#where in a way it stands in for the other deaths too

[milksnake-tea]

━━ to walk amongst the living .

Jade's last words continue to haunt Sunday as he is cast from the heaven of Penacony and goes from a Family Head to a mere traveler. On his journey to fully understand the struggles of mortals, he ends up becoming companions with you, a fellow wanderer.

sunday x gn!reader

contains: post 2.3, written before 2.7, sunday is hinted to have asthma, sunday is trying his best but bro hasn't touched grass in years so he's struggling, hardcore yearning from sunday

word count: 3.1k

a/n: SUNDAY TRAVEL SUNDAY TRAVEL SUNDAY TRAVEL SUNDAY TRAVEL BARKSI RIYGHGUGHU if hyv doesnt give us any crumbs on what he was doing before he runs into us again. EXPLODES

taglist: @sh0jun , @themoderatelyawesomeninja , @xphantasmagoriax , @rainswept , @lucensei , @akutasoda , @naraven , @scribs-dibs , @apathicace , @flurrina , @tragedy-of-commons , @cakechase , @kiiyoooo , @moineauz

“Achoo!“

The cold was starting to get annoying.

Sunday sighed, biting back his frustration as he wiped his nose with a handkerchief and tugged his scarf to better shield his face. It was a good thing he’d decided to bundle up before leaving Penacony; otherwise, he would’ve already died of pneumonia.

The Planet of Dreams and Festivities was the very definition of a paradise. Everything, from the colors, the sounds, and the temperature was carefully maintained to never be too much or too little.

Sunday did not have such privileges here.

He didn’t remember when the last time he saw snow was. Back home, the closest he’d seen to a natural landscape was the Moment of Oasis, where tourists lounged about on the spectacular beaches - and even then, Sunday hadn’t exactly had time to indulge in such luxuries.

His nose was no doubt red from the cold, and his thighs burned from the long hike he’d decided to torture himself with. Wind battered his hood against his face, occasionally blocking his vision or smacking him. Sunday’s wings instinctively shielded him from the incoming snow that somehow made its way past his hood. He grimaced at the feeling of the ice catching and melting on his feathers, already dreading having to clean them out.

Upon reaching a somewhat flat piece of terrain, he gave himself mercy and allowed himself to stop for a break. His halo, his main weapon against frostbite, glowed gently with a heat not unlike a fireplace as he surveyed just how far he’d traveled.

Mountains upon mountains greeted his gaze, all jagged and covered with the same multi-colored snow that was the staple of this planet. He stood among fallen aurora, and down below, he spied a cluster of bright, warm lights that stood apart from the greens, blues, and purples of the snow: the cities, where he’d first arrived here.

Zastrugi was a planet infamous for its harsh conditions, rivaled only by the recently reintroduced Jarilo-VI. Even so, the people here prided themselves on their resilience, and gladly welcomed those seeking a challenge or a death-defying thrill.

In other words, it was a cemetery of the arrogant and the ambitious, and a perfect fit for Sunday’s current goals. After all, what better way to live a mortal’s life than to endure their struggles?

Sunday looked down at himself. His legs were weak, shaking and trembling from the hike, and no doubt were only kept standing due to adrenaline. His chest burned from haggard breaths, cut again and again from each frosty inhale. His head felt light. He wanted to die.

If this wasn’t suffering, he didn’t know what was.

It was invigorating.

Never before had he felt more alive, with the frost biting at his cheeks and the pain that ransacked his body. He could hear his heart beating in his ears, fighting yet strong and resilient and surviving. A soft smile graced his pale lips as his breath fogged in the air.

How strange, he mused. To find such joy in his own suffering… Was he always this twisted?

“I was wondering when you’d catch up.”

Sunday turned to see you sitting on a rock nearby, snow brushed off of stone so that you could sit without wetting your pants. One of your legs is propped up as you look out at the view, your bored expression proof enough that you’d been sitting there for a while.

You were a fellow traveler he’d met sometime on his travels. Sunday still groaned whenever he remembered your first encounter; he’d gotten swept up in a sudden storm and remembered too late that 1.) he didn’t know how to swim and 2.) his wings were not waterproof. Had you not dove into the raging tide and pulled him out, he would’ve drowned for sure.

Ever since then, you’d accompanied him on his travels - or, rather, he accompanied you on yours. Sunday, with what little he knew of the world outside of Penacony, knew not what his destination was, nor where he should head off to. Your goal was a little more simple - you wanted to see all that was beautiful in the universe.

Even if that meant climbing to the tops of unreasonably steep mountains or camping out in unbearingly hot deserts.

Thankfully, you weren’t opposed to his offer (begging) to join you - on the contrary, you were thankful that he had been the one to say it because in your words, you didn’t know if he would survive if you left him alone by his lonesome.

He still didn’t know what to make of that. For his own pride, he chose to ignore it for the time being.

“Were you waiting long?” he asked, gloved fingers holding the edge of his hood as to keep both it and the snow out of his face. You shook your head, your own hooded cloak flapping in the wind as you looked back out at the view.

“Not as long as I might’ve in the past,” you joked lightly. Sunday breathed a laugh.

Back when he’d first walked alongside you, he’d fought a long and hard battle with his own stamina. It was embarrassing when he thought back on it, how many times he’d have to ask you to stop for a break or even had to be carried by you to the nearest rest stop. Sometimes he wondered why you kept him around, but of course, he never asked.

But he’d grown stronger and more resilient since then, at least, he hoped he did - if not for you, then for his pride.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Your voice was rather wistful as you spoke, a little breathless and hushed, yet clear in the crisp, scarce air. “What do you think? Was it worth it?”

“I’m not so sure,” Sunday tried for a joke of his own - although, he wasn’t all joking. No matter how much he traveled, he could never get used to the feeling of his own breath scraping against his lungs as he heaved for air.

You, intuitive as ever, sighed knowingly. “Sit down. You look as if you’re going to pass out.”

Brushing aside some snow on the rock, you shifted over to make room for him. Gratefully, Sunday fought demons in order to stop his trembling legs from collapsing in from under him as he lowered himself onto the rock. That would’ve been mortifying.

His breath fogged in the air as he sighed, thankful for some rest. Around him, the snowfall was gentle and slow, and as the moonlight from Zastrugi’s two moons caught on each individual flake, ribbons of light came and passed like wisps of smoke.

An echoing click of metal caught his attention. He looked to his side and was greeted with a cloud of steam warming his face. In your hand was a small metal thermos that held what he assumed is either tea or hot water. You gestured for him to take it.

“Drink; you need to warm up before we continue. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself if you died of hypothermia.”

Sunday breathed his gratitude as he took the thermos. Your fingers brushed slightly, but with the cold, he registered it only after it was gone, and by then it was too late to respond. Still, his heart skipped regardless, and he turned away before he dwaddled too long, thankful for the cold that had already reddened his cheeks.

He blew gently on the liquid within, and took small, carefuly sips as to not burn his tongue (it’d happened before, and it was humiliating). He was delightfully surprised with the subtle floral tastes of white tea, his favorite. It was obvious that it had been sweetened, and the honey added was just enough so that it satisfied his cravings.

But, as Sunday drank away, the tea warming him from the inside, he thought to himself - he never told you he liked white tea specifically, nor did he ever tell you how much sugar he preferred. How did you know?

Had you, every time you’d taken him to a local cafe or restaurant, watched and observed? Had you remembered, from the few times you’d seen him order or make a drink for himself?

His hold on the thermos faltered as fire rushed to his cheeks. In his chest, under all those layers of cloth and cloaks, a dance unfolded, his heart tip-tapping away, a steady rhythm that was both nerve-wrecking and comforting.

Sunday inhaled deeply, wings fluttering ever-so slightly, and pushed his thoughts away to focus on the tea, nearly burning his tongue in the process. You only raised a brow before returning your sight to the distant city. A comfortable silence enveloped the two of you.

As Sunday gazed down upon the scene, a sharp ache in his sides and a stiffness in his legs, he wondered - was this how Robin felt, when she performed from that grand stage of hers. Sure, the aurora couldn’t compare to the lightshow that accompanied his sister’s concerts, but still - there must be some similarities. Here, at the top of this world, he felt light, as if nothing could ever touch him.

“O chosen one, who dared to exceed his bounds. Sever your wings, descend to the mortal realm, and walk their lands. See what this world is truly like.”

Lady Bonajade’s words rang in his head. Instantly a scowl twisted his features.

He’d never liked the IPC, and he wasn’t going to start now - especially not with a snake like her. He could still hear her taunting voice, that indifferent condescention presented as good-natured pity dampening his mood. There wasn’t much that could truly anger him, but it only seemed natural that it was yet another IPC Stoneheart that managed the feat.

But still, she had been right… much to his chagrin. As much as he hated to admit it, he had flown too high from the people he wished to protect. Even the Astral Express - whom he respected far more than Jade - had made it clear: Know your people before you decide what was right for them.

“What’s on your mind?”

Sunday flinched. You peered at him from behind your hood, face gentle yet your brows were furrowed ever so slightly.

“Ah, I apologize.” He lowered the thermos to his lap. “I was… thinking.”

“I know,” you replied. Shifting slightly so that you could lean back on your hands, you stretched your legs out into the snow. “You do that a lot.”

With a kick, you sent the snow flying into an arch off the cliffside, creating another ripple in the aurora.

“Thinking too much in a place like this… seems like a waste, doesn’t it? Try and take a break from your brain, and just- see. Look at where you are.”

Sunday raised an abdominal wing to block the multi-colored snow from falling into his thermos. Shaking the snow off the twilight feathers, he sighed, staring into what remains of the tea.

You clicked your tongue. Snow crunched, and cloth shuffled, before the cap of the thermos blocked his view. Screwing it closed, you took the thermos from him, a twinge of annoyance tugging at Sunday as he mourned the last bits of tea still left in there.

Before Sunday could complain, however, you beat him to it.

“Don’t give me that look,” you teased lightly. “We’re almost to the top - you can finish your tea there.”

The beginnings of a pout tugged his lip, but with a reluctant sigh, Sunday abided. Pushing off of his knees, he brushed himself off.

“Very well,” he relented, but not without fixing you with a flat stare first. If you saw it, you didn’t say anything, for you had already begun your trek to the mountain’s peak.

The higher you climbed, the harsher the snow became. No matter how beautiful something was, Sunday found that he didn’t care if it was pelting him in the face with as much punch as a bullet. His hood became his shield, and he hurried to keep in pace with you.

Because unlike him, who specialized in Imaginary and Quantum manipulation, you were a master of fire. Your footprints lasted longer than his for the mere fact that you seemed to melt through the snow, and as long as Sunday kept close to you, he wouldn’t be at risk into becoming a popsicle.

But that was easier said than done. Again, you were far more traveled than he was, and as such you moved at a much faster pace despite the melting snow’s attempts at slowing you down. Sunday was already dreading the next morning - he’d have to do a full-body stretch for at least half an hour after this was all done if he wanted his legs to be functionable tomorrow.

Every now and then, you would glance back at him, as if making sure he hadn’t been swept up in an avalanche - which, if it weren’t unfortunately a valid concern, would’ve damaged his already ruined ego. And each time, Sunday would meet your gaze, and offer the tiniest of smiles before returning to his suffering.

By the time you had reached the summit, Sunday was well about to pass out. The air was thinner up here, making it hard to breathe, and his exhaustion did not make things easier. But he had done it, and surprisingly, he had kept in pace with you.

He breathed as much as he could, swallowing what little oxygen he could grasp from the top of the world. A wheeze or two ripped through his lungs. Wordlessly, you pressed his inhaler into his hand, a pat on his back to congratulate him. Sunday nodded his thanks.

Once his medication had done its magic and he no longer had to focus on the struggles of breathing properly, he realized that the world had gone silent. Snow no longer pelted at his face, and the aurora had gone dark.

And then he swept his gaze, and saw the clouds below him. Somehow, without noticing, he’d passed through them, and entered an entirely different plane of Zastrugi. Here, there was nothing but sky, and the stars - real, actual stars, not the false ones created by the snow, danced in nebulae above him.

And there was you, your cloak flapping in the wind as you gazed up at the cosmos. With so little light, he could only see your silhouette, but he has the impression that your back is turned towards him.

You are silent, as you always are when you see new sights. In moments like these, it was as if your breath had been stolen, and it is all you could do to absorb the picturesque scene before you, engraving it into your mind to store for all eternity.

Once, Sunday had expected you to take photos of your journeys, as a memento. But you never did. No, rather, you would stand there, memorizing every little detail, and then return to your temporary home to paint it instead.

And he swore, those paintings were almost always more magnificent than the places they were based on.

Sunday took one last look towards the everlasting cosmos before coming up to your side. Rather than the sky, the image he drank in was you. Your expression was soft, yet awe-struck, much like a child seeing the world for the first time. There was always a sort of melancholy in your eyes, but also a love for everything that he could drown in if you allowed him to.

You loved the world, and it was that love that he adored.

You turned to him, noticing his gaze, and for a moment, it was if time itself had stopped. His breath caught in his throat, and words died on his tongue. All he could do was look into your star-speckled gaze, all the colors of the universe casting their light onto the two of you.

What expression was he wearing, he wondered? A smile, or perhaps… something else?

But then you raised your hand, brushing it against his cheek ever so slightly, and all of those thoughts disappeared.

A smile wove onto your lips. “You had some snow left on you.”

Sunday tried not to miss your hand as it left him. His fingers trace what you had left, his gaze becoming lidded.

“Ah,” he breathed.

The corner of yours eyes crinkle, and you turned to the cliffside. Leaning over slightly, you peered over the edge, the clouds obscuring the true height of the fall. Sunday blinked.

“What are you planning…” he sighed, crossing his arms. You chuckled, turning slightly to meet his eyes.

“One way or another, we have to get down,” you pointed out. Sunday’s expression fell flat.

“Don’t even think about it.”

Your feet toed the edge, sending rocks and snow tumbling down. “You said you wanted to experience life as a mortal to the fullest, didn’t you?”

“I wasn’t aware that included throwing oneself off a mountain.”

You shook your head, a grin surfacing. “You’re no fun, Sunday. Don’t you have those wings of yours? What do you have to worry about?”

Sunday’s answer was immediate. “You.”

“How sweet of you,” you commented as he came to besides you. “Well, then, you’ll just have to catch me, won’t you?”

Sunday squeezed his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose. “[Name], I swear upon all that is good in this world-”

He opened his eyes. You were already gone.

Sunday swore.

Midnight unfolded behind his back, clashing with his white cloak. Without so much as a second thought, he dove into the clouds headfirst, shooting through the sky like a meteor as he searched for you.

The second the fog of the clouds leave, however, he was thrust into a world of color. He fell alongside the snow, and unlike when he was on the mountain itself, he became a part of the aurora. The colors nearly blinded him, if not for the fact that he had his sights set on one thing - your falling figure, so close yet so far.

He tucked his wings as to fall faster. The second he reached you, he grabbed you, arms locking around your waist and pulling you into him, where it was safe.

“You’re a fool,” he scolded as your chest met his. You laughed, throwing your head back to return to the aurora.

“And yet, you saved me all the less.”

Sunday rolled his eyes as your legs wrapped around his waist. His wings returned to their full wingspan, catching the wind and ensuring that your fall didn’t end in a tragedy. He swerved and turned and glided, dodging peaks and keeping his sights on the city.

