#worked in this thing that shot something into the air to get clouds to condense bcz there wasn’t enough rain for crops or smthn

[autistic-katara]

ong can’t believe my great grandmother was part of the group of jews first learning to control the weather 🙏🙏🙏

[brighteststar707]

Hi I want to request tipsy with V please. It's been a while since we properly talk Faye and I'm so excited to read the things you will write for this event!

It has been so long since we last properly talked, isn't it! I hope life is treating you well, Xela. It's been so long since I've written for Jihyun but I had a lot of fun with this request and I hope I did him justice!

Tipsy Date

✦ Jihyun x Reader

A half-empty bottle of wine sits between your knees, and somewhere in the back of your mind you are aware of the condensation that's collecting on your legs and making you cold. The grass rustles in the breeze and  tickles your skin.

You are content. With the view: flowers and greenery as far as the eye can see, the sun and clouds overhead and the scent of grass filling the air. With the company: Jihyun is buoyant today, filled with an infectious joy and slight hint of mischief you're indulging. With the drink: wine, a gift from Jumin from a recent visit.

Jihyun had whipped the bottle out of the fridge this afternoon and insisted on enjoying it outside in the fields surrounding your home. The weather had been temperamental lately, and he had spent the past few days holed up in his studio, appearing only every so often to give you a peck on the cheek and bring you into the studio to ask for your opinion on his latest piece.

The drink has gone to your head already, as you warned him it would after your first sip. At the time, he had only grinned in response, as if this was his plan all along.

Your legs are bare, you are more relaxed than you have been in a while, leaning back, basking in the sun and taking in the sight of Jihyun in front of you. His cheeks are slightly flushed, both from the drink and the sun overhead.

He rubs the back of his neck self-consciously.

“Do I have something on my face?”

You squint for a second, then shake your head. It wouldn't be the first time he has walked around with a drop of paint or charcoal smudge on his cheeks.

“No, why?”

“You've been staring for a while. I was getting worried.”

You giggle. You have both come a long way in the time you have been together, but sometimes the old insecurities peek through. It's ridiculous to you, in this state, that he cannot understand how he still enraptures you.

“I'm just enjoying the view.”

Now it is his turn to laugh. It's a silly line that somehow still works on him after all this time.

“I should have brought my camera,” he says. “The lighting and the scenery are perfect for some portrait shots.”

“We'll just have to come out and do this again soon. Wine and all.” You reply. He recently started giving you photography lessons and you already had a small collection of snaps forming.

You agree with him, though. The clouds in the sky today remind you of a painting of a moody artist - wispy white under more defined silver-lined clouds. The breeze becomes a gust, and you can taste a storm in the air.

You can see it already, the two of you in front of the fireplace tonight, heads still light and stomachs full of something hearty, listening to the pattering rain outside and knowing you have each other safe and warm.

You pick up the bottle and bring it to your lips once more. It's a fine wine, and you make a mental note to take note of the label later.

You hold out the bottle in front of you and jiggle it slightly in front of his eyes.

“It's almost empty. What's the plan now?”

He takes it from you and finishes it off, tipping the bottle all the way back.

“I'm not sure. I hadn't planned this far ahead.”

“So your plan was just to get drunk in a field?”

“Yes. Romantic, isn't it?”

“You're no better than a teenager.”

He laughs again. “Maybe not. But you must admit it's fun.”

You find you don't have a contradiction to make. You feel light and buzzy, and were it not for the rain you're sure is coming, you could sit here all day. 

He smiles at you, pleased at this little back-and-forth. It has become the language of your love, these little teasing exchanges, punctuated with smiles and little prods and laughter. Easy and happy.

“Hold that pose,” you say suddenly, reaching around in the grass for your phone.

He raises a quizzical eyebrow but otherwise sits obediently.

Your phone camera is far less professional than his camera, and it doesn't quite catch the depth of the clouds and sunlight. What it does catch, however, is the glow of Jihyun's cheeks and the affection and softness in his eyes.

[raylangivins]

still working through my backlog of tags. thank you @acorrespondence for tagging me in things :)

1. comfort character tag game

not to show my age but i don’t know wtf the kids mean by comfort character. i just listed some all time faves because it brings me comfort to think of how fucked up they are :)

raylan givens (justified), duh

brian o’conner (fast and furious movies)

addy hanlon (dare me--book version moreso than tv version)

betty cooper (riverdale)

pacey witter (dawson’s creek--the only one here who i think could be described as a comfort character for the reasons i assume people made up the term)

2. ao3 first lines tagline

Rules: Share the first lines of ten of your most recent fanfics and tag ten people. If you have written fewer than ten, don’t be shy and share anyway (spoiler alert: rules are made to be broken…)

look. i’ve been exclusively writing beatles rpf for the last year, so we’re all gonna have to either acknowledge it or Pretend You Do Not See, alright.

1. “What’s got you all quiet?” Robert asks him in the bathroom.

Paul realises he’d zoned out, staring blankly at Robert, bent over the sink, snorting a line.

2. John takes a long inhale of smoke as he watches Paul talking to one of the camera guys outside. His breath fogs up the bus window a bit, the evening air causing a cloud of condensation to spread, blurring Paul and the camera guy to nothing. When it shrinks back to dribbles of moisture, Paul’s hands are moving—explaining a shot, or a scene, or a fucking dream he had that he’d like this poor sod to turn into reality.

3. Paul can't pinpoint exactly where his night deteriorated, but it was probably somewhere after Brian left The Cavern for the evening, and Neil had driven away with all their gear, and John—realising that they'd lost the closest thing they had to adult supervision—loftily announced that he was getting married tomorrow and so everyone should buy him pints about it.

4. John doesn't notice him at first, engaged in answering a question for the crowd of journalists in front of him. Paul's half-hidden among the shelves anyway, peeking over to get a good look at John in his element.

5. John's not sure how they get onto the topic. They're in the canteen—just the two of them for the moment—talking in circles around each other, under the guise of talking about George, edging towards an argument but never really landing there. Just half-chastising, and half-imploring each other to be different people entirely without really saying it. And then, suddenly, they're talking about it.

6. "Here," John hisses at Paul and yanks him unceremoniously into a utility closet, letting Paul slam the door shut behind them.

7. Paul shows up late to their show. He makes it to the Jacaranda by the skin of his teeth, just as some fragile, spiteful thing in John is gearing up to lash out at anyone who'll listen that they don't need the bastard anyway. It's unlike Paul to be late, which makes it annoying enough, considering how much he'd whine about it if it were any of the rest of them, but then he has the gall to say it's because he was doing something for his dad.

8. After the Bob Wooler incident—the first but not last time Jane questions Paul’s association with the likes of John Lennon—Paul tells her: “He can be quite lovely when you get to know him.”

9. Paul feels lazy and warm as he sucks in another drag of the spliff John rolled them. He closes his eyes as he exhales. It only serves to heighten his sluggish senses. He could fall asleep like this, lost in the sensations of his lovely geodesic dome. He can feel every thread of the rug they're lying on; can hear Martha's soft snores from where she sleeps, her head pillowed on John's ankle. The sprinkling of sunlight leaking in through the leaves of the trees, outside, creates some sort of greenhouse effect—the air around them muggy and mellow. Paul could float away, if not for the grounding warmth of John's arm, pressed next to his. The true north, reminding him where his body is.

10. "You're like Julian with a new bloody toy," John says to him from somewhere on the couch.

Paul doesn't know why he's complaining. He's the one who asked about it, after Paul mentioned the new camera.

tagging for either one: @wurmzirkus, @tulakhord, @tallahasseemp3, @softbrah, @itookyoudown, @magog83, @jeanharlowseyebrows, @indiekidsupremacist

[ilcuoreardendo-fic]

The Fall (A ficlet)

I had to write something. It’s hopeful. I promise.

______________________

The odds are heavily against his survival.

But with one variable removed, the odds of his family’s survival improve greatly.

It’s not even something he has to calculate. The answer was obvious as soon as the car began to tear from the track.

He hears the desperation in Hunter’s voice. “Wrecker, get him on board.” 

He hears the fear in Wrecker’s. “Don’t you do it, Tech.”

An order Tech cannot - will not - follow.

The shot is easy. He’s done it repeatedly, in simulations, on the battlefield.

The break is clean. The car falls. He falls with it.

He watches Wrecker watching him until the clouds obscure his vision.

Almost without thinking, Tech snaps the emergency releases on his pack, watches it float away above him. He unclasps his utility belt. Lightening his weight as much as he can.

The advantage is small.

The train car bears down on him. Tech curls his body, uses his legs to push himself away from the car.

He has no idea what’s below him. The clouds had obscured the terrain. But if his calculations are correct - and they are - he should be getting close.

His mouth is dry. His heart beat is the only thing he can hear over the rush of wind. His face is wet. Condensation? Tears? His neck his hot. His breathing is labored.

He hits trees - the branches smacking and piercing his armor - and loses consciousness.

                            ~*~*~*

The air is cool and damp and full of the smell of blood and antiseptic. His mind is clouded. There is pain, deep down, beneath the haze of anesthetics.

Tech opens his eyes.

_______________________________

Ever hear about Alan Magee?

He was an airman in WWII.

He survived a 22,000 foot fall from his B-17 Flying Fortress in January of 1943.

He fell four miles before crashing into the glass roof of the Saint-Nazaire railroad station. The glass shattered which mitigated some of his impact.

He was, of course, badly wounded. But he survived, the fall and the war. He married. He worked in the aviation industry.

He died in 2003 at the age of 84.

The writers may or may not go this way. Tech’s death could stick. But anything is possible, especially when it comes to storytelling.

And this is why we fic.

[lavendermin]

if all stars fell at once (3) | xiao

pairing | xiao/reader

word count | 3.8k

genre | fluff, light angst, developing relationship, overall domestic

warnings | eventual smut, nightmares

Dark and suffocating. Every corner had entities reaching to restrain you. You were panicked, running down unknown streets despite lead-heavy legs— despite not being able to scream. Like a thick syrup, the stress crept into your chest, filling your lungs as your eyes darted back and forth looking for an answer, a way out.

This warped reconstruction of memories and experiences with sinister manifestations was never ending. A second weighed on you like a century; trapped in the box of dreams conjured by your mind.

The Sea of Clouds was nothing more than a desolate wasteland. Buildings you'd known for years looked unsettling with details that were a little off— stairs that led to nowhere, the shadowy forms that lurked in the deepest corners of your peripheral vision… This was the inescapable circumstance of the environment your mind constructed. Like a labyrinth of the mind that left a sense of impending peril. Though there wasn’t a soul that could be found in any of the deepest recesses of the harbor, there was an ever-present feeling of being followed— watched.

Something was after you. Down deserted streets and abandoned alleyways the ambiguous figures followed you. By the ominous presence of a colorless sky above the harbor, you knew anything encountered here would not seek to be well-intentioned. And still knowing this was nothing but a nightmare, there was always something that filled you with paralyzing trepidation at finding out what fate awaited you if the evil entities consumed you.

Fear of the unknown.

It was always like this. Yet you could never stop the suffocating dread that enveloped your form and drove you forward as adrenaline fueled your heavy limbs.

With legs fighting to continue forward, you take a sharp turn to increase the distance between yourself and the malevolent figures inching closer.

‘I’m scared.’ But your thoughts echoed helplessly around you.

The entities dripped with malice, pouring out of cracks in the buildings and trudging through the stone paths. No longer holding a cohesive form, they began to merge and fight to walk over each other to reach the nightmare’s victim.

You tightly squeezed your eyes shut, body seized with recoiling anxiety. But nothing came. Instead, there was a gentle hand that placed itself on your shoulder.

‘I’m here,’ Xiao’s voice reassured. He pulled you towards him, delicately holding you in a protective embrace. There was an immediate shift in the air around you. ‘I won’t allow them to hurt you anymore.’

Behind him, you could begin to see the harbor chip away into ashen particles that glowed wispily. The dark entities seemed to melt away, seeping into the cracks and grooves of the cobblestone like a murky syrup.

Your body became light and airy in his hold, and you wanted nothing more than to stay in his safety for all eternity. Now more at ease, you slowly raised your clouded gaze to meet his golden irises, firm and reassuring.

‘May this nightmare release you from its hold.’

Tenderly, Xiao pressed his lips to your forehead and the crumbling mind-space around you was forgotten. It was as if the nightmare was unraveled and recondensed within the palm of his hand, and left you feeling like a wave of drowsiness settled in to fill it’s absence. Everything went blank, feeling like you succumbed to another slumber within your slumber.

Euphoric and warm. Finally, peace found you for a restful sleep.

—

Distant hums of mourning doves and the tranquil drips of raindrops playing melodies on puddle surfaces greeted Qingce Village as morning settled in. The sky was grey yet maintained bright as the sun still managed to break through much of the condensed clouds. The sluggish morning greeted you with a breath of ease.

With a stretch and a yawn, you peered one eye open. Across the room, you spotted Xiao seated against the wall, arms crossed over his chest as his head slowly nodded off to the side. He was dozing off, if not already asleep. Had he stayed the whole night? You clutched the warm blankets a little tighter around your cozied-up form, eyes fluttering shut to try and recall your dream.

...Nothing.

No matter how much you tried to recall anything, even the vague feeling of the dream, ultimately you were left empty-handed. Though it wouldn’t be the first time that you woke up being unable to recall a dream, this time felt deliberate. There was a distinct feeling lingering in the back of your mind you couldn’t quite describe. You could only imagine that it meant the nightmare was eaten as Xiao mentioned.

You glanced back over at the dozed off yaksha, his face peaceful and loose stands endearingly strewn about his face. When he had first mentioned dream eating a few nights ago, you got the feeling he was a little reluctant to do so. Despite his usual calm, aloof demeanor, there was some body language you learned to pick up on. Xiao is never one to lie to you, as he is curt and blunt in his own polite way, so you could only hope he wasn’t putting himself in danger with this.

You force the spiral of thoughts away before it festers any longer. No use getting in your head about it. It would only worry you sick if you kept deliberating. And much like Xiao is straightforward, perhaps you, too, should just ask him about it. You’d think about it.

With quiet movements so as to not disturb the sleeping adeptus, you waddled over draped in warm covers to put around him.

‘He looks really tuckered out,’ you noted, brows furrowing ever so slightly with momentary worry.

The moment you crouched down to brush a strand of hair out of his face, his hand quickly shot out to grab your wrist. His golden eyes opened frantically, narrowing momentarily at the sudden disturbance only to be met with your startled whimper and remorseful expression.

“I–I’m sorry to scare you awake!” you apologized hurriedly. Upon seeing it was only you and not an enemy, his expression returned to a more neutral state as he released his deafening grip on your wrist. “I thought you might be cold sitting on the floor so… I…”

Xiao wordlessly eyed the large blanket that practically swallowed your entire form and trailed behind you. It made you look so tiny in comparison.

He eyed the way your fingers absentmindedly massaged where he gripped with a little too much force. Concern settled in, and his gloved fingers gently reached out to check the tender flesh.

“Your wrist— did I injure you?” His eyes searched your face intently for any hint of pain or discomfort.

It only tingled, the prior pressure lingering and slowly subsiding. You shook your head, gingerly draping half of the blanket over him and huddling up next to him. He didn’t protest the gesture, the gentleness of your actions becoming something Xiao’s grown fond of.

You offered him a reassuring smile. “No, I’m okay. I startled you pretty badly… Were you having a bad dream?”

He hummed, pensive as he leaned his head back to thump softly against the wall. “Adepti don’t dream. When a mortal dream is consumed, it lingers in fragments that soon disappear not long after. I can only briefly be part of that dream as a means to get rid of it, so it’s as close to dreaming as I can experience.”

Perhaps dreams were akin to adeptal realms, and he left such inferences at that. His only goal was to rid you of the nightmares that resurfaced as of late.

“I see...” You contemplated, both perplexed and enthralled by this ability Xiao had proven to possess. And though you didn’t actually witness it, the inability to remember last night’s dream was proof enough that it worked. “So, does that mean you got rid of one of my nightmares?”

“Yes. It’s fragments are mostly gone.”

With a looming sense of guilt, you asked, “Are they scary? The nightmares, I mean.”

“No,” he responded without second thought. Considering his past— the likes of which you were still vastly unfamiliar with— any nightmares he had consumed were few and far in between. “Nightmares are conjured by the mortal mind as visual human fears. Often adepti will not be able to experience this except for myself through dreams I consume, but I’m not afraid of what I encounter. No matter what I see, I know it’s only an illusion. The feeling of the dream only lingers similar to the taste of food.”

You felt like a curious child; asking too many questions about something that piqued your interest. Still, Xiao entertained you all the same, answering your questions about dream eating with all the patience in the world. It made for a nice morning chat on such a drowsy day made to be spent huddled under warm covers.

The sparkling glint your eyes held as you hung on every word, or the way your soft, pink lips parted slightly with a silent gasp as he elaborated— it never tired him. It made his chest ache sweetly with that recurring feeling. Perhaps if his range of emotions were similar to yours, he would be smiling like he biggest love-struck fool right now.

“So, think about it, okay?” You finished with a beaming grin.

Oh. You had been talking. How long had he been distracted? He can’t even remember the last thing you said, too busy sorting out his mind. The adeptus could only blink confusedly at you as you stood up, hands on your hips lacking admonishment with the amused smile that quirked the edges of your lips up.

Rare was the moment you would catch the highly-attentive Conqueror of Demons off guard. Though his face remained neutral, you didn’t miss the momentary bewilderment in his eyes when he wasn’t sure how to respond. You took that as cue that his mind had momentarily drifted elsewhere.

“I said I wanted to repay you for helping me with the nightmare issue, but you seemed distracted. Did you fall asleep with your eyes open?” you jokingly teased as you waved your hand in front of his face.

Xiao averted his gaze, lightly scoffing, “Don’t be absurd. Adepti have no need for sleep. And payment isn’t necessary— I did this because I wanted to.”

There are many things you know about Xiao, and perhaps twice as many more things you had yet to learn about him. Your knowledge was already far surpassing what most mortals knew of him, but your advantage lay within the boundaries of a more personal relationship with an adeptus— a true rarity indeed. However, the subtle shade of scarlet twinging his ears as he hid his composed facade behind dark teal hair… there was no doubting it, much to his unvoiced chagrin.

Ah, you noted, so he’s embarrassed.

A relationship, unclearly defined by little gestures and subtlety in words that were mere whispers of deeper pining. There were complex feelings at hand, but the universe would show kindness and move for you both at the pace needed to meet each other halfway. Not rushed, but never stagnant. It was achingly slow and sweet to share moments of vulnerability among each other, here within walls that weren’t privy to prying eyes. And it was moments like this that fell into a rhythm— a wavelength— that seemed to pull an invisible string connecting you both together.

You didn’t tease him for the embarrassed pinks on his cheek, and for that he was grateful.

“Still, I want to do something for you.” You stopped him before he could protest, turning at the door frame of your washroom. “I’m doing this because I want to. It can be anything you want, as long as it makes you happy.”

With that, the door clicked shut and he was left with his lips parted in quiet bewilderment. Distant sounds of running water filled the deafening silence as he sat back with a deep sigh. Adepti are the ones relied on for favors and wishes. How strange— to have a mortal so readily offer to fulfil an adeptus’s curiosities with your limited capabilities. To bring him happiness… Something he didn’t see any benefit in, nor did he think he was capable of feeling happiness.

Xiao thought deeper into it, analyzing what exactly it was that filled him with a strange unease. Something that made him happy…

Happiness. He scoffed at himself at the mere thought. He was made to kill, to defend the land by any means necessary. His happiness… It was never a factor in his contract. It played no greater role in how swiftly he cut down blighted monsters. Happiness was not the weapon he relied on in the face of evil he vanquished. So, why was he giving himself a headache trying to figure out what made him feel happiness? An emotion he wasn’t very familiar with to begin with.

Here you were, showing— what? Mortal arrogance? No. His perceptiveness as an adepti was far too knowing, and perhaps the truth was what puzzled him more. What you showed him was genuine kindness, and perhaps a shred of naivete you clung onto.

He found himself warm with amusement when he thought about it— about how you treated him like you would any human. Where most would tremble at the sight of him or treat him with the reverent idolization that mortals do, you were instead treating him like one would a close friend. And maybe, if it were anyone else, he would see it as blatant disrespect. But if it’s you— since it’s you, he oddly sees no reason to raise a fuss about it despite himself.

It was a nice change of pace to feel at ease around you. A lighthearted reverie of mundane human life, and a moment of freedom from the heartache that burdened him as an adeptus.

Languidly, he scanned the room with unfocused amber eyes, your distant hums echoing in a muffled melody from beyond the other room. The glaze lilies from the other night had been moved to the desk by a window, the closed buds subtly glowing as they picked up on muffled hums of wordless songs and opened up shyly to your song.

Much like it’s difficult to find the right harmony favored by the delicate flower, Xiao wondered what made you bloom… and decided he would find happiness in figuring out your melody.

——

You blinked, mouth wordlessly opening and closing just the same. The words even made you fumble with your needle as you were stitching some intricate embroidery.

Finally gaining some composure, you cleared your throat but still ended up stuttering out, “W–Wait, I– Um– Could you…run that by me again?”

He had returned later that same day, when the moon was high in the sky and fireflies illuminated the still fields of Qingce with their soft glow. Seated patiently across from you, Xiao held your gaze firmly with arms folded across his chest.

“I’d like for you to enlighten me more about mortal emotions. If I want to get to know you better, I can’t avoid being a bit more knowledgeable about them.”

The way he held your gaze firmly and with undeniable resolve meant he truly deliberated this for a while, though you hadn’t expected him to actually come forward so quickly. Truth be told, you expected him to take on an adeptus stance and simply pay you no mind.

With a softer voice, he added, “Consider it the one thing you can do for me. I want to… understand you. Fully.”

“A–Ah, I see. Okay, so I did hear you right the first time.” You were already starting to put away your materials. Better to avoid any mistakes while your mind was taking a second to refocus. “Well, it’s… it’s a bit of a broad topic, and I’m no Sumeru professor. But, I’ll still give it my best.”

Dealing with a battle-hardened warrior in an area they were unsure of was a little intimidating. But, you’ve seen moments where Xiao has shown you a gentler side, one more tender and soft. It gave you hope that things would come naturally to him over time. More than anything, your heart was taking the heat of the nerves. There was just… so much and yet so little to emotions— taken for granted when they were embedded into you without much second thought. It was a little dizzying to figure out how to best help him comprehend things he hasn’t experienced much.

You shook your spiraling thoughts away before they over-complicated themselves and made you short-circuit. “So, uhm, are there any specific emotions you don’t fully comprehend?”

Xiao hummed, eyes closed and brows slightly scrunched as he racked his brain. In the end he came up empty. “I’m not sure. I’ll leave it up to you.”

With a slow nod, you pieced together possible ways to go about this. For the span of time you knew him, Xiao always expressed his puzzlement with how humans worked— not out of disdain, but rather voicing his disconnect with them. To hear him want to finally break the surface rather than choose his usual path of avoidance, was surprising to you in every way.

Still, humans are social creatures by nature and such interactions are what sparks the reactive emotions as a result. You were positive his curiosity didn’t warrant the desire to be put head first in a sea of emotional enigmas. He wasn’t a ‘people person’— something you knew all too well. This desire to learn was something Xiao allowed himself to entrust you with. You and you only.

“I have no desire to figure out how every mortal works,” he explained, hoping it would help narrow down your jumbled thoughts. His voice lowered just a fraction— volume just above a whisper meant for you alone to hear. “Understanding you alone is enough for me to work with. Don’t overthink it.”

There was an undeniable heat that twinged your cheeks. Xiao was looking to unravel your feelings for him without even knowing it. But there was a slight excitement you felt at the idea of the dense yaksha in front of you figuring out what the ties that wound you both together meant. There was plenty to explore.

“Alright, well,” you started, “What I think you need is just… experience. On a human level. Maybe then some things will click easier.”

He felt the warmth of your hand as you sidled over next to him, hand reassuringly placed over his gloved one. Xiao nodded slowly, a little apprehensive at the prospect of needing to adjust his perspective.

You cleared your throat, anxious to be prying more into his personal being. “So, what makes you happy, Xiao?”

There was a brief pause, the gears visibly turning in his head as his brows knit together. He was left staring blankly at you. “Could you… explain?”

“Oh, right… Sorry,” you apologized. “It’s whatever makes you feel… uhm, pleasant. Like a warm, sunny feeling in your entire being. Sometimes it makes you smile or laugh, but in the end always leaves you feeling satisfied for a fleeting moment and then everything doesn’t seem so bad— no matter how much you’ve endured. It makes things worth the effort.”

“I see,” he nodded slowly. “What makes you happy?”

Avoiding the question— though it’s not like you expected him to answer easily. Some examples would probably help him understand best and you reasoned this would be a very hands-on learning experience for him in the end, anyway.

“Me? Hm…” You pondered it a moment, absentmindedly fiddling with the adepti amulet he gifted you. “Sitting under the stars. It’s one of my favorite moments of peace under the calm of the dark sky… The world around us shifts every moment that passes, but it’s a comfort that the stars remain a constant when I look up for hope to get me through another day.”

There was a distant look in your eyes that didn’t go unnoticed by Xiao. However, something about the delicacy of the moment told him now wasn’t the moment to prod into the heaviness that weighed on your heart. There was a reason you were still here, much like him— your will to go on became your greatest strength. You visibly snapped out of your musings, a rosy hue high on your cheekbones.

“Sorry for… that— Where was I? Oh, right. It’s not too hard to find something that makes you happy if it’s something you like doing. Reading books, the people I love and care about, the colors of the sky as the sun sets— all of these make me happy, too.”

The subtle embarrassment that tensed your shoulders at first was subsiding, settling into comfortable conversation. Maybe it’s the attentive way Xiao sat with his face propped on his fist, expression relaxed as he took in every little detail you gave— it was hard to feel flustered for long.

He leaned back against the wall, his arms folding over his chest as he exhaled from the effort it took to think long and hard about what sparked some form of happiness in him.

“And if I were to say that what brings me happiness is you,” Xiao starts, his amber eyes glowing subtly as they focused on you, “what would be your response?”

There would be many ways you could respond, but the instant the words registered in your head you were suddenly at a loss for words.

“T–That would depend… on what you consider me,” you stuttered out, voice slowly growing meeker under his burning gaze. The moment of silence as he hummed in thought felt like it lasted an eternity, your heart pounding loudly in your ears.

“I consider you my person.”

Your plush lips were left parted in quiet awe, eyes glittering like the sky you so dearly loved as they visibly widened. Any words you were going to stumble over were cut off when soft lips pressed at your cheek. The tender revelation didn’t need words, as Xiao was a man of communicating best through actions. Both mortal and immortal sat in the stillness of the room with matching rosy cheeks adorning their features.

“You…” The heat in your face seemed to match the intensity of the ache in your chest. “Kissing me so freely… You want my heart to stop, don’t you.” But you were smiling as you buried your face into his shoulder to hide the increasing redness on your cheeks.

Xiao shrugged, “You do it all the time.”

...Screw it.

Any other lighthearted remark he was about to say was cut off by your lips silencing him in a rushed kiss. It was hasty and sweet, your eyes tightly shut as you chose to respond in actions like he did. Golden irises widened briefly before fluttering shut, letting the feeling lead.

It was warm— the feeling in his chest, the shy innocence reddening his face, the gloved hand that settled on top of yours as it tenderly cupped one of his cheeks. Here before him you bloomed so beautifully that it made his heart ache and his mind go blank momentarily. Yes, he was positively sure of it now.

You made him happy.

[the-dimitrescu-seamstress]

I Won’t Be Long - A rather long one shot

(I have been working on this, what I call “Magda’s Worst Day”, for a while, and I only recently was inspired to finish it. Hence why I’ve been rather quiet in terms of posts. I can only torture my muse so much.

Basically, this story came about because of the “What have you done to my daughter?!” line. Alcina was in her chambers while saying that, therefore unable to see or know that Ethan was outside. So how did she know what happened to Bela, and who told her? 

My answer? Magda.

I did my best to follow the game’s timeline, but there might have been some condensing or stretching in order to make things fit. I’ve also included some brief cameos from other OCs Magda has interacted with. 

Please note, this is not an “Ethan Hate” story. Magda is simply reacting as one would in their given situation. Is this a sad story? Yes, in parts. Will you hate me for writing this? Maybe. Will you still enjoy reading it? I hope so.)

