not seeing you all the time has allowed him to just about get over you. But Tony was cold. He wouldn’t even glance your way, much less give you a hello.

You opened your eyes again, you were laying in Thor’s bed. Thor sat next to you in a chair, sobbing. He looked like he has not aged, a day. You smiled at him and took his hand in your old fingers.

“You made my life worth it baby.” Was your last words.

Your eyes went black again and you were back next to fate.

“Why would Tony even look at me? Why throw the party if he hates me?” you asked Fate in a huff.

“He felt like you abandoned him. He didn’t want to get between you and Thor, so he kept his distance, hoping he could just about forget you. But Thor is still one of his best friends.” she said.

“Steve?” You asked.

“Steve and Tony were left brooding together on earth, feeding off of eachother hatred for you.” she explained.

Your heart get very heavy then, you sighed and shook your head at the entire situation.

“Are you ready for Loki?” She asked.

You Snuggled up against the wolf as it appeared in your arms, and nodded.

You woke up in the same cave, behind the waterfall you and Loki found on your date. When you turned to your side to look at him, you were pleasantly surprised to find Loki sleeping on his back with his spitting image of a son sleeping on his chest. Hrim Slept in between the two of you, he was about the size of a cat now, and you could tell he was getting up there in years.

Leaning over you gently kissed Loki awake, he silently stretched in a way not to wake his son.

“Good morning Kitten,” he smiled at you, putting his hand on his sons back.

“Good morning baby,” you replied, petting Hrim softly.

Suddenly you and Loki stood in the field right outside of the cave. Your son running around playfully with Hrim. Asgardian decorations of love were placed about on tables and such, as you watched a crowd of people start to walk from town. Thor came up behind the two of you and brought you in for a big strong hug.

“Aw, I love coming home to see my family, mostly me nephew though, no offence brother.” He laughed.

Before Loki could answer, Thor was already playing with your son. Throwing him around in a fashion that made the boy laugh wildly. Loki pulled you to him and chuckled.

Natasha and Clint ran up to you not long after that. They talked wildly about how awesome this place was. The four of you sat at a table and talked for a long time. You questioned about earth and the questioned about Asgard. Looking around, you couldn’t find Steve or Tony anywhere.

“Where is-” You were cut off by Clint.

“They are recovering, (Y/N).” He looked at Natasha.

“From what?” you asked.

They looked at each other and sighed. Then they told you the whole story of the civil war between Tony and Steve. Every detail, including the part where they had almost made up, but Tony found out the Bucky was the man who killed his parents. Then shit hit the fan, long story short, both men are brooding in their respective corners and did not want to be bothered at the moment.

Your chest started to condense. Loki pulled you into him and started to comfort you, telling you they would be okay. They were always okay.

You woke up again on your bed. You watched as Loki ran in as fast as he could, with something in his hands, tears streaming down his face. He nelt over you and gave you a kiss. You could feel your soul beginning to leave.

“I can’t live without you Dove,” Loki cried. He unwrapped his bumble and showed you the contents.

Three perfect golden apples, gorgeous and ready to be eaten. You shook your head.

“How?”

“I finally got the apple bearer to agree, I begged her to let me try, please try Love. Please, I can’t live without you.” He begged.

With a shaky hand, he pulled out a dagger and started to cut into one of the apples to make a bite small enough for you.

“But if it doesn’t work, then you will die too.” you frown.

“I would give anything for us to either grow old and die together, or stay young and live forever. This will give me one or the other, love, please?” he begged.

Lifting up a piece of the apple, you took it in your mouth and started to chew slowly. At first you felt you body to swell up, as if it was about to explode, then you felt like you were fifty again. By the time you finished the apple you were back to your twenty nothing body and you sprang out of bed.

“It worked!” you laughed, twirling around.

“I told you that you were not a midgardian.” Loki chuckled, pulling you in for a long passionate kiss.

When the two of you were finished, you looked around to see that you had an audience of every critter in the forest. Everyone from a bear, to an elk, to a fox came to watch the two of you.

“Who would have thought,” Loki laughed, “The goddess of animals and the god of mischief falling in love.”

You looked to Fate then, you mouth almost to the floor.

“He risked everything for me?”

She nodded, “And it almost failed. It took all of his strength to keep your body from exploding so that the apple could take effect. But it worked.” she smiled. “Have you made your decision.”

You node, looking down at the wolf. And the words rang in your ears. I thought you were a snake, you had said. His reply, it depends on my mood, suddenly made sense. He was only loyal to the people he felt deserved it.

You wake up back in your own bed, and smile over at Hrim. He wags his tail and barks at you. You smile and scoop him up running into the living room and plopping down in between Clint and Natasha . They are just as excited, Natasha putting her arms around you and Clint taking out his phone.

“Have you made a decision?” Natasha asks, biting her lip.

“Loki,” you say with determination.

“Damn it!” Clint growls.

You look at the both of them as they get sad for only a second. They explain their motions when you look confused.

“I bet fifty dollars you would choose Thor and Clint bet that you would choose Tony, so we both lost,” Natasha explains in a fake fit of disappointment.

“How do you spell that little fuckers name?” Clint motioned to your puppy.

“Why?”

“Because if I am going to order a cake, with both yours and Loki’s name on it, your child should be included.” Clint explained with a smile.

Epilogue

@amryan8 @rin-rue

#avengers #clint barton #natasha romanoff #loki #thor #love #Hrim #the end?

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folklore-musings · 7 years

Text

Camera Shy (part 6)

Summary: AU. Jughead is an aspiring photographer. His final project requires him to shoot nude photos of someone who inspires him. With no one else to ask Jughead asks Betty. Insecure of her body Betty is quick to shoot the idea down, until Jughead reminds her that she owes him.

Read on AO3 here

Fine previous chapters on Tumblr here (Just search a little. I know I need to make a master list).

A/N: Well I posted earlier than I thought I would. Thank you all for the support you have given me with this fic. This chapter is NSFW but I hope you enjoy it just the same. Let me know what you think! My ask box is always open (and usually empty lol)

Jughead walks around the block twice, thinking it best to give Betty some time to cool off. He didn’t understand why she snapped, Ronnie was just making an innocent joke. And earlier that afternoon Betty really seemed to enjoy their moment together, so why all of a sudden was she acting this way? Did she regret sleeping with him?

The negative thoughts stir up an insufferable ache in his chest. He feels the brick walls of the surrounding buildings begin to close in on him. He leans back against a store front window to stop and steady his breathing. Every possible scenario ran through his mind. He’d return home and maybe she’d be back to normal and greet him with a kiss and a sweet, “I’m sorry.” Or maybe she’d be sulking around in her bedroom with her door locked, demanding him to leave her alone. Maybe she wouldn’t even be home at all.

He kicks off the brick beneath the window and starts towards their apartment complex. He hopes and prays that she’s home and waiting for him, because the only way they can make it through this is if they talk out all their issues. He can’t lose Betty now, not when he finally has a chance to be with her.

Jughead stands outside the door with his hand on the knob. It turns with ease and his hopes heighten, at least he knows she’s home. Everything is dark except for the flickering of the TV screen in the living room. He slips off his shoes and drapes his coat over a kitchen chair. “Betty?” He calls out into the darkness. He’s met with no response.

With careful steps he walks into the living room and finds her sitting on the couch, wrapped in a throw blanket, eyes staring intently at the screen. He moves to sit beside her, making sure to leave some empty space between them. “Betts, we need to talk.”

In a flash the TV is off with a click and he is consumed by the darkness. A trace of moonlight filters through the lacy curtains and all he can see is her silhouette in the shadows. “Talk.” She says, no louder than a whisper.

“Are you OK?” Jughead asks. He ignores the itch to reach out and touch her, if only to hold her hand. He doesn’t want to send her running. The world around them is quiet, and he can’t see it, but he knows she’s chewing desperately on her lip right now, the way she always does when she’s nervous.

“I shouldn’t have told Ronnie what happened between us.” Betty regrets, sighing as she speaks. Jughead waits for her to continue on but he’s left with silence.

“It’s not that big of a deal Betty. So we slept together, it happens. We got caught up in a moment that led to something extraordinary. Don’t let Ronnie’s inability to keep quiet ruin that.”