And all the same, you laughed, nothing short of pure glee in your voice.

And he sighed, fondness squeezing him regardless.

Yes, you were a fool.

But you were a fool he couldn’t help but love.

reblogs w comments are appreciated !!

[yanderenightmare]

Gojo Satoru & Geto Suguru

♡ TW: fear, prank, prank gone too far, dubcon-ish

♡ GN reader

“Haha, ‘Toru—nice try,” is all you say to the tall figure, having stood patiently in wait and perfectly positioned to do a jump scare with his silly store-bought Ghostface mask on.

You sigh and go back to your dealings, and he remains as if the gist isn’t up—ever-committed to the task as if you’re suddenly going to forget that it’s him. Like—of course, it’s him! Despite what the movies will have you believe, not a lot of guys have bodies like that.

If he was really committed to tricking you, he should have worn something baggier to hide his perfectly shredded chest. But no—he’s set on wearing his black muscle shirt—probably opting to make you both scared and horny at the same time.

You carry on with what you’d been doing—cleaning up the kitchen. “Oi, quit standing there already and come help me.”

He doesn’t. But that’s not unlike him—he’ll take any excuse not to do the dishes. And right now, the excuse is this dumb prank. But it’s your fault in any case—you’re the one that put him up to it by saying he’d never be able to get a rise out of you.

You sigh and scold yourself for being so short-sighted—should’ve kept my dumb mouth shut. Knowing him, he’s probably going to be this way all through October, the insufferable prick.

He still stands there. Silent. And still. Eerily unlike him. And almost, just almost, utterly unlike him.

But no—don’t be stupid! He’s the same height and the same build, for fuck’s sake! What are the odds of someone with the exact same measurements as your boyfriend breaking in right at the time he isn’t around in something so cliche and dumb as a Ghostface replica? No, it stinks of Satoru—it’s got his goofy antics written all over it.

You scoff again—a little winded this time, a little strained. You have to hand it to him—he is a little scary when he shuts up for this long.

“You can knock it off, Satoru. I know it’s you.” You face him again, hand on your hip, with a frown. 

You sigh again when he still doesn’t answer, insisting on his stupid tactic of psyching you out. And you’re getting pissed that it’s actually almost working.

“Ugh, you’re so stupid.” You start stomping over—aiming to rip that dumb thing off his head and point your death glare directly in his insufferable blue eyes—those insufferable blue eyes you’re actually starting to hope are under there more than knowing without a doubt are there for sure. 

“Tch—it’s insulting if you think some half-assed performance like this is gonna be enough to scare me. At least have the creativity to come up with something somewhat decent–”

You stop in your tracks halfway over. Hair is peaking out from under the mask. You hadn’t seen it from afar, matted against the black shirt he was wearing—but how could you? How could you when it’s not white hair?

You flinch backward. Stumbling. Assessing the dark, silken locks a second time before looking up at the mask again—that soulless white warped skull with pitch-black bottomless eyesockets.

You take another step back. Breath hitching in your throat when the figure takes a step as well—toward you.

Your heart flares. It’s not Satoru.

Eyes peeled, you feel the panic overthrow you in an instant—like a cold rush, reaching all the way into your bonemarrow, making it hard to move, hard to do much of anything without feeling vulnerable to what it might trigger.

But once the figure pulls his hand out from behind his back, brandishing a butcher’s knife that catches the light and glints in the air—you have no other choice but to run.

What a perfect fucking day to wear fuzzy fucking socks! Fucking October cold is going to be the reason you die—stabbed to death in your own house by some cringey Scream fanboy. No—this can’t be the end—not this way! Why isn’t Satoru home yet? Why can’t he ever be where you need him to be?

You make your way through the house—hoping to reach the door, but turning the corner has you slip and fall, and the intruder’s on you—knife raised, poised prettily in the air above your helpless body, clad in your tiny heart-print pj’s—like the perfect hot airhead in any slasher spoof.

You scream and squeeze your eyes shut, “No! No—please! Please! Satoru, help!”

And right as the knife is supposed to come down and puncture your chest, making it spurt out red until you finally bleed out, dead and gone, there’s a bang instead as two palms land flat on the floor on either side of your head.

Joined by a muffled voice, “Are yah scared yet?”

With your eyes wide open again, you look up at not one mask blocking out the ceiling light but two. And with all the pure alarm savaging your chest, you manage to let out a real horror-movie squeal—unlike a sound you’ve ever made before.

And then, of all things, there’s laughter—no, not laughter—straight cackling.

And—fortunately or unfortunately—you’re quite sure you recognize that sound.

The last one pulls off his mask, and you really can’t believe it—pretty porcelain face squished in amusement with tears of joy in the corner of his insufferable blue eyes.

That fucking bitch.

“You should have seen your face!” he chortles—downright heaves. But for all his handsome features, he truly must be the ugliest laugher there is. Or maybe it’s just that the bastard always laughs at your expense, and after one too many times, it’s left a bad taste in your mouth.

Still, you sigh, eyes closed in relief, “I hate you, ‘Toru. You took it way too far, you ass.”

“No, no, Satoru, help~” he ignores you and mocks in a high-pitched moan, showing not a sign of remorse—holding his hand over his stomach as he falls to the floor, struggling to leave room for breath between hooting and howling.

Your eyes go to the original perpetrator. “And you? You proud or what?”

The wearer pulls off its mask and is revealed to be none other than Satoru’s best friend—Geto.

Honestly, you should have fucking known...

“Sorry, hehe…”

You’re upset—you make that clear with your pout, giving him your best guilt-tripping look from where you rest beneath him.

But still, within, your heart eases at the sight of his kind face and that apologetic smile across it—ever thankful to see him and not the cold-blooded murderer you were convinced was going to kill you only a moment ago—even when pinned beneath him in a position that should be making Satoru jealous.

But your boyfriend couldn’t care less, it seems—too busy rolling on the floor and laughing out loud quite literally, even banging his fist against the wood. Prick.

“I’m gonna throw up–” you say as the nerves finally settle. “And when I’m done, I’m gonna kill you. Both of you.”

Geto seems to think that’s fair, still with that sheepish smile on his face, but Satoru is quick to interject—laughing fit over as he shakes his head, “Nuh-uh. You said if I manage to scare you once this Halloween, I’d get whatever I want.”

You swear he can be such a child sometimes.

Oh, who are you kidding? He’s always a child. It’s only surprising he’s managed to rope Geto into all this—a guy who’s usually so mature.

“I don’t remember saying that…” you sigh, laying the back of your hand atop your forehead, still calming your breaths and the pounding in your head—your body not yet caught up to the fact that it’s trepidation over impending death was all just some silly joke played on you by two idiots.

You can’t believe him—you can’t believe either of them.

“Fucking shit, Geto—I thought I was gonna die.”

He still hasn’t gotten off you—the look of worry on his face tells you he’s probably just wanting to stay close to make you feel safe. You appreciate it, though it’s a little awkward lying beneath him like this—it’s not exactly a position you share with just anyone…

“Honestly, I didn’t think it would work,” he says—eyes slim like always, in that charming way. “I always thought you were smarter than to fall for something this stupid.”

You pull a frown at that—taking it all back. He’s as childish and dumb as Satoru is. He’s just better at hiding it. 

“Oh, shut up—as if you wouldn’t scream if someone chased you down with a knife,” you grumble. “Now get off, you prick.”

You begin to lift yourself onto your elbows, yet despite the clear intention of getting up, Geto doesn’t budge to make it happen.

No, instead, he leans further in—fine-kempt raven hair slipping off his shoulders, falling with the same grace as a veil.

“I was told there’d be a prize for the one that got you to crack, and seeing as I’m the one that made that happen—I want it.”

You have to blink—blanched at the sudden demand.

Satoru, as well, a little stunned—looking wide-eyed at the two of you, upside down where he lies flat on his back, long limbs stretched out like a starfish.

“You what now?” both of you ask in unison.

Geto chuckles before repeating, “My prize. I want it. It’s only fair,” as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. 

Satoru rolls over on his stomach to view you both the right way, pursing his lips in thought. “Hmm…” Hand on his chin as if it’s really something to deliberate when the dumbass very well knows what the two of you had bet on and how it very much isn’t a reward you can give to just anyone.

Yet, despite that. “Okay,” he agrees—as if it’s even up to him.

“Hold on now, wait a minute.” You intervene in the almost business-esque dealing they’d somehow held without you. "Not happening.”

“Why not?” they both ask, looking at you. 

And you can’t keep from gaping. The nerve.

Spluttering as you explain, “Because it’s—well, because it was a bet between me and my dumbass boyfriend, and it was very clear what the prize was gonna be, come winner or loser—so, sorry to break it to you, but there is no prize.”

But that doesn’t seem to deter Geto. “Oh, I think there is…” he all but purrs as he leans down further.

“Satoru already agreed. And you’re already on your back beneath me.”

His smile isn’t all so friendly anymore, and still… you can’t help but blush being caught beneath it, holding your breath with fear a little different from the one before but no different in how it makes your heart pound.

“So, if neither of you mind…" he grins slyly. "I think I’ll just take it.” 

♡ GOJO SATORU masterlist ♡ GETO SUGURU masterlist ♡ JUJUTSU KAISEN masterlist

[silaslich]

The remorse you can’t hide

Simon “Ghost” Riley x gn!reader

Wc- 2.8k

Summary - you’re injured while on duty, Ghost stitches you up- he’s softer than he looks.

Cw- blood+injury

Pain sears through every nerve ending.

A burning white agony blinding you, shooting up your spine as you collide with the concrete.

You sit and clutch at yourself, the pain is everywhere, you search for blood- for any sign of injury.

Your palms clap against the concrete as you move to push yourself up, there’s an urge to run as far as you can from here, but your legs give way beneath you. It burns, hurts like nothing ever has before, and then your eyes land on the blooming crimson that leaks through a hole in your jeans- through a hole in your thigh. You press your hand to the wound quickly, blood seeping through the seams of your fingers as your eyes search the area, you’re wide open to attack and there’s no escape.

It takes more effort then you’ll ever be willing to admit, but you shuffle yourself backwards, crying in pain as you drag your bloodied leg with you, it’s through clenched teeth that you scream- it all hurts too much. You apply both of your hands to the wound now, the blood flows quickly, you’re losing too much of it- and it’s when theres the sound of boots hitting the ground beside you that you accept your fate.

Only- the end doesn’t come, instead opposing gunfire rings out, deafening you from how close it all is.

You close your eyes, bracing yourself for any impact, any stray bullets that lodge themselves into your skin and flesh. In turn you hold your breath, as if it’ll filter out the sounds of warfare, the sounds of bloodcurdling cries and the raining of bullet shells. You want to shrink away, to disappear into the rubble and stone, swallowed into the depths of the broken city until you sink to its foundations.

It’s instinct the way you lash out at foreign contact. Years of wading through decimated towns riddled with ghosts and levelled cities that still don’t sleep doesn’t serve a person to grow complacent; it’s life and death, even now. Fighting for a cause, supposedly there to help, still watching over your shoulder for the knife that looms close.

You watch as you smear your blood down his chest, palms pushed against him to keep him at bay- Ghost doesn’t flinch.

“Calm down” his voice cracks through you, a sobering tone that has you snapping your gaze to meet his.

He’s pulling you up, tugging at you so you’re forced to a shaky stand. It’s not a cognitive thought when you cling to him, injured leg giving way beneath you, he snaps his neck down and watches as the blood oozes from the bullet wound in your thigh.

“Shit” he spits, quick eyes searching for an exit opportunity.

“Come on” his voice doesn’t soften, there’s a haste in his voice that tells you they’re not sticking around for this fight.

Ghost takes your arm and loops it over his shoulder, taking the majority if not all of your weight, keeping you propped up. His other arm clutches around your waist, rooting you to his side, flushed tight as he begins to move. You cry out, the pain too great, it’s blinding, it feels like your leg is being burned where you stand- branded with hot iron.

He doesn’t slow, the torrent of bullets doesn’t either, he moves efficiently through the rubble and chaos of the crumbling city. It’s nothing but a shell now, a phantom of what it once was, there is no viable life left here now.

—————————————————————————

The clock sitting atop the desk strikes on the hour and you sit idly, perched on an examination table as you pick at the dried blood that’s caked to your hands and stuck under your fingernails- you hadn’t had a chance to wash it off yet.

It takes your mind off the wound in your leg, stuffed with gauze and hastily taped together to stop it worsening. It’s been barely an hour since you arrived back at camp, the mood is low and the morale is even more so, it’s deafening. As if the air has been sucked out of the surrounding atmosphere, every tent and outpost draped in a blanket of solemn defeat. Everything had been so blurry, so quick, it took all of you by surprise, and despite the odds- coming away with little more then a hole in your leg seems good enough.

You hear footsteps, they’re too distinctive to miss, big fella like him makes it known around camp, there’s no need for his stealth here. You try to keep yourself level, the injury is nothing, it hurts more seeing how close of a call this was. How truly unprepared you had been, and so ready to give up, it’s shameful, you think.

Simon’s hand draws back the flap of the tent, not Ghost, Simon. He seems so at ease given the losses he’s suffered in the short span of a few hours, you remind yourself that this isn’t new to him, neither you- but they’re not your soldiers. They’re his.

He steps into the medical tent, taking up the majority of the free space, wide shoulders and long legs that carry him into battle, you think he would have been a Viking in another life. Tall and wide and unmoving. Unyielding in his faith and beliefs.

The outer layer of his gear is gone, you dare say he’s casual, the only visible weapon you see is the gun strapped to his thigh, key word- visible.

“Everythin’ okay?” He asks, smoothly, stepping over to the desk sitting to the left of the tent entrance.

He glances at you briefly, pulling two disposable gloves from their box and fixing them onto his hands, flexing his fingers before he moves closer to you.

You could lie to him, bark out a yes sir and move on, but you know better than that. He sees right through you, like he does with most people, he’s much too sharp to be fooled by such bullshit. You smile, faintly.

“Been better, sir” you say quickly, fiddling with your fingers.

He nods, loading up a metal tray with supplies from a small cabinet beside the exam table.

“If I had a pound for every soldier that said that today, I’d have about three quid by now” he huffs, something that could be a laugh if you listened closely enough.

You blow air through your nose, nearly a laugh.

“Gaz and Soap, sir?” You ask, eyes watching Simon’s hands move.

“You know it” he answers, smiling, you think- it sounds that way.

This is comfortable. As much as it can be. Simon is definitely one of the few superiors you’ve had since joining up that actually gives a shit, he sees you as a real person. Something solid, tangible, with thoughts and likes and memories. He asks about food preferences and he pretends to understand a love for certain holidays, he rates music tastes and has inside jokes with near enough everyone in his platoon.

He’s kinder then he knows, than he’ll ever admit, being here like this- now, he can’t pretend that he’s obligated to do this.

He’d told you to wait for him in the medical tent, when you arrived back from that shit-show of an ambush, a stern hand between your shoulder blades guiding you in that direction.

“Wait for me, won’t be long” his voice was tired, but truly? You thought he might even be gentle, not that he thought you needed that - but because he’s capable.

You had limped away, following orders, peeling away your blood soaked jeans and sitting yourself on the table - feeling sorry for yourself. Staring at the wound, he’d packed and taped it on the transport, stemmed the blood until he could tend to it properly.

