#And a knuckles who really wants one of those shiny rocks. And is not above stealing (since he is a pirate)

[howcouldtheyletmebeanadult]

So would RebelxDread be considered like. Reverse Knuxouge or-

[buckybarnesdiaries]

a piece of cake

© @jamesbrnes

bucky barnes x reader. ⎢ masterlist.

Something happens at Shuri's birthday party that leads to a heated fight.

word count: 3k words. (fuck, it worth every damn word)

warnings/tags: nsfw, +18!!! angry jealous sex, let's start there. unprotected sex, oral sex (face fucking and ridding), fingering, brief daddy!kink, brief praise!kink, language, cursing, handcuffing, mention of bodily fluids, and probably i'm forgetting something else, i just lost my mind. bucky being the cutest and loving man on earth at the end.

author notes: none of my stories contain reader’s body descriptions to be inclusive.

join the tag list here.

You had never been so quiet, but you knew that opening your mouth only could cause a storm inside the car, on your way back home. Believing you could have a pinch of luck, Bucky wouldn't notice that something was raving you mad since the moment you watched him letting another woman give him a spoon of cake. Straight to his mouth. You almost choked on your drink, talking to Shuri about how excited she was to celebrate her birthday in New York, when you witnessed the scene hearing their laughs and watching how they dared to touch his metal arm constantly. Your boyfriend was talking with some of his old friends from Wakanda, not even knowing he made friends there. He never said a word about it. Even so, they didn't have the right to flirt with him. Unless he didn't say anything about you.

But Bucky wasn't stupid. Or at least, not like you thought. Gazing you by the corners of his blue eyes, he was conscious that something was going wrong. He licked his upper lip briefly, slowly. He tasted the waters putting a hand on your thigh, which was your favorite gesture while he was driving, deriving with your fingers laced and him placing kisses on the back of your hand. But you didn't move an inch, still staring through the copilot's window with your elbow nailed there and your chin resting on your knuckles.

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing”.

Your passive tone and the lie as a response caused him to frown, pulling over the car to focus on you. He turned on his seat and placed a hand behind the headrest of yours.

“Spit it”.

You couldn't help but raise an eyebrow ironically, looking at him for a second. If he had to ask it was because he wasn't really seeing the dilemma there.

“I'm just tired and I wanna go home, James. That's all”.

James. James. You did it unconsciously, but he didn't take it as an innocent manner of calling him. Unexpressive, the soldier joined the highway driving faster than he used to. You had pissed him off, but it wasn't your problem. He had hurt your feelings with something he didn't give any importance to. The only thing you wanted was to take a shower, put on your comfier pajamas and go to sleep, probably you'd see tomorrow that situation differently than today and you could move on from your insecurities and the jealousy running through your veins.

You arrived at your apartment in record time, keeping the car inside the parking under the building. You removed the seat belt to wear your leather jacket and grab your purse on your feet, stepping out when you were ready. But Bucky stayed inside, just turning off the engine. He didn't have any intention of leaving it, maintaining his hands tightly gripped around the wheel. You ignored him as soon as you couldn't pretend you were just tired anymore. It was the first time something like that happened and you were having a strong desire to throw your guts up.

Three minutes later you were under the warm water with your forehead resting against the cold wall and your eyes closed. Maybe you were overreacting and the rational, mature behavior would be to go to talk with him, tell your boyfriend what made you feel upset. Sighing as you nodded two times, determined to put the cards on the table, you shut off the faucet and walked out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel.

“Oh, fucking hell!” You growled because of the scare of your life when you found Bucky already in your shared room.

He had his back supported on the wall, a leg flexed, and his hands behind himself. No expression on his face, but expecting an explanation from you. You were hoping for something from him too, maybe I don't know what I've done to make you feel like that, can you give me a clue? He just stared at you in silence, drying the pearls of water decorating your body before wearing a pair of black panties and your forgotten pajamas instead of one of his t-shirts impregnated on his scent.

“Com'ere”. Bucky whispered, stretching his flesh hand on air when you were about to go to sleep.

“No”.

Well, that wasn't the proper way to talk like grown adults. You crossed both arms on your chest, standing next to your side of the bed.

“What'd you say?” He squinted incredulous, slowly standing from the wall, pretending you hadn't uttered that word.

“I said no, you fucking punk”.

“The hell d'you think you're talking to, darling?”