He swears he hears her sniffle. “You don’t understand. It is a big deal; at least it is to me.” Betty mumbles. She turns herself to face him, bending her knee so that she can rest her chin upon it. Jughead can’t see her face but he can tell she’s doing everything she can not to cry. The blackness is swallowing him up and he feels his heart clench inside his chest. She’s going to tell him it was a mistake, he just knows it. He’s about to speak when she starts up once more. “What happened earlier was amazing Juggie.” Suddenly he finds it easier to breathe. “And I don’t regret a single second of it. But there’s something you need to know.”

“What?” he breathes, hanging on her every word as if his life depends on what she’ll say next.

Betty exhales heavily and continues on. “I’ve never actually slept with someone before today.”

Jughead can’t take it anymore. He reaches for the lamp behind him and turns it on, needing to see her face. It takes a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the change. Her blue green eyes are shining, her cheeks are painted a rosy pink, and her bottom lip is torn from her constant biting. He knew Betty hadn’t dated much but she did have a few serious relationships in the past. “You’re kidding me. But what about Reggie back in high school? Or Chuck our sophomore year of college?”

She just shakes her head, her face reddening. Jughead is stunned. Even he had gotten lucky a few times to his surprise. Some college girls really love the whole ‘I’m a loner and a struggling photographer and I only own 4 different T-shirts’ vibe he exuded.

“Betty, if it felt like I forced you into something you didn’t want to do earlier,” he pauses and takes her hand in his. “I’m so sorry. I just thought we had something between us-“

Betty places her other hand over his and rubs circles over his wrist. “You didn’t push me into anything. I wanted it, remember?”

Jughead smiles and feels his face heat up. He doubts he would ever forget anything that happened that afternoon. The way she looked, the way she felt, hell even the way she smelled. It was all permanently imprinted in his memory. “I remember.” He replies. A timid silence settles between them. Jughead realizes he’s still holding Betty’s hand and he moves to pull away, but she stops him.

“No don’t.”

Jughead lets his fingers linger on her palm. He’s anxious, needing to know what this all means. With his free hand he removes the old wool beanie from his head and threads his fingers through his hair, pushing the dark locks out of his face. She looks so serene, the lamp light creating a halo effect above her head. She’s an angel without wings and he is so blessed to be known by her. “Betty, what exactly is going on between us?”

She shifts in her spot on the couch, scooting closer to Jughead and allowing her head to rest on his shoulder. She moves their hands so they are resting in his lap, fingers laced together. “I don’t know Juggie, you tell me.” Betty whispers.

He stares at their hands in his lap and he groans inwardly. The angel on his shoulder was sure to be the death of him. He wants to tell her everything he feels but every word he can think of pales in comparison to the emotions wreaking havoc in his chest. The simplest of Betty’s touches puts his heart into overdrive.

Jughead draws in a shaky breath. “Well I don’t know about you, but I really enjoyed the time we spent together this afternoon.”

Betty lifts her head from his shoulder and turns to face him. “Oh really now?” He nods just a little too enthusiastically. “What was your favorite part? You tell me yours and I’ll tell you mine.” Jughead melts into her words. Her usual kindhearted eyes are shimmering with hints of mischief and it drives him wild.

He taps a finger to his chin as he thinks. “I would have to say when you began to dance. You let your insecurities evaporate with each movement and I was captivated by all of it. You just seemed so carefree and in love with life. It was inspiring and I am so lucky to have caught it on camera. You can’t fake that kind of shit, Betty.”

Betty curls her lip and lifts a hand to play with the hair at the back of his head. “As beautiful as that little speech was Jughead, I have reason to believe you’re not telling the whole truth.” She tiptoes her fingers down the curve of his neck and Jughead forgets how to breathe. He chokes on his next words.

“W-what, you were hypnotizing up on that s-stage. Are you calling me a liar?”

She leans in closer and touches her lips to the shell of his ear. “Yes,” she says and Jughead’s a complete and utter goner for her. “So really,” she pauses, tickling his lobe with the tip of her tongue. “What was your favorite part?”

Jughead’s eyes roll back as Betty leaves a trail of kisses from his ear, across his jawline, abruptly stopping at his chin. He groans. “Probably when I first kissed you.” He wasn’t lying. Sure, the sex had been phenomenal, but kissing Betty was the frosting on the cake that was Jughead’s life. He hadn’t felt her lips in over 8 years and to be able to feel them again gave him a rush like nothing else ever could.

Betty pulls back and scans her eyes over Jughead’s face, her gaze getting caught up on his lips. She brings their clasped hands to her mouth and kisses each knuckle of his fingers carefully. “Do you want to know my favorite part?”

His tongue feels like putty inside his mouth. Unable to speak he nods his head rhythmically; completely aware of the spell she’s placed on him.

“I’d have to say,” she pauses, kissing the inside of his wrist. “When you picked me up and pushed me back against the front door. I’ll never be able to look at it the same way again.” A rosy flush creeps up on her cheeks and she gives him a lusting smile.

Jughead grins sheepishly and suddenly remembers something strange he hadn’t realized before. “Hey Betty…if earlier was your first time, how come it didn’t hurt? I mean, doesn’t it usually hurt for a girl?”

Betty’s smile curves mischievously. “Just because I’ve never had sex doesn’t mean I’ve never toyed around a bit.”

He can’t help arching an eyebrow in amusement. “No pun intended?”

Betty falls back onto the couch cushions giggling, hiding her face beneath the neck of her sweater. Jughead is baffled. Never did he expect Betty of all people to be so explorative when it came to sex. She seems to be more of the type to think of sex as just making love and nothing more. He is suddenly very interested in what hides deep in the corners of her dresser drawers.

“You’re judging me, aren’t you?” Betty asks sitting up on her elbows and looking up at him, her lip tucked in like always.

“No no no I think it’s awesome. What other dirty little secrets are you keeping from me Betts?”

She curves a perfect eyebrow. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

He swears in that moment his heart actually stopped. Betty reaches up and clutches onto the front of his shirt and drags Jughead down to meet her for a kiss. He revels in the feeling of her mouth on his, her tongue desperately craving his as they move together with fervent passion.

Jughead lies atop of her and she wraps her legs around his waist. He’s come to the conclusion that if the world allowed, he would spend all of his days, minutes and seconds kissing Betty. Her lips are the sweetest of candies and Jughead’s caught up in her sugar rush.

Their arms are mess of blurry lines, struggling to remove each other’s clothes, neither ready to come up for air just yet. Jughead makes the move to pull his lips free from her clutch. He sits up and removes his shirt from his body, then heads in to help Betty with hers. She holds her arms up and as soon as Jughead gets the fabric up above her ears he leans in for another kiss and Betty giggles into his mouth, her sleeves getting caught around her arms. She pushes him away and frees herself. Jughead watches as she slides her hair out of the pony tail holding it back.

Before it has the chance to fall around her face Jughead tangles his fingers through the golden locks and kisses her again. Betty bites his lip and Jughead growls into her mouth, rocking his hips against hers, the arousal in his jeans apparent against her thigh. Her hands slip beneath fabric of his cotton Tee and she tickles the soft skin below his belly button.

Jughead sits back and laughs, throwing his head against the back of the couch. His mind is completely wasted on Betty. He watches as her chest rises and falls with the beating of her heart. She stands up and undoes the clasp of her bra, letting the lacy contraption fall to the floor with a quiet whoosh. Jughead grabs her hips and helps her out of her pants. Betty shimmies free from her jeans and kicks them to the side. She gets down on her knees in front him and gets to work on the zipper of his jeans.

Oh my god. Jughead wants to watch but his head falls back while he leans into Betty’s touch, her fingers grazing the shadow of his length. He lifts up his hips, helping her as she tugs his jeans and boxers off him, letting them pool around his ankles.

Betty kisses the sides of his thighs, wickedly teasing him as her fingers trace lines up and down his shaft. He shudders beneath her touch. “Betts please,” he begs. Jughead kinks his fingers in her hair, forcing her to touch him where he needs her most. Betty obliges, licking her lips and dragging her tongue relentlessly slow up the side of his length. She opens her mouth and wastes no time in wrapping her lips around him. Jughead’s fingers unravel in her hair and his breath gets caught somewhere in the back of his throat. “Yesss.” He moans.