You’d pursed your lips, tracing your fingers over the tape covering the bullet wound, thinking about him. You turn him over in your mind more often than you should, he’s just so- strange. You can’t tell exactly what it is, and that’s the frustrating part, he gives nothing away and yet gives so much freely. Trivial bits and pieces of things that don’t seem as though they fit together; he likes traditional pub food and he listens to 80s rock, he prefers dogs to cats and he doesn’t care much for hot weather- ironic.

It’s nothing, small crumbs that he probably thinks mean nothing, but those things make him human. They personify him in a way he actively tries to avoid, his past and memories are nil, locked away and buried deep. Yet, he still gives a shit, he still cares enough to ask how his soldiers feel and wants to know what they’re looking forward to when they get home. He’s a good man.

No matter how much he’ll tell you he isn’t.

Simon gives it about ten seconds before he mutters under his breath and pulls the chair out from under the desk and props it in front of you, slumping down into it to continue his work. Crouching awkwardly due to his size was giving him a crick in his neck.

He sterilises the wound after removing the tape and gauze, you almost bite through your tongue with the sting, but it’s bearable.

“Alrate?” He queries, stilling when you suck in air through your teeth, you nod quickly.

“Just a bit sore, Lt”. He stares at you for a second too long before he nods, moving to thread up his needle.

Just when you think you’re nearing the finish line, he clears his throat.

“So, what happened out there?” He’s bordering that line of wether or not this is a question your obligated to answer or not, you want to tell him nothing, everything is fine and dandy, but you know he won’t buy it.

You sigh, bringing up your hand to cup the back of your neck.

“Honestly?” You ask, he might shrug and tell you he’s just trying to make conversation, he doesn’t - he nods curtly. You wet your lips with your tongue.

“Everything just went a bit- blank for a second” you wince when he begins setting the stitches, it’s a deep pinch that makes your stomach dip lowly, he doesn’t stop, he listens closely.

You can tell by the hardness in his eyes, he’s concentrating on your words as he works, you continue.

“Never had that happen before, feel like I blinked and then I’m on the floor in a pool of blood with a hole in my leg” you smile sheepishly and you nod toward said wound, Simon nods along. He thinks for a second.

“You need a break?” He asks, genuinely, his hands stop and he meets your eyes.

It catches you off guard, such a simple solution to a meaningless problem. You tilt your head.

“Like- taking home leave?” He simply nods, as if it’s just that easy, while the thought is nice, you can’t just leave them all here like this - not off the back of what’s just happened. You shake your head.

“It’s all good sir, think I’d go mad sitting at home knowing you’re all still stuck in this shit-hole” you laugh, drily. He huffs again, that almost laugh.

“Got to look after your head, you only get one” he reaches up with a free hand, pressing his index and middle finger against your temple. “No shame in taking some time out, y’know” he insists, letting his fingers linger for another second before moving them away, the skin is cold now. He returns to your wound, finishing off the stitches, “wouldn’t think any less of you for it” he flicks his eyes to yours.

He’s so expressive for someone that covers his face, the way his eyes and brows tell so much without seeing the rest of him. They give him away, in moments like this when you’re so close to him, so close you can see your reflection in the soft walnut-brown of his irises. You smile, meekly.

“I know” you say, nodding your head in understanding.

It’s quiet for a few moments, he cleans down the wound site and disposes of his tools, taking a final once over of his work with a long drawn out glance. You feel brave, in this setting with him, it seems safe.

“Do you ever take any time out, sir?” You ask, genuinely curious, he meets your eyes. Simon shakes his head.

“No need to” he shrugs, “and you can drop the sir thing, we’re off duty” you think you see the lines on his forehead soften through the mask. You smirk.

“Thought we were never off duty?” Catching him out, as per usual, his laugh is an actual laugh this time.

“Watch your mouth, yeah?” He closes his eyes when he shakes his head, “anyone might think you’ve actually been listening to me this entire deployment”. You smile.

“Don’t listen to a word that comes from under that mask” the mask is a subject that gets poked at him day in and day out, it’s a harmless jab nowadays. He challenges you.

“That so?” He asks and you nod quickly.

“Yep, doesn’t mean a thing unless I can read your lips clearly” you flash your teeth at him and he just keeps shaking his head.

“You up for a smoke?” He backs off, standing up to replace the chair back to its rightful place, but he still lingers close. You consider him for all of a split second.

“Why not, might take my mind of this fuckin’ leg” you gingerly set yourself down from the table, leaning against it for some extra stability.

Wordlessly, he offers you the crook of his elbow, but he can’t meet your eye.

Time passes and the two of you shuffle across the camp to an area of undergrowth and dense forest, a clear tree line that peers down the ridge you’re all holed-up on.

There’s a damp log that the two of you perch on, Simon offers you a cigarette and even lights it for you, thanking him with a nod you take a heavy drag, and it’s just as good as you were hoping. You watch him light his own cigarette through your peripherals, rolling up the mask with his thumb and cupping his hand around his smoke before he lights it.

In the dim light you can see the line of his jaw, you can see the way his lips wrap around the cigarette and the shadow of stubble on his skin. You don’t realise how much you’re looking until you’re caught out.

“I need a shave or somethin’?” his gruff tone cuts through the tranquil silence.

“Sorry” you say, kicking yourself mentally as you take drag after heavy drag of your cigarette. When you spare another quick glance, he’s smirking to himself.

“It’s not that big of a deal” he says, catching your eyes. You frown and he continues, “a face is just a face” he shrugs, “you see em’ all the time”.

He’s not wrong, but it’s not his face, it’s the inquisitiveness, the images you’ve conjured in your mind of what he might look like. Fitting jigsaws pieces around the molasses colour of his eyes and the deep scar that cuts through one brow, wondering what features fit where.

“Can’t blame me for being curious” you shrug, you’re being open, this seems content enough. He quirks his lips.

“I suppose” he finishes his cigarette, immediately fishing out another one.

Silence falls, and you can’t say it’s uncomfortable, it’s a nice change. Not just from today but from the usual barrage of noise and commotion - good and bad.

You finish your own cigarette, feeling too greedy to ask for another, wordlessly Simon offers you a drag on his own. It must be his last one, it must be. It’s nice like this, listening to the buzz of cicadas and the fluid breeze that blows through the trees, this is the only break you need.

It’s unclear where the line blurs, the nicotine thickening your blood to soup, the way your eyes droop and you shoulders sag. You’re tucked close to Simon’s side, and he doesn’t push you away, it’s comfortable.

He nudges you slightly, squeezes his hand over your thigh, the non-injured one. You stiffen, maybe you’ve overstepped, fallen a little too easily into the waiting arms of a man that is here to serve as a point of contact - tactical not literal.

“You mean what you said about the lip reading?” He asks, eyes watching the trees, you tilt your head as you try to think.

“What are you on about?” You ask, genuinely more than confused, he still hasn’t moved his hand from your thigh.

[etruatcaelum]

Heaving memories break against older certainties battered by fierce gales of emotion: fear, anguish, rage, the pain of ancient hurt screaming across the surface with a violent celerity. But that old lost music stirs in the deep under the skin of the sea, strange-familiar song from beyond remembering.

Evernight is safe, now. They know it and the knowing is a half-forgotten secret scratched into the marrow of the earth, faded long since and found again. In the quiet place beneath the world, relief stanches the wound. Sometimes, when the pain is very great, it can be answered only through cautery; as wildfire reinvigorates the forest. But it is better not to forget.

Peace will come after the storming is ended and the wound made whole again. The parts of Evernight that are not grimm cannot know this: they are like froth on the wave, like the wave that shatters on the rocks, knowing nothing of the deep current.

Light illuminates; light blinds.

Sorrow ripples through the horde when the death-light floods their nest. The fire-blind parts hurt in their ignorance, and Evernight cannot teach them without the speaking parts of itself. But– but! Evernight knows something of the proper care and keeping of the fire-blind parts of itself.

These are fragile little creatures. Should they want for food, they slowly wither and die. If they want for water, they wither quickly and die. For want of enough time lying still, their minds wither as they die. The smallest imbalance in bodily chemistry sickens them, and sometimes they die; and they are warlike, innately warlike, for any unknown organism passing through the membraneous outer bounds of their territory meets an onslaught of self-destructive violence. This, too, sickens them, and of course sometimes they die.

Pitiable children of the God Unliving!

So it is when the fire-blind wounded-and-wounding part falls weeping before them, the guarding part prowls forward to nose at quaking shoulders: the better to know. Evernight understands a little of the patterns and their meaning, enough to know that this one asks for help.

What ails, the guardian determines, is the withering and imbalance wrought by want of food. It nibbles at the hair, which cannot feel pain, to no avail; then stands without motion for their contemplation. Many small-souled creatures dwelling in their territory are good for the fire-blind parts to eat, with much effort first to prepare it for feeble jaws and brittle teeth. No, Evernight will deliver this one into the care of a different fire-blind part instead. Sometimes it is best for like to care for like.

It is good, then, that the guardian is very large. Smaller parts could carry this one, but not so easily without hurting. The guardian opens its jaws and scoops the fire-blind part up in its mouth, and it is so gentle and careful that not one of its fangs pierce the skin even as the limbs dangle and flail about. In this way, Evernight bears this one to the nest-chamber where the fire-blind guarding part is making the food preparations.

———

"–what."

The honed steel in Cinder's voice is so like the tone Salem takes whenever she feels unsettled that Summer almost manages to smile, even through her dread. Red mist swirls within the seer's head as the two young women on the other side trade darting glances; Winter ventures, "I didn't know the summer maiden was one of… our… assets."

"She's not," Summer says.

Uncomfortable silence emanates from the seer while she gives the reheating soup a vigorous stir. From the sound of it, Cinder is scratching the table with her claws—back and forth, rhythmic—but she holds her tongue.

Probably, if Summer had to guess, fuming that Watts had survived just to go and do this.

"I see," Winter mutters, glancing at Cinder again; then, with very careful neutrality, "Do you think she'll strike at Vacuo if– when she fails to open the vault?"

"She isn't like—"

"Salem," Cinder cuts in, more silk than sharpened steel now, "isn't in Vacuo."

Winter's mouth pinches again, just as it did when she learnt of the connection between Cinder and Salem—worried, Summer thinks—but she keeps it to herself; Cinder whirls away from the desk to pace furiously.

"Where–" Summer begins, but a gritty rumble interrupts her. She turns.

She blinks.

It's so unusual for the larger grimm in Salem's horde to roam this part of the house that Summer often forgets that the monstrous doors and archways of Evernight are not comically oversized after all. Fourteen years, and the sight of an ursa the size of an airbus lumbering into the kitchen with Tyrian limp as a ragdoll its mouth still startles her. Grimm look so much bigger indoors.

Rumbling again, the ursa lays Tyrian on the table and then retreats the way it came. Summer blinks again. No sign of blood, and even if Tyrian had taken it into his head to provoke the horde into mauling him, or whatever, they're not cats. The grimm would've just eaten him.

Maybe he'd fainted.

"…Up and at 'em," Summer says, deadpan. "Heating up soup. You want a bowl?"

Great. Now he has two insane Salem fanatics trying to threaten everybody else with eye displays.

Yes, yes, he thinks, tired, but for once knows better than to say, the main characters of the universe are actually the immortal divorcees who are gambling with all of our lives in the hopes that the gods will either pity us or be destroyed. Trust me, I am under no illusions about that.

Really, about the only thing that keeps Watts from flinching away from the sudden outpouring of angry white light is that he and Tyrian would probably have been killed on impact if Summer was trying to hurt them. Still, his expectations that Tyrian will cower are unmet: if anything, he's pretty damn sure Tyrian's eyes have taken on an even brighter purple glow, in contrast to Summer's silver-eyed fury.

"I'm not," Watts tries, "going to try and convince you of all people about anything to do with my thoughts on Salem. But-"

"Funny to hear you, Summer, speak of sympathy," Tyrian is half-snarling, though, anxiety replaced with a fresh round of anger that Arthur is sure will get somebody killed if he doesn't find Tyrian an acceptable outlet. "As if I don't feel worse than you do about-"

Watts grabs Tyrian hard on the arm to stop him from following Summer, not hard enough to really hurt him but surely hard enough that Tyrian will read a warning in the gesture as Watts starts to tug him down the hall.

"Stop it, before you're the next one to say something you regret. Let her alone. She's your friend and she's right. This has gone on long enough. It won't be any good for anyone if we all tear each other apart-"

"Ah! But it wasn't enough when you drove Salem to suicide?" Tyrian yells, and Watts is starting to think that grabbing a serial killer when every instinct in Tyrian's body was screaming about wanting to live up to that title wasn't his smartest move.

"What do you want me to say, Tyrian?" (and he does his best to keep his eyes on Tyrian's and not on the arch of the tail) "I can't- apologize to Salem or make amends or do anything at all to help her if I don't know where she is. She's immortal. I never thought- I never meant-"

"You-" Tyrian's eyes are practically leaking venom of their own, their glow really is rivaling Summer's, and Watts is convinced that Tyrian is going to try and tear him apart with his bare hands. "You- this is- your fault- I'm so- I know you're scared and in pain and I want to help you- but- I'm- I'm angry- with you-"

"You have every right to be. And whatever Summer makes," Watts says, softly, in what he half-expects to be his last words, "don't eat too much of it, or you'll get sicker. Alright?"

Tyrian freezes at the sudden display of care, then shoves away hard and flies off down the hall. Watts doesn't even have a chance to call out in warning- perhaps it's fortunate, then, that Tyrian goes past Summer and disappears down some side corridor.

"...I'll be in my lab," Watts whispers, although he doubts anyone can hear, and teleports away.

(He thinks, briefly, that he should make use of the airship after all - pack his bags in it and fly away, back to Anima.

And then he counts to ten, and lies down.

He doubts he'll sleep, not knowing where Tyrian is or what he's doing, but it's worth a try, especially when to follow after his partner right now might just upset Tyrian more.

I will tell him goodbye, I will build him that server, but - it will be in all of their best interests that I don't ask him to come with me.)

--

O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee, and I detest all my sins because of thy just punishments.

Tyrian feels like he could tear his own throat out. Or go to the moor and find some hapless animal to hunt and drink the blood of. Or steal the airship and go to Vacuo himself.

Summer, who had willingly abandoned her own children and seemed to treat their apparent deaths as nothing. Watts, who had faked his death due to his own ego and had driven their master to hers. At least Tyrian was open about being a monster-

He rounds another corner and there she is.

Gwendolyn.

A particularly large Ursa that Tyrian had taken a liking to and named. She had always seemed tolerant or even appreciative of his presence - letting him lounge on her back, standing still so he could help her shed her atrum, even approaching when he entered rooms.

As purple as Tyrian's eyes are, his tail stays still.

"Salem," he chokes. "She can- hear me- through you, sometimes. Can't she? Please- tell her- I'm-"

His eyes turn yellow. He hits the floor, bowing before the creature. He knows his misery must be tantalizing, and he doesn't care.