“To the cretin who let other women flirt and touch him”. You replied with evident annoyance. “Why don't you go to show them your daddy's skills, uh? Sure I can find someone who respects me in the meantime”.

Suddenly, a grimace you hadn't seen before on him appeared like a thunderbolt. You weren't sure if you just made him feel more furious or if you just broke his heart. But before you could figure it out, Bucky shorted the distance between both in two fast strides and his hands gripped your throat and the back of your neck respectively, pinning you to the closest wall and tossing the lamp on your nightstand to the floor. You complained slightly —with his tongue wildly invading your mouth— because of the strength he used to put you against the wall.

You tried to push him away, to not fall into his charmings, but he made your mind blank when his fingers were firmly nailed in your ass and his body was accommodated between your legs. Your fiery provoked a bulge under his pants so painful that in every rock against your core he wasn't sure if it hurt or if it was some kind of pleasure he couldn't handle. Out of breath, Bucky attacked your neck, digging his teeth in your neck with so much passion that you screamed delighted his full name while pulling his hair. That gesture drove him insane, losing the less sanity he had at that point. With just a push, your boyfriend ripped off your shirt to strip you, in anticipation of your panties suffering the same fate.

Bucky threw you to the mattress on your abdomen, perfectly positioned to what was about to happen. He was so eager, so desperate for showing you what he was feeling that he didn't lose time taking off his clothes, just undoing his belt and unzipping his jeans to pull them down to his ankles along his boxers. You heard him spitting in his hand to use it as lube, although you were sufficiently soaked and ready for your Buck that neither of you needed his saliva. He rammed his dolorous erection into your cunt, crashing his pelvis and pressing it against your ass with all his strength, causing you to drown a loud cry in the sheets.

Tangling his fingers with yours and lacing your arms around your neck, putting all his weight onto your back, Bucky pounded you with an insanely quick rhythm, not giving you any chance to mold your throbbing walls around his length. Your pleased vocals echoed inside your room in total sync with the hits to your g-spot. Your body received with every one of them soft cramps mixed with pain and pleasure, making you roll your eyes and tear your throat.

“'S that wh— what you wanted, uh?” Bucky snarled against the back of your neck, totally gone, not giving you a break or showing any mercy.

“Fuck, no…” You replied, challenging him.

He swallowed a rough moan, wrapping his cold fingers around your throat while using the other to pull back your hair and arch your body. “Don' fucking… lie to me, doll… You wan— wanted your daddy to make you… feel desired over tho— those women”.

And yes, he was right. More or less. But you didn't expect him to react like that. Bucky was rabidly fucking you, moving the bed from its position with every angry thrust into your pussy. You knew you weren't going to last for too long if he continued impaling you against the mattress, just like that. But you both had to recognize that it was the best session of sex of your life.

“You were… fucking mad watch— watching 'em touch my arm… your arm, right?”

You whined at the brutality he used to push his hard cock beyond your limits, holding it there as he tilted your head to crash his lips on yours. Bucky devoured them until they were shiny, swollen, slightly ached because of the bit he left on your bottom one.

“If you don't tell me… the truth… I swear I'm not gonna let you come”. The whisper fell into your ear with such a raspy tone of voice, conscious of him being very capable.

“It was… your fucking fault, James. Not… Not mine”. You grunted, feeling him going a little deeper. “I di— didn't let anybody flirt with me… as if you didn't exist”.

That was the truth, but the wrong answer for him. Suddenly, Bucky pulled out his dick covered in your arousal, freeing you from any grip. A pause that only lasted the time he took to grab the handcuffs from your nightstand to place them in your wrists and secure them around the headboard. Now you were under his total control, defying him by strongly closing your legs and frowning at him, panting and sweating.

“Lemme tell you something”. Your boyfriend said, dangerously crawling over the bed till reaching your knees and forcing them to be separated, wide spread for him. “If you think I was flirting, but you didn't see… how uncomfortable I was… This situation is not my fault”.

The tables were turned as he finished his sentence, settling himself between your legs yet kneeling to raise your ass above his lap. “Not so mouthy now, are you, doll?”

You wanted to speak back, to say something after having a second to reconsider the reason why you were so angrier at him when Bucky pushed you down and rammed his dick back to the place it belonged. You forced unconsciously your hands gripped, wanting to put them on him —wherever—. As soon as he handcuffed you, your desire for touching him used to be suffocating. But you were the one who played from the start, instead of telling him how you were feeling about that situation at Shuri's party.

