#yes even worse than Living Laser somehow

[nathandrakeisabottom]

Headcannons about them with an anxious SO? Love your stuff x

Thank you, friend! Now, in full canonical honesty, I don’t believe that either Nathan or Sam would be particularly good at dealing with their deeper anxiety, let alone someone else’s, let alone someone else’s who they loved dearly and would only be afraid to make it worse (that many crumbling bridges and a guy’s gotta if consider his only superpower is the ability to destroy everything he touches) for most of their young lives. 

However, I do believe that post-UC4 (perhaps a little earlier for Nathan), and a good dose of necessary therapy (paid for in pirate coins, of course)--- they’d be more than willing to finally take on the challenge. 

For themselves, and for the person they love more than anything.

Drakes with an Anxious S/O Headcanons

Nathan:

In his younger days, the prince of the awkward smile and half-hearted clap on the back. A pulley doll whose only catchphrases were “Man, that’s hard”, “Yeah. Yeesh.”, and “Soooo, I guess this would be a bad time for a joke, huh?”. Scurries to the bathroom as soon as they’re not in tears anymore, and stays there for as long as it takes to stop hearing the residual sobs.

However, his late 30s and 40s bring him a much healthier perspective (and therapy— Jesus, finally) and being the smarty pants he is, he passes on no opportunity to put his new skills and knowledge to use.

That playfulness and desire to find the lightness in even the hardest situations never leaves him at any age, though.

A panic attack? “‘Is something… wrong with you’? You realize you’re talking to the guy who accidentally destroys ancient temples for a living, as an archaeologist? And I still consider myself a not so bad guy. So in my eyes, you’re basically a lesser known Mesopotamian god.”

Got a bad grade? “A D in Psychometrics? I don’t know, sounds like they don’t know anything about math if they’re using a letter to grade you. Maybe they should go get their teaching certificates checked. Hey, how ‘bout I just draw you a PhD myself? You know I have an eye for art.” 

Dealing with shitty parents? Landlord? Roommates? Exes who won’t leave you the fuck alone? “What? That buffoon? Guy who can’t even spell their own name right? That asshole isn’t worth a thought of a thought of a thought in your head. Pretty sure they haven’t had a thought in their own head since 1996.”

As soon as the first wide-toothed smile is won, he’s leaning into his partner with a secretive smirk: “Ya wanna get the hell out of here?” 

Because distractions always helped him before. 

Will act especially gentlemanly, and theatrically play it up, while taking their partner for a frozen yogurt, antique shop, Target trip, public park, laser tag (yes, really) decompress. Bows when he opens the car door for them. Pays for everything. Calls them ‘your majesty’ for the entirety of the excursion.

All he wants is to get them to smile. And he’s not stopping until he sees it. 

When the night creeps in and his S/O starts to lose steam, Nathan’s own worry grows more obvious, though he tries his best to keep it to himself. 

Watches them with wide eyes. Gives them space, but still asks every few minutes if they need a cup of water. No? Tea? Arnold Palmer? Popsicle? Massage? Hot Pocket? Sexy pillow fight? However many it takes to make his partner laugh again. But he fully means every offer he gives.

Says nothing as he helps them undress and into their PJs. Touches are tender and intimate, gently rubs their shoulders and neck. Never too hard, never too direct. Plays the friendly ghost and lets their partner take the lead, but never, ever just sits around to watch.

Makes them a beverage of some sort, even if they say no. Hot lemonade with honey is his personal homecure. Says yellow is a happy color, so it must be good for you.

And right before they turn the lights out, Nate timidly offers— with a shy, trying chuckle— if they want him to read them a bedtime story. 

Somehow shocked every time they say yes. Mumbles something self-derogatory about himself (“Ya know, not the best actor, but—” “Personally I think I have the voice of a dying goose, but—”) before sitting on the nearest surface and cracking open a book.

If he’s still feeling a little awkward, will uneasily ask if they wanna hear what he’s been reading lately, and will do so if asked— but really wants to read the pirate storybooks his mother read to him and Sam when they were kids.

It always made him feel better when the world felt too big, too scary, too cruel. 

So he wants to share it with the person he loves. 

He wants to share everything with the person he loves.

And without even asking, goes to the medicine cabinet and brings them a tablet of whatever they need when the anxiety gets especially bad, and says “I know, it’s scary. But we’ve been through scary before, right?” with a kiss on the cheek as they swallow it down with a sip of lemonade.

Lingers, eyes down, and vaguely nods to nobody as he stands and walks to the door.

“Want me… uh, want me to keep reading to you?” But he offers before he can even get past the door frame. 

“Do you want me to want you to keep reading to me?” 

And the last thing he wants to see is his love, alone. The idea of them crying beneath the covers because they were too afraid to burden him with it, too afraid to be seen. Everything he felt he had to do when he was 6 and his mother “passed”, age 9, 10, 11, 12 after a black eye, the words that his brain told him wrong: spoken aloud by the playground bullies he feared he’d never be stronger than. 

But he knew they were wrong. The bullies were wrong. The ones in his brain. The ones in theirs.

“Yes.” He replies without missing a beat. 

And he makes sure to hold their hand in his free one until the second they fall asleep… and a few hours after, just to be safe.

The next morning they fucking better expect breakfast in bed— and he maybe, just maybe, might even be willing to spring for McDonald’s, if that’s what they want. As long as they promise to eat actual fruit after. And hell, maybe even a vegetable or two when he makes dinner that night. Did you know that eating right and exercise are actually primary solutions to poor mental health—? That’s what Dr. Dorian said— No, potatoes don’t count as a vegetable— no, especially not if it’s fried— NO, FRENCH FRIES DON’T COUNT, BABY—

Sam:

Sam takes a bit longer to warm up to discussing anxiety than Nathan does, mostly due to struggling so deeply with it on his own. It’s not like prisoners (or Shoreline guards) made the most comforting companions. 

The better he could keep secrets, the less he could reveal, the safer he’d be.

So it makes sense that it’s both his greatest strength and weakness when it comes to emotionally turbulent times. 

In his younger, more avoidant years, he’d be the first to leave the room, leave the building, hell, sometimes even leave the city after a particularly heavy cry or confrontation with his then-partner. Only to come back the next morning and act like nothing ever happened. 

But now, he doesn’t run. After prison, after Rafe, after Madagascar, all he wants is to be allowed to stay. To be wanted to stay by someone who loves him. 

Is happiest to just sit with you in the silence. His biggest skill is his ability to weather the storm. And whether you need to scream bloody murder, or need to sit and decompress and just fucking feel, but can’t do it alone, Sam’s there. Listening. 

Once you’re done talking, he takes one last, long drag of his cigarette, stubs it out onto the pavement, and asks simply: “So do you want solutions… or something else, sweet’art?” 

You can see in his eyes— darting less than solid, certain against your own— that he really means it, in every way that he was too afraid to when he was younger.

The wonderful and terrifying thing about having anxiety while Sam is there is that it’s a vulnerable experience for the both of you. He’s learning, discovering, trying right along with you. And he may not be able to lift you up so easily, but he’ll be able to sink into the dark places with you, and not be afraid to see what’s down there. 

And maybe seeing someone he loves so deeply, sees as so beautiful, so smart, so kind, so wonderful, so absolutely perfect to him feel the same ways he does about himself… maybe it makes him think that he’s not as terrible as his brain tells him, either. 

Helps you take action by letting himself (finally) not be the smart one: “When ya… get like this, what do you usually do first, sweet’art? Paint me a pit’chure.” Gives you complete control, and smiles softly when you wipe your tears and the logical, the archaeological mind awakens. Mimics unraveling an ancient map when you begin to explain, and you inadvertently hiccup out a laugh. 

At times, it’ll feel like he’s trying to run again, but when he stands up and walks across the room— he always returns. This time with your favorite of his jackets, the denim one that smells like him even though he just cleaned it, and drapes it protectively over your shoulders. Clasps his palm at the back of your neck and rubs out the knot he always finds there. Smiles toothy and wide when your words are broken up by sighs of relief. Only to be filled once again with silence, gazes meeting sweet and safe. 

“Remember Indonesia?” He offers with a smirk, despite your furrowed brow.

“I guess? What about—?” 

“I read the runes’ instructions and ran us in circles all around Bali, only to reread the transcript and realized I got three letters completely wrong. J—V—A. Java. It was goddamn Java the entire time.” 

“Your point being?” 

He smiles and shrugs. Trying. Maybe he’s wrong, a foreigner in some ancient, uncertain land, but he tries.

“Sometimes our brains are just wrong.” He tries for you. “That’s all.”

You sniffle, and he leans in to press a prickly kiss to your cheek. His jacket is still warm from the dryer, wafting with the residual sting of cigarette, Old Spice Captain, cheap mouthwash, even cheaper aftershave, and something else completely unnameable. 

And maybe some others would think the scent appalling, but it’s the strangeness, the specificity, and yes, the stank— everything that makes Sam him— that makes you love it. Love him. The depth. The difference. 

The pain, and what he chose to do with it. 

Another kiss, this time down your neck. This time, the sigh of relief is his own.

What he chose to change it into. 

“So… any chance sex therapy might be a thing?” He asks grinningly.

“Why don’t we find out, ‘sweet’art’?”

[max-nico]

Super_Charlie_001

Am I (32M) the asshole for declaring a hero of our village (16M) my new nemesis?

This all started around 4 years ago. I live in a small secluded village on the coast, I'm talking about less than 100 people living here. We all do our part to keep our little town running and at this stage in my life I had just become our Village Fruit Carrier (a very important job to have). The job wasn't the most fulfilling, but it got food on the table and it was how I met my wife, so I have a bit of a soft spot for it. Anyway, the 'hero of the village' (let's call him Red) and he got me FIRED from my job. why? Because he just couldn't stop himself from stealing my baskets, dumping out my fresh clean fruit all over the ground, using my baskets as stilts, and then disappearing right before my boss came out to check on me. In the kids defense, he's a little... Slow, so I really didn't hold it against him too much. Especially because after getting fired from that job I managed to land my absolute dream job around 6 months later. I really felt like it was fate or something. I was happy, my wife was happy, everything was good.

This brings us up to speed basically.

Recently, Red got me fired AGAIN years later from my wonderful job. I worked as an archeologist/excavator and made good money doing it, especially since our little town is built on top of ancient ruins and tech nobody's really seen before. Apparently Red wasn't trying to get me fired, he was genuinely trying to make up for making me lose my job the first time. At first he seemed a little dimwitted, but well meaning so I didn't have much of a problem letting him stick around, but I also didn't have much of a backbone at the time either.

Then things got worse, between him picking up important artifact markers, breaking multiple artifacts, breaking one of my toes, and even throwing my lunch away, I just couldn't handle it. One night, he even showed up at my house before I got home and made friends with my wife, and despite telling her I was uncomfortable she let him stay. So I'm sure you guys can tell, by this point I'm boiling with rage. This kid just cannot take a hint and I have had it up to here with him.

Then all hell breaks loose. He somehow manages to brush an artifact just right, causing a laser to fire and destroy an entire dig site filled to the brim with things we haven't even begun to study. Then he has the audacity to yell at my boss for yelling at me and gets me FIRED!!! AGAIN!!! THEN HE CALLS MY WIFE WITHOUT MY PERMISSION!!! AND SHE THROWS ME OUT!!!

At this point he can't just be dumb right? This has to be malicious. So I freak out at him, and do you know what he says? "Don't worry. I'll make it up to you, just as soon as I'm done making it up to you for the other thing I did." Wtf.

So I start to torment the guy. Can you really blame me? I go back to my old job and dig around for the old mech suits the ancients had lying around, like huge rocky things that shoot fire and laser and all types of things. I only use it to do things like steal his lunch money and knock him around at first, nothing super out there just protocol villain stuff.

So Red starts acting like I'M the crazy one after this. He acts like HE'S been the bigger person when he's the one who made me this way. He even made me a pie (which I shoved in his face of course), and I proclaimed myself a supervillain, and by proxy his nemesis. The whole village even gathered around to watch our fight, I felt like I was a cool kid in a school yard, and it was objectively the best feeling I've ever had.

Unfortunately I lost, not without a fight but still. Now the entire village is weird towards me (except my wife who took me back because she was proud of me for getting a new job and also a backbone) and they all act like I'm some lunatic just because I tried to destroy ONE GUY!!! so aita?

EDIT 1: Yes not even Dr.Eggman knows how this tech works I live like a couple miles away from the guy. Trust me I've asked

EDIT 2: Why does everyone know this guy and his friends? Are they famous or something?

EDIT 3: I found out that Sonic the Hedgehog, my nemesis, and their friends, are actually the heroes of Mobius and not just the heroes of my village. Small world I guess.

[lily-janus]

Brothers, am I right?

Summary: a classic fight between a hero and a villain takes a rather... interesting turn.

Pairings: platonic Loceit, platonic Analogical

Warnings: guns, weapons, death mentions, violence (not very destcrictive), rivalry, blood mention.

Word count: 3,185

For day 2 of @loceitweek Masks/Chalk.

This is a fun superhero AU I felt like writing^^ hope you enjoy!

------------------------

Logan has fought many villains ever since he decided to use his powers for the greater good, in order to honor the memory of his late father.

But Logan won't be exaggerating when he said that Deceit was the worse one by far.

It's not that he was more powerful or smarter than his past enemies. No, he met Deceit at his best for the most part in those regards. What made him the worse villain Logan ever fought was simple, he could figuratively get under Logan's skin with nothing more than a single sentence.

It drove Logan crazy! They don't even know anything about each other's true identity and personal lives! And yet, it always seems as though Deceit can read him like Logan would easily read a book.

But, this time, Logan was determined not to let his sneaky way with words distract him. This time, Logan can't afford the mess up.

Because Deceit has decided to mess with forces he doesn't seem to understand, and Logan was the only one who can stop him.

It all started when he got an emergency signal from his - what would movies like to call - 'man in the chair', his scientist friend, Virgil.

He always helped Logan with either, figuring out his rival's next moves, making him useful gadgets, or simply just being a good friend and company to be around.

Logan always had a great appreciation for his intelligence and the brilliant way he tackled problems which allowed him to create some of the most unique weapons Logan has ever seen.

…just don't tell him any of that, every time Logan does it makes him uncomfortable even though these were merely facts.

Logan tasked Virgil with figuring out Deceit's next move, hoping he could finally be a few steps ahead of the sneaky villain.

So, when he got the emergency signal from him, he wasted no time and rushed towards their secret base fo find out what Virgil discovered.

"I received your signal, what is he planning to do?" Logan asked as soon as he stepped out of the elevator and caught sight of his friend.

Virgil was pacing and fidgeting with his lab coat, all signs of his clear distress, it must be bad then.

Upon hearing Logan's voice, Virgil froze in place and turned to look at him, biting his bottom lip idly. "It's… it's bad Logan, really really bad. I… I don't think anyone even tried something like that before… there's no telling what-"

"Virgil." Logan cut him off gently when he noticed Virgil started mattering to himself and spiraling deeper into his panic. "Slow down and tell me what you learned."

Virgil nodded, taking a deep breath, "somehow… Deceit found a way to take away powers… you know, turn them off."

Logan took his time to process that, it was the last thing he'd expected to hear from Virgil… and he wasn't sure how to respond.

"...how exactly is he planning to do that?" Logan settled on at the end.

Virgil went to his computer and typed a bit before projecting an image through the projector.

It looked like plans for some sort of weapon. "A machine that turns off powers?" Logan asked, just to be sure.

Virgil nodded, "it seems to be some kind of laser ray that alters the neurons in your body." He explained.

"Do we know what will happen for someone with powers if those would get taken away like that?" Logan asked next, as he examined closely the plans Virgil was projecting onto the wall.

"Yes… in theory at least. As I said, it's never been so much as experimented, all we have are scientific assumptions." Virgil said, starting to pace again to burn some of his nervous energy. "People with powers, like you, Logan. Their bodies work differently than those without. Studies show that the very basics of functions in your bodies rely on the powers you were born with." He stopped for a bit, letting that sink in a little.

"So taking the powers away, or turning them off…" Logan pieced it together out loud

"Could very much have the same effect as losing blood, or a heart… it could mean death, Logan." Virgil finished for him, and the gravity of the situation was finally fully realized for Logan.

Logan swallowed, "I have to stop him, do we know if he completed the weapon yet?"

Virgil shook his head with a grimace, "we don't know for sure where he is in the process of making this weapon, but I did manage to find out where he's building it. You're gonna have to sneak in there and destroy it before he gets a chance to use it." He explained.

Logan nodded, he was fairly certain that Deceit didn't know… or didn't care about what kind of damage his machine can cause, and it was up to Logan alone to make sure it doesn't get used. He can do this… he has to.

"Okay, send me the coordinates and I'll be on my way-" he started saying, but Virgil cut him off with a light chuckle.

"Hold your horses there, mister Save-The-Day, you're not seriously about to go to the snake's lair unarmed, are you?" Virgil said with slight amusement.

Logan blushed in embarrassment, how could he forget something as basic as taking a weapon to a fight?

"...right, of course, that was… what I was about to say as well." Logan said in hopes of keeping his compuser.

Virgil rolled his eyes, "sure you did, Specs. Anyway, I prepared your usual weapon belt," Virgil walked to a table a few feet away from them with various devices and lifted a belt with Logan's most preferable choice of weapons and handed it to him. "And take this, my newest invention, it should paralyze anyone within 10 feet of the user for about 30 minutes. It should give you enough time to destroy the machine if you were to get caught."

Virgil threw him what looked like a clicker of some kind, he raised an eyebrow at Virgil, "should? Are you using me as your figurative lab rat again?"

Virgil shrugged, "how else am I going to test my newest weapons? You don't want me using innocent people and get arrested, do you?"

Logan knew by now that Virgil was just being sarcastic, but the mental image still bothered him a little. "Fair point, thank you, Virgil, I couldn't ask for a better friend." Logan offered him a slight smile.

Virgil fidgeted in place uncomfortably, blushing, "...just don't die, okay?"

"I don't think I would be given much choice in the matter-"

"Logan!" Virgil protested.

"Okay, sorry, I won't die today, I promise to do everything in my power to prevent that." Logan relented and he could see the relief in Virgil as his shoulders slumped and he nodded.

"Good… good luck out there… and punch that snake in the face for me!" Virgil called after him as he left.

…

He arrived at the location Virgil sent him and saw an abandoned warehouse.

Cautiously, he moved inside, being wary of traps or cameras Deceit might have installed.

His powers allowed him to hear others thoughts as well as moving things with his mind and turning invisible, which was what he did now in case someone was watching the place.

There was nothing in the first floor, as far as Logan could tell, so he went up the stairs to the next. They were a bit squeaky, though, and Logan looked around frantically, hoping no one noticed.

When nothing happened, he continued on his way.

Now this floor looked more like Logan expected, different tools and machinery scattered about on tables, and when he reached the center, there was a large object covered in a white sheet.

Watching his steps and looking around carefully, Logan walked closer to what seemed to be the machine Virgil was telling him about.

Something felt off, though, it was too easy and obvious, it felt more like…

He stepped back at just the right moment before a net shot from the ground where he'd been standing and hang in the air.

A trap.

"Aww, you're no fun, I almost had you." He heard a familiar, sleek voice and turned around to find Deceit smirking at him.

He was wearing his usual yellow, snake skin, suit, with his mask that covered his entire face and only left the mouth, nose and eyes exposed. Half of the mask had scales in it, while the other was plain yellow.

"Deceit, this time you went too far." Logan hissed.

Deceit clicked his tongue, shaking his head, "oh Logic, Logic, Logic. That is what you always say. You really need to learn what fun means." He chuckled, walking slowly closer to Logan.

"I know what fun means, Deceit, it does not include hurting and killing people." Logan said angrily in response, "this machine that you're building can do irreversible damadge! Did you think about that? Or do you not really care?"

Deceit shrugged, "people die all the time anyway, so why aren't I allowed to have some fun out of it huh? Tell me." He smiled a sinister smile.

Logan growled in frustration, "you're not listening!"

"Well you're not captivating your audience." He rolled his eyes, "really, Teach, it's like you're not even trying to sound convincing."

Logan shook his, trying to get Deceit out of his head, trying to focus on his mission. Get in, destroy the machine, get out.

He turned invisible again and dashed towards the machine, pulling out his laser gun from his belt and preparing to shoot it at the device under the sheet.

But, as his first shot hit it… it vanished into smoke, together with the tables with tools.

An illusion.

But, by the time he turned around to face Deceit again, it was too late. Deceit had already pulled out his own gun and was pointing it directly at him.

"Surely you don't think I'm stupid enough to leave my toys laying around where every hero can walts in and ruin them?" Deceit said, amused.

Logan wanted to hit himself, of course he wouldn't… such a foolish oversight in his part, it was too obvious for someone as sneaky.

"Now, be a good boy and drop your gun if you please." Deceit drawled, sounding a lot more satisfied by the situation than Logan would have liked.

Gritting his teeth, Logan let go of his laser gun and kicked it towards Deceit, this was not looking good for him, he needs a new plan. But Deceit made it so hard for him to think!

"There we go, now that's much better, isn't it?" Deceit snikered, continuing to mock Logan.

Logan closed his eyes. This was it, he was about to break his promise to Virgil, he was going to die.

"Take off your mask." Deceit ordered instead of shooting.

Logan opened his eyes slowly to stare in surprise at the villain in front of him, "what?"

Deceit rolled his eyes, "I know you heard me, c'mon, you might not be the brightest but surely you're not deaf too?" He raised an eyebrow.

Logan swallowed, trying to figure out Deceit's objective here. "W-why?"

"I believe I'm the one with the gun here, I ask the questions, Logic. Take it off." Deceit said, sounding impatient.

Seeing no other choice, Logan grabbed the edges of his mask and slowly pulled it off, being careful around his glasses.

He didn't understand the situation, what could Deceit gain from this? Deceit never did anything if it wasn't in his own best interests. But only seeing Logan's face won't reveal his true identity. Not right away at least… unless they know each other without knowing it… could Deceit have found out something about Logan's true identity?

No… that's impossible… right?

Deceit drew a shaky breath as Logan tossed his mask aside.

"Impossible…" he mattered to himself, "how is this possible?" His hands started to shake around his gun, "L-Logan?" He asked with a sob.

Logan frowned, "do I… know you?" He tried hard to recognize Deceit's voice from his civilian life but nothing came to mind… What's going on here?

"You don't remember… of course you don't, they loved playing with our minds since we were kids…" Deceit continue to matter nonsense and Logan tried desperately to make sense of it.

Who's they? Play with our minds? His parents had mind manipulation powers but they'd never… would they?

"What are you talking about? W-who are you?" Logan asked, confused. Deceit was acting… strange, could this just be another one of his tricks? But for what? He already had Logan unarmed and unmasked, why would he need to trick him?

Deceit moved his hand and Logan flinched, thinking he's going to shoot him after all. But all he did was remove his own mask.

Underneath was a massive scar covering the left side of his face, one of his eyes were green while the other was chocolate brown, and he was looking at Logan with such longing and sadness that had Logan frozen to the spot.

"My name is Janus, I got kidnapped 15 years ago and was presumed dead ever since… I didn't think I had any family left… I barely escaped and have just been trying to survive ever since." Dece- Janus, explained, then lowered his gun with a sigh. "Logan… I'm your brother."

Logan shook his head frantically, "that's not possible, I'm an only child." He insisted, none of it made sense!

Janus let out an empty chuckle, shaking his head, "no, Logan, don't you get it? Our parents erased your memories of me." He countered, "they arranged for me to get kidnapped! They never approved of me, they thought my powers were too villainous, they were afraid of me…" he trailed off with another sigh, "who am I kidding? You're not going to believe a word I say…" he covered his face with his hand.

Logan thought briefly about escaping, Janus wasn't pointing his gun at him anymore and he was clearly deranged… but, a spark of curiosity at this strange behavior kept him where he was. Plus… there was something familiar about Janus… something he couldn't explain.

"...can you prove it?" Logan asked after a while of consideration.