"I'm sorry, my lady. I've- I thought I had- been of use to you and helped you- and I- I wanted to- enact your new plan with you and make you happy and- I've failed. I know I- I should have-"

Should have what? Used his stinger without envenomating it, the day he was attacked by a stalker in Mistral so long ago? Turned Arthur down when Arthur had confessed to him? Swallowed down the grief when Arthur had seemingly died? Dredged up River and been kind to Cinder, so no one had to die at all? Just let Salem and Summer insist that he and Arthur both had done more and worse to Cinder than they actually had? Been passively accepting of all his failures, of all his punishments and tortures, of all the things no one else seemed to get? Just let them assume his desire to see the girl punished was out of jealousy when it was confusion about the favoritism shown in allowing her to get away with murder, and pain over Arthur and anger and why couldn't he ever be devoted properly why why why- Should he have tried to stop at least one of Summer's daughters from falling? Made himself eat every time he didn't feel the hunger? Never left the farm in the first place?

What's the point in wondering. Really, truly, what is the point.

"Please- let the horde do whatever it must to me to make you feel better. I don't- I don't want to hurt you, or Artie, or Summer. And I'm afraid I will, afraid I have, I- Please don't- go away. Come home. I do care about you, I'm sorry- I'm so sorry."

This is groveling. Don't grovel. Repulsive-

"I'm sorry."

[elizabethemerald]

The Future of the Pantheon of the Gods

@prehistoric-catgirl added onto @stealingyourbones 's post about Random DC characters interacting with DP characters. Her character was Cassie Sandsmark and she created a prompt where-in Cassie is assigned to become part of the new Pantheon and to seek out other members of the new Pantheon, including Danny Phantom who will be the new God of Death.

***

"Is this true?" Cassandra Sandsmark asked.

Cassie, Donna Troy and Diana Prince, stood before the gathered gods of Olympus. Cassie had been surprised to be summoned alongside the original Wonder Woman and the first Wonder Girl, her mentor and greatest inspiration respectively, to stand before the Olympians.

"Yes. Though we have tried to stop the decline, the truth is the gods are dying." Zeus rumbled, ozone and petrichor filling her nose as he spoke.

Cassie hadn't wanted to bring it up, but the gods around them did seem... older... weaker than they ever had been. They were still far over any mortal, but even with all the gathered Olympians the air was suffocated by their power like it had been even a few years before.

"Is there some way we can assist?" Donna asked, looking around them and no doubt cataloging the same changes Cassie had noticed.

Hera smiled at the trio of Wonder Women.

"Your noble spirit is why we have summoned you, but there is nothing that can be done to save us now." The words had a weight of surety to them. Everything had already been tried. The end of the Olympians was inevitable.

"The worship from the mortals has declined in recent centuries." The ground rumbled and shook under her feet as Poseidon spoke. "We are not as powerful now as we were a decade ago and in another decade more our infirmity will only grow."

Hades spoke next, his voice cracking with cold that stole Cassie's breath away. "There were some of us who felt we should just fade away, if the mortals no longer wished to worship us, then they can see how well they do without our influence over our domains."

"However, the rest of us wanted to ensure our domains remained to serve the humans even after our passing." Hera said, her words like a gavel. "The solution we have reached is to pass on our mantels to new, worthy successors. Those who have some skill with our domains, unshakable moral codes, and a deep love for their fellow mortals."

Cassie pondered the words of the Gods in the following silence. Then her eyes widened and her head whipped up to meet the eyes of Zeus who smiled at them as she gasped.

"Yes, we plan to pass on our duties to heroes such as yourselves." He declared, his arms open, magnanimously.

Cassie could see that Donna and Diana were as shocked as she was, though both of them kept their gasps silent. Diana gave a short bow.

"If there is no other way, than is a duty I can bare." She said.

"Not you Diana." Hades said, his empty eyes capturing them each in turn. "You have your own purpose among the new Pantheon, God-killer."

Diana stiffened and rose to face the Olympians once more, her shoulders set. Hera was the one to speak next.

"We decided those best to handle the weight of the cosmos would be those who are young enough to grow into their new roles. There are many such young heroes in your world who could train alongside us before our decline is complete."

"And if they should fall short of your standards, you expect me to serve as their executioner." Diana's disdain could have only been more clear if she had spat on the floor.

"Yes." Poseidon snapped like the crash of wave. "The power we have, that we are offering is too great to exist without some kind of check to prevent its abuse."

"Besides," spoke Athena for the first time, her eyes still filled with power despite her declining worship. "How many problems have been created for the mortals by the petty squabbles of those who sit on these thrones? We believe you, Diana, will be a worthy mentor for our successors, but you will not be among them. Always apart, always with your sword ready."

Diana's fury burned off her in waves, hating the idea that she would have to turn her blade against some of the junior heroes that she had helped raise, and seen grow up. Cassie swore she could hear her grinding her teeth and was afraid that Diana would decide to end the Pantheon right there.

"So! Who is it you have decided to be your successors?" Donna spoke up quickly, clearly thinking the same thing Cassie was.

"We have consulted the greatest oracles and soothsayers and each of us have chosen one who will suit." Hera said. "Zeus, why don't you go first."

Zeus held his hands out towards Donna. His eyes locked on hers. He stepped down from his dais as Donna stepped back, her eyes the size of dinner plates.

"Who else could take my place other than the sister of our dear Diana, who has proven her metal through lifetimes of strength and suffering. Donna Troy, you will be the next Queen of Olympus."

Donna looked like she might pass out, but shook the shock off and stood firm, earning her a proud smile from Zeus. Cassie patted her on the back, proud of her idol for everything she has accomplished.

"And you Cassandra, daughter of Zeus will take my place as the Goddess of War." Ares declared. "As you should."

Cassie carefully kept her snarl inside, her problems with her "brother" Ares was better left for when she was away from the rest of the Pantheon. At least if she were the Goddess of War, she wouldn't revel in the violence like he always did.

"We will not transfer our power now." Zeus spoke up again, returning to his throne. "Once the New Pantheon is assembled we will hand over our mantels, retaining only a fraction of our power to train our successors."

"Your responsibilities, and the reason we called you first, is so that you may notify those who will join you by your side." Hera said, settling to the details of their mission. "Diana, you will inform the mentors of these young heroes to prevent a panic. Diana, many of these are known to you, and you are known to them, so you will be the primary contact."

Hermes and Athena stepped forward to hand off scrolls to the two of them. Cassie fought to keep her emotions neutral. She would help no one by pouting at being redundant. Diana and Donna looked closely at the scrolls, their faces journeying through emotions as they considered the names.

"And you Cassandra," Cassie looked up in surprise at being addressed by Hades. "There are other heroes that you must reach out to who are not known to your organization, including my own successor."

"Secret would be a perfect-" Cassie started, quick to suggest her own teammate before Hades cut her off.

"No!" He snapped, the word stealing her breath away, forcing her to gasp and clutch her chest. "Your companion does have skills with regards to my domain, but there is another whose power and dominion of death is absolute. He is already a king in his own right, and his connection to life remains strong enough that he would be able to sympathize with the mortals. While he is unknown to your Justice League he is know and beloved to me."

Cassie nodded her head as another scroll, this one cold as ice was handed to her by Hermes. She couldn't help but be impressed by whoever this person is. She hadn't heard Hades call anything beloved other than Persephone in all the time she had known him. She looked at the names and coordinates on the scroll.

"Who on Earth is Phantom?"

[revelboo]

what is your worst "hear me out" for transformers? mine is tarantulas like a spider in irl hell no… but a big robot spider thats hot

Probably Tarantulas (I love his Earthspark design) or IDW Waspinator.

I read Windblade for Metroplex lore and it reminded me of this messed up, fatally gullible mech that is everyone’s punching bag and just knows it.

Worker Bee

IDW Waspinator x Reader

• Dragging his broken body, his alt mode scrabbles for purchase in the leaf litter. It’s hard to focus on much besides the pain and finding somewhere safe to hide and heal. He’s not even sure what he did, only that Skywarp had pointed at him right before Megatron went ballistic on him and the two other Decepticons that had been close by. Maybe he had done something wrong. He must have. “Waspinator’s fault,” he rasps, antenna flicking because there’s light up ahead, a building where he’ll be out of the snow just beginning to fall. Leaving the tree line, he drags himself inside, legs scrabbling and knocking over a metal can that clatters as it goes rolling and he collapses on the straw inside. So tired, burrowing in.

• Looking up from your book at the noise, you groan because the raccoons are back and they’ve tipped over the trash can. It’s late and you just want to ignore it and deal with it in the morning, but there might be garbage strewn across the yard by then. Standing, you tug on a coat, grab a flashlight, and a rifle just in case it’s a bear, not cute little trash pandas raiding your garbage. You’d left the barn door open apparently and you find the can turned over, but its contents not scattered everywhere. Maybe the sound scared them off? Setting the gun down, you right the can and turn as something shifts within the hay, rising slowly to tower over you.

• There’s a human with a weapon. Here to hurt him, because everyone does. They always do. It hurts to transform and reach for the human, but his injuries throw him off balance and he crashes down, knocking the little organic sprawling with him. And you’re screaming at him, your fear jangling through him making him curl forward, servos over his head. Waiting for a blow that doesn’t come. “Not hurt Waspinator?”

��� Hyperventilating as the monster lifts its big head slightly, you can’t even scream. It’s gigantic, seizing your ankle when you try to crawl away and dragging you back, looming over you. All you can do is hold up your hands in supplication as those awful mandibles work and those glowing optics stare. “Don’t hurt me.”

• This is new. Someone afraid of him? It should make him feel powerful to be the one feared for once, but it just makes him oddly ill. Sitting up and gingerly touching the wound in his torso sluggishly bleeding energon, he makes a buzzing click of his mandibles. “No hurt,” he says as you scramble to your hands and knees to put some distance between you. “Already hurt,” he adds tiredly, and you hesitate in your retreat. Staring at the energon welling through his servos. You take a hand through your hair, expression twisting.

• All you have to do is run like hell. That thing, Waspinator it had called itself, is hurt too badly to chase you. But there’s something about its defeated tone that makes you feel guilty. This isn’t your problem. Big and scary was already hurt when he crashed in your barn. So why do you go over to the workbench and retrieve a roll of duct tape? He hisses at you, rearing back when you try to touch him and you freeze. “Cut that out,” you snap and his antenna flatten back. Not hurt Waspinator? You’d guessed with the way he’d worded that question that maybe he’s used to being hurt. That he’d fold if you acted aggressive and you were right. It’s unsettling to see a giant, metal death bug cringe like a puppy being scolded. But he doesn’t make a peep as you find the hole in his metal side and gingerly tape the leaking lines, trying to not think too closely on what you’re touching or that your hands are inside him rooting around. “Waspinator, right?” The way he’s just staring down at you with those wide glowing optics just cements in your head that he’s a big, really ugly puppy.

[magics-neptunes-things]

Mockingjay - Part 10

Hello :)

Once again sorry for the delay, but here is the next chapter for Mockingjay!

Please enjoy ♥

TW : Death or mention of death, blood, injury, suggestive, fight

Chapter before

After their mutual declaration and several (a lot of) kisses exchanged, Lucy finally falls asleep, exhausted by her fight and her injuries. Ona didn’t ask Lucy what happened exactly during the fight, she keeps her questions for later.

Ona was awake all night, looking at Lucy. Just in case she wakes up with pain or something bad happens. But Lucy’s sleep seems peaceful, she only winces from time to time, while changing position. We must say that maybe the ground of a cave isn’t the most comfortable thing in the world.

Being in that position is strange for Ona, she’s not used to being the strong one. It’s usually Lucy who took care of her during their moments together, not the other way. She likes the idea of Lucy being at ease enough with her for it, but of course Ona hates the fact that Lucy is hurt.

They never heard the cannon, so Ona assumed that Tony must be alive somewhere. He doesn’t seem to have any allies, unless they’re all dead already. But the weapon he had was probably from a sponsor. Ona doesn’t know if she will receive more things after the attack she did against her compatriot.

But she stands her ground. Between Lucy and Tony, there she has not a single hesitation.

While Lucy sleeps, Ona lights the fire again and puts some wet tissues on Lucy’s forehead to ease her fever. It seems to work; Lucy’s forehead seems less hot with time.

Ona makes herself more arrows too, she used almost all of them during their fight with Tony. She wonders briefly where the man is, before deciding that she doesn’t care. He might be Joan’s friend; she still has to fight for herself. And the girl she’s in love with.

Talking about Lucy, the girls finally stir for good, but groan in pain while turning on her back. Her face is clenched and Ona hurries to come closer to her.

“Where are you hurt?” she asks softly, removing some hair from her face.

“My head”

“Your head? You didn’t say anything about your head yesterday!”

Ona tries to make Lucy move a little to see which part of her head is hurting. The latter tries to fight against Ona at first, but it was before seeing how determined Ona was. Lucy sighs softly, finally turning on her side.

“Lucy what the fuck”

Lucy doesn’t answer anything and it’s maybe better like this. Ona is mixed between worry and anger against Lucy. There is a wound here too, one that Ona didn’t clean yesterday because Lucy didn’t say anything.

“You couldn’t have done anything anyway” Lucy finally mumbles.

“I still could have cleaned it” Ona answer, her gaze burning.

Lucy chooses widely not to answer anything and crosses her arms when Ona starts to look at the injury. It seems less important than the one on her stomach, but still less superficial than the ones she has on her arms.

Ona cleans Lucy’s head, wondering how she missed the dry blood in Lucy’s hair, before making the girl roll on her back to clean the injury on her stomach.

“How did he manage to attack you by the way?”

Lucy raises her eyes on Ona’s face. The brunette isn’t looking at her, concentrating on her work in Lucy’s body. Lucy sighs softly before answering.

“He took me by surprise. I was looking for food when he jumped on me from behind. He hit me with his weapon. I didn’t hear him coming. He smashed me on my head and from then it was hard to fight back.”

Ona nods softly, wondering if the noises she heard while she was alone in the forest was actually Tony. She hasn’t mentioned it to Lucy until now.

“I think I heard footsteps when I was waiting for you. At that point I was thinking it was you, but when I turned around there was no one. I wonder if it was him.”

“Maybe” Lucy answers after several seconds of thinking. “If it’s him, it means that he chose not to kill you.”

“Yeah…” Ona says slowly. “Or that I could have save you earlier”

Ona was finished with Lucy’s tape since several minutes, so Lucy takes her by her arm to take her closer.

“Don’t reflect like this. You saved me. If you came earlier, maybe you wouldn’t have been able to shoot him like you did. Great aim, by the way.”

Ona rolls her eyes and smiles, snuggling against Lucy as much as she can while being careful not to hurt her more. She smiles when she feels Lucy sighing from well-being, softly kissing her jaw.

“All of those trainings’ session are finally paying off. Looks like training his force wasn’t as useful as he thought.”

“Looks like listening to your mentor was a great idea” Lucy teases.

“It was. It’s because of her advice that I’m still alive”

“I’m glad Alexia Putellas is a genius then.”

Ona hums, stroking Lucy’s neck with her nose. She doesn’t know how much time they will have for themselves, she’s decided to enjoy it as much as she can. She loves Lucy’s scent and how hot and soft her skin is here.

“You know that he’s in love with you right? Tony?”

“I don’t care” Ona answers, kissing Lucy’s neck between her two sentences. “I’m in love with someone else.”

Lucy smiles at this, grabbing softly Ona’s chin between one of her hands.

“Look at you, you little flirt” she says with a smile, before taking Ona’s face against her to kiss her.