Bucky didn't even let you kiss him, stabilizing you on top with an arm around your waist and his cold hand holding the back of your head. His hips rocked straight to your g-spot once and once, making you lose any kind of control over your body as your boyfriend didn't have any compassion, needing to find relief to his sorrowful erection by cumming inside your clenching walls. You were driving him crazy, maintaining your eye contact at all moments and almost drinking your delighted, obscene crying, aware that only him could cause you to be so dirty.

“Feels good, uh…? You like it?” Your boyfriend brushed your lips with his, depriving you of his kisses or any other touch. “Bec— 'cause you take your daddy... so damn good, baby girl… So tight… so tight you could kill me”.

“Yes, da— daddy”. You whimpered nodding your head. “Only you… can fuck me li— like that… Only you”.

“That's it… that's it, oh, fuck… fuck, doll”.

You saw him roll that pair of beautiful blue eyes to the back of his head, feeling Bucky's thighs tensing under your legs. You didn't want anything else than making him cum, after overthinking about how he felt, and not about what you witnessed. He was right, more or less. He was still being so innocent in those kinds of situations that he used to feel like a scared kid.

You suddenly fell back to reality when the emptiness sensation invaded you. Bucky pulled out his length from you again, causing you to beg in silence for not denying you the orgasm you were about to reach. But he warned you. Bucky asked you to tell him the truth and you chose to challenge him. Letting you sit on the mattress, he flexed a leg to guide his twitching cock to your mouth, not needing to tell you what he wanted you to do. You just parted your lips, receiving him without protesting, curling your fingers when he forced your limits, and positioned both hands on your head. Twirling your tongue around his base as you could, with your cavity completely invaded, Bucky provoked you a strong gag. A gesture that led to his warm seed being spilled down your throat.

“Fuck my life, baby girl!” He couldn't help but howl driven by the pleasure as you coughed and made vibrate his sensitive skin.

Just holding his dick trapped by your lips for a second, he freed your mouth, taking his time to admire you swallowing his cum and showing afterward your tongue. God, you looked so beautiful disheveled, with teary eyes and swollen lips because of the effort.

“Want me to tell you something else?” Bucky asked while cleaning the sweat in his forehead with the back of his arm, taking the small key to liberating you with his free hand.

You didn't reply, not needing to, as he rubbed your wrists to comfort your skin before lying by your side.

“Com'ere”. He whispered, yet trying to recover your breathings. Bucky wrapped you with his flesh arm, rubbing his iron fingers up and down your tense belly, creating a contrast that caused you goosebumps. “'M so sorry for making you feel like that”.

He kissed you. Slowly, passionate, tasting his own juices mixed with your saliva. Caressing your tongue with the tip of his, and no rush. You felt his digits touring down your skin, till finding your throbbing and needed clit. You weren't able to hold back a sweet moan when he circled his fingertip over your sensible pearl, gladly drinking your vocals.

“When I wanted to react… she was putting that damn spoon into my mouth. It felt horrible, doll, I promise”. He murmured, venturing his long cold finger to part your folds and sink it inside you —moaning at the fulfill sensation—. “You always save me from those awkward situations… but you were having fun with Shuri and I didn't want to interrupt you”.

You were feeling like shit, looking at him through your eyelids as he curved a second finger into your cunt and increased the pace of the pounds with his hand made of vibranium. Bucky spread some gentle kisses all around your face, ending with a tender bite to your lips.

“When you told me you wanted to go home, I felt a huge relief… 'Cause that was everything I wanted. Go home with you. Maybe watch a movie… cuddle… fall asleep on the sofa”.

“Oh, God, Bucky”. You wept onto his mouth, as soon as a third finger filled you, nailing his hand in the perfect position to be moved up and down. “I'm so��� sorry, Buck… I'm sorry”.

“Fuck, no”. He let out, thrusting you harder, faster, creating a melody of filthy sloppy sounds while your moans were louder and louder. “I should stop 'em, I didn't… I didn't. But I respect you more than anything, doll… I love you with all my heart. I care 'bout you, 'bout your feelings… Can you forgive me? Can you… Can you cum for me?”

You nodded your head running out of words, seeing your boyfriend snaking his body down the bed to between your shaky legs, yet having his fingers knuckles deep inside you. “Keep 'em open for your man”.