Janus removed his hand from his face and stared at Logan with a spark of hope in his mismatched eyes, "what?"

"Can you prove we're related? …that you're my brother?" He couldn't believe he was asking that but, as crazy as Janus' story sounds… what kind of scientist would he be if he didn't at least test it out?

"Is our resemblance not enough?"

Ah, there's a familiar tone from the guy he's been fighting for the past few months, joking.

But Logan looked closely anyway, there wasn't anything he found to be very similar about their features and the massive scar on half of Janus' face wasn't helping…. But, his eyes.

One of them an earthy green, like Logan's… like his mother. And the other… the other a warm, chocolaty brown… like Logan's dad.

"No… it's a start though." Logan said as he continued to inspect the man in front of him, "anything more?"

Janus laughed lightly, shaking his head, "always so serious…" he thought for a moment, "well, I know you were always way too smart for your own good, you have a weird and pretty entertaining habit of taking things too literally, Agatha Christie is your favorite author… should I continue?"

Logan swallowed, shaking his head, "you could have learned that from Virgil somehow, tell me something only my brother would know and maybe I'll take your story into consideration." He tried desperately to keep his composure but the possibility of him having a long lost brother was… bothersome.

Janus sighed, "well, how about this then, I know that, deep down, you never wanted to be a hero."

The words seemed to hit Logan like a punch to his gut and he tensed, looking wide eyed at Janus. "N-no… you're wrong! I chose this path I-"

"Did you? Or did our parents make you think that this was the only path you can choose? I know you, Logan. We would often talk about it. You expressed to me your desire to simply live your life, instead of carrying the world's weight on your shoulders… you don't believe in heroes and villains, you never did." Janus insisted, walking slowly closer as he talked.

Logan was frozen to the spot… he never told anyone that… there's no way Janus could have found out… could he have simply guessed it? No, it's too accurate for a guess… but how?

"I… never told anyone… not even Virgil… how did you.." the words got stuck in his throat, this can't be true! But at the same time… it has to be true to make sense…

He didn't realize how close Janus got until he felt the light touch of his hand on his shoulder, Janus was smiling softly at him. "I missed you so much, Logan."

Logan pulled away slightly, just enough so he could feel like he could breathe again. "Hold on a moment… what about all this?" He gestured towards Janus' costume and where they were right now, "the damage you caused? The people you hurt?"

Janus raised an eyebrow, "name one person I actually killed or hurt beyond recovery. I told you, I'm just trying to survive, I'm supposed to be dead so can't really have a job, being a hero doesn't really pay and brings too much attention… The villain act was the only thing I could think of, it also helped a bit with the boredom." He laughed slightly, shrugging.

Logan narrowed his eyes, "and what about the weapon you're building?"

Janus waved dismissively, "a ruse to get you here, fed Virgil some incorrect information, wasn't hard. You were gaining on me too much and I just wanted to know who you are to get some advantage… didn't expect you to be my little brother though…" he rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly.

"I see…" was all Logan can think of saying before he went quiet again.

"Does that mean… you believe me now?" Janus asked, looking hesitant but hopeful. "Can we stop fighting each other and go back to being brothers?"

Logan drew a shaky breath, "I… I don't know… I guess it's a start-" he was cut off by Janus crushing him with a hug, something Logan is not usually a fan of, but he found the embrace oddly familiar and found himself melting into it.

"I missed you… Logan, my little genius, I won't leave you again, I promise." Janus whispered softly in his ear, still refusing to let go.

"I think… I think I missed you too, in a way." Logan said, surprised at how true those words felt. My little genius… just like his father used to call him…

They stayed like that for a long while, neither wanting to let go ever again.

[thebibliomancer]

Essential Avengers: Avengers #158: When Avengers Clash!

April, 1977

What is not immediately evident is that we are facing another change in the creative team.

Steve Englehart was kicked off the book after #150. After that, Gerry Conway took over with an assist by Jim Shooter in #151 and #156. With this issue, Jim Shooter takes over until #177, a little after he becomes Editor-in-Chief.

And its another rough transition.

I don’t actually remember being a huge fan of Shooter’s Avengers on my first read through so I’ll see if that holds up. But in this issue at least, we get off to a semi-rocky start.

Last time: Wonder Man came back to life, causing non-ending angsts in the Vision right when he was feeling good about himself and his capacity for emotions. Also, a metaphor in the shape of a stone statue of Black Knight beat up the team but punched itself to death against Vision.

This time: Some continuity hiccups.

We start off with the Vision staring moodily, as he is wont to do, but specifically at the broken statue of Black Knight.

The heap of broken statue is a lot more recognizable as specific body parts then it was last time but it does make for a more striking visual. Also, Statue Knight is staring into my soul and its not okay.

Wonder Man walks into the room supporting Scarlet Witch, both in costume. Which is one of those continuity hiccups because they were both already in the room in a pile of defeated heroes and also not in costume.

So I have to believe that they left while Vision was ‘fighting’ Statue Knight specifically to get changed and then came back, instead of helping.

But seeing Wonder Man supporting Wanda is just too much for Vision. He angrily announces that because of Wonder Man he has already relinquished his foolish delusions of humanity and will soon relinquish his wife BECAUSE A ROBOT HAS NO RIGHT TO ONE but hey until he does, hands off.

And then he punches Wonder Man for copping a friendly demeanor.

Also, I notice he hasn’t consulted Wanda with this. Which just goes to show that maybe he’s the most human of all because real human men similarly disregard her emotions and wants and needs.

Its a wonder she didn’t murder them all sooner.

Anyway, so now they’re fight.

Even though Wonder Man was knocked out by a mailbox last time, it will take more than a single punch and also SOLAR BEAM to take him down this time. He’s apparently getting his strength back and also he’s tired of getting knocked out by cheap shots so much.

He tries to tackle Vision but, y’know, intangible.

Except Vision apparently has the human emotion of shit talking because he decides that he’ll humble Wonder Man on his own terms instead of just remaining untouchably intangible.

Of course, even if he’s diamond hard, Wonder Man can just knock him off his feet by attacking the ground.

Its fine, Tony will pay for it.

Speaking of the cool exec with a heart of steel, he comes to underneath the computer bank that Black Knight tipped over on top of him.

Because apparently Shooter skimmed the previous issue?

Because Iron Man was one of the heap of heroes that should already be in the room where Wonder Man and Vision are fighting.

But I’ll try not to harp on it too much.

Back to the fight where Vision continues to ignore Wanda’s desires by exchanging blows with Wonder Man even as she insists that they cut it out.

I guess he gets tired of punching a fellow tough customer about the chest because he tries to go for his insta-win sure fire finishing move and fists Wonder Man through the chest.

But Wonder Man is able to resist the pain and punches Vision in the face.

He’s not the only one that the sure fire fizzled on but I think it usually just doesn’t work at all rather than ‘I say that hurts like the dickens -pawnch-’

The rest of the heroes that should already be in the room show up and Scarlet Witch begs one of them to stop this nonsense.

But Iron Man goes “Let’s just let them fight it out!” but stops just short of suggesting they bet on the outcome.

Tony. Geez. I know they have to work out their issues but a) this is probably not the most productive way? and b) they’re liable to cause a lot of damage to your home before they finish.

Okay. I know the theory is that they have to get it out of their system but guess what? IT DOES NOT WORK. They have this exact same fight again during the Busiek era and eventually have to use their words to clearly express what their thoughts and feelings are, instead of their fists. Because frequently, words work better than fists in the very specific field of robo-angst.

In one of the few times its a disadvantage to be a robot instead of an ionically enhanced human, Vision’s solar batteries are running low while Wonder Man is just getting fired up.

In desperation, Vision drains his solar batteries even faster by using SOLAR BEAM right at Wonder Man’s face.

It’s SUPER EFFECTIVE!

But even though this apparently hurt worse than anybody ever hurt him before (even worse than dying!), Wonder Man has enough juice to BWA-AM Vision.

And now that both heroes have knocked the shit out of each other and are too shaky on their feet to continue, now Iron Man tells them to cut it out.

And now that he has only now decided it was a problem, he scolds Wonder Man for breaking the mansion even though he’s a guest.

Oh and he also tells Vision to act like a man or man-shaped robot instead of a child. Or you’re grounded, mister.

And now that the fight is over, Jarvis shows up to make them all feel bad. He also took the time after waking up from a stone cold beating to put on some fresh clothes but also he fielded an emergency call and told them they were shit out of luck because the Avengers were dealing with personal biz.

Also, are they expecting him to sweep up the stone gentleman or should he call a morgue?

Jarvis’ ploy, if it were that and I’m not simply making up motives, works. Because Iron Man can’t believe that they’ve gotten to the point where they’re turning people away to wallow in their own troubles.

Which might but then again might not be fair. How long did you watch Vision and Wonder Man punch each other?

Before that they were unconscious because a statue beat them up and before that it was Christmas damnit. Can’t they have just one quiet day?? Also, is it still Christmas? They never mention it again. I think they were unconscious through the entire holiday.

But, yeah, obviously just sitting back and watching Vision and Wonder Man beat each other up instead of literally any other thing was a bad decision and you should feel bad, Iron Man.

Meanwhile, we finally get to the plot of the issue.

Because apparently! Vision and Wonder Man’s tension coming to a head? Wasn’t enough of a plot!?

I’d usually discuss this at the end but here goes:

This issue, if it was going to have Vision and Wonder Man punching each other in the head because of Vision’s poor ability to both communicate and deal effectively with his emotions, should have been just about that.

And if the fight was only going to be part of the issue before moving onto something else, that something else should have been thematically connected. As it is, this issue feels disjointed.

It feels like Shooter felt obliged to wrap up this plot thread before moving onto stuff he’d rather write about.

And dang will I have small, mostly neutral comments to say about the stuff Shooter would rather write about. Later. After we’ve seen a couple examples.

So the plot happens in Canada because Marvel Canada is a fascinatingly terrible den of evil, worse than a thousand Mos Eisleys. Specifically a research community in the Canadian Rockies called Research City because scientists are bad at naming the things, some of the times.

And the worst scientist has taken over this research hamlet (it has fewer than ten buildings, it is not a city).

Frank Hall.

And he is nettled because one of the other scientists has disobeyed orders and tried to contact the outside world and request the Avengers’ help.

That is not how we do in Research Commonwealth, JOSEPH.

Just for that, Frank Hall is taking the entire community off the map. TRY TO SNEAK OUT NOW, JOSEPH.

And then he crushes Joseph with kirby krackle.

Not to death but enough that Joseph’s wife Judy begs Frank Hall to stop hurting him.

Frank does not take it well. He gets some real squinty eye face going on for reasons that will be revealed later. But he doesn’t kill Joseph. Just has him taken away and locked up.

Because he just had a wonderful, awful idea.

Which is him beating up the Avengers.

He just now realized that he could become a supervillain instead of being a tinpot bully dictator of a small research community.

...

Frank Hall has sort of limited ambitions considering his scope of power.

Also, he forces Judy to make him a supervillain suit.

Its not specified whether she made it to his exact specifications or spitefully made it to make him look like a prat but he kinda does.

Oh also his backstory: It is every backstory ever about a scientist fucking up science so hard that he becomes a supervillain.

Except slower.

He was working on a teleport beam, doubled the power to see what would happen, and accidentally gave himself gravity powers.

Instead of immediately going megalomaniacal, he at first used his powers to throw stuff at people’s heads. Because, as mentioned, Frank Hall is a petty prick.

But then people started to shun him, because he kept throwing stuff at their heads.

So he proved their impressions of him correct by seizing control over the entire not-city and pushing people around.

And that’s why Frank Hall, Graviton, is the worst.

Also, he’s an entitled, harassing bastard.

Remember how he got angry that Judy didn’t want Joseph to be hurt? It was because he decided that he deserves her. Because she’s his fave.

She’s a bit distracted even though he’s all touching up on her face though because behind his back she noticed the Avengers standing outside the window watching this whole thing with evident disgust.

So she does the thing that everyone does in such a situation and unconvincingly goes “tell me more” but Frank Hall is an entitled idiot bastard and falls for it.

Not that it matters.

Because another woman, Raquel, who was jealous of Judy, bursts in and announces that the Avengers are RIGHT BEHIND YOU.

And the gig is up so the Avengers dramatically fly through the window.

(Attack instead of Assemble? Whats the deeeeeal??)

Things immediately go to hell.

Graviton smashes Vision into the ground with gravity and then blows the rest of the Avengers away with anti-gravity. Because sure.

Vision increases his mass to max mass to max his muscles but Graviton just makes him weightless and flings him through the roof.

Clearly, it is time to pull out the big gun.

Cap readies his mighty shield because he knows that when he flings his mighty shield all who oppose his shield must yield. But Graviton saw through that ploy and increase the mass of the shield.

Now Cap is opposing the mighty shield and must yield. By getting crushed.

Although what kind of posture were you in, Cap, where your shield getting super heavy all of a sudden made you fall backwards with it on top of you instead of just dropping it?

Meanwhile, Judy tries to run away because honestly, wouldn’t you? And Raquel beans her in the back of the head with a vase maybe. Because Raquel is not a great person. Also, this will be important later.

Iron Man and Scarlet Witch attempt to blast Graviton but he just... gravities the floor up so that it blocks the... attack...

I don’t think Graviton knows what gravity is.

He says he made the section of the floor lighter than helium so that it would rise up to protect him but. It was still connected to other floor that was not lighter than helium.

Also, remember when Scarlet Witch’s powers had evolved so she had control over natural forces.

Bet those would come in handy here instead of just shooting generic energy. Alas. The thread has been lost.

Anyway, Graviton condenses some floor fragments into a super-dense sphere and hucks it at the two heroes.

Because armor is better than not armor in this scenario, Iron Man shields Scarlet Witch from the sphere but they both get knocked out anyway.

Although at least her head is still head shaped and not salsa.

Wasp and Yellowjacket try their patented and recently useless Fly Around While Tiny And Annoy Someone battle technique but Graviton knocks them out with a pencil.

It sure is exciting watching those two consistently be useless. =\

Finally, since its just the two of them left, Beast and Wonder Man rush Graviton together but he just drops the ceiling on them. While boasting about how he wishes there were more Avengers because of how easy this is. Womp womp.

Anyway the Avengers are now all defeated. Even Vision. Who we last saw crashing through the ceiling while weightless and also at his maximum density so something like that shouldn’t be enough to knock him out?

Maybe the ceiling was made of mailbox.

And okay. This kind of stomp happens to the Avengers sometimes and with increasing frequency in the near future. But at least Graviton’s backstory had him dicking with his powers for a while before using them in a fight.

Imagine how embarrassing it would be if he were pulling off this kind of nonsense after having just woken up from a coma and never practicing his powers.

Anyway, now nothing can stop him probably and he’ll rule the world possibly.

And Raquel smugly thinks that she’ll rule it at his side because she has some issues she needs to work though.

Next time: More of this. YOU’LL NEVER BELIEVE HOW GRAVITON IS DEFEATED probably.

Hey, you should follow @essential-avengers. Why? When I get twenty followers, I’ll do a bonus post where I look at some Alternate Avengers. Avengers from the future? From when mangas roamed the Earth? Or from an alternate universe? Up to you!

[damiano-mylove]

Condescending Bitch

Pairing: Thomas Raggi x reader

Wc: 2.5k

Cw(s): swearing, kissing, crying, probably typos (as per usual, tell me if it sucks)

Summary: Reader breaks up with their boyfriend and Thomas consoles them.

Masterlist

If honesty be a virtue, you'd be virtuous to plainly say you'd fallen out of love with your boyfriend and you had done so a while ago. It wasn't deliberate, it was a gradual fizz wherein you found your heart warming for someone else. You felt horrible about it and that guilt had been eating at you. There was no cheating, but you didn't think you'd be able to avoid it for much longer. Not to mention, it wasn't only the non-existent feelings, Luca was just an asshole when you weren't blinded by love.

There comes a time where one must throw in the towel, and now was that time for you.

You couldn't do it at a restaurant; knowing Luca, he'd cause a scene. You couldn't do it at some meeting place; it would ruin that place forever and ever to both of you. And that shit's just not fair.

In the end, you couldn't make the decision. So you put every single item of Luca's clothing in a bag (and a couple things he'd left around your flat), and drove over to his house while you still had the nerve. You'd gathered and lost the nerve a couple times before, but the plan was already in motion now. Hell, there was no plan, but whatever you were raring to do was up and running.

You drove straight to Luca's mother's house in record time. Time flies when you're laser focused.

"Y/n!" Luca's mother exclaimed joyfully as you entered the kind looking house. How someone like Luca came out of Mrs. Batali was a wonder in and of itself. Once Mrs. Batali spotted the bag in your hand, she frowned. "Has something happened, Bambino?"

Somehow, the hardest part of this breakup would be bidding goodbye to Luca's mother, and not Luca himself. You sighed, "I'm sorry, Signora. Luca and I have been having issues for a while now."

"Oh, don't be sorry, Bambino." The older lady's kind smile returned to her face, which struck a heart string you hadn't even known existed. Mrs. Batali swayed toward you, in all of her vanilla scented goodness. She hugged you around your neck loosely, which you returned around her wide hips. "You're always welcome for dinner and a roof. Don't let the stupid boy stop you from seeing me."

God gave two gifts to this world; one of them was Mrs. Batali.

A smile cracked across your face as your chest continued to tighten and hurt. You loved this family like your own, and you loved Luca at some point. So many memories were made in the throws of this relationship, and it was all going to be thrown out the window by you. But it was too late now.

"Ti amo." Mrs. Batali placed a kiss to your forehead which made your smile even more genuine. She patted your shoulder, finally releasing you from her motherly grasp. Sadly, she raised her arm to the stairs to Luca's bedroom. "I'll be down here, if you need me."

You smiled once more to the older lady and bowed your head in silent thanks. If you uttered a word, the word would lead to tears. It seemed the two of you knew this.

It was the last thing you wanted to do right now, but you had to seal the deal.

Without your consent, your feet began moving toward the stairs then up the stairs. Your heart beat in sickening rhythm with your footsteps, but your heart seemed more heavy than your feet. It was ridiculous. You were ready to throw up, pee, or meltdown - you didn't know which one, if it was one at all.

At long last, after walking down the longest hallway of your life, you stood in front of Luca's closed door. You remembered all the times you'd breeze in, going straight into Luca's arms for a kiss. His breath wasn't always good and he was a bad kisser, but he made you feel infatuation. Now it only seemed a fraction of what you felt for the other person. Yes, God, that was why you had to do this.

You knocked. Your heart was deafening.

"Come in!"

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

You pushed open the door, feeling like you were having a heart attack. Luca smiled brightly at you from the light of his computer. Then he laid eyes on the bag. Don't know how, it was dark as fuck in the room. And smelt of cheap body spray and dirty clothes.

"Hey, Babe, I wasn't expecting you," Luca smiled, trying to act off the bag of his clothes and gifts in your hand. You flicked on the light as he stood up to close the door behind you.

This room is fucking disgusting. It was truly noxious.

"Alright, Luca, sit down, we've got to talk," you told him, putting on your bravest and thickest voice. It worked because the air in the room changed. The air grew thick and impossible to breath. It could've been cut with a knife. Luca sat on his bed, hands in his lap. You placed the bag on the ground and sighed, "We're breaking up."

For a second, he was unresponsive. Luca didn't say a word until he looked you in the eye, what felt like a full minute later. His bottom lip quivered. "You're dumping me?"

"You can tell people you dumped me, I don't mind," you quipped, trying to make the situation better. You did not, in fact, make the situation better. You potentially made it about thirteen times worse.

"No, you're not." Luca stood up again. Your breath caught in your throat. "We're not breaking up."

He took a few quick steps to you. You stood your ground, trying to be as brave as possible. Your mask was slipping. The last thing you wanted right now was for Luca to see that you were cracking under his gaze. That would be fucking horrendous.

All of a sudden, Luca barked out a laugh. He looked like a madman. "This is about that Thomas bitch, isn't it?" You didn't answer, and your facial expressions gave nothing away. Then Luca snapped, "Isn't it?!"

"If you want to fucking shout, we can shout," you seethed. Luca blinked angrily at you. "We're adults - act like it."

"You're a condescending bitch."

"And you're an ugly prick, but I've never complained about that. You've called me a condescending bitch about 3 times and a flat-out bitch more than a dozen," you recalled quickly, with venom dripping off each syllable. It shut Luca up. However, he began to cry. You felt nothing but hatred now. "You're one pathetic bitch to be crying over the girl who you treat like a fucking doormat." Luca only cried harder. No sympathy. You spun on your heel and opened the door.

Without a glance back, you left.

Mrs. Batali smiled at you on your way out and gave you a freshly baked bun, which you thanked her profusely for.

It didn't take long for reality to set in, however. The adrenaline faded as you drove back to your flat complex. You began crying at the wheel and completely broke down in the car park. Tears streamed down your face like rivers, snot clogged your nose. Your mouth tasted horrible so you started to eat the bun Mrs. Batali had baked. It was so good that you started crying harder.

How the fuck could you do that? At this point, you were too sad to give a fuck about sobbing in a car park at 6 in the evening. You just threw in the towel of a year long relationship, in the blink of an eye. Like it was nothing and meant nothing to you whatsoever, which wasn't true at all. You felt like a horrible person.

Your chest clogged up with emotions and stale air, your throat grew a lump that you couldn't swallow down. Now you were the pathetic one. Crying in a shitbox car over your ex while eating fucking bread.

A tap on the window scared the Jesus out of you.

When you looked at the source, the other person was looking right back at you, looking worried and confused. Leave it to Thomas to look sad just because you were sad. Thomas looked so fucking good even though a blur of teary eyelashes. He made the hand crank motion, so you rolled down your window.

"Are you okay?" Thomas asked. You just started laughing. What a stupid fucking question. Thomas began chuckling, realizing how stupid it was himself. "Fair enough. Fancy a cup of tea and a chat or shall I leave you to your car bread?"

How the fuck could he make you laugh in times like these?

You smiled then shooed him away from your car door so you could open it. He obliged and moved back, for you to get out, still with bread and keys in hand. Thomas furrowed his eyebrows as you two began walking back to the flat complex you both lived in. "Aren't you going to roll up the window?"

"How the fuck is anyone meant to steal it when all the windows are up?" It was your turn to earn a laugh from Thomas. Thomas' laugh hit your ear like honey. The sort of honey that your mother gave you to cure your sore throat before nursery. It was soothing and just the right thing for the situation.

As you walked up the stairs with Thomas, you realized he was taking you to his flat. To be fair, he was the one who offered you tea. What's he going to do? Offer you your own tea?

Thomas unlocked the ugly blue door of his flat that everyone in the building had a copy of. The second you both walked into the flat, warmth enveloped you, along with sandalwood and spices from Thomas' extensive spice cabinet. He must have been cooking earlier because it smelt Heavenly. Everything was in perfect place with just the right amount of mess and disorganization to make it seem like a home.

"I'll put the kettle on, sit anywhere," Thomas instructed after you both took your shoes off. You were wearing ratty trainers while Thomas was wearing perfectly clean Vans.

You nodded and flung yourself on one of his couches with a sigh. The couch was soft, warm and welcoming and you felt tired from crying and yelling and just the day in general. It was a shit day, that started with your toast burning and ended with this shit. A nap would really do good.

However, Thomas had other plans entirely. He placed a purple mug, full of tea with what looked like your golden ratio of milk and sugar. Thomas was your best friend, of course he knew your golden ration. You knew his. With a smile, you sat up which allowed Thomas to sit beside you and drape his arm over the back of the couch.

"Feel like telling me why you were crying in your car?" Thomas asked. You laughed lightly and sipped the piping hot tea.

"Broke up with Luca about-" you checked a clock. "-30 minutes ago."

As horrible as it sounds, Thomas' face lit up. His facial features remained the same but his beautiful green eyes lit up like candles in a dark room. "Is that so?"

"He called me a condescending bitch."

"So he hasn't gotten a new script," Thomas smiled. You chuckled lightly and sniffed. Your nose was still clogged from all the crying. You just didn't feel like blowing your nose like an elephant in front of Thomas right now. "He'll never get the chance to get a new script for you now."