Ona smiles against Lucy’s lips, deepening the kiss quickly. Lucy lets her access to her mouth and Ona kind of forgets where they are. All she can think of is Lucy, Lucy’s hand, Lucy’s skin against her, Lucy’s touch. She still remembers not to hurt her, but when Lucy gently tilts them so that Ona is on her back, Ona can’t help but break the kiss.

“Your stomach…” Ona begins.

But Lucy smiles again, putting a finger on her lips.

“I’m fine” she whispers.

She looks in Ona’s eyes again before leaning in for another kiss. After two seconds of hesitation, Ona kisses her back, passing her arms around her neck. Ona is pretty sure that she could kiss Lucy all day long without being used to it. Or tired.

She shivers when Lucy’s fingers slide under the tissues of her clothes, stroking her skin with her fingertips. The sensations are even better than what she remembered or imagined, but when Lucy starts to suck her neck, she feels heat waves in her body and especially between her legs. Under the pleasure, Ona’s fingers (who were under Lucy’s clothes too) sink into the skin of Lucy’s back.

Lucy is very respectful about what Ona told her while still in the Capitol. Ona is sure that Lucy remembers that she never has been intimate with someone else like this. When Lucy is satisfied with her work on Ona’s neck, she kisses the skin lovingly here.

But Lucy seems to come back to reality for real when Ona tries to remove Lucy’s shirt.

“Ona, we don’t have to – “

“No. I want it”

Lucy hesitates for several seconds, looking deep in Ona’s eyes. But Ona only smiles at her, letting her hands run on her back and on her hips.

“I’m sure” she adds, seeing hesitation in Lucy’s eyes.

“Just… Tell me when you want to stop, please”

“I will.”

Ona wanted to answer that she won’t have to say it, because she was certain of what she wants. But she doesn’t have time, Lucy leaning another time for another kiss. Ona doesn’t wait any second to kiss Lucy back. She wants it, she’s sure about it. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that they might be dead in several hours, but there isn’t another person in the world she would do it with.

Ona’s clothes are suddenly too much on her skin, but Lucy’s hands manage to smooth her skin with their strokes.

There is no rush between them; they both take their time to discover each other and to remember each other at their fingertips.

And some time later, Ona is pretty sure that she never felt so blissful than now. When she looks up at Lucy who is holding her close against her body, she thinks that Lucy feels the same way.

Lucy feels Ona’s gaze on her because she looks at Ona back, offering her one of her perfect smiles.

“How are you?”

“Pretty great” Lucy smirks at Ona over the fire.

“I was talking about your head” Ona chuckles.

She’s still a little mad at Lucy for having kept that injury away from her. But Lucy shrugs, still adding another branch of wood into the fire. The night is here now, and they had to leave the cave for several hours during the day. It has been their refuge and Lucy is a little scared that the leaders of the Games will try to make them get out of it.

“Can I see it?”

“Will you take no as an answer?” Lucy arches an eyebrow.

“No” Ona smirks.

Lucy rolls her eyes but turns around to let Ona have a look. The younger girl doesn’t wait a second and kneels behind Lucy, gently looking at Lucy’s wound. She hums when she sees it. It doesn’t look very good, but it seems to heal as best as possible.

“It looks okay” Ona whispers. “Are you still in pain? Honestly.”

“It’s okay. Pounding sometimes but I will survive.”

Ona bites her bottom lip, preferring not to remember that they are in a Game fighting for their life. She stays silent and Lucy doesn’t seem to catch what she is thinking about. She starts to talk anyway, taking Ona’s mind away from there.

“We need a plan now. To know how to fight against the others.”

“What do you have in mind?” Ona asks, going to sit in front of the other girl.

“First, we have Camden and Kayla. Camden is hardly injured, but Kayla doesn’t have any injury as long as I’m aware. It would be a hard fight if we were crossing their path. The best thing would be to have them separated. They were near the starting point until now, but they might have changed now.”

Ona nods. It would make sense; Lucy is now with her, and she knows where they were staying. Plus, one of them is hurt and they would probably want to hide him as long as possible.

“Then we have Tony. You hurt him pretty badly.”

Ona nods once again. She doesn’t know if it’s pretty bad, but he wasn’t able to stand up for several minutes at least. It’s still something.

“How would you feel about fighting against him again?” Lucy asks. “I know he’s a friend of your brother but…”

“I’ll do it as many times as I need if it means you will be safe” Ona doesn’t hesitate to answer.

There is a moment of silence, during which they share a look. Ona is determined and very certain of what she just said. She would give her life for Lucy, so she doesn’t mind a single second fighting against her district’s partner.

Lucy, on the other hand, gives the impression to Ona that she’s looking for something special in her eyes. But Ona let her look, not having anything to hide from her. After a moment, Lucy finally talks again.

“And then the two girls. We don’t know if they are together, but we can guess they are.”

“Haven’t you seen them at one point?”

Lucy shakes her head to answer no.

“They might be hidden somewhere. They haven’t killed anyone for now.”

“Could they be in the desert? That’s what we wanted to do with Teagan, we were almost sure that no one will come for us there”

“Maybe…” Lucy answers slowly, looking by the entrance of the cave. “I know there is an oasis somewhere, if they found it it’s probably the safest place in the arena.”

“How do you know that?” Ona frowns.

“I went to it at the beginning”

Lucy shrugs and Ona frowns. Lucy asked her a lot of questions about her adventure until they met again, but Ona sometimes feels like she doesn’t want to talk about hers. Which is a little strange in Ona’s eyes.

Ona stands, pretending to be looking for something in their bags. She doesn’t like that feeling in the bottom of her stomach. And it has nothing to do with the kick she received during her fight.

“You never told me”

Lucy shrugs one more time before answering, still sitting on the ground.

“I went with Declan. We just wanted to see what was there.”

Ona hums only, her back turned to Lucy. The brunette catches easily that something is disturbing Ona, only by the other girl’s behavior. Ona usually never hides her eyes to her, or even her face.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Lucy asks.

“Nothing.”

 But Lucy knows better. Rather than letting it go and talking about something else, she gets up to press her front against Ona’s back, passing her arms around Ona’s waist. Her chin is on Ona’s shoulder when she talks again.

“Ona, what’s wrong?”

Ona sighs softly. She knows she’s probably stupid about her reaction and she’s a little bit ashamed, to be honest. But Lucy is waiting patiently for her answer, and she finally opens her mouth again.

“It’s just… Sometimes I feel like you are hiding something from me. I don’t like it.”

She knows she’s right when Lucy bites her bottom lip before answering. Ona turns her head as good as she can given their position, looking for Lucy’s green eyes. When Lucy stays silent, Ona talks again, whispering this time.

“What happened?”

Lucy sighs at her turn, letting Ona go. The younger girl doesn’t like the way her body suddenly seems very cold without Lucy’s embrace. She squeezes her arms around her body, looking at Lucy.

“It’s just that I have to do some things. And I’m scared that if you know them it will change how you see me.”

Ona tilts her head, searching for Lucy’s eyes. Lucy seems so tense that it scared her. Suddenly she’s not a tribute at the Hunger Games, she’s just a girl waiting for the love of her life to admit what fault she did when they weren’t together.

“Like I told you, I had to do things and play a role at the beginning. I needed people to think that I just wanted to win and that we weren’t even friends you and me”

Ona nods, waiting more or less patiently about the end of Lucy’s confession.

“To show people that I was really into it, I had to kill. A lot of people. In fact, after killing Seth, I’m the one with the higher number of murders.”

“Oh…” Ona breaths.

She wasn’t expecting this to be honest. She doesn’t know what she was expecting, to be honest. But Lucy is still looking at her feet, not able to look up at Ona. So, the younger girl approaches her, kneeling a little bit to have their eyes at the same level.

“Lucy, it’s okay. You did it for us. You didn’t have the choice”

“I didn’t” she repeats. “If I had… I just needed to be with you again.”

“We are now”

“Yeah”

Ona smiles softly at Lucy, who smiles almost shyly back. She doesn’t like to be seen as weak or something, but the way Ona cups her face to kiss her makes her feel lighter than ever. She still doesn’t understand what she did to find a girl as sweet and kind as Ona.  

The morning after, they decided to sort out their things to know what to take with them in their backpack and what to leave in the cave. They let some food they know would be damaged in their bag during the day, for example. Ona is never leaving her hoodie under her jacket, loving the soft feeling against her skin.

They take their weapons of course, the medical kits and the most important things to survive.

“Okay, let’s go” Lucy says, looking at the fire behind them.

Ona is looking at the cave with a little pout. She feels like they won’t come back, and it makes her a little sad. It’s once again a memory of her history with Lucy where she probably won’t be able to come again.

Easily understanding what Ona is feeling, Lucy smiles softly and passes her arm around Ona’s shoulders.

“Come on, Love. It will be okay”

She kisses Ona temple before taking her to go down the mountain again. Ona let her do, blushing softly at Lucy’s surname. It’s the first time she calls her something like that. Of course, she loves it.

They decided to go to the desert, Ona hoping not to cross someone else’s path during this. Or at least someone they can kill easily. They walk silently, just in case. Ona asked Lucy if she saw the wolves too, but the older woman answered negatively. But it seems to her that one of the tributes died because of the wolves. The idea made Ona shivers.

Lucy is walking first; Ona really closes behind her. She has to fight against Lucy to prevent her not from carrying all the heavy things. Ona is really scared that Lucy’s stomach will start bleeding again. She changed Lucy’s bandage before leaving, putting the old one in the fire.

The walk is pretty long, it seems that there is only one bridge to cross the breach. And that it is far away from where they are.

“It’s weird that we haven’t crossed anyone’s path” Ona mumbles at some point.

“Yeah” Lucy answers. “I think they used the fog to make people come closer to each other, I wouldn’t be surprised if they do something similar soon.”

Ona hums. She doesn’t really like the idea. The last time she had time with Teagan to leave, but it wasn’t the case for Lilith. Her death might have been harsh If Ona remembered correctly the screams of pain that she lets go before dying.

When they finally reach the bridge, Ona takes a last look behind her before crossing it, still behind Lucy. As soon as they arrive on the other side, the heath strikes them hard.

“What the fuck” Ona says, instinctively tying her hair.

Lucy smiles when she hears and sees Ona. Then she looks around, trying to remember where she went with Tony.

“I’m pretty sure the Oasis isn’t that way” she says, pointing somewhere right in front of them. “That’s where we went with Declan. Maybe we should go there?”

Ona nods, not having anything to say. She never came here before. The heath and the sand everywhere are very impressive, to be honest. But if they find the oasis, they could have something very interesting to have.

Still walking, Ona looks at Lucy’s neck and the drop of sweat running slowly on her skin. The sun is still high in the sky, which is a good thing because it means they still have a lot of time before the night. But they are still very hot because of the sun too.

“Are you okay?” Ona asks Lucy for the thousand times since they left.

“I am” Lucy answers patiently. “What about you?”

“I’m fine.”

They walk for some time more, seeing nothing around them other than sand and blue sky, until…

“This is the end of the arena”

Ona raises her head to look where Lucy is pointing. She doesn’t see anything at first, until she finally sees something looking like mini light blue lightning running in front of her eyes.

“We turn around?” Ona proposes.

Lucy bites her lips, thinking for several seconds before answering.

“I don’t know. If we do that, we will lose time and maybe we won’t find the oasis. But at least we know where we are exactly.”

“We were coming from the east to west. We just had to look at the sun to know where to go back” Ona shrugs.

There is a moment of silence, Lucy looking at Ona blankly for some long seconds, before answering.

“You know how to find your way with the sky?”

Lucy’s amazement is easily audible in her voice when she asks that question. But Ona just shrugs before smirking.

“I thought you would be able to do it too, aren’t you the one coming from the best fisherman’s family of Panem?”

Lucy rolls her eyes and smiles.

“I have nothing from the Bronze. And we have a compass and that kind of thing.”

They are walking next to each other now, softly bumping into each other from time to time while talking. There is nothing around them and they would easily see if someone else was here.

But they have to admit at some point that finding the oasis is harder than they thought. The sun is now hiding behind the horizon, gradually plunging them into the night.

“Do you want to take the torch?” Lucy asks Ona.

“I don’t know. Is this not going to draw attention to us?”

Ona looks at Lucy for several seconds before answering, not wanting to scare the girl.

“Are there not scorpions that come out of the sand at night?”

Lucy froze and looks at Ona, her eyebrows softly frowned. It’s something they learned during the survival courses, but to be honest, Lucy completely forgot about it.

“You are right…” Lucy answers slowly, before opening her eyes wide. “Wait, what is on your arm?”

Frowning at turn, Ona looks at her arm. A scorpion. There is a scorpion on her arm.

Next chapter (Coming soon...)

[maya-caffrey]

Strawberry Froyo

pairing: tasm!peter x reader words: 1.4k a/n: y'all i suck at summaries but trust me, it's good summary: you make a new friend :) warning: none, this is pure unadulterated fluff, there's some language tho; ps: this is from the reader's pov

“Son of a-” I silently cursed to myself when I realized late for science. Again. It was the third time this week and I knew my teacher was not going to be pleased. I didn’t have time to waste so I picked up my big stack of books and raced down the hallway towards the classroom until I was oh so rudely knocked over by Eugene ‘Flash’ Thompson who seemed to be in a hurry. Probably to bully some poor kid. Or teacher. Dick. 

“Hey watch where you’re going, Eugene” I yelled. Ah, crap. I knew he hated being called Eugene. Pretty much everyone knew. Boy was I in trouble.

“What did you just say?” Uh oh. Uh oh. Uh oh. Shit shit shit fu-

“Back off, man, come on. Leave her alone.” This was new. No one ever talked back to Flash. Especially not someone who knows him.  On one hand, I was flattered to see that someone was standing up for me, not that I couldn’t, but it was nice and on the other hand, I feared for this guy’s life. He’d banged heads with Flash before and it didn’t end well for him, as I remembered. He was in a few of my classes. Peter Parker. The kid with the death wish. And a really cool camera.

“Shut up, Parker. You’re in my way.” Flash was making his way towards Peter and my heartbeat got faster because 1, this never ends well, 2, I was scared for señor death wish, and 3, I was very late for science. Probably the wrong thing to worry about but it doesn’t change the fact that I’m late. I figured maybe apologizing would get him to calm down.

“Flash I’m sorry about earlier, I really am, but some of us need to get to class.”  Me. I need to get to class you pretentious douchebag. I was compelled to say it but I liked having teeth. 

He just stood there, silent, like he was desperately trying to calm down, or probably constipating, which I figured meant that I could go. I went back to my stack of books, now lying spread out on the ground, thanks to Flash. I started picking them up one by one when I was joined by a familiar face. 

“Here you go,” he said, after giving me a much larger stack than I had gathered single-handedly. Huh. That was fast. Not just in an impressive way but also in a sort of Are you ok? Are you having an acid trip? way. I put a stop to my train of thought and collected my books from him. He was gone before I could thank him. 

Timeskip brought to you by Psyduck 

After coming up with an excuse for why I was late to science (because I’m not the one with a death wish, no way I’m ratting out Flash), I took my seat and caught up on what I had missed from Gwen. It took me some time to realize that Parker was sitting diagonally in front of me and I wanted to thank him then and there. Despite establishing that he was running short of brain cells, ultimately he stood up for me. It’s not something people bother doing for me. I tore a sheet of paper, expressed my gratitude and I got a little brave and decided to add something more. I crumpled it up and threw it towards where he was sitting. Somehow, somehow, he turned and caught the paper ball. It was like he knew it was coming before it did. What. 