The blow to your abused cunt provoked you a lash up to your backbone, landing your hands on his head as Bucky sank his face straight to your center. His digits fucked you savagely, while his tongue took control of your swollen pearl —sucking, licking, kissing, pulling it back—. He wasn't going to deny that pleasure to you, quite the opposite. You pressed unconsciously his face a little closer to your pussy, swinging your hips and riding his mouth when his caresses and his pushes became too much for you.

Bucky made you cum harder than ever, crying his name till you didn't have any strength and you were just a sack of bones under his expert mouth, devouring you and drinking your juices as if it was the elixir of life. And when he was satiated, you glanced at him using the tip of his tongue to trail a path up crossing your abdomen, the gap between your breasts, your throat, until kissing you again getting comfortable on top of you. It was a kiss full of love, and guiltiness, and necessity, and pure devotion for you.

“Did I hurt you with what I said?” You murmured, still enraptured by the fireworks fluttering within your belly.

“This isn't 'bout me”. Bucky clicked his tongue, hiding his face into your sweaty neck. “This is 'bout what I let happen”.

“That doesn't answer my question, Buck… I'm sorry about what I said. I was just… I feel insecure". You confessed stroking his scalp and back with your hands, lacing your legs together. “I didn't mean it. I would never try to… find someone who respects me more than you do. That's impossible. And not talking about how much you love me”.

“I love you with every inch of myself”. He swore, he promised, raising his face to look straight at your eyes. “I can't imagine a life without you”.

“Me either… Your love makes me feel alive”.

Bucky left one last tender kiss on your lips before suddenly standing up and holding you onto his arms to carry you to the bathroom and take a shower together —wash your hair, worship your body again as if it was the last thing he was going to do—.

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[zodiakuroo]

pierced

idk what to tell you this is just 2k of pussy eating (don’t blame me blame eren brain rot)

18+, minors dni

part 2

“What did you do?!” You say, incredulously. It’s a rhetorical question, you can see exactly what he’s done. Eren stands in front of you, shamelessly, with his pants and boxers dropped to his ankles as his flaccid penis hangs between his thighs. Your attention is mainly focused on the brand new, shiny titanium barbell that goes through the head of his dick.

“Do you like it?” You can tell by his posture and the shit-eating grin on his face that he’s incredibly proud of his newest body modification.

“Why on earth would you get a piercing there?” The bulbous head is just few shades of pink darker than the rest of his pale shaft. You wince in your seat, imagining what it would feel like to stick a needle right through your most sensitive parts.

“Well, it was a dare and Jean bet that I wouldn’t so I had to.” He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly, fully aware of how silly it sounds as he says it out loud.

“Of course.” You mutter. What other chain of events would lead to your boyfriend coming home with a fucking Prince Albert. “Does it hurt?” You lean in just a little closer and notice the little bit of dried blood where the jewelry pierces his flesh.

“Nah. Didn’t feel a thing.” He says with a wink and begins dressing himself again before dropping down on couch next you, throwing his arm around your shoulder and pulling you into his chest.

“You’re such an idiot.” You giggle, nuzzling your head into his neck, inhaling the heady scent you’ve come to associate with him.

“There is one thing though.” His voice is softer, lacking it’s usual self-assured tone. He can’t say that he’s happy about what he’s about to tell you. In fact, had he known about this small detail beforehand he might not have gone through with that stupid dare.

“Hmm?” You respond noncommittally, too preoccupied by your current task of leaving gentle kisses on his jaw and giving him the soft affection you know he loves but will never ask for.

“No sex for a month. Piercer’s orders.” His eyes drift down cautiously to gauge your reaction.

You stop in your tracks and frown up at him. At first you think he’s kidding but no such luck. “Oh my god.” You groan. “You’re such an idiot.”

Three days.

A grand total of three days.

It’s sad really, but you should have seen it coming. Like Eren Jaeger’s libido would ever let him go a whole 30 days with no sex.

He blames you and the way you prance around the apartment in those tight, short shorts. How is he not supposed to want you when he has to spend the day watching your tits bounce around in that white tank top, nipples just barely visible through the fabric?

It’s not like you put up much of a fight anyways. The way that man has you wrapped around your finger, all it took was a few well-placed touches and whispers of how much he misses the way you feel and the way you taste. Just like that, Eren has you naked, legs hanging off the edge of the bed with his face buried in your cunt.

“Love this pussy.” He murmurs, nipping at the soft skin of your inner thigh. “Can’t live without it.”