Betty’s mouth feels incredible but what he wants most rests between her legs. He lets her suck a few more times, watching her blonde head bob up and down exaggeratingly slow. Jughead grabs onto her hair and removes her lips from his throbbing dick. “Hop up.” He drums his fingers on his thighs and Betty’s quick to follow directions.

“Did you like that?” She whispers seductively in his ear, straddling his hips as her knees dig into the couch cushions, positioning herself above him. Jughead mewls while she moves, letting the tip of his cock probe through her folds before she allows him entrance. “Fuck.”

Jughead throws his head back with a deep groan. Betty’s fingers find their way into his hair and she pulls hard, yanking on the raven locks desperately. Never in all his life did Jughead ever expect Betty to be such a vixen. Despite it being only her second time she knew exactly what to do make him lose his mind.

He cups her face in his hands and pulls her in for a steamy kiss. Their tongues tangle together as Jughead fights for the upper hand, dominating her the only way he can in their current position. He wants her on all fours, crying out as he fucks her. He wants her on her back while he holds her hands captive above her head, watching her fall apart beneath his touch. He wants Betty in every possible way he can have her.

Betty releases him from their kiss and continues to move in his lap, rolling her body in such an erotic way that Jughead knows he won’t last much longer. “Slow down.” He moans, but Betty does just the opposite. She speeds up the rocking of her hips and soon Jughead is tumbling over the edge, eyes locked with Betty’s as he cries out. He’s completely spent.

Jughead lifts Betty up off him so he can lie down and catch his breath. He pulls Betty with him, holding her as she buries her face in his chest, peppering soft kisses over his rapidly beating heart. He kisses her forehead softly and he smells her hair. She smells like a mixture of strawberries and flowers and Jughead loves it. He loves her.

He flinches at the thought of love. It’s not a word he uses often, but he knows in this moment that he loves Betty. He loves the way she bites her lip and the way she wears her hair. He loves the way she smiles at him and the way she can make him laugh without trying. Jughead’s not someone you would consider a romantic, but this sudden epiphany makes him want shout it from their fourth story window to the dizzying streets below. He hasn’t loved anybody in a long time, and he is so undeniably happy that out of everyone in this crazy messed up world, he’s decided to fall in love with her.

#bughead #betty cooper #jughead jones #bughead fanfiction #my writings #riverdale #bughead smut #buglead love #im obsessed with bughead

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mindsnot · 8 years

Text

Broken Age Fanfic part 1 (subtitle: new beginnings)

Currently working on a Broken Age fanfic. It’s pretty long, so it’ll go beneath a readmore. I tried to keep it in the spirit of the game, with puzzles and humor, and what I hope is consistent canon. Not sure if they’re making a sequel ever, but until then, here’s my conclusion.

Shay stepped out of the conference room and sighed, his whole upper body sagging down, as if he was deflating. The hallway was empty. He only had as much time as he would have plausibly spent in the bathroom, so he pulled out his phone.

He flipped open the hexagonal clamshell and was greeted by a smiling face.

“What’s happening, Shay? Are you having a good day?”

“Put me through to Vella.”

“Aw,” the phone cried in a warbly voice. “You’re always calling Vella. You know who you haven’t called in a while? Curtis. You haven’t called Curtis in a while. I bet he misses you,” the phone sang.

Shay gave the phone a deadpan stare.

“I’ll call Vella,” the phone muttered.

Vella pulled out her clamshell phone she got from Shellmound. Its case was an actual clamshell, and it smelled faintly of fish. She wasn’t sure why she used it, but she never did get around to using a new one.

“Hello,” she said.

“Hey, it’s me.”

“Hi, Shay. How are delegations going?”

“They’re going.” Vella could tell from the way his voice trailed off that “going” might have been too generous a word.

“Well, you can’t expect the negotiations between the Lorunans and the other countries to go perfectly smooth at first,” said Vella.

“But it’s so boring,” Shay whined. “They’re just talking in circles. Neither side is willing to compromise.”

“You’re the one that signed up to be an ambassador,” said Vella, rolling her eyes.

“Anyway, what are you doing,” said Shay. “Baking a cake?”

Vella scoffed.

“I do a lot more than bake cakes, you know,” said Vella. She certainly wasn’t going to admit that she had just finished decorating a three-layer cake less than an hour ago.

“All right,” said Shay. “Well, what are you doing now?”

“I’m heading to a place,” said Vella. The forest at the end of the road was coming into view now. Plumes of chimney smoke rose from the middle. “Woodburr, have you heard of it?”

“I think so…isn’t Curtis from there? Why are you going to a middle-of-nowhere place like that?”

“Let’s just say,” said Vella in a playful voice, “I’m hunting for a wolf.”

“Wait, you mean Marek?” Shay cried, but Vella had already hung up.

Shay groaned and put his phone away.

It was quiet.

Shay turned around and saw the Thrush Master towering over him.

“Hello, child.”

Shay straightened himself up, standing as tall as he could.

“The meeting is still going on,” said Shay.

The Thrush Master laughed.

“Ah, yes. The unity of Loruna and the badlands. The undoing of everything we’ve worked for in the name of peace, in the name of progress and cooperation. But not everyone is so happy with this forced accord. With this unexpected…reversal.”

“Gee, I couldn’t tell.”

The Thrush Master raised an eyebrow.

“You misunderstand me. A bit of bad blood—in moderation,” he muttered, “can be a good thing. A necessary evil, if you will. Blood, genes, life must be able to adapt, or else it will cease to be. And that which fails is the farthest thing from perfect. Although, The First might prefer to wipe the slate clean, to start over. Most of us would not prefer that.”

The veins stood out on the Thrush Master’s head crest.

Shay narrowed his eyes and tried to look for any trace of a lie, but the Thrush Master’s expression was flat.

“And what? What’s the point of telling me?”

The Thrush Master held his arms behind his back and looked down at Shay, studying him.

“You have demonstrated a certain…judgment, the kind we have always been looking for. I do not think it would be unwise to trust you. Take this.”

The Thrush Master produced a package from the folds of his robes. It was book shaped.

“Uh…” said Shay.

“The other three volumes elude me, but I managed to obtain the second. I trust you will appreciate its worth and decipher its mysteries. Now, I must be going. And I believe you have a meeting to return to?”

Shay stifled his retort. He was pretty late coming back to his meeting.

He walked back down the hallway, but right outside the door, looked down at his parcel. He opened the bag it was in and removed the book.

Bunny Tutu and the Poison Mushrooms, it said on the cover.

“Let me know when you want another stack, sweetie,” said the mayor, pouring a flood of maple syrup onto Vella’s second stack of pancakes.

“Thanks,” said Vella. She watched the syrup ooze through the thick stack of pancakes. She was already full after the second pancake in the first stack. “So, anyway, about the wolf that moved into town—”

“Oh, yes, quite the talk,” said Mayor Margo. She was stout and burly, dressed in denim and plaid, and had round, rosy cheeks. “He went and hid in the Moss Shed.” She shrugged and made a noise. “No way to get in there. Who knows how he did.” Her cheery expression dimmed. “More importantly, you aren’t looking to cause any trouble, are you?”

“What do you mean?” Vella cut another bite out of her pancakes and ate it. It was really was quite good, especially the fresh maple syrup. She could always appreciate good sweets.

“Just the way you’re dressed, sweetie.”

Vella was wearing a red cape with a red hood. She was aware how that looked when someone was looking for a wolf. She shrugged herself.

“Don’t worry,” she said between chewing. “Can’t see why there’d be any problems.”

There was a problem.

The Moss Shed was a huge rock covered in moss, just as its name suggested. Only it wasn’t a rock. It was metal beneath the green growth, and there was a clear set of metal doors secured shut at the base. Only Vella could see the moss broken at the seams…as if it had been opened recently.

There were no handles, no keyholes, nothing.

“Another puzzle,” Vella grumbled.

Vella checked her pockets.

First, she pulled out her trusty knife. She tried jamming it in between the spot where the doors met, trying to wedge them open, or something.

“Hey, toots, do I look like a crowbar,” shouted the knife. The tiny little face on the hilt was frowning with its eyebrows furrowed.