He looked behind him, confused as if to ask what is so important that you must interrupt science, you uncultured swine before relaxing after realizing it was me. Not gonna lie, that made me feel nice. Open it I gestured. He opened it to find a hand-written note that read 

Thank you for standing up for me :) Oh yes and also the books. Thank you for the books. What do you say I make it up to you? Froyo place around the corner, after school? -y/n

He looked at me and smiled before turning back and scribbling something down. I’d be lying if I said that smile didn’t make me smile too because oh lord it was the cutest thing ever. Like baby turtles walking for the first time. Or like baby axolotls. Like a ray of sunshine that -ow. I was distracted after the same paper ball from earlier found me again. I opened it to find the words  

I’d love to :) I’m looking forward to it. -Peter.  

Is it possible to find someone’s handwriting cute? Because I did. For some reason, it was adorable. I smiled to myself and then in his direction after reading it. I don’t know why, but I felt the need to save this paper for a long, long time.

I couldn’t stop smiling for the rest of the day. 

Timeskip brought to you by Roadkill restaurant - you kill ‘em, we grill ‘em. 

I made it to the froyo place first, so I saved him a seat at the best table I could find. You could say I was a little nervous, but to be honest, he seemed very comfortable to be around. He was like a warm cloud of comfort. He was like an old friend you’ve known your whole life. He was five minutes late. 

“I’m so sorry. There was some stuff, and there was some more stuff after that stuff, and then I-”

“Dude, relax, it’s fine. Sit down. Breathe.” He was out of breath like he ran all the way here.

“I-Thanks. I’ll uh, yeah I’ll sit down.” He sat down and took a few minutes to catch his breath. I silently observed him in a non-creepy way and I realized that he was much more adorable closer. He’s the kind of guy who you’d thank after he bumps into you. 

The waiter was here to take our order. “strawberry froyo with cookie dough bites”, we both said simultaneously. Surprise is an understatement. 

“No way, I thought I was the only one,” I said.

“It is an elite combination, and no one can tell me otherwise.”

“Exactly. Everyone I’ve had froyo with says it’s trash, and it’s sad how so many people are wrong.” He laughed at this and told me about other bizarre combinations he had tried. 

We spent the rest of the evening at the froyo place and to say it was amazing would have been a huge understatement. We talked about movies, music, books, and other things we were both interested in and it was incredible how great we got along with each other, considering we’d never even had full conversations before. I felt comfortable around him like you didn’t have to run everything thrice inside your head before I said it. You know when you find someone so in sync with you, it’s like you’re the same person? Like you know exactly what they mean when they say something? That, times a hundred was how I felt. 

“Listen, y/n, I had a great time”

“Likewise, Parker,” I said with a smile. He smiled back and I swear to god one day it’s going to be the death of me. None of us knew what to say so we just smiled like idiots and stared at the suddenly very interesting walls and ground. 

“So, I’ll call you? Later?” I decided to break the silence.

“Oh, yeah, sure, do you have my number?” As he said this, he started getting a little restless and I could swear I heard police sirens somewhere in the distance.

“I don’t think I d-” Before I could complete my sentence, He took my hand, and started writing his number on my palm. As he was writing, I started to feel very aware of the fact that our hands were touching. I felt sort of jumpy like I wanted to twirl and hop my way home. He wrote it with utmost concentration and held my hand like a delicate artifact he was scared of dropping. He was so cute when he was focused. As soon as he was done, he walked away out the door and towards traffic while facing me before screaming “Call me!” and disappearing into the alley nearby on his skateboard.  

I realized I was still there, at the froyo place, lost in my thoughts before I decided to head home as well. Oh boy, I’m in trouble.

[redux-iterum]

Charred Legacy: Chapter Thirty-Four

(AO3 counterpart here.)

It was a miserable load to bear, and every step closer to home took increasing effort. Somehow, Fireheart reflected as he stood outside the barrier of camp, he would have preferred staying in the woods where the dogs could find him.

He led Ravenwing through the tunnel and into the clearing, opening onto a sorry sight. Frostfur and her children sat in a circle, ringed around Brightpaw below the meeting stump. Their heads hung low and they whispered to each other, completely unaware of the newcomers. The elders and seers sat together with Bluestar, trying to keep her occupied with conversation while her head roamed aimlessly back and forth. Goldenflower was crouched beside Cloudpaw and Aspenpaw, the pair of apprentices huddled into each other, cheeks pressed together as Aspenpaw trembled miserably and Cloudpaw stared distantly at nothing, his eyes somehow drained of color.

The warrior toms quietly set Ashpaw’s remains down about a body’s length away from Brightpaw, just as Goldenflower noticed them and whispered something to Aspenpaw. Her head shot up and she stared at her brother’s halves for a stunned moment before letting out an incoherent scream of grief and scrambling to her feet, rushing to him.

“Ashpaw!” she cried, circling his head and pawing at him like he was going to wake up fine before collapsing and clawing at her own face and ears. “Oh, I’m so sorry– stars, I’m such an idiot, why didn’t I say anything, this is my fault—”

“Easy,” Fireheart said softly, using a careful paw to pull her claws off her head. “It’s not your fault.”

“It’s all my fault!” she wailed. “I should’ve told someone and now– and now he’s dead and Brightpaw’s dying and—”

She broke herself off with an agonized whimper and buried her nose in her paws. Goldenflower caught up to her and started grooming her neck and head, purring soothingly.

Cloudpaw, Fireheart noticed, had not moved. All he had done was slightly turn his head forward. He still had that faded, shaken look in his eyes. Even his fur was perfectly still.

“I’m sorry,” Fireheart said to Aspenpaw. He bumped his head on Goldenflower’s cheek, which she returned, before walking to his nephew. He said nothing, just crouched beside him and mimicked Goldenflower, though he couldn’t bring himself to purr. Cloudpaw said nothing, but he did relax a tiny bit.  

The other search parties returned together some time later, all with gasps and shouts of shock. Fireheart reported his group’s findings to Speckletail without really paying attention to what he was saying. He must’ve made sense, because Speckletail simply nodded unhappily and went to check on the elders and Bluestar.

“Poor things,” Willowpelt murmured, resting a paw on Ashpaw’s neck. She almost wobbled, a bit queasy, before looking at Fireheart. “Where’s Swifttail?”

“Greystripe and Mousefur are looking for him,” he replied dully.

“Mousefur must be in agony right now about Brightpaw.” Teaselfoot shivered, his face deeply troubled. As Darkstripe stalked past him, he added to the older warrior, “I’m sorry about your apprentice, too. I can’t imagine—”

“Doesn’t matter,” Darkstripe said shortly. “He was an idiot; it couldn’t be helped.”

The entire camp went silent and every eye turned to Darkstripe. Cloudpaw’s hairs slowly rose along his back, the first movement since Fireheart had sat with him.

“Excuse me?” Goldenflower growled.

“What?” Darkstripe gave her an incredulous look. “He ran out to fight an entire pack of dogs. That’s the stupidest thing a cat could do. He walked right into his death.”

“How can you talk about your own apprentice like that?!” Cinderpaw shouted, standing up and lashing her tail. “He was your responsibility!”

“It’s not my fault the little idiot got such a dumb idea in his head.” Darkstripe rolled his eyes at the increasingly furious faces around him, unaware that Aspenpaw had gotten up and was moving towards him. “And after his mother died the same way, you’d think—”

He cut himself off with a sharp, high yelp as a delicate grey paw slashed across his face. An impressively-sized spray of blood flung itself to the right and splashed the snow and sand with red. Darkstripe tumbled backwards, a paw clutching at his face and over his left eye as blood seeped out of several deep scratches. Fireheart stood up in alarm, just in time to grab Cloudpaw by the scruff as the apprentice tried to launch himself forward with a snarl. Darkstripe howled in anger and pain, falling onto his haunches and pawing at his wounds.

Aspenpaw stood quietly, shaking with rage down to the tip of her tail. No one shouted at her or got up to pull her away.

“Speckletail!” Darkstripe shrieked, using his uncovered eye to glare at the deputy. “Control your apprentice! She got my eye! I can’t see!”

Speckletail calmly lifted her tail over her back. “And hopefully you won’t be seeing out of that eye for a few days. If you’re going to say such horrible things about the cat you should have been taking care of, you can go to the warrior’s den and stay there for the rest of the night.”

Darkstripe stared at her. “Are you seriously not going to punish—”

“No,” Speckletail said. “I’m not. Go.”

Cloudpaw stopped struggling in Fireheart’s grip, shaking as hard as his sister. With every witness there, Darkstripe had no choice but to obey, storming into the warrior’s den with a hiss. A single bloody footprint from the paw he’d held to his face darkened the snow on the way to the den.

“Absolute slitprick,” Sandstorm growled. “He should be kicked out of camp for that.”

Speckletail sighed. “Unfortunately, being a slitprick isn’t a criminal offense, just a personal one. He’ll have to do worse to earn isolation.”

“I can probably get him to.” Sandstorm’s claws glinted in what dim light was over camp. “Bring him back out here, we’ll have him in the woods alone in a heartbeat.”

“We won’t be doing that,” Speckletail said, with a look in her eye like she very much wanted to. She shook out her fur and approached her apprentice, her voice turning gentle. “You okay, little dove?”

Aspenpaw, still trembling, took in a very deep breath. She copied her mentor’s shake and looked up at her. “I’ll live.”

Speckletail didn’t speak, but she touched her nose to Aspenpaw’s forehead. The apprentice’s fur smoothed out a little.

“Is anyone home?” a familiar voice called through the tunnel.

Immediately, attention turned and Speckletail left her apprentice’s side to hurry to the entrance. “Yes, we’re all back. Is that you, Mousefur?”

A dusky brown head popped into camp with a soft, “Unfortunately.”

She emerged completely, followed by Greystripe. He was lugging a broken black body over his back, the head dangling from an overstretched neck as his own hung morosely.

Cinderpaw and Willowpelt cried out in unison, followed by Lizardtail, rushing to Greystripe and Mousefur as the pair carefully set Swifttail’s corpse down close to Ashpaw’s. His coat was torn here and there, but hardly, like the dogs had been content to snap his neck and leave him to die. The tail was broken as well, right in the middle, and one paw had dark, short fur sticking to its claws.

“He wasn’t far from where we left you,” Greystripe explained sadly to Fireheart and Ravenwing as they approached. “They must have caught him out there. The snow covered up the pawprints, mostly, but we think they headed off towards the Houses.”

Speckletail grit her teeth and sighed, head down for a moment before she looked at Ravenwing. “Do you think he died with the apprentices?”

Ravenwing, to his credit, reacted quickly. His eyes flickered a bit side-to-side as he thought before he answered. “I would hazard a guess that he found the apprentices and the dogs were still there. He might have run to escape them, but they caught him.”

“That would make sense.” Speckletail nodded wearily. “He must not have thought to climb a tree.”

“I don’t know…” Ravenwing pointed to his broken tail. “He might’ve started up one and they dragged him back down. That burnt bark falls off so quickly, he could have slipped on his way up.”

By this time, the Clan was slowly gathering around the different bodies, some whispering something to them, some just touching them and shutting their eyes in prayer.

“Three dead in one night…” Dustpelt murmured with a shiver.

“Brightpaw’s still breathing,” Frostfur said sharply. “She’s alive. She’ll make it.”

“I hope so, too,” Dustpelt said carefully. “It’s just, she’s very battered—”

“She’ll make it,” Frostfur growled.

That was the end of the conversation. Cats now simply went up to Brightpaw’s brothers and expressed sympathy and hopes that she would live before returning to Ashpaw and Swifttail.

Slowly, after the majority of the grievers had stepped away, Bluestar stood up and tottered over to the dead toms. She stared down at them blankly, hardly able to stand straight.

“At least Swifttail died with his name,” Cinderpaw choked, Yellowfang leaning against her on one side and her mother on the other. “But Ashpaw, he’ll never…”

“Fear not for him, girl,” Yellowfang said in a rare soothing tone. “They will name him in StarClan.”

Willowpelt looked over Cinderpaw’s head and blinked at the old cat gratefully, asking, “Can you see if Swifttail’s made it there yet?”

Yellowfang sat up, head turned skyward with her buggy eyes squeezed shut. After a moment, she opened them again and looked back at Willowpelt. “If he is not there now, he will be shortly. His soul does not cling to his body.” Her gaze went to Aspenpaw and Cloudpaw. “Mayhaps he waits for his friend to join him.”

“We…” Cinderpaw swallowed thickly. “We can seek them out in our dreams. Make sure they’re okay.”

Yellowfang rested what little chin she had on her apprentice’s head. “When it is time.”

Lizardtail, with his forehead braced against his apprentice’s shoulder, shuddered. Fireheart couldn’t see his face, but he knew exactly what he was thinking. Not that it was hard to guess.

As Bluestar wobbled enough to scuff the snow with a paw to stay standing, Cinderpaw looked to her. “Well… Brightpaw… in case she– in case she doesn’t make it… can’t we give her a name ourselves?”

Frostfur jolted, but looked up at Bluestar with a mix of hope and dread.

Bluestar gave Cinderpaw a delayed, puzzled expression. “She isn’t old enough to be a warrior.” She turned to Speckletail. “Is she?”

“Er…” Speckletail cleared her throat. “No, but we can make an exception for her…”

Bluestar shook her head slightly. “We can’t do that.”

“Bluestar, she’s dying,” Cinderpaw protested, standing up and nearly knocking Yellowfang away. “She deserves a name. You made Ashpaw an apprentice too early—can’t you make an exception for Brightpaw, too?”

A horribly tense silence fell over camp. Fireheart’s belly was colder than the snow around him.

Bluestar blinked dumbly and shook her head again. “No, no, she must be old enough. We can’t send her into battle like this.”

“We won’t be sending her into battle at all!” Frostfur leaped to her feet, bristling. “Look at her! She’s missing an eye! She’s shredded from nose to tail-tip!”

Bluestar spoke on like Frostfur hadn’t said anything. “She’ll stay an apprentice for now. She needs to finish training before she gets her name. Of course she does.”

The silence again, even worse than before, punctuated by Frostfur’s hissing, harsh breath between clenched teeth. Bluestar ambled past the shocked crowd.

“I will be in my den,” she said, calm and casual. “Speak to me if…”

She left camp alone, walking like she was in a dream. 

Everyone stared at each other, horror and grief and anger swirling through their faces. Even Speckletail looked a little lost.

Eventually, she turned to Frostfur and murmured, “We’ll see how she does tonight. If she starts to… to go, I can take authority and name her.”

Still through gritted teeth, Frostfur growled, “You should have taken that months ago.”

Speckletail did not respond, but her eyes turned mournful. She stepped away and started for the camp entrance, saying, “I’ll make sure she doesn’t wander off.”

The Clan slowly started speaking again, in whispers and mutterings. Not a few angry glances were tossed in the direction of the warrior’s den. Fireheart took the opportunity to approach Yellowfang, who caught sight of him quickly and stood, meeting him halfway.

“Are you alright?” he asked immediately.