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“You must hide. The man is a danger, and I wish for you to be safe. Do your best to keep out of all this. If he approaches you, play the helpless victim. Do not help him, but please do not hinder him either.”

“But I want you to stay safe.”

“You know that I always do, dearest. He is nothing but a man.”

“You literally just said he was a danger.” The press of Bela’s lips against Magda’s was enough the hush the smaller woman and soften her demeanor. “Kissing me in order to maintain the last word is technically cheating, you know.”

“True, but I did learn it from you,” the witch smiled. “I won’t be long.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

That conversation happened a little over an hour ago. Since then, Magda had quietly paced the floor of her workroom, occasionally stopping to listen for any sound outside her door. She prayed she’d hear the familiar drone of flies, but nothing came. Everything was unnervingly quiet. Magda did her best to reassure herself. She kept telling herself that the man was outnumbered three to one, that the girls would work together and remove him as a threat, that they couldn’t be killed.

The sudden barrage of nearby gunfire and shattering glass ripped away any comfort she had tried to retain. It wasn’t terribly close, but then again it wasn’t terribly far either. Worse yet, there was no celebratory laughter that accompanied the silence that soon followed. Worry gnawed at Magda’s insides, and she did the one thing that Bela had asked her not to do. She unlocked the door to her workshop, and left her hiding place.

Magda went through the halls in sock feet, wanting to make as little sound as possible. The last thing she needed was to run into the man by accident. Thankfully, the courtyard was deserted. Freezing, especially without shoes or a coat, but it was empty. Even better, the door leading to the dining room was still locked. That meant the intruder had not found a key or harassed one of the few servants who had a skeleton key to the various entryways. Magda was one of those servants. Being a seamstress, and a trusted one at that, gave her a few perks.

As much as she wanted to rush in, Magda knew better. She turned the key slowly, as the locks were heavy and made a distinct and rather loud click when undone. The door she also took time opening, just in case there was an armed madman standing on the other side. Finding none, she closed and relocked the door behind her. Best to keep him confined.

Cassandra’s laughter coming from the Main Hall signaled that she was keeping the intruder well occupied and, rather than risk an interruption, Magda turned to the much plainer door which lead to the kitchen.

Normally the kitchen was a warm place, full of the sounds and smells of cooking food for the human staff, but the rush of cold air that blew in as she entered confirmed a fear she had. Hurrying past the preparation table and ducking under the cuts of drying meat, Magda stopped short in the doorway to the connected storage room. What she saw squeezed her heart like a vice, making it difficult to breath.

Shattered glass and the remains of broken boards framed a large, collapsed pile of frozen flies. The room wavered and suddenly felt hot, despite the open windows. Maybe… maybe this wasn’t Bela, she tried to reason. It wasn’t Cassandra, as she had heard her laughter not moments ago. A small, hateful voice in her head whispered that this was Daniela, that Bela was still alive inside the castle, perhaps happily carving up the man with her sister, and what laid before her was Daniela. Magda hated to even think that, but right now she was mental begging the powers that be for that to be the truth.

Step by hesitant step, she approached the pile, acting as a windbreak when she knelt between it and the broken window. Tears began to cloud her vision as she saw pale yellow flies mixed in amongst the brown and black insects. Again, her heart wrenched inside her chest. Her skin burned and the walls of the room closed in as her anger grew and burst forth in a ragged scream of rage, sorrow, and anguish.

Why?! Why did he do this?! How did he even know?! Did he just get lucky with a stray bullet breaking a pane of glass? Why did he kill her? Why did he go after her? The cold would have been enough to stop her! She would have stopped the chase, and he could have gotten away, but he still decided to kill her! He killed her while she was hurting! He killed her while she was cold, alone, and separated from everyone. He killed Magda’s stea mică… her little star…

He didn’t give a shit about anything or anyone.

Magda’s guttural scream was echoed by a rasping, undead one crawling up from the once boarded up passageway that led to the dungeon. In her emotional state, she hadn’t put two and two together. The boards were smashed going into the storage room rather than out into the passageway. The man had come up from below, meaning he had created a potential access point for the thralls to get upstairs.

“Căcat!” she cursed, scrambling as quickly and as quietly for a container in the other room. It would take the thralls a bit of time to coordinate and stumble their way up the stairs, but they would eventually make it and Magda was not about to let those disgusting things trample all over what was left of Bela.

She would also need to tell the Countess.

Grabbing one of the large basins used to hold drained blood, as well as any discarded towels or cloth she could find, Magda carefully moved every single fly she found into the container, scouring the floor for any the wind may have blown about, but always keeping a careful eye on the dungeon passage. The last thing she needed was to be attacked by those damn thralls as she finished.

The basin was… not as heavy as she thought it would be. That knowledge made her stomach sink and made her feel that much worse. She was carrying her love’s body, and it wasn’t heavy. It needed to be. The woman was seven feet tall! It should have been heavier! These stupid, unimportant thoughts made her tears start to once again fall as she returned to the dining room. “Dammit. I’m sorry, Bela,” she mumbled as a few hot tears fell on the flies.

One twitched in response.

Magda stopped at that. She was seeing things. In her grief, her mind was clearly playing tricks on her. Bela was dead. The cold killed flies. She was dead and the tear hitting the fly only made it look like it moved.

That was when the worst feeling in all of creation latched itself onto her.

Hope.

Leaning in close, she breathed a few times on a small clump of flies, letting her warm breath roll over them. And then she waited… Her heart pounding in her chest as she watched for something. Anything.

…A leg spasmed.

It was small, almost imperceptible, but Magda took it as a sign. A possibility. A tiny one at that, but she grabbed onto it and refused to let it go. Hope was evil like that.

Covering the basin to shield the flies from the cold, she ventured back across the courtyard and towards Alcina’s chambers, locking any and all doors behind her because fuck this man and his doings. Make his shit life harder.

The Countess’ chambers were empty, which sent a chill of dread and terror down Magda’s spine. Had she fallen to the man as well or was she simply hunting him along with her daughters? Should she wait for her to appear? Right now, searching the castle was not the ideal thing to do, as she was unarmed, human, and she had no idea if the intruder would have mercy on her if she encountered him. Thankfully, her questions were answered as familiar heavy footfalls were heard coming up the stairs. Now all she had to do was explain to Alcina what she thought was possible. And hopefully not die in the the telling.

“If I can’t, I’ll do my best to bleed on you as I die, sweetness,” she told the basin of flies, trying to make a joke and do her best to smile. The latter crumbled as soon as the chamber door opened.

“Countess?” Magda’s voice was weak and shaky, full of fear, and she immediately regretted opening her mouth due to the look on Alcina’s face. It was one of surprise mixed with displeasure, which made sense as Magda should still be locked in her sewing room, not running around as she was currently doing.

“Are you not aware of our current situation, Magdalena?” Her tone was cool and reserved, as if she were waiting on Magda’s answer in order to decide the best manner of action to take.

“I am very much aware of the situation, Countess. Which was why I came here as quickly as I could.” she replied, uncovering Bela’s remains. The candelabra the taller woman had been holding streaked towards Magda’s head and the seamstress barely had time to duck.

“What have you done to my daughter?!” she roared, lunging forward and grabbing Magda by her neck. For a moment, fear and terror filled the seamstress’ mind, but she somehow managed to find her voice despite the vice-like grip upon her throat.

“It wasn’t me… the man… did this… the flies… not… not dead…” Darkness had started to creep around the edges of her vision before Alcina finally released her. Landing on the ground hurt, but the deep breath of fresh air she took afterwards was incredibly sweet.

“Explain yourself,” Alcina growled, stretching out those two words in a low and menacing fashion, one not at all suitable for a woman of her standing, but perfect for a mother seeking justice for her child.

“I heard the fight,” Magda rasped, throat still sore. “It was in… the kitchen. I found… Bela. I thought she was dead… but some flies reacted to my tears…. and warm breath. There’s a chance. That cold state they go into. She told me about it. Bela might not be dead. Only hibernating. If she can be warmed, maybe she can be saved.” Magda watched Alcina, eyes never turning away or blinking too rapidly. She didn’t want to give the woman any excuse or reason not to believe her.

The quiet between them lasted for what seemed an eternity, only to be interrupted by a low rumbling and draining of liquid coming from the next room over. They both heard it, though Alcina only gave the most subtle of glances in its direction. The pool in the Hall of Ablution had been emptied. The Countess’ iron grip was suddenly around Magda’s arm, pulling her back to her feet.

“You will take my daughter back to your workshop and you will keep her warm,” she hissed. “You will not leave her side, not even for a moment. Should I find you disobeying my instructions and wandering these halls while that impudent wretch is still in my castle, your life is forfeit. Is that understood?” Magda nodded, fear in her eyes. She picked up the basin, replacing the cover before being roughly escorted out of the chamber.

Once safely back in her workshop, Magda set about gathering her thickest fabrics; the wools, flannels, gabardines, and anything else heavy she had. She removed the blankets and comforter from her bed and did what she could to form a nest or bed for the flies. For a moment, she even considered cutting her forearm and dribbling some blood onto them, but if they weren’t moving then they weren’t feeding, and the last thing she wanted to risk was them somehow drowning in her own blood.

Magda did her best to obey the Countess’ instructions, as she was not about to risk Alcina’s wrath, not with her life on the line. However, if she did end up being wrong about Bela, maybe it would be better to join her in death. What was she thinking? Magda likely would die anyways. But, in terms of when, it would just depend on Alcina’s mood. So, the seamstress sat in silence, waiting and praying to hear the soft buzzing of fly wings as they slowly warmed up.

Instead, she heard someone faintly plinking the keys of the piano in the Opera Hall. Rather badly at that. Naturally, the all too familiar footfalls of an enraged Alcina soon followed. He must not have realized she was hunting him, Magda thought. Because what idiot would actually take the time to play the piano if they were actively trying to stay hidden? The brief retort of gunfire seemed to prove her point. Although she could only hear what was going on, Magda still had a brief chuckle as she imagined the man scrambling for his life away from Alcina.

Not that he had many places to run to. It was either to Magda’s workshop or the library, and as the noise of confrontation began to distance itself from her hiding place, she breathed a sigh of relief. The library it was then.

“How has this man managed to survive this long?” she softly asked Bela’s remains. As if in answer, gunshots rang out once more and the seamstress stood, wondering who he was fighting now. The previously reassuring knowledge that bullets couldn’t harm anyone in this house re-entered Magda’s head… but it was quickly dashed to pieces as she glanced back at Bela. Who had he gone after now? She needed to know.

For five long minutes, Magda stood at her sewing room door, with it cracked open enough to listen. But she heard nothing. No footsteps, no gunfire, no sounds of anyone.

If Alcina caught her, it would be death, a voice in her head reasoned.

So she simply would avoiding getting caught, another replied.

The distance to the library wasn’t far, and she could easily hear the Countess’ footsteps well in advance, allowing her to hide as she approached.

“I’ll be back soon, stea mică. I won’t be long,” she softly told the flies. A few seemed to twitch in response. God, she hoped that she was right in the foolish ‘not dead, only hibernating’ theory. Basin and flannel cloth in hand, Magda made her way to the library, hoping she wouldn’t need what she carried.

Her heart sank upon feeling the chilly air inside. Papers were scattered, vases lay shattered, and, near enough to be in the light cast from the glass skylight which acted as a central decorative point for the room, was another large pile of immobile flies. Magda actually needed a moment to sit and collect herself with this discovery. Little flies, whose bodies glittered in the light, matched Daniela’s hair color.

Alcina will weep, Magda thought as she did her best to keep her own tears from falling once more. Gathering up these remains took longer than Bela’s, but not because they were scattered about. No. For as messy and wild as Daniela was in life, she had collapsed in a neat little pile. It was the weight and knowledge that this was the baby of the family which made this such a long and arduous task.

“You’re not alone, Dani. I’m not letting you be alone. I’m taking you to your sister. You’ll be safe in my sewing room,” She told the flies. Could this have been the first sign of madness? After all, Magda was talking to a container full of potentially dead insects. She recalled the character of Renfield from Dracula. The man went mad in an effort to serve and worship his vampire lord. Perhaps she was becoming something along the same lines. Perhaps she was already dead; killed by the intruder, and this was her own personal hell of gathering up mounds of flies throughout the castle for the rest of eternity, all the while avoiding Alcina. If Bela’s nest was not in the workshop when she returned to it, Magda figured this terrible thought would be reality.

Thankfully, upon opening the door to her workshop, the comforter and blanket that Bela was nestled in was still where the seamstress had left it. So maybe she was not dead and this was not hell. Little miracles were all she could hope for right now.

Magda took her time making Daniela’s nest, listening for anything that would signal they were victorious and this man-thing was dead and gone. She shook her head a little as she used that term. Normally, Magda did not join in on calling men that, but this was a special case. This individual didn’t seem human. The fact that he could best two of the daughters worried her, and a dread feeling that, unless mother and daughter combined forces, Cassandra could fall as well filled Magda’s stomach like a lead weight.

The daughters were monsters, yes. By the classic definition, that’s what they were, and Magda did not deny any of it. Blood stained dresses, screams and laughter coming from the dungeon, or even the rare times when Bela’s kisses had a slight hint of copper or something raw tasting to them. They weren’t normal. Alcina was also a monster; perhaps even more of one. The height, the claws, the gray skin that she hid beneath layers of foundation. All four of them shared that same inhuman appetite for blood and flesh. But, they also had human tendencies. They laughed, they cried, they screamed in fright the odd times they were scared or taken by surprise.

Then again, humans could be monsters as well. History showed how terrible they could be. Magda was certainly no angel, and she had the odd feeling that this man wasn’t entirely a good person either. Maybe she was wrong. Magda didn’t know. All she knew was that she was trying to save the small group of friends and family she had left in this world.

Minutes ticked by and still her wing of the castle remained quiet. The longer it stayed quiet, the more she worried. If the man was dead, Alcina would have come to her workshop to see to her daughter. But if the quiet persisted? Magda didn’t want to think on that.

“Should I go out and search?” she asked her charges. Of course, no reply came. Magda thought she saw more movement from Bela’s flies, but she had no idea if they all needed to be restored to a proper temperature, like a hive mind, before they could respond. With the way Magda had layered everything, they would warm up slowly and naturally. No artificial heaters or fires were being used, as she didn’t want to risk damaging them. After watching both mounds for a few minutes, the seamstress nodded, knowing once more what she had to do.

The castle had an unusual quietness, a stillness she had never felt before. There was always at least some sort of background noise; the shuffling of servants, the daughters’ laughter, the general noise of a home being lived in. Where was everyone? Had the man killed them all? Or were Sylvia, Andre, Samuel, Bianca, and the rest hiding in the servant’s quarters, having barricaded themselves in? Vulga likely would have escaped into the walls upon hearing the first gunshot, so she was probably safe.

At least there would be some survivors of Castle Dimitrescu.

Finding Cassandra took a long time. Besides hiding from both the constantly patrolling Alcina and the seemingly trigger happy mad man, Magda had to think like the middle child, who had the tendency to spend time in the oddest of places. While Bela and Daniela could be found in seemingly normal locations in the castle, Cassandra explored. She found hidden areas that were unknown to most of the inhabitants, hard to get to, or simply dilapidated enough and impossible to access unless you could fly. Magda assumed she enjoyed being hard to find.

The seamstress had searched damn near every room, after having briefly hidden for a few heart-pounding minutes in one of the dressing room wardrobes upon hearing Alcina’s approach. Currently, she was sitting in the back hallway, taking a moment to try and mentally collect herself. Magda hated failing, and right now she was absolutely in sync with the idea that she was a failure. Cassandra, as far as she knew, had simply disappeared. Had the man shattered a window and thrown her outside? If that was the case, then the chance of finding the young woman dropped to impossible odds. The castle was surrounded by woods and cliffs with sheer drops. Maybe… if the snow and cold somehow preserved her through the winter, Cassandra would show up in the spring, like crocuses.

At that thought, Magda let slip a sharp little laugh while, at the same time, her eyes began to water. Cassandra would hate being compared to a flower. She would absolutely have hated it. And for as much as Magda wanted to continue to both laugh and cry right now, it would certainly draw unwanted attention from one of two parties currently in the castle. Possibly both.

Wiping her face with her sleeve, she allowed herself a few calming breaths before pushing herself back to her feet and continuing this fruitless search.

The slight draft blowing on Magda’s hand from beneath the door stopped her. Yes, castles were drafty, but not this one. Alcina made certain to insulate everything as best she could so her daughters could survive the winter in relative comfort. But, there was a definite bit of air movement coming from under this door.

Opening it, Magda found the Statue of Pleasure…. with an animal skull in place of the sacrifice’s head. Not even Cassandra or Daniela would be foolish enough to ruin one of their mother’s statues. So, on top of being a murderer, this man enjoyed defacing both art and private property. What the fuck was wrong with him?

The indignity aside, the windows in this room were intact, so where was the draft coming from? The only other option was the fireplace, but if the chimney was that badly cracked, why wasn’t it sealed? Crouching in front of it, the reason quickly became apparent as the entire back of the fireplace has been removed, and the hole led to a set of stairs.

“Cassandra, you little shit.”

Crawling through the passageway, Magda entered what looked to be the remains of a hidden armory, or at least a place to stash and work on things a certain daughter didn’t want her mother to learn about or her sisters to interfere with. It would have been a lovely little room had it not been for the gaping hole in the wall, letting in all the cold air. And there, near enough to the stairway, laid what was left of Alcina’s middle child.

“At least you were smart enough to fight him in a room without windows,” Magda commented as she gathered her up. Cassandra was vicious and violent when she wan’t to be, but she was also calculative and observant. Perhaps that’s why she lasted as long as she did. Had she sacrificed her sisters in order to study this man? If Magda were the girl’s mother, they would definitely be having a talk about that later.

With the last of the Dimitrescu daughters safely bundled up, Magda began to make her way back to the workshop. As it was nearly on the other side of the castle with no direct route, she took great care to move as quietly as possible. She paused repeatedly, and scanned the Main Hall, looking for signs of the the woman in white. For as large as she was, Alcina was a stalking beast. She could be incredibly quiet if she wished to be.

As she crouched in one the small balconies, Magda heard movement coming from below her on the floor of the main hall. However, it didn’t sound… right. It couldn’t have been the intruder, unless he was gravely injured. But If that were the case, Alcina wouldn’t have been far behind, and Magda didn’t hear her at all. Speaking of the Countess, it certainly wasn’t her, as the noise was far too small to be anyone remotely her size.

Chancing a look, Magda peeked over the edge, and a soft gasp of surprise, sounding so devastatingly loud in this silence, escaped her lips as she saw what was beneath her. Luana, the castle’s head servant, the personal watchdog for the Countess, laid collapsed on the marble floor, clothes stained red with blood. Where had they been all this time?! Magda had scoured entire castle… Had they been outside and only just now managed to get in? This just made her life ten times harder. Not only did she have Cassandra to carry back, but now there was the issue of Luana as well.

She could have left them where they were. She could have. After all, Magda was currently disobeying orders and Alcina was already displeased by her previous actions. She should have taken Cassandra back to her workshop and then returned. By then, perhaps Alcina would have discovered Luana herself and… done what? She was hellbent on hunting down the intruder. Would she even have stopped and tended to her servant? Magda couldn’t say. She also had no idea what would have happened if the man found them first. Would he finish the job he clearly started? In all likelihood? Yes.

Tucking Cassandra safely in an out of the way corner by the top of the stairs, Magda made her way down to her fellow servant, glancing into the Hall of the Four as she went.

The doors leading to the Temple of Worship were open.

In all her years there, Magda had rarely seen those exterior doors stand open as they were now. The Countess was strict in her orders about that portion of the castle being forbidden to everyone save herself, and now the seamstress was watching her tall figure ascend the temple stairs. An unknown fear filled Magda with dread at that sight, and she hurried towards Luana.

Rolling the head servant over onto their back, Magda gave them a quick look over. Buckshot, and a few normal bullet holes, peppered Luana’s blood soaked torso. A normal human would have been dead from such injuries and blood loss, but Luana was thankfully not fully human, rather a Lycan-cross. They usually preferred not to speak of their heritage, but Magda hoped they would be happy to have it just this once.

“Luana? Luana, dear, can you hear me?” she asked, opening their eyes to check for any sign of life. She was met with slurred, half-conscious Portuguese. “You know damn well I don’t speak that, but right now any response is a good one, so I’ll take it.” The bleeding had stopped and their breathing seemed normal from what she could tell; no gurgles, bloody froth in the mouth, or sounds of difficulty.

“…Apologies…” they said in Romanian, doing their best to sit up.

“You’re fine. I’m just happy to see someone else, aside from the Countess, alive,” she replied. Their uniform already ruined, Magda removed Luana’s jacket and began tearing off bandage strips. Or at least she started to, as a distant crash and a devastating roar from outside quickly stopped her efforts. Whatever injuries seemed to be afflicting Luana were momentarily forgotten as they did their best to stand, only to collapse almost immediately. As they attempted it a second time, Magda moved to support them. She didn’t even say a word or caution them to take it slow as the two of them made it to the open doorway.

And what they saw? There were no words.

It was huge. A great beast, vast and terrible, with an immense wingspan, lashing tail, and a toothy, gaping maw circled the top of the temple tower; sometimes flying, sometimes crawling along the stonework. It was pale white with streaks of pink flesh, slick and glossy looking as the sun hit it. Muscles bulged as if barely contained by the skin, as tendrils curled and whipped about in an independent fury. It looked both cancerous and incomplete while at the same time horrifically beautiful and awe-inspiring in some inexplicable way. And to top it off, as if in an absurd gilding of the lily, Alcina’s upper torso, looking flayed and monstrous, erupted from between the beast’s shoulder blades. Her voice was distorted, both by rage, vengeance, and sorrow, but also by this transformation. She was lost in this madness, fully given in to it.

Magda’s knees gave way, and she fell to the floor, unintentionally bring Luana down with her. The seamstress was lost. How was this even possible? How had Alcina become this gargantuan beast? Could she change back? A sudden sick feeling rolled over her as all these questions and more filled her head. She was sure Luana was thinking similar things.

All they could do was watch this battle as it unfurled. Stonework and roofing tiles fell freely as the dragon creature did its best to pursue its quarry. Gunfire was heard regularly as Alcina taunted, threatened, and cackled in her torment. The fight moved steadily upwards, with more and more of the building being destroyed until a bloodcurdling shriek was heard and something structural gave way.

Multiple somethings.

Large plumes of dust, broken window, and cracks forming in the side of the building were the indication that the dragon had fallen through all of the interior floors of the temple, landing with a massive crash.

Magda and Luana looked at each other and then back towards the temple. “How about we wait and listen for movement?” the seamstress started to offer, but the head servant was already stumbling towards the building, trying desperately not to once more fall onto their face. They didn’t get very far before collapsing, but Magda was there to lift them back up. “How about a compromise? We get to the temple door and listen before barging in?” At that, Luana nodded a little sheepishly.

If Magda had thought the castle had been quiet, the inside of the temple was a veritable tomb. She just hoped it wasn’t a literal one. At least not for Alcina. Let the man be buried under all that rubble. Unfortunately, her wish was not yet granted, as she saw the limping figure of a man leaving through the lower level door. All she needed was a gun. Why didn’t she or Luana have a pistol? One bullet through the back of his damned head, that’s all that was needed and all this terribleness would be over with.

But instead, Magda just stood there, watching him leave before her gaze turned to Alcina’s body. It was still that dragon creature, but she had just come to accept that this was the Countess. Luana was already making their way down to her, carefully using the broken rubble as a stairway. Magda reluctantly followed suit.

The beast may have remained, but the human torso that was Alcina? That was gone, crumbled to ashes. The body was also still. Seeing that, Magda sat down hard, shocked by it all. Luana at least made it to the corpse, but they soon collapsed as tears began to fall.

Theirs was an ugly crying, one that Magda had never heard from them before. It was a full body shaking, heaving from the gut sort of crying. Luana had been serving House Dimitrescu since they were a teenager, and they saw Alcina as a mother figure, so Magda could only imagine what they were going through.

Letting them grieve for a few minutes, Magda eventually stood and walked over to Luana, placing a hand on their shoulder.

It was then that the beast took a great, shuddering breath.

Instincts quickly took hold and Magda scrambled backwards, not wanting to risk being eaten, while Luana did the opposite and moved closer, overjoyed to see some sign of life coming from the creature. She expected to hear a scream or cry of pain from Luana, imagining the creature lunging forward and devouring the head servant in one or two gulps. But instead, when the seamstress looked back, she saw Luana petting its head, saying soft things to it in Portuguese as it just laid there, barely making any noise.

“You are either very brave, very trusting, or very stupid to be petting that thing,” Magda hissed, keeping her voice down low, as if raising it would trigger the beast to attack them both.

“It knows me… us. It won’t hurt us,” Luana replied calmly.

“How do you know that? How is it even still alive?! Alcina’s torso is gone! The thing should be dead!” In response to Magda’s outburst, the thing growled, slightly turning its head in her direction. “… All right, I’m clearly wrong in my assessment of life and death. But that still doesn’t explain why or how.”

“Separate functioning systems? Maybe it all�� pinched shut when the torso disintegrated? Like a limb or a tree branch that’s dying? Save the main body?” Luana offered.

“I would have thought Alcina would have been the main body. Can she regenerate from this?” Magda asked. Luana simply shrugged.

“We take her back to the castle and see what happens over the next few hours or days.”

“Easier said than done,” Magda replied, gesturing to the rock they scaled down and the all too small door was the only other exit.

“If it is a simple creature, then it will respond to simple things like food. She will need to eat anyways. We lure it back with food,” Luana reasoned.

The kitchen was thusly raided and a good bit of the meat that was there removed; both cured and what was still fresh. Amazingly, despite having heard the shrieks of the thralls earlier, the kitchen was now devoid of them. Had they wandered back down into the dungeon after finding no prey? Or were they all dead? Magda could only wonder as she glanced towards that corridor, her eyes wanting to linger on the spot where she found Bela. No, she thought. No, Bela was safe in the sewing room with her sisters. Magda had made a brief detour to deposit Cassandra there, as well as retrieve a pair of shoes for herself, before joining back up with Luana in the kitchen.

Along with the meat, they also brought along two barrels from the tasting room, placed at strategic points along the route back to the castle, in case extra bribery was needed for the beast. By the time they had finished setting everything up, the Alcinadragon… for what else would you call it?… was on its feet, clumsily walking around its temporary enclosure. Naturally, after throwing down the first piece of meat, with it being consumed in a single bite, the beast’s attention snapped to the two of them as it began the effort of climbing its way up towards freedom.

Magda knew better than to run. After all, doing so would likely trigger hunting and chasing instincts. But still, once the massive forelimbs appeared and the beast pulled itself up and over the lip of the hole, she made sure to be a good distance away, keeping Luana between it and her.

While this was something she normally would never state, on pain of death, it was rather easy to lead this version of Alcina around by her stomach. So long as they had a trail of food, she was easy to please and keep relatively docile. In the end, they only needed one barrel as a treat, though it wasn’t quite that. As they passed it on the bridge, the creature must have smelled the contents, or perhaps recognized the shape…. but how that was possible, Magda had no idea, as it had no discernible eyes right now. Either way, the tooth lined maw easily engulfed the barrel and bit down, splintering the wood and draining the contents quickly. Afterwards, the creature seemed more agreeable.

Maybe it had just needed a drink.

By the time they had entered the Hall of The Four, the remaining castle staff had emerged from their hiding places. There were no reprimands or excuses given, only looks and sighs of relief. Bianca, Sylvia, and Mihaela quickly flocked to the form of the Countess who was currently gorging on wine and meat. Samuel latched themself onto Magda with a tight hug; one that she was not exactly ready to receive, but she was also not about to deny them this comfort. Vulga also soon joined in, likely in an effort to make Magda feel even more uncomfortable.

“If you two insist on being this close to me, I will be putting you to work,” Magda told them both before taking them to her workshop and retrieving the three sisters. Sam took Daniela, Vulga carried Cassandra, and Magda held Bela close. The urge to place the daughters next to their mother was great, but caution won out instead. Who knew if or how the Alcinadragon would react to seeing her children as nothing more than collections of flies? Yes, they were becoming more active, but there was no indication they were on their way to reforming back into their human shapes. They just need time, Magda thought. That’s all. They’ve been through trauma, and they just need time to recover.