“Sorry,” said Vella. She put him away and went back to thinking.

The only other things in her pockets were her cell phone, her pastry bag (just in case there was a cake that needed decorating), and an embroidered hand towel (always handy, something you should never leave home without).

Maybe she was looking at it wrong. If Marek got in there, then there had to be a way in. She seriously doubted he forced the doors open. So she tried prying her attention away from the doors and looking elsewhere along the Moss Shed. To the left there was nothing. She climbed to the top of it, and aside from a clear view of the rest of Woodburr and all its little log cabins, she didn’t see much. However, after climbing back down her foot slipped on a patch of moss, causing her to almost fall.

She dusted herself off and got her bearings back. A couple feet to the right of the doors was a patch of moss with her footprint still pressed into it. She touched the moss and noticed it was loose.

“All right, here’s your chance to shine,” she said to her knife.

“Let me at em’,” he growled. Vella sawed through the patch of moss and let it fall to the ground in one big clump. Behind the clump was a control panel of some sort, with blocky red buttons and black and yellow lines outlining it.

“So that’s how he did it.” She put her hands on her hips. “Now let’s see…” Vella tried pushing a few buttons at random, then stood back. A little light flared red and a horn blared repeatedly.

“Incorrect password,” intoned a robotic voice. “Two attempts remaining.”

Vella grumbled.

“I’m not going to figure out that password, and I’ll probably never make it in if I mess up again. So, I guess that leaves force again.”

Vella inspected the control panel again. There seemed to be screws at each of the corners. She took out her knife again.

“What are you trying to pull?”

“I don’t have a screwdriver, so work with me here.”

“I don’t like this,” he said. But he didn’t say any more while Vella fiddled with each screw and let them each drop to the ground.

Once the panel was detached, it only hung by a cord of wires, revealing a little bit inside the machinery of the Moss Shed.

“I probably won’t get through there unless I’m a mouse, but I bet if something were to wreak havoc in there it would open up.” She thought. “Or at least do something.”

Her cloak flapped as she turned around and headed back to town, still pondering.

“Howdy, what can I do you for?” The general store owner was a skinny lad with a bushy beard that almost hid his cheery grin. “The name’s Woodford.”

“What can you tell me about the Moss Shed?”

“Oh, it’s that metal shed covered with moss on the outskirts of town.” Woodford shrugged. “It’s a local sight.”

Perhaps another conversation track would work better.

“What kind of things do you sell here?”

Woodford’s face lit up.

“Why, we sell everything from Woodburr’s famous maple syrup, to lumber supplies, to any handy household goods.”

Vella cupped her chin in her hand.

“I don’t suppose you sell remote controlled bombs, do you?”

Woodford laughed.

“Why would we sell those? We just sell plastic explosives.”

“Oh,” said Vella. She looked down at her feet, then looked around the store at the supplies on the shelves. Looking sideways she asked, “Can you…sell me some?”

“Are you nuts,” shouted Woodford, banging his hands on the counter. “I can’t just sell any old girl plastic explosives…unless she had a way to carry it. Geeze, how would you even deliver it?”

“What would I carry it in,” Vella muttered to herself. How she would use it was another question she was even less prepared for.

She had an idea.

“Put some in here,” she said. She offered Woodford her pastry bag.

Back at the Moss Shed, she went back to the control panel, equipped with her pastry bag. The waxed cloth bag was bulging with plastic explosive. She inserted the metal nozzle of the pastry bag deep into the recesses of the space behind the control panel. She squeezed the bag, gently at first, then harder to force out more of the toothpasty explosive material.

When she was done, she stuffed the bag, nozzle and all, into the hole, poked the detonator in, and ran a good distance away.

The Moss Shed was a speck in the distance when she had gone far enough. She pushed the little button on her little remote.

There was a roaring explosion and a rush of wind followed by a shower of debris kicked up.

When she approached again there was a funny smell from the explosive—the control panel was a smoldering heap of wreckage—and a musty smell emanating from the open metal doors, and the dark corridor that led underground.

Vella pulled her cloak tight, raised her hood over her hair, and descended into the darkness.

Little Bunny Tutu had built the prettiest garden for himself, and had filled it with all the best of each kind of vegetable. But Bunny Tutu was worried about dirty varmints that might come to mess it all up. So the first thing Bunny Tutu did was build a big wall around his garden.

Shay was lying on his back on the couch, holding the book above him. He groaned and turned to the next page.

Bunny Tutu’s very special garden was safe behind the big wall he built. However, Bunny Tutu decided it wasn’t enough. Looking over the walls of his garden, Bunny Tutu kept an eye out for dirty varmints. Suddenly, Bunny Tutu had an idea.

Shay turned the page. The book was illustrated, with pictures that were clearly drawn for children, and possibly drawn by children.

Little Bunny Tutu was full of mischief. Leaving the safety of his garden, Bunny Tutu snuck out into the bad lands and into the gardens of the dirty varmints. It was night time when Bunny Tutu did his work. He dug little holes and put little pieces of poison mushrooms inside. 23 little holes, and 23 pieces of poison mushroom later, and he was done.

Chuckling to himself after a job well done, Bunny Tutu snuck away and returned to his garden to tend to it.

Little Bunny Tutu wasn’t worried anymore. If anything ever happened, and if the dirty varmints ever got past his walls, the poison mushrooms would sprout in the other gardens. Bunny Tutu went to sleep—another brilliant plan completed—tucked into bed, and looked forward to the next bright day.

Shay slapped the book shut. He turned the skinny book over and looked at the “2” printed on its narrow spine. He groaned again, louder this time. He had read the book five times already, and he still didn’t understand what the point was. The Thrushmaster didn’t seem the joking type. There had to be something in the book, something he didn’t get yet.

“What do you mean, you stupid book?” Shay stared at the cover of the book, at Bunny Tutu. He looked so…weird. He was hardly a bunny. He had big, floppy ears covered in pink fur, and a rabbit’s head, but wore a gray suit and had brown, flesh-colored hands. It gave the impression that it was just a person wearing a half-hearted rabbit costume.

Shay rolled over and sat up on the couch. He had spent hours rereading, researching, thinking, anything to try and figure out the book.

“I don’t even have time for this,” he muttered. Tomorrow, he would have to go back into work, and dozens of countries were still petitioning to speak with Loruna. He’d already been in at least twenty or thirty meetings so far and…

“Wait,” he breathed.

Snatching the book, he flipped to the pages where Bunny Tutu was planting the poison mushrooms in the varmints’ gardens.

23 little holes, and 23 pieces of poison mushroom later—

Shay’s eyes widened. The light book felt very heavy all of a sudden.

Work would have to wait.

Shay had finished his breakfast—eggs and bacon, no more cereal, he was fifteen-years-old, an adult!—and was in his room, packing his things, when his mom and dad decided to help.

“Where are you going,” his mother asked, her round hairdo bobbing side-to-side while she moved through his drawers, picking out clothes for him.

“I might head to Sugar Bunting first,” said Shay. He was deciding between which gadgets would most come in handy for whatever happened. “But I’ll probably head to other places, maybe Meriloft and Ice Vista after that.”

23 holes and 23 pieces of poison mushroom. The numbers had to mean something. The numbers stood out. There was a second reason the numbers meant something, but that was covered in a dark shroud in his mind, but the first reason had to be…the number of countries. 23, at least. If not the other three volumes of the book that the Thrushmaster alluded to, then maybe he’d find those poison mushrooms that were buried. It filled Shay with an energy as he packed his toothbrush and laptop into his backpack…but also with a heavy dread. Would he be ready when he found what he was looking for?

“An extra three scarves then,” his mother chirped. She was taking it rather well, Shay thought. There wasn’t a word of protest about him taking a vacation from his job and leaving on his trip.

Shay puffed himself up and smiled. That must have meant that they were finally trusting him, as an adult.

“I got enough meal bars to last you a week, son,” his dad called from the kitchen.

“Thanks dad.” He wasn’t exactly planning on roughing it in the woods, but it helped to be prepared.

His mother grunted as she stuffed the last of his clothes into his bulging backpack and zipped it shut.