"Thank God above," you sighed out with a laugh to your words. Thomas smiled. "I'll miss his mum though. Wonderful lady."

Thomas sipped his own tea and you discretely moved closer to him. It wasn't as discrete as you'd thought because Thomas picked up and moved a bit closer to you with a stupid smile on his face. "So how'd it go down?"

Like friends do, you told him everything, down to the detail. All but Luca being right, with Thomas being the other man who'd stolen your heart. That wouldn't be a key detail here because the last thing you needed today was to dump your boyfriend then directly after scare your best friend away from you forever.

But he wasn't scared off by you telling him Luca though you were leaving him for Thomas. Thomas actually smirked at that part, like the thought amused him. You didn't think anything of it actually, except for how cute Thomas was when he was smirking.

Eventually, the conversation faded and you were hip to hip with Thomas. With a sigh, he rested your head in the crook of Thomas' neck. His feather soft hair tickled the side of your face but you wanted nothing else for the moment. The scent of Thomas' cologne was prominent when you were this close to him, but you weren't going to complain about that. His arm fell from the back of the couch to around your shoulders.

Feeling Thomas' head turn to you, you looked up at him. Thomas' hand lightly squeezed you arm. Your breath hitched in your throat as you thought you were imagining Thomas observing your face.

Those gorgeous green eyes that you could stare into all day were scanning your face gently. They landed on your lush lips, then back to your eyes. All it took was a small nod for Thomas to lean in.

It was slow. It was slow, but undeniably sweet. The passion was palpable the minute your lips met his, just as you had been dreaming of for months now. His pillow-like lips were perfectly moisturized, but not over-saturated. The lip balm he used was strawberry flavoured and you'd never admired strawberry flavoured lip balm as you were in this moment.

As suddenly as it began, it ended.

Thomas leaned back for a second, looking guilty. "You need time to get over Luca, this is wrong."

"I've been over Luca for months." You placed a kiss to his lips, which Thomas accepted for a second, then backed out of again. You groaned. "Thomas, Luca was right. I'm in love with you."

In a stunned silence, Thomas' cheeks turned bright red. A broad smile grew on his face and you felt confident in your confession. You meant it, surely, but now you were confident that you did the right thing in telling Thomas.

"I've been in love with you since we went to the Capitoline." Thomas' voice cracked as he made his confession. Your heart bustled with warmth. He'd been pining for you all this time just to watch you run with Luca.

You couldn't take your aching heart. Grabbing Thomas' face gently, you pressed your lips to his again. He gladly returned this kiss with fervour and renewed zeal. Nothing else mattered while your lips were joined with Thomas' lips. Nothing would ever be able to induce the utter happiness and peace you'd felt in this moment.

After the kiss lasting for a while, Thomas pulled you to sit on his lap. He cupped your sweet face gently and smiled into your brilliant eyes. He kissed your nose. "May I tell you something else, Y/n?"

"Anything."

"I don't think you're a condescending bitch."

[gaiuswrites]

King of Cups || Chapter 2

Chapter 2: Five of Pentacles

Archive: ao3 | masterlist | one

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!Reader

Summary: Still reeling from the attack on Jortho, you begin your journey to scower the systems for galactic aid. The Mandalorian takes you aboard his ship temporarily, agreeing to shuttle you to your next destination. You both figure your tenure on the Razor Crest will be short lived... But you've been wrong before.

Word count: 3.8k~

Rating: Mature

Warnings: blood/gore, minor character death (mentioning), mature themes/language, vomiting

Notes: Hi friends. Here we go. Chapter 2... The last paragraph is marked with ///|||///, denoting a change to Mando's POV— his pov will be cropping up now and again, and I have a tendency to play with the timeline/tenses when it does. Enjoy x

You have to think about it. Genuinely.

It takes longer than you’d like to admit, with the Mandalorian looking down at you expectantly, a gloved hand slotted against his belt—postured and waiting.

‘Do you have a way off this skug hole?’

You open your mouth, but no words come out. It snaps closed. You swallow, but the action provides no relief. Your tongue feels too big for the small space it’s trapped in; too swollen, too dust logged— like you could choke on it, if you really tried. Finally, a single syllable frees itself, the weight of it plummeting through your ribs, ricocheting off the bones until it lands in your stomach with a dull, sinking splash.

“No.”

He doesn’t move.

“Do you need to get anything?”

You shake your head, small at first, phantom movements, before stringing together a sentence. “N-No. It’s all gone. Everything I had- it all went up on the shuttle-“

Oh gods, the shuttles.

Your heart seizes, a cold hand like a vice, gripping the bloody organ. You feel green; sickly chartreuse slithering it’s way up your esophagus, poisoning your soft palate. There were pilots on board when the ships blew. Two on each one. That’s four— four people. You knew their names. Knew their home planets. Knew about their families. One had a kid. Fuck. That’s four dead, and you didn’t even think of them— Maker, how could you not have thought about them?— No, fuck, fuck fuck-

It didn’t before but it’s hitting you now, stabbing you right between the eyes, the image of their bodies disintegrating in the blast wave, charring up like coal and carbon. You breathed them in, you realize. Their corpses coat your lungs.

The thought is all it takes.

Your feet move on instinct, scrambling to the side of his gunship where you vomit, bracing yourself against the riveted siding as you hack and sputter, wretching bile and what little broth you’d had for supper to splatter onto the cracked earth. Mercifully you’re hidden enough around the corner that you don’t think the bounty hunter sees, and if he does, he has the curtesy not to say anything.

What a gentleman, you think dryly, wiping your mouth with your sleeve.

You pant, body beyond spent, chest heaving as you press your scratched palm into the durasteel, the cool metal soothing it’s sting. Moments stretch like this— you doubled over, catching your breath— before you stumble back into view, graceless and encumbered, as if you didn’t just casually throw up down the front of yourself. You stand below him at the bottom of the ramp. He’s still there, a fixed point. Steel boots welded into the steel ramp.

“Uhm, are you-“

You cough, and it’s an ugly, hoarse sound; your throat burns, roughened and raw around the edges, and your nerves are too strung out for polite colloquialisms. You don’t have the energy to play coy and tip toe around the question. You’re fucking tired.

You try again.

“Are you offering me a ride?”

And now it’s his turn to hesitate, almost like he didn’t fully think the proposition through— as if it’s all just dawning on him now.

The Mandalorian didn’t strike you as someone who familiarized himself with answering to anyone— or picking up hitchhikers, for that matter— even if the offer was his to begin with... That was what he was doing, wasn’t it? Those words in that order? He meant to give you transport off planet? He wasn’t just… making conversation? Did Mandalorians even do that? Maker, if you’ve read this whole situation wrong, no small thanks to a laser-brain full of mush, you reckon you’d die from embarrassment on the spot where you stood, splotched with soot and puke and blood.

You think he’s going to tell you to shove off— you see his hand balling into a fist at his side— and close the ramp right then and there. Be rid of you. Sluffed, like a flea from a dog.

But he doesn’t. He surprises you both.

“Yes.”

Oh. Oh. Kriff, okay. Think think think-

Your mind reels and you’re rambling now, words ending and beginning in the same breath— steamrolling over yourself.

“Okay, I-I need to go back in to town, just for a—I cant let them think I’m just leaving them like this... Is that okay? I’m sorry, I won’t take long, I promise, I just— they need to know I’m getting help. Is that- uhm, can you wait? Can you wait for me?”

There’s another unreadable pause that makes you want to bury your head in the cold, fallow soil.

The man is looking at you like you’ve grown another kriffing leg, but eventually he grumbles out a noise that sounds like an affirmative, turning on his heel, and disappears into the belly of the ship— leaving you there alone.

Alone.

Pin pricks needle at the nape of your neck and the hair down your arm stands on end.

Alone.

You’re alone for the first time since the attack and suddenly you feel half your size and shrinking smaller still, like atoms collapsing and folding in on themselves until they dematerialize completely—and you along with them. You tell yourself to breath. To fight the bubbles of panic as they burst and pop, dimpling you from the inside out. Breath. Focus, he said. Focus.

You shift your weight from foot to foot, gnawing at the inside of your cheek.

The Mandalorian never reemerges.

Well… you guess that was your cue.

///

Staggering back into Jortho is like sleepwalking through a nightmare.

The smoke from the bombing has completely engulfed the lower atmosphere, doming the town in a thick canopy; the sky is blackened, starless, and the moons hover noncommittally like mere suggestions in the dark canvas.

Half the town had been decimated to rubble, and the other half was covered in the shockwave of it’s explosion— caked in grime, windows knocked out, doors splintered open. You almost expected the pieces to have reversed themselves back up, like you’ve seen in holovid special effects—homes rebuilding, fires dousing themselves, air purifying itself from the smog… but they don’t. They remain in shambles.

Time has granted you the unforgiving gift of clarity, and it’s one you’d rather not have been given. You don’t want to see the aftermath without the saccharine filter of shock to cushion you. The town is just as you left it, but somehow worse— worse because you can hear the crying, now. The wailing. You didn’t before with the blood pumping in your ears, deafening you, but you do now. The woeful noises that reverberate over the crackling embers still smoldering, the muffled sobs being choked down behind fractured walls.

Tripping over stray debris, you find Hareem close to where you’d left her, her fuse short hair grey with ash. The blood you smeared from her cheek still clouds her skin there, staining it as it does your fingers that wiped it. She wobbles to her feet and meets you in the middle of the road.

Neither of you speak, not at first. You hold onto her shoulders, and like a pillar of salt, you quake.

You try explaining to her that the communication’s system on your transport freighter had been blown up alongside the town, that you’ve accepted a ride from the bounty hunter and that you’re getting off world to contact the RRM headquarters, that you’d stay if you could but you can’t and you need to call for assistance, for help. You try to tell her that you’d do anything— travel through dimensions, if you could, to undo all of this chaos— if the laws of time allowed it.

You want to go back and pretend today never happened. To unlearn the tremor in your hands as they grip her frame. To unlearn all of this. To unknow. But,

you can’t.

All you can do is move forward. Do the next right thing. Take the next right step.

You’ve explained yourself in circles but it still doesn’t feel like enough. The words feel shallow, like slapping some bacta on a severed limb, and guilt rips through you— your voice torn with it.

“But how can I leave now?” you ask helplessly, eyes skittering around you. “After all- all of this?”

Hareem finds your hands, her spindled fingers encasing your own. A crease engraves her forehead, little lines clustering around her eyes. “You’ve done enough, hm? You go now. Go with that Mandalorian. You can’t shoulder this alone.”

“Har-“

She doesn’t let you say it. The older woman soothes a thumb into the web between your knuckles.

“Make contact. Comm for aid. It will come, but it won’t if you stay here.”

Your shoulders release with a defeated sigh. You know the Balosar’s right— you’re the one who’s told her as much. That’s RRM protocol. In case of emergency, you were to comm in and reconvene with the closest branch to your system to send additional supplies and volunteers to the camp. You know this better than anyone here, and yet this woman, this refugee, was the one aping your mission back to you.

She’s firm. Kind. “You’re just one person.”

Briefly, you wonder if she’s a parent. You think her child would be lucky to have her as their mother-- all of her somber strength. You think you would have been lucky, too.

Maybe things would be different—maybe you’d be different.

You gather yourself, piece by piece, and give her knobby hand a squeeze. You bore into her, determined and unwavering. You need her to understand. “I’m not abandoning you—any of you. I need you to know that, okay? I’m not leaving you alone in this.”

She smiles. It doesn’t reach her eyes.

“I know, my friend,” Hareem says plainly, a sad sort of resolve quieting her tone. She has no fight left, nothing left to give— as empty as her pockets, lint lined and turned out. Barren. “I know.”

///

You weave your way back to the ship, feet padding across the arid landscape. You don’t blink, not even once, eyes crusted open and gaping. You barely remember the trek but somehow you’ve managed it, treading up the ramp, the thuds sounding hollow and foreign to your ear.

“I’m not a taxi service.”

You nearly jump out of your skin.

“Maker almighty,” you gasp, hand coming up to clutch your canary heart, beating fast and frantic. He’s just standing there, waiting, the dimmed lights of the hull glinting off his beskar. It’d only been a few hours, but you had already somehow forgotten how kriffing imposing he was, how ominous. A vacuum in space.

“O-Okay,” you stutter, a twitch in your brow.

“I’ll get you as far as you need to go, but on my terms. I’m not making a special trip— can’t promise you when.”

You nod. You’re not sure what to say. Lamed, all you can do is repeat yourself.

“… Okay.”

“What sector?”

“Bajic,” you start, fiddling with a loose thread poking from your sleeve. “We- uhm, the RRM, we have a branch there, but then—” your throat bobs as you swallow your words, and he gives you an exacting look, tilting his helm subtly. There was no getting around it.

You’re pinned.

“Coruscant. I’ll need to get to Coruscant,” you finish quietly.

Did you just hear him ‘tsk’ under that metal bucket?

“It’ll take a while to get to the Core. Longer than you’d like.”

And here you go, babbling again before you can stop yourself, throwing up defenses, excuses— back pedaling. You’re earnest, and it’s dripping from you. “Listen, if this is too much, I get it. You don’t owe me anything. Really— you don’t have to take me anywhere you don’t want. I-I, honestly, I’m just grateful you even considered it.”

Silence. An endless sea of silence.

No current, no breeze. It feels like you’re stranded in dead water, drowning in it. Again, you hang there on bated breath, just waiting for the man to chuck you from his ship. Not worth the effort. Not worth the fuel.

And again, he surprises you.

He tips his chin, gesturing to the side. “Fresher’s that way. We’ll be up in five.”

You exhale, visibly relieved, and mumble a thank you before shuffling off in the direction he motioned towards. You get one foot through the door before you hear him.

“Dala,”

Your attention snaps to the Mandalorian. There’s that word again—you think he’s called you that before—but there’s something different in his voice now, a lilt you’d not yet heard from him. What is that? Nerves?

“There is… one more thing.”

You cock your head just as a gargled coo comes from somewhere behind him.

///

You look like bantha shit.

Which, considering the events of your evening, should probably go without saying— and yet, the woman staring back at you in the small refresher mirror still manages to startle you.

You’re covered in dirt and cinders and contusions you hadn’t had the luxury to notice before. With the adrenaline retreated from your veins, you finally feel the full scope of your injuries and Maker do they hurt. Your tunic is torn at the collar and the fabric is discolored, pants and boots scuffed and ashen. Your bottom lip is swollen, a split running down the side of it, the seam of which is cracked with dry blood. Your palms are scratched— knuckles, too. There are narrow licks from shrapnel bites nicking your forearm. Twisting your body, you discover a dark bruise already blooming on your shoulder from the initial impact of the blast. You’re stiff and achy all over, and you can practically hear your bones creak and groan with each strained movement.

You turn on the faucet and begin to bend forward before you wince, a sharp pain gripping your skull. Ginger fingers come up to touch the back of your head, patting around tentatively until you find a raised bump and something viscous wetting the strands of your hair. You pull your hand back, inspecting it— more blood, glistening black under the low light.

Your eyes flit back up to your reflection.

You should be scared at this point, you guess. Worried, at the very least, by all of this—by the gore of it, the cuts and marks. But it’s your eyes that frighten you most— they’re hard. Devoid. You don’t recognize them. You’re a stranger.

You blink. She blinks back.

Rust red water eddies in the basin of the sink as you scrub yourself clean. You let out a hiss as the cold stream hits your skin. You count your breaths.

///

Being anywhere on board his ship without the Mandalorian feels wrong. Unnatural. Like you’re a tourist, out of place.

Unsure of where else to go, you find yourself in the cockpit with the bounty hunter, sitting in the seat beside him. Glancing over the knobs and dials and pulsing displays, your focus drifts in and out, posture slumping, lids growing heavy, darkening around the edges of your vision, blurring—

“Try to stay awake.”

With a sharp inhale, your eyes snap open, blinking wildly, and you scoot your hips up higher into the seat. You shoot the back of his helmet an inquisitive look you’re not sure he sees, but he responds to it all the same.

“Could have a concussion.”

“Didn’t know you were a doctor,” you reply, tone low and rolling. Maker above, apparently the final stage of shock was sarcasm. The fact that you thought it wise to damn near sass a Mandalorian on his own ship after he saved your kriffing life...

Stars, maybe it really was a concussion. Brain damage. Had to be.

He doesn’t acknowledge the quip, which you can’t readily blame him for. A quiet beat, red buttons flickering against the dark of the cockpit, and then—

“There’s bacta in the medpack. Might not be much left.”

You’re wide awake now.

Your rebuttal is immediate, bristled even, words escaping before you have a chance to even consider his suggestion. “No— no, thank you, but I’m not taking the last of your supplies. I’ll be fine, you’re- you’re doing enough for me already.” He graces you with another of his grunts, a hush following closely behind it.

Your gaze wanders—it wanders onto him, and you watch him.

Watch as the stars dance across his armor, incandescent and shimmering. Hypnotic, even. Something you hadn’t noticed before catches your eye, and you have to crane your neck to get a good look at it. It’s hard to make out, but you think there’s a symbol on the pauldron adorning his shoulder. You can’t imagine it’s completely cosmetic, seeing as the hem of his cape is frayed and worn (and the fact that being a lethal hunter didn’t really scream ‘needless decoration’), but maybe, if you work up the courage somewhere between here and Coruscant, you’ll ask him about it.

His posture is carved out of stone and he sits like a statue, spine rigid under all that beskar. Fleetingly, you wonder if it’s heavy, if it’s uncomfortable—to carry it with him wherever he goes. But you suppose he’s grown accustom to the weight, wearing it like a second skin.

He’s broad too, you note. Of course he is, you recognized that straight off, but inside the confines of the ship, without the towering Lothal sky as his backdrop, it truly strikes you just how large the Mandalorian is. He engulfs the space around him. Devours it.

You stay like this, entranced, studying the man properly for the first time, allowing the muscles behind your tired eyes to relax on him— until his visor notches up quickly and meets your line of sight in the mirrored pane of the window, catching you in the act.

Kriff.

You avert your eyes, an embarrassed warmth crawling up your neck, suddenly finding a particular panel soldered to the wall incredibly interesting— looking anywhere else but at the faceless stranger you’re saddled with.

The kid gurgles, interrupting the awkwardness, and you’ve never been more grateful for a three pronged toddler in your life.

He’s sitting in the copilot’s seat opposite you, as if the tiny thing is navigating for the Mandalorian, and he’s completely dwarfed by the massive chair. Everything about him juxtaposes the other man. He’s all brown robes and wispy peach fuzz, and he looks almost comically out of place against the interior of the gunship. He’s playing with a shiny metal ball in his lap, and with one small arm, he extends it to you like a gift.

Out of the two of them, the child was a one man welcoming party.

“Is this for me?”

He gives a soft patuu, and your heart nearly bursts. You take it from him gently, and the little guy coos through a babbling grin, cheeks round and impish. “Thank you,” you tell him, all serious-like, and you have to actively suppress the squeal that threatens to break free from you. He glances to the Mandalorian with such a look in those big eyes; its hard to make out, but you think its something close to pride or satisfaction, maybe: Look dad, I shared my toy.

Kriff, this kid is cute. Like, dangerously cute.

You both take each other in like this; your micro expressions, his pruned little forehead, your fleshy form, all soft lines and angles. You’re sure you look just as strange to him and he does to you, especially given the only other lifeform on board he has as reference is coated from head to toe in metal. The child’s gaze snags on a lock of your hair, little teeth peeking through his mouth, eyes glued to it like a metronome as it dangles. You give your head a little shake, strands waving, and he giggles. You skip the ball over the hills of your knuckles, dazzling him momentarily.

“Does he have a name?” You ask, his eyes like black saucers peering curiously at you, and you give him back his toy— an offer he eagerly accepts.

“No.”

“So what do you call him then?”

“Just ‘kid’.”

A beat. “... Do you have a name?”

“Mando.”

“Just ‘Mando’?”

“This is the Way.”

You nod, worrying your cheek absentmindedly as you stare out the transparisteel. This is the Way. You’re not entirely sure what the phrase meant, but you know respect when you hear it— how reverent it sits on his vocal chords— and by the manner of which the man, this Mando, spoke, you can tell there’s more to those words than you know.

And you can appreciate his desire for anonymity; it doesn’t bother you much—you figure you won't be around long enough for it to matter anyways. You don’t know a lot about the Mandalorian people, but you have heard rumors. Everyone had. That’s all they were anymore: rumors and stories. Legends. Just seeing one was rare, and talking to one even rarer. But flying with one and his adorable, green baby? It was… definitely unique, to say the least.

You share more dulled quiet. And although the silence isn’t entirely uncomfortable now—you’re settling in to it— it’s not exactly desirable either, but it doesn’t matter because it doesn’t last.

Mando clears his throat, breaking the white noise that’s blanketed the three of them. He doesn’t turn his helmet. He keeps his focus straight ahead. You watch his reflection in the ship’s window and you can’t know for certain, but you think you feel your eyes brush against his, if only for a moment. A unintelligible noise filters through his modulator.

“Do you?”

You grin, a slow smile tugging at your lips.

“Last I checked.”

It’s the first smile he draws from you. The first of many.

///

Despite Mando’s warnings and better judgement, sleeping is exactly what you end up doing. You pass out, hard, stirring only once when an errant beep sounds through the cockpit. You’d fallen asleep right there in the chair, chin tucked into your chest, hair fanned across your cheek, arms wrapped around your waist in a measly attempt to trap your body heat to you. You’ve woken to find the cockpit empty— the ship must be on autopilot, you think— and by the illuminating glow of hyperspace, you spot his medkit, sitting open on the seat across from you and in it, nestled among old wrappings and gauze, a single patch of bacta.

///|||///

That smile.

Din remembers this moment, much later, holding it like a photo in a locket. Private. Secret. He keeps you there, gold plated on a chain, to loop around his memory.

Encircling him. Strangling him.

[jonkentt]

we could move in together

or Bucky suffering but make it crack****

Bucky drops onto the couch with a contented sigh. He stretches out, hands behind his head, smirking like he’s truly done something to be proud of. Sam’s coming over for dinner and finally, finally Bucky’s got a plan. They’ve been alternating these datenights dinners and whenever it’s Sam’s turn he cooks. Big batches of stuff he says he wants to make for Sara and the boys if it’s any good. Course, it’s always good. Bucky loves Sam’s cooking. He loves showing up much too early so he can watch Sam cook. Sam gets in fights with pots and pans, curses under his breath whenever he measures something wrong. You’d think everything he made would be a disaster but somehow, no matter how many times Sam swears that internet recipes are the bane of his existence, the food is delicious. Which makes Bucky feel like an asshole for ordering take-out on his turn every single time.

It’s not that he doesn’t want to cook for Sam. Boy, has he tried. But how can he tell if anything’s edible? Nothing compares to Sam’s cooking. So Bucky’ll make something, taste a spoonful, and decide it’s complete shit just in time for Sam to show up. There’s been a couple of close calls when Sam asked why his apartment smelled like pasta if they were eating deli sandwiches. (“It smells burnt in here, Buck.” “Ha! Yeah, I think my neighbor, uh, had some trouble.”) But tonight, Bucky has a plan. He found a recipe that was supposed to be “fool proof” and practiced making it yesterday. Sure it’s a mac-n-cheese casserole but there were several different cheeses in it so… that should count for something. He had a dish waiting to be put it in the oven when Sam arrived.

“I think we got this all tied up, don’t you Alpine?” Bucky says to the rabbit as she makes her way across the room to settle on his feet. Alpine’s favorite place to sit is on Bucky’s feet, which he thinks is adorable. He considers cuddling Alpine on his lap but Sam will be here any minute and he doesn’t need to be covered in bunny hair. Bucky as some class. The self-satisfied grin is still plastered to his face when Sam let’s himself into his apartment.