Even though it was not yet midday, It was decided that everyone would spend the night in the Main Hall. It was the inner most room, central to most of the castle, and it was big enough to house all of them comfortably, even a dragon with a massive wingspan. There would be safety in numbers.

“Do you think he’ll come back?” Magda asked Luana quietly.

“No. As far as he is concerned, everyone here is dead. Whether that is true or not…” They paused, not wanting to say the unthinkable. Understanding, Magda nodded and finished their sentence.

“…It’s best to keep up that appearance.”

“Precisely. We keep everyone centralized for the time being. Close off and safeguard the exit points, stay quiet, and wait. With any luck, things will be different twenty-four from now. Or at least there will be an indication of a difference.” The look the two of them shared was one of tiredness and threadbare hope. There wasn’t much left to run on, but so long as the lady of the house still drew breath, no matter what form she took, they still had their duties to attend to.

“Even if the man isn’t coming back, no one is going down to the outer gatehouse and drawbridge by themselves. One of the lords is currently weakened, you are still recovering from being shot multiple times, and while my mind may be playing into the medieval hierarchy of things, I wouldn’t put it past other things going wrong and our current situation being taken advantage of. We’ll go together. It’ll be faster that way.”

Despite initial outward appearances, the castle was rather impenetrable once locked down. A drawbridge, three heavy doors of varying designs dividing the exterior gatehouse, a massive portcullis at the Carriage Gate, and a smaller, but just as fortified, portcullis on the interior of the entrance hall that kept the front doors closed from the outside. For all intents and purposes, they would be safe and secure.

More of the staff wanted to assist in the closing of the gatehouse, but they were dissuaded by a few other duties; securing the door leading to the temple, keeping an eye on Alcina, and gathering up any supplies they would need for the night. They were also greeted by another unexpected task upon opening the castle doors.

In the middle of the Carriage Gate rested four crates; three of a similar size and one that was noticeably larger. Nothing had been ordered, and the Duke had packed up his caravan, vacating his usual spot some time during the battle with Alcina. Yet the note tacked onto the larger crate was in his elaborate, flowing script:

I’d wager these treasures are of more use to you than I. Think of this as a thank you for your years of patronage, as well as a farewell gift for the time being. Keep them safe.

Bonne chance,

The Duke

The lids came off easily, and inside, nestled amongst packing material were… statues? Odd ones at that. Beautiful, crystalline, and perhaps a bit macabre, they were three busts and one massive torso with what seemed to be very familiar proportions. Either the Duke had a sick sense of humor or this was something else.

“Take these inside,” Magda instructed, still a bit confused as to what they were. “Be careful with them. Don’t damage them.” She then hurried to catch up with Luana who had decidedly not stopped to investigate the crates.

While neither of them ventured out into the village, the lack of the noisy day to day life that would normally filter up from it was obvious and more than a bit unnerving. Yes, there were the occasional barks and growls from whatever lycans were still prowling around the buildings, but there were no sounds of people. That lack of background noise twisted Magda’s stomach and made her raise the drawbridge that much faster.

“Tomorrow… Tomorrow, we will search the village. Look for survivors,” Luana reassured her.

“I don’t think there are any other survivors,” she replied morosely, as her thoughts immediately went to the one person outside the castle that Magda actually cared about. Stay safe, Donna. Please God, keep her safe.

With each barricade put into place, Magda felt both safer and more alone… cut off from everything. But this was what needed to be done. As the final portcullis fell into place in the entrance hall, a burden lifted from her shoulders. There was still that sick feeling in her stomach, but her back felt lighter.

Why? She didn’t know. She didn’t deserve to feel better.

Everything was starting to blur together, and she didn’t care anymore. Magda remembered entering the Main Hall and seeing the Alcinadragon curled protectively around the crystalline torso that shared the measurements of the Countess, growling at anyone who came near it. She didn’t care or wonder why. Someone called out her name as she climbed the stairs, but she ignored it, legs carrying her faster and faster as she went. She didn’t want to talk. Her head, neck, and chest felt hot. She felt smothered and unable to breathe. She needed to get away.

By the time she was in the Hall of Joy, Magda was running. The library was a blur, as was the opera hall. Her eyes were open, but they saw nothing, as if her brain was on automatic. All she cared about was getting away.

She slammed the door to her workroom shut, turning the lock as well in order to keep herself physically, mentally, and emotionally away from everyone. She managed to go a few steps into the room before her knees gave way and she collapsed into a heap. That’s when the floodgates of emotion just opened up. She screamed and wailed, tears falling uncontrollably. All the pain and the burdens accumulated from this day, from these past few hours, came roaring out.

She had no idea how long she cried, nor how many in the castle heard her. She didn’t know if anyone knocked on the door to check on her, nor did she care. She would have ignored it anyway. At one point early on in her anguish, her stomach heaved. Only bile came out, as she had eaten nothing this entire day, but the wretching continued until even that was entirely discarded from her system. She cried until her tears ran dry; until only hiccuping breathes and weary, burning eyes remained.

Throughout all of this, there was one constant in Magda’s mind. She knew that if anyone, and she did mean anyone, interrupted her in this moment, there would be hell to pay. The staff had seen her mad and frustrated before, but they had never seen her rage. If anyone tried to comfort or hold her right now, they would be met with punches, thrown objects, and a slew of filthy, hate-filled words that she would likely regret at a later date. Perhaps even shears to the intruder’s throat, if she could reach them in time.

She didn’t want comfort. She wanted this pain. She wanted to hurt.

But most of all, she wanted her Bela.

Eventually though, the pain did subside. It slowly dulled and dissipated. To say it was completely gone would have been a lie, but it had settled for the time being. Magda’s body ached, as did her head. The floor beside her was a mess, but she made an effort and took the time to clean up the bile. She couldn’t stand having such a thing lingering in her workshop, no matter her mood or the circumstances. The process also helped the seamstress return to a semblance of herself.

After a change of clothes, a quick washing of her face and brushing of her teeth, Magda made her way back to the main hall. Samuel was lingering in the hallway, shuffling around a bit in an effort to entertain themself while probably waiting for Magda to re-emerge.

“Hey, Magda? Are… are you okay? Do you need anything? A hug maybe?” they asked, holding their arms open. Magda just shook her head and continued on. “Ice cream, maybe? We could sit and watch a movie together Not a scary movie or anythin’, but I’ll sit and watch something you’d like if it makes you feel better.” At that, Magda just sighed.

“Sam? Right now, what I want? I can’t have. So, please? Just let me go sit in peace next to what is left of the woman I love. All right?”

“Yeah, um…. about that? Okay, so we brought the statue things in like you said, but as soon as we did, the dragon thing that Lady D turned into? Yeah, she got real defensive and grabbed the big statue and isn’t giving it up. So, we then took the smaller ones and the fly piles got really active. Like super, super active. I mean, they’re not buzzin’ around like normal or human, but-“ Magda didn’t even wait for Sam to finish. Once more, she was off and running.

The daughters were on the opposite side of the fireplace from the Alcinadragon, though pretty much everyone was on the opposite side from her, as she took up an entire length of the hall. Samuel had actually been right, as the flies were more active since the last time she saw them. While not swarming, they were crawling over the statues, or rather, individual statues. Now that she was able to look at them properly, Magda could discern the shapes of the daughters in the torsos. Bela’s she knew well enough, and Daniela was a bit slighter than Cassandra… and all the while the appropriate flies were crawling over the appropriate statues. She still had no idea what they were for, but clearly they held some importance.

Whether it had been intentional or not, someone had set Bela in the alcove under the stairs, allowing a bit of privacy and seclusion if it was needed. Obviously, Samuel or someone else had taken Magda’s breakdown into consideration. Normally, the seamstress did not enjoy having special things done for her, but at the moment, she was not about complain.

Sitting on a blanket with her back against the wall, Magda actually managed to take a breath and relax for the first time that day.

They were alive.

Whether due to the added heat, time to recover, or whatever these odd statues were, the daughters were alive and moving around. They would be all right. The Alcinadragon had a forelimb curled around her own statue, surrounded by her favorite maidens, and was practically asleep, if her breathing was any indication. She would be all right. None of the servants had been gravely injured in the long term. The current state of the castle was an odd miracle, but it was a miracle nonetheless.

Looking at the crystalline statue beside her, Magda gently placed her fingertips upon it, in hopes that it would pulse or feel abnormally warm. That wasn’t the case, but one of the pale yellow flies that had been idly traversing the torso’s clavicle almost immediately changed direction and climbed onto her hand. Smiling, either from happiness or exhaustion, she brought the insect closer as it proceeded to march into the palm of her cupped hand. It happily buzzed and bumped its head against her skin, settling down in the warmth as Magda gently stroked it.

As if energized by her touch, the fly took to the air and landed in the hollow of the seamstress’ neck, where it buzzed and bounced around more; its little wings tickling her just enough to elicit a soft laugh from Magda.

“Hi, stea mică…” she said softly, body instinctively relaxing to that sensation. Magda wasn’t sure if it was her exhaustion or something else, but as her eyes closed and sleep began to take her, she could have sworn she heard Bela’s voice in the drone of the fly.

I won’t be long.

EPILOGUE:

“Magda? Magda, wake up. Somethin’s happening,” Sam’s voice cut through the blackness of sleep. The seamstress groggily rubbed her eyes and looked around, remembering where she was. Instinctively, she looked over at the Bela statue, worried for a moment at that she would find. The concern was unfounded as it was mostly covered by a swarm of flies, more than what she had seen prior to falling asleep.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” she asked, standing up. The Alcinadragon was still asleep, her harem of maidens still tending to her. If it was possible, she too looked healthier.

“There’s something goin’ on in the village. Luana told me to get you. They’re in Lady D’s bedroom.” That made sense. The Countess’ chambers had a view that overlooked the village. It was a smart place to scout from.

Making her way there, Magda discovered that night had fallen, meaning she had slept most of the day away. Why hadn’t they woken her up sooner? She didn’t need to have her sleep schedule even more messed up. However, the not so far off explosions made her decide otherwise, as she quickened her steps up the stairs.

Luana was out on the balcony of Alcina’s chambers, watching a veritable firefight going on in the village. Massive waving tendrils were erupting from the ground, knocking what looked like military helicopters out of the sky as explosions and gunfire rocked what was left of the buildings.

“Have they come towards the castle?” Magda asked after taking it all in.

“No,” Luana replied.

“Then unless they come towards the castle, it’s not our fight. I’m not about to start something with a group that has guns, explosions, and…” An airstrike briefly interrupted the seamstress as she talked. “Whatever the hell that is!”

“I simply thought you would like to be made aware of this. It was wise that we closed up everything when we did.” Magda didn’t know why Luana was making her seem more important than she actually was. They were the head servant. She was just the seamstress.

“…… You’re going to sit out here until it’s over, aren’t you?”

“Of course.” At that, Magda sighed.

“I’m not staying out here all night. It’s too cold. I’d suggest that you come in from the cold as well, but you’re just as stubborn as I am. I’ll be inside on the chaise lounge if you need me. Please don’t freeze out here, Luana. I’m not about to lose you after keeping you alive.” With that said, Magda went back inside and made herself comfortable on the Countess’ furniture, something she’d never do normally, but this wasn’t exactly normal circumstances. Come to think of it, the large hole in the floor was also out of the ordinary. That hadn’t been there earlier today… What had happened here after she left with Bela?

She must have fallen asleep, since the next thing she knew, Magda was woken up by the sudden slamming of a door, followed almost immediately by being rocked off the chaise lounge by an earth shattering explosion. Broken glass rained down on her as the shockwave smashed the windows. For a brief moment, she thought a nuclear device had gone off and she waited for the incineration wave to burn her to a crisp. When none of that happened, and the castle remained standing, she looked around.

Luana was crouched against the door leading to the balcony, covering their head out of instinct. Brushing the glass from her hair, Magda cautiously stood up and looked out the window. Smoke filled the air, but as the wind carried it away, she could see a decently sized crater in what had been the ceremony site. There was nothing left of the tendrils from last night, just like there wasn’t much left of the village.

“What in the hell happened?” she mumbled. “Do you even now think there are survivors?” she asked Luana. In response, they simply pointed to the distant shape of a quickly retreating helicopter. For a moment, anger blossomed in Magda’s chest. If that man was on that thing? How dare he be able to escape so easily after causing all this destruction. But the feeling and hatred vanished along with the helicopter. If he was gone, then so much the better. Better for him to be gone and forgotten than to remain a problem for them all.

“Goodbye and good riddance, stupid man-thing,” Magda said, before turning her back on the sunrise and returning, with Luana, to her family.

[willawhumpspeterparker]

Rest My Chemistry

Chapter 1: we can find new ways of living

CONTENT WARNINGS FOR:

implied/referenced sex work, dubious consent, non-con elements, descriptions of anxiety symptoms, descriptions of blood and injury, and cannon-typical violence.

It’s only been a month since Peter lost everyone he’s ever loved and he’s still grappling with the reality that his powers might never get back to what they used to be.

The city was veiled under a heavy plume of fog that made the tops of the tallest skyscrapers disappear, injecting the cloud cover with almost sickly shades of blue and green. Peter watched the sheets of condensation roll and turn themselves over, rippling through what was usually a mirror reflection of the skyline across the east river.

He blinked hard every time the image changed and willed himself to stay in the present, to focus on the rest of the buildings, the bridge, the power lines connecting the roof he was perched on to the street lamp below because those things weren’t changing, just moving in tandem with the wind whenever it gusted.

Peter took a deep breath and stood from his crouch on the ledge, ignoring the way his legs shook when he did, and was hanging from a rope of synthetic webbing before he even remembered that he was supposed to let it out. He normally didn’t have to look where any of the webs he shot landed, a combination of his acuity for physics and overprotective sense organs working to make sure every swing was a secure one as subtly as his lungs remembered how to make his chest rise and fall, but this particular night seemed determined to prove itself as an exception.

The rain had stopped hours ago but the city was still damp from it—as was the metal siding on the disheveled warehouse in front of him, the sheets of rain water draining down it making the surface impossible to shoot webs onto. He must’ve emptied half of his clip trying to get something to stick but was hurtling at the lengthy loft windows much too fast, the breadth of opportunity he had to change the trajectory of his swing rapidly disappearing.

The search for anything else in the immediate vicinity to lever his body from its current flight path was frantic and ultimately useless because aside from the chain link fence lined with barbed wire surrounding the junk yard on the other end of the block, there was nothing but open air and churning river water. Peter instinctively brought his legs up to his chest, bracing himself.

“Fuck, fuck.” The initial crash didn’t hurt nearly as much as the three story fall that came after.

The warehouse must’ve been abandoned for a solid amount of time before Peter traipsed by because the plywood that had been draped over the support beams like patchwork were all rotted through and gave out as soon as his back hit them, swallowing him in splintering fibers that tore at his suit like metal talons, weightlessness stealing the breath from his lungs like the hands of a self-appointed false god wrapping around his throat.

He reached out, hands scrabbling for anything to stop or slow his descent, but all that he could manage to do with his webs was send loose boards flying at his face, the rest of his flailing only serving to hasten the drop. And the faster he plummeted, his body jerking around and flipping over, the farther he felt from it when the chips of wood and dust and nails that fell with him began to look a lot like what he’d watched his own flesh dematerialize into over five years ago.

“No,” he wheezed, back arching like he could somehow wriggle away from himself and the awful feeling of dissolving into nothing again, though this time felt remarkably different without his overexposed senses screaming at him that he was about to die and there was nothing he could do to stop it, burning his skin with every instinct urging him to act anyway. This time he felt absolutely nothing until the entire right side of his body erupted in white hot pain.

Peter isn’t sure how long he laid among the heap of scraps that more or less cushioned him from connecting with the cold hard slab of concrete that lay beneath, just that when he finally convinced himself he was in too much pain to be dead it had started raining again.

He listened to the wind as it picked up outside, pelting droplets at the structure’s flimsy siding and whipping debris around hard enough to knock shards of glass free from the Peter-sized hole he’d created in the window, and though there was already a fair amount of it stuck in his legs and back, he didn’t particularly care to add any more.

He was slow in plucking himself out of the carnage, and even slower in getting to his feet despite having all the proper motivations to get the hell out of dodge before the rest of the temporary flooring came down on top of him, or cops started poking around to investigate the property damage and book him for trespassing.

His body felt like one giant bruise, and though he was pretty sure he hadn’t accrued any outright breaks or fractures, whatever he had tweaked in his shoulder was amongst the worst all the other pain centers across his body. It made a sickening click whenever he tried rotating it, and he could feel the bones there grinding against each other unnaturally, sending sharp zaps of pain down his arm and back whenever they did.

It had been a mistake to come back to queens, he knew that much the moment he’d stepped onto an N train headed for Astoria, but he hadn’t known what else to do with himself, the feeling of wanting to go home too overwhelming to deny himself the small semblance of comfort—well that, and Peter’s self preservation skills always had been shoddy at best.

The sounds of the city slowly bypassed the waning ring left by several counts of blunt force trauma, replacing it with a confusing jumble of mundane racket instead. He told himself that the conflicted pull leading his ears in a million different directions was from the skull splitting headache and not the potential that the only good thing he had going for him anymore was undeniably broken.

He leaned into the clamor, willing his hearing to localize on just one thing at a time, to focus long enough to pick something out of the chaos and give it a name, a label, a distinction as something that was dangerous or not. He hones in on his immediate surroundings first, like the trash cans tipping over and rolling down the street, or the branches tearing their way from bristling trees just outside the warehouse walls.

The storm was raging again, the sound of rain and wind imposing its will on the natural world around it and drowning out all other sounds—wailing sirens, a barking dog chained up to a tree, an overloading transformer ready to blow—and muting them back to nothing.

And god, he hoped it was just shitty January weather fucking with his powers because then there’s the warning rumble of an impending clap of thunder and that’s as far as he gets before he’s forced back down to his knees. The transformer explodes and the sky opens up again, the torrent above raging like it was bleeding with him, like it was mourning right alongside him.

If there was anyone in queens that needed his help that night, he didn’t hear it over the layers of all his grief.

Picking himself up the second time was harder when his body ached in regions he didn't recall getting battered and the smell of iron and mildew bombarded his nose whenever he made any significant movements.

The darker thoughts he never let himself think whispering to him softly didn’t help either, but the warehouse had been quiet and they were so loud and it would be so easy to just never get back up, so simple to let himself rot, probably safer for the entire borough of queens too. He couldn’t hurt anyone that way and the news couldn’t twist his acts of vigilantism to their will if there was nothing to report on, if there was no more spider-man at all. He imagined how they would celebrate if it wouldn’t tank their ratings.

In the end he isn’t sure why he chooses to stand and sway with the subway car for all thirty of the minutes it took to get back to midtown instead, letting the duct over his head blast him with heat and soothe the sting from his warming skin that refused to subside even after shucking off the tatters of his new suit and changing into clothes that actually wicked.

The walk back to his apartment from the subway was the worst offender in abetting his chattering teeth. The sweatshirt hood of his flannel jacket was completely saturated the moment he got back above ground again and only partially protected him from the wind, though his main reason for keeping it up at all was to hide the cuts and bruises on his face, the practically didn’t much matter to him.

He didn’t mind the rain much aside from the cold accompanied it, especially not at night when the steady patter of it on glass windows made the kind of blessed ambient noise that concealed most others and gave his ears a break from straining to pay attention to every little thing that went bump in the night.

It hadn’t been so bad back in Astoria since their building wasn’t on a main road and everything else around it was residential, but it made falling asleep nearly impossible most nights now that he was shacking up in the heart of the city that never sleeps. Peter hardly does either now, though he thinks it might not be an issue for him tonight if the weather man on the tv in Ralph’s saying that the city’s in for a rough go of it over the next few days is correct about his predictions of record rainfall and unprecedented flooding.

“Jeez,” Raffi watches wide-eyed, his arms crossed over his chest in disbelief. “It took national grid six days to put the lights back on last summer after that hurricane in July.”

The reporter is in Times Square where the wind is apparently too strong to keep his umbrella open without it flipping inside out and every one of his attempts to wrangle it are unsuccessful. Another reporter has to talk about what precautions to take against flood damages and how to prepare for potential leaks while he struggles.

The agonized groan that Peter lets out at the mention is animalistic. “My ceiling leaks whenever the guy upstairs showers for longer than thirty minutes, Raf.” He doesn’t chance facing the clerk, so he puts his head in his freezing hands instead. The chill that was still ebbing from them felt nice on his swollen face anyway. “I’m going to have to swim to get out of my apartment and make it to class in the morning.”

“It’s a rite of passage for every new yorker in their first place,” Raffi snorts, eyeing where Peter is hunched over the counter and the small puddle forming underneath his dripping head despite the towel wrapped around his neck.

“No, there are several health code violations that are about to make it hazardous just for me to get to my learning environment is what it is,” Peter grumbles weakly, his throat too raw from all the dust he’d inhaled to support any emotion other than hoarse indifference.

The clerk huffs another amused snort and then, “you should really put something on that eye then.” Peter sips his tea experimentally and does his very best to avoid looking up at Raffi. It hasn’t cooled enough to drink yet, but he’d take a scorched tongue over sitting another minute shivering with his hands cupped around the cardboard and his face over the steam to cage in whatever he could of the warmth.

“The bruising will go away faster if you get a jump on icing it,” he continues, unbothered by Peter’s total lack of acknowledgment. “You can grab something from one of the freezers.”

Peter squeezes his tea a little too hard then, the still too hot liquid spilling over onto fingers so cold they looked bloodless. “Thanks Raf,” he chokes, “but I think I’m gonna head home now anyway—ya know, before it’s gets really bad out there.”

Raf pauses like he’s considering the odds of trying to reason with him, but the news station abruptly cuts to a commercial break when the field reporter’s visual wavers and then promptly flickers to static. He goes back to unpacking boxes of inventory for storm prep instead. Peter had offered to help carry the bags of salt out front but Raffi had taken one sideways glance at him and shook his head before turning the kettle back on and disappearing back into the storage room.

“Here.” Peter’s hand moved accordingly, shooting up to catch whatever had been tossed at him before his brain could even process the action. He didn’t pick his head up to look because he didn’t usually need to, but his hands were still numb and now slightly burnt, and the keychain flashlight skidded over the edge of the counter, rolling several more inches across the floor until it finally stopped.

“You don’t have to—”

“Take two,” Raf insists, sliding another his way.

“Raffi—”

“Get home safe kid.” The sound of tearing cardboard eliminates any room for protest, and Peter finally pockets the flashlights when he sees that Raf is intent on breaking down every single empty box in his wake. He works the to go lid on carefully and then pulls a handful of napkins free from the dispenser to soak up his mess but the thin paper dissolves immediately and there’s hardly anything left in the metal container.

“Don’t worry about that. It’s already late, just get yourself home in one piece for me and we’re square.” Peter feels like he can’t get any air past the ever expanding lump in his throat, his body trembling in time with the hammering in his chest as a mix of fond warmth and embarrassment prickles his steadily heating skin.

“Night Raffi,” he finally manages. “And thanks again.” He forces himself up from the stool and onto unsteady legs begrudgingly, willing his hands to be reliable for one goddamned minute, or at least until he could safely carry the tea out of Ralph’s without making more of a fool out of himself. “For everything.”

He doesn’t wait to hear if Raf has anything else to say to that and is grateful for the noise that greets him when he shoulders the door open with the side of his body that didn’t feel like it had broken the fall from a three story drop for the rest of him. The overlapping sheets of scrap wood flooring he fell through first had saved him from what would’ve probably meant several broken bones as opposed to what was now just severely bruised, but it had also torn his skin to shit in the process and hadn’t left much viable fabric to salvage from his suit.

A small part of him hoped that some street kid would stumble upon the remnants on top of a dumpster and think they’d won the lottery. The more rational part knew that might’ve been true about a month ago when the name Peter Parker meant nothing to the general public, and it wasn’t that it meant much to anyone now that he virtually didn’t exist, just that neither did the name spider-man.

The media had called his gradual disappearance an admission of guilt and a service to the city they spent hours debating if he'd ever truly managed to protect, and he didn’t find himself disagreeing with them much lately. It had been weeks and Peter still couldn’t make it through a single patrol without his powers fluctuating, if not giving out on him completely.

And if he couldn’t even save himself from harm anymore, how was he supposed to tell an entire city they could rely on him to protect them?

He barely succeeds in stifling the broken sob building in his chest and has to reach for the scaffold protecting the sidewalk from the downpour to keep his footing as inches of water streamed down the slanted pavement and into the street. His breaths suddenly come in shallow pants, the band around his lungs tightening with each strangled attempt to fill the aching organs while he watched the world in front of him shrink back until he was certain that he was too far away from himself then to feel so sick with unjustified panic.

Peter doesn’t register when the cup of tea slips from his hands and is taken away with the current because his senses are shrieking danger like it’s imminent and all around him. He scans each side of the street again and again like maybe by the time he swivels his head next something will have changed, but nothing ever does. The street is empty except for a handful of parked cars and piles of miscellaneous construction materials.

He strains his ears trying to filter out both the storm and the pounding of his own heartbeat knowing full well that his bodies’ perception of danger is wildly skewed and recently prone to overreacting at the slightest of disturbances like it needed to constantly make sure it still had to ability, but he concentrates on peeling away each sound anyway because he thinks he can actually hear someone and his mind hasn’t fabricated something so real like that yet.

The sirens wailing in the distance yawn into screams and make it difficult to figure out which direction it came from, but he hears the words uttered exactly one more time before he’s taking off at a dead sprint.

“Hold on.”

It hurts, stop.

“I’m—fuck, I’m coming.”

The plea echoes in his head like a taunt, daring him to pump his legs that much faster until he eventually skids to a sloshing halt at the entrance of the rat alley between the laundromat and smoke shop at the other end of the block.

The figures are a ways down and shrouded by the poor lighting, but they halt when Peter appears at the top of the small set of stairs all the same, and it’s in the anticipatory lull that comes after that he realizes the two very important ways in which he’s just fucked up by not attempting to approach with any kind of stealth while his face was uncovered.

What’s left of his suit lays on the trash in an identical spot in queens but his mask currently sits at the bottom of the jansport on his back. The larger shadow is moving again before he can even begin to worry over every implication of what he’s about to do.

There’s a muffled grunt and the sound of struggling, though the man’s hands can only make it so far up the body he’s pressing into the bricks before a series of webs are wrenching them above his head and securing them to the wall behind him, the second figure nearly crumpling at the loss of the weight. “Who the fuck do you—” is about all the asshole can spew before he’s spluttering against a generous coat of webbing.

Peter takes several careful steps forward with his back turned to the subdued man, the tension rolling off what he now could see was just a kid palpable as he fixed his pants around his hips. He has the chance to shoot one more web over the creep’s eyes before the kid is rounding on him.

“Why did you do that?” he spits viciously, his brow wrinkling as simultaneous recognition dawns on both boys. The part of his lip that was split wells with a new spurt of blood that he catches with the edge of his sleeve.

Peter must spend an inappropriate amount of time blinking at the kid he vaguely knew lived in an apartment across the hall from him because he’s somehow even angrier the next time he speaks.

“Do you know how much you just cost me?”

“Excuse me?” Peter feels like he’s missed something very important.

“Sure the guy was a prick for roughing me up, but I still need to fucking eat.” And then as if he’s just now realizing that the man isn’t unconscious with all of the muted shouting coming from behind him, he turns to see what could possibly be stopping him from continuing whatever it was that Peter had just broken up.

“Listen,” he tries, but the kid is already going for the guy’s pocket to fish out his wallet. “What are you—hey! Don’t do that.”

“Are you going to stop me spider-man?” the kid smirks knowingly and resumes his search, feeling for the seams on the man’s clothes of which Peter realizes then are just as curiously disheveled. “Because I’m almost certain that the headlines they come up with for this mess will put you in the ground for good.”

The kid is facing Peter again and from this close he knows that they’re pretty much the same height, but for all the confidence he exudes when he talks, he somehow looks so much smaller where the dimness is unable to hide the way his whole body shakes in a way that couldn’t just be from the cold. “I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.”