“Here you go,” she said. “Now, I had this made for you, although I hope you won’t need it.” She pulled out a plastic band and secured it to his wrist. It was like a smart watch, except instead of a flat face it had a ping pong ball-sized glass ball attached to it.

“What is it,” asked Shay.

The Overmother’s radiant sun head popped up into the glass bulb, beaming up at him.

“It’s a communicator, sweetie,” the head in the glass ball said, at the same time as his mother speaking into a communicator on her wrist. “It also doubles as a computer terminal, allowing me to interact with various hardware, and control various systems. As long as they’re compatible.”

“Wow,” said Shay. “I didn’t think that far ahead.”

“You’re all set, sweetie.” His mom came over and gave him a tight hug. “Now, just let me and your father pack, and we’ll be ready to go.”

“Wait,” said Shay. “We?”

“We can’t let you go off by yourself,” his mother laughed. She glided out the door and to her room.

“No,” he wailed softly. “I was going to be an adult…”

His father crept into his room, looking back once over his shoulder.

“Here are the keys to the hovercycle. I’ll keep your mother distracted while you leave the house.”

“Dad…” Shay almost had tears in his eyes.

“Go out there, son. I have a feeling that whatever you’re going to do is a very important job. A job fit for an adult.”

“Dad.” Shay squeezed his father.

“Get going,” his father wheezed.

Shay let go, adjusted his backpack, and snuck off.

Vella climbed down the steps of the Moss Shed. She slid her hand along the smooth wall for guidance, her footsteps echoing in the darkness.

The bottom of the stairs had a path revealed by dim, red lights. She followed it, keeping an eye out for surprises.

She noticed traces of long, black hair on the ground.

“Marek,” she muttered.

Following the traces of hair, she headed down hallways lit by dim red lights, past locked doors and dusty, shut down computer panels. The traces of hair forked off in two different directions.

To the left was a hallway leading to a larger corridor, but in front of her was a bit of hair sitting in front of a door that wasn’t completely closed.

She decided to check on the door first, since it was closer.

She was glad the door didn’t make any noise as she slowly eased it open.

“Aha,” she shouted, as she flicked on the lights. But no one was there.

She explored the room a bit, although there wasn’t much to explore: a desk with a computer on it, some dusty, old file cabinets, bizarre warning signs on the walls. There was something next to the computer, though. It was a some sort of scanning machine and printer hooked up to the computer, with a thin book lying open on the scanner face.

Vella picked up the book and looked at the pages it was opened to. It had childish drawings of some sort of weird bunny man. He seemed to be working on some sort of paper Mache project. She clapped the book shut and read the title on the spine: Bunny Tutu and the Brilliant Monster Plan, along with a number: 3.

She stowed the book away and went back to explore the other path.

It led to a great, cavernous room, with some great shadow looming in the center.

“There has to be a light switch,” she muttered. After some searching along the wall, she found a big switch she cranked on.

“What…” Vella had so much she wanted to say that she was speechless.

In the center of the room was an enormous orb of metal plates strung up with wires. In a stencil font was a huge #12.

Vella felt herself shrink. She felt like she wanted to run away, but that no matter how far she ran it wouldn’t be far enough, so she just stood paralyzed with fear.

The giant metal sphere looked like a bomb.

***

“Welcome to Ice Vista, traveler!”

The man who greeted Shay as he got off his hoverbike was wearing a black and white parka. He looked like a penguin.

Shay wasn’t familiar with Ice Vista—they must have been latecomers to the delegations.

“So…you guys…” Shay looked around. Everyone was wearing some variation of the black and white parka, children waddling around playing, old people crouched around a fishing hole in the ice. The actual penguins waddling around just seemed liked miniature versions of the villagers. “Worship penguins,” Shay hazarded in a faltering voice.

“Ho ho ho,” laughed the man. “Don’t be silly. Everyone here in Ice Vista just likes penguins a lot. Care for some penguin jerky?”

“I thought you liked penguins,” said Shay. The man’s mittened hand was an inch away from his face, clutching a piece of withered meat.

“We also like eating them.”

“How are things going, sweetie?” Overmom’s sunny face appeared in the little orb on Shay’s wrist, smiling her sunniest smile.

“Well, I came here looking for old Loruna tech, and all I’ve found so far is,” Shay surveyed the igloos and bustling villagers of Ice Vista, “less high tech. If there’s anything that old, it’s probably buried under the ice, and I wouldn’t know where to start.”

Overmom hummed in thought.

“The villager fish under the ice, right? You should ask around. The people are more familiar with the area than you are, and I’m sure they’d be glad to help.”

“I’m not so sure,” said Shay, recalling how easily complete strangers tended to drop their problems and help him with his, which is to say, not.

“If things get really tough, I can be right over to help you in a jiffy—”

“Whoops, someone’s calling me! I have to go! I love you, bye!”

The Overmom’s response was clipped short as Shay clicked shut the transmission and her face vanished in the wrist bulb.

Shay walked back to the middle of the village to get his bearings.

In the center of the town was an igloo restaurant with a sign that read “Raul’s Bistro” and beneath it, “Coming Soon: Organic Vegan Cuisine.”

There were two people in Raul’s Bistro, each hunched over a steaming bowl scooping spoonfuls of pungent goop into their mouths.

“What can I get you,” said Raul. Although dressed for the cold, he had opted out of the penguin parka most of the other villagers wore for layers of stylish scarves and sweaters with a plaid apron on top.

“The usual,” Shay said. He always wanted to try that.

“You’ve never been here,” Raul countered.

“Okay, then. I’ll have...” there wasn’t much variety between either of the other patrons and their identical bowls of slop. “What she’s having?”

“Oh.” Raul turned around. With his back to Shay, he let out a loud and drawn out sigh. Raul turned around again. “One bowl of blubber and penguin stew?”

“Um…” Shay considered his options. “Can you tell me about your vegan cuisine?”

“Since you asked, we have a delicious red vinaigrette garden salad made with only the freshest, locally grown greens. Vegan, organic, GMO-free, and organic. Coming soon!”

“How soon,” asked Shay.

“As soon as I get some locally grown greens. Have you taken a look around? Not many plants grow on the tundra. Until they do, I’ll be melting blubber in that old stew cauldron until I wither and die.” Raul jerked a thumb toward the massive black iron cauldron hanging over the fire, it’s heavy lid rattling under the bubbling blubber broth.

“Well…good luck with that.”

Shay went back out into the town square. Raul’s food conundrum wasn’t going to help him discover Loruna ruins.

Signposts led to the fishing holes. His mom’s advice was to ask the fisher people who knew the place best.

Shay crunched his way through the snow to a signpost in the town square: “Penguin Fields” towards the left and “Fishing Holes” pointing toward the right.

The fishing holes were deserted this time of day, say for a pair of squat women in penguin parkas sitting next to each other, fishing the same hole. They seemed frozen in place, but their wrinkled faces were set into expressions somewhere past boredom into acceptance.

“Excuse me,” said Shay.

“Hm.” The fishwife didn’t move, but her grunt had a positive tone.

“I was wondering if you’ve seen any weird technology under the ice. Stuff that looks out of place…”

The other fishwife pointed a mitten behind her.

“Look in the old grotto, but don’t look too closely.”

“Thanks…” Shay wasn’t sure what that second part meant, but he was glad for some simple instructions for once.

A way away from the fishing holes was a deserted area and a sizeable opening in the ice. It was murky beneath the icy blue water, but it looked deep. It probably housed the grotto the old woman was talking about. Shay took off his back pack and browsed through the contents of his inventory.

His mom and dad might have expected him to be stranded on a deserted island instead of travelling from village to village. He had fruit and granola nutrition bars for emergency rations, the multitool his dad packed for him, more spare clothes and knitted scarves than he knew what to do with, polymer weave rope, and even a spacesuit, in case he was about to flung into space at a moment’s notice.

Fortunately, that last item was a nice save, since he needed a wetsuit if he was going to consider dipping into freezing water, and a space suit did the trick in a pinch.

The bulky spacesuit fit over his normal clothes, and the glass (it wasn’t glass, some sort of advanced plastic, but whatever) dome snapped on neatly.