Yellowfang gave him narrowed eyes, dry but serious. “I worry more for the girl. Her friend and her brother lay in their own blood tonight.”

“Can…” Fireheart glanced at Frostfur and her family. “Can you see if Brightpaw will survive?”

A small harrumph, but Yellowfang did follow his line of sight, gazing at them a long moment before turning back. “I know that not. But experience tells me she has a chance. Others have survived worse in my time. Lost tails, lost fights when outnumbered…” Her face turned solemn. “Even lost minds.”

A spark of hope lit Fireheart’s chest for just a heartbeat. “Then… is it possible Bluestar will recover?”

That hope died the instant Yellowfang’s expression went in that unusual kind way. Her gravely voice softened to something chalkier. “There is nothing that will fix her, boy. Naught but the journey to StarClan we all take in time. We can only care for her until that day comes.” She hesitated for a moment, only as long as it took to keep Fireheart’s eyes on hers. “You have done all you can, as have the deputy and her nephew. I see you wanting to hope for a miracle. There will be none, and that is not your fault.”

Fireheart resisted the urge to wail, opting to hang his head instead. After a pause, a small, longhaired paw landed on his shoulder, prompting him to look up weakly again.

“Mourn her as you like,” Yellowfang said gently. “But swallow that truth.”

Fireheart said nothing. He just lifted his head again with a wavering sigh.

Yellowfang stayed with him, her eyes now turned to her apprentice. Almost under her breath, she muttered, “She speaks true… perhaps it is time for her to earn her name, too.” She made a rocky noise in her throat. “When it is safe to make that journey.”

Forcing himself to speak, Fireheart asked in a pathetic attempt at a warm voice, “Do you have her suffix picked out already?”

“That I do.” Yellowfang stuck out her jaw. “She’ll be fond of it. If she cares not to change her name entirely, as she did when she was hurt.”

Fireheart nodded unenthusiastically. “Well… whatever name she gets, I’m sure it’ll be great.”

Yellowfang tilted her head at him, scanning his face. For once in his life, he strongly wanted to look away. Whatever she was thinking, she didn’t say it, only went back to watching her apprentice limp over to Brightpaw and her brothers, where Brackenpaw scooted out of the way to let Cinderpaw nose the unconscious apprentice and start quietly praying over her.

Some very bitter part of Fireheart, a small voice, snipped, Like prayer’s going to do anything. If it can’t fix Bluestar, it won’t fix Brightpaw.

Shut up, Fireheart thought back, the briefest flare of anger in his chest at his own mind.

The bitterness went silent, but it clung on to his stomach, churning his guts and making him shrink in on himself a little.

…Just shut up, he thought again.

It didn’t help this time.

[mxal24]

Paint It Blue

Sevika & Jinx & Isha

Warnings: Arcane Act 3 spoilers (Do not read summary), Angst

Word Count: 898

Summary: Sevika is dealing with the deaths of Isha and Jinx and well, she's trying her best.

Her grey eyes open and she just knows. It’s going to be one of those days. She sits up, the hum of Zaun outside her window faint against the stillness of her apartment. The place is too clean for her liking—newly painted bland walls, new furniture, paid for with her new councilor money that she’s also still getting used to.

For a moment, a flicker of blue seeps at the edge of her vision. She turns her head sharply, but there’s nothing there. Probably just the neon glow of Zaun through the blinds.

She gets up from bed to prepare for the day, having to take a trip to Piltover for a Councilor meeting, something about reconstruction. On instinct, she reaches for her arm. 

The cool metal hits her palm, the coolness grounding her. Her fingers trace over the careful craftsmanship, every groove and bump that she made for her… until she feels the engraving. She doesn’t have to look to know the notorious monkey symbol, engraved near the shoulder. 

Her jaw tightens as she pulls back her hand away. Damn it. She grabs her poncho off the chair and throws it on, going without the prosthetic for the day. She eyes the monkey and she swears she hears her laugh echo through her ears. She shakes it off and moves on with her day.

The walk to Piltover is uneventful except for the way her feet are dragging like they are fighting every step. It’s not nerves. Sevika doesn’t do nerves. It’s something in the way of the quickness of the people passing her by. As if she’s missing someone- 

There. She sees the familiar safari-like hat with goggles pass her by. Her gaze snaps back toward the figure to see a brown-haired kid with their parents. The kid gets picked up, smiling. Their laugh rings out as they wave toward her. Her face softens, just for a moment, as she gives a soft nod toward the kid before turning back toward the bridge, walking forward. One step at a time.

The Piltover Council Chambers are as stifling as ever. Despite the tragedies and the so-called reconciliation between Piltover and Zaun, the classism is quite clear with the sideways glances she gets from her fellow councilors. 

Let them look. Zaun deserves a voice here, even if it’s hers. Maybe in another time, it would’ve been Silco. But he would’ve never gotten this far without her anyway. Without her and… 

They talk about repairs, where to point funds first, and how to bridge the divide between Piltover and Zaun. The talk of a decrease in shimmer is being put on hold for a later discussion. She stands firm in conversation, ensuring the people of Zaun don’t get the scraps and that they get equal funds. 

When the question comes—where should the funds go first?—her mind blanks for a slim moment. Then it’s clear.

“The Last Drop.”

The bar is a husk of what it was, a skeleton of charred wood and broken glass. Sevika steps carefully through the rubble, her boots crunching against the debris. It’s been a few weeks since the fire, but the air still carries a faint, acrid tang.

She’s halfway through the ruins when something glints in the sunlight. Kneeling, she pulls out a small, soot-covered toy from beneath a fallen beam. The monkey’s cymbals are dented, it’s fur blackened. No wind-up key in sight. She frowns at the damage before pocketing the toy.

There’s not much else other than some surviving bar equipment, seats, and a very roughened-up Jukebox. She’s about to leave when her foot hits something hard. It rolls a few inches before coming to a stop. A spyglass, battered and cracked, its edges charred and dented. It’s unlikely this belonged to her… but it’s something. 

She picks it up and roams the ruins a bit longer before finding the burnt-up chair she had once reported to. She sighs before lighting a cigarillo, looking at the empty chair as she leans against a half-collapsed wall.

“One hell of a shithole you left me,” she mutters, exhaling the smoke.

“I get it now.” Her voice softens.

“You’re lucky though. You only had Jinx. I had Jinx and Isha. You’d think that it wouldn’t hurt so bad. Hell, when you died, the most I got was a migraine.” She bitterly laughs. “But them? They snuck in. I should've seen it coming. After all, Jinx by herself sneaked into your shriveled-up heart.” 

The cigarillo burns to its end, and she crushes it under her boot.

“We have a seat on the council now. I’ll do better than you ever could. After all, they have no one to use against me… and I have to. For Zaun and for them.”

She walks out, leaving the ruins behind.

The reconstruction of The Last Drop is swift. She works closely with the workers with the blueprints, ensuring an empty wall for a mural to be painted and asking for Ekko’s assistance. 

In her new office, the first items she places on the desk are the spyglass and the monkey toy. The rest of the space is bare, waiting for graffiti to find its way there. 

Sevika steps out, surveying the newly constructed bar, ready to be designed. The workers look toward her for the next plan of action. She doesn’t hesitate.

“Paint it blue.”

[bigfan-fanfic]

I'll Show You the Ropes (Male!Reader x Iron Bull)

@jayfeather965 Could you please write a story on a session where Iron Bull helps his boyfriend the inquisitor relax after a particularly hard day. First sexually but then Bull and bf have genuinely sweet pillow talk. (I would imagine that maybe it’s after the winter palace and the duchess’s death. )

"It's hard, isn't it?" Bull sighs, rubbing your shoulders. "I'm sorry you've had a tough time."

"I... I just feel like it's hard for me to do anything, really. Everything is just-"

Bull pulls you against him into a tight hug.

"I get it, Kadan. You feel powerless. That everything's been out of your control. That nothing feels easy."

He gently caresses the back of your head, and you melt against him.

"So what's your remedy? Tie me up again?" You chuckle.

"Sort of. But not exactly."

You lean back as the Iron Bull stands and retrieves his ropes. "I want you to feel in control. I want you to feel powerful."

You tilt your head at him. "I don't need you to be weak to feel strong."

He chuckles. "It's not like that. I won't be weak. I want to make you feel strong by giving you my power."

"I don't know how to do what you do."

"Don't worry. I'll teach you, Kadan."

You have no desire to sleep, so the Iron Bull spends the night teaching you how to bind him, to render him helpless.

He finds it tough, at first - harder than he expected. It's one thing to want to give in and help, and quite another to actually give up control.

But he teaches you the simplest of the Ben-Hassrath's ties. It keeps the captive's arms in place or threatens them with the possibility of choking themselves.

You secure his wrists behind him in bright red rope, running parallel to each other.

You tug the cord up and taut before wrapping it around one of his huge biceps, making a secure loop there before going over the opposite shoulder, and loosely around the neck, over that shoulder.

Back to the other bicep, around and around, and back down to the wrists, forming a simple but beautiful diamond.

Had you the inclination and the extra rope, you could see the possibility of tying rope in such a way that you could weave the Qunari symbol into that diamond.

It's such a simple tie, but truly effective. You watch him roll his massive shoulders, his back stretching and rippling, and the rope subtly tightens until his hands return to their original position.

It's uncompromising. He is truly under control.

"I have to admit, Kadan..." Bull says, a little breathless from the intensity of the feelings coursing through him. "This is very hot."

You kiss him, his body flexing under your hands, and you take charge, able to do whatever you wish to him - to taste and touch and caress and pinch and tickle and kiss and-

He asks you to leave his wrists tied after you undo the harness. and he sleeps on his stomach, you curled next to him.

"You're my Kadan, you know? Part of how we see the Qun is taking care of others. Because we're all part of each other. But... if I'm being honest... I really do feel like you're a part of me.

"So that's why... why I want to give up control to you sometimes. Because I trust you. Because I want you to feel powerful and strong. I want you to know that I can give that to you. That I'm not just taking advantage of you."

"Awwww, Bull, I knew that already. I... I really like being with you. I really care about you too."

You kiss him, and watch his eye flutter closed.

"Now why don't you let me out and I can really show you my appreciation?" He chuckles, only to grin behind your hand when you cover his mouth.

"I think I have some more interesting ideas in mind, Kadan..."

[httpvomitello]

Shell of Trust *⁠.⁠✧

The night was quieter than usual, the streets below empty and shadowed by the glow of dim streetlights. Raphael leaned against the rooftop ledge, his arms crossed, glaring down at the sidewalk as though it had personally offended him.

"Why do you look like someone stole your bike?" Mikey's voice rang out, far too chipper for this late hour.

Raph grunted. "I'm not mad, Mikey. Just… thinkin’."

Mikey leaned back on the ledge, munching on a slice of pizza he'd somehow managed to bring on patrol. "Thinking about her, aren’t ya?"

Raph’s head whipped toward him, a growl forming in his throat. "What’re you talkin’ about?"

"You know! April's bestie—you totally like her." Mikey grinned, unbothered by the death glare Raph was giving him.

Raph didn’t bother denying it. You were on his mind more than he cared to admit. You were sweet but kept your walls up, even with him. The others chalked it up to you being shy, but Raph knew better. He’d seen the way your smile faltered when certain topics came up, the way you avoided having them over to your place, how you’d change the subject when anything personal was mentioned.

“Whatever,” he muttered, pushing off the ledge. “Let’s just finish patrol.”

Later that night, Raph found himself standing outside your building. He didn’t plan to stop by, but his feet seemed to have a mind of their own. It wasn’t like he hadn’t been there before, but you’d always kept visits brief, meeting him at the window or insisting on hanging out somewhere else.

Tonight, though, curiosity gnawed at him. Something didn’t add up.

He climbed up the fire escape and peeked through your window, his eyes scanning the cozy living room inside. His gaze landed on a little girl curled up on the couch, watching cartoons with a stuffed rabbit tucked under her arm.

Raph froze. A kid?

Before he could process what he was seeing, the girl turned toward the window—and screamed.

“Mommy!”

Raph stumbled back, his heart racing. He didn’t mean to scare her. “Ah, crap,” he muttered under his breath.

The window opened a moment later, and there you stood, your face pale with worry. When your eyes landed on him, relief flooded your features.

“Damm... Raph?”

“Hey,” he said awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Didn’t mean to freak anyone out. I—uh—just wanted to check on ya.”

Your lips pressed into a thin line as you glanced back into the apartment, where your daughter was peeking out cautiously. You stepped outside, closing the door behind you.

“What are you doing here?” you asked softly, though there was no anger in your tone.

Raph shrugged, avoiding your eyes. “Was in the neighborhood.”

You sighed, crossing your arms. “Look, I appreciate you coming by, but… now you know. I have a daughter.”

He looked at you then, his expression unreadable. “Yeah, I figured. Why didn’t ya tell me?”

“I didn’t want to,” you admitted, your voice quiet. “Not because I don’t trust you, but because… it’s complicated.”

Raph leaned against the railing, his gaze steady on you. “Try me.”

You hesitated, your fingers fidgeting with the hem of your sweater. “Her dad left when I told him I was pregnant. He… he didn’t want anything to do with us. And ever since then, people have treated me like I’m some kind of failure. Like Anne’s a mistake or a burden.”

Raph’s hands clenched into fists at your words. “That guy’s an idiot. You’re one of the strongest people I know.”

You gave a small, humorless laugh. “That’s nice of you to say, but it doesn’t change the way people look at us. I didn’t want you—or any of the guys—to look at me that way, either.”

“What the fu... Is that what you think we’d do?” he asked, his voice low.

“No,” you said quickly. “Not really. But I couldn’t risk it. Anne’s been through enough, and so have I.”

Raph stayed quiet for a moment, his green eyes watching you carefully. Finally, he said, “You don’t gotta hide stuff from me. You think I’m gonna judge you ‘cause some jerk didn’t know how good he had it? Nah. If anything, I get it.”

You blinked at him. “You do?”

He nodded, his voice softening. “People see me and my brothers as nothin’ but monsters. They don’t bother gettin’ to know us, just judge us on sight. So yeah, I get what it’s like havin’ to prove yourself to people who don’t deserve it.”

Your eyes stung with unshed tears, but you quickly wiped them away. “I didn’t think about it like that.”

Raph shrugged. “Guess we’re more alike than ya thought.”

You smiled then, a real, genuine smile. “Thank you, Raph.”

“For what?”

“For… not making me feel like I have to hide.”

He smirked. “Don’t mention it. But, uh, maybe you should introduce me to the kid. She sounded pretty freaked out.”

You laughed softly. “Yeah, she’s… not used to seeing turtles the size of linebackers.”

“Well, I ain’t so bad once ya get to know me,” he said, his tone teasing.

“Maybe,” you said, your smile growing. “But take it slow, okay? She’s my whole world.”

Raph nodded, his expression turning serious. “I get it. I won’t do anything to mess that up. You got my word.”

As Raph followed you back inside, offering a small wave to Anne, you realized you might have found someone willing to carry a little of the weight with you.

[sufferu]

Damn, I saw one (and some) of your and I really wanna know. It feels like you really dislike Priscilla lmao. (With her accepting fate and all)

I wanna hear your detailed response, may I?

Sure, alright.