“Think about it. ‘Spider-man: friendly to everyone in neighborhood except sex workers, he makes sure to hand deliver them directly to the police’.” The kid looks almost manic as he flits through each tab, removing all of the things he deems useless and tucking them into the guy’s waistband until he’s siphoned nearly everything but the wad of cash that was supposedly meant for him and a couple other utility cards. “Or maybe, ‘Web slinging vigilante caught using webs for kinky sex should no longer be idolized by your children—”

“That’s enough,” Peter levels simply. “I’m not going to call the cops on you.” It’s the kids turn to stare but his blank gaze is frozen in something other than disbelief and he waits exactly two seconds before stumbling backwards, like he was suddenly afraid of all the things Peter might possibly do to him instead—though in all fairness he had every right to worry when they both knew he’d already seen Peter’s face.

“Shit, kid.” He keeps his voice low and cool like he was trying to keep from spooking a cornered animal, because that’s exactly what he is. The end of the pathway leads to a gated courtyard, and both Peter and the sleezebag block the only exit that goes back up to street level. “I’m not going to hurt you either.”

The laugh he lets out then is hollow. “Why should I believe that?”

“I’m spider-man,” Peter leverages, raising his hands up where they’re visible without attempting to move any closer. “I turn in criminals.”

“And I stole what I was owed.”

“Yeah,” he agrees easily, “from someone who hurt you.”

“Well if that’s what he was paying me for, it’s technically a crime on my part to not follow through.”

Peter blinks at him for a moment, and then with all sincerity. “Not after you ask them to stop.”

“How—“ the kid blanches, eyes widening warily once he puts it together. “Pshh, of course you’re hearing is all suped up too,” and Peter actually laughs.

“I wish the spider crap was all just a gimmick, but—actually I’d rather not talk about the details in front of doucheface,” he says, nodding to the squirming man. The kid considers something for a long moment before closing the distance he’d put between them.

“And what about doucheface? You can’t get the five-o down here when you don’t have your fancy spandex on.”

“He’s warm enough,” Peter shrugs after studying the man’s winter coat and work boots, “and the webs will dissolve before hypothermia has a chance to set in.”

The kid hums approvingly, not looking any more convinced that he should trust Peter, but marginally less apprensive to share the same breathing room as him.

“Okay,” he concedes and tugs his sleeves down so he could remove the shooters clasped around each of his wrists, letting the backpack strap fall until he could get to the pockets and throw them in. “Better?” It’s only when faced with getting it back on that he remembers the vibrant pain pulsing in his other shoulder.

“Aren’t you still…” he trails off, his hands gesturing to the rest of Peter.

“Sticky?” He waits for a slight nod and then huffs an exasperated “yes.”

The kid grimaces. “Freaky.”

Peter doesn’t have to act wounded when he goes to raise his hands up in mock horror because something shifts horrifically near his collarbone, and he barely has time to mask the jagged grunt that leaves his mouth by swiveling around to start heading out of the alley.

“Wha—wait,” the kid calls after him, and Peter thinks he’d be properly surprised if he wasn’t trying so desperately to keep his shit together. The boy waits until they’ve made it onto the sidewalk to continue. “We’re going to the same place, idiot. And you’ve already seen my ass cheeks tonight, the least you could do is not be a tool about walking me home.”

Peter doesn’t try to swallow the hitching gasp that erupts in his chest, figuring it was an appropriate response to that kind of admonishment anyway. “I didn’t see anything,” he assures, seemingly untouched by the shock that statement was meant to have been for him.

“Sure you didn’t. You heard me from how far away?”

“It’s not the same for my vision. I can’t see through things, just better from farther away which still very much requires me to have actually looked.”

“Interesting.” Peter thought there were several other words that were better suited to describe the strangeness of his physical condition, but let the matter go easily, too tired to expend the mental energy on a conversation like that when he felt wrung completely dry of every ounce of energy he had, the last remaining vestiges evaporating into the ether with his drying sweat and making a cozy spot for themselves next to his hopes for the future along with far too many of the people he loved.

The walk is silent until they reach the first door and Peter pads his pockets for a lump of keys that isn’t there. “I got it,” the kid offers, gold metal ready and reaching. “What,” he starts once he’s got the door propped open, clearly amused by something. “No room for essential pockets in the wonder boy leotard?”

“Shut up. And it doesn’t matter when I—” Peter feels like his throat closes around the next words as he tries to get them out, like his own body doesn’t want him to say them, or maybe his subconscious just doesn’t want them to be true. “I won’t be spider-man for much longer anyway,” he clips and bristles past the kid without waiting for his smart retort. Peter was grateful that the door was being held because the strap of his bag was still in his hand and he couldn’t fathom how he’d have handled the pain that would come with having to sling it onto his back to free up his good arm.

“Woah,” he deadpans, stuck gaping in the doorway for a moment before bounding through the entranceway until he was right on Peter’s heels. “Hey. You can’t just leave me with that. And you already said you’re still sticky, so that’s not exactly true.”

Peter doesn’t know what to say to that when he could hardly put one foot in front of the other without considerable effort, being asked to boil every reason behind why he’s where he is right now down into a digestible little anecdote as well was simply impossible.

The kid calls after him again once he’s made it to the foot of the stairs, but he has no idea what is said because their building has no elevator and they live on the fifth floor, and Peter doesn’t know why he feels like he’s dying, just that the cord that’s held his chest in a vice all night is cinching again now that he’s facing the task of dragging himself up all ten flights.

Time melts into something meaningless and immeasurable while he attempts to stave off the impending breakdown, and he thinks he does a good job at it for a second, but then the kid grabs the shoulder that had been a nuisance since his fall and his world whites.

1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5

@febuwhump

[insomniamamma]

Rain: Ezra X F!Reader w/Cee

A/N: Prickle ‘verse. Takes place after Prickle but before Clean Dirt. Can be read as a one shot. Reader is established crew with Ezra and Cee. This was written for @autumnleaves1991-blog​ ‘s Writer Wednesday. I am woefully behind. I legit don’t understand how some of you write fics so fast!

Warnings: Mentions of war, a little bit of angst, but mostly gentle fluff. Feelings.

            "Hey, Ez," Ezra is engrossed in grading the latest haul, testing for clarity and hardness.  The surface of CJ's World is cut through with oxbow rivers, fantastic hoodoos of striated sandstone slashed with valleys deeper than any found in Sol system. You're digging for fossils. These rusty carved out plateaus were once the bed of an ancient ocean. Through some trickery of mineralization and chemistry the fossils of CJ's world shine like the fire opals of Old Terra. Big or small, they all have value.           "Ezra," says Cee, "She's doing it again."           "Doing what, birdie?" Ezra takes off the loupe and rubs at his eyes. Rain pelts on the tent, even sheltered the humidity soaks through.           "Look." Ezra draws open the tent flap and sees you, standing in the rain, your head tilted up, no gentle shower this, rain that pelts down hard, turns the view across the sharp-cut canyons to silver curtains. Your clothes are plastered to you like a second skin. The rain actually aids your cause, washing away loose sediment, making the fossils easier to get to. You bow your head and let the stinging rain hit the back of your neck, let it fall on your closed eyes, your outspread arms. You laugh at the sky.

           "What do you know about Falnost?" Cee's eyes go distant for a beat. She has a memory to rival Central computers.

           "Hmmm..about two thirds standard grav, class C5, would've rated lower if not for it's primary. Dustball."             "Mmm-hmm."             "She's not used to real weather," says Cee.             "Observant as ever," says Ezra. The rain is not gentle. It is chilly and hits your skin like handfuls of flung sand, but is so different from anything you've known, so new that you can't help but stand there with a huge, dumb grin plastered on your face, even as your teeth chatter with the cold. Ezra comes and gets you.             "C'mon, Artichoke, while the rain does feel slinky and delicious it is not worth hypothermia."             "Sorry, Ez," you say and allow him to take your hand and lead you back to shelter. This has become something of a habit. Many worlds in the fringe are dustballs like the one you fled, algae and fungus growing on every bit of pipe that condensation beads on. On Falnost they had a deal with the ice-miners, discounted accommodations on world or on station in exchange for chunks of ice from your primary's lush rings de-orbited, burning and evaporating as they fell. The idea was that, eventually, there would be moisture enough in the atmosphere to trigger rains. Someday Falnost will have an ocean, but you won't be there for it, half your life spent harvesting rills of water from sail-traps, careful irrigation channels covered over with plastic sheeting, calorie vs water consumption ratios discussed every planting season. How many credits do we net vs wha† we have to spend? You got fucking sick of dreaming of an ocean your great grandchildren might paddle in. You skimmed enough to buy your way off world and since then you have seen things that you never would have believed as a child.            The first time you heard thunder was on a world called Ingwy. Your first  thought was artillery. Ingwy was a contested world, Karoclan and Lussia Collective skirmishing over land rights, while small stakes droppers like you and Ez and Cee swooped in to reap the spoils while the big corps and clans fought each other.  It was the middle of the night and you were on your feet instantly, railgun in hand, screaming that there was incoming, to take cover. Someone had flicked on a utility light hanging from a cord that swung, illuminating the inside of the tent in sickening arcs, and there's another explosion, this one so loud you feel the pressure change in your ears, hear your own voice crying out in tandem, white hot light even through the thick weave of the tent.           "It's just thunder," Ezra yells over the sound of rain slamming against the tent.           "That was an explosion!" He presses gently on your arm until you lower the rails.           "It's just loud," says Ezra, "It can't hurt us. We're safe here. Put the gun down." You set on the edge of your cot and put your face in your hands.           "Kevva. You must think I'm the dumbest dirt-farmer this side of the Great Arm." The cot dips as Ezra sits beside you.           "Not at all," he says, squeezes your shoulder, "I come from a backwater as well. First time I ever saw a proper ocean I nearly lost my breakfast right there on the beach."  Thunder peals again and you flinch, shrink against him slightly.            "Static electricity," says Ezra, "That's all it is. Builds up in the clouds and discharges into the ground." He keeps his hand on you as he speaks, fingers gently squeezing the juncture of your neck and shoulder, "The sound you hear is the air in the path of the lightning instantly heating and expanding. It makes a sonic shock wave, like any explosion."            "Like the boom when ships lift," you say.            "Just like that, Artichoke," he says, "Storm's already moving off, see?" The rain pelting the tent has settled into a steady drone. Thunder grumbles, a low, almost soft sound, not the air-rending explosion that shocked you out of sleep.            "We should try to rest," says Ezra, gives your shoulder one more firm squeeze and a little shake, and when you look up, he's smiling, dimple just beginning to sink into his cheek.             "Yeah," you say, "Okay." He kills the utility light and settles into his cot. You can hear the music from Cee's headphones, the tinny, fast pop she favors, threaded through the white noise of the falling rain. She slept through the whole thing.

            The ancient life of CJ's world favored heptagonal symmetry, long-dead mollusks like seven-sided shields shine out of the rusty ground, the smallest the size of a fingernail, the largest the size of dinner plates. This is a good deposit. The small ones are fashioned into jewelry and buttons.            "They take these great big ones and slice them micron thin," says Ezra, "Use them for window-glass in the temples of the Ephrate. They say it is like standing inside Kevva's very beating heart."           "I can see why," says Cee, and so do you. The minerals that limn the shells shine translucent red with brilliant streaks of orange, yellow and even thin threads of green and blue.           "They say that Kevva's first heart-beat ignited the explosion that became the universe," says Ezra.           "You really believe that?" Asks Cee.           "I don't know if believe is the right word," says Ezra, "We all grew up with these stories, why my grandmother..." You smile and tune him out. The back and forth banter between Cee and Ezra is a pulse that underlies every harvest. Cee has grown more talkative with each drop. Their relationship has a growing ease to it. You don't know exactly what happened between them before you joined up, but Cee's initial skittishness and Ezra's new healed scars tell a story you can guess the shape of. You let their conversation fade into the background, focus on the work of your hands, the meticulous scrape of soft sediment away from the hard glitter of the fossil, working around the seven sided edge, loosen enough up to get your fingers under the shell and you can pry it out, focus on the sounds of the world around you, no birds on CJ's world, but there is a range of bug-music, hidden in crevasses in the midday heat, all metallic clicks and creaks. Your rail-gun rests within easy reach, as always. You worm your fingers under the edge of the shell, wiggling it like a loose tooth, pops out of the sediment suddenly and you plop on your ass in the sandy dirt.           "You all right there, Artichoke?" Ezra grins at you.           "I'll recover." You dust yourself off and take your prize over to the tub that sits in the shadow of the pod. Further cleaning and grading can be done after dark. Nights  are long at this latitude. You stretch in the sunlight. This job is a milk-run compared to other drops, but hunkering in the dirt still hurts your knees and you feel every bit of it when you stand. There's a familiar sound, like a rumbling stomach, thunder, you think and glance up.          "Ezra!" Your voice is urgent and sharp and he's scrabbling up in a heartbeat, hand on the thrower at his hip, but when he stands there is only you pointing out across the vast expanse of sharp-carved valleys and hoodoos, lined in sharply delineated shadows and rusted cliffs where the light catches. The rainbow swoops skyward into grey cloud-bellies, a luminous curtain against the grey clouds, distant rain falling across the canyons.

        "Ezra, look!" Ezra exhales, tension leaching out of his shoulders. His hand drops away from the thrower.          "Oh, hey, a rainbow," says Cee. You lower your arm and just stare, transfixed at the glowing phantasm, brightening and dimming with the movement of clouds between it and the sun.           "It's beautiful," says Ezra. But he's not looking at the rainbow. He's looking at you. Your eyes are wide, lit up with wonder, an unconscious smile creeping across your face, crinkling the corners of your eyes. The stiff professionalism that you wear as close as your body armor momentarily set down, forgotten. Ezra's heart squeezes. There you are, he thinks. He can count on his one hand the number of times he's seen you smile like this, open and carefree, rare and precious as the gems the three of you pull from the ground. Part of him wants to kiss you, but he suspects he would end up on his back in the dust with the barrel of your railgun jammed beneath his sternum, so instead he brushes his hand against yours and your fingers find his and squeeze hard.            "I've never seen one before," you say, barely aware of Ezra's hand linked with yours, "I mean, I know what a rainbow is, but I've never seen one. Not in the real, just in vids."            "They don't have rainbows on Falnost?" Says Cee.            "They don't have rain on Falnost," you say, "Get's a little hazy sometimes after the ice-haulers make a drop, but that's about it." You shake your head as if just waking, the rainbow still shimmers, a bit duller now, and you are suddenly aware of Ezra's hand clasped with yours, the gentle pressure of his grasp.             "Sorry," you drop your eyes, "I got distracted. We got work to do." Ezra gives your hand a squeeze and then lets you go.             "Not to worry, Artichoke, rainbows are fleeting things. You look your fill while you can." And so you do. So does he.

[fandomn00blr]

wip challenge: I would love to hear about "Waterproof"!

Awww...thanks for the ask! This is just a super fluffy Greta/Alucard (Castlevania) scene I came up with when they were all I could think about and it's just dialogue right now. Might not ever be anything more, but I have high hopes of finishing it up into a one-shot or something about the first time Alucard shows his new girlfriend his room, site of some past trauma (up until now they’ve just been using the castle to feed and house refugees and ward off monsters and haven’t exactly had many moments to themselves).

"The rain…" Alucard murmurs begrudgingly against her lips. He pulls away from her just enough to allow a trickle of freezing water to drip down the tip of his nose.

"Hmmm?" Greta looks up at the sky, as if she hadn't noticed the increasing downpour. "Oh! Are you...can you not get wet or something?"

"Is that a serious question?" he huffs, releasing a warm puff of air that condenses into a cloud and breaks against her cheek.

"No…" She tugs him down by the collar of his coat and kisses him again, before muttering, "Just wouldn't want you to melt or whatever."

"Are you kissing me in the hope that I will forget you just asked me something so utterly ridiculous?"

"Maybe.” She presses a more frantic peck to his mouth. “Is it working?"

"Hmmm…” He leans forward on his own, very nearly looming over her now. “Not sure.”

Her hands move to his shoulders, as she pulls herself up and against him, but he catches her bottom lip between his.

"Greta…"

"Yes, yes...the rain. Fine!"

"It's just that…we have an entire castle.” He motions up above them at the towering fortress. “It's dry. There are warm fireplaces, and --- ”

She leans away from him, raising an eyebrow. "We, huh?"

Alucard blushes, then looks down at the ground between them. "Well, I was hoping you'd want to share it with me seeing as you keep giving away every house you say you are going to build for yourself in the village.”

“How many fireplaces are we talking exactly?"

"Last time I counted there were twenty-four.” He looks up at her, at the twinkling amusement in her eyes and tries to match it. “But things do tend to shift around sometimes."

"Intriguing…"

"Quite."

"What about your bedroom?"

"My...bedroom?" He swallows.

"Mmhm. Does it have a fireplace?"

Alucard nods, a smile spreading slowly across his lips. “More than one, in fact."

Greta grins back at him. "Then why are we still standing out here in the rain?!" She grabs his hand and pulls him the rest of the way up the castle’s rainslick steps. "Come on!"

[yoonsshadow]

ETERNAL - iv

➳ summary ; They have died so often that death has lost its meaning; hurt so regularly that pain has become inconsequential; lost so much that they hold each other to the light of the stars. They have nothing yet they have everything, as long as they have each other. And, after centuries, they now have her.

➳ pairing ; bts!ot7 x fem!reader

➳ genres ; The Old Guard au; fantasy, historical, action, romance, alternate universe

➳ themes ; angst, fluff, death

➳ warnings ; talk of death, ptsd/flashbacks, war zone, heavy violence, course language, panic attack

➳ word count ; 2k

➳ note ; Hello! I know that this chapter took a little longer to get out, and it is a little shorter than usual, but it’s because it takes a lot of time and research to make sure that I’m doing this story justice. That being said, I hope that you enjoy!! The journey for these eight have truly begun now, and boy, do they have a lot coming. :3

masterlist

For a while now, your life has been slipping between your fingers. Like a shadow passing through the night, every moment has melted through you, pooling at your feet until you’re slipping, falling, thrown to the ground. From the moment the first bullet was delivered through your skull, you have lost grip of your control; of the things you hold dearest to you.

Sitting here, surrounded by these seven men, that empty cavern in your chest aches just a little less. It hasn’t started to fill up yet⎯⎯might not for a very long while⎯⎯but the silence no longer echoes. 

“It still feels weird to think about,” you say, soft voice carrying through the room with ease. They are all listening so carefully that you cannot meet any of their eyes. “That I died, I mean. I’ve had time to rationalise it, but my whole life has been spent thinking one way⎯⎯believing in life and death, mortality, the fragility and preciousness of living⎯⎯but now I’ve been killed multiple times, died naturally a handful more, and so it feels as though the whole world has been skewed and I’m yet to find my balance.”

Your fingers fiddle together in your lap, eyes downcast to the empty soup bowl on the coffee table.

“The story of how I died the first time is kind of a long one. I can’t tell you about the final moments without explaining everything that led up to it, but there are a few years of history to go through. So, if you want me to condense it…”

“We have all the time in the world,” Namjoon assures, and it could be a joke, a satirical remark regarding your current situations, but instead he speaks with the utmost care, as if he is afraid of any wrong word, any misstep. He is telling you that they are patient, that they don’t mind waiting, that they will listen to every word you say. For you.

And it warms that hole in your chest enough for you to meet his eyes⎯⎯all of their eyes⎯⎯and offer a small smile. Then you nod to yourself. This is a story you need to tell, no matter how painful the memories are.

“Two-and-a-half years ago,” you begin, “the Special Warfare Command uncovered the elaborate smuggling operation of North Korean forces. Untraceable men⎯⎯assumed Black-Ops⎯⎯would enter South Korea through other countries using fake documentation. It’s unclear how long they stayed, months or years, but they would eventually kidnap vulnerable children and smuggle them to North Korea via Mongolia and China.

“Unfortunately, it took years to trace the movements of these men to a point where we knew what they were doing and how they were doing it. The SWC eventually concluded that North Korea were kidnapping and training future sleeper agents and spies, and avoiding suspicion by hiding in the Gobi Desert. They had an entire base of operations on a grey-zone of the border between Mongolia and China, and managed to leave no traces of their movements.”

You need to take a deep gulp of air at this point. Up until now, you have merely stated facts; regurgitated information as you have been told. However, you know that everything from this point on will become personal. You try to think back on your years of conditioning in the army.

“It was at this point that my team was requested for the operation. The 707th Special Mission Group has hundreds of personnel, all within two assault companies, one support company, and one all-female company. There are many missions in which female operators are a better fit, this one included, and out of the female company, my team was chosen.

“When I was promoted to Captain, and at such a young age... All I felt was excitement. Excitement for such an honour, for the experiences ahead, for being able to lead my very own team. The women on my team worked so well, too. We had many successful missions, small and big, and we were ready for this operation. We were ready for Operation Fawn.”

The air in your lungs stutters as you exhale, and you try to swallow the lump in your throat. You’ve avoided thoughts of the thirteen women who had become your friends, your family, but now you are submerged in the memories. Both joyous and tragic.

A few of the men around you look as if they want to move forward, to comfort you, but they also know that it isn’t their place to do so. Not yet.

“The plan was relatively straight-forward. We had found the location of the children, and so it was our job to silently infiltrate the site. Remove all hostiles, retrieve the missing kids, bring them back safely. It wasn’t unlike other missions we had completed before, so we were confident that we could execute it without fail.”

Pulse pumping loudly in your ears, heart beating violently in your chest, you begin to see flashes of that night, playing before your eyes without your permission.

“Get down!” A bullet whirs through the air where your lieutenant’s head had just been, close enough to be able to hear it cutting through the air. “Shit,” you mumble to yourself, peeking around the corner of the collapsed wall for the rest of your team, “how the fuck are there so many of them?”

“Captain.” A voice cuts through the chaos, the intercom in your ear crackling to life. “They’re still pouring in - West entrance - all armed. There shouldn’t be this many men.”

You land shots on three oncoming men, their bodies falling to the ground, but they are quickly replaced by more on their way. You have to do something; you can’t allow your team⎯⎯or the children⎯⎯to die tonight. 

While your lieutenant watches your back, you fiddle with the dial of your radio, changing to a different channel.

“Command, this is Dragon, do you copy?”

No response comes through, and you’re forced to move from the wall with your gun poised, firing shots at any unfamiliar figure you see.

“Command, this is Dragon, do you copy?!”

A grenade explodes a short distance away, shaking the ground and sending you stumbling.

“Command, this is Dragon, Operation Fawn has been compromised! I repeat, Operation Fawn has been compromised! Delta Team needs immediate backup, over a hundred hostiles, and counting!”

Either the commotion around you drowns out the voice in your ear, or you’ve yet again received no response. You are starting to get desperate.

“Jesus fuc⎯ we’re completely overwhelmed, Command! My team can only hold out for a little while longer, but these fuckers just keep pouring in! Something is wrong, there shouldn’t be this many of them, we can’t fucking⎯”

Somebody tackles you to the ground. Gunshots, shouts, dirt in your face, a hand on your throat. The man on top of you is heavy, but you’re able to roll him off of you and shoot him between the eyes.

The blood splatters across your goggles.

It’s all too much. There are men everywhere, and you can’t see any of your team members throughout the chaos. You can’t get through to your command centre. Everything that was supposed to be easy tonight has gone wrong. Something heavy, and dark⎯⎯something that feels a lot like doom and panic and we’re going to die⎯⎯lurks in your guts, but you can’t think about that right now. You have to find your girls, have to save these children, have to stay alive⎯

Your fist aches nearly as much as your thudding chest.

Images of death and violence fade away as you blink violently, flexing your fingers individually and then all together, mind still scrambled, still alert.

There are hands on your shoulders, solid and heavy and grounding, and a pair of soft eyes searching for yours. All eyes in the room are on you, but all you can focus on is Yoongi, who looks as if he knows, as if he understands.

And there is a fist-sized patch of red on his left cheekbone. God, your fist, his face, what have you done, oh god I’ve hurt him⎯

Cool air blows on the silent tears that stream down your cheeks, your bones trembling with adrenaline and fear and sorrow. He’s saying something, lips moving slowly, but the clouds in your head are muffling everything. His hands move to hold yours.

You recognise the movement of his lips as the words breathe, it’s okay, and you try your best to obey, but your throat has closed up, tight like the grip of that enemy soldier who had held you to the ground⎯

Yoongi brings one of your hands to his chest, pressing your fingers into him, and you faintly feel the thudding of a heartbeat against your palm. Then, he breathes in, slow and deep, and you follow.

In and out, one by one, Yoongi slowly guides you to breathe steadily once again, your chest growing less tight with each shaky gasp. The tears have stopped flowing, and your limbs have calmed into only a slight tremor, and the darkness in his eyes are captivating. You want to lean forward, let them swallow you whole, but you instead squeeze his hands in silent thanks.

“Let’s get you to bed,” he whispers, and you realise that your head has calmed down enough to take in your surroundings. All seven are watching you with a careful and guarded eye, but you find no pity. It brings you a sliver of relief.

Rather than replying, you merely nod your head and allow Yoongi to pull you up onto shaky legs. Exhaustion is already weighing you down, and all you want to do is escape your own mind.

They have been once before. You, asleep in the spare room, and them, huddled together on the lounges. They are worried about you, but they are also much more; the fear in your voice, the heartache in each memory, was familiar to them. As they watched you relive your trauma, they relived theirs as well.

“I’m sorry, I-” Namjoon’s words stutter out, unsure, unplanned, unlike the way he usually speaks. “This is my fault. I should’ve known- it was too early to- and maybe you wouldn’t have gotten hurt...”

“Hey, no.” Seokjin’s hands on Namjoon’s shoulders are as firm as his words, kind eyes seeking regretful ones. “Don’t blame yourself; this is nobody’s fault. She made her decision to tell us. Don’t take that away from her. And we all know that she couldn’t help that reflex. Yoongi’s been hit harder.”

“We didn’t even hear the rest of the story,” Jimin pouts, nibbling his lower lip between his teeth. “Like, how she died, how her team died, what happened to the mission.”

“We’ll have to be patient,” Yoongi sighs. His cheek is already blue and purple, and will probably be fully healed in an hour. “We know the fundamentals, anyway. A mission that was supposed to be clear-cut somehow got turned on its head. It cost her team’s lives.”

“How does something like that even happen?” Next to Jimin, Taehyung’s pout is not quite as full, but still full of the emotions he is trying to keep in. “It isn’t just her team that got hit, but the entire Special Warfare Command. This was a big operation, guys, so something like this should’ve been prevented.”

“Do you think…” Jeongguk is clutching a pillow close to his chest. “Do you think somebody from the inside betrayed them?” Six faces turn to look at him, shocked at the implication, shocked that it makes sense. “I mean, the information about the operation would have been top secret. North Korea has resources, sure, but they shouldn’t have known the when, where, and how of the mission. Somebody had to have turned.”

“Who would’ve done it?” Jimin’s question is not asking for an answer. He feels sick at the thought.

It is at this moment that Hoseok chooses to emerge from his deep silence. When he speaks, his voice is regretful. Knowing. “I think she knows exactly who did it.”

< prev - next >

tags: @leafyturtle​, @loveyoongles, @paint-music-with-me, @barbikatherine, @itsmorgo1604, @calling-dips-on-j-hope, @veronawrites, @applepie1000, @yoonchrisgullwrites, @ally22042000, @ireallylikefoodandyoutube, @blglmgk01​, @basicgukk, @softescapism​, @sinceritythatcouldntbedelivered​, @m1nt-3lla​, @hunnayesblog, @rosycheekb​, @hemmofluke​, @the-bisaster​ 

[breynekai-tfc]

Number One Fan

Summary:   Danny is injured during a ghost fight one night. Dash finds him, takes him home, and nurses him back to health. 

Length:  7081 words

Part 2

Basically some meandering interactions between Dash and Phantom, with hints toward a one-sided attraction on Dash’s part.  This is a two-shot; the second half will be up tomorrow.  

Read on FF.net, AO3, or keep reading below. 

He sucked up the puddle of arachnid into a Fenton Thermos. Holes littered the lawn around him where its feet had sunk into the spring soil, muddy and loose from three days’ worth of constant drizzle. ‘British weather’, his mom would have called it. Even now a light mist - heavier than fog but not substantial enough to be called rain - floated through the air. It had already coated Danny’s hair, face, and suit in a thin layer of condensation. The water ran over his face like sweat.