He jumped into the pool with a splash and began awkwardly paddling down. A flashlight beam in the suit’s collar flicked on lighting his way. There was clearly something underground, a metal panel a dozen or so feet down, some blocky writing he couldn’t make out…

Something passed across his vision. His arms were pinned to his side. His legs were gripped and his arms yanked upward. He was spun around and saw a huge metal starfish grabbing him, each articulated limb grabbing one of his. A green eye glowed like an angry alarm, and the top arm of the starfish slammed down on his head.

The blow rang on his helmet with a dull thud. Then Shay found himself rushing upward, spun around again, then flying through the air and back onto the snow.

Shay groaned. He opened his eyes to the cloudless sky, and eventually got to his feet and changed out of his suit.

Shay tramped back to the fishwives.

“You guys forgot to mention a horrible robotic ocean guardian in the grotto.”

The fishwives both shrugged.

“Never told us you were going down there.”

“Not too smart, are you?”

Shay gritted his teeth. It was better not to get on people’s bad side, though, especially when he was still asking for help.

“I don’t suppose you two have any experience fighting monsters?”

“We just fish.”

“Of course, if you’re fishing for something big, you’re going to need a big lure.”

“Starfish aren’t fish. They’re echinoderms,” said one of the fishwives.

“It’s not a fish,” shouted Shay. “It’s a big, metal…”

The last item Shay had to work with was his hoverbike. Shay went and brought it back to the fishing holes.

“Fancy tech you got there, kid. Why are you taking it apart?”

“I am making,” said Shay, unwinding some wires, “an electromagnet!”

“Fancy, that” said one of the fishwives, apparently more interested in her line not getting any bites.

“I’m glad you asked,” said Shay, unclicking a big blocky component from inside his bike. “Using copper wire, stripped with my trusty multitool (“Don’t mention it,” chirped the various tiny voices of his multitool”), and this bike battery,” he said holding up the blocky component, “I can use the power of science to defeat a robot. Pretty fancy, I know, but I am an official Junior Science Master Graduate of Child-Friendly Good Boy Science Experiments.”

“Where’s your core?”

“Huh?” That didn’t sound like a compliment to Shay.

“A strong current, from your battery, copper wire, but where’s your iron core.”

“You’ll especially need a big core if you’re planning to reel in that beast.”

“But where am I going to find—” Shay had another idea.

Shay didn’t bother going straight to Raul’s restaurant. Raul had a solid iron cauldron, but he doubted he’d give it up without anything in exchange.

He decided to head to Penguin Fields to see if any locals knew anything about where to find some greens.

Penguin fields were densely populated…with penguins. Two foot birds squawking up a cacophony and waddling around. There was a tall penguin in the crowd, or at least person wearing a penguin suit.

“Hey there,” said Shay, trying to avoid stepping on any penguins. “There wouldn’t happen to be kale or any leafy greens growing around here, would there?”

The penguin person sighed. “You’ve been talking to Raul? He’s delusional if he thinks he thinks his salad business is going to take off. No one wants that stuff either. Doesn’t fill you up.”

“Right…but say someone wanted to find some local greens anyway?”

The penguin person scratched their chin.

“Look around, do you see anything growing up here? On the other hand, if you were a penguin, you’d be able to swim underneath the ice floes and snack on some iceberg lettuce.

Shay crouched down on the ice and brushed away the snowfall. The ice was mostly opaque, but there were hints of green orbs underneath the ice sheet.

“Easy, just pull out my multitool, “Shay plunged his saw knife into the ice and began sawing. He sawed a large hole into the ice floe, planning on lifting it out and plucking the lettuce heads. He sawed a big hole, a few yards long, iceberg lettuce barely visible underneath. “Now to lift the ice floe.”

Shay squatted and dug his fingers into the crack. He heaved, straining his burning muscles, as the ice floe barely budged.

“Okay, that didn’t work. And these penguins aren’t helping!” The ice was heavy enough, and the penguins walking on the end he was trying to lift didn’t help.

“Maybe Raul will loan me his pot on partial credit?”

“How’s it going,” asked Raul.

“I found a bunch of iceberg lettuce.”

“Iceberg lettuce,” Raul shrieked in delight, tossing aside his stew bowl.

“It’s under the ice.”

“Oh…” Raul’s smile sank into a heavy frown. “Well, thanks for letting me know,” he said, rolling his eyes.

“I’ll get that lettuce,” said Shay waving his hands. “It’s just hard on an empty stomach, you know?”

Raul ladled a big bowl of steaming stew into a bowl.

“Eat your fill.” He handed the bowl to Shay. He leaned in for an urgent whisper. “The future of organic vegan cuisine is depending on you.”

Shay made his way back to Penguin fields with his bowl of stew in his hands. The penguins were squawking and crowding around him, but he was tall enough not to let them reach it.

“Let’s give this a shot.” Shay poured the fish stew on the opposite end of the ice he cut out from the lettuce. As the thick stew splashed onto the ice, the penguins mobbed onto the spot, bending down to lap up the stew. The flow sank deep, but the penguins didn’t seem to notice.

Wasting no time, Shay went over to the other end and got his grip again. Bracing his muscles (which weren’t that small, right?), Shay lifted, and found the ice floe actually being lifted. The floe was lifted up at an extreme angle, and Shay, in a moment of panic, ran with it and guided the floe higher and higher until it was standing upright 90 degrees, then then flipped it on its back. The ice fell with a huge splash, and the feeding penguins were nowhere to be seen.

“They’re probably fine,” said Shay. He rubbed his arm. “I mean, they’re penguins, right?”

What was more appealing at the moment were the exposed iceberg lettuce heads, roots buried in the underside, now the overside of the ice. Shay gather two big armfuls of the vegetables and walked back to Raul’s.

“All natural cuisine has a future!” Raul fell to his knees in tears. “I have greens, dressing, and a topping.” His eyes shot open. “A topping?” His voice rose in terror. “How could I not have any toppings?” He grapped shay by the lapels of his coat. “Please, my savior, you have to have a topping of some kind on you? Dried fruit, croutons or grains?”

“I have…” Shay turned around and scrounged through his backpack. “Say?” Shay pulled out his nutrition bars and unwrapped them in the empty stew bowl. He crunched them up by hand and turned around to present it to Raul. “Ta da! Crumbled granola and dried fruit, all natural and organic and, um, food.”

“Genius,” roared Raul. Raul turned around. “Out, all of you! There’s the door! Drop that disgusting slop and come back when we’re a real bistro.”

“Say,” said Shay. I don’t suppose you need that cauldron anymore?”

“Take it! You don’t cook salad in a cauldron. We’re living in the future!”

Shay was back at the Fishing Holes assembling his electromagnet.

“Got a core, did you,” said one of the fishwives.

“Yep,” said Shay. He was wrapping the copper wire around the cleaned-out cauldron, connecting it to the battery he placed inside the cauldron.

“How are you going to seal the cauldron from water,” asked a fishwife.

“My dad’s patented hull sealant,” Shay announced, applying the last of the glue before pressing the lid down firmly.

“Now how are you going to turn it on,” asked the other fishwife.

“The remote starter for my hoverbike,” Shay answered.

“Mighty reckless of you to take apart your fancy bike for this fishing trip.”

“A lot’s at stake,” said Shay, setting his mouth firm. “I need to find out what’s down there.” Last of all, Shay tied the rope to the lid of the cauldron and lugged the whole thing over to the grotto.

Shay stared down into the pool. He couldn’t see the starfish, but he knew it was down there.

He pushed the electromagnet into the water and watched it sink fast, dragging the rope with it until Shay grabbed it.

Shay waited. It was hard to tell if it was getting close, but now was as good a time as any. He clicked the remote of his bike and he heard the buzz of the electromagnet turn on, followed by the loud clank of the robot slam into the magnet.

Shay grinned.

“Now to reel it in.” The cauldron was heavy, but the robot wasn’t as heavy as he expected.

The green eye blazed with rage, but the starfish was helpless stuck to the magnet, and now dragged onto the ice.

“Time to take a nap, buddy.” Shay pulled out his multitool and unscrewed a panel on the robot. It was certainly Loruna technology, even if it was bizarrely outdated. Shay flipped a switch and the green eye faded. “All right, now it’s time to go see what’s down there.”