“Sam! You gotta explain this show to me! TV doesn’t make sense anymore.” His smile falters when he turns to see Sam crossing the room in long strides, some kind of burning intent clear on his face. “Uh—” Sam lands on the couch turned towards him. Bucky is keenly aware of the lack of personal space Sam has left between them. Sam’s knee is practically in his lap. Bucky sits there with his mouth half open, struck by the intensity of Sam’s stare. He doesn’t look angry, so that’s good at least. But what the fuck?

“Did you tell Sarah we were moving in together?”

Bucky blinks. “Wha—”

“At the cookout. Sarah just asked me if we’d found a place yet. What the hell? You can’t just tell my sister that we’re moving in together and not let me know!”

Bucky lets out a startled laugh. “The cookout? That was weeks ago! I’m sure she was just messing with you—”

“So you were joking?” Again, Bucky’s smile slides off his face. What is happening? Sam is not kidding right now. He might very actually be pissed off. But it was a joke? …wasn’t it?

“I…” Bucky trails off. So he’s been daydreaming about living with Sam. But that’s not what Bucky tells himself. He’s just picturing their dinners together at different times of day. Like in the mornings. Sam in pajamas is a quintessential element of these daydreams.

“Were you serious, Bucky? I’m trying to imagine that you wouldn’t just run your mouth off around my sister as a joke.” Sam is pinning him with this intense expression that Bucky can’t figure out and it’s taking all his self control not to squirm.

“I guess… it wasn’t.”

Sam keeps up the laser eyes till Bucky can practically feel two points boring through his skull. Finally, Sam sighs.

“Man…” Sam says, slowly shaking his head. He takes Bucky’s hand and holds it to his chest, just like they had outside Sarah’s house after Bucky confessed an overdue apology. But now, Bucky’s hand is literally against Sam’s chest and he can feel Sam’s heart beating. The thud, thud makes his stomach flip. Bucky stares at their hands. Sam is so close and that’s making him forget how to breathe. Maybe he should be looking somewhere else. Somewhere other than Sam’s hand gripping his. Listening to something other than Sam’s heartbeat. When Bucky meets Sam’s eyes again he regrets it instantly. This is 100x worse than before. This is tender.

“If you’re going to do this, you gotta be sure.” Sam’s voice is warm. His brown eyes are warm. His hand is warm. His chest is— you get the idea. Bucky’s brain still isn’t processing what the hell Sam is talking about. “Cause I won’t have you fuckin’ around with my heart.” Wait- what? “I don’t have the time or the mental space to deal with that. You understand?” Bucky would literally rather be in cryo right now. “Bucky.” The fuck does Sam expect him to say? If he starts moving his lips then words should form eventually.

“I wouldn’t do…” This is a struggle. Sam raises an eyebrow.

“You wouldn’t do what?”

“Fuck around.” It comes out barely a whisper. Sam sighs and Bucky thinks he’s actually going to die.

“What are we talking about, Buck? How you wouldn’t lie to my sister? Or how—”

“Yeah! Sure! I don’t know!” Bucky has class. He swears to god he used to have class. “I wouldn’t lie to Sarah! Yeah, I do want to live with you. It’s kinda the only thing I think about. But I didn’t know how to tell YOU that!” There’s a grin spreading across Sam’s face and it’s making Bucky feel things. “And I wouldn’t fuck around with your heart! That’s literally the last thing I would ever do! Your heart is very important to me and I would…!” Whatever courage he had is disappearing fast. “…take care…” Dear god almighty does Sam have to do that with his face? “…of it.”

Sam is smiling like the actual sun. And Bucky is burning to a crisp under a magnifying glass.

Sam leans back with a satisfied “hrmph.” He drops Bucky’s hand and stands up. Bucky involuntarily leans into the empty space like Sam left some kind of gravitational pull. What the fuck just happened? Bucky looks at Alpine. The rabbit is sitting on her hind legs beside him, looking up at him curiously and twitching her nose.

“So what’s for dinner? Take-out again?” If it could reach, Bucky’s jaw would drop to the floor. Sam looks like he’s trying not to laugh.

“That’s it?!!”

“What’s it? You forget to order a pizza or somethin?” Sam takes a few steps toward the kitchen and Bucky jumps off the couch.

“Sam. I hate you.”

“Wow. That hurts, Bucky. I thought my heart was important to you.”

“I—!” Bucky flails his arms around. Sam is grinning in that stupidly adorable irresistible way of his. The situation is hopeless. How is Bucky supposed to think when Sam is being this cute? And now he knows that Bucky wants to live with him? Disastrous. “I made you dinner!”

Sam looks surprised, maybe even a little touched. “Really?”

“Yes, really!” Bucky pushes past him on his way into the kitchen, overly aware of how their shoulders brush. Bucky pulls the casserole out of the fridge and transfers it to the pre-heated oven. Now that he’s not looking at Sam, the thought of meeting his gaze again makes Bucky feel queasy. Instead he decides to lean over the oven and stare at its digital clock. A perfect excuse to avoid those obnoxiously beautiful brown eyes for the next 20 minutes.

“What is it?”

“Casserole.”

Sam laughs. “You realize there’s like a million different kinds of casseroles, right?”

“Macaroni,” Bucky mumbles.

“Sounds promising. You’ve got beer somewhere?” Bucky mumbles some more because how can he admit now that he went searching for Sam’s favorite hard lemonade that’s annoyingly hard to get in New York? He hears Sam open the fridge. Too late. “Oh my god, you found this stuff here?!” The distinct crack of a can opening punctuates Sam’s excitement. “You’re the best, man.”

Bucky could say something snarky. Really, he should at least try. But his ears are burning and so is his face and goddammit why is this happening. Sam’s silent, clearly waiting for a comeback. Bucky starts to sweat. He hears Sam come up behind him. What is breathing? Surely it’s a non-essential function. Then Sam presses himself to Bucky’s back and wraps his perfect hunky arms around his waist. Bucky’s hearts skips at least five beats when he feels Sam’s warm breath on his ear.

“You just gonna stare at the clock then, huh?”

“Ye—“ Bucky clears his throat. “Yeah.”

“Mmm, okay,” Sam hums and rests his chin on Bucky’s shoulder, obviously with no intention of showing mercy.

“What are you doing?” Bucky’s voice is much higher than he cares to admit.

“Staring with you.” Bucky swallows. He can’t do this for another 18 minutes. “You gonna cook for me when we live together?”

WHAT. Bucky’s brain is hot and spinning like a clothes dryer but it’s his thoughts that are tumbling. Yeah, he’s definitely sweating a lot now. Bucky ducks his head, not realizing that would be a terrible idea. Sam drops a kiss on the exposed back of his neck. So this is it then. This is how it ends. Bucky is going to pass out or die or both.

“How much longer can you hold your breath before it becomes a problem?” God, Sam is such a smug asshole. “I don’t wanna scrape you off the kitchen floor before dinner.”

Bucky tries to inhale slowly, but it’s shaky- of fucking course it is. “I really hate you,” is all he can manage to whisper.

“Ya know, that’s funny,” Sam purrs. Literally purrs because he clearly wants Bucky to suffer. “Cause I could swear that you actually have a huge, embarrassing, all-consuming crush on me.”

Fuck right off, Sam Wilson, you perfect fucking prick, is what Bucky thinks. But somehow, unforgivably, what he says is, “You have really beautiful eyes, Sam.”

That startles a laugh out of Sam. “Why thank you, Bucky! But it’s kinda hard to believe you really mean that from the way you’re so adamantly not looking at me.”

“You know I mean it. Always accusing me of having a staring problem.”

“Still… you could convince me.” Sam’s tone is a challenge. Fuck this.

“Sam, if I look at you, I’ll either die or have to kiss you.”

“You’re so dramatic,” Sam chuckles. “You can kiss me, but dying right now would be inconvenient.”

That’s it! Bucky turns on him. “Inconvenient? In- fucking -convenient?!”

“Well, yeah, you didn’t say how long the casserole should be in the oven for.”

“Get out of my apartment!”

“Make me!”

Bucky grabs Sam’s face in both hands and kisses him hungrily. Fuck mac-n-cheese. He’s having Sam for dinner.

[no-droids]

Rough Day (The Mandalorian x Reader)

Rated: Explicit

Word Count: 3.1K

Summary: When you woke up this morning, you didn’t really think it would be a “fixing Mando’s knife wound and then giving him a handjob” kind of day today but hey, who knew that agreeing to babysit a bounty hunter’s weird, green little child would be so full of surprises.

Warnings: Smut, language, handjobs (duh), dirty talk, Pedro Pascal (deserves his own warning), mentions of blood, spoilers for the Mandalorian.

Maker, why is this even a thing?

You don’t know his name.  You’ve never seen his face.  He barely says a word, doesn’t even move much unless he needs to.  If he didn’t have such an obvious complex about droids, you would’ve thought he could be one himself, quietly forged and hidden beneath gleaming beskar armor for an untold number of years.  You know practically nothing about him other than the few things you’ve heard about his culture—most likely either grossly exaggerated or just flat out nonsense.  Everything about him is an enigma, even down to the vaguely impersonal things, such as the technical name for his “poof gun” or what insane percentage of his body weight metal has to account for.

But that doesn’t stop you.  Nope, the fact that you’ve never even seen a strip of his skin doesn’t stop you from nursing a stupid, helpless crush on the quiet bounty hunter.  Stars, it’s ridiculous.  The modulated, low baritone, the intimidating way he carries himself, so stoic and dark and foreboding and tall—

He terrifies you.  You’re absolutely terrified of bothering him, of being too forward or inquisitive.  You sit in the cockpit with him for hours in dead silence, kid perched on your lap in the copilot’s seat to keep him from touching anything, hypnotized by the way his helmet subtly reflects the streaks of hyperspace as they race by and thinking about all the impossible things you want to know but can never ask about.  The last thing you want to do is accidentally test his patience, possibly get marooned on some backwater planet somewhere because you just couldn’t accept something so beautifully mysterious for what it is.

So you ultimately strive to be almost as quiet as he is, always helpful but never in the way.  You troubleshoot mechanical issues with the vessel when they make themselves known, take the baby in one of the secluded areas of the hull and play peekaboo for a bit when he gets too fussy, or just pick up a rag and start cleaning when there’s nothing else to occupy your time.  You sleep occasionally, curling up on the floor of the hull with a blanket to avoid taking up too much space, living out of your suitcase and making a generous ten percent of his commissions just by copiloting and keeping watch over the child while he works.  With the strict schedule he keeps, your pay is always handsome and consistent, even if it is all a bit boring.

Watching him wrestle his bounties into carbonite is admittedly the most exciting part for you, the rest of your days filled with nothing but the interior of the vessel as it either travels through hyperspace or sits stationary on a planet.  He always returns to you bruised and dirty, manhandling and shoving his bounties up the ramp and into the carbonite chamber one by one, not bothering with the fuel needed to collect payment until at least three or four have been retrieved.

You try not to constantly replay the incredibly vivid memory of one of them snarling something sexually obscene at you once and how quickly the bounty hunter whipped his fist out and broke his nose before freezing him.

“Isn’t… isn’t he still conscious in there?”  You remember asking, studying the disgustingly crooked angle of the man’s shattered silver nose, to which the Mandalorian shortly replied, “Yes,” before clambering into the cockpit and taking off.

You had to bite down on the back of your hand to keep from whimpering when you touched yourself later that night.

Maker, you want him.  You want to help him relax, give him something soft and warm to come back to after exhausting days spent in the elements, after not sleeping for who knows how long and toting elusive criminals behind him.  Sometimes you can’t think about anything else besides how hard he’d fuck, how much he desperately needs it, how sexy his voice would sound raggedly gasping your name through the modulator in his helmet.  You want to get on your knees and give him the reward he deserves for putting himself in danger for a living, risking his life time and time again for mere credits.  If he even returns your feelings by ten percent, it’d be gracious and far more than you deserve.

But then one day he comes back limping, dragging a dead body on the ground behind him by the hem of its ankle.  The baby is already fast asleep in the cockpit so you thankfully have nothing better to do but watch as he silently hauls the dead weight into the hull, heaves it upright into the carbonite chamber.  He’s slow—too slow in pressing the button.  He looks at it for too long.  It’s like he has to double-check it’s the right one, adjust his vision until it fully focuses and registers.  Breath coming out stunted and shallow through his helmet, every movement somehow looks like it’s increasingly more difficult for him, limbs heavy and weighed down with iron braces and pure exhaustion.

His silhouette slowly approaches through the thick haze of freezing gas, and you blink rather stupidly down at your hand when an emergency cauterizer is suddenly pushed into it.  Without a word, he turns around and starts working at his chest plate.

You’re… you’re actually kind of worried now.  He usually takes care of these things himself, shuts himself away and tends to his own wounds after capturing unexpectedly difficult quarry.  How serious must his injury be to not bother getting into hyperspace before treating it, much less even closing the door to the ship?

Finally managing to find some sense of urgency, you quickly reach up to fiddle with the complex magnetics below either of his pauldrons.  Once the beskar, utility belt, and underplates are all removed, the Mandalorian abruptly drops to his knees with a loud clang and curls over, reaching behind his gleaming helmet to pull weakly at his cape and tunic.  You lower yourself to the floor and help him, hands trying not to shake as the warm, tan skin of his spine gradually reveals itself from under the dark fabric.

Your heart somehow leaps and contorts simultaneously, soon catching sight of the ugly tear of a knife wound steadily dripping crimson down his side.  “Shit,” you whisper, fumbling with the unfamiliar piece of medical equipment in your hands.  “Shit, Mando, are—are you sure this’ll be enough?”

“Not deep,” he punches out through the modulator.  “Just need… close it.  Be alright.  Sleep.  Set coordinates…”

The cauterizer zaps red and reflects against the gradually dissipating fog in the air, its threatening buzz echoing throughout the quiet hull with impending pain.  

“Try not to move,” you warn, swallowing thickly and reaching your hand out to rest along the smoothness of his bared skin.  He noticeably flinches.

Your fingers squeeze gently, reassuringly as you bring the laser down and start at the very edge of the wound.  The Mandalorian manages to stay remarkably still for being in what you can only imagine must be incredible pain, the skin of his back feverishly warm under your palm as it periodically flickers and illuminates a glowing red.  

You have to bite down on your lip when he suddenly shoots a hand back to firmly grab hold of the bend in your knee, taking slow, deep breaths through the modulator and trying to relax the tensing muscles wrapping around his spine.

Maker, this is like a fever dream.  His skin is so smooth, firm and lovely and bronze under your gentle touch, muscles pulsing with life as you slowly work to stop the bleeding by scarring over the tissue.  It’s so… intimate.  The silence broken only by the zapping cauterizer and his tight breaths, the way you’re both holding onto each other for entirely different reasons.

His grip on your knee suddenly turns to steel and he huffs out a ragged gasp in wordless caution, giving you just enough time to pull your thumb off the button before his body jerks a few inches in pain.  His tunic falls down your wrist with the abrupt movement and nearly touches the sizzling wound before you can catch it, quickly yanking the fabric up his curled back as far as you can and readjusting your hold on him.

You give him a beat to recover like that before softly reassuring under your breath, “Halfway done,” and brushing the knuckles of your other hand down his spine in a small gesture of comfort.

His muted grunt of acknowledgement follows a minuscule little tremor under your palm, the way his body seems to be responding to your touch filling you with some new, radical kind of bravery.  You quietly shuffle closer to him and turn the cauterizer back on, carefully framing his hips with your open legs.

“That little green thing up there is a monster, you know,” you suddenly say, wanting to distract him by filling the void but not wanting to overwhelm him with conversation.  Even small talk is considered uncharted territory here, but you figure it’s better than letting him suffer in silence.  “I saw it eat a live fish today.  A fish.  Grabbed it out of the pond over there like it was nothing and just swallowed the damn thing whole, fins and all.  Most disgusting thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”

You don’t hear him or see him move, but you do feel a subtle shake of his ribcage under your hand.  It fills your heart with air.

“Was twice as big as the little hairball,” you continue on.  “Surprised he’s not still flailing around in there right now, throwing him off balance.”

“Not with…those ears,” a modulated voice returns quietly, his gloved thumb barely brushing a half inch across your kneecap when you suddenly breathe out a laugh in surprised delight.  

“Maker, it’s worse than I thought.”  Your hand soothes gently along his back, trailing over the hills and valleys of each individual rib while you work.  “A Mandalorian just told a joke.”

“S-symptom of… of impend—ing death.”

“Yes, well.  At least the dramatics are consistent,” you remark.  “I deserve a raise, by the way.  Holding that little gremlin over the toilet and having him stare up at me while he does his business is getting real old real quick, tell you that much.”

“Reason…” he breathes out, trying not to wince, “…hired you.”

“Jerk,” you accuse with a smile.  “He’s healing you next time.”

There’s a small huff through the modulator, and his helmet tinks against the metal floor when he abruptly drops his head to rest there.

“Almost done,” you tell him, curling your fingers and softly dragging your nails down his side in hopes of distracting him from the pain.  It works like a charm, his whole body instantly going boneless at the sensation.  “Finish this up, close the door, set coordinates.  Get you clean, then you can rest for a few days.  You work too hard.”

“Mand—lorean…” he barely croaks out in response, as if the almost inaudible word counts as a valid explanation.

“Hadn’t noticed,” you say, finally reaching the other end of the wound.  You turn the cauterizer off and double check your work, hating the deformed scar for marring his beautiful skin but reasonably satisfied it won’t accidentally reopen.  “Alright.  Done.”

He doesn’t move.

“… Mando?”

His body stays completely still, unresponsive to your inquiry and his breaths no longer immediately audible.  Your blood instantly turns to ice in your veins as you drop the silver contraption to reach around his body and shove two fingers under his helmet, pressing them up against his lower jaw as best you can.  Only, the thick fabric of his cape wraps around his neck in layers like a shawl, blocking you from feeling his pulse.

“Shit,” you hiss, your other hand quickly rounding his side under the tunic to travel up the front of his bare torso instead. Pointedly ignoring the way his chest hair tickles your fingers as you wiggle them up firm pectorals and a prominent collar bone, you eventually find and push against a scruffy jawline.

The quick, steady beating under the tips of your fingers allows you to relax just slightly, but then the Mandalorian suddenly grunts and shifts, trapping your elbow under his arm and bringing his hand up to cradle the back of yours over his shirt.

You freeze with your body nearly folded over him on the floor like that, praying you haven’t overstepped somehow.  This is an emergency, surely he wouldn’t think you’re—

Slowly, so achingly slowly, he starts to pull your hand down the strong lines of his neck.  You gasp, fingers trembling under his as he gradually leads you lower, letting you trace the dip in his collar bone, spread out across the solid curve of his chest and feel his heart beat unexpectedly rapidly under your palm.

Maker, this is real—he’s real.  Warm, sturdy, clearly too delirious and lost in the same exact euphoria you are to snap himself out of it.  Touch.  Skin-to-skin contact after so much isolation, so many years spent by yourself.  In other circumstances, you might be worried that you’re taking advantage of him in his clearly exhausted state, but his grip on the back of your hand is so strong—his path so steady and clear as you both travel across the hard ridges of his sternum and abdominal muscles.  If anything, he’s not giving you much of a choice in the matter, and for some reason that fact alone serves to make you incredibly bold.

When your fingers eventually bump into the hem of his trousers, you cautiously lean forward and press your lips to the Mandalorian’s exposed shoulder blade.

He instantly goes rigid at the gentle kiss.  And then his entire back quakes with a shudder.

“Fuck,” comes that dark, gritted baritone through the modulator, losing all sense of composure and frantically shoving your hand beneath the fabric hugging his waistline.

“Maker,” you whisper against his skin, equally as fervent, letting him spread his legs slightly in his hunched-over position and maneuver your palm to wrap around a warm, thick cock.  He groans and gives them both a good, rough squeeze over the thick layers of fabric.

“Fuck—you’re—“ he moans hoarsely, moving to brace an arm above his head on the floor with a metallic clatter so he can slowly start to thrust his hips into your clenched fist, “fuck—soft.  How’re you so f-fucking—sof—oft.  ‘N pr-pretty.”

Your body fills with wildfire, ladling heat into your lower tummy.  “Softer somewhere else,” you admit quietly, brushing your thumb along the tip of his cock and humming when his body jerks with it.

“I—fuck—be-believe you,” he gasps, growing harder and harder in your hand.  “Bet you feel—per-perfect.  S’perfect.  H-home.  Rough—” his breathing stutters, helmet rolling to the side on the floor with a dull scrape, “Ngh, fuck—ro—ough day.”

“Let me handle it,” you murmur, beginning to stroke his throbbing length up and down in time with his cramped, stunted thrusts.  It’s not ideal, of course; it’s dry, probably too dry but for some reason you think he might like it more this way.  He gets to feel every ridge and crevice your fingers catch, gets to use his hand to tighten your grip around him even more and desperately start dry fucking your fist like he’ll never get enough of the sensation.

“Let you do anything,” he agrees mindlessly, the words sounding slurred and distorted as he groans them deliriously into the floor.  “Give you—give you anything.  Fuck.  Sw-sweet girl.  Helpful.  Always—always taking care of things.  The k-kid.  L-look so—look so pretty.”

You press soft, open-mouthed kisses along the heaving curve of his spine, letting your warm tongue come out to taste the thin sheen of moisture glistening there.  He growls low in his throat and freezes, holding himself perfectly still and clenching his hand into a fist on the floor as you flutter your tongue against his skin.

“I like taking care of other things, too,” you say softly into the dip in his shoulder blade.

“Ah—fucking, stars—like it—like it, too,” he grits, his cock pulsing between his legs.  “T-too much.”

“Relax,” you encourage, reaching your other hand down to gently cup his balls.  “Relax.  You need rest.  Just cum like this, I’ll go down on you later if you want.”

And then quite suddenly—so suddenly that you think it might actually surprise him more than you—he does.  

The Mandalorian cums.  Hard.  In your hand, right there on the floor, dark clothes bloody and prestigious armor halfway ripped off his body.

A ragged gasp tears through the modulator and his back straightens, the chin of his helmet lifting off the ground a few inches with it and his balls pulling up deliciously tight under your palm.  Warmth immediately begins to coat your fingers in throbbing spurts as he clangs a clenched fist against the hull, growling the first part of your name before it turns into a savage, wordless snarl.

You bite down on his back and moan with him, caressing the swollen head of his cock as it pulses spectacularly in your hand.  His orgasm is long and achingly slow, draining his body of its dwindling energy with every thick rope of cum you’re able to milk out of him.  He gasps and swears his whole way through it, until he finally exhausts every last reserve he has and collapses weakly to the floor.

With careful precision, you’re eventually able to remove your hands from his crotch.  His back continues to rise and fall with quiet, steady breaths, clearly passed out from overexertion, but it does give you the opportunity and privacy to lick your fingers clean without feeling embarrassed for doing so in front of him.

Nope, no embarrassment, just so fucking turned on that you might actually die.  He tastes absolutely divine—warm and masculine and gorgeously thick coating the shallow hills and shores of your knuckles.  Following your own advice, you manage to stand on shaky legs and close the hatch of the ship, deciding you should probably plot a course for… somewhere, before trying to clean Mando up or dress his wound.

You take a second to look back at him, laying there in a gorgeously disheveled pile on the floor, dead asleep.  It fills you with a surge of pride, being able to reduce such an untouchable, reputable bounty hunter to the level of any other man.  You already want him again, you’re already addicted to the glorious power trip of feeling him let go and fall apart under your touch.

Later, you silently promise yourself, climbing the ladder to the cockpit.  Later.

Edit: Read part two, Heaven in Hyperspace here.

[ka-za-ri]

Personal Assistant Pt. 4

Oh hey there. I’m surprised you’re still here. I guess it’s time for some more kinky smut. If you’ve been waiting for demon sex, here it is! *Will Smith poses* Can I get a Hell yeah! If you’re into that? Taglist at the end

Part 1: here Part 2: here Part 3: here Part 5: here Part 6: here Part 7: here Crossposted on Ao3: here

Pairing: Lucifer x Reader Wordcount: 4,800 ish Genre: Filthy fucking. Tags: Overstimulation, Multiple Orgasms, Toys, body worship, demon sex, knotting, floor sex, brief cunnilingus Summary: After getting your numbers back up, it's time to discuss a pay raise and maybe grace you with some new knowledge.