He was exhausted. If he had needed to breathe, he would have been panting. If he’d had a pulse, it would have been racing. Instead, his core ached dully, complaining of the expenditure of energy. His aura was not as bright as it should have been on this dark, misty, overcast night. Normally he would have been a beacon; right now he probably blended into his surroundings, giving off no more light than a will-o-the-wisp in a murky swamp.

And still, it wasn’t over.

After defeating a ghost and containing it in a Thermos, any ectoplasmic waste or byproducts it left behind should disintegrate and vanish. The Thermos completely sealed ectoenergy, thereby cutting off the core from any parts remaining in the world. But the Amity Park Public Library was still covered in a purple, pulsing tent of ghostly webbing.

Geez, he hoped there wasn’t another one.

Danny eyed the building. He wasn’t sure how long it had been sequestered like this. Presumably not much longer than it had taken for his ghost sense to explode out of his cold core, jolting him awake, and for him to race in the direction it pointed him. Five minutes later, he had discovered the library and the Godzilla-scale spider crouching on top of it.

He had no idea what time it was. He hadn’t checked the clock before flying off into the night.

It had been about eleven when he wrapped up his patrol earlier - a patrol which, ironically, had been entirely quiet. Goes to show what happens when you skimp on security duties because of bad weather, some mild discomfort from having to fly through a neverending curtain of damp. He wondered if he had stayed out a little longer if he could have intercepted the spider before it nested. Ghosts often tended to get a lot stronger when they were allowed to accomplish their objectives, drawing energy from the sheer satisfaction of fulfilling an obsession. Who knew how long it had been working before its sudden power boost triggered Danny’s ghost sense?

Danny squinted through the drizzle at the cloud cover, barely making out the position of the moon. Maybe three o’clock or after? He wasn’t sure how long it had taken him to beat the hairy, eight-legged behemoth. The fight had been tedious and drained his strength, but in all likelihood was shorter than it had felt.

He wasn’t sure he had actually defeated it.

His core twinging, he forced himself back into the air and drifted across the ruined lawn, across the parking lot, and to the side of the building. A feeling of unease filled him as he drew closer, the product of psychological wards woven into the strands of spider silk to scare away predators. Ignoring the way his core clenched and his skin crawled, Danny grit his teeth, turned intangible, and phased through the protective layer of webbing.

Inside, the dread atmosphere was even more overwhelming, hanging in the air like a miasma. Webbing draped over every surface and hung from the ceiling in loops and clumps, glowing a sickly shade of violet. It provided the only light in the building, and Danny’s own silver aura barely reflected back to him.

After nearly three years of being dead and fighting ghosts on a daily basis, Danny was rarely unnerved by the things he saw. But this was spooky, even to him. He shrugged and shook out his shoulders and arms, chalking up his feelings of trepidation to basic survival instincts, which were good things. He was tired, and his body knew it, and it was just sending signals to his brain to be careful. This was not actually all that frightening. Nope. Not frightening at all.

Danny floated further into the building, senses on high alert. The webbing stretched on and on, but nowhere did Danny see a creature who could have spun it. This was surely the work of the larger arachnid he had fought outside… right?

Danny reached the central help desk. It was a small unit of furniture - a U-shaped table, return bin, filing cabinets, and several computers with the library catalog system, all sitting in the middle of a wide and open space of carpet at the hub of the fiction and reference shelves. As Danny drifted towards it, he was so focused on looking and listening for an enemy on all sides that he floated straight into a web. Unlike the thick, goopy strands coating the rest of the building, this was a delicately woven oval suspended between the floor and ceiling. The kind of webs spiders built for catching prey.

He yelped and flung himself backwards, but the web followed him, snared him, snapped back into place with Danny still firmly attached to it. The webbing clung to his face, filling his eyes with violet light, inciting panic. He pulled at his arms, frantic to wipe the strands from his face, get them off of his body, but nothing was moving, he couldn’t budge, he was stuck, like a fly, and what did spiders do to flies…?

The realization of his own stupidity struck him like a slap in the face, and a split second later, he was intangible and shooting backwards, arms pinwheeling as he forced himself to a mid-air stop - before he blindly landed himself in a similar trap, or before he decided to phase through the roof of the building, call it a night, let another ghost hunter deal with this.

He wasn’t allowed to do that.

The leaden weights of responsibility wrapped around his body, draining the blind panic and replacing it with lucid determination. If Valerie or his parents were hurt because of some mess he failed to resolve, if one of them died, he would never be able to forgive himself, would never be able to claim the mantle of hero for the rest of his half-life. That reality was much more frightening than anything a ghost could throw at him.

As he centered himself, Danny noticed that the web he had just extracted himself from was vibrating, humming tautly, shivering from floor to ceiling. His eyes followed the anchoring strands of the web upwards. He groaned, and everything suddenly made sense.

On the ceiling, stretching from one wall to another and looking like a scene out of Femalien, were eggs, a hundred of them, violent purple and struck through by glowing green fissures like ichor. The spider he had faced outside of the library must have been their mother, and her objective had been finding a safe place to nest and lay her eggs. Having accomplished that, she was at her most ferocious when a certain human-ghost hybrid had shown up to threaten her children.

Danny had vaguely known that ghosts could reproduce - how else could he explain Box Lunch? But if this was seeing the miracle of ghost life in action, it was nothing he ever wished to see again.

The trembles from the web rippled through the eggs on the high ceiling of the library. First in the middle, expanding outwards in waves, the eggs began to wobble, began to crack with sharp snaps of verdant light. As he watched the first legs begin to poke through purple membranes, Danny realized why the oval-shaped web had been created. It would trap prey, and in thrashing for escape, whatever unfortunate creature (or person) was snared in the web would be ringing a dinner bell, telling the babies that it was time to wake up and have some breakfast.

The first of the brood had breached their cells and were dropping onto the floor. Deep black in color, struck through by ectoplasmic green striations, they were the size of large dogs, and they were fast. As soon as their myriad eyes found Danny, they began to leap at him.

Crying out, Danny flung up an ectoplasmic energy shield. The newborn spiders slammed into it, causing the shield to flare and for Danny’s core to tighten painfully. The shield broke within seconds, and the rush of arachnids slammed into him, knocking him to the floor.

Danny saw legs, flashes of black eyes with verdance burning deep within, and then pain like acid burst against his right shoulder, his stomach, his left leg. He screamed, feeling the bright acidic energy flowing into him, burning him from the inside as it bloomed across and underneath his skin. Distantly, he felt something soft drifting over him, light as snowfall but as firm as steel cables. It crossed his bleary vision, sickly purple.

The weights on his chest, his arms, his legs, were abruptly flung off of him. He was left staring at the ceiling, where spiders continued to crack their eggs and fall to the ground, but he could hear their hissing voices, impacts, sounds of tearing, squeals of pain, splashes of ectoplasm on carpet. The spider brood was fighting. Apparently there wasn’t enough of him to go around.

Danny could not move. His thoughts were blasted with hot green pain, eating through his limbs and leaving cold numbness in its wake. He knew he had been bitten, repeatedly. This was poison. His enemies were fighting for the chance to devour him. And he could not move.

The deadly, acidic pain trickled down from his shoulder and up from his stomach and danced around his core, which stubbornly burned it away. If not his body, at least his essence was refusing to go down without a fight.

The realization that he was going to die, really die, eaten alive and entirely helpless to do anything about it, galvanized him. He grunted, a strangled sound from deep in his chest. Then Danny pushed at his core. He had no confidence that he would be able to move his limbs to do a damned thing, but if his core was fighting, he would use it as his best asset. He concentrated on it with a singular intensity, blocking out the squall of the hungry spiders, blocking out his pain, willing his core to expand, explode if it needed to.

A different but familiar type of cold rushed through him. A split-second later, a blizzard burst from his awakened cold core, howling through the room and freezing everything in its path. It hit the walls and ceiling and windows, shrieking, and died away. In its wake - silence, like a winter’s night under a blanket of snow.

Icy energy crackled over his skin, momentarily halting the spread of the venom. Danny wanted nothing more than to close his eyes, succumb to the cold numbness of poison and frost. But the spiders weren’t gone, and the next prey they sought would be outside of the library with no weapons to defend themselves. This was a horde that could kill a town. Danny had to protect them.

With a Herculean effort, Danny sat up. The webbing laced over his body crackled and splintered to pieces. The room around him had been transformed into a glimpse of a modern-day Ice Age. Thick, supernaturally blue ice coated the library’s every surface, the spiders and their webs only barely visible in its bright but murky depths. Danny concentrated on moving his right hand, but it was entirely numb and dead to him. He switched to his left, fumbling for the Thermos that hung on his right side. He pulled the strap across his chest until the Thermos was sitting in his lap, wedged between his thighs for support. He unscrewed the lid, lifted it with one hand, braced it against his chest, and hit the button.

Blue light swirled from the softly whirring device, but with no target in its path, it simply dissipated into the air. Frowning, Danny channeled some of his own depleted power into the Thermos to influence its behavior. The light began to do what he wanted. It condensed above the checkout desk in a bright orb. Like a black hole, it began to absorb the ectoplasmic energy around it. Ice, webbing, spiders, everything ghostly in the room began cracking apart and flying into the focal point of the power, which in turn compacted and channeled the energy into the containment device. Danny felt it tugging on even him, but because of the nature of the energy fueling it, he was not swept up in the maelstrom of deconstruction.

No more than a minute later, the room was cleared. Danny snapped the lid back on the Thermos, and everything went dark. Without the ice or webbing, there was little to illuminate the library. After a few seconds, as his eyes adjusted, the room clarified under the soft orange glow of the street lamps outside.

Danny’s core felt like stretched taffy, or a threadbare cloth. It felt like if he were to exert any more pressure on it, it would snap or implode in on itself. Danny was surprised he hadn’t reverted to his human form yet.

He glanced down at himself. He couldn’t see the bite on his shoulder, but he could see the ones on his abdomen and his left leg. Four punctures, holes left in his jumpsuit, roughly the size of nickels. They oozed something green, which Danny might have mistaken for his own ectoplasm if not for the fetid feeling the ooze gave off. Danny wasn’t sure what the poison would do to him, if it was meant to paralyze him or kill him or turn his insides into goo. Already it was fighting his cold core to continue its inextricable path through his body.

A certainty settled over Danny, based on no evidence but his own gut feelings: if he returned to human form, with this poison coursing through him, it would be the end of him.

Sick with dread, Danny fell forward, planting his left arm against the floor, dragging his right leg underneath him, pushing to standing. He nearly toppled over again. His left leg from the knee down was numb, and it barely supported his weight. Danny only managed to walk by rocking onto it and back to his right leg before his knee had the chance to buckle. He did not dare fly.

Danny reached the door and opened it by hand. The webbing that had covered the building earlier was gone, destroyed with the capture of the spider brood. Dazed, Danny hobbled into the parking lot and across the lawn.

He had to get home to Fentonworks. His parents would have something in their lab that could get him through this, preserve his ghost half long enough for it to fight off the poison. Maybe, if he gave himself an injection of purified ectoplasm it would bolster the energy in his core, or maybe he could just toss himself into the Ghost Zone and absorb the atmospheric ectoenergy there.

He had to get home.

He had to walk there.

How many miles was it?

Danny stumbled down the sidewalk in a haze of existential terror and pain. The poison had begun to sludge through him again, climbing his thigh, spreading across his back, filling his chest. He began to feel light-headed, and the edges of his vision were filling with shadows. His feet jerked him forward numbly, but he had no perception of actually moving.

His left knee buckled, and Danny fell to the ground. He tried to catch himself with his hands, but they didn’t respond to the commands from his brain. His chin throbbed dully where it hit concrete.

Danny lay with his chest against the ground, arms limp at his sides, face turned toward the grass. Moisture pooled in his eyes and trickled out of the corners. If he’d had the energy for it, he might have been sobbing. But his upper body was numb, and so was most of the rest of him. Cotton wrapped around his head.

He was dimly aware of sounds: the crunch of tires over asphalt, the slamming of a car door, a shout. His body was turned over, presumably by a person. Danny’s vision was too full of shadows to see who it was.

After that, there was nothing.

---------

Dash had woken to the sound of his PhanClub Ghost Spotters app shouting, “I am the Box Ghost! Beware!”

Blearily, he grabbed his phone off the bedside table and swiped to unlock it. His eyes scanned the notification, picking out key words: public library, giant spider, literally it’s as big as a house, level 5 apparition or higher. It was 2:36 a.m.

Dash groaned, letting the hand holding his phone drop onto the mattress next to his pillow. He was too tired to deal with a fucking ghost spider halfway across town. He had school tomorrow, and besides that, it was a fucking ghost spider. He had no plans of being eaten.

He was nearly back to sleep when his phone nagged him again. “I am the Box Ghost! Beware!” Against his better judgement, Dash brought the screen back up.

2:41 - Phantom is engaging the spider. #IRememberEmber58

And like that, he was wide awake, sitting up in bed and staring at the notification.

It was a long shot. It would take him about fifteen minutes to get to the library, not including the time it took for him to get dressed, sneak downstairs to his car, and actually hit the road. There was a chance Phantom would be long gone by the time he got there.

But…

He was already moving, pulling on sweats and a hoodie, cramming his feet into sneakers that already had the laces tied.

But a level 5 apparition was tough, and a spider the size of a house was a new enemy. It might put up a real fight. If Dash got there in time, he would not only be able to catch a glimpse of his hero in action, but he would also be able to get some new material for his scrapbook. Grabbing his Fenton Camera (the only camera on the market with film and lenses specifically designed to capture ectoplasmic radiation), Dash crept out of his room.

His parents were heavy sleepers. Besides, he was seventeen, and the probability of him getting in trouble for going out at night was extremely low, even if he was caught. As long as he was on track for his scholarship, his parents hardly cared what he did. But Dash was still careful to move quietly through the house. Encountering his folks would waste precious time.

Shortly, he was out the front door, crossing the driveway to the curb, and climbing into his black convertible - top up, because of the absolute crap weather lately. He turned the key in the ignition, put it into gear, and sped out into the silent streets of Amity Park.

In the two and a half years since the PhanClub had been founded, many members had joined, and many of them had since become inactive. Everyone in town - except the Fentons and a few other diehards - had accepted that Phantom was a bona fide hero. No one had abandoned him in that sense. But after two and a half years of seeing Phantom kick ghost butt around town, the ghostly hero had lost his novelty for a lot of people, who then moved onto other things. There were very few members left who, like Dash, were willing to hop out of bed in the middle of the night to drive to ghost fights and take pictures. Most members had either muted their nighttime notifications or gotten rid of the Ghost Spotters app entirely.

Dash considered himself Phantom’s number one fan. He wore the badge with pride and contested it with anyone who tried to claim it (though very few bothered anymore). Sure, there were others on the Ghost Spotters app, like IRememberEmber58, who posted every ghostly encounter they came across, but these guys were “ghostakus” - they were in it for the ghosts, all ghosts, any ghosts. Some Ghost Spotters even supported the local bad guys. Ghosts like Ember, Technus, even the freaking Box Ghost had fans, and many Ghost Spotters would take bets on ghost fights, not over who would win - that was always Phantom - but how long their favorite ghost could escape the Fenton Thermos.

There was even a trading card game… okay, Dash collected those, too. They were pretty cool.

But for Dash, there was only one reason to be in the Ghost Spotters, and that was to be alerted of every appearance of Danny Phantom possible. Watching Phantom in action, risking his life to selflessly protect the people of Amity Park, displaying awesome feats of power, and doing it all with a good sense of humor - it never got old, and Dash didn’t think it ever would.

Dash drove to the library at however many miles over the speed limit he could get away with. Every few minutes, the Ghost Spotters app would light up with a new notification. Dash grabbed his phone and glanced at them:

2:50 - Spider is down. I repeat, spider is down. #IRememberEmber58

2:51 - Vestigial ghost matter on library not disappearing. Phantom looks wary. #IRememberEmber58

2:52 - Phantom entering library. Ghost fight part deux? #IRememberEmber58

2:58 - Webbing on library vanished. May be over people. #IRememberEmber58

Dash growled. He was so close, but it looked like this was going to be a waste of time after all.

At last, the public library rose in Dash’s sight down the road. Like IRememberEmber58 had indicated, everything seemed quiet. Dash figured he ought to drive by anyway, see the damage, maybe catch a glimpse of Phantom flying away, make sure this wasn’t a complete fucking waste of time.

As he pulled up along the eastern side of the library, Dash’s phone went off one more time.

3:01 - Phantom emerging from library - on foot? Probability of injury high. #IRememberEmber58

Dash blinked at the notification. He took his foot off of the pedals, letting his car cruise slowly down the road, all while he squinted through the damp on his windshield towards the front of the library.

There. At the end of the parking lot, cutting across the grass toward the sidewalk a few hundred feet down the road from Dash’s car. Phantom’s aura was so weak that he barely stood out from his misty surroundings. He was limping, on the ground - the actual ground. Dash could see that his right arm was hanging at his side like dead weight and that his head was down, like all of his attention was on putting one foot in front of the other.

This was not good.

Fear wound its cold fingers around Dash’s heart and squeezed. Dash had never seen his hero in such bad shape; even when he lost battles, it was because the other ghost would get away, not because they actually defeated him in combat. Nervous, unsure of what he should be doing, Dash let his car keep coasting down the road so that he could follow Phantom, make sure he got to where he was going okay.

Phantom reached the sidewalk, Dash following a few yards behind. The ghost’s steps were slowing, and he was not walking in a straight line.

All of a sudden, one of Phantom’s knees gave out and he fell over face-first onto the ground.

He did not get up again.

“Shit!” said Dash. His foot slammed down on the accelerator, and his car leaped forward before he managed to slam his foot on the brake. He was out of his car a second later, running around the front of it, falling onto his knees by Phantom’s head.

“Phantom!” he cried out. “Hey man, are you okay?”

Phantom did not respond, did not move. He lay on the wet sidewalk in front of Dash completely inert, damp hair hanging over the half of his face that was turned upward. A Fenton Thermos, strapped over his left shoulder, lay in the small of his back, its indicator pulsing red.

Dash brought up his hands, and they hung in the air over Phantom’s back, shaking. He was hesitant to reach out and touch his idol. He had not been this close to Phantom since the time at Fentonworks back in his freshman year, when they had both been shrunk by some loony Fenton invention and had to fight Skulker to get back to their normal sizes. A true team-up, and Phantom hadn’t spoken to him since. Instead, Phantom had gone on to become even more powerful, defeating huge and impossible foes, rising to a place Dash could never hope to be, probably forgetting all about Dash in the process. Dash didn’t deserve to be this close to Phantom, not anymore.

But Phantom was in trouble, and Dash was all the help he had. It looked like, after two whole years, it was time for another team-up.

As Dash grabbed Phantom’s rain-slick, icy-cold shoulders to turn him over, he did not feel excited about the prospect at all; rather, he felt sick to his stomach.

Phantom weighed basically nothing. It was the easiest thing in the world to roll him onto his back, and Dash half-expected the ghost to dissolve into nothing in his fingers. Once he was on his back, Phantom’s head lolled against Dash’s knees. His eyes were open, dull green rather than the bright, vivid neon they should have been, staring blankly ahead at nothing. Dash saw trails of some silvery moisture coming out of the corners of his eyes, mingling with the rain, and he realized that they were ectoplasmic tears.

“Phantom…?” he whispered. Phantom did nothing to indicate he had heard Dash. The muscles in his face hung slack, and he wasn’t breathing - shit, he wasn’t breathing! But did ghosts even need to breathe? Did they even have lungs?

Could they die?

“Calm the fuck down, Baxter,” he told himself. “He’s not dead. He can’t be. He’s just hurt bad, real bad.” He glanced over Phantom’s body, looking for the injury that had put his hero in such a terrible state. What he saw were six small holes in his jumpsuit, in pairs, two on his right shoulder, two on his stomach, two on his lower left leg, all oozing a sickly green substance. Now that he looked more closely, Dash noticed veins of the same color, branching under the skin on Phantom’s neck where it rose out of the collar of his jumpsuit, curling over his jawline towards his cheeks like emerald lightning bolts.

“What the…” Dash murmured. Then it hit him. Phantom had been fighting a spider. These were spider bites.

Without thinking, Dash reached out his right hand and touched the green stuff oozing from Phantom’s shoulder, just above his collarbone. Immediately he recoiled - it felt like it had stung him! And it kept stinging him, burning him as if he had stuck his fingers into a vat of acid. Dash stared at his fingers in horror. His forefinger and middle finger had two small drops of venom on their tips, and even as he watched, it absorbed into his skin, snaking down through his fingers in bright green lightning bolts of poison.

Dash screamed, kicking away from Phantom, staring at his burning hand. The venom crept down his fingers, into his palm, where finally the green veins tapered to nothing. The sensation of burning sunk into a deep cold, and then into complete numbness. Dash tried to move his fingers; his thumb, ring finger, and pinkie only twitched, and the two that had touched the poison would not respond at all. The muscles in his wrist and at the base of his thumb ached dully. Turning his hand over, Dash saw more lightning bolts pulsing on the back of his hand.

“Fuckfuckfuck.” What had just happened? What was he supposed to do with this?

His eyes were back on Phantom. Whatever had just gotten on Dash’s fingertips, Phantom was full of it. No wonder he wasn’t moving. The dude needed help.

Dash clambered back to his feet, careful of his right hand. He opened the back door of his car, then turned around and, with extreme caution to avoid touching the spider venom again, lifted Phantom into his arms. One arm under the ghost’s knees, one under his back, Dash carried Phantom to his car and gently laid him in the backseat. The weakness of Phantom’s aura was even more apparent in the darkness inside the car.

Dash slammed the door shut and climbed back into the driver’s seat. His Ghost Spotter’s app went off again. Thinking that there might be another ghost around, Dash checked the message and scowled.

3:08 - Phantom abducted by strange black vehicle. Probably the feds. Good luck, ghost boy. #IRememberEmber58

Dash had no clue where IRememberEmber58 was watching the library from. Regardless, he rolled down the window, stuck his hand out, and flipped the dweeb off.

Dash put his right hand over the gearshift but could not clutch it to put the car in drive. Awkwardly, he used his left hand to shift gears. Driving home, his right hand was hooked in the steering wheel at the wrist to help in steering as much as possible. He sure hoped the numbness wasn’t permanent. That was his throwing hand.

On the way back to his house - and was that really the best place to take Phantom but he couldn’t go to a hospital and the Fentons wanted to gut him so screw it Dash’s house was as good a place as any - Dash kept an eye on Phantom in the back seat. There was no outward change in his condition, which could have been good or bad for all Dash knew. The green venom leaking from the bites and glowing under his skin was the brightest thing about the ghost, who could almost be mistaken for human at this point.

Dash speeded all the way home, and it still took too long. As soon as his car was on the curb, Dash cut the engine, leapt out of the vehicle, and got Phantom out of the backseat. He ran with the ghost, who couldn’t have weighed more than twenty pounds, up the driveway to the front door. Dash had to shift Phantom, drape him on his stomach over Dash’s shoulder, so that he could get his key out and get the door open. Once they were inside, Dash carried Phantom up the stairs, praying to God that his parents didn’t choose now to wake up.

At the top of the stairs, Dash began to feel a biting pain in his right shoulder, underneath where Phantom was laying on top of him. Clenching his teeth against an expletive, Dash hurried down the hall, into his bedroom, to the bathroom attachment. He shut the door, turned on the light, and hurriedly deposited Phantom in the bathtub. Stepping back to the counter, Dash looked in the mirror and was horrified to see that some of the venom from Phantom’s stomach had seeped into his hoodie. Crying out, he frantically yanked the hoodie off and threw it into the corner.

Turning back to the mirror, Dash watched three small fireworks of ectoplasmic venom sparking across his right shoulder. The bitter cold sensation sank deep into his muscles, and by the time the numbness set in, Dash was not surprised to find that he couldn’t lift his arm. With his hand already out of commission, the only thing he could do was bend his arm, weakly, at the elbow.

Dash gripped the countertop with his left hand and leaned forward until his forehead was resting on the cool surface of the mirror. Things were fucked, and he knew it. His hero was laying in his bathtub, possibly dead. Dash himself had been poisoned by a giant ectoplasmic spider he hadn’t even seen, and who knew what kind of messed up shit this was going to do to him?

He had no idea how to help either of them. He was just Dash Baxter, high school quarterback. He wasn’t smart enough to be useful to anyone in an emergency, not even himself.

He forced himself to take several deep breaths. He reminded himself that he might not have been the best help for Phantom, but he was the only help the hero had. Dash had to do something. For all the times Phantom had saved his life and the lives of everyone in Amity Park, he had to do something.

Not looking at Phantom - not yet - Dash went back into his bedroom. He dug around in his closet until he found the lime green raincoat his grandma had bought for him on his last birthday, which was so ugly that he had never worn it. Awkwardly, he shrugged it on, using his left hand to grab his right and drag the right arm into a sleeve. Then he went back downstairs into the kitchen, where he grabbed a pair of rubber gloves from under the sink that his mom used to wash dishes. He hoped that this would be enough.

Back upstairs in the bathroom, wearing the raincoat and rubber gloves, Dash finally looked at Phantom in the tub. The ghost looked even worse under the bright LED lighting. His glow was essentially nonexistent, his normally tanned complexion was sallow, and his dulled green eyes continued to stare into nothingness. Phantom’s white hair was plastered to his head with the moisture from outside, and his suit was wet with water and smears of toxic venom.

Dash had to get the venom out of Phantom. The question was - how?

Dash sat down cautiously on the edge of the tub. With his left hand, he pushed Phantom into a more comfortable position, sitting propped against one end of the basin. He grabbed the strap of the Fenton Thermos and pulled it over Phantom’s head before setting the surprisingly heavy contraption on the floor behind the toilet; Dash knew what was inside, and he wasn’t about to unleash a house-sized spider monster because he accidentally kicked the thing.

Turning back to Phantom, he experimentally touched some of the venom on Phantom’s leg with his glove, half expecting the ectoplasm to eat through the material. It didn’t, and Dash heaved a sigh of relief.

Using his left hand, Dash tried pinching the skin and muscles of Phantom’s shoulder to squeeze some of the poison out, but between the rubber of his glove and the slick material of Phantom’s jumpsuit, it was impossible to get a hold. Really, the jumpsuit needed to go.

Dash flushed red at the thought. Was he really sitting here, thinking about undressing his hero…? His eyes found the little zipper at the top of the neck, and Dash gulped. A second later, he was berating himself. “You’re being an idiot. Just take the damn suit off so you can help him.” He reached out, grabbed the zipper, and pulled.

Dash soon discovered it was a chore and a half to use one hand to undress another guy who was completely limp, and any excitement he might have felt at the task quickly evaporated. It was several minutes before Dash had Phantom out of his gloves, boots, and jumpsuit, which he piled in a heap on the floor next to the tub, leaving Phantom in nothing but his white undies.

Like the patterning on Phantom’s neck, the rest of his body was covered in zigzagging bolts of pulsing emerald poison, especially concentrated around the three weeping bite wounds. Dash felt sick looking at it, and he hoped Phantom wasn’t conscious underneath that blank expression.

Dash turned on the bathtub faucet and ran the water until it was lukewarm. Phantom showed no reaction to the liquid sloshing around his legs, but Dash had not expected him to. Dash figured room temperature was the best bet - he didn’t want to burn the ghost, but he didn’t think cold water would be good for someone with spider bites, even if ghosts were naturally cold. Thinking about that, Dash rinsed his left glove in the faucet and then used his teeth to tug it off of his hand. He then laid the back of his hand against Phantom’s forehead.

It was warm. Human warm. Dash had been grabbed by enough ghosts in his life to know that Phantom should have felt as cool as the inside of a freezer. Phantom’s heat now must have been the ghostly equivalent of a fever.

On second thought, Dash cut the heat to the faucet entirely.

He used his teeth to pull his glove back on, grabbed a clean towel from under the sink, took down the showerhead, and turned the hose on. Dash used the showerhead to rinse the globs of venom from Phantom’s wounds. Then he set the hose down near the drain and began pinching the punctures, starting with the ones on Phantom’s shoulder. Venom ran from them freely, running in viscous rivulets over Phantom’s chest. Dash stopped every few seconds to hose Phantom off, sending the toxic - probably radioactive - ectoplasm down the drain to be carried far away from the Baxter home.