Okay, so — I want to start off by saying that my analysis of her as an embodiment of fate isn’t actually connected to any sort of personal sense of like/dislike that I might have of her (that would be a terrible way to do character analysis lmao). It’s that — the more you look at the scenes she’s in with that lens in mind, the more obvious that symbolism becomes. Her first meeting and gamble for the appas with Subaru in that alley in Arc 3 is blatant foreshadowing for Subaru’s fight against fate in the rest of the arc, for example, with him losing every round of rock-paper-scissors due to the world turning in her favor right up to the point where he finally wins by being clever and breaking the rules a little. Her relationship with him, too, resembles that of his with fate: she only favors him when he fights back. Her relationship with basically everyone in the cast is like this, actually. Priscilla and fate only begin to smile on Emilia when she starts standing on her own two feet instead of shying away due to her insecurities, they both beat Heinkel into the goddamn dirt, they both lead Aldebaran around by the nose due to him being a Stargazer — hell, the whole Arc 5 scene where she just shows up and challenges every other Royal Candidate gets a whole new level with this framework, with every other candidate explicitly resolving to rise to HER challenge, specifically. Which makes even more sense when you realize that they’re all challenging fate in some way (Crusch and Gluttony, Anastasia and her terminal illness, Felt and her defying her fate as a street rat, Emilia and Subaru and all their bullshit). I could go on, but my main point is that interpreting Priscilla as a symbol of fate makes all of her scenes MORE interesting, not less — and also that there’s too much here for it to be a coincidence.

As for my personal opinion of her character…it’s not so much that I dislike HER as that I dislike the interpretation of her as a moral center.

Priscilla works best as a villain. On a Doylist level, her whole character is being arrogantly self-assured that she is in the right at all times. If she were supposed to ACTUALLY be in the right all the time, then that would make her absolutely infuriating to listen to, because it would arguably turn her into nothing more than a mouthpiece for the author. I’d even go as far as to say that it would…arguably basically turn her into the most annoying example of a Mary Sue. BUT, giving her a perspective that is off-center from that of the narrative — while still allowing for her to maintain her dignity, right up to the very end — that makes her SO much more interesting. She turns from just “the person who says the correct thing all the time” to this very multifaceted, self-contained juggernaut of a character with her own very unique perspective and ideology separate from the narrative as a whole, and that makes her stand out as an actual powerhouse within the meta of the story. And her perspective IS off-center. Priscilla may value integrity and being true to oneself, just as the story does, but she also values the use of the ultimate sacrifice in favor of one’s goals, and heroism, and all the things that Subaru COULD accomplish through Return By Death that he absolutely should not attempt. And that is very, very pointed and purposeful.

And on a more Watsonian level — Priscilla is just a horrible person. Like, she’s not someone who goes around kicking puppies or anything, and she has some genuine moments of kindness, but she’s also got moments where she’s completely unapologetically horrible. She murders Aldebaran regularly. She almost slaughters Heinkel on the spot due to his accidentally shaming her with his poor behavior (Heinkel was in the wrong but that would absolutely have been an overreaction). Her response to Subaru in that failed Arc 3 loop was absolutely nasty and vindictive in a manner that was genuinely overblown, especially because she wasn’t just abandoning HIM, but also abandoning everyone in Irlam just to SPITE him. And again, it’s not like this is all there is to her — she’s got her moments — but like, you can’t ignore All That. Because there is a lot.

And I think ignoring it would do her a disservice, frankly, because it’s part of what makes her so fascinating. Tappei said in an interview once that she was “born complete,” and how I interpret that is that she has had this ideology and self-assuredness of hers basically from birth, has never had any reason or willingness to change, and eventually passed adhering to her own sense of morality and integrity down to her final breath. Priscilla isn’t a character that works if you try to reduce her to being “good” or “bad,” because above all else she is unapologetic about being herself, and so the point is not to judge her but to just…let yourself see everything that she is. —But then again, that’s also how Tappei writes all of the monsters in his story. Rowan, Cecilus, Elsa, Arakiya — all of the monsters are people who will absolutely never change, to the point where the narrative doesn’t even try to make them do so. And in Priscilla’s case, this isn’t even really a condemnation: it’s more…the story allowing her to maintain her dignity right up through the very end.

Anyways — I guess my point here is that Priscilla is genuinely a very fascinating character, but trying to interpret her as a Good Person (or worse, a moral center) shaves off a lot of what makes her so interesting just by design. Also her ideological framework is actively antithetical to a lot of what Re:Zero is about and I think that trying to ignore that misses the point of what her place in the story is there to accomplish.

[icarusredwings]

Once landed, Logan and Wade were gearing up. There was already an entire search party here, dogs, squad, all of them talking, some parts of the woods taped off. It made Logan's hair raise.

"What's wrong? Hank said you did good by killing that kid." Wade tells him, his snow suit bright red, boots, gloves, and some markings black.

"I didn't kill that kid. That's apprently the problem..." he grumbles, his breath looking just as thick as his cigar smoke. He gave a small shake, not used to the blizzard feeling over his nose again. He was retired. Too old for this shit..

"I fucked up, Wade..."

"What do you mean? You smelled something bad so you attacked it. That's 10 out of 10 wolverine-ing right there. If theyre too stupid to see it, thats their problem." He mutters, stopping in his tracks, Noticing the way Logan had stopped in his, death glaring.

"You found Scotty didn't you?" He looks to where Logans daggers are going. "Yup. You did. Well for now lets ignore him and focus on the little girl. And then after we can beat him to a bloody pulp until he apologizes to you."

Logan growls, trudging forward through the snow towards him.

"Hey?? Hello? Earth to Logan?..... peanut?.... Uugghh god you're so fucking stubborn.." He groans, complaining as he follows suit. "Didnt you hear anything I just said? Girl- then kick ass. There's a checklist!"

Logan couldn't hear his husband complaining, beelining for that asshole, grabbing him by the throat and slamming him against a rangers truck. "Give me one damn good reason you drug my ass out here on a PLANE!" He snarls at him, popping the other hands claws out.

"Wolverine! That's enough!" A woman calls, before Scott could even threaten him back.

Turning his head, Logan glared, about to bark a 'What!?' Before seeing her. Standing there, was Ororo, still as beautiful as ever, wrinkles and all. She still was rocking that funky hair cut and she was still (in the snow) wearing those killer boots.

And she. Looked. PISSED.

"Ooh snap- youre in trouble now." Wade mutters, scooting out of frame.

"What do you think you're doing?"

"He-" He tries to explain, but mama bear Ro wasn't having it.

"Ah ah! I don't want to hear it! Let him go."

"But-"

"Now. Logan." Her arms cross, turning to give him that LOOK. She's always had that look. The kind that made unruely little kids behave.. and apprently the Wolverine... even in this old age.

Growling, he lets go of Scott, who drimatically coughs. "What is wrong with you!??"

"You sent a plane on purpose! And-!"

"I said ENOUGH!" Thunder cracks out of nowhere, the sky perfectly clear until now, lightning sparking in the clouds.

The two boys look at her, hell, Even Wade sits down. Right there in the snow. Criss cross apple sauce. ".. Yes ma'am.." he whispers out of instinct.

She gives Wade a look of being pleased with his unquestioned obedience, letting him sigh of relief. "You two. I am TIRED. Of this. Fed up! It has been almost 30 years and you two are STILL having such petty debates! There is a child MISSING and you two rather fight about who has the bigger penis!"

Wade coughs. "Logan- " Only to be shot an instant death glare. "Sorry ma'am, but it's true your honor." He salutes, sitting up straight as Ro rolls her eyes, stepping forward.

"Well do it sometime else!! Because so the godess help you, if this little girl doesn't survive? You will be sorry. Do I make myself clear?"

".. Crystal." Scott says, glaring at logan from the side of his visor, rubbing his neck a bit drimatically.

"Logan?" Her brow raised, tilting her head towards him.

"....Fine! But just know that if she dies... It's his fault." He growls, going quiet as he puts the claws away, crossing his arms.

"Good. Now get to work. I'm keeping it as clear as possible, but it takes a lot of power, so hurry up. We're already past the 48-hour mark..." She says this with a sense of melancholic bite as she turned, her cape flowing over as she walked away.

For a moment the boys were silent, only glaring into each others souls, eyes dark with dislike for one another to th very core.

"....soooo... you guys gonna kiss or what?" Wade asks, being shot two more death glares, making him put his hands up. "Fine fine! Lets go find the kid...sheesh.." Standing, he begins to walk off, towards the officers to see if they had anything for Logan to sniff.

Standing there, tense and still, Logan glared needles into him. If he stared any harder he hoped Scott would burst into flames.

"Logan! Come on!" Wade calls as Logan ignores him.

"... Better get going.... your husband is calling." Scott says, but the tone in his voice implied that Logan was the wife, enforcing a negitive gender association that only pissed Logan off anymore.

Slowly starting to walk off, Logan paused. "Better run along, Slim... Daddys calling... Oh wait.."

He walks away, leaving Scott to grit his teeth, tightening his fist into a ball..

Thinking about old Worst Wolverine being called by each of the X men individually after they have a falling out because Logan injured a child very badly to the point the only reason they didn't die is because another classmates healing abilities all while he just... walked away.

Well- ran.. away... leaving a child to die. He's tried to explain thousands of times that he blacked out, that he didn't remember doing any of this. He tries to say that maybe it was someone else, that mystique did this shit all the time in his universe.

"Yeah, well!? This isn't your universe! Because the REAL Logan would never do this.." Scott screams at him as Logan leaves the Mansion for the last time. He doesn't come back. He didn't even get to tell his Xkits goodbye. It got to the point where Laura dropped out, taking Gabby with her, wanting nothing to do with the school anymore.

So now, here he is. In Maine, an old fisherman, part-time hunter, and the only people he lets around him have healing factors.

He lives with Wade, who still- by the way- doesn't have any grey hairs (maybe because hes bald but- yk)

One night, while Logan is out, making himself feel useful by feeding the small town they're in, providing for more poor families, feeding their children's hungry mouths and asking nothing in return but respect. (It gets to the point that the children cheer when they see Logan, wanting to hug him, but he growls at them to get off, too afraid of hurting them) Wade finally awnsers the ringing phone.

"What." There's vemon in his tone, but soon his eyes widden, and he frowns.

Walking outside he stands there a moment, knowing Logan can hear him.

He ignores him, looking at the fish, litsening, his breathing slowing as he skewers some with his claws. Its not exactly spear fishing but- close.

"What?" His voice is almost annoyed, as if knowing what his long time Husband was about to ask him.

"Logan.."

"No."

"Logan-"

He shakes his head. "Don't care."

"...She's missing."

He pauses, turning after scraping the dead fish into a bucket. "Who's missing?"

"There's a little girl missing."

"So?"

"Logan!"

"I'm not helping them, Wade. That's final." He growls.

For a moment, Wade frowns, but he didn't learn to obey thy husband like the bible said.

He never did.

"Logan, there's a 6 year old out there. All alone. Cold. Probably going to be eaten by wolves!" He shouts from the back porch, knowing his place enough to stay here and not come near his fish. Even after all these years, Logan was still finicky over his food. "And all because some old fart won't help her!"

The silence thickened as Logan thought about it, the hero side of his brain yelling 'We'll find her!' And the hurt old part of him saying 'That's not my buisness.'

".. You find her then." He compromises.

"I can't! And if anyone knows those Canadian woods, it's you! You said you knew those forests like the back of your hand!" Wade protests. "If I could smell someone through miles of freezing snow, I would. But I can't. So here I am, asking The Wolverine to go do what he does best."

He grunts, glaring. "And that is?"

"Helping a little girl get back to her mommy..." Wade says, knowing that he was sold. He knew he was sold the moment he told him to do it himself. "She doesn't have much time, Logan." He sighs, putting a cherry on top.

The greyed man huffed, grumbling under his breath for a moment. "Who will stay here with the dog?"

"Gabby can! She loves gabs." Gott'em.

"What about Laura? Why can't she find her?"

Shit.

"Logan, Laura has barley been in those woods. You've lived in them for years. So. What will it be. Pull up your panties and go save a little girls life? Or do it anyway when our baby girl gets lost too?"

Logan scoffs, disappointed. "..She wouldn't get lost.."

"She would if the scent kept being blown away.."

Wade adds, seeing the 'god damn it, he's right.' look on the old mans brow.

He lets out a large sigh. "...I don't want any help."

"Oh well too fucking bad bucko, I'm gonna go pack my snow suit!"

"No! I mean... I don’t want any help from THEM.."

"No promises. I'm not letting poor Susie die just because you have a grudge. Now put your fish in the freezer and lets go! They're coming to pick us up-"

"I ain't flying!!" Logan snarls, watching as his lover ran off, having a deep feeling that he would be in the air shortly..

[hephaestuscrew]

Fisher's death is a different kind of tragedy to the rest of the original Hephaestus crew, because it genuinely was just a horrible accident. And I think accepting that isn't an easy thing for Lovelace.

When almost everyone in your crew is dead, it's the opposite of a consolation to realise that the only other survivor is responsible for those deaths. But once you know you have been betrayed, once you understand that there was someone in your crew who was willing to sacrifice all of you for his own ends, once you've accepted that someone you used to trust killed people you loved, wouldn't it make a kind of sense to believe he was responsible for every awful thing that happened? Wouldn't there almost be a perverse comfort in the righteous anger of believing that Fisher died not because Hui's predictions were wrong, nor because Lovelace's attempts to save him failed, but because Selberg's sabotage doomed him from the start? Wouldn't it tie up the narrative of Lovelace's trauma more neatly if all of it was Selberg's fault, if he was pulling the strings for that first devastating loss? (Cont. below cut)

I imagine that Hui had a sense of guilt and responsibility for Fisher's death. After all, Fisher was only out in that meteor shower because "Hui's projections were way off". Blaming Selberg/Hilbert for Fisher's death would allow Lovelace to posthumously absolve Hui of that guilt. Whereas to accept that Fisher's death was an accident is to accept that it was the result of decisions which held absolutely no malice or willingness to harm.

In Ep38 Happy Endings, after Hilbert reveals that he infected Fisher with Decima first, he has this exchange with Lovelace:

HILBERT But intention was never for anyone to die. Not unless unavoidable.  LOVELACE (realizing) But Fisher did die.  HILBERT Tragic accident. One which even your addled mind has to realize was not my responsibility.

The 'realizing' dialogue tag could be interpreted in a few different ways, but I think this is the moment Lovelace realises that Fisher's death - to echo Minkowski's description of Eiffel being stranded in deep space - "wasn't anyone's fault. It's horrible, and pointless, and it just happened." I think that's a different kind of pain, for Lovelace to realise that - despite the malicious forces around the crew - there was no one to blame for that first tragedy. 

Fisher was the first of Lovelace's crew to die. Lovelace broke her arm trying unsuccessfully to save him. It was the event that turned the first Hephaestus mission from a series of fairly trivial sources of stress, to something ominous that not everyone would come back from. It would be easy to view it as 'the beginning of the end' of the first Hephaestus mission. The period after Fisher's death was "a very difficult time" (as Lovelace describes it herself in Ep35 Need to Know), to the extent that Lovelace developed an "alarming" "dependence on painkillers" (according to Selberg's medical journal).

And there's something particularly heartbreaking to me about the fact that all of that could have happened on a mission without any of the sinister background that the first Hephaestus mission had.

[goreforum]

like no other to you, what you've done you cannot undo