Pay Raise

Humans only ever believed what they saw; and Lucifer planned to make you a believer. 

The problematic tendencies you had fallen into were quickly corrected. Through sheer force of your willpower alone, you managed to bring your numbers back up within a month and a half. It was no easy task as Lucifer still loved to start his weekends with a little after work rendezvous. So, drastic changes needed to be made quickly to keep him satisfied. While on the clock, you were laser focused, pushing back every lewd thought you had, letting your body react while your mind worked. You needed to separate and compartmentalize work from pleasure. If Lucifer could do it, you could do it too.  Seeing your improvement come about so quickly had him pleasantly surprised and the discussion of a proper pay raise needed to be had. 

He had gone in and scheduled another meeting with him at the end of the day a couple months after your performance review. Like the last time, it would take  up the last couple of hours you had on the clock and you expected it to last a few hours past that as well. Surprisingly, he had sent you an email just as you started to wrap up your work to remind you of your meeting. When you opened it up and saw the message, you couldn’t help but smile a little. It was so him.

Make sure you’re properly prepared for the meeting and be on time. 

To anyone else, the words on your screen would seem like a mundane reminder to bring something to write with and to be punctual for your meeting. However, everything Lucifer did had a purpose and you knew the underlying meaning of his succinct message. Understanding what you had to do, you rushed the last bit of work you had to accomplish. He wanted you to be prepared and that meant that you needed a few extra minutes before the meeting to ensure both your holes were empty and ready to be used as he saw fit. 

You stared at the bathroom mirror, face warm from seeing your most intimate parts reflected in it while you pulled the toys of the day out. You carefully washed them with warm water, even if it was getting dangerously close to the appointed time, it would be a shame if you couldn’t properly care for the precious gifts Lucifer graced you with. Everything he handed you felt sacred, and to disrespect him by not ritualistically washing and drying your toys after use left you feeling guilty. If you arrived a little late because of that, you hoped he would show mercy. Likely not… but it’s not that bad to get punished...

When you stepped back out onto the main office space, you noticed that it was significantly darker than usual. Normally, the room would be glowing a warm orange from the setting sun as the day drew to a close. However, during the time you were in the bathroom, he had drawn all the shades to block out the light. A gray gloom fell over the two of you and you suddenly felt an inkling of fear crawl up your spine. 

He was staring off into the distance, facing the windows as if he was watching the city. But, with the shades down, he was really looking at nothing. He seemed to be deep in thought while he waited for you to arrive. 

Today would be the ultimate  test of your trust in him. 

“I’m here for the 3 o’clock meeting, Lucifer.” You spoke up after the silence between the two of you grew too heavy for you to bear. 

“Right on time. Take a seat.” He didn’t turn to see you, his gaze and demeanor rather distant. 

The fear you felt earlier came back. Your mind raced, wondering if you had disappointed him somehow. The somber mood only made you worry that he was gearing up for the ‘you’re fired’ talk. The last time a meeting like this happened, you had found yourself sitting on his cock for hours while he rattled on about reports. You could only pray that this meeting would somehow have the same outcome. 

“My apologies for the darkness. I’ve had a bit of a headache and the light makes it worse.” He explained, finally putting your worries at ease and he moved to his seat at his desk. “I hope you don’t mind.” 

“Not at all. I hope you’ll overcome it quickly.” You smiled softly, glad to know that he was still susceptible to the typical aches and pains of a normal human. Even if he seemed to be a supernatural being at times with how composed he was, you knew he was still human deep down. “What would you like to talk about?” 

“Numbers.” Lucifer stated plainly, pulling out your file. “It’s been a rather busy month for you, has it not? I would like to check in.” 

“Well, you know how it is during this time of the year. Everyone is trying to get all the supplies they need for school and orders are flying off the shelves faster than some of our facilities can fulfill them.” 

He nodded, writing something down on a separate notebook he kept at the side of his desk while you spoke. “Yes, the hiring and training set up a few months prior helped; but, nothing really prepared us to experience such growth in such a short amount of time.” 

“It was an unexpected spike, but if I remember correctly, marketing has also been working on expanding the network of advertisements on all platforms. Your reach is a lot larger than it ever has been.” 

“And even with all this new work, you managed to bring your numbers up as I had asked you to. Very good.” He pointed out the improved data and compared the past two months to the time he had last spoken to you about your dip in performance.”Now that you’re on top of things, I expect you to stay there. You’re on track to keeping those numbers up and I’d like to see you stay diligent, even when things get slower.” He paused, letting you take in the information before he moved to the next point he wanted to get to. “I’m very proud to see that you’ve kept up with everything despite the sudden growth and spike in work. It might be time for a pay raise, don’t you think?”

You blinked, not expecting to have this kind of talk until you had been with the company for at least a year and a half. To have it brought up just a little over six months in your tenure felt too short; yet the pride you felt from meeting his expectations overrode any discomfort you had. “I’m happy with whatever decision you make.” You said truthfully. 

“Well, with higher pay comes higher expectations. Do you think you can live up to them?” 

“Guide me, and I’ll do whatever it is you need.” you replied confidently. It didn’t matter if the request pertained to work or your after hour services. You were willing to go to Hell and back for this man. Normally, you would have been alarmed to be this loyal to someone you had only met half a year ago; but having spent so much time around him, you knew you could count on him no matter what decision he made. 

“Do you trust me?” The question felt a little odd, but not entirely out of place.

“Absolutely.” 

He gauged your reaction, searching for any fault in your confidence. Your heart beat fast as the silence stretched on and he tested the waters even further. Finally he broke eye contact with you and got up from his desk, he beckoned you to follow him to a larger, emptier space. “If you trust me as you say you do, then do not be afraid.” 

You struggled to understand what he was saying. For a moment you felt like you couldn’t see properly, Lucifer’s entire being seemed to disappear behind a haze and shift dramatically. Blinking rapidly to try to fix whatever was going on with your eyes; you tried to get a better look at him again. Once your vision cleared, Lucifer’s image was no longer the one you were used to seeing on a day to day basis. Yelping in surprise, you fell back, trying to comprehend what just happened. 

“Do not be afraid.” 

“I’m not… I’m not scared.” you stuttered. This image, this version of him was familiar to you. As shocking as it was to see now, there was a sense of familiarity. You knew this version of him as an illusion; but, for many times as you blinked, he remained the same. The great horns that crowned his head and the massive wings that surrounded him didn’t go away no matter how hard you rubbed your eyes and shook your head in disbelief. 

You thought back to the night you signed your contract, how you had sworn you saw something in the reflection of the window. That red glint in his eyes you had thought was a trick of the light was actually natural. What you thought had been an illusion had been his true form all along. 

Even his clothes had changed to fit this form of his. He was swathed in a long black and red tailcoat that fit snugly over the tailored suit he wore. The embroidered design on the coat and at his collar made your heart flutter. It matched the necklace he had given you months prior. The red that lined the coat and the capelet on his shoulders were an exact match to the lipstick you wore. All along, signs of his true self had been all around you and you hadn’t noticed a thing.

Everything clicked at once in your brain. His name, the contract, the sway he had over you. You had willingly made a deal to work with the devil himself. That realization should have had you screaming for mercy and for a return of your soul; yet that thought never crossed your mind. All you could think of was just how magnificent he was. 

You wanted to get up, but your body seemed to lack the strength to hold you upright. He stood still, watching your every move. Even if you claimed you weren’t scared, your body wouldn’t stop shaking in the wake of his demonic form. He waited patiently for you to gather your wits, knowing how shocked you must be to realize this reality. Lucifer was almost ashamed that he had shown his true form to you without much warning. However; there was no delicate way to go about it, and there were needs that he wanted to sate which could only be accomplished in his true form. 

“This… this is all real…” You breathed, finally at least getting enough strength back to get on your knees. “I’m not dreaming?” 

He stepped closer to you so you could clutch onto his clothes and pull yourself back up. “Does it feel real to you?” He asked softly, his gaze never leaving you as you struggled like a newly born lamb to stand again.

“Very real.” You determined once you were back on your feet and able to gaze directly into his eyes. He’s beautiful. Carefully, you reached up to touch his face, stroking his soft skin and his silky hair. The familiarity of his warm skin under your fingers brought a calm over your body. Still, it was hard to believe and your touches tracked upwards towards his horns. “May I?” You asked tentatively before you touched them. 

“You may.” He permitted, tilting his head to the side so you could properly touch them. You gently ran your hand through the ribbed texture of the hard horns, marveling at their sheen and how smooth they were. It was easy to be entranced by the unique curved shape they formed and you spent several minutes mindlessly tracing them from where they sprouted from his skull to their pointed tips. He stayed perfectly still for you the whole time, letting you soak it all in. Carefully standing on tiptoe, you placed a soft kiss on them, leaving red lipstick marks across them. He subdued a shudder, but let you continu, allowing you to explore him in a rare show of vulnerability. 

“May I…” You started to ask again, distracted by his wings which fluttered softly whenever your touches tickled his senses just right. You reached out to them, wondering if they were as soft as they looked. 

“You may.” he said softly, giving you permission to walk around him and caress the dark feathers. The ensemble he wore was so cleverly made, allowing his wings full range of motion while also being easy to remove thanks to some carefully hidden buckles and ties which nestled at the base of each pair of his wings. You traced the line his spine made, barely brushing past the feathery appendages. You couldn’t see his expression from where you were, but you could feel his muscles tense. Lucifer didn’t stop you though, letting you carry on and examine his body as you needed. 

Your fingers traced the feathers, amazed at how they shimmered in the dim light, refracting bits of green and gold whenever they fluttered. The right at the base, the softest black down sprouted from his skin and flowed into the wings. Burying your fingers there, you sighed in content, loving the velvety texture of the small feathers as they tickled your hand. Lucifer visibly shivered, the base of his wings were particularly sensitive. The way you caressed them so gently sent jolts of pleasure right to his groin. He couldn’t stop you though, not when you were stroking those sensitive spots so innocently in your inspection of his demon form. He couldn’t bring himself to ruin the moment with his growing hard on. You heard him take deep breaths, calming his body as he stayed still for you. 

You circled around to him again, wide-eyed and blushing. He trusted you enough to show you this. Out of all the people in the world, you were the one privileged with the knowledge of what your boss truly looked like. 

“Are you afraid?” he asked once you were in front of him. 

“No…” You answered softly, placing a hesitant kiss on your lips. “You’re beautiful.” 

He liked your answer, responding to your kiss and deepening it. Lucifer pulled your close, his hand resting at the back of your head and keeping you flush against him. You could feel his hard cock press against your thigh and the intimacy of the moment was heightened. The kisses you shared were uncharacteristically soft, as if he was holding back his real desires from you. You were so used to him simply taking anything he wanted from you that the gentleness had your mind swimming in the most pleasant way. “If… I may…” You said breathlessly once the kisses broke. You placed your finger on the clasps that held his capelet in place, and patiently waited for his permission. 

“Yes, you may.” 

You smiled softly; there was nothing but adoration in your eyes as you worked his clothes off of him. The capelet fell away with little effort. The buttons to his tailcoat came next. He assisted you in undoing the buckles and ties at his back. Once those were undone, the rest of the garment came off with ease. All the ornate accessories he wore were carefully removed and placed on the desk. Everything you touched was sacred. Everything your hand passed was blessed to be in his presence and you were the one privileged enough to have the pleasure of taking it off of him. 

Each piece of clothing landed on the floor in a pile next to the two of you. After the long coat came his gloves which hid long, red nails underneath. You blushed when you noticed that once again, it was the same shade of red you wore every day on your lips. You made quick work of the skin tight undershirt he wore; the last thing that stood before you and his bare skin. Once that joined the rest of his clothes on the floor, you were free to explore him again as you wished. 

You didn’t even ask permission this time. It was the first time he had ever allowed you to remove this many clothes off of him. The treat of seeing his whole torso bare and framed by those magnificent black wings of his was practically a religious experience. You couldn’t help but want to kiss every inch of his skin. Your hand traced the toned muscles of his abs, trailing up to his chest where his nipples were. Keeping eye contact with him, you ran your tongue across them, watching how hard it was for him to keep his composure the whole time. You wanted to spend every second he allowed worshiping the perfect specimen in front of you. Taking his nipple in between your teeth, you swiped your tongue across it, gaining a hiss which turned into a soft moan. He laced his hands into your hair, encouraging you to keep going. Your hand joined your tongue at his chest, pinching and teasing his other nipple.

Your free hand moved down lower to the bulge at his pants and stroked him through the fabric. You would get there in due time; but your focus was on what was already revealed and you hadn’t had enough of that yet. Kissing across his chest, you sucked at his other nipple, moaning softly against his skin, you let the vibrations from that noise aide in pleasuring him. “Very good…” He murmured softly, his hands still laced in your hair and tugging at it slightly. “You may continue…” 

At his request, you knelt down, coming face to face with his crotch and you swallowed. He stopped you before you got to working his belt off of him. “I… I will have changed there too.” he warned. 

“I will not be afraid.” You reassured, deftly unbuckling his belt and tossing it to the side. You took your time in undoing the button and the zipper. The anticipation of what he was hiding was making you wet. How would it feel to be filled with this version of Lucifer? How would your pussy like his demon cock? You licked your lips unconsciously as you pulled the zipper down and revealed the outline of his cock pressed up against his boxers. Seeing the tantalizing silhouette of what was to come made you eagerly pull the rest of his pants off and tossing it on top of the ever growing pile of clothes. In a moment of awkward maneuvering when you struggled to get his pants past his ankles, Lucifer also assisted you in taking off his socks and shoes. 

He only had his boxers left before he was completely nude. Even if you were excited to see what his cock looked like, you wanted to still show appreciation to what you had unveiled. Kissing up his thighs, you breathed deeply to take in his scent. His unique musk hadn’t changed at all. He was still the Lucifer you knew and trusted. Lovingly, you nuzzled the massive package he sported at his crotch. A bead of precum soaked through the fabric and you lapped at it Getting a taste of him, you smiled to yourself, noticing that his unique flavor was also the same as it had always been. 

Embracing his thighs, you hungrily groped his clothed ass while you licked up and down his shaft through the fabric of his boxers. Your saliva wet the fabric, enhancing the outline of his cock even more, molding it to every ridge and bump. By the time you were ready to take off his boxers, it was soaked by your drool and a mixture of his cum. 

Getting to the final reveal of his cock was better than you had ever expected. It was a magnificent thing. Long and hard, it curved upwards with deep ridges running all along the length. At the base, an impressive muscular knot bulged and pulsed which then seamlessly lead down to his balls. You couldn’t help but trace your finger along every detail, marveling at it and fantasizing about taking it all in you. Part of you wanted to also run your tongue across his length, but his hand in your hair stopped you before you could take the tapered tip into your mouth. Above you, you heard Lucifer hiss in pleasure, thrusting into your touches, just as eager as you were to get to the best part of the evening. “No. Not this time.” He said firmly; and you obliged, only touching him with your fingers until he couldn’t take it anymore. 

The pile of clothes you made served to be an excellent cushion against the cold floor. He laid you on top, smiling devilishly now that you had your fill. “Now… it’s my turn.” He said. “May I?” 

“Yes… You may.” You said, already lifting your skirt up and spreading your legs wide for him. 

It took no effort at all for his sharp nails to cut through the thin fabric of your panties. Truthfully, he wanted to rip all your clothes off of you; but then that would make your journey back home rather problematic. So, he had to settle for the pleasure of tearing your panties to shreds, exposing your soaking pussy to the cool air. It was his turn to lick his lips and savor the beautiful sight before him. 

Dipping down between your legs, he licked at your labia, lapping up your essence and taking in your unique scent. The feeling of his hot tongue playing at your sensitive folds was mind blowing and your hands flew to his head between your legs, gripping the horns hard to encourage him to go further. You could hear him chuckle, his body shaking slightly in the action and he complied, if only a little bit. He pressed the flat of his tongue across your slit, parting it open to freely lap at your juices and stopped to swirl the tip of his tongue at your clit making your whine and grip at his horns even harder. 

You didn’t realize just how strong your grip on his horns had been until he had to pry your aching fingers off of them as soon as he was satisfied with tasting you. “Are you afraid?” He asked, pulling away from you to line the tip of his cock at your entrance. Just feeling the tip part your lips had you quivering in anticipation. 

“No.” You reassured him. “I want you… all of you.” 

He took his time entering you, wanting you to feel every detail of his cock as it slid into you. You arched your back, already writhing in pleasure at the first inch. He filled you in a way you never felt before. No human cock or toy could ever replicate the sensations he was giving you.You could feel everything, every curve and ridge of his glorious dick as he entered you. The girth of it was perfect, stretching you full while the length and curvature of his cock rubbed against your g-spot with every inch that entered you. “You will have all of me… soon.” He promised. “But first. Let’s see how you handle me like this.” 

His pace was slow at first, making sure not to hurt you as you became accustomed to being fucked by his demonic cock. Every pass was a new experience in sensations. You clawed fruitlessly at the tiles on the floor as you gasped his name with every thrust he gave you. This had to be what it felt like to be in heaven. If you could choose a god to pray to, it would be Lucifer and his cock would be the temple you worshiped at. 

You could still tell he was being careful with you; and that wouldn’t do. As much as you appreciated this soft side of him, you knew the control he craved. “Take… Take me.” You begged. “Use me as you like…” 

At your request, something in him snapped and the languid pace he first set was broken in favor of a rougher and faster one. A pace that could satisfy a demon. Your insides clenched and fluttered erratically, not sure how to take the brutal fucking he was giving you. As your mind short-circuited, you vaguely felt him lift your leg up, propping it on his shoulder to get better leverage. 

And that was the moment you saw stars. Every trust was pure bliss, you were cumming uncontrollably around his cock, spasming and begging for more at the same time. His sharp nails dug into your flesh, adding yet another layer of sensations for you to experience. The top of his hard knot caught at your entrance with the new angle and you could feel your cunt stretch out even more to accept him. 

Tears streamed freely down your face as you lost count of how many times his cock had made you orgasm. Yet you still hadn’t felt his knot buried in you yet. “Lucifer… please.. I want all of you…” You whined. You weren’t sure how many more times you could cum before you passed out. At least before that happened, you wanted to experience fully accepting him. 

He slowed down to almost a full stop and let you take a few deep breaths. As you calmed your body down from the high of so many orgasms back to back, he pushed further into you. You had thought the incessant stretch you felt from the top of his knot when he was fucking you would be the worst of it; but you were sorely mistaken. “Keep breathing... “ he said, coaching you into slow, even breaths while he continued to cram his whole length into you. “In and out… just like that… You will have all of me soon.” 

He reached up to your face, brushing stray strands of hair away, watching your expression change from one of strained discomfort to one of pleasure as his knot finally slipped all the way into you, snug and tight at your entrance. “Very good…” He praised, kissing you softly and letting your mind process what you had just done. 

Looking down, seeing your pussy stuffed so full with his cock, his knot pulsed in need and he slowly rutted into you, his eyelids fluttering at being engulfed in your heat. The image of your cunt stretched and strained around his massive member for the first time would be burned into his memory forever. As soon as he felt your body fully relax into the experience, he started to rut into you harder, rocking back and forth in short burst, making you scream his name while he chased his release that was so close 

“Who do you belong to?” He asked breathlessly, sweat plastering his hair to his face. His whole body tensed, waiting for your answer. As soon as he had it, he knew it would be the end for him. 

“You! You do, Sir!” You screamed, arching your back and shuddering at being so filled. 

“Who?” He growled, digging his nails into your thighs and leaving deep marks on your skin. 

“L-Lucifer!” You yelled, you voice hoarse from all the lewd sounds you had made that night. 

That was it, that was what broke him. With one last trust, he pushed himself into you as deeply as he could, filling you with his seed, cum seeming to endlessly stream out of him in spurts. He bent over you, biting you at the juncture of your neck and collarbone, his fangs breaking skin and drawing blood. He lapped greedily at it, memorizing the unique tang to your blood and finally, was satiated in a way he hadn’t been in years. 

Your whole body collapsed onto the pile of clothes at your final orgasm, your vision becoming white for a few moments before you slowly drifted back into reality. He continued to empty himself into you in spurts, his seed overflowed and seeped down your thighs, but you didn’t care. 

“And the pact has been made…” He murmured softly, laying down at your side, protectively wrapping his wings around you. 

“Does that mean you have my soul now?” You asked tiredly. You could feel yourself drifting and wondered if you could take a small nap before taking the last train home. 

“Would you like to have it back?” 

“No.” You said confidently, snuggling up against him, making him hiss in pleasure as your body shifted and he was still buried inside of you. “I signed a contract with you a long time ago if I remember correctly.” 

“That’s right. You were mine all along.” He said chuckling softly and holding you close.

He never needed to make a believer out of you. You had believed him all along.

Taglist: @ptv-hades

[thebad---catholic]

Poison Ivy for a Batman movie

It’s very important to me that poison ivy is fucking terrifying. Not the refined, lipstick wearing seductress we’re used to.

I want Ivy to be a wild woman. Messy hair, dirty body that’s covered with moss and fungi like lichen. She’s completely apathetic to human lives- as apathetic as we are to blades of grass we trample.

I guess her main goal is to murder businessmen of Gotham (Bruce Wayne included?) who’re trashing the environment somehow.

The only time she emotes is over her plants. She comforts them, talks to them, cries when they die. But it’s very clear that she doesn’t give a fuck about human beings. She doesn’t care about the pain she inflicts on others. She’s not a sadist, she’s worse- the only thing she gets from murder is the satisfaction that a parasite is dead.

—————

Batman is investigating the disappearances of some hikers. The police have a suspect, Pamela Isley. Batman thinks she’s partly to blame, but how could she have done this all by herself? There were groups of multiple hikers going missing at once- she had to have help.

We cut to ivy being questioned by two police officers. An officer is eating an orange. He offers one, she declines. He places the seeds on a napkin in the table. As the interrogation goes on she’s mostly stoic, but zeros in on the orange, irate at how disrespectful the officer is being by eating it.

Bruce is in the woods, trekking the hikers’ same path.

Police finally ask her straight out if she knows anything about the hikers disappearance. Of course she does, she’s responsible for them.

Batman is deep in the woods now. Only the moon illuminates his path. He’s being watched; and turns just in time to see an animal (Some kinda mountain lion? Idk something that’s gonna attack someone but not like a bear)

She killed them. Why on earth did she kill all those people? The officer is done his orange, all of the seeds in a neat pile. She slides the napkin toward her, absently turning a seed in her hands.

Batman runs for it, into a clearing. He falls, and just before the animal attacks, Bruce shines a laser pointer in its face and scares it off. He’s alone again; it’s quiet. Something catches hid eye. It’s in the foreground of the shot, but blurred.

“I was hungry.”

The camera focuses. Its a decomposed human hand. Bruce found the missing hikers.

The police are incredulous. They likely think she’s just crazy. Did she have help? No. Than how? She looks at one of the officers. Can she have a cup of coffee?

Everywhere he looks, the moon highlights carnage and bones. He throws himself against a tree, and something knocks to the ground. An eye. Slowly, he looks up. A body hangs in the tree above him, entangled in vines.

One officer leaves. Ivy throws a seed into the remaining officer’s mouth. Blood splatters everywhere. She grabs the seeds and leaves. The dying officer has a plant growing out his throat.

—————————

After she escapes and the plot happens or whatever, Bruce is on her trail on a motorcycle.

She runs into a building, and he skids to a halt. Before he gets off the bike, he reads the inscription.

It’s a botanical garden.

“Oh shit.”

The glass building explodes with plant life and ivy is at her most powerful.

————————

To beat her, Batman has to fight her on her own turf- the woods.

She’s taken robin and batgirl hostage. When she has him in a corner, he pulls something from his belt.

“It’s over, Ivy,” he says, his thumb hovering over a button. “The entire Forrest is rigged. Make any sudden movements, and I blow up everything in a three mile radius.”