Dash pushed against the wound until he was sure Phantom would have bruises, and it kept offering him venom. It was not until several minutes later when the green liquid oozing from the wound lost its visceral feeling of venom and turned into a much more neutral shade of green. It was the strangest thing. The two types of ectoplasm - the spider venom and Phantom’s ‘blood’ - were almost identical to the naked eye. Dash only knew that the venom had turned to ectoplasmic lifeblood when his gut stopped screaming at him about the wrongness of the liquid he was seeing.

Dash repeated this process on the other two punctures. By the time he finished, Dash noticed that some of the bolts of venom across Phantom’s skin had begun to lose their intensity. That was good. Dash had actually been able to do something.

He rinsed Phantom off one last time from head to feet and then turned off the water. Dash patted Phantom dry the best he could considering the ghost was sitting in a damp tub in soaked underwear. Tossing aside the towel with the rest of the discarded clothing, Dash bent down, slid his left arm under Phantom’s back, managed to hook his right arm under the ghost’s legs, and lifted him out of the tub. He was thankful that Phantom weighed next to nothing, otherwise his mostly paralyzed right arm would not have been able to support his weight.

Dash carried Phantom back to his bedroom and laid Phantom in his bed. The covers were already thrown back from when Dash had gotten his Ghost Spotters alert an hour earlier. Complexion drained, eyes staring vacantly at the ceiling, hair damp, veins etched in poison - Dash’s hero looked so small and helpless. It made Dash want to hold him. Either that, or cry.

He did neither. Instead, he stripped off his gloves and raincoat, which he put in the bathroom with the rest of the contaminated articles of clothing. He went back to his closet and pulled out a pair of pajamas from the bottom of a bin. They were his favorite pair from when he was in junior high but had no longer fit him once he got taller and bulked up in high school. Warm red flannel, patterned with brown teddy bears wearing cozy-looking scarves - the only person outside of his family who had seen these was Kwan, who was sworn to secrecy. But they had been the best, especially during the winter or when Dash had been sick, the times when it was important to feel comfortable. They would probably fit Phantom.

Averting his eyes, feeling his face burning, Dash peeled Phantom’s soaked underwear off, dropped them on the carpet, and immediately put the ghost boy’s legs in his red flannel pajama pants. The hero’s modesty preserved, Dash pinched the underwear between two of his fingers, took them to the bathroom, and hung them over the shower curtain rail to dry. They hung there innocuously, glowing faintly - ghost undies.

Back in his bedroom, Dash wrestled Phantom’s upper half into the pajama top. His estimate had been mostly right - Phantom was a little too tall and his arms too long for the pajamas, by about an inch, but otherwise the pjs fit him. Phantom was pretty small.

The veins of venom on the ghost boy’s face had retreated past his jawline and were not glowing so fiercely. Now that the rest of the ones on his body were hidden from sight, he looked a lot better, although it was strange to see the hero wearing Dash’s favorite childhood pajamas, laying in his bed. A strange flutter tickled in Dash’s stomach and flitted into his heart. He was blushing again.

Gingerly, Dash pulled the blankets over Phantom up to his chin and tucked them around him. Even more gingerly, trying not to draw comparisons between this paralyzed ghost and a dead body, Dash touched two fingers to Phantom’s eyelids and closed them. If - no, when Phantom recovered from the spider poison, it wouldn’t hurt him to get a few hours of sleep… assuming ghosts slept.

Dash preemptively texted his parents, letting them know that he was sick and would be staying home from school that day. He hadn’t had a sick day since last school year, so he knew they would take him at his word. To be safe, he locked his bedroom door.

He pulled his computer chair over to the side of the bed and slumped into it. His numb right arm lay in his lap, paralyzed, the green lightning bolts on his hand as harsh and virulent as when they first appeared. He tried not to think about it. Instead, he sat up, determined to watch over his hero through the rest of the night.

-----

Part 2 --> 

[reinersbb]

𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐆𝐄𝐓 [𝐉𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐊𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐜𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐢𝐧 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 / 𝐌𝐎𝐃𝐄𝐑𝐍 𝐀𝐔] Chapter One- Pumpkin Spice

DISCLAIMER: I do not own AOT/SNK or the characters.

WARNING 18+: Heavy Sexual Themes/SMUT, Alcohol Consumption, Drug Usage, Profanity, Violence, and Some Uncomfortable Themes.

Click away now if you’re uncomfortable with anything listed above.

The fresh mid-October air plunged into your lungs after inhaling deeply through your nostrils as soon as you broke through the doors belonging to the lecture hall. Though the temperature outside was brisk, the sun was still shining above brightly. The white blotchy clouds were condensed together almost like puzzle pieces that were yet to fit together.

You were grateful for perfect weather on a day like this, and couldn't help but smile to yourself out of pure bliss. Because in all honesty, being stuck inside of lectures for the majority of the day wasn't ideal, but you sure were paying good money for it.

Pinching at the thin cotton material of your jacket, you pulled the fabric closer against your body when a gust of wind whipped past you. Maybe you should've thrown on a thicker jacket, but it's not like you took the initiative to check the weather for the day ahead when your attention was focused on making it out of your dorm room before being late for your eight am. Stopping at a large water fountain that was positioned perfectly center in the intersection of two walkways, you took a slight step with your left foot to turn and look around at all of the people floating about. Awkwardly searching for a particular face in the crowd as the sound of water gently overlapping played in your ears from the old fountain. Today, you had plans to hang out with your boyfriend, the plan was to meet up with him at this exact location. 'Maybe he's running late...' When another two minutes passed of you keeping an eye out for his familiar face, and there was still no sight of your boyfriend, you pulled out your phone to see if he'd sent you a text of his whereabouts or any piece of information. A clear notification screen surprised you, maybe even worried you just the slightest bit, but you shoved that hollow feeling down deep inside of you to tried to ignore it. 'Okay, maybe I should just text him.' Today 15:04 Where are you?✓ Your message had been sent, all you had to do now was play the very annoying waiting game. 'He wouldn't just ghost you for no reason without an explanation.' You tried reasoning with yourself. Your eyes tore away from your phone screen, deciding it was better to distract yourself with something instead of aimlessly waiting around for who knows how long. With only one glance around the perimeter, you elected that a nearby coffee cart parked further down away would be your means of distraction. What's a better distraction than caffeine? As you closed in on the dark oak wooden coffee cart, you couldn't help but notice a familiar face standing behind the cash register. The young man stood slumped over, a disengaged expression on his face, almost as if he were frowning. You lifted a brow quizically, taking the last few steps of your stride towards the cart. The man with blond hair and prominent sideburns perked up behind the register as you stood adjacent to him, "(L/N), is that you?" "Yeah, hey, Thomas! I didn't know you worked here. It's been a while since we've last spoke, how have you been?" You smiled, reminiscing in the few friendly memories you shared together. Thomas was in your German class at the beginning of the semester until you decided to drop the class and swap your minor out for French instead. There hasn't been much or any conversation between the two of you since then. "I just started two weeks ago, and about that..." the slight smile he'd managed to put on his face when you originally approached the cart faded away momentarily, "not so good actually," his cheeks flushed out of embarrassment and his smile kept wavering. "What happened? Are you okay?" You asked, genuinely concerned about your friends' feelings. "My girlfriend broke up with me yesterday," he admitted with a sigh. "Mina?" You asked and Thomas nodded, "that must suck, weren't you and her together for a while?" You could remember the few mentions of his ex-girlfriend in some of the conversations you had together before. "Since junior year of high school, she was my first girlfriend," his light brown eyes fell to the counter. "It was so... all of a sudden. She didn't even tell me why, but, in all honesty, I think it was for another guy," his fingertips tapped away at the counter anxiously. Hearing Thomas tell you about the recent breakup with his ex made your stomach twist and turn into knots for some unknown reason. There was suddenly a burning temptation to check your phone, but you refrained from doing so. "I'm sorry to hear that, and I wish there was something I could say to make you magically feel better," you shot him a sympathetic smile when he finally lifted his eyes to look up at you. "You know, I kind of feel a little bit better talking to you about it," Thomas admitted with a meek chuckle. "Anyways," he flicked the brim of his visor, "enough about me, is there anything I could get you?" He suggested to the menu of drinks. "Surprise me?" A small grin pulled at his lips, "on it." You couldn't help but notice how Thomas's emotions seemed to have pulled a full one-eighty compared to when you saw him standing idle behind the counter just a few minutes ago. "Here you go, one large pumpkin spice latte from our seasonal menu," Thomas reached over the counter, handing you a rather large paper cup, "careful, (L/N), it's hot." You accepted the latte with slight hesitation, "thanks, how much do I owe you?" You were struggling to reach your wallet inside of your purse when Thomas said, "don't worry about it, the drink is on me." "Are you sure? Because I can-" "Think of it as thanks for talking to me," Thomas showed a genuine smile while plucking a napkin from a dispenser to give to you, "just in case you need one of these." "Fine, but I'm paying for my next drink," you said, but still feeling reluctant to just walk away without paying for the drink. Quickly, you reached into your purse, feeling around for any loose money lying about. After a few seconds, you swiftly inserted a few crumpled bills and loose change into the nearly empty tip jar without even examining the tip amount. Thomas laughed after watching your efforts, "see you around, (L/N)." "Bye! Thanks again, Thomas," you sipped on your hot beverage as you steadily walked away from the coffee cart. When you passed by someone looking down at their phone, it reminded you to check yours to see if there was any response from your significant other. To no avail, there were no new messages on your lock screen, only a single notification that alerted you of a spam email message. You tabbed into your text messages once again because the curiosity gnawed away at your insides. Today 15:02 Where are you?✓✓ Immediately you felt your heart sink through your chest as you noticed that he'd definitely read your message. The same annoying worrisome thoughts intruded your mind once again, and this time it was difficult clearing them from your headspace. Today 15:09 Floch?✓ Unfortunately, the smile you had plastered on your face quickly faded away. You groaned under your breath, casually placing the hot beverage just at your lips, the scent of various warm spices tickled your nose as you precariously watched the chat bubbles appear then disappear, and reappear once again. The hot liquid almost scorched your mouth as you anxiously drew in a sip, and then another, all while waiting for his response. A sense of bile rose through your throat as the chat bubble disappeared and finally a response from Floch appeared. You read the message over and over again, trying to decipher if there was some hidden intent behind it. Floch❤️: I'm at your dorm building The page stilled for a moment when the second message of his came through. Floch ❤️: We need to talk 'We need to talk... that could only mean one thing.' In a complete utter panic, and with every intent on running to your dorm room, you forced your phone into the depths of your pocket. You carelessly cut a sharp right, the thoughts in your head running rampant as you headed for your dorm to see what it was exactly your boyfriend wanted to talk about. Your mistake was forgetting to double-check for any people around you before taking off into a sprint. Because now you came into contact with what felt like a slab of concrete in a head-on collision. Everything happened in the blink of an eye. The fresh latte flew from your grasp and tumbled onto the sidewalk, splashing you with its scorching hot liquid mid-process. Your purse fell from off of your arm as you landed flat on your back in front of everyone, and your victim had fallen to the ground with you- wait- on top of you? "I'm so fucking sorry," you hissed at the burning sensation from the drink, but also at the pain you felt from falling onto your back, the contents of your backpack digging into you. Hovering above you was a man dressed in a heather grey tracksuit. In one ear was an earbud, while the other earbud was detached and dangling in your face from the neck slit of his hoodie. A few pieces of his hair fell over his forehead and the sides of his face. You swore you could hear the faintest music pumping through his earbuds. You blinked a few times, unsure if you were seeing things clearly as he pushed himself off of you and held out a hand for you to take. Without another word, or any hesitation whatsoever, you placed your hand into his and he firmly clasped it, pulling you up onto the solid ground. The two of you bumped into each other but you promptly took a step back after you found your equilibrium. "I hope I didn't crush you, are you alright?" "Huh?" your eyelashes fluttered together rapidly, snapping yourself out of the weird trance you were in. The unnamed man chuckled dryly, "are you okay? That was quite a nasty fall. I hope I didn't break you or anything," he said with a hint of amusement in his voice, but overall it seemed that he was genuinely concerned about your well-being. "Oh, yeah, I'll be okay," you said, taking a look at your ruined jacket and shirt that was damp and beginning to grow cold from the latte, "shit." His intense light brown eyes stared down past your feet, examining the spoilt cup of coffee and the rest of the scene itself. "Here," he scooped up your purse from off of the ground for you. You awkwardly accepted your purse from the man and readjusted both straps of your backpack on your shoulders. As he stood in front of you, you couldn't help but stare at him, fully taking in his features. He was tall. Much taller than your boyfriend. His long jaw was sharp and perfectly lined with facial hair. His hair was long and a nice shade of light ash-brown and seemed to be shaved on the sides like an undercut. But, it was hard to tell since locks and strands of his hair were sporadic from the fall. Some pieces of his hair were stuck to his forehead from a thin layer of sweat. It was now that you realized how his chest was rising and falling rather rapidly with quick heavy breaths. It seemed that he'd been on a jog before you came crashing into him, at least it would explain the outfit. "Again, I'm sorry for running into you like a crazy person," you breathed out an anxious breath, "but I have to get going now, I have somewhere to be." You snatched the littered coffee cup from off of the ground and shoved it into the nearest wastebasket as you cleared the scene. You could've sworn that you heard the man calling out to you, but you refused to turn around, leaving him in the same exact spot of the incident. All you wanted to do was get to your dorm, talk to your boyfriend, and change clothes. **************** "Hey babe," you said uneasily as you saw Floch standing outside of your dorm. Floch had his back pressed against the door, his eyes glued to his phone, and his face was expressionless as the blue light fanned over his skin. When he heard your voice, he slowly tucked his phone away into his front pants pocket. Forwarding his attention to you, you opened your arms widely to greet him with a hug, but at the last second, you decided against it due to your damp top. "What the hell happened to you? You look like shit," he said with a slight chuckle as he examined your appearance. His words stung a great amount, causing you to bite at the inside of your lip, but you ignored him. "I fell on my way over here, my latte spilled on me in the process," you groaned, remembering the incident that happened not even ten minutes ago. "Do you want to come inside and talk while I change out of this mess?" You asked, heading for the door with your key. "No, I wanted to make this quick actually," he exhaled uneasily. "Okay," you wrapped your arms around your chest, holding onto yourself tightly. Your pulse quickened at the suspense, and the air around you could be cut with a knife while you waited for him to speak. It felt like an eternity had passed until those dreadful words left his lips. "There's no easy way for me to say this, so I'm just going to come right off the bat by saying that I think we should break up and see other people." Those dreadful words felt like the ripping of a bandaid, that or a complete slap to the face. The horrible predictions you tried to ignore happened to be true. Oh, how you wished you were wrong. You stared at him like a deer caught in headlights, trying to make sure that you heard him correctly. "Wha.. what?" you croaked, your mouth was dry. The silence was deafening, and the ringing sensation buzzed your ears. You watched as Floch's mouth moved, but no words could be heard over the persistent ringing in your ears. Floch gracelessly went for a hug, and even though you wanted to hug him- cling onto him and try to talk things out, he'd already let go of you. The bitter scent of citrus, the smell of him, plagued you and almost brought you to your knees with a wave of emotions following along with it. "I'm sorry," you were finally able to hear him once again. "Floch... can't we just step inside my room and talk things over?" You didn't want to sound like you were begging for him to stay, but you didn't just want to break up as if your relationship meant nothing either. "Are you sure about this?" You and Floch had been dating for not as long as Thomas and Mina were dating, but you two were going to be going on three months whenever the next month arrived. The two of you met on your first day at university, somehow he charmed you in a dorkish-way and the rest was history. And all this time you were thinking that you were in love with him. "(Y/N), it's been fun, but I think we'd just be better off going separate ways," Floch took two steps back as he stared at you, but your eyes weren't on him, but rather at his feet. "Again, I'm sorry for this." The sounds of footsteps grew distant until there was no more sound left, as your eyes stayed nailed to the spot where he once stood. He was gone. For good. You blinked an infrequent amount of times, only being pulled out of your hypnotic state when the sound of people walking down the hall caught your attention. As soon as you looked up to examine the hall, you made contact with some girl who was blatantly staring at you. Ignoring the unknown girl, you turned to your door and fumbled with the lock and key for more than a handful of tries. But eventually, you pushed through the oak door with a breeze you closed it behind you. As soon as you were alone in the dimly lit room is when a wave of emotions overcame you and the tears began rolling uncontrollably.

[bastillia]

Rough Landing

Part 2 of First Lesson

Summary: Commander Ren has a few more things to teach you.

Rating: Explicit

Words: 8.4k

Warnings: cockwarming, overstimulation, threats during intimacy, inappropriate use of the Force, oral sex (ROUGH, m receiving), unsanitary sex location, public(ish) sex, kinda exhibition kink, no aftercare, uhh bit of cumplay

A/N: Whew alright I know it’s been 3 months, but we’re picking up pretty much right where we left off. Thank you all SO much for the love on part 1. And huge thanks to my incredible friends who have supported me, beta read, and helped me conquer my stuck points. I couldn’t have pulled this through without y’all. Enjoy!

***

There was plenty to like about being in space. For one, it was absolutely quiet. 

Perfectly soundless. Unfathomably endless. In a way, the void between the stars had always been your perfect aegis; a blank slate to nurture everything you’d hoped to become. It held power in its silence, and possibility. It was calm, dark, vast-- it was home, for as much or little as you knew about the word. 

If you thought about it, living aboard the roving flagship of the First Order had always given your life more or less a perfect structure. Most of the time, you didn’t even mind the predictability of it. Your days were purposeful and productive. If, sometimes, just a little boring. But, that was okay--you liked the quiet.

And you were never ever taking it for granted again.

“Stop moving.” Kylo Ren’s voice broke through the growing rumble of the hull. It was only the sensation of gloved fingers tightening down into your hip bones that finally alerted you to the fact that you were squirming. Again. You grimaced.

"I'm trying." 

Friction from the gathering atmosphere punched the craft into a sharp rattle, and your heart struck your sternum as the controls lurched underneath your palms. Your fingers cinched down tight, the lack of circulation in your knuckles settling into a dull throb as you continued to wring the contoured grips, as if you could strangle some desperately needed assistance out of them that way.

Fuck.

Breathe.

You could do this, you just had to stay calm--think about home, about the tedium of whatever meeting was probably going on right now. About how all eyes would be on you if you were there, about the dumbstruck look on General Quinn’s face when you presented that fucking perfect dossier you’d compiled on some key New Republic official he’d been trying to track down for months.

Yes, think about that.

Not about the sweat beginning to break out across your skin, the unnerving rattling around you growing louder and louder. Not about what was still sheathed inside your twitching cunt, stretching you, demanding that your body yield to its presence.

Warm echoes of your last orgasm flared up with another clattering vibration of the atmosphere. It felt almost trapped within you, an electric refrain to the adrenaline melody that pounded your veins now. Your floor muscles quivered tight with it, eliciting an approving twitch from within your walls as Ren’s fingers flexed into the bruises on your hips. 

It was incredible, really. How time had begun to feel almost obsolete until now. It had passed abstractly in the quiet serenity of space as you’d sat filled to your limit, feeling nothing but the commander, his breathing, the omnipresent ache of his cock. Your world nothing but an aroused haze-- stirred every so often by a subtle buck of his hips, a kiss to your neck, hot breath in the hollow of your ear whispering don’t move, don’t you fucking move. Good girl. 

Your thoughts snapped back to the present with a vaguely wistful pang as the hull gave another violent shake. 

Atmospheric entry. What was that, week five? Six? Of the TIE pilot training program? It was on the phase-3 test, you were certain. And you’d put credits down that none of the novice pilots had ever experienced the added curriculum of a cock shoved inside of them.

A warning squeeze stilled another involuntary shift of your hips.

You gritted your teeth against your discomfort, instead trying to let the adrenaline form a whetstone to sharpen your senses.

Breathe.

You could do this. You were way beyond just some novice trooper, you were a fucking lieutenant general of the First Order.  And what did you do to earn that rank? You adapted. So, fucking adapt.

A jolt slammed the craft, and your muscles locked up as the head of Ren’s cock speared something tender and abused deep inside you. The ship squirreled under your grip, leaving you paralyzed as the movement of it set off every panic alarm in this new and untested region of your brain. Without missing a beat, two huge, leather-encased palms came up to wrap over your shaking hands, steadying you with remarkable certainty as they coaxed the vessel back under control. 

“Focus, lieutenant." There was almost an amused purr in Ren’s throat, his voice low and close, utterly lacking in any kind of concern. Your pulse gradually came back down, and with it, your fear curled into a flicker of annoyance. If he was going to mock you, he could at least use your proper title.

You know.

The one you’d worked your ass off for.

The drag of fingertips across the bare skin of your upper thighs jolted you. Your body felt hyper-sensitized, like the sudden touch ignited a cascade of fission that couldn’t seem to find equilibrium anywhere. It fractured your brittle composure in two, just as the roaring blaze around the viewport flared again with a powerful tremor that kicked your heart back up in a sudden panic. 

Sweat lined your palms, adrenaline congealing and turning to acid in your veins. You felt your nerve slip.

"Com-commander, s-sir, I--" 

A hum. “Control yourself.”

It was only two words, but each one cut through your rising panic like a blaster shot to the sternum, rattling you to a realization. 

Control. 

That was the test all along. He’d laid it right out in front of you, challenged you to a game with incredibly fucked up stakes, and he was drawing his hand. Taking a seat at a proverbial Sabacc table, stretching out his chest and waiting for you to either bet up, or lose your nerve. The ante was rising, piece by piece as he silently tested the parameters of your breaking point. 

But he wouldn’t find it. Not like this.

Fresh determination fixed your grip around the shaking controls. It was even enough to keep you from reacting this time when a dull pain lanced under your skin, his teeth catching a tender spot where he had marked your neck some time before. He growled. You tucked that card up your sleeve. 

“Decelerate.”

His tone had shifted quieter in a way that made your ears prick, snapping your attention away from the dull ache of your insides. It sort of stunned you, actually, into something of a quiet curiosity. 

His hand reached around you to swipe at a holopad on the console. An altimeter blinked to life, just before the soft heat of his lips returned to your ear.

“Drop to this zone.” He pointed to a region on the display. “Remain there until we get closer." 

Remnants of panic still swam somewhere in your blood, but you managed to draw a careful breath and nod your understanding. Your ante was still on the table, you told yourself. But perhaps he’d decided that challenging you could wait. For now.

Refocusing, you caressed the controls. The ship banked beautifully, intuitively at your will, before lurching a final time as the thrusters hit a stable layer of atmosphere. 

Beneath you, clouds floated in gossamer ribbons over the calm air, as tattered and thankful for its mercy as you felt. Farther down, the dim moonlight breathed monochrome shapes into being, half-swallowed by the murky vapor of shadow between them. Droplets condensed on the viewport as you dropped through the thin cloudbank, skittering shyly outwards and allowing the shapes to solidify into the oppressive grid of a cityscape.

Slowly, you could begin to make out vague details. Industrial sectors, shipyards, scrappy comms towers. The occasional twinkle of speeder headlights creeping between dilapidated buildings, and--

Your gaze snapped back to the holopad on the nav console, a deft swipe of your finger bringing up your coordinates. The planetary code blinked neutrally back at you, but the unmistakable string of numbers harpooned you with a bolt of clarity that had your ribs tightening down around your lungs. A question resurfaced from the bottom of your memory, curling up to slither coldly along the back of your neck. 

“Commander?”

“Hm.”

“Why, um--” You faltered. 

In truth, there was no reason for you to ask. The answer was already swimming around in your gut, acquainting itself with the sour feeling of dread that settled there. Waiting for your brain to analyze it while at the same time sitting in an insidious state of knowing that didn’t need to reach your head at all for you to feel its weight. 

You swallowed, and adjusted your grip. “Why a TIE fighter? Why didn’t we bring the command shuttle?” 

A pause. He reached around you, flicking a switch on the main console, and the Silencer’s headlights shuttered off with a resounding click. “We may need to leave quickly.”

For the first time since leaving the Supremacy, you felt something familiar settle inside of you. Deep and quiet, like the way sound doesn’t travel in space. It was the same, utterly instinctive feeling that took over every time you managed to get yourself in over your head-- when a negotiation turned volatile, when an unforeseen flaw surfaced in a mission strategy mid-execution. Those moments where the fixed parameters of your training ended, and the only thing left to take the pilot’s seat was your own intuition. 

But this time, there was something else there with it. It glowed within the powerful shroud of calm, thrumming quietly, filling you with something potent and restless and--exciting, that you couldn’t quite place.

Real, physical danger was not something you had much direct experience with. The various moral complexities associated with putting others up against it at your command, you had come to know well. But you were here now. Facing it in the flesh, not protected by the reinforced hull and ion cannons of a Star Destroyer. 

You were here, looking down on the dark streets of Corellia, a planet so lawless and foul and flat out fucking dangerous that the First Order had all but given up establishing a presence here long ago. Even the New Republic’s ties here were thin.

A tightness struck through your chest as you very suddenly realized that it was only a matter of time, now, before you were going to have to--

“Drop lower.” The commander shifted to tap something into the nav console. A flight course lit up the holopad, leading to a destination marker just a few klicks ahead. “Land here.”

The sector you entered seemed somehow even darker than the rest as you brought the Silencer down over the shadowed streets, hints of crumbling walls and rusted vents just barely illuminated by the occasional weak street lamp. No headlights, hardly any ground lighting--you were no ace pilot, obviously, and it took your full concentration just to maneuver the ship between the vague silhouettes of broken antenna towers, avoiding them where their spindly shadows jutted up from the rooftops. You jumped when Ren’s hands enveloped yours again.

“Right here.” He guided your hands, expertly swinging the craft around and into a hover above a dim alleyway, empty and lined on both sides with large, abandoned-looking industrial structures. Your pulse jumped. He released your hands, a finger drawing your attention to a switch on your right, then flicking it casually. “Landing gear.” 

The hull rumbled and thumped. An array of green lights flashed to life in what you could only assume was an indication of the ship’s readiness for landing. If only you felt the same. Your hands were frozen on the controls, your mind simultaneously racing and completely blank. You waited dumbly for guidance, heart hammering, shallow little breaths trapping themselves high in your throat. 

“Relax.” Ren’s voice permeated to your bones as both arms slid around your stomach, liquefying your fear into a trembling plea. 

“P-please, Commander, I d-don--” You cut off with a shiver when his lips met your neck, his hips beginning to rock in a slow, enunciated rhythm that had your cunt immediately bearing down with need as you felt him harden. “Fuck, p-please, I don’t know how t--... h-how to--”

Your eyes rolled back as a hand slid down between your legs, the leather pad of his finger finding your clit stiff and sensitive, its touch featherlight. A hum rumbled under your shoulders. “Your intuition, lieutenant. Feel it, don’t think.” 

Maker help you, there were a lot of things you could fucking feel right now. Namely, your commander’s cock slowly massaging your walls, lazy in its rhythm. Your grip on the controls banishing the circulation entirely from your knuckles. His fingers sliding down your slit, spreading as he reached the root of himself, shamelessly feeling the obscene way your body yielded to the thickness at his base. The lust that erupted low in your belly in response. The panic that was rising as you remembered your task, its sharp tendrils threatening to reach your head and overwhelm you. 

Control yourself.

A turbulent breath shook some air back into your lungs as your tiny inner voice of reason managed to surface again. Collecting yourself, you let it expand, pushing each distraction away one by one as it went. Focus, it reminded you. Remember the card up your sleeve, get through this round. 

You tethered your awareness to the ship, to the curve of the controls against your palms, to the way they extended like a continuation of your own neural circuits to command the sleek metal beast encircling you. A steady, downward press of your hands, and it purred its obedient response, settling slowly towards the ground below.

“Good girl,” Ren said. “Just like that.” 

There was something--a tiny flicker of mischief in the shadows of his voice. Maybe you would have caught it quicker, but your tunneled focus left you one fatal step behind him, too slow to anticipate his move. His hand shifted, easily finding your raw clit against his fingertip, and pressed down--hard.

Electric. Everything was electric. Your vision doubled, the shredded remnants of your nerves shorting out and screaming against the paralyzing flood of sensation, ripping a ragged gasp from the bottom of your lungs. Maker, don’t scream, don’t fucking-- 

A shift of his finger and your hips jerked, an involuntary movement of sheer desperation for escape that carried right through your whole body and into the ship.