He knows that he can’t be inside you. He knows. And yet he continues to torture himself because this is as close as he can get to what he really needs.

The rough pads of his fingertips massage your wall making you buck into his hand, silently begging for something deeper. He laps at you with his tongue, running it from your clit all the way down to your hole, licking up the slick that leaks out around his knuckles.

You feel the sparks of pleasure heating up your abdomen and you squeeze your thighs around his head, weaving your hands through his long, mahogany locks. ‘Eren’falls from your lips over and over in breathy mewls that only encourage him to keep going. His fingers put in double time hitting the special spot deep inside you while he seals his lips around clit and pulls it into his mouth. You dig your heels into his back to give you leverage to rut into his face as he pushes you closer and closer towards an inevitable orgasm.

You’re so hot and wet inside, squeezing so tight around his fingers. His mind conjures up memories of how good it felt to have your gooey walls clamping down on his dick and the soft cries you let out as he split you open.

He’s rock solid in his sweats right now and his cock hurts, sensitive tissue swelling and pulsating around his still fresh piercing. But he can’t think about that right now. All that’s on his mind is how badly he wants to be inside you right now. Any of your holes, it doesn’t matter which. But they’re all off limits.

Quite frankly, it pisses him off.

There is no choice but for him to take his frustrations out on your body. He slowly drags his fingers out of you, marveling at the way your needy cunt tries to pull him back in.

Before you can even protest Eren presses his fingers, still warm from your pussy and covered in your cream, against your lips.

“Open up.” He practically growls, voice thick with arousal.

You part your lips in response, letting him clean his fingers off using your tongue. Reflexively, you close your lips around them and begin to suck, moaning at the taste of yourself.

“God, princess.” He pants with his jaw slack. “Want your mouth around me so bad.”

It only motivates you to take his fingers deeper. Deep enough to make you gag as your drool runs down his knuckles while you swirl your tongue around his digits.

The way you look at him doesn’t help either. Usually you’d shy away from eye contact when he makes you do something embarrassing like this, sucking on his fingers like you’re sucking on his cock. But tonight is different. You stare straight at him with that heavy-lidded gaze, eyes glossy and full of want. The frustration is killing him, he can’t stand to look at you anymore so instead he gives his undivided attention to your cunt.

“Babe you wanna know something?” His breath fans over your soaked core, making you twitch in his hold. Something gives you the feeling that he’s not really talking to you, he’s talking to what’s between your legs. Although he’s not even looking at you, you still nod your head yes, so wound up you’ll take anything from him at this point.

“I read online,” He goes quiet for a moment, distracted at the way your weeping hole clenches around nothing, almost like it’s begging for him to fill it. “That dick piercings feel real good in pussy. I promise it’ll be worth it.”

Eren bends down to lick at your dripping hole, he slides his tongue all the way down, making sure not waste a single drop, stopping just above the tight ring of muscle making your squeal in surprise.

”Can you imagine it?” He drags is fingers from your lips, leaving a path of saliva down the valley of your breasts, across your stomach until he reaches your clit, rubbing the sensitive numb in slow, steady circles with his thumb while you fist the sheets trying to swallow the sounds he’s coaxing out of you. “How it’s gonna feel inside you? How it’s gonna hit that spot that makes you go dumb?”

Sure, he sounds composed but when you look down at him and see the way his pupils are blown wide, pretty pink tongue hanging slightly out of his mouth, you know he’s imagining it too.

“Gonna drive you crazy.” His calloused fingertips dig further into your pudgy thighs, clipped nails leaving little crescents indented in your skin. “Make you even more crazy for my cock than you already are.”

“Yeah ‘ren.” You gasp as he runs his tongue through your folds. “Wan’ your cock.” You babble mindless agreements at whatever filth he’s spewing, too fucked out and desperate for his cock to care.

Like the bastard he is, he chuckles at your response, satisfied with knowing that you want him just as bad as he wants you.

He leans forward and presses the flat of his tongue against your entrance, telling you (wordlessly) what he wants.

Beg

He wants you to beg for it.

And of course you oblige. You chant out ‘please Eren, please Eren, please Eren’ over and over again as if you’ve forgotten every other word.

He rewards for your obedience by pushing the slippery muscle into your hole, nice and slow savouring the way your tart essence covers his taste buds.

“Fuck- more please.” Your back arches off the bed in response but his left hand splays across your abdomen keeping you in place.