Bunny Tutu’s garden needed dirt. His garden had the nicest seeds, the freshest water, and Bunny Tutu built a neat hedge and had a dozen and a half of the shiniest tools to start gardening, but he needed rich dirt to plant his seeds in. Uh oh!

The bad lands full of bad people had plenty of good dirt (all they really had was dirt), but how would he sneak over and carry a barrow back to his garden?

If he asked or offered to trade, the mean varmints would know about his garden (his garden was a secret.

If he tried to fight them (they were mean, but all a bunch of wimps), they would hide their dirt, or throw it away to spite him.

Bunny Tutu was clever, so instead, he came up with a clever idea. Bunny Tutu sent his helpers out with wheelbarrows, but disguised them as scary monsters. He told his friends to use their meanest voices and tell the varmints to hand them some dirt, if they know what’s good for them.

Bunny Tutu’s plan worked so well, even he was surprised. The varmints started competing to give him their favorite dirt.

Vella slammed the thin book shut (it didn’t make an impressive noise, since the hardcovers were thinner than the sparse, illustrated pages). Vella slid Bunny Tutu and the Brilliant Monster Plan back into her satchel. The glowing number on the ceiling console told her the shuttle pod would be arriving at its destination in less than seven minutes. After Vella saw the…bomb, she could have gone back and warned the others, but another stray tuft of fur led to a small station with a miniature train car. It was far sleeker and nicer looking than any train car she had ever seen, and it was clear that it only went back and forth to one destination. The only question was where, but Vella was about to find out.

A pleasant, robotic voice informed Vella that she had arrived at Terminal 4, as the train glided to a silent stop.

Vella got off and explored the station. There wasn’t much there, but a door leading out. The door led to another series of hallways—she found another vast chamber with a huge, spherical bomb, this one labelled “4”—and a few other rooms, mirroring the facility she was just in.

“So this is number four and I was just at twelve?” Vella kept her voice down, although there was no one around to hear here, the dim emergency lights felt like they were hiding something. “There must be at least twelve of these places, but why didn’t I go to number 13 or 11?” The only other room worth noticing was a room with a door labeled “Data Management.” There was a computer console with a dead screen and a dusty chair sprawled on the ground like a mummified corpse. The computer console beneath the screen projector had a neat hole where a large piece was clearly removed. The side of a console had a nasty hole in the side where it looked like someone took a hammer and smashed it in a few times, and then a few more for good measure.

Vella’s mouth made a hard line. She didn’t need to look for any traces of wolf hair to guess who made this fresh wreck and made off with what was probably a memory block.

Vella pulled her hood up tight.

“He’s got to be out there.” The facility exit/entrance was the same too, leading Vella out into the bright of day, although it wasn’t the brightness she was expecting.

The golden glint made Vella squint. The exit was on a high ridge overlooking a golden and bejeweled city, and the sky wasn’t the sky, but the roof of a huge cavern, lit by a blinding fake sun that seemed to be crawling along a big railing track. Climbing further down the ridge she was able to align the angle a big sign near the edge of town: “Welcome to Baublegilt.”

Vella almost tripped from starring at all the gold-plated buildings in town. It looked like a normal mining town with shops and workers traveling around, but even the sweatiest miners hefted solid gold picks over their shoulders and had cloth of silver and gold clothing. The baker’s storefront sign was circled with rubies and sapphires, and the goldsmith’s storefront was…well, covered in gold and jewels, but the other stuff was pretty unusual.

“If anyone will know this place, it’ll be a goldsmith.”

The inside of the shop displayed racks of diamond-studded silver bracelets, electrum chains, a fortune in rings crowned with walnut-sized gems, and more. There was a counter leading to a workshop in the back. An old woman dressed in a drab grey frock came out and adjusted her spectacles.

“Hello, ma’am. Can you tell me about Baublegilt?”

The old lady sniffed. She tittered briefly, then waved a hand.

“Here I thought it was someone important,” she said.

“Excuse me,” demanded Vella, balling his fists and rising up. “That’s pretty rich coming from someone in a gold town dressed—”

“Dressed in the fanciest fashions available,” the woman cut in. “See these rings?” The old lady put her hand in front of Vella’s face so fast that Vella almost swung and clobbered her. The old lady rotated her hand, “Genuine sandstone glass set in pure tin.” Her hand had at least six of them on. Her other hand snatched at a chain necklace around her neck and held it out, “Lead and zinc links, crowning, this is not gold, a genuine pyrite crystal.”

“Uh…” was all Vella was able to manage.

“So you see, I am far too rich to be wasting my time with someone who won’t make me richer. Now, go buy yourself a mushroom pie or whatever it is you commoners eat. The goldsmith flipped Vella a gold coin the size of a cookie. “Ta ta,” she said, disappearing behind the counter and back into her workshop.

Vella left holding a coin that was worth hundreds of times everything that rude goldsmith was wearing, assuming this was home or anywhere else that made sense.

Vella went to the baker’s shop, a place she at least assumed would make sense.

“New here,” asked the friendly baker behind the counter. Aside from some gold dust flecked on the a few loaves of bread, everything looked pretty standard for a bakery, aside from a solid gold rolling pin Vella spied in the back near the oven.

“What can I get for this,” asked Vella. She held up the huge coin.

“A mushroom bun,” said the baker with a wide smile. “Mushrooms are pretty cheap, since we don’t have to import them. Or…” Vella wasn’t getting her hopes up, “your pick of my day-old bread.”

That was that, then. Vella could at least ask some questions to this guy.

“Tell me about this place. I just kind of…wandered down here.”

“Oh, we just mine and craft goods out of the local ore and stone. The stuff we dig up isn’t super valuable, but we have plenty of it, and we import fresh produce and fancier metals for the fancier folk.

“I see…” Vella remembered the goldsmith flaunting her tin and lead like it was silver and gold. “Have you seen any suspicious people around here?”

“Besides you? I’m kidding! If anyone important came by the guildmasters would know about them. Might be they’ll be inviting them to their annual banquet.”

“Can you tell me more about this banquet?”

“I’d rather not think about it, said the baker, scratching the back of his head. This might be my last year catering for it if I don’t make a desert that’s sweeter than last year’s. But the shipment of apples at the fruit stand are scrawny and overpriced. Don’t think they’ll go for a mushroom cake. Do you?”

“As a baker…” Vella didn’t want to hurt his feelings. “Sometimes you should try branching out,” she shrugged.

“Ah, no problem, little lady.”

Vella left with nothing but her coin to her name, besides her knife, hand towel, and cell phone—“No reception down here, of course.” The other street lined with more golden buildings passed an alley. She checked it. A shadow flickered. There was a clatter and a rustle. Her red cape flapped as she rushed to the source of the noise. A silver trash can was on its side, spilling garbage. In the trash was a tall wolf mask and the remains of Marek’s fursuit.

The wearer was nowhere to be seen. She ruffled through his suit, but turned up nothing. But there was a crack in the cobblestones nearby. She pulled out her knife, but put it away as soon as it started complaining, “For the last time, I am NOT a crowbar.”

She tried prying open the latch with her fingers, but it barely budged. The last thing she had on hand was the coin she had just gotten. She wedged the big coin in the crack and pried as hard as she could. The cobblestone budged, but that’s it. The coin bent in half. “Dumb gold,” Vella growled. She gave it one more try and succeeded in snapping the coin in half. “Well, now I have two coins, sort of.”

She got back up and left the alley. If Marek was hiding in town, then that had to mean there was something he still wanted here. The artificial sun was setting, reaching the end of its track. After a brief pause, the lights shifted and the color dimmed to resemble a crescent moon.

“Something about that sun and moon look awfully familiar…” Memories of Shay’s ship exploded into her head. “Of course!” There was the facility located on a cliffside above, but below…she just had to find the place the controlled the artificial lighting. “Hall of Day and Night” read another sign, leading to a blocky cement structure on top of a hill. The outside looked modern, with token gold plating, but the top was a crystal pyramidal structure like the Dead Eye God from Shellmound, and Vella knew what that was.

Vella sprinted up to the entrance, but despite the workers coming and going, she was stopped by two burly guards in gold and silver filigree.

“Halt, only authorized staff and guests allowed for the banquet!”

“Who is invited,” asked Vella.

One of the guards shrugged.