For the first time, Ivy shows real emotion, and it’s horror. He can’t do this, it’ll kill her babies, her family.

“I’ll...I’ll kill the kids,” she tries weakly.

“And then I’ll kill you,” Batman says, “and myself, and the trees go up in flames.”

Ivy weighs her options but she comes up with no answer. She breaks down and surrenders.

—————-

She’s locked in the back of a van, with Jim Gordon on the phone, insisting that yes, remove all the plants from Arkham this instant.

Batgirl, Batman and Robin watch the van pull away.

R: hm. I kinda wanna salad.

BG: so uh...what’re you gonna do about the bombs?

Batman: huh?

BG: The- the bombs?

R: yea. How’d you even set them up so fast?

Bruce pulls out the detonator. The kids momentarily panics as Bruce presses the button- a little red light in the middle of robins forehead.

It’s the laser pointer. He bluffed her.

Batgirl and Robin proceeds to freak the fuck out for him risking their lives because holy shit were the odds not in your favor dude what the fuck.

——————-

So yeah. My pitch for a movie ivy is just an extremely misanthropic cannibal savage. Pretty rad I think.

[darkisrising]

ooo ive got another one for song lyrics (srsly tho Sting takes the whole song to get to where he's going, the fragment from last night - not sure it made enough sense 🤣)

here we go: "The future is a dying art / Laying in a ditch in the dark / I need you here but all I hear (is) / The beating of a broken heart / Don’t wait to say goodbye / you’re running out of time / whatever you believe, it’s easy to see / the whole world’s sitting on a ticking bomb"

(I should leave Sting alone, I also take alllll possible running room to get to where I’m going. I’ll just show myself out 🙈)

Hahaha!!! I mean... same. lololol

Okay, here’s what I got. Not sure it at ALL matches up with the lyrics, but it’s what came out anyway so. This one’s for you! The Future is a Dying Art

Plasma, the color of madness, cuts through Obi-Wan’s chest and for one brief, bright moment the pain is excruciating. It withdraws and with it goes the strength of his limbs. His knees hit the durasteel platform with a crack that he can hear from far away but it doesn’t hurt.

His chest doesn’t hurt.

Nothing hurts.

Through a red shield, Qui-Gon’s eyes are the wrong color, and as the shiver of shock sets in, Obi-Wan can’t help but feel like that is the most unjust part of all. His eyes ought to be blue. His hair ought to be stroked with silver. His face ought to be serene; the face of a man that lives in devotion to the present. Who accepts each new moment as it comes and not a second sooner.

This isn’t the master he knows. Not this anguished creature that roars his name behind a laser barrier that steals Qui-Gon’s voice as surely as the passing seconds steal Obi-Wan’s life.

This isn’t the future Obi-Wan had been promised. The visions that have followed his sleep, clung tight to his dreams, have been murmuring for years about this moment. About the rise of a darkness that was so immense it could fell the great Qui-Gon Jinn. 

Always in motion, the future is, he’s heard Master Yoda say time and time again.

Your visions are an unpromised tomorrow, is what Qui-Gon has told Obi-Wan when he would wake with his master’s hand on his shoulder to a bed creased with sweat and a sleep shirt that fared little better. 

And Obi-Wan had known that. He’d known it, he’d known it, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to tell Qui-Gon what horror has been plaguing him since the night he’d turned eighteen. Hadn’t been able to find the words to express the depths of his anguish at seeing his master fall to his knees over and over again. At seeing his eyes widen and his mouth go slack and then waking up to a master whose eyes were rimmed with disrupted sleep and a mouth that pinched with worry.

Now, though, something’s changed.

Something has altered the course of events that Obi-Wan has known for so long that he can trace them from memory, but there’s no point in wondering what it could have been. Not when the shields are powering down and Qui-Gon is charging toward the Sith lord, green blade burning. Not when his master is slicing at the Sith with a passion that is singed with fury, and it is hard to track what darkness is billowing from the Sith and what is his master’s. 

Obi-Wan’s cheek is pressed to the floor as he watches a battle that he cannot join, his heart beating slower than it has in even his deepest meditation, and then it is over. The Sith is cut neatly in two. Obi-Wan is turned and lifted. Now he is in Qui-Gon’s arms, can finally see the blue eyes he’s needed to see, and this is somehow worse.

The darkness hasn’t left him. It wraps around each of Qui-Gon’s panting exhales. It lingers in the creases of his forehead, in the hollows of his cheekbones. Despair, yes, but worse: anger and fear. He has seen Qui-Gon struggle with these emotions in the past, but this is deeper. This is fathomless.

“Stay. Please,” Qui-Gon bids. “You are meant to be a great Jedi, Obi-Wan. I’ve seen it,” and oh how that pains Obi-Wan to hear. Not the sentiment, but the conviction. The surety. Premonitions are Obi-Wan’s purview, and yet somehow one has slithered away to sting at his master.

Qui-Gon has seen the future, has built a house upon where it sits, not realizing it is naught but shifting sands below.

“Master—”

“I can’t lose you,” he says, and his voice blazes even as the darkness gathers, wraiths whispering promises from the corners of the room, growing louder as they approach. Obi-Wan doesn’t need to hear them to know what they are offering Qui-Gon. He doesn’t need to see the barter to know that Qui-Gon is measuring the price against the weight of his soul.

“Don’t.” His voice is reedy, thin. It is no match for the clamor that fills Qui-Gon’s head. 

Time flows through them both, and as Obi-Wan weakens he can feel Qui-Gon grow stronger. Power—oily, slippery power—slides across Obi-Wan’s skin to seek out the heat of Qui-Gon’s passion.

His lips find Obi-Wan’s forehead, and Obi-Wan tips his head back. If he can live long enough for ramifications, he knows what he is about to do may very well shatter everything between.

Still he has to try. 

Catching Qui-Gon’s lips with his own, Obi-Wan kisses his master with all the ferocity, the hunger, the longing—to possess and be possessed—that he should have renounced long ago.

This is something that he has kept to himself, nestled and nurtured in his heart even as he walked at his master’s side, an exemplary padawan save the one thing that he could never bring himself to purge.

The darkness that has spread through Qui-Gon can taste Obi-Wan’s weakness and it laughs.

In a rush it flows into Obi-Wan, the roar of a river’s rapids that threaten to drown him, but he will drink this down. If there is a choice in this moment, then Obi-Wan chooses it. If there is a fall to be had, then Obi-Wan will gladly be the one to fall.

The shadows descend then—vultures ready to pick at the bones of carrion—and he doesn’t fight them. He welcomes them. They cloak him in a mantle that is unfamiliar and heavy, yet he lets them dress him just the same. The wound in his chest fills with a searing blackness and Obi-Wan can feel his strength return. He uses it to reach up, to fist his hands in Qui-Gon’s hair, to steal his breath from his mouth until they’re both panting with it.

Like clouds sweeping across a sun, the darkness passes through Qui-Gon and with a burst of brightness so blinding it makes Obi-Wan’s eyes water, light returns to his master’s heart.

[silentprincess17]

Sometimes Things Have To Get Worse Before They Get Better

This is essentially a darker, heavier alternate take on Memory #7 - Blades of the Yiga. I wanted to write a fic with a competent Yiga Clan. (Yes you read that right). It is very angsty in the beginning and then becomes fluffy (hence the title!)

Summary: Link and Zelda have returned from Vah Naboris with Urbosa and have spent the night in Kara Kara Bazaar Inn. Link wakes up and finds her missing.

Cue the angst.

This story is complete and I will post each chapter daily on here but you can read the whole thing on AO3

Rating: Mature (Graphic descriptions of violence) Pairing: Link/Zelda (Zelink) Characters: Link, Zelda, The Yiga Clan, Master Kohga

Chapter 1: Everything goes wrong when you don't have breakfast

Link was having a bad morning. He’d missed breakfast, a cardinal sin, and now he was anxiously darting around the Bazaar, weaving between the trees, in an attempt to see if he could spot a glimmer of blonde hair or a flash of a blue shirt.

She just had to run away. Again.

He sighed. It wasn’t that hard to understand why she constantly gave him the slip, even if he wished she didn’t. He knew it wasn’t fair of him to think such things, especially when he knew it wasn’t really him, she was running from, rather it the sword that was strapped to his back. It wasn’t him she was frustrated with, it was herself. And the sword symbolised how he was apparently fulfilling his destiny and his side of things, whilst she struggled endless with the stone-cold Hylia and had nothing to show for it. Essentially, the sword meant destiny and fate had already set out a predetermined plan for her, and she was currently set for failure. So yes, he could understand why she felt the need to escape what was surely a suffocating sight every day- the boy with the sword that has it all sorted, geared and ready to go, whilst she stumbled in the dark, Hylia’s Divine Blessing evading her.

If only she knew how much he struggled too. He didn’t just pull a sword out a rocky pedestal and boom morphed into Hyrule’s Saviour. He’d trained long and hard too. And frankly, he had felt compelled to draw the sword, it hadn’t been something that was in his control- if he had a choice, then he would also choose to just leave it be in the Lost Woods. It sounded naive and foolish now, but he hadn’t anticipated what the consequences would be when twelve-year-old Link had jumped up and wrapped his hands around that cursed mauve handle. Mostly, the thing he regretted the most about pulling the sword was that he’d effectively doomed them all. Did he want to be the one to basically foreshadow what was now surely coming? No. Another was that it had put a timer on the Princess to find her powers, and he didn’t want to cause her such anguish at being unable to unlock supposed birth-right sealing powers that she clearly didn’t have and didn’t know how to obtain. But… there had been a hidden consequence, one that he couldn’t for the life of him have predicted- when he released the sword from the pedestal, it didn’t just end with him now possessing the mythical legendary blade, oh no. He’d also obtained a whole wealth of memories, memories of past lives, past successes, past failures, and he’d lost whatever childish innocence he’d had then. And it crushed him, having this soul that apparently was doomed in this endless fight, and now he had to live up to them. He had to live up to these past Heroes and by Farore he had no idea if he’d be able to.

Every word that had come out of the Princess’s mouth at his blessing ceremony had cleaved him in two. All those past disastrous events that happened in Hyrule, and all the lengths his predecessors had gone to save the country… Adrift in time indeed. IN TIME. How was he supposed to do the same? And it made him fearful. And he was not easily frightened. He liked to think he was a little bit brave, he would run headfirst into any sort of challenge, be that eating rocks, defeating hordes of monsters, including Lynels, or even redirecting errant guardian laser beams but when he thought about what those Heroes had gone through… He certainty didn’t feel very brave when it came to imagining what exactly he’d have to do, what trials he would have to face, in line with theirs.

He finally finished strapping the sword properly to his back, he’d ran out as soon as he realised she was missing, and he tried to find any distinguishing patterns of her boots nearby. It was a useless venture, because sand shifted, constantly, and as a result any tracks were lost pretty much as soon as they formed. He sighed, deciding to do another very quick run through the Bazaar in case anyone else had spotted her, or she had come back from the baths maybe. He was clutching at straws, he knew it, and he felt that familiar churning feeling in his gut that something was wrong, but he decided to keep calm and check again just in case he’d missed something.

He sighed, even before Urbosa told him how the Princess’s behaviour was in fact coloured by the sword, he could have guessed. One of the biggest signs was that she always looked at it, instead of him. He only wished to tell her that he was just as lost as she was, because yeah sure, everyone Impa stated that he had the Sword that Seals The Darkness. Okay, but how did it do that? How does one go about killing darkness? Monsters he knew. Monsters he’d trained for. But darkness? And the thing that frightened him the most was that most of the past Heroes had fought a man. A power-obsessed, strong-willed and formidable opponent, but still, fundamentally, a man. None of them had fought this… Calamity equivalent that he seemed to be up against. Hence why he was uncertain, and fearful even, if the sword would be enough.

Not to mention how much it pained him that the arrogant idiot bird had managed to find his greatest insecurity, but that was neither here nor there.

But in truth, every time someone mentioned how he was their savour he wanted to cry. Perhaps she didn’t realise that whilst everyone had pinned her as a hopeless case and a lost cause, he’d been saddled with double the expectations to succeed. So much pressure, so many eyes, that he’d all but gone silent. Every word spoken could be misconstrued in some shape or form. Nothing he said was ever safe from scrutiny, so to continue to play the perfect, composed Hero that he was supposed to be, he decided to stop talking. What he wouldn’t give to explain to her that these praises that were lavished on him made him feel sick. Made him feel suffocated. Made him like a liar. Because really, he felt like a failure too- he had no plan other than maybe try and hit the darkness with the sword and hope that works. And the foreboding feeling he had that he hadn’t yet faced the supposedly impending huge trial that most of the other Heroes had, and they had all done said trial well before they obtained the Master Sword. He felt unworthy of it, somehow. All he’d done was train hard, fight and try to eradicate the plague of monsters in the land. He hadn’t travelled through time, he hadn’t transformed into a wolf, he hadn’t lost his sister, or his best friend. Hence why he was dreading meeting Ganon. There was a catch somewhere. He could feel it.

He exhaled heavily, sweat starting to build on his brow. This was why he wanted to tell Zelda that she wasn’t alone. That he knew what she was going through. They were a pair in destiny, fate… even souls after all. But she hated him, his very being, and probably wished he didn’t exist- no correction- she wished the sword didn’t exist, then he wouldn’t have pulled it and wouldn’t have become a direct comparator for her success. It all felt futile sometimes, and he wondered why exactly he was in such a melancholy mood this morning. Probably something to do with not eating.

She wasn’t in the Bazaar. He’d now checked over every stall twice. And Link felt rising trepidation. Of all the places for her to run away, she’d chosen the desert. She’d chosen where the main dissenters of the Royal Family lived. She chosen the one place where it was highly probable that there would be an assassination attempt on her. And he wasn’t there to protect her. Link could freely admit to himself he was scared. What if he didn’t find her in time, what if – No. He had to think positively. And then his eyes fell to his Champion’s tunic, embroidered, as it was, by her hand. Goddesses above, how would he present himself back the Castle if he’d actually lost her this time? And in such a worrisome place too. A stone settled in Link’s gut, as he desperately racked his brains, replaying last night’s events trying to remember if she’d dropped any hints as to where she was going.

He drew a big fat blank.

In the name of Din, where else could she have gone? She had been silent on the way back from Vah Naboris, probably reproachful that he’d managed to find her, yet again. And he had, admittedly, found it suspicious that she’d remained mum, accepted going to the Bazaar, and sleeping in the Inn, and leaving to head to Goron City the next day without a single word of dissent. He should have known that she was planning something.

And now, it was starting to get hot, as he quickly ran off towards the path, wondering if she’d gone back to Gerudo Town. But she’d already said her goodbyes to Urbosa last night... Link sighed, the heat already causing his tunic to stick to his back. It was a desert after all, one couldn’t expect it to get cold during the day, and he hadn’t had time to fill in their canteens, and oh for the love of Farore could he at least get a single sign as to where Her Highness had deigned to grace her presence at. He didn’t want to be beheaded for incompetence so soon.

He saw a small cloud of sand rise in the distance. At this point, it could be a mirage and he was seeing something that his mind had conjured in desperation at trying to find the missing Princess.

And then he saw a flash of red.

And his blood ran cold, despite the heat.

[morwensteelsheen]

If Faramir went to Rivendell, how would the whole ttt/rohan plot be different?

A good question that I have spent an unreasonable time thinking about! My first LOTR fic was going to be an attempt to answer this, but then I got so wrapped up in not having the answers that I sidelined it and wrote WC instead. So I think instead of giving you one definitive answer I’ll give you a couple scenarios I think are plausible? If that’s not too much of a cop out lmao? Apologies in advance for the inevitable spelling errors, I did this on my phone and my dyslexia is off the charts today.

I think it’s basically unavoidable that he goes via Rohan first, geographically he’s sort of left without an option there. When he’s there, we get into this issue of whether and how he and Éowyn interact. Worth noting, I think, that the Unfinished Tales has Éomer living in Aldburg by the War, but Éomer does seem to imply he’s around for Boromir passing through. Is this because he knows and already is a fan of Boromir? Maybe! Or maybe Éomer goes to Aldburg after.

But I digress. We have to ask the question of whether Faramir falls in love with Éowyn because he was always going to fall in love with Éowyn, or if it’s because the things he’s gone through immediately preceding it primed him for it. I — perhaps quite cheaply — come down on the side of Faramir always having it bad for her on first sight. And contextually I think that comes from his, rather sweet, enunciation of the way his regard/love changes for her. He says that at first he pities her, and then he gets to know her and he doesn’t pity her anymore, he respects and admires her. That’s an interesting dynamic to bring into play in basically every AU, because you get this double barrel characterisation of his attitude to her changing, and his own character maturing/sharp edges softening.

I think he off the bat he sees that she’s beautiful, and immediately is drawn to her for that. Shallow? Maybe! But, to badly paraphrase my ol fav Victor Hugo quote — love always begins with a glance.

I imagine he stays for a short while, maybe a week, two at most. At this point I think that Éowyn’s basically viewing him as an official guest that she has to entertain, and I think Faramir is, in his own, slightly stilted, slightly wanky way, putting the moves on her. This can go, imo, one of two ways. She can either be receptive to it (which is a nice thought!) or she can be aware of it but mostly ignore it because, really, she’s got lots of shit on her plate.

Either way, he leaves Edoras at some point. The big question is where does his go from there?

One thing I toy around with is that, given his pre-existing relationship to Gandalf, maybe he’s willing to trust the Istari a bit more and goes straight for Isengard? Which, and I think I did the math on this once a few months ago, would have him arriving at Isengard around the time Gandalf’s getting his shit kicked in by Saruman lol. I think this could be a really compelling plot point, but I’ll be very honest with you, I 100% don’t have the imagination or writing skills to figure out how it proceeds from there, so I’m not going to try to.

If he goes the normal Boromir route, he still loses his horse at Tharbad and walks (lmao jesus???) to Rivendell. When he gets there, I think he’s immediately going to have everything he knows put to the test in quite jarring ways. First off, he’s going to be infinitely more deferential to Elrond, Aragorn &c when they’re trashing Gondor. He’ll push back a bit, no doubt on that, but he’s going to be starstruck by Aragorn in a way that Boromir just wasn’t.

No real difference I imagine between Rivendell and Lothlórien, except that he’d definitely be laser focused on palling about with Aragorn, and he’d probably spend more of his time being friendly with Frodo than with Merry and Pippin tbh (not in a douchey way, I just think he and Frodo vibe a little better. Though I bet he and Merry had some interesting chats about pipe weed history).

The underlying question here is what sort of relationship does he have to the ring? I don’t buy this idea that he’s not tempted by it, I just think that what the ring offers him is a bit shit. We don’t know what the ring tempts him with, he’s not clear on that in TTT. I can’t really see the ring being like ‘oh I’ll give you a king to follow’ because that is some intensely nerdy shit, but is somehow the one thing I could see Faramir actually being tempted by. Regardless of what it offers him in this AU, he resists it on the basis that he’s got this mythical king he’s been desperate for, and he’s not gonna risk that for anything.

Lothlórien comes next, and oh my god when I tell you this is the part I genuinely have no answer for. I stopped writing my first fic at Lothlórien because I couldn’t cope. Tbh it probably lowkey fries Faramir’s brain, and for so many reasons. The whole godmoding Númenórean stuff he’s got going on probably interests Galadriel a bit, and so that whole conversation is going to be wildly different than it was for Boromir. But what does she say to Faramir? I have no idea. I really don’t. There’s also probably a million and one things also going on psychologically for him at that point, which makes dealing with this bit difficult. Really difficult. So I’m gonna, uh, conveniently smash cut away.

Parth Galen! Again, another two potential splits here. The first, (from here on out I’ll refer to as Plot A) which I find rather endearing, is that he goes off with Frodo and Sam when Frodo makes the decision to split. I don’t know that I believe he’d do it, but it proves for a very delightful interpretation of his character.

Plot B is that when the Orcs show up, Faramir survives not by virtue of his being a ~ better warrior ~ or whatever than Boromir, but by the terrain surrounding Parth Galen being something he’s far more in the habit of dealing with, and by virtue of his having a bow at his disposal. I know there’s room for an interpretation of Faramir as not primarily an archer, but narratively I think that’s less interesting. So he’s an archer. He’s an archer and also his priority is on Aragorn first and foremost, so Merry and Pip still get taken, and Frodo and Sam use the hubbub to GTFO, which is actually slightly more in line with the movie’s chronology, funnily enough. The three hunters become four, and then go on Merry & Pippin’s trails.

In Plot A, they’re hauling ass across the Emyn Muil, bolstered in some ways by Faramir’s experience as a Ranger. The problem is the issue of getting into Mordor and whether or not they pick up Gollum. I think, in a way that frustrates me immensely, they do end up taking Gollum, not because they need a guide, but because Gollum fulfils this deep psychological need for Frodo, and I think he would have argued for keeping Gollum regardless. Faramir is going to be fucked off about this, but will ultimately, I think, be deferential to the ringbearer.

So they go across the Dead Marshes, but they do NOT attempt the Black Gate first because Faramir’s not a fool. Do they go to Henneth Annûn? I say yes, but with the caveat that in all likelihood Boromir is gonna be there, which is gonna complicate stuff tremendously.

Over to Plot B!

The four hunters go to the Mark! They meet Éomer! Hey! Éomer recognises Faramir! (And he’s probably a little fucked off that he lost his horse lol). But whatever, he knows this guy, so he’s probably gonna be like, uhhh, everything you saw before in Edoras is much worse now. Also my cousin's dead and everything is bad. Here’s some horses, sorry for maybe accidentally killing your pals, see ya! And at this point I think Faramir’s probably having a, hmmm, g e n t l e  p s y c h i c  c r i s i s, because if he’s still very 👅 for Éowyn (which he is, sorry, he has to be) then he’s going to want to go there ASAP. Obviously though that’s not gonna happen, so: Merry and Pip chasing, Gandalf finding, Edoras arriving.

Which means Éowyn. If, at this point, she and Faramir already have something of an arrangement going on (nudge nudge) then she’s really not gonna give a shit about Aragorn. You know how in TTT it’s not even clear that she actually sees Legolas and Gimli? 100% that vibe with Aragorn too. Théoden’s gonna get his house in order, they’re going to head to Helm’s Deep, and Éowyn’s gonna get named head of house. (Faramir, if he starts off just thinking she’s beautiful, is going to have quite the paradigm shift here, because he’s going to have to start reckoning with her as not just a beautiful woman, but as a very, very intense person. This is how his love for her starts to mature.)

Sometimes I dream about him being like, ‘hey! I have some first hand experience of ruling a kingdom, how about I stay and…….. lend you a hand……..’ to Éowyn while she’s keeping watch on Edoras. This is wildly unlikely, but a delightful thought nonetheless. In the more likely case, which is that he goes to the Hornburg, she’s going to start feeling some strain about this whole war shebang, and it’s going to lead to some difficult conversations. Chief among them is that Faramir, as second son, actually has basically nothing to give her, which is not exactly a great position to be in when you’re in love with the niece of a king. I’m of the opinion that Éowyn’s not fussed by that stuff (she agrees to marry him when he’s prepping to give up a shit ton of power anyways), so she’s probably like, 'no, fuck you, we’re getting married.' And then he leaves, and it starts to emotionally unsettle her more and more.

If they don’t already have a thing, then it either begins at this point OR he gets overshadowed by Aragorn. In either case, off to Helm’s Deep he goes.

Helm’s Deep happens, I think Faramir ends up extraordinarily impressed by how the Rohirrim handle the Dunlenders afterwards, which also begins to soften his harsh opinion of them more generally.

They go to Isengard, Pippin looks in the Palantír, and away Pippin and Gandalf go. Both Gandalf and Faramir here would recognise that it would be batshit insane for Faramir to go back to MT now, because Denethor would read him like a picture book and he’d have to admit to the entire mission of the Fellowship.