His right thumb is still rubbing you, pressing harder, going faster while he drives his tongue even deeper licking up all of your juices like a man starved. He devours you shamelessly, the sloppy sounds only drowned out by your pornographic whining. He thrusts in and out, in and out, in and out, fucking you with his tongue, making sure to taste every inch of you.

Your flavor is addictive, he can’t get enough. He grunts against with his face shoved against you, sending vibrations from your core, right up your spine. His fingers and tongue assault your pussy mercilessly, setting every single nerve on fire.

“Baby- ah- I- I’m close” you whimper, feeling tension brewing in your core, threatening to burst at any second.

“No.” The hand that was playing with your pussy comes down hard on your puffy clit, the sound of the smack echoing in the quiet room.

You let out a cry, so high pitched you can hardly believe it’s your voice.

“Can’t come until I do.” Just like that, he’s off of you completely, leaving you trembling without his touch.

The pain and frustration have tears brimming at your lash line. How cruel of him. To dangle an orgasm right in front of your face before yanking it away. You begin to stammer out pleas, begging him to touch you again, but they fall on deaf ears.

“C’mon princess. ‘S only fair right?” He looks up at you with the sweetest, emerald puppy dog eyes, juxtaposing the lewd way he licks the remnants of your arousal from his swollen lips.

It’s not fair at all. You weren’t the one who decided to get their dick pierced on a whim. Why should you have to suffer? But there’s too much blood in your throbbing cunt and not enough in your brain so you can hardly put together a coherent sentence, let alone argue with him.

“Gonna edge you like this every day yeah?” He shifts his body to hover over you, using his arms to hold himself up so that his nose barely brushes yours and stray stands of his messy hair tickle the sides of your face. “Till I get to fuck you again.” He dips down to kiss you on the lips. It’s barely more than a peck, far too chaste and gone far too soon.

“Christ, I can’t wait to fuck you again.”

[heli0s-writes]

bright whites*

A/N: For Crybaby Anon :’) I’m not sure if I filled this request correctly!! But here is some angsty tender smut anyway. Nomad Steve/Reader again because hmmm. Listen to: Kishi Bashi - Bright Whites

~1k words. Please stop reading if you are not 18+

brooklyn after dark masterlist

It goes to his head.

The blue wall. The yellow lamp. Somber shades of orange and grey-green where they touch like a muddy watercolor bloom. Splayed under paper-thin covers, your crown dipping off the edge of the bed, throat laboring with every gulp of air. A stormy midday nap where neither party quite gets any sleep at all.

Kisses to your collar, your breasts, he slides the sheet down with his nose, savors new warmth of exposed skin—your belly, your hip, your softness. Hands find each other, one of his on the flesh of your waist.

Steve’s dizzy on it. Selfish for it. A love he never imagined he’d have—a love he’d stopped yearning for long ago. But here you are, beneath his body, and he’ll never stop feeling star-struck at the sight.

“Baby,” he sighs, kissing-- kissing, kissing-- can’t stop his lips from roaming, can’t stop his tongue from tasting. Left, then right, back over again. Drowsy meandering paths, curving and bending, pleased when you arch into his mouth, forever wanting more.

Steve buries his face between your legs, smothers praises between your thighs.

A featherlight graze and you whimper—chest rising and falling, body humming, eyes glazed over. He does it again—a little longer, a little harder, pressing in, up, where he knows to. He kisses you there like he’s kissing your mouth—tilting his head barely, slotting over the seam. He’s dedicated, takes his time, treasures every shudder, every flavor.

“Can’t get enough of you,” he says, “Gotta keep you all to myself.”

He wants everything from you. He loves everything about you. Your eyes. Your smile. Your light and loyalty. How you wrap yourself around him and all his obstinate virtue, how you don’t mind that it’s taken you to dimly lit places beneath rainclouds. Under itchy blankets in temporary homes.

A tug, fingers still locked tight, and you tell him where you need him.

Steve’s beard is damp when he comes up, bits of wetness shiny on his cheek and chin, but you press your lips to his all the same. He guides himself in, reveling in your warmth and the way you whine—airy and delicate, memorizes your face turned up-side down and blissed out.

He matches the pattern of the rain. Tepid, at first, barely falling into your body, savoring the slow drag and the sparks rolling to the tips of his fingers and toes. But he’s greedy for it—all those pretty sounds you make—how you suck in and cry out when he takes you to the edge and lets you go careening into the stars.