“Guildmasters of the Minter’s Guild, Goldsmiths’ Guild, Merchant’s Guild…you know. Bigwigs with lead in their pockets.”

“Are you with catering?” The other guard pointed with her truncheon at her clothes underneath her red cape. “What kind of desert are they having? We get the leftovers, you know.”

The other guard shushed and nudged her hard.

“It’s…a surprise,” said Vella.

Vella left the guards at the gate, left town, then hiked back up the ridge to Facility 4#. The tram that brought her to Baublegilt was still waiting, and she could get back to Woodburr in a flash.

As the tram zipped back in the other direction, Vella had another hour to spend thinking. Of course, the building that gave them light and made their lives possible underground was where the town leaders were holding their big stupid banquet. But then again, this might have been her only chance to infiltrate and snoop around the place, when a big party of people were already going to be there. All she needed was a disguise. Or maybe two.

Vella arrived in Woodburr’s facility and made her way back to the village’s general store.

“It’s you again,” said the plaid-clad vendor brightly. “I hope it’s not plastic explosives you’re looking for, because you bought my last stock. Plenty of other goods, though.”

Vella fished in her pocket and felt each half of the cookie-sized coin. She took out one half.

“How much maple syrup will this get me?”

“The store owner leaned in close to inspect the coin.

“One.”

“One what?”

“One keg,” he shouted. “I haven’t seen that much gold in one place in years! Hold on a second.” He came back wheeling a keg of syrup.

It was a barrel big enough to hide a person in.

“And here’s your change.” The shopkeeper heaved a sack onto the counter that jangled. “I hope you like pennies,” he said with a shrug.

“Um,” said Vella, having been paid at her family’s bakery with pennies before. Then a flash went off in her head. “On second thought, thanks for the pennies,” she said, picking up a copper coin from the bag.

Vella went back into town with her penny sack tied to her belt, rolling her syrup keg on the ground. One of the log cabins in town had to have a seamstress, and she found one by the sign outside.

There was a woman mending a pair of trousers under a noisy sewing machine.

“What do you need, sweetie?”

“I need a sort of dress…”

“What kind of dress? I don’t do anything fancy.”

It was hard to explain, and Vella didn’t want to explain her whole mission from the beginning.

“I need a…costume for…an event I’m going to.”

The seamstress stopped sewing and scooted her stool closer. She leaned close to Vella and asked in a conspiratorial whisper. She grinned.

“Do you need an outfit for…cosplay?”

“Excuse me?”

The woman beamed.

“I know what you kids are about! Why, my son Joshua is into those cartoons too.”

“Mooooom, they’re nooooot cartoooons,” groaned a loud voice from upstairs.

“What do you want to make a dress out of,” she asked Vella, ignoring her son’s cry.

Something reliable and sturdy came to mind.

“How about this,” said Vella, removing her red hood.

“But it’s such a nice cloak. Still, it’s nice fabric. It’ll make a short dress, though, knee-length, maybe.”

“That’s fine. I need to look flashy. Speaking of…” Vella pulled out her sack of pennies. “Can you sew these onto the dress, like sequins?”

“Huh,” said the woman, raising an eyebrow at the pennies. “I guess those characters do have some weird outfits. Still, sequins have holes in them. How else am I going to sew them on?”

Vella wandered around the shop in thought. She went over to the sewing machine and inspected it.

“This basically punches holes in fabric, right?”

“My sewing needle can’t poke holes in pennies, sweetie.”

But Vella had an idea what could.

She pulled out her knife.

“Listen, you like stabbing, right?”

“Ha, almost as much as I like slashing, sweetheart!”

“How do you think you match up against one of these?” She held a penny in front of the knife and rotated it in front of the knife’s little face.

“Those things wouldn’t stand a chance,” he said with a sneer.

“Here’s your chance to prove it!”

“What do you think you’re doing?”

A spool a thread was nearby, allowing Vella to tightly tie the knife to the needle, upside down.

“Excuse me,” Vella said to the seamstress, who politely let Vella take her seat. Vella pulled out a test penny and placed it beneath the knife. She placed a foot on the pedal and the knife rocketed up and down.

“Hold on a second!”

The penny was torn up in the center.

“Maybe a light tap this time…”

Placing another penny beneath the knife, Vella gave a quick tap on the pedal, letting the knife shoot up and down once. She picked up a penny and noted a clean groove cut out from the center.

“Pretty clever, dear,” breathed the seamstress. “You can let me take care of the rest of those. And I’ll fix up your dress in no time. Now, about payment…”

“Will this cover it,” said Vella, handing over the other half of her coin.

The seamstress’s eyes grew huge.

“And then some! I’ll finish it right away, a rush job. Why, I can buy a new workbench, some new records, and even some toys for Joshua.”

“Mooooom,” cried Joshua from upstairs. “They’re not tooooys! They’re figurines!”

Vella rode the tram to Baublegilt sitting across from her keg of syrup. It was easy rolling it through the facility, tricky keeping control while rolling it downhill, and easy rolling it up to the baker’s shop.

“I heard you needed some help baking!” Vella was in open baker’s garb, standing heroically with a hand on her hip and the other on her giant barrel of maple syrup.

“Is that filled with apples,” asked the baker, killing the mood.

“Better,” said Vella attempting to salvage the mood. “Have you ever made a maple syrup cake with maple syrup frosting?” Vella smirked and raised an eyebrow.

“No!” The baker smirked and raised an eyebrow back.

“Should I just do it for you?” Vella’s smirk was strained now.

“I wouldn’t mind if you did, to be honest!”

She would have been more irritated, but Vella was back in her element now.

Vella spent the next hour mixing cake batter, making frosting, preparing the pan, heating the oven, every little thing that made her think of home and not in a giant golden cave hundreds of miles who-knows-where. The dough was easy—flour, eggs, butter, spices, and her maple syrup were on hand. The cake went into the oven in no time, leaving her plenty of time to reduce some of the maple syrup into maple sugar to mix into the cake frosting. The baker’s tools were limited—he was clearly more of a pie person—but when the cake came out of the oven and cooled on the stove, she managed to apply the frosting as smooth as polished marble, and add a few artistic flourishes on the fringes.

“I’ve never seen a cake that nice,” breathed the baker. “How can I ever repay you?”

“Let me cater for you at the banquet. And…” She scanned the baking room. “Can I have your rolling pin?” It was solid gold. It might come in handy later. She certainly would have felt guilty spending it anywhere, since it was bigger than a gold ingot and probably worth more than a place like Woodburr.

“No problem! And take that old thing. I needed to get a new one anyway.”

Half the day had gone by, but Vella still had another errand to finish.

“I’ll be back for the cake. Just give me a couple hours.”

The seamstress was still working when Vella got back, but the dress looked done.

“Give me a second. Just one last coin…here we go.” She held up the dress for Vella to admire. It jangled lightly. It had a simple skirt, and a simple, sleeveless top, but the red stood out, and the hundreds of pennies were polished and dazzling. “I hope I made it right. I got your measurements, but try it on.”

Vella unzipped the back (one of her specifications was that it would be easy to take on and off) and put it on over her casual baking clothes (her other specification). It fit fine. She felt a bit flashy—the last time she wore a dress this flashy, she was escaping a certain monster—but unlike a lot of things in that situation, she was on the hunt, and the skirt was short and loose enough to leave her legs free. She unzipped the dressed and folded it up back in her satchel.

“Don’t forget your funny little knife too.”

“I can’t thank you enough. I…” she couldn’t tell them about Marek, her mission, the horrible things in that Bunny Tutu book. “I’ll make sure everything’s goes fine!”

“I’m sure you’ll be fine, sweetie. And I’ll be here if you ever need anything else in Woodburr.”

“Me too,” called Joshua. “Unless I’m busy,” he added.

It was difficult wheeling two dollies at once, but Vella finally made it back to The Hall of Night and Day. The guards looked her over. She was in her baking gear, uncovered by her red hood, and wheeling a dolly with the keg of leftover syrup, and a dolly with the huge, tan and brown maple syrup cake. They both grinned.

“The back entrance is that way.”

Her dress was folded up in her satchel. Serving staff wheeling a tasty desert didn’t have to be on a guest list.

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#broken age #fanfic #very long #part 1 #writing

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