Over in Plot A, I think we’re going to have some real emotional complexity vis a vis Faramir showing up at Henneth Annûn with two hobbits, a ring, and Boromir in control there. God, it would just be a disaster. My incredibly generous interpretation of this is that Faramir keeps the plan vague enough that Boromir lets them pass unhindered. My less generous interpretation is… yeah I don’t wanna do it tbh. It’s not pretty. It's also, to be clear: not an indictment of Boromir as a character. His response is entirely rational for someone expected to lead a kingdom and for someone put up against the unbelievable power of the One Ring. The reason Faramir continuously gets to pass largely untempted by the ring is because he's a guy with no actual responsibilities once you take the Rangers away. His understanding of his duty to Gondor is almost entirely conceptual in nature. He can think and talk about defending Gondor as it once was because there are several people above him in the hierarchy defending Gondor for what it is. This is also not an indictment of Faramir. He and Boromir just have wildly different realities to contend with.

They are going to go through Cirith Ungol even though Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dumbass both speak Sindarin and don’t cotton on to what its name implies lol. This whole scene is much shorter because Faramir’s significantly more cautious, so there is no Orc capture and Sam doesn't take the Ring. This is where things get a bit complex, and where I don’t think I have the imagination to say much more. Sorry!

Back in Plot B, the lads catch up with Éowyn as they prep to go down the Paths of the Dead. If she and Faramir are a thing, this is where the real emotional distress kicks in for her. All of the men in her life have, at one point or another, functionally abandoned her, and here’s Faramir, love of her life, about to do the exact same thing. Faramir inevitably goes with the Grey Company even though she begs him not to. When she tries to convince them not to go down the Paths at all, he is in the fortunate enough position to throw up his hands and say 'not my call, actually. King’s in charge,' which lessens the emotional conflict there somewhat.

No part of me doubts that Éowyn wouldn’t then immediately go over his head to Aragorn. She would, she absolutely does not give a fuck. And she’s going to get knocked back re: joining them in exactly the same way as in the book, because Aragorn’s take here isn’t actually dependent on her personally, it’s dependent on the duty she’s been charged with, which is taking care of her people. (Also going to be an interesting narrative parallel to a later conversation between Faramir and Aragorn after the Pelennor, which I’ll explain in more detail later.)

Faramir will, perhaps somewhat less dismissively, say this to her. He learns much more obviously the way to talk to her on her own terms, and he’s not gonna fall into the trap of letting her be like ‘you just want me to wait and die after all the men are dead.’ He’s going to probably give her some line about her being the last organised line of defence, and he might even invoke Haleth! It’s not going to work, because Éowyn’s very aware of the apocalyptic nature of all of this, but it’s not going to cause such abject hatred and fury as it otherwise would.

If she and Faramir are not a thing, her emotional distress is as it is in the book, except now Faramir’s trying not to pout in the background. He might even step in to try and soften the blow.

Regardless, she ends up as Dernhelm, she rides to the Pelennor.

Boromir is the one responsible for the Osgiliath retreat, and because it’s heavily implied that Faramir only keeps his seat because he’s got this dumbass Númenor garbage going on ('master of man and beast' — king Beregond), Boromir’s going to get killed by the Witch king here.

This is going to send shockwaves through not just Denethor, but Minas Tirith more generally, because Boromir is fucking adored. Denethor’s going to go high holy crackers much quicker, mostly because Gandalf is a shit stirrer and is going to waste no time at all in announcing that Aragorn, The Rightful King, is on his way, and Denethor will — correctly — surmise that Faramir has chosen Aragorn over returning with whatever Isildur’s Bane is to Gondor. This is the end for Denethor.

Éowyn rides from Dunharrow, slays the Witch king. Faramir and Aragorn show up with the Army of Dead, Faramir does not end up injured, but does end up as the Steward (obviously) and (obviously) aware that Éowyn is in the HOH. And also that everybody else he loves is dead. Yeehaw.

Here’s where I think things get really interesting. I think, counter to the way this is portrayed a lot of the time, Faramir doesn’t go to the Black Gate at all. I think he stays in Minas Tirith, not just to organise the wider range defences (esp the Rohirrim dealing w the Druadan) but in this very grim preparation to lead the retreat from Minas Tirith if/when Frodo & Sam fail. I think he's kind of fine with this for two reasons. The first is that him being conscious to process the death of his father, and it coming hours after the death of his brother means that he's going to have a personal-political crisis, and he's going to have to take the defence of Gondor more seriously than he did before. Second, Aragorn's going to tell him to fucking stay put, and he's going to be fine with it because it means he's going to get to spend the last few days of his life with Éowyn.

He and Éowyn reunite in the HOH, there’s still a lot of deeply emotional stuff going on, but, at least now Faramir’s conscience is clear re: marrying her because, well, he’s the Steward now. Also their reunion is going to take on greater significance because she’ll have killed the thing that killed his brother. So, that’s a lot.

If they are not a thing before the Pelennor, she's still going to drag his ass over to the HOH so she can bitch about being stuck there. But this time he's not a fellow hospital-prisoner, he's having to actually do things, and he's going to use that to his advantage in terms of keeping her from doing stupid shit. I think he's going to try to involve her in some of the strategic questions re: the retreat if the Morannon feint fails. I think he's going to make a point of talking to her to get her help on dealing with the Rohir forces that are in and around the City. I think that's going to go a huge way to helping to ease her misery, and it's going to be such a significant vote of trust in her (even after she's done the unthinkable and deserted her people) that she's going to fall in love with him here, as per. And the contrast between him and Aragorn is going to be all the stronger for it.

So yes. Those are just some of the possibilities I think! Sorry for the word dump!!

[hypnoticwinter]

Down the Rabbit Hole part 11

The drive is short and bumpy. The two men sitting next to me are relatively motionless, only moving when the vehicle jostles them. The vehicle itself is loud and powerful-sounding; a diesel engine, I reckon, just listening to the throaty growl of it.

Gravity puts its hand on my chest and gently presses me back into the seat and I realize we’re angling up an incline. We must be driving out of the cratered aperture of the Pit. There are twists and turns but the driver takes it slow and we eventually level out, and then the vehicle is stopping and one of the men next to me gets out and they shove in someone else roughly, almost knocking me over. The man on my other side catches me and pushes me back upright and then I’m knocking shoulders with whoever they pushed in. “Peter?” I whisper as the car starts back up, and I feel him turn his head towards me.

“Shh,” he says, but I can tell it’s him, and for a moment I feel reassured, and then I realize that if he got caught as well I have no support on the outside, hell, nobody even knows I’m in here, and my stomach drops further.

“What about Bao?” I whisper.

The man to my left tells me to shut up at the same time Peter does and I sink back in the seat, the edge of the handcuffs grinding painfully into the little nub of bone at the edge of my wrist, feeling appropriately chastened.

With my head in a hood like this all I can see is Rey getting splattered against the white concrete of the Pit’s floor. I see it over and over again, on repeat in the darkness behind my eyelids, in the darkness of the hood when I open my eyes to try and get at least a little visual input to focus on. The fabric is too opaque, I can’t see anything, I can’t even tell whether I opened my eyes or not.

I realize, as I feel a drop of salty liquid edging at the corner of my mouth, that I’m crying.

The vehicle rumbles along for another ten minutes before rattling to a stop, and then the men pile us out and, one hand on my shoulder and the other in the small of my back, push us forward and into some sort of building. We pass through hallways and corridors and then we’re pushed down into chairs. I can still sense Peter next to me, sitting down just like I am, and I can hear the clink of his cuffs same as mine as the men uncuff us and then recuff us with our hands in front of our bodies. Small mercies, I think. My shoulders had been starting to get tired.

“Peter?” I whisper.

“I’m here,” he says.

“Oh, thank god,” I mutter. If I’d been alone it would have been ten times worse.

“Be cool,” he tells me.

“I’m sorry,” I tell him.

“Shh,” he says again, and I roll my eyes beneath the hood.

“Look, I didn’t –“ I start, but he shushes me harder.

I can feel myself starting to get angry but then I bite it back down. I’m really not in a position to talk; arguably this is all my fault. If I’d just left Rey, just let him crawl to the orifice, he’d be the only one in trouble, we probably could have gotten back through the pipe and left by the time they’d seen him. But I hadn’t had the heart to –

“Take their hoods off,” someone says, and then somebody’s hands are at my neck and I feel a tiny choke of fear before they grab ahold of the hood and roll it off me and I have to screw my eyes shut against the bright light assaulting them. I manage to crack one eye open into a squint and see a grimy interrogation room straight out of Law and Order or something. Bright ceiling lamp, check; metal table, check; massive mirror along one wall, probably two-way, check; grubby balding man with several days’ worth of stubble sitting across from us, arms folded, check.

Next to me Peter is blinking away the stabbing light of the overhead lamp but I’m too busy staring at the man across from us. “Hey, wait a minute,” I say. “I know you.”

He colors brightly. “Ah yes,” he says. “The reporter. Who knew you’d be the person involved in smuggling people into the Pit.”

Peter looks over at me. “Shut up,” he says very seriously.

“I think she wants to talk,” the man says. “Why don’t you keep talking?”

“Are you a cop?” I ask him.

“No,” he says. Next to me Peter laughs.

“They wouldn’t let cops in here,” he tells me.

“So what authority do you have to hold us here?” I ask the man. He barks out a short, humorless laugh.

“You two do realize how much trouble you’re in, don’t you?”

“I assume you’re about to tell us anyway,” I grumble.

“You’ve broken into a high-security Federal installation,” he says. “I don’t know how you did it but trust me, we’ll find out. The penalties for what you’ve done are –“

“Yeah,” I say. “I know. I did the research. Five hundred dollar fine and felony trespassing. You want to hand us over to the cops now?”

“Roan,” Peter groans.

“There’s also the small issue of the man you got killed,” he says, inclining his head towards me. My mouth drops open.

“Excuse me,” I start. “I was not the person who shot him.”

“Roan,” Peter says again, “shut up.”

I whip my head around to stare at him but he stares back, unafraid, eyes narrowed, and I feel myself falter for a moment. “Could you be a little more helpful?” I ask him. “All I’m trying to –“

“You won’t be able to talk your way out of this,” Peter tells me.

I screw my mouth shut and look away from him. The man across the table from us leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. “How did you two get in?” he asks.

My cheeks are still burning and my stomach is a queasy hell of apprehension and fear and anger. I don’t trust myself to answer so I don’t say anything. Peter is equally silent. The man gives us a moment or two then sighs. “It’ll be a lot easier for you if you just tell us,” he says. Peter looks over at me.

“Don’t say anything,” he warns me again, and I roll my eyes at him.

“Yeah, I know,” I snap. “I’m not stupid.”

“Oh really?” he asks, giving me a sardonic little grin. I can feel my blood starting to boil. Then he turns and deliberately looks away from me and I nearly snap, nearly, except somehow I manage to bite it back down. The man across from us is watching the exchange like it was a soap opera.

“So,” he says after a moment, “I take it getting somebody killed wasn’t part of the plan?”

We are silent.

“What were you trying to do?” he asks me. “Surely you knew that if you tried to go down the main orifice you’d be spotted.”

“I was –“ I start, and then cut myself off.

“Go on.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything.”

“Mm,” the man says, a little noncommittal grunt.

The door slams open and we all jump. A short, willowy woman in a jumpsuit walks in, eyes fixed on the man across from us as though she were a shark and he a tuna. She has a white padded patch strapped across one eye and beneath it I can see mottled, scarred flesh, but her other eye is broad and green and fiery, set in her cheek like a jewel.

“Mister Farquhar,” she says. “Get out.”

Farquhar swallows, but stands his ground. “I wasn’t aware you were still on the base.”

She stares at him for a moment. “Farquhar,” she says, “you blithering idiot, I live on the base. You really thought they wouldn’t wake me up for what happened tonight?”

“I just thought –“

“No, you didn’t think at all. Why are you here? Why are you trying to do Security’s job?”

He puffs his chest up a little but the effect is underwhelming. “I was in charge tonight, I was under the impression that as the overnight Director –“

“Just because you run the overnight shift in the admin building doesn’t give you blanket oversight over everything in this damn complex. Now get the hell out of my interrogation room and let me do my damn job.”

At this the woman glances over at us, her good eye raking me like a laser, and then her gaze fixes on Peter and for a moment, just a moment, I see something resembling shock lurking in her face, but her composure returns so quickly it leaves me wondering if I even saw it.

My eyes narrow. It can’t be – can it?

Farquhar is still standing there, his arms crossed over his gut. “Since when do you perform interrogations personally?”

“When somebody fucking dies, Farquhar,” the woman says, rounding on him. She has to look up at him but he still takes a step back. “Now are you going to get out of here or am I going to have to have you thrown out?”

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. He shuffles towards the door. “I’m going to file a complaint!” he calls from down the hallway.

The woman shakes her head. I glance over at Peter; he’s watching her like his eyes have never seen anything else.

She closes the door and then looks over at the mirror on the opposite wall. “Turn the camera and microphone off,” she says, “and then get out.”

A moment passes, and then the speaker on the wall crackles to life. “Uh, ma’am,” a voice says, “I don’t think the regulations –“

“I wrote the regulations. Just do it.”

The speaker clicks off and then the tiny red light beneath the camera next to it slowly fades. The woman waits another minute or so and then turns to us, her eye fixed on Peter. Her expression is so mixed I can’t even begin to decipher it.

“Hello, Peter,” she says.

“Hello, Mak,” he says.

 * * *

 “This is a fine fucking mess you’ve put me in,” she tells Peter, her legs resting crossed up on the table, head resting on one fist, balled against her cheekbone.

“I didn’t mean to,” he says. She rolls her eyes.

She’s prettier than I thought she’d be, even with her eye. It must be horrible, I think to myself, eyeing the edges of the scar where it pokes out from beneath the patch like a spider just a little too large for the rock it’s hiding beneath.

“What,” she says, “so just because you didn’t mean to get anybody killed I have to stick my neck out another couple of inches for you? I told you you had to stop! I told you what would happen if you got caught again! What, did you think I was joking? And who the hell is she?”

I’d zoned out a little bit; Makado has a tiny curl of an accent wrapping itself around her words like a snake, and I had been trying to identify it, but as she turns her baleful eye in my direction I find the trepidation sinking back into my bones like a lightning bolt. Whatever she’d been like before, whatever ended up happening to her, Makado had clearly changed.

“Her name is Roan,” Peter says, glancing over at me. “She’s –“

“Your girlfriend?” Makado finishes, disdainfully, curling her lip at him.

“No!” we both blurt out, nearly at the same time. We look at each other for another moment before I answer.

“No, I’m not his girlfriend,” I tell Makado. “I’m a reporter.”

Evidently this was the wrong thing to say, because she throws her hands in the air helplessly and laughs at Peter. “Really?” she asks him. “A reporter? Christ, I wish she was your girlfriend. It’d –“

“Look, I know I can’t use any of the information I’ve gathered,” I tell her. “I’m not going to put it out there. That wasn’t my intention.”

“Right,” Makado says, clearly not believing me. “What do you know, anyway? What’s he told you?”

“Pretty much everything that happened that night,” Peter says. “Except how we got out the second time.”

“Everything?” Makado asks, and to my great surprise I see a faint, faint blush coloring the caramel skin beneath the freckles on her cheeks. Peter is smiling lightly.

“Yeah,” he says. “She’s just curious.”

“You realize,” Makado says, her eye flicking between us, “that things that are secrets are usually that way for a reason?”

Peter spreads his hands, or tries to; the handcuffs stop them. He glances down at them, then up at Makado, and she grins at him. “No chance,” she tells him.

“Why the hell were your people so edgy tonight?” he asks. “You didn’t have to shoot that guy.”

“Let’s just say you picked a bad night to do this.”

“Do you want to explain or are you going to just be cryptic?”

“If I told you,” she says, trailing off, drawing an exaggerated finger across her neck. She turns in her chair, kicks her legs off of the table. “You,” she says, pointing to me. “Your name is…Rowan?”

“Roan,” I say. “Like the horse.”

“Huh,” Makado says. “That’s a new one. Look, why are you here? Why are you tangled up with this guy?” she asks, nodding to Peter. “And why the hell were you helping that stiff to the orifice?”

“She didn’t know he was going to try and jump,” Peter says.

“I thought he just wanted to look at it,” I say lamely, and Peter sighs next to me.

“I told you,” he says. “I told you not to go onto the plate no matter what.”

“He broke his fucking leg,” I snap. “He kept trying to walk on it. He was going to crawl on his hands and fucking knees over there. I had to help him.”

Peter lapses into a silence. “Well,” Makado says after a moment. “At least one of you has a conscience.”

“Oh, shut up,” Peter growls. “Don’t fucking snipe at me, Mak, you’re just as complicit in this as I am. As we are,” he says, nodding towards me.

I am very glad that the look Makado is giving Peter is not directed at me. “Are you threatening me?” she says softly, her voice icy. Peter looks away.

“No,” he says.

“Tell me how you’re getting in,” she says. Peter blows out a big breath.

“So that’s it?” he asks. “No more plausible deniability, no more –“

“I told you last month when we caught you,” she snaps, ���that you had to stop. That I couldn’t protect you any more. The first couple of times it was fine. Just a harmless washed-up fucking dickhead ranger brain-fucked from the goddam Pit using some secret way inside only he knew. That story doesn’t hold up if it keeps happening! I told you that the next time you came in here I’d have to call the FBI like I’m goddam supposed to. Do you really think people aren’t breathing down my neck too? Do you think I just have carte blanche to run things how I want to in here?”

“I know you don’t,” Peter says.

“Please tell me why you came in here. Give me something. Give me some reason to believe that if I get you out of this, if I save your ass for the hundredth time, you aren’t going to be back in this same goddam room next month.”

“They book a month out,” Peter says helplessly. “I had a girl come in from fucking China for this. Even if I had the heart to tell her no and send her back I don’t have the damn money to buy her a return ticket. I closed everything down the minute I got home a month ago.”

The look on Makado’s face is so painful. She stares at Peter for a moment before she brings her hand to her face, massages the bridge of her nose. I notice that she stays very carefully on the right side of her face, away from the pale, sallow skin near her eyepatch on the left side.

“It’s my fault,” I say after a moment. “I ran into Peter a few nights ago when he was taking some people in. We got to talking and he told me almost the whole story of what happened that night, in 2007 I mean. I asked him if he could take me in too and he agreed. That’s all. It would have been fine if I hadn’t have been there.”

“What’s your angle?” Makado asks again. “Are you writing a story on the Pit?”

“I thought I was going to but after everything I’ve heard, not any more.”

Her eye flicks over to Peter. “Have you been telling secrets?” she asks.

“I may have told her a few things that the official report…neglected.”

“God, you never do things by half, do you?”

“Have you called the feds yet?”

“No,” she says. “But somebody died. They are going to find out. I can’t cover something like that up.”

“Mm,” Peter grunts. “Alright. There’s a guy from the cult in Bronchial right now, probably heading over to the Domes or down to the Cord. I’ll go in, grab him, bring him back out, there’s your scapegoat.”

Makado slaps the table with her hand. “Enough. No scapegoats. You aren’t a fucking cowboy. I will try and cover for you but this is the absolute last time. You have worn out all of your fucking goodwill, Pete, and that’s me that’s saying that.”

“What are you going to tell the feds, then?”

“I don’t know,” she growls. “I’ll think of something.”

“Can somebody please explain to me,” I say softly, “why it is so goddam important that these people get inside the Pit to fucking die there?”

Makado and Peter both look at me, and I stare back at them. “I’m serious,” I say. “You told me,” I nod to Peter, “that there’s a point of no return, but surely there has to be some kind of alternative to fucking killing them. And clearly you,” I point to Makado, “were at least willing to turn a blind eye to this. Um, no pun intended. Sorry.”

Makado looks at Peter. “How much do you trust this woman?”

“She’s solid,” Peter nods, glancing at me. “Her heart’s in the right place.”

Something about him saying that makes my stomach soar and I have to stop my lip from curling at myself a moment later. It wouldn’t do. Easy girl.

“Did you tell her - ?”

“No,” Peter says. “Of course not.”

“Tell me what?” I ask. Makado sighs.

“What I’m about to tell you, you can’t tell anybody else. Ever. People have died for less.”

“People have been killed for less,” Peter corrects her, and Makado rolls her eye again.

“Fucking whatever, Pete. Look. Roan. Are you in or out? You want to hear this or not?”

What the hell, I think to myself. “Peter’s right,” I say, staring at Makado, meeting that burning gaze. “I’m solid. I know I can’t use this in a story. Now it’s personal curiosity. I want to know.”

“Alright,” Makado says. She licks her lips. “So Peter probably told you that once you’re…afflicted with this obsession with the Pit, it progresses until you reach a point where if you can’t get to the Pit to get inside it, it’s physically painful, and a lot of people, if prevented from going to the Pit, end up killing themselves. Right?”

“Right,” I say.

“That isn’t entirely true. That happens to some people, but for a solid portion, you lose your willpower to end your own life after a certain point. There’s a stage afterwards.”

I can feel a knot forming in the pit of my stomach. “What happens?”

“The compulsion becomes virulently contagious,” Peter says. “It isn’t a normal disease so it doesn’t have a normal vector of transmission; we don’t know how it does it exactly, but it uses emotion. Feeling strong emotion yourself, like fear or anger, if you’re afflicted, can plant the seed of the compulsion in people near you, and then they go through the same process, and…”

I look at Makado. She nods. “The only way to wipe it out,” she says, nodding to Peter, “is an experimental type of drug called an anabiotic. Dulls your personality, inhibits emotional response. Keep that state up for long enough, that can kill the – disease, or whatever it is.”

“The catch is,” Peter says, “that if you keep that state up for long enough, like, say, if you’re attempting to cure the - the whatever it is - it can also become permanent.”

“Jesus,” I breathe.

“The only good thing,” Makado says briskly, “is that all the cases follow a similar pattern – they all originated from the night of the 2007 disaster. There aren’t any new cases, just new transmissions. You clean them all up, it goes away.”

“In theory,” Peter says.

“In theory,” Makado agrees. “But so far that theory has proven correct.”

“God,” I say. “So in a major city –“

“In a city like New York or Boston, something of that population density, you can imagine how devastating that could be. Think of how many times you feel emotions each day,” Peter says. “Each time, you could be infecting dozens of people and not even know it.”

“Luckily,” Makado adds, “it’s difficult to get to that point. It takes time, a couple of months at least, for things to get that bad, and before you reach that stage the compulsion gets so strong that most people who’re able to do make it down here and try to get to the Pit. The issue is the people without means to do so, but generally they end up either killing themselves or isolating themselves anyway as a result of the personality distortions a compulsion of that strength causes, so they’re easy to identify. There haven’t been any major outbreaks, not in a large city, but you can imagine how concerned the government is about the threat of it.”

“I don’t get it,” I say. “Why are you letting them in?”

“Because I was one of the lucky ones,” Peter says. “I had a mild case and my personality returned after treatment. That isn’t the usual outcome.”

“But couldn’t you…I don’t know. There has to be some other way.”

“They don’t infect others if they die in the Pit,” Makado says softly. She’s inspecting her gloved hands, her long slender fingers clenching and unclenching. “We don’t know why, we don’t know how it works, but if they’re inside the Pit when they get to that point, it’s just a death. Heart attack, stroke, blood clot, aneurysm, whatever does it, they just die. That’s all.”

I shake my head. “Jesus Christ,” I murmur. “How is that possible? How does that make any sense?”

“We don’t know,” she sighs. “There’s…difficulty studying it. It’s better to just keep it under wraps. Can you imagine what, say, Iran or North Korea would do with an individual like that? You could wipe out a country in a matter of months, and nobody would know what the hell was going on. And it would spread…”

“Or the US,” Peter says, and Makado nods.

“Yes,” she agrees. “Or the US. It’s better to just keep it secret, not let them know all the details. One of the scientists here, Dr. Frost, she’s the one who figured all this out. We’ve just been…trying to contain it.”

“But now that’s done for,” Peter groans. “There isn’t any other option now.”

I frown. “What do you mean? What other option?”

“That’s enough storytime for one night,” Makado says swiftly. I narrow my eyes but she stares me down and eventually I shake my head, look away. I know I was lucky hearing as much as I did. Best not to push it.