 So he moves faster, hips slamming into yours, releasing your hand to support your head, bracing himself above you.

“I want you looking at me,” he says, “Let me see you, sweetheart.”

So you do, blinking through the darkness and find him like a beacon, as he always has been, as he always will be. His long hair falls to one side, ashy fair, suspended and rocking along.

“’S that good? Like this?”

“Steve—” Choked out punches of sound, pitch rising and falling as your face twists, sweat collecting on your brow.

“That’s it, baby.”

“Steve—"

On the precipice of an incoming storm, thunder rolling outside the bed, above the building, and rising, too, in Steve’s belly, he works into your body, heavy-lidded and transfixed on your beautiful face. Deeper until you’re shaking, pulling your legs up over his shoulders, getting him closer, closer, closer.

His toes curl.

You shatter under a splinter of lightning. It bursts across your skin—a bright halo of purple—before it’s gone, chased by the explosion of swollen clouds.

Gasping, you turn your face toward his forearm, but he nudges you back, getting a better grip on you. And the way you look—struggling to see straight, half-sobbing his name now, helplessly writhing beneath him for more contact, for another summit to fall from—god, all the stars could align and he wouldn’t give a single fuck about anything other than this.

Another crash and the earth trembles. Your open mouth is panting for more. He takes this image—collects it inside his heart. Another. Bright whites like camera flashes and he clings on to this one, too.

He kisses your open mouth, kisses your throat, feels it twisting in his hollowed chest, that covetous guilt.

A pretty smile just for him to see and he drinks it up with dazed and devout eyes.

“I’m yours, Steve,” you say, like reading his mind, “Just yours.”

-

It’s torrential. Spiraling wind and water hitting the windows like gunfire, splattering like shrapnel. He curls around you beneath the blanket—newsprint flimsy—and he hates it, god he hates it. You go quiet but he hears the swallow in your throat. Smells the ache in the air through must and mildew.

“It’s just a little bit of bad weather,” he says, shifting his weight, “It’ll pass.”

You hum a strangled sound of agreeance. His strong girl—won’t let him see you cry-- won’t let him have another thing to burden himself with when all he has are burdens now. When the world is howling outside, astray and gone off its axis from the sun and made an enemy of him, writing him on the wrong side of history but you know the truth.

You rest your forehead against his chin, knuckles trailing through his beard—that necessary disguise you’ve come to love because it’s his, because it’s him. You rearrange suddenly, take a deep breath, and shuffle until you’ve switched places and he’s the one resting on your chest.

He tries to look up, but you turn him away.

“Hey,” Steve says, finding your hand, “Doesn’t matter what happens—outside, tomorrow, with anybody,” he grips your fingers tight. Grips you even tighter. “It’s you and me. Just you and me.” Because he’s selfish. Because he took you from a perfectly domestic life, in a safe and warm home with sturdy walls and cotton blankets, from sugary sunshine and brought you here. Some sad destiny stripped naked to its very skeleton, and who knows when either of you will really live again.

“Just a bit of bad weather,” he says again, cheek on your breast.

“I don’t mind it,” you reply, the sound vibrating through your skin.

He gets to look this time, his brow crinkling a little from this angle, corners of his lips lost in the furs of his beard. You kiss his eyes, his lashes, tell him you love him, and Steve could weep.

You stroke his blonde head, turning golden hairs in gentle spirals, and he listens to the beating of your heart like rainfall on a roof.

[modern-vellichor]

In Her Blood; Four

Summary: The camping trip opens old wounds for everyone.

Pairing: DadsBestFriend!Bucky x Reader

Warnings: murder(not really but its insinuated), mentions of suicide, angst!!!, age gap relationship, mentions of ptsd, uncomfortable family situation, bad father figure, smut, blood play if u squint

Masterlist ||

The next morning you pack the cars. Bucky throws his case in the trunk of your car.

"you riding with me?", you ask.

"yeah, Sarah wants to drive with your parents. Didn't wanna leave ya alone", he shoots a tight lipped smile in your direction.

A look of disappointment flickers on your face, but its soon replaced by a playful and childlike grin.

"okay", you giggle.

You hop in the drivers seat, Bucky buckling himself in next to you. You pull out after Sarah and your parents, following them the whole way there.

Early 2000s punk plays through the stereo. You bang your head lightly, mouthing the words to old Blink 182. Bucky chuckles softly to himself at the sight.