One wing dipped to the side, and it was only the sharp trill of a proximity alarm that managed to blast through to what was left of your reflexes just in time. A curse cut the air through your lips, your shaking hands grappling the controls into a clumsy counter-correction that swayed the craft wildly as you wrestled it back to center. The rocking slowly stilled, the ringing in your ears no longer from the alarm, but your own pulse bludgeoning your temples. Ren simply chuckled, and released your clit.

“Commander.” A few rapid blinks cleared the blur from your vision, but oxygen was still painful through the panic in your chest, leaving you frustratingly breathless. “With all due respect, sir, do you want me to crash your ship?”

“You won’t.” The smirk was audible in his voice. “Or is my confidence in your aptitude misguided, lieutenant?” 

A slew of unkind words lashed themselves to your tongue, fighting for freedom with the fuel of indignation that scalded your throat like bile, but you swallowed both, smothering your thoughts into silence. Stay calm. Maintain control. You drew a tight breath. “No, sir.”

“Mm. Good.” He rocked his hips firmly up into you, and a pitiful little noise clutched in your throat. “Then land my ship, and perhaps your proficiency will be rewarded.”

Desire shot up your spine like a flare, igniting at the base of your brain and rocketing your thoughts clear past apprehension and ahead to the promise of relief. It was enough to allow bravery to wriggle back into your fingers, your hands finding the wherewithal to resume their task even as your lungs stalled in anticipation of another distraction. 

But none came. 

The relief that flooded you was immediate and powerful the second you felt solid ground settle under the landing gear. The hull groaned around you as the craft came to a full rest, wheezing like a fathier after a hard gallop, and you, its master, just thankful to have survived the race. But there was one more hurdle for you.

“You know this part.” Ren gestured vaguely to the console, still alive with various lights and indicators, many of which, no, you certainly did not know anything about.

Your eyes darted back and forth a few times before it hit you. Of course. The ignition sequence.

Presumably, to shut the fighter down, you would just need to… to do it backwards? That seemed like the logical course of action, at least. Stars, how long ago had you even taken off? The Supremacy already felt like a faint memory, the edges of its shape scattered through a hazed prism, each facet reflecting nothing but incandescent pleasure and the blinding heat of Kylo Ren. 

But you had to remember. This was--you hoped--the final test, and there was no way you were going to fail. Maker, what was wrong with you, you were better than this, just think. The last thing he turned on had been…

Thrusters.

Right console, three switches. Bring all of those down. The roar of the ion engines quieted, taking the vibration of the hull down to a faint rumble. Okay, good, next was--

Ignition. Yes, ignition: off. Much quieter now, and stars, when was the last time you breathed? Fucking breathe. Okay, next. 

Compressor: disengaged. Auxiliary last.

Everything went black as you killed the main power. Your breathing seemed to echo around in the stillness of the cockpit, your cunt twitching to life in acknowledgment of what was now pressing harder than beskar steel against your guts, amplified by the darkness. It was almost as if the power from the ship had never really shut down, but simply transferred into your own body instead, flicking your ignition switch and bringing your arousal roaring back to life with a vengeance.

Every line of the commander’s body against you was lighting up your awareness, filling the sensory void with his presence, the unbearable stillness of him. What had he meant when he said he’d reward you? You’d learned his lesson, yes, and passed every fucked up test he’d thrown at you to prove it. For that, you could commend yourself. 

But if there was one lesson more poignant than the rest, one that now stuck like thermal sludge to every crevice of your understanding, it was that his next move could come at any moment--and not always in a way you could anticipate. 

This seemed like one of those moments.

A shift of his chest under your shoulders made you jump, one arm reaching up somewhere you couldn’t see to flick a control, and the hatch cracked open with a hiss. The night air flooded the cockpit, all but drowning your racing thoughts as it drew in like a cool sigh to kiss the heat in your cheeks. Your head fell back, lungs gratefully accepting the damp and oddly foreign relief of atmospheric oxygen, even as the scent of it stuck in your mouth. It was thick, leaden with rain and crude fuel, but you hardly cared. It felt divine.

Beneath you, an impatient grunt and a single squeeze to your thighs brought you back to the present with a tiny flicker of alarm. 

“Out.” 

Your muscles froze. 

“But, I--” Whatever you might have expected out of this moment, that was possibly the last thing you could have prepared for, and your brain was fumbling spectacularly in an attempt to process the one word. 

Did he actually mean that? Was this another test? You didn’t even feel like you could move right now, let alone clamber out of the ship with your whole body aching and clenching as it was. And you were so full, and he was so hard, and now you were nearly trembling with need and--

And you took too long to act. 

Wide hands locked around your waist, and then everything shifted--he was picking you up. Holy shit he was strong, he hoisted you upwards in one effortless motion, throwing your world into a blur. The only thing you distinctly registered through your disorientation was the feeling of his hard cock pulling along your tired walls, finally popping free for you to flutter and clench around nothing for a moment before your bare ass came down on the lip of the cockpit. 

Cold metal bit your flesh, a harsh and unforgiving contrast to the warm lap you’d grown accustomed to. Fuck, everything was dark. But hearing him shift underneath you had you hurriedly swinging your legs around to jump down.

And... the ground was a lot farther down than you thought. 

You landed hard. Hard enough for your knees to buckle, and you stumbled against the hobble around your thighs in a clumsy attempt to keep yourself upright. But before you could lose your balance you were moving again, being yanked by the arm and slammed back hard against the ship.

A huge, black mass crowded in on you, looming and pressing you back against creaking durasteel, the metal still warm under your shoulders as the ship settled from flight. Your heart slammed against the commander’s advance, eyes darting through shadow. 

In the span of a shared breath, his mouth crashed down on yours, open and wanting and hungry in the darkness, and everything inside of you detonated.

The heat of his mouth was dizzying. You mewled into it, the feeling of him so strong and warm and everywhere, tugging at your hips, tongue sliding past your teeth. Your hands gravitated upwards for any leverage they could find just to pull him closer, to taste him deeper. A low, rumbling sound scraped the bottom of his chest and two huge hands encircled your wandering wrists, easily plucking them off of their feverish course and slamming them up beside your shoulders instead. 

His exploration of your mouth grew brazen as he pinned you open, crushing you against unyielding steel, even taking a moment to suck at your bottom lip before his hot tongue was licking deep into you again, stealing your breath and coaxing soft sounds from your chest in its wake. 

An immobilizing sensation locked your arms in place, keeping them tight against the ship even as his touch slid along your arms and around to the front of your torso. The extra sensations hardly even registered through the feeling of his mouth on yours until you realized you still couldn’t move while he was cupping your face with one hand, the other leather-encased palm flattening over the confines of your uniform, squeezing at the soft swell of your breasts hidden beneath. 

A low growl into your mouth, a shift of pressure up your sternum, and then his fingers found and curled over your pressed collar. With one purposeful tug, the material popped open, and you gasped.

"Commander," you broke the kiss, your head spinning as his breath immediately blazed against your neck instead. His movements were impatient, uncharacteristically clumsy in their urgency as you felt the material of your top continue to separate all the way down to your cleavage. “Commander, w-we--”

Fuck, it was impossible to think, everything in your brain felt thick with a vibrating fog. You could feel tiny points of rational thought trying to take form, trying to remind you of where you were, of why this was risky. But they were like infant stars peeking through a hungry nebula, unable to solidify before being swallowed again. 

"Fuck, w--” His tongue slowly rode the curve of your jaw, and stars, what were you even going to say? “W-we sho-shouldn’t-" 

“Shouldn’t what?” he purred, smooth fingertips trailing slowly down the bare plane of your sternum and sliding under the open edge of your coat.

A soft whine was all you could muster, broken thoughts dissolving on your tongue the moment he cupped the curve of your breast and scooped it free of your neckline, pushing the fabric aside to let your nipple peak up against the open air. 

The empty street was quiet enough that your breaths seemed to ricochet as they tripped softly over each other, sliding along the walls of the alley and joining the soft buzz of a flickering street lamp farther down. Stars, anyone could be listening-- watching, for all you knew. In a city like this, it was impossible to anticipate the stakes. Rife with the sorts of creatures who took refuge in shadow, even the darkness seemed to betray you, leaving every inch of exposed skin glowing as if the dim moonlight had suddenly adopted all the strength of a Tatooine sun. 

Your heart raced. You scrambled to clutch at the caution left within yourself, for any remaining instinct that would tell you that this was wrong, that you shouldn’t be going along with this. 

But you found no purchase. Your inhibitions were dissolving through your fingers-- dwarfed in Kylo Ren’s shadow, smothered under his hands, the power of his presence atomizing any need for your guarded reluctance and casting it into obsolescence. 

And as you surrendered, suddenly every eye that might be watching, every ear that could be tuned to your pleasure just around a shadowed corner, was like a hit of fucking spice. The thrill of it arched your back, coaxed bolder sounds from your chest that bounced daringly off of the bullet-scuffed duracrete to fade into the darkness of the alley.

Ren gave voice to it first, a growl breaking through the roar between your ears. 

“You’re enjoying this, lieutenant.” A swift yank of your undershirt revealed both of your tits to the damp air, and the chill of it settled wonderfully on the thin sheen of sweat that had gathered under your stiff uniform. The sigh that melted through your lips was as much confirmation as you could provide him. 

“Filthy thing.” His voice was a darkened hiss as he roughly took both of your breasts in his hands. “You’d let me do anything, wouldn’t you? Right here in the fucking street.” 

There was no doubt that he could sense the pleasure soaking your thoughts with every passing second, the heat coiling up through your body, breaking you into soft trembles against the solid seams of durasteel.

Stars, this was wrong. 

But there was something about it--about being pinned up, shameless, tits bared and groped in the middle of a dirty Corellian backstreet like some cheap outer rim whore, that had you feeling freer and fucking hotter than you ever had in your life.

Yes.

He could do anything. Take anything. And right now, you’d fucking give it to him. 

Your teeth sank into your bottom lip, head nodding in desperate submission as your fingers wiggled against their invisible bonds. It was like your body was coming alive for the first time, finally catalyzed to its transition state, now burning and shifting and begging silently for him not to fucking stop touching you. 

“I want to know, little whore--” His hand spread over your bare collarbones, the wide junction of a thumb and forefinger pressing the base of your windpipe. A gasping little moan left you as his lips brushed your jugular, heat striking up through your belly and all the way into your neck when his other hand urged your thighs apart to tease your slit. "I want to know just how far you can take me down this pretty throat."

Everything in you shuddered, and your unrelenting bonds were probably all that held you up against the sudden lack of support that your knees offered. Kylo Ren pressed the tip of one thick finger inside you, barely curling at your soaked entrance. 

“Do you think you can swallow my cock, lieutenant?”

“Fuck. Yes, yes sir, please.” The breathless response left you before you even registered what you were saying, so thick was the need enshrouding your brain. It muddled your hearing, put everything else on a sensory delay to the pulsing heat that slid down and coiled up in your core.

And that’s why you almost didn’t catch the gritted command before the strong presence of his body suddenly drew away from you, leaving your head spinning. 

“Get on your knees.”

The Force evaporated from around your forearms. The loss of physical support nearly made you buckle, your body sagging against the fighter and leaving you to clutch at a ridge of metal for balance. You’d heard him, vaguely, but your brain still felt spectacularly slow. You were having trouble remembering which way was up, blinking against the low light, and the small hesitation was enough. 

In a flash of movement, his saber cleared the clip on his belt, cracking the air in two as it ignited in his hand and leveled to heat your neck. 

"Now.”

For a second, everything was extraordinarily still. Your lungs, your mind, even the faint drizzle of mist seemed to suspend in the air, vaporize around the searing plasma, and equilibrate into a deathly quiet.

The red aura vibrated in your immediate periphery, engulfing your retinas and casting everything around it in near-total blackness, unwavering in its proximity as the cold street pressed your knees. 

A very marked shift took place in the state of your awareness as you knelt, waiting-- feeling. Everything was hazy and warm before, but now. Oh, now, everything was hot, and sharp. 

The snap of plasma echoing through the empty street sounded somehow both hushed and magnified. The gravelly bite of duracrete into your knees was both painful and electrifying. And all you could do was sit here and accept the way Kylo Ren drank you in, just hold absolutely still and let the tip of the saber rotate to your front, the light of it illuminating your bare chest.

And, fuck. Oh, fucking Maker-- 

You were wet. 

Every beat of your heart was an enunciated hit to your core, giving your arousal a wicked edge that cut into every last molecule of your body. Your cunt ached more with every pulse, and yet Ren just held there, his breaths shaking the damp air between you as he gazed at your naked tits under the light of a weapon that could kill you in half an instant.

You were possessed, the danger and thrill of it flooding your skin with intoxicating fire, and in a moment of what might have been either immense bravery or unfathomable stupidity, your hand began to move. 

Very, very slowly, it pulled along your belly, fingers twitching to splay downwards. The saber heated your knuckles, following as you guided it all the way to the apex of your thighs, where you paused. And then you sat back on your heels, spread your knees as far as they would go, and curled your hips forward, letting the crimson light gleam off of the wet shine of your cunt. 

“Fuck,” Ren rasped from the shadows, something delirious and urgent unearthing itself from the gravel of his voice. Somewhere beyond the snapping hum of the blade, you heard the slick sound of leather moving over flesh. “Fuck- touch yourself. Sh-show me--”

But you were already moving. Your fingers slid into the wet heat of your folds, tender with arousal, the flesh plumped up from abuse. You dragged your slick all over yourself, spreading for him, pulling up to circle your neglected clit and letting out a soft sigh at the relief that saturated you in a deluge. 

The cool air did little now to temper the exquisite heat that flooded your body as you pleasured yourself openly for him, whimpering when you felt a familiar swell prime itself deep within you. It brightened with every practiced curl of your fingers, blooming outwards to rival the lightsaber that illuminated you steadily, and it wasn’t long before your thighs began to clench, your hips rocking against the movement of your hand while heady gasps punched your chest, that luminous heat coming closer and closer to a blinding apex.

You began to flutter, tightening with closeness, but the blade shot up under your chin, freezing you in the one movement. 

“Don’t cum.” 

Your heart slammed in your throat, every muscle locking into place where it was. You could feel errant sparks biting your skin, daring you not to move or speak.

And then darkness swallowed you, a hiss of steam resounding as the saber abruptly disengaged. The lingering imprint of it marred your sight, and you gasped when the whirl of movement in front of you turned into a large hand snaking into your hair, hips crowding your face, and the warm, solid length of Kylo Ren’s cock pressing against your cheek. 

You whined, stiff muscles liquefying as you turned your mouth towards it, moisture already welling under your tongue. But his fingers tightened at your scalp, stopping you.

“See what you do to me, little thing?” 

His other hand gripped around his base, letting the weight of his cock thump against your cheek once, twice. Fuck, he was so hard, and if you thought he was big before, it was even more obvious now that he was pressed right up against your face, so close to the soft heat of your mouth.

You nodded and whimpered, letting your cheek brush against his erection, still damp with your own slick. He rocked his hips forward, and the sheer breadth of his stature dwarfed you as he pressed in closer, until your face tilted and your jaw rested up against the hard plane of his adonis belt. Heat seeped into your cheekbone, radiating from the saber hilt strapped deftly back to his hip, like a warm sun to the earth and smoke of his body. 

An absolutely crippling wave of desperation crashed through you then, pulling an audaciously loud moan up tight through your chest that morphed into a pitifully sobbed out, “Please.” 

The hand in your hair gave a firm tug until you were looking straight up his torso, the glint of his eyes just visible to your adjusting sight. He held you there, his strength commanding, voice slipping like dark matter through his vocal cords when he spoke. 

“Are you going to let this whole filthy fucking city hear what a little whore you are?” He rocked your head back and forth by your hair, turning your neck muscles to liquid. “Begging for my cock?” 

You bit your lip, too far gone to deny or assent. Perhaps caution would still be the smart thing, but stars--you didn’t fucking care any more. You’d let every wretched street rat on Corellia hear you beg for him, if it came down to it right now. 

Not trusting yourself to answer verbally, you simply let your mouth fall open so that your wet tongue could drag over the tiny slip of exposed skin above his groin, never once taking your eyes off of his shadowed face. Your reward was a thick groan and a twitch of his cock by your cheek, shooting a hot spasm into your core. Ren huffed out a tense breath. 

“Keep that fucking mouth open.”

He drew back and pumped himself, long and slow right in front of your obediently waiting tongue, black glove squeezing almost too roughly along his shaft until a thick bead of pre cum wept from his slit. Your brow pinched upwards as saliva pooled behind your bottom lip, threatening to drip down onto the duracrete, seep into a blaster hole and add to the memory that this roughened street would keep of you, so soft and wanting, incongruous next to its grit.

Ren stepped forward, obliterating your thoughts as finally, finally, he rested his thick head on your tongue, removing his own hand and letting you test the full weight of him in your mouth. Your moan was almost a sob when you closed your lips and dragged your tongue across his frenulum, letting him feel you, swirling the pre cum from his tip before sliding him deeper into the hot depths of your mouth. 

“Fuck, good girl,” he hissed, resting both hands in your hair, but not controlling. You took him another inch, tongue working to lubricate your path, satisfaction unfurling when his chest heaved at the feeling. The taste of him shot a primal fire through you, equal parts sharp and masculine, the remnants of your own cum leaving a tang on your taste buds. 

Arousal careened through your belly, and you couldn’t help but dip your hand between your thighs, fingers finding your clit stiff and sensitive as your tongue passed over a thick vein.

But he caught your movement, and your hands were immediately wrenched upwards by an invisible strength, both wrists flying up and into the waiting grip of Ren’s palms. You squeaked.

“Impudent thing,” he growled, and wrapped your smaller hands around the base of his cock, securing your grip with a warning squeeze before carding his fingers into your hair again. “Keep them there.” 

You gave a tiny nod and a shallow whimper, briefly mourning for your aching clit yet almost instantly distracted again by a twitch of his shaft on your tongue. Relaxing your jaw, you took him further, letting him begin to feel the tight silk of your throat.

“Fuck--” every muscle in Ren’s body seemed to go rigid enough to rival the durasteel frame of his ship, and his fingers clenched tighter into your hair. “Yes, take it--” he hissed as you slipped back an inch and enveloped him again, relaxing to take him deeper.

You found a steady rhythm like this, gradually acclimating to the feeling of intrusion. It became a little easier with each appreciative sound you drew from the commander, arousal permeating your body’s natural defenses and slackening them, even as your throat began to protest the moment you got about halfway down his cock.

But as hard as you tried to ignore the sensation of breathlessness, your lungs still screamed for air. You got maybe eight or nine good strokes in before your lips drew off of him with an obscene pop, slick hands taking over to work his length while you gasped a few starved breaths. 

It would have been easy to stay like this, jaw slack, lips plump and wet, simply marveling at the hard and beautifully flushed appendage in your palms. But then a finger tapped twice under your chin, breaking your daze with a wordless command that struck an immediate response--your eyes flicked up. 

“Are you determined to test my doubts in your capabilities, lieutenant?” He laid a flat palm under your jaw and ran his thumb over your blushed lips, leather slipping lewdly over saliva. “Or must I teach you everything?”

Your heart struck your pelvic floor, dread and excitement charging up like a shot from a plasma cannon. “N-no. I--” Heat surged into your face. “I me-mean, I, uh--” Fuck, it was stupid to think you were somehow out of hot water. He expected more. Always, always, expected more, and now you were going to have to play your cards carefully. You swallowed against the thundering of your pulse. “I c-can take it, Commander, ple-please--”

“Can you?” He wiggled your jaw slightly in his palm, face tilting until a sliver of moonlight slanted across it like a translucent scar. You tensed, resisting the urge to shrink. “Or should I have selected someone more adequate?”

The plasma charge inside you flared, fusing atoms of dread into something deadlier with the affront. Your teeth gnashed, tension breaking your body into trembles under the strain of caution. “N-no, sir.” A muscle in his face twitched. “Please, I was... I w-was just--”

“Perhaps I should return you to General Quinn,” he said. “I’m sure he would be more than accepting of such inferior talents--”

You lunged, and in a single, smooth stroke, you swallowed his cock straight to the base, your body heaving its protest with a soundless convulsion.

A noise strangled in Ren’s throat, and a firm hand slid around the nape of your neck to hold you there, gagging and completely stripped of any capacity for breath. 

It probably would have been too much for you to handle, were it not for the hot sparks of indignation that quickly soldered each fissure in your resolve. Each one forced you to soften, to accept the agonizing incursion, if nothing else just to prove that you could. 

Relax.

Tears welled as you glanced up, funneling all of your willpower into sacrificing your need for breath. Movement was impossible with him holding you there, but the huge hand on the back of your neck spasmed, and your opportunity struck.

Doe-eyed, you gazed up and swallowed, letting your pharynx flex and ripple around the thick head of him just as hot tears spilled over to soak your cheeks, and one hand curled around to cup him by the balls.

You could almost hear something in him snap with the choked roar he let out, and it made your chest swell even as both of his hands coiled roughly into your hair and locked your head back. You met his stare, fire in your own, and gave him a challenging squeeze. In less than a second, your hands were no longer your own, seized by the Force and shackled down to your thighs, just before his hips drew back and oxygen smacked your lungs with a less than pretty sound. 

He gave you no time to recover before his cock was gagging you again, his rhythm punctuated and slow, each thrust forcing submission from your body. Gravel shifted under your knees as you trembled with all of the muscular tension that you redirected away from your jaw, the coarse pain of it serving as a welcome diversion from the intense sensation of having your throat fucked.

Relax. Control yourself.

Wetness began to streak your face, tears and saliva converging on your chin, and the vague thought shimmered in the back of your mind as to what you must look like right now: a slutty mess completely at your commander’s mercy, drawing choked breaths only when he allowed it, tongue fluttering soft and wet under his thick shaft while your clit fucking throbbed between your legs. But from the broken sound that Ren let out as he watched another violent gag roll through you, you’d have thought it was the hottest thing he’d ever witnessed. 

His grunt bottomed out into a snarl as one hand slid out of your hair, his palm turning outwards while two of his fingers began to curl in a salacious motion.

The fluid sensation of the Force coiled and rippled across your clit at his command, its motions just like your own fingers but even better, making your eyes nearly roll back in your skull. Ren gave a knowing hum as your moan was choked down into your throat by another thrust of his cock, and a bend of his fingers sent a toe-curling rumble over your swollen bundle of nerves. 

“That’s it, lieutenant.”

The sound of his voice slid down your body, settling low in your belly where your orgasm was starting to simmer again. Even the ache in your jaw began to meld into your pleasure, making your head swim and buzz with the renewed promise of climax.

Ren’s breathing started to crack and falter, coming in half-formed curses through his ribs as he continued to steadily fuck your mouth, and it was clear that he must have been leaning on the edge of closeness for some time as well. You could feel it in the way his cock pulsed on your tongue, the way his stomach began to tense and flex.

Fuck, the thought of it--Kylo Ren, this grand enigma steeped in poise and brutality, a man who could obliterate life with a flex of his hand, was about to pull you apart by the threads, shatter you into pleasure with that same power and cum down your fucking throat. 

The wave of arousal that slammed you was almost maddening, and it was all you could do to flatten your tongue over your teeth and swallow thickly around his cock once more before everything was coiling up tight and fast inside you. 

His voice shot you to the precipice with a gritted out, “Fucking whore, let me f-feel you cum--”

There was a moment before it hit, like the way a seismic charge pulls in all of the sound around it into a single devastating point, and then with a choked sob you shattered, pulses of ecstasy ripping through your body while your cunt spasmed and wept its bliss onto the street with each unrelenting surge of the Force at your clit, wringing convulsions from you until you began to shake from the intensity of your orgasm.

You blinked the fresh tears from your eyes just in time to see Ren snarl above you, jaw tight and hips stuttering as the tension in his body threatened to snap, echoing in a rough pull of your hair. Pain seared your scalp as he pulled you off of his cock just in time for the first jets of his release to coat your tongue.

He groaned, a harsh sound that rivaled your surroundings in its sheer impurity, and he wrenched your head back further, working his length while thick ropes hit your open, gasping mouth, splattering your lips and chin with his bitter taste. He was grunting, swearing, panting through clenched teeth, and then--

Your name. Not your title, not a mocking belittlement of your rank, but your name, cracked through his lips, a desperate sound half-buried in the delirious stream of filth.

Before you could even process what you just heard, he sharply released your hair and stepped back, your invisible restraints dissipating and leaving you to crumple over on yourself, gasping and trembling and painted in cum. 

Slowly, through the ring of pleasure and shock in your ears, you rubbed your sore jaw, before using your fingers to gather the warm mess around your lips. But just when you were about to slip them into your mouth, his voice stopped you, a graveled whisper from the shadows.

“Look at me.”

Breathless, you looked up, suddenly conscious of how plump and stained your face felt as the cool air began to dry the tears on your cheeks. Ren had already adjusted himself to decency, but your walls still fluttered with aftershocks of pleasure at the sight of his huge stature, swelling with deep breaths like a sated, black tide under the moon. You gazed at him in the dim light, holding his stare while you dipped your slippery fingers into your mouth and dutifully sucked the cum off of them, admittedly letting your tongue lick out along your knuckles just a little more than you probably needed to. 

Ren’s nostrils flared, and he took a few strides in your direction. When his hand came out towards your face you flinched, but he simply curled his fingers under your chin and slowly passed his thumb over a spot on your cheek that you had missed, expressionless as he pushed it through your parted lips. He watched you like this for the smallest moment before he drew away again.

Your mind felt blank; wiped and recalibrated by the staggering intensity of whatever your life had become over the past few hours. Exhaustion settled on you with the weight of a freighter. The one thing still tethering you to reality was the sensation of oxygen drawing in and out of your lungs, sweeter now than it had ever felt in your life despite the taste of grease and rust in the air. 

Stiffly, you began to readjust your clothing, pulling your undershirt and coat back over your breasts before beginning the painful process of climbing to your feet. As shaky and sore as they were, your legs somehow supported you, and you managed to wrestle your pants back up over the curve of your ass, only fumbling a little to secure them around your waist. 

For some reason it was only after you were covered again that you even thought to look around the alley, a brief pang of fear seizing your ribs, but it was just as still as when you’d landed. Just as empty, just as quiet. Maybe even moreso.

You glanced back around to Ren where he stood by the connecting beam of the ship’s wing, still and ruminative, a sleek device raised in his hand. After a moment, he pressed a button and spoke into it.

"Report."

A crackle of static peeled through.

“Have eyes, dropping in,” you could faintly hear the voice on the other end say, and a spear of alarm jabbed you back to sudden alertness. Ren's eyes flicked to you, his face stone. 

“Clear to land,” the commander returned through the commlink, before tucking it back into his pocket. 

Your heart pumped uneasily against your ribs, your face surely a canvas of confusion. Ren cast you a blank look before grabbing a metal ridge on the ship and smoothly disappearing into the cockpit again. 

Okay, this was getting unnerving. But the whine of an engine snapped your attention to the sky, where a standard-issue TIE fighter was descending with predatory swiftness upon the alley, its headlights killed, swooping into a hover just behind Ren’s Silencer. Half-shielded by the wing already, you recoiled instinctively into the shadow of it, as if you could find safety in the way it jutted forward like a protective talon.

You jumped when heavy boots hit the ground next to you again, looking up to see a masked Kylo Ren. He watched the other fighter land, standing silently as its cockpit popped open with a whisper of hydraulics. A shadowed figure leapt out, and you took a few steps backwards as it strode in your direction, vaulting the wing-support beam of the Silencer in a smooth motion before coming to a halt in front of the commander.

“Ren,” a dusky voice rasped through the tinny filter of a vocoder. He was masked as well, similar yet altogether different from the commander he addressed; rougher-looking, shrouded in strange black armor. As you stared, his head quirked, the mask tilting to settle on you. “Who’s this?”

[silence-burns]

Please Hate Me //part 47

Fandom: Marvel

Summary: Based on: “Imagine having a love/hate relationship with Loki.” by @thefandomimagine​ Who would have thought that babysitting a god could be so much fun?

Genre: slow-burn, enemies to lovers, banter

There are few things better suited to following a great summoning ritual than stalking a kindergartener and, quite literally, taking the candy out of his chubby little hand.

"Hey, that's mine!" the brat, Timmy, screamed, but had to watch Loki unwrap the popsicle and munch on it.