“So now what? Now you’ll stop letting people in?” I ask. Peter shrugs.

“Things Will Change,” he intones. It makes me suck my breath in.

“Christ,” I say. “I’m sorry, I fucked everything up, I didn’t know –“

“It isn’t your fault,” Makado says softly. “You were in the wrong place at the wrong time. I think it shows a lot of character that you’d help that man, even knowing that you’d get caught.”

“Thanks,” I murmur.

“You can send me down,” Peter says, “but get Roan out of it. I’ll take the blame.”

“Nobody’s taking blame,” Makado growls. “I need you. I still have a little jurisdiction. I’ll talk to some people, see if I can get this calmed down. I can’t let either of you go yet but there are rooms here, you’ll be comfortable.”

She rises swiftly and opens the door, nodding to someone outside. Two men in uniforms enter the room, tall and rugged and strong-looking. “Take them to the dorms and put them in that converted trailer outside of C, in separate rooms, and lock them in, but no cuffs or restraints. Tell Melendez to call me once you’ve done that, I’ll get him to put a guard on it.”

On the way out, after they uncuff us, Peter tries to say something to Makado but she shakes her head at him and the words die in his throat. Then it’s another ride in the back of a Humvee, this time thankfully without the hoods on, and then they usher us into what is essentially a semi-truck trailer, except the inside is done up with very, very bare living quarters, and push us into different rooms. They lock the doors behind us and though Peter could maybe break them down if he tried, where would we go? There’s a guard on the trailer and even if we did get out and subdue him, we’re still in the middle of the base.

Once I’ve shrugged out of my jeans and panties and kicked them aside, grimacing at myself as I do, the acrid stench of dried urine stabbing at my nose, I reach over and knock on the wall and after a moment Peter knocks back. I think about trying to yell through it to talk to him but I’m too tired for that kind of nonsense.

The mattress is stiff and the sheets rough and scratchy but I manage to fall asleep almost as soon as my head hits the pillow, and no dreams trouble me.

 * * *

 I wake to the squeak of the door’s hinges, but not sharply; the awareness of the noise flutters downwards into my sleeping mind and slowly, gently, drags me out and into the day. I crack one eye open and see Makado there, looking much more cleaned-up, in a pencil skirt and a sharp jacket, holding a tray with parts for a continental breakfast on it. I sit up and yawn, clear the sleep from my eyes. “Well,” I say, my voice still a little creaky, “does the head of security usually serve breakfast in bed to the prisoners?”

Makado laughs, setting the tray down on the small folding table in the corner. “Not usually,” she admits. “I wanted to talk to you.”

“Well, I’m a captive audience. Ha ha.”

She grimaces at me. “I should have you locked up for that one. Oh wait.”

She gestures to the chair and I gesture to my pants in the corner. She goes to pick them up and then stops. “Uh,” she says. “You do know there’s a commode like, right there?” she points.

I can feel myself blushing. “Actually, uh… when you guys shot Rey last night… it was so close to me, and you know, the bullets were going right past me…”

Makado has the decency to look embarrassed.

“Oh,” she says. “Um. Give me one second.”

Makado leaves then and I get up, wrap the sheet around me like a towel, and start in on breakfast. She’d brought a couple of different boxes of tiny one-cup servings of cereal and a little plastic cup of milk, as well as a bagel and a banana, and as soon as the first spoonful of Raisin Bran hit my tongue I realized how hungry I was.

Makado returns while I’m halfway through the banana and tosses me a jumpsuit. “Hope it’s your size,” she says. “We have spares but people who aren’t yoked as hell tend to lose out.”

I thank her, set it on the bed. After a moment Makado leans up against the wall, crosses her arms. She has a thoughtful quirk to her lips and I cock my head at her. “Don’t think you can butter me up with just breakfast,” I warn her. “It’ll take a lot more than that.”

“I’m not buttering you up. I just want to talk.”

“Then talk.”

“Well,” Makado says, peering at her nails. “I’ll be able to get you out of here tonight. To leave and never return, hopefully.”

“And Peter?”

“Peter won’t be leaving with you.”

“So that’s it, huh?”

“What’s it?”

“After all that happened,” I say, “whatever kind of relationship you two must have had, whatever happened that night – it all leads up to this? You hand Peter over to the FBI and wash your hands?”

“I’m not handing him over to the FBI,” Makado snaps. “And don’t presume you know what kind of relationship we have just because he told you –“

“Then what’s going to happen to him?”

“I have a job for him.”

“A job?”

“Yeah. A job. He has a unique skillset,” Makado shrugs. “And we need more rangers at the moment. One and done. And then he stops fucking letting people in here.”

I think about that for a moment. “Alright, let me help, then.”

She stares at me. “This is not a negotiation,” she says softly. “You don’t get to make demands –“

“I’m not making demands. I have skillsets too. You need reports written? You want someone there to take pictures? I can work a camera, a big one, news quality. Video or stills, I can do ‘em both. I used to work for KGIM down in Dallas.”

“Jesus Christ,” Makado says. “I’m not hiring you. You’re lucky you’re getting out of here without any charges.”

“Goddam it,” I mutter. “Look, I’m sorry,” I tell her. “I don’t want this story to end like this. I don’t want to have to walk out of here knowing that I never got to the bottom of it. I know I can’t fucking write about it, I can’t do anything with it, but it’s going to eat me alive if I never know what really happened.”

“Would it really be so bad to just let it go? Go back to whatever you were doing before?”

“I wasn’t –“ I start, but then I stop. “Yes,” I say, in a small voice, knowing I sound like a child. “It would. It’d kill me.”

Makado shakes her head. “I can’t figure you out. I find it very, very hard to believe you aren’t writing a story on this.”

“If there is one, it’s in my head. I’m not an idiot, I don’t want to get disappeared.”

“I don’t know what you think the story of this place is, but it’s probably a lot better in your imagination. You ought to write a book. It’d probably sell.”

“It wouldn’t be true.”

“So the truth is what matters?”

“Yeah. Most of the time.”

Makado laughs, a hollow little rattle. “I wish I had your optimism.”

I look at her. “What happened down there? With the amalgam?”

She yawns. “I lost my eye. Then I got out. Then I lived happily ever after. Now I’m here dealing with you.”

“Peter is a much better storyteller than you are.”

She really laughs, then, and for a moment, just a moment, I think I catch a glimpse of the Makado Peter told me about, the one he fell in love with. Then she’s gone again and this hard woman is back again, staring at me calculatingly. I shake my head, rest it on my hand. “What happened?” I ask her. “Wouldn’t it feel better to tell somebody?”

Makado reaches up and in one deft motion removes her eyepatch, and my mouth falls open. It is so, so much worse than I had imagined; in some abstract sense I had extrapolated from the frail, mottled skin peeking out from beneath the patch, I had assumed a shape and size and sense of the flesh beneath. I had guessed that it was due to violence, due to the amalgam, but the pale white bone glaring at me from the graceful round rim of her empty eye-socket, the way the thin cords of her remaining flesh hang and stretch and look as though they surely will snap is much, much worse than anything I could have come up with on my own. The rest of her skin surrounding the top third or so of her cheek is healthy and normal, but the rim around it is white as snow, and pockmarked with acid burns, and then it inclines downwards like a great scoop was taken out of her face and left the bone from her eyesocket to her brow exposed. It looks completely healed, as though it had been meant to grow that way from the beginning; nothing raw or pink or infected-looking about it.

“It’s not pretty, is it?” she asks, and the way the muscles make that dead flesh shudder forces a wince out of me.

“What happened?” I ask again. Makado turns away for a moment, and when she turns back the eyepatch is back in place. It does a remarkable job of covering it, but now that I know what horribleness is lurking under there I don’t think I’m ever going to be able to forget it.

“The amalgam got me,” she says simply. “And it started to absorb me.”

She sits down heavily in the chair opposite mine and I notice a ring of mottled tissue around her wrist, extending down into the glove on her left hand, a scattering of marks like the aftermath of acid droplets cast over her arms, irregular clusters of them, five, six, seven, eight of them on the left, one, two, three on the right. She follows my gaze.

“I was very lucky,” she says. “I didn’t have any real permanent damage. Except for the eye, of course, but you can live without an eye. You become part of an amalgam, you don’t come back from that. Or if you do, it isn’t really living any more.”

She inclines her wrist upwards, looks at her watch. “Alright,” she says. “I’ve got time. You want to hear the rest of the story?”

Continue with Part 12

Back to Table of Contents

[timefirewrites]

I won NaNo!!

Words written: 525

Total words: 50280

Favorite lines from the whole story:

“Uh, state your business.” 

“Current objective unknown. Error.” 

Well, that was helpful.

------

Right. The robot didn’t know about their foolproof plan yet. 

“See that train? We’ll sneak onto it and ride it into freedom.” 

“Understood.” 

Silence. Wow, Neb had to do everything on their own, didn’t they. 

“We need to get into that freight car.” They pointed at a random car in the middle of the train. 

“Understood.”

What a thrilling conversation. Neb mumbled something under their breath and strode towards the hovertrain, head kept low again.

-------

“The stuff we’re mining here. Dark black, dusty. Makes the air hard to breathe. Looks like your metal, except less shiny. Also COLE and Coal sound similar.” 

-------

“Hey.” Coals head immediately turned to face them. “Please stop squeezing me. I don’t wanna die just yet.” Neb spoke painfully slowly, not yet having regained complete control of their body. Coal on the other hand was very quick to act and stopped pressing Neb to their chest. 

------

“What’s up with your display?” Their voice sounded more steady now, which was good. 

“I do not understand.” Their voice on the other hand just sounded confused. 

“Oh, right. You probably can’t see it. You’re currently displaying an error message. Which just reads ‘error’. Not very helpful.” 

“Fuck. I didn’t deactivate it.” 

------

They settled on two things they were pretty sure were edible: a soda labeled “SpacePop: the best soda in the universe” with a “multiple sunsets on Madoras” flavor and some leftover pizza. (They were pretty sure Madoras didn’t exist, they never heard of that planet before. Maybe they shouldn’t drink that soda after all.)

------

“We could just go in and race to the top.” 

“What? No. Why would we do that? We can’t afford to get caught, we need to make a plan, Coal.” 

“You said you wanted an adventure. Plus, I do not think we could create a plan, seeing as we know next to nothing about its defence and security.” 

They said that because of them? They were just rambling earlier, not really thinking about it, just talking to fill the silence. 

“Okay. But if anything goes wrong, it’ll be your fault.” 

------

“Then let me go. This is my spaceship now, go steal someone else’s.” They crossed their arms. 

“Your spaceship? I think not. Believe me, I know which ship we’ve been waiting for and it’s that one.” Cap gestured to the ship the child was still standing in. 

“And? Who cares.” Cap repressed a long sigh and/or a string of curses. 

“Joshua White does. Because that’s his ship. What did you do to him?” If that child killed him, then Cap had no problem with just letting them go again. 

“Who? I stole it. And? It doesn’t matter anyways!” Someone was worked up about something. Cap was as well. 

“So you mean to tell me that our target is back on Earth?! Stranded! On one of the most secure planets in this part of the galaxy! With no way for us to get down there without dying!” They took a deep breath. And then another one. Then, they threw their damned breathing exercises out the window.

-------

“Where are you?” 

“What?” The voice was taken aback. 

“I mean, I can’t see you anywhere?” Neb looked around again, and yes, there still wasn’t some small alien they just didn’t notice the first two times. 

“Oh. I’m the ship. Nice to meet you?” They sounded somewhat embarrassed, like they can’t believe they forgot to mention they’re a ship. 

------

“Then that’s it. Welcome to the 35th century. Here we have technology that works most of the time.” 

------

“I’m Laser, my gender is a burning trash can and my pronouns depend entirely on the mercy of the universe.” 

-----

“I was really looking forward to never seeing this thing again.” This comment earned Laser a punch in her ribs from Ahdia. 

They signed something to Laser, who flipped them off, [...]

-----

In the community room, the screen went blank, just as the bad guy held the heroes at gunpoint. 

"Darling, I know you resent my taste of movies, but this is way below you." Mer did not look pleased. 

"You're outnumbered now! Coal agreed to watch Love On A Foreign Planet with me. So, uh, get moving, Fishsticks." 

"I can't believe you already brainwashed them. It's not even been a full day, give them a break first, darling." As if to illustrate his point, Mer draped herself over the couch, an arm covering their visor and sighed dramatically. They reached for the remote control and turned the screen back on. Rude. Com turned it off again. 

"You are insufferable, darling."

-------

“I’m okay!” 

Another crash, another sentence yelled: “Fuck!” 

------

Laser seemed to be enjoying it as well, while Mer stared at Neb's skewer longingly. 

"You want some?" They're the last person to not share their food. 

"No thanks, darling.” Okay, Mer stared at Neb’s skewer with disgust. 

-------

“A word of advice, don’t insult the only person preventing me from killing all of you.” Laser typically spoke with a monotone voice, but this was different. It was ice cold. 

-------

“Stop staring at me, you creep.” Laser didn’t open her eyes, and if Lifo wouldn’t have noticed her mouth moving, there would be no indication that she was awake at all. 

“Make me.” Fel was concerned. It’s been a while since Laser last passed out. 

“Ugh. Fine.” She slowly reached up, grabbed the scarf that was still hanging from her head and threw it at Lifo. She missed by half a meter or so.

------

“Ah, good. You’re, uh, awake again.” 

“Good morning to you too.” So much for enjoying breakfast in the comfortable silence of his room. 

“Actually, uh, it’s already afternoon.” Huh. The stuff Nova gave him must’ve been stronger than he remembered. Or maybe he had just been very tired. Ugh, Cap probably wanted to talk to him as soon as he got up. 

“Cap wants to, uh, talk to you.” And there it was.

--------

Somehow, Neb ends up at the medbay. Nova was in the middle of doing something very important on his display, which certainly wasn't playing Gen’ros Apocalypse with Com. 

-------

“Understandable. But hey, once we’re done you can probably spend the rest of your life on whichever planet you want.” Mer let out a chuckle. 

“I highly doubt it’s going to be that many creds, Arequos live very long after all.” At least as long as they don’t show their face on planets that want them dead. 

-----

“And let me guess: you’re planning our downfall right now.” Laser tried to look unimpressed, but the way the corners of her mouth lifted up ever so slightly ruined the act. Not everybody is born as talented as Mer, after all. 

“Maybe so. Perhaps I’m thinking about the best way to shove you out the airlock and how to pretend it was all a terrible accident.” 

“As if your reflexes are fast enough to overwhelm me like that.” 

“Darling, you know me by now, I’m more than capable of startling you.” 

“Prove it.” 

Well, Mer couldn’t refuse an invitation like that, now could they? Moving as sleek as ever, she was up in Laser’s face in the blink of an eye. 

“Surprise.” It was barely audible, but the grin on his face spoke for its own. 

--------

“Ugh.” Fel wanted to say something more, fel really did, but apparently fel had spent too much time with Mer because Lifo dramatically collapsed onto the floor, face first. 

------

“It worked! Fuck yes! It worked!” Nearly bursting with excitement, Coal punched into thin air - and accidentally fired bursts of energy at the ceiling.

------

It was green. No oceans, no land that wasn’t overgrown. But it was a sick green, like all the plants were infected with something and slowly rotting. And that only got worse as they entered the atmosphere and Cap could start to make out more details. Nothing was moving. But that was probably just a trick of… the light or something. It would be impossible for a whole planet to be absolutely frozen in time, right?

------

“Good luck to you two and don’t take too long, I really want to get back.” He opened the door for them and Cap gestured to Coal to go first. 

“Believe me, I don’t want to either. Don’t move. Unless, you get, like, attacked by some plant monsters, then please do just that.” Laser gave them a thumbs up and Cap left as well. 

------

So Coal went to pick them up, but both of them realized half way through that they had no idea what they were doing. Coal ended up clutching Cap to their chest in a weird, one-sided hug and proceeded to lift them out the water. Wait, what? 

“What are you doing?” 

“I am going to fly. I am sick of wading through this mud.” Cap didn’t know they could do that. 

The flying turned out to be more of a hovering and it wasn’t particularly fast either. 

“Can’t you go any faster?” 

“Sure. If you want me to spend an hour or two afterwards recharging.” At least the mental image of the two hovering across this bog walking speed managed to push back the horrible feeling that grew stronger and stronger the longer Cap was on this planet. 

------

“Attention. Intruders on floor minus 30. Everyone keep calm and stay in your rooms, the COLEs will take care of it. I repeat: intruders on floor minus 30.” 

“Fuck.” Cap and Coal said in unison. 

“What do we do? Fuck, what do we do?!” Cap gestured wildly around. 

“Keep calm and stay in our room?” 

“That’s. Not. Helping.” 

------

There was no reason in getting back to the others quickly, so Cap took their time. A big disadvantage of disrupting the radars on the planet below them was that their own radar couldn’t pick up any signals anymore either. They don’t remember when exactly, but at some point Coal shut down, not having enough energy to keep going, still clutching the weapon tightly to their chest. 

Taglist (ask to be added/removed): @black-lakritz-dragon​ @marewriteblr​ @spacetimewraithwrites @emmaschoutenwrites @abalonetea

[retrauxpunk]

fun thought experiment;; say this lockdown thing happened back in 2014 when the boys were still all in the incubator together? how are they getting on? i’d love to know what you think would happen :))

this is begging to be written into a proper fic but alas for now all i can wring out from ‘haven’t-regularly-written-fic-in-so-long’ brain is a bunch of drabbles like so:

erlich stockpiles on weed and other than that is basically fine because we all know his life is just spent hanging around the incubator getting stoned anyway. at least, he is fine at first. then we realise that of course all the pent-up energy that is normally released by talking over richard in meetings, insulting investors, and yelling I OWN TEN PERCENT now has nowhere to go, so he becomes stir-crazy and, i dunno, starts a vlog. which he quickly abandons when he realises this is Work and he’d rather just get catatonically blazed every day.

what becomes of pied piper? i guess richard might view this as more time to work on it (esp if this occurs pre-techcrunch) and the team tries to do investor meetings over zoom and raise funds like that. which is, arguably, better … because now at least richard can duck out of frame whenever he’s struck by the urge to vomit.

jared adjusts to the lockdown so well that it’s a bit scary, because obviously the reason why he seems fine is because he’s gone through way worse in his childhood! this isn’t jared’s first lockdown, and at least this time it’s with his friends/colleagues and in the interests of public health, rather than due to the whims of some deranged criminal foster parent.

at least, that’s what jared tells himself. it doesn’t stop the nightmares, though, that have shifted up a notch in frequency.

jared starts going on walks, finding the most deserted parks he can find and hiking for hours.

one day richard has something of a breakdown because of how much the pandemic has fucked with pied piper, and jared drags him along on a hike. richard doesn’t make it to the park, obviously, because he is chronically unfit. but it’s nice to get some fresh air. the two of them start going on walks together, through the deserted streets of palo alto, and jared thinks, it’s like i have richard all to myself. i can pretend we’re the last two people on earth.

richard, meanwhile, thinks, jared might be someone useful to have around if this goes full-on apocalyptic.

dinesh and gilfoyle continue as usual with their constant bickering, prompting richard more than once to go down the lines of ‘why don’t you just fuck each other and get it over with’

to which gilfoyle one day responds, ‘is that what you finally did with jared?’

‘what?’ snaps richard, face contorting in indignation and disbelief

‘you heard what i said’

richard opens his mouth and nothing comes out, before he huffs a fake laugh, a mumbled ‘i don’t know what you’re talking about’, and storms from the room just as jared enters, colliding head-on with him

there’s an awkward flurry of apology and then jared notices dinesh and gilfoyle staring

‘is there something going on?’ he asks. ‘do i – have something on my face, or …’

‘nothing!’ says dinesh, much too loudly. meanwhile gilfoyle just silently turns away.

when jared leaves, gilfoyle flicks a glance at dinesh and happens to catch his eye. the silence a little too long.

meanwhile richard sits in his room and replays the conversation in his head, is that what you finally did with jared? 

jared?

‘finally’?

i don’t know what they’re talking about. jared just likes me as a – coworker. i sure don’t like like jared. (i mean, he is the best-looking one in the incubator, if i had to choose – wait, what?)

(it’s normal to notice these things with people you live with. he’s just – objectively conventionally attractive. like russ hanneman said, right? jared’s a tall, handsome guy … with very blue eyes.)

(i don’t have to, like, like men to think that, right? not that it would be an issue if i did, i mean … if anything, right now it’d be convenient – just – pragmatically speaking –)

richard pushes the thought away.

over the next few days, it comes back, along with a whole host of other thoughts like how nice it is that jared knows all these hiking trails and there’s no-one around and if i did kiss him, this would be the perfect place for it, now there’s an idea and what the fuck where did that thought come from?

the latter thought gets upgraded from ‘guest star’ to ‘recurring actor’, so much so that whenever they spend time together jared starts noticing that something’s up with richard, he’s somehow more jittery than usual – and nowadays, when jared lays a brief, casual hand on richard’s arm or shoulder mid-conversation, richard fights to react in an appropriate way, to not let the internal meltdown show on his face.

the next time he witnesses dinesh and gilfoyle arguing, richard keeps his mouth shut and leaves the room, heading to the backyard for some fresh air. he finds jared sitting on one of the lawn chairs, and fights the impulse to head back inside. the closest chair is the one next to jared, which is the perfect excuse to sit next to him.

‘oh hello, richard,’ says jared, smiling, as richard sits down.

‘hey,’ says richard.

their chairs are so close that their arms are touching, but richard doesn’t move. neither does jared.

meanwhile, dinesh and gilfoyle’s fight has escalated to the point where they’re right in each other’s faces, dinesh ranting about gilfoyle being the pretentious stubborn arrogant asshole he is.

gilfoyle doesn’t flinch, and his only response is, in a maddeningly even tone, ‘is that all you think of me?’

dinesh opens his mouth to reply and then he catches the barest hint of a smirk on gilfoyle’s face. before he knows it, gilfoyle is leaning in closer, and for a split second dinesh thinks oh god, no, but much much louder is the voice telling him – shouting – yes! now’s your chance, don’t fucking fuck it up and before he can talk himself out of, he grabs gilfoyle’s jacket and pulls him into a kiss.

they stay like that for a while, kissing in the middle of the kitchen, until the sound of the screen door makes them jump apart as if electrocuted.

richard and jared are standing in the doorway, eyes wide, mouths open, as if they’d been interrupted mid-conversation by the shock

‘what are you looking at?’ says gilfoyle finally

‘yeah,’ says dinesh, with a sudden bolt of courage, ‘why don’t you leave, and – what was the phrase – “fuck each other and get it over with?”’

richard meets jared’s eyes, then grins recklessly and grabs his hand. ‘come on, jared,’ he says, and pulls jared after him, down the corridor and into his room, feeling dinesh and gilfoyle’s eyes like laser sights on his back. he doesn’t look back though, he just looks up at jared, and jared is smiling like he can’t believe what’s happening, equal parts confusion, disbelief, and hope on his face.

richard closes his door and spins round to face jared, who is standing very, very close. he swallows, suddenly doubtful.

‘do you –’ he has to clear his throat, it’s so dry – ‘do you want to, uh – pick up where we left off?’ he dares a look up at jared from beneath his eyelashes, keenly aware of what feels like wildfire painting his face.

jared puts a hand beneath richard’s chin and gently tilts his face upward. their eyes meet, and richard steadies a little.

‘i would love nothing more,’ jared murmurs, smiling that little smile. it’s like he’s afraid to reveal any more happiness, lest it be spotted and snatched away.

richard grins, takes hold of jared’s collar and kisses him – and it’s only slightly less clumsy than that first kiss by the pool, but god, it feels just as good. jared takes a small step forward, pressing richard’s back to the door, and the feeling of their bodies against each other makes richard shudder.

yeah, he thinks, when they finally break apart and richard catches sight of jared with his impeccably neat hair tousled – i did that – and his pupils huge, a massive grin on his face, this was a great idea.