"Oh, Timmy," you sighed. "I thought a tough kid like you would handle this better."

"Who the hell even are you weirdos?" Timmy considered ending his question with a kick to the shins of one of you, but decided otherwise under the unnerving gaze of the strange man in a green suit. There was something off about him, that much was certain, but little Timmy couldn't wrap his mind around how otherworldly he actually felt.

He looked around, but none of his friends were around yet, and neither were any adults. 

You smiled your beautiful, wicked smile. "Don't fret, Timmy. We've heard all about your deeds, and boy, did we actually love them."

Timmy frowned. His chubby cheeks puffed up just in case it was time to scream. You didn't look like parents of whatever kid he might've recently offended. The pocket money he was getting ;ately from his schoolmates was nothing to worry about. A few bucks here and there weren't a reason for such a direct approach. Okay, those glitter pens he took from that girl last week might cause some bigger stirrup, but she certainly had a different set of parents last time he saw her.

"The hell are you talking about?" the boy settled on a safe approach.

Loki chuckled and leaned down to look him in the eyes. The features of his face started to blur. Timmy frowned, but blinking didn't clear it up. The harder he looked, the more they melted, and molded, and reformed-

"We know what you've been doing, child," the creature's horns grew and curled, just as more and more sets of eyes popped open. "We have our eyes on you."

The shadows deepened, and the world turned colder and eerily quiet. It was the absolute stillness of something deeply unnatural moving right past you.

But Timmy, despite what his teachers might say, was a smart kid. Being a bully and a petty little thief for years without facing actual repercussions of his actions could not be achieved if one didn't know when was the time to run. Timmy knew that time had come and didn't wait for things to unravel any further. His short legs took him surprisingly far in just a few seconds. Loki and you could only watch him go.

"Do you think it'll be enough?" you asked, taking the lollipop from Loki. It was the strawberry flavor. "I certainly wouldn't want to fail our first commission."

"I guess we'll see," Loki shrugged off the spell. "But I'm pretty sure we gave him something to think about. I can send one of the shadows after him to make sure he doesn't pick on our 'client' at school tomorrow. It'll be awhile before they disperse after summoning, so we can make use of them."

"Will they still lead us to the stolen pin though?"

"Without any problem."

And that closed the case. It was a little satisfying, Loki had to admit. 

He was still unsure about the pin, though. There was something off about the type of magic he sensed in the box. Faint as it was, the tang of death and rot was still unmistakable and didn't fit in the mental image of SHIELD's safehouse it was supposed to be stored in. It made the chase after the truth more thrilling.

Loki fixed his suit. It was not the type of fashion he usually preferred, but the way you looked at him in it made it worth it. There was nothing as confidence-boosting as being aware that you’re the eye candy for anyone lucky enough to pass.

"Shall we?" Loki offered you his elbow as the shadows gathered and formed a rough doorway. Beyond it, only darkness swelled. 

Stepping through it was a fight against condensed mist, but at least it had none of the flesh-shredding quality of Bifrost. 

The shadows Loki had called followed the invisible trail of magic the pin left behind after it was stolen. There was little chance of them being wrong or simply misled, Loki had assured you earlier. As beings stuck in a state of half-existence, there was not in the physical realm so often that it could affect their judgement and cover the tracks. Still, even Loki had a moment of doubt when he took in the place the two of you had been led to.

"I think we should've used that chicken," you said, looking around what was unmistakably a forest. A thick, dark, and very old forest. Definitely the type of forest unwelcome to unannounced travelers. 

It did not mean you were scared. You were just aware of a certain, thick atmosphere hanging low in the cold, winter air. Somehow, it was darker than it should've been at that hour. The trees loomed over you, their branches twisted and hanging low enough to strangle. 

Loki kept on patting your arm while your terror grew, and despite ignoring him for a while, you finally decided to turn.

A thick wall of a hedge, painted in a rotting green and sprinkled with half-melted snow, stood tall and guarded whatever was behind it. The branches were woven too tightly together to take even a peek between them.

"Is that a house? In the middle of a forest?" You asked, but no answer came. There was no road leading to the house. The trees encircled the hedge, but didn't interrupt its space, as if that particular spot had been chopped out of the forest. As if the usual rules of logic and nature didn't apply there.

"Strange," Loki muttered to himself as he walked closer. The hedge ran far in both directions, and from the point you approached it, no gateway could be seen. High above your heads, thin swirls of smoke rose into the air. 

"We should walk around and see how to get in." You gestured to the left.

Loki looked up. The hedge loomed a few heads above him. Even if Loki jumped, he wouldn't see above it. He jumped anyway.

And was swallowed by the hedge.

You knew there was something wrong with that forest, and the strange house especially, even before the branches shot out and wrapped around Loki. He only managed a yelp of surprise before he was pulled in towards the impenetrable depth of the bushes. As much as it was reassuring to know that your senses and intuition were as sharp as ever, the time to brag would come later. Using the ace up your sleeve, or rather sword in your pocket, you made quick work of all the choppable branches. 

Loki dropped to the ground. 

"You could've cut off my hand!" He looked in horror at the cleanly cut piece of his sleeve. It had been a close call indeed.

"Couldn't you regrow it?"

Loki stopped shaking off the twigs for a moment. "I'd prefer not to find out, honestly."

The hedge, despite your trimming, was as impenetrable as before. The only thing that changed was the distance you kept away from it. After not a long discussion, you decided to look for a way in.

The little gate looked suspiciously ordinary. The metal rusted in a few spots, mercilessly beaten by years of rain and humidity. The path beyond it winded between neat rows of herbs and vegetables and occasionally flowers you couldn't name. The scent of fresh soil hung in the air as you walked through them. The house itself was neither big or new, but was most definitely haunted. There was no doubt about it. It was obvious in the way the windows watched you approach. In the way the smoke curled lazily through a draft you couldn't feel. In the doorknob in a shape of a hissing bat.

"Do we… knock?" you whispered. For reasons you couldn't explain, you had a feeling the house was listening to every word.

"That's usually how it goes," Loki's reply was equally quiet. He made no move to knock, though.

A hollow hooting was the only warning before a dark shape swooped by your heads and landed over the door. The owl was big, even once it settled and closed the wings. The feathers, in various shades of grey and muddy brown, hid it almost perfectly against the wooden planks of the house.

It was a nice owl, one might think without looking closely. Because under further scrutiny, one would notice the deep gash only partially hidden by the puffed up feathers, and the bones peeking out underneath them. 

You stared at the dead owl and it stared back.

It hooted.

"I know, I said I'm coming!" the voice from inside the house shouted. The footsteps neared. Loki and you braced against whatever you'd have to face.

The door creaked open. 

Many thoughts had passed through your mind, but one thing you didn't expect to see was a spotty-faced, alarmingly skinny young man in jeans and a cloud of smoke surrounding him. You got a facefull of an aroma that reminded you of college dorms. You wondered if Loki thought he’d met the wrong end of a skunk. 

"Listen," he said, gesticulating wildly. "I know that y'all always want shit, but my grandma is still on her vacation, and I'm currently busy. She'll surely contact you once she's done, but nothing has changed since last time, and I still don't know when she'll be back."

The owl descended majestically and sat on his still raised hand. The man blinked in mild confusion. 

"I fed you already, don't give me that look, Barbara."

Loki looked at you. You looked at Loki. The owl turned her head backward and noticed both.

"I might be wrong, but I'm pretty sure this is the first time we're meeting," Loki forced himself to say after your not-so-subtle nudge to his ribs. "Could we bother you for just a moment?"

"I'm busy, I've got a shift tomorrow and—"

Loki barged in anyway, not interested much in whatever the man had to say. 

The little house turned out to be more of a cottage. Even though some work had been done to restore it and make use of modern inventions, the very core of the cottage stayed the same as it possibly had been for decades, if not longer. 

The herbs hanging from the ceiling to dry filled the air with a pleasant, if a little heavy smell that clung to skin and clothes alike. The huge chimney was full of wooden planks and blasting enough heat from the other end of the large working space to make you regret wearing winter clothing. Whatever was boiling in the huge iron pot hanging over the blazing fire was unlikely to be edible judging by the consistency and color. Or at least you hoped it was not supposed to be edible.

The owl flew in and perched on a chair. 

"Listen, I'd really appreciate it if you could leave me alone," the man groaned, following you. 

He took another drag and exhaled a cloud of smoke, eyes red-rimmed. The owl hissed and moved over the chimney, where she sat with as close to an angry expression as a half-dead owl was capable of. 

To your left, a rather familiar and highly surprising uniform laid along with medical equipment. 

"We'll leave as soon as we get the answers we need," you promised. "And our first question is - who the hell are you, exactly?"

The man blinked. "Are you joking? I thought you were clients."

"What would you sell if we were?"

"I mean," he gestured around. "It's my grandma who deals with potions, but I suppose I could give you a medical check up if you need one? And don't worry if you're dying, that's even better, I've got that covered too. Just make sure to come to me before the decay starts, and I'll put you back on your feet in no time."

"Wait, I'm confused," Loki frowned. "Are you a doctor or a necromancer?"

"My dude, I have no idea where you've been the past few decades, but if you think med staff is capable of making a living from just one job, you honestly should get a reality check. Look around - I literally still live with my grandma and don't even get me started on how much debt I still have to pay off with those stupid side jobs."

"You mean, resurrecting pets?" You looked at the owl. Barbara was not blinking.

"Listen, I'm at the point of my life where I don't ask questions. I just need the money. I want to move out. Have you any idea what it is like to live with your 260 year old grandma who has a better social life than you?"

The silence was a little awkward. 

"Precisely."

Loki wanted to take a deep, steadying breath, but whatever the young man had been smoking didn't sit well with Loki's lungs.

"I must ask though, are you raising the dead because you're such a terrible doctor, or is—"

"Paperwork."

Loki blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Have you any idea how much paperwork follows every death? I'd rather bite off my hand than do any more extra unpaid time than I absolutely have to." The man sat at the table and produced a stash of pot from somewhere. With slow, precise movements he started to roll another blunt. You bent your knees to see under the table, but couldn't find any hidden drawers.

Loki nodded at the man’s comment, although he was nowhere near possessing that kind of knowledge. Deaths that he usually participated in involved little to no paperwork.

"Was this involved in one of your recent side-jobs?" Loki put the little wooden box on the table.

The man shook it before opening. Only after sniffing it did the look on his face change to recognition. "Yeah, I think it was. I was paid to get a pin from it. I don't know what happened to it afterward, though. The client just paid and disappeared."

"How did you get it?"

"Mice."

"What?" Loki asked. You looked around, just in case. 

"No one cares about mice, especially in huge warehouses. That makes them perfect for the job, especially if they're controlled properly."

The dead owl hooted in agreement. Loki had an idea how the mice had been initially caught.

"That complicates our case," he whispered to you.

"Who paid you?" you asked, hoping that the answer wouldn't be...

"I don't know," the young man shrugged. "Some guy in a trenchcoat and lots of shiny money. My favorite kind of a client."

The man suddenly had a few golden coins out and in his hand. You hadn’t even seen his hands go under the table that time. The coins were heavy and most definitely not fake, although you didn't recognize any of the symbols they bore.

Loki did. 

"Do you think that agent of yours will cover any extraterrestrial expenses?" he asked, watching the reflexes shine on the golden surface.

"Where are we going?"

"To the biggest black-market-turned-casino-turned-complete-mess of a planet in the universe."

"How lovely," you said.

Barbara agreed, hooting happily as she hopped off the chimney and landed on Loki's shoulder. 

"Take her." The young necromancer yawned sleepily. "She hates me anyway. Just remember not to give her any pickles. She's got terrible gas."

[bangingoutthetunes]

Snowfall.

A drabble in which you walk home with your boyfriend in the snow and get to cuddle + braid his hair. 

Word count: 2.3k

tags: hair braiding, fluff, bokuto is a human puppy 

~

“Come on, (name)-kun! It’s literally so cold out here I might die!” Kotarou pulled your hand forward and you almost tripped at the sudden jerk. He looked back over his shoulder, puppy-dog eyes wide and shining. A cheerful grin had found itself onto its face at your smile. 

“It’s not like I want to be out here in the cold, Kou! I just need to catch my breath, we’ve been running for the past ten minutes and although you’re wearing pants, I’m wearing a skirt and tights. Gimme a break!” If just for a moment, you felt burningly jealous of the pants the Fukurodani’s boys uniform required; they would’ve definitely kept you warm. Panting from the exhaustion, you trembled in his grip a little bit. He walked over to you and pulled you into his chest, chin resting on your hair and arms wrapped around your waist. He smelled like soap and vanilla and like the best parts of cold December afternoons. 

Peering to the left of his arm, you took in the scenery around you; snowflakes had begun to blanket rooftops and adorn the naked trees, minivans would drive by full with mothers and their children’s friends, bike riders would exhale dragon puffs of condensation, and some other classmates were huddling at a corner shop to pick up some hot chocolate and coffee to continue on their way. 

Having moved from the Miyagi prefecture in early March of this year, you hadn’t gotten to experience snow in a small town on the outskirts of Tokyo. This was of the first times you got to enjoy the gentle fall of friendly snow without having to worry about negative repercussions, and in this moment you wouldn’t rather be anywhere else or with anyone else than Bokuto Koutaoru, the six foot puppy that wanted to take you to his house through the long route so you could catch sight of all the wonderful sights his town had to offer. It was bitter cold outside, but the warmth inside of your chest, slowly spreading to your limbs, was enough to keep you running. 

“Are you ready to keep going, princess?” he mumbled into your forehead, absentmindedly doodling on your back with his mitten-covered fingertips.  

“Yeah, I’m all warmed up now!” You smiled into his chest, burying your nose into his vest and planting a kiss there as a silent thank you. 

“Great, because tag,” he booped you on the forehead with his index finger and stepped back,” you’re it! Last one home owes a cherry soda!” He laughed, brilliant like the sun stretching its fingers through the clouds. The corners of his eyes crinkle and he wrinkled his nose,  clearly pleased with himself. 

“Oh, it’s on!” You chased after him, having committed the route to memory from walks home so many times before. You ran at a quick pace, but your legs were so much shorter and his training was so much more intense that you could barely stay at fifteen feet behind him. Damn  him and his stupid volleyball captain gig! 

He slowed down, if just for a moment, to let you catch up to him. He stretched his hand out to you, beckoning for you to hold it. “Come on, let’s get there quicker!” Once you laced your fingers into his own, he yanked you forwards. In no time, you made it to his doorstep. He fished for his keys in his coat pocket and unlocked the door with his left hand, tugging you into the warmth as soon as the door flew open. A gust of hot air flew out of the house, peppering your face in kisses and very welcomed heat. Kotarou stepped inside, and you followed suit behind him, the two of you placing your bookbags on the floor. You began to kick your uniform shoes off when he sneaked up behind you, wrapped his hands together at your belly and pulled you up into the air. “H-hey!” He laughed at your surprise and pulled your back into his chest,  waddling with you towards his room. 

“Give me a sec, I’ve just gotta get the door-” he placed you down on the flooring while he fiddled with the handle and the door slid open at the kick of his foot. He ushered you inside. “Come, sit on the bed! Get comfortable and change out of the uniform, you’re probably freezing right?” Concern laced his voice as he walked over to where you sat and he cocked his head to the side. “I think I’ll get into something more comfortable, thank you baby!” You reached over to grab his hand and gave it a kiss behind his knuckles,  and you could swear you saw him shiver from the ghosting of your lips. 

“You’re welcome! I’ll be back in a bit, I’m just gonna get some clothes from the dryer and bring us some snacks. I went out with ‘Kaashi the other day and we picked out some things for you!” Before he walked out of his room, he turned back to wink and blow you a kiss. You giggled at him. God,  you’d be damned if he wasn’t the cutest thing to walk this earth. Stretching your arms above your head and wiggling out of the cold, you looked around his room to try and figure out where exactly he had his pajamas. You took a shot at his dresser, and it took a bit of digging but you found the perfect outfit: an oversized grey shirt with old sweatpants would do just fine to warm you up. You slipped out of your blazer and wiggled the skirt off while admiring the decorations in his room; he had some volleyball posters, some framed pictures of him with his sisters, and atop his dresser you saw some papers that made your heart flutter; he had your first movie ticket, Weathering With You, framed and the post-its you’d slipped into his locker decorating the outside of the frame. To the left, he also had a printed out picture he took of the two of you on his phone while you shared a chocolate ice cream cone (with extra sprinkles, of course). 

You’d been to Koutarou’s house before, but you hadn’t gotten the chance to walk around his room; since his parents were out working, you’d come after school (on the rare days he didn’t have practice) and cook with him. One of your favorite memories of trying to cook with him was when you tried teaching him how to finely dice scallions; the poor boy couldn’t cut thinly if his life depended on it, and whenever he saw the knife get close to his thumb he would flinch. 

You wiggled into his shirt and plopped onto his bed. He had a plush vabo-chan and a horned owl plushie resting in between his pillows. You kicked his throw blanket up so it could cover your legs and shut your eyes for a bit, nothing on your mind except for your angel’s smile and his kisses peppering your forehead. You could feel yourself slipping into a comfortable vibe and it was so nice to be able to rest your body after running in the snow for such a long while. At a knock on the wall, your eyes fluttered open and your gaze traced your boyfriend’s form, hair damp (but drying) against his forehead, long-sleeve shirt tight against his chest, eyes blown wide and smiling, and packs of sour gummies and dark chocolate in his hands. He bumped his body against the light switch to turn the lights in the room off, allowing only the soft glow reflected from white snow to enter from his window.

He ran over to the bed and threw the candies at its foot as he wrapped you in a bear hug. “You look wonderful in my clothes, baby!” He chirped, voice dripping with adoration, as he admired you in his clothes. He was so warm and soft against you, and you wrapped your hands together at the base of his neck and pecked his lips. They tasted like hot chocolate and chapstick and felt surprisingly soft for the cold weather. Even if his lips were chapped, you still wouldn’t have wanted to kiss anyone else’s. You pulled away from the kiss to gaze into his eyes, color reminiscent of sunflowers and sunshine, and your heart fluttered in your chest as his gaze lidded and his eyes smiled. 

“What do you want to watch, princess? After all, movie night was your idea!”

You thought for a second, “Hmm, I saw that there was a cool documentary on netflix about international chefs! We could learn a thing or two from it so we can cook the best meal ever, right?”

He threw his head back in laughter and scooched closer to you on the bed, wiggling his feet beneath the blanket and pulling it up so it could cover the two of you.  He turned the TV on, remote in hand, and clicked through the buttons until he saw the Netflix app. Flicking over to the Documentaries, he paused when he saw some about food. “Is it the Street Food one?”

“Yeah, baby. We can watch a couple of episodes, the order doesn’t really matter anyways.”

“Cool! I want to watch the one about Argentina! I’ve heard they have amazing steak down there.” For some reason, you hadn’t expected his favorite food to be steak and instead for it to be something more like pure sugar. It had nothing to do with his energy level…

In spite of the absolute fact that he was always riled up and lively, in this moment with his head rested on your right shoulder, he looked at peace. His eyes were glued to the screen (or so you thought, because his gaze was really fixed on your arm as he tried to count all of the freckles there), his breathing was even, slow, and his fingers were gently grazing against the side of your left arm. He really did look like an angel, a piece of expired heaven that fell into your lap and promised to be forever yours. You smiled down at him in a lazy fashion and bent your neck to give him a kiss on his scalp. It smelled crisp and clean, and your belly fluttered when he looked up at you from quirked eyebrows. His hair looked amazing when it was down and, if anything, you almost preferred it to the spiky owl look. 

He shifted his weight so he could instead lay his head on your lap. You laced your fingers into his two-toned hair and lightly scratched his tresses. He had been gifted with many things, and among them was a thick head of hair; his locks were silky and plentiful; every meander of your fingers led to more strands  resting between them. He seemed to lean into your touch and sighed contentedly when you scratched at a spot at his head that was left of center. He really seemed to like when you would twirl his locks on your fingers, and it made you wonder…

“Kou?”

“Hmm?”

“Could I braid your hair?”

He let out a hearty laugh and turned his head to look up at you. “I’d love nothing more, (name)-kun. Go ahead.”

You sighed, running both hands through his scalp and feeling the silk slide in between your knuckles was so unexpected but so so welcome. He leaned into the touch and tilted his head forward to let you play with more of his hair. 

“(name)-kun, it tickles!” He laughed at the foreign sensation and his eyes crinkled shut. He was the sun. 

Scratching his head with your fingerpads, you ran the fingers of your right hand up his arm to let him know that he was safe and that the  new sensation was just that, something he should begin to get used to. He leaned into your touch, trusting, peaceful, calm. You separated three locks in between your knuckles and began to twist the center and right pieces together. Then, you twisted the right and left ones together, then the left and center. It was difficult because of his shaggy layered haircut, but you could tell from his staggered breathing and the nuzzling of his nose into your thighs that he was absolutely loving this. The first braid looked so pretty because of the contrast between his black roots and silvery locks, and you took a scrunchie from your wrist to tie it in place. Granted, it took five twists and the braid looked SUPER clunky, but you felt like that gave it so much charm. You tugged on the hair behind his right ear and began to weave it together like Arachne weaving her master tapestries, and braid begot yet another until the right side of his head was all tied up in a knot that you would (hopefully) be able to detangle. Hair tucked behind his ear, you noticed that he had a dusting of freckles on the pinna that trailed down to the nape of his neck. The black dusting of freckles against pale skin looked like stardust. He was beautiful. 

His breathing steadied, and it seemed like he had fallen asleep at the behest of your touch. A smile was painted onto his face, his nostrils flared and his lips half-parted as if he were having a pleasant dream. This was too much, it was too cute. You shifted around for your phone and took a picture of him in your lap, face glowing from the chatter and brightness of an argentine street restaurant. He looked perfect. You sent his phone the picture and saw it buzz on the bed, screen illuminated with a picture of him giving you a kiss on the forehead. You began to smile, and a look out the window proved that the snowfall had gotten heavier.  Your own exhaustion from the day began to settle in and take you prisoner. In between the soft whirr of the heating, Kotarou’s steady breathing, the soft background noise of steak sizzling and Spanish chatter, and the delicate dance of the snowflakes outside, you began to slip into a peaceful slumber. This would be the first of many naps with Bokuto to come. 

[inkribbon796]

Like a House of Cards Ch. 5: Robots and Frogs

Summary: Logan is done playing around.

Chapters: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13

Outside of the dome, Logan had gone from agitated to outright furious as he tried to attack the dome but Google and Bing had teamed up with the Dark Sides to fight against him and so his attention was split. Google’s other three extensions had also shown up to help.

The other three Suits were starting to back up away from Logan as his glitching and fury was becoming more apparent.

Then, after five minutes of having to fend his combatants of, Logan had enough. He screamed, “Fine! You all wish to be difficult about it, then fine!”

The box that Ethan and Chase had taken from the base and put in the backseat of the Sides’ car, started violently shaking and put a dent in the door before smashing through the window and flying towards Logan. It hit him square in the back and he was engulfed by a cloud of nanites.

There was a cheery DING and Patton’s voice announced, “Nanite production at 5000%.”

In a fraction of a second the nanites began multiplying in number and they were forming thick ropes of wires and metallic plates. Logan’s nanite body exploded and there stood a dark blue figure made of light and code as they started to arrange themselves inside of a suit of metal as the other heroes were trying to stop what was happening.

“Ohhh, ****[1] yeah,” Bing realized and turned to Google. “Googs! Get the extensions! We’re making a Megazord!”

At first Google was confused, but after a bit and a little bit of arguing, and Logan was quickly building himself a giant metal exoskeleton, Google relented.

Bing and the Googles made a segmented colossal robot with their nanites, Google helping to multiply the nanites as quickly as possible as Bing’s nanites gave them direction and form. Oliver got a leg. Green got another leg. Red got the two arms. Bing’s orange nanites mostly condensed in the center where they could be redistributed as needed. And Google stayed up in the head area where his cameras could see everything better.

Logan’s colossal robot was a dark blue, the metal hard lines clearly more designed for attack than defense. There were two massive tubes on the backs of his shoulders, one with a viscous red gas, and the other a deep frothing purple.

Right before the center hatch closed, Bing and Google were able to catch sight of Logan as he normally looked, giving a smug smile and Patton was sitting right next to him. Patton gave a huge smile and waved his fingers at them.

With a pressurized hiss the gas in both the tubes began turning a cloudy white as Logan’s robot braced for an attack, swatting away at Silver who tried to fly in and pry the center hatch back open.

Google was already arming everyone for an attack as the tubes propped open and two figures jumped out of the tubes and landed on the ground.

The figures looked like Roman and Virgil, not wearing their masks and almost completely made of light.

Roman’s hologram drew out a sword and pixie-like wings materialized on his back. Like a fly against an elephant, Roman advanced too quickly for the Googles to catch, and he flew against them and began severing wires around Oliver’s leg addition.

Silver, seeing what was going on, tried to fly towards Roman and get him away but was almost hit in the face by magical projectiles thrown by the holographic Virgil. Several of which hit the dome as Logan advanced on it. He slammed the large robotic hand into the dome and it rocked the protective shield and those inside of it. The entire ship inside shook as if it had made contact with a rock or an iceberg.

A long crack appeared down the length of it, which Clubs had been waiting for and slipped in, before the Host could suture the crack back up with magic.

The Suit slipped from concrete and rubble streets into the well air conditioned interior of a cruise liner’s hallway.

At that point any hero that wasn’t necessary to hold back Diamonds or Hearts, converged on the Logan robot.

Janus made short work of the Roman hologram, the creation of light exploding into red dust and dissipating as Remus went for the Virgil hologram. Marvin and the Google working to keep Logan pinned as Silver gathered up as much speed as he could and used his strength to push through the chest plate of the robot to try and pull Logan out.

And then he missed.

The superhero sliced through the metal and before he could hit the blue solid state drive that carried Logan, it moved to a more defensible area but Silver nicked something: the protective casing enveloping the golden lock tore like wet tissue paper and snapped in half.

Instantly Logan realized what had happened and started pulling all the nanites together to fix the locket as light blue dust and mist emerged from it.

His more “human” form came back into being and he tried to cup the locket with his hands, forcing his aura towards it in a desperate attempt to keep the being housed inside contained and tried to force it to go back to sleep. “No! No! Sleep! It’s not safe here. Go back to sleep.”

Google shot out of the conjoined robot, the thing almost crumbling apart as the android hit Logan and ripped him away from the breaking locket, the android sending pulsing waves to kill the nanites and try and get to whatever core or drive Logan had to power Logan down so he could get him away safely.

“Cease, let me power you down so I can take you away from the humans,” Google tried to reason with him, but Logan kept kicking and struggling as Nate rushed over and started firing magic as the nanites to try and kill them.

Janus saw the commotion and walked over to the little mass of nanites that this Logan had put above his own safety, and the deceitful Side was looking for a bargaining chip. He wanted answers and a little bit of revenge.

So with a firm tap on the ground with his staff, the nanites fell off the broken locket and Janus moved to pick it up.

But as his hand got halfway down, a fierce light blue glow came from the locket and a figure was kneeling on the ground in front of Janus.

It was Patton. He let out a distressed whimper and the look Logan gave him was one of heartbreak.

Patton’s eyes opened and he looked at the scene directly in front of him. “Lolo?” Patton asked before his eyes tracked up to look at Nate.

The more emotional Side flinched and Nate and Janus could see the aura ripping off of him.

“No!” Patton screamed in fury, his freckles growing in size and darkening as his eyes glowed yellow but still had a blue color to them.

Slamming his fists on the ground, Patton’s light blue color flashed twice all throughout his body and what had once been a human was now a hulking green frog monster, Patton’s glasses perched on top his snout and the grey cat hoodie he liked to wear at home tied around his neck.

He slammed his fist on the ground and huge cracks formed fanned out and he jumped on Google, tearing him away to grab Logan. A huge beanstalk started to shoot out of the ground as Patton kept up into the air and started jumping up leaf after leaf. The damage from the growing beanstalk and the fights finally snapping the dome in half and instead of shattering and materializing out of existence, the magic shrunk into a smaller space the size of a house, curved around two individuals.

Illinois screamed as he faced over to the dome and started beating on it, as Wilford picked himself up from the ground, bleeding from the temple where a bullet had tried to pierce his skull but his magic had deflected it.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Accessibility Translations

1. fuck