After an hour you pull into a garage. You leave Bucky in the car and meet Sarah at the door to the shop, you take her hand playfully and rest your head on her shoulder while you walk in. Bucky smiles.

You come back with two cokes and a bag of different snacks. You slide in next to him with a smile and a chuckle. You launch a sandwich and the coke at him, he laughs.

The rest of the drive is silent. Only another hour or so.

You arrive at the site by noon, a small enough cabin and a beautiful lake, the dark woods framing most of it.

You take your sisters hand, leading her to the room you're sharing. Your laughs echo through old, damp wood.

Sam and Steve take the master, Bucky is left with the small guest room at the end of the hallway.

The group recollects just as the sun is going down, the sky painted bright pink and orange, a gloomy forest casting haunting shadows on the site.

The fire crackles quietly while you eat. Sam tells childhood stories, the rest of you laugh and nod along. Bucky cant help but let his gaze wander to you.

Then you're pulling off your top and running towards the lake, Sarah close behind you. You're laughing as you dive gracefully into the dark water, barely making a splash. When you resurface, your head breaks in the centre of the lake. Bucky laughs, so do your parents.

You and Sarah play for a while, swimming and diving and bringing up rocks and little shiny things you find.

The first night is peaceful. Morning arrives and Steve, Sam, and Sarah go for a hike. You stay at the cabin, you sketch the rustic view from your window.

The next evening, you all sit around the fire. You drink and you laugh, you shoot Bucky soft looks all night. Its homely and peaceful. Then you pull the box of cigarettes from your pocket, you let the flames lick it alight and retreat to the edge of the lake. You're out of the way, but Steve still sighs.

"are you kidding?", he snaps at you. "now?"

"Steve", Sam mumbles, trying to calm him down. "she's all the way over there, leave her". Its to no avail.

"those things kill you, you know", he barks.

"just like you", you murmur under your breath, he cant make out what you're saying. You make yourself small, nursing your cigarette.

"what did you say?", Sarah and Sam both start trying to calm Steve, you stay silent. "answer me, Y/N!"

"stop, you're scaring Sarah", you mumble, Bucky stands up and begins to approach, ready to jump in if needed.

"This isn't about Sarah", he's shouting now. You snap then.

"It's always been about Sarah", you crush the cigarette under the toe of your boot. "I never minded when daddy got angry, but Sarah always cried when he shouted"

"stop it!"

"Remember when you broke that plate, Sarah thought daddy got the gun from the loose floorboard and shot her sister dead. Sarah who thought daddy was gonna kick Y/N out, Sarah who thought she was gonna find Y/N dead on the bathroom floor", you shout with a sick smile, you advance on him as Steve stumbles back. He throws empty threats at you, but you don't listen.

Sarah begins to cry and Sam has to carry her inside, he closes the door behind her and runs back to Steve. He pulls Steve away by the bicep and you turn back to the lake. You sit by the waters edge, lighting another cigarette as Bucky sits next to you.

You rest your head on his shoulder and he wraps his arms around you, he coos softly, half expecting you to cry. He's confused when you don't. It's a strange comparison, how Sarah went screaming, but you stood still, quiet.

"what happened, kotenok?", he purrs, soft and sweet.

You stumble over your words for a moment, "Sarah has always been more.. sensitive", you whisper, smoke drifting from your lips. "She's always been more prone to breakdowns and crying and things"

"you're like Steve, he's a suffer in silence kind of guy"

"like father like daughter, eh?"

He chuckles softly, "I guess so, yeah"

You sent him away after a while, choosing to sit by yourself. You sat there until the sun started to rise, the time Steve would normally go out for a walk. Sure enough, he came and tapped you on the shoulder.

He smiled down at you apologetically, offering his hand. You took it.

"wanna come for a hike?"

You nodded with a smile and followed after him, a few steps behind.

"I'm really sorry, about last night, about everything actually"

"its okay", you mumble, not wanting to get into it.

"I'm proud of you, you know", you stopped at his words, stunned. "yeah, I was just like you when I was young. I wanted to go to art school. I know I made a big deal of you dropping out, but I'm proud of you"

You gave a genuine smile as you hugged his side, he mumbled an 'I love you' into your hair and the two of you continued hiking in happy silence.

Sarah wasn't talking to either of you, you couldn't bring yourself to face her either. So while she was outside that evening, you slipped into your shared room and grabbed some spare clothes before trudging down the hall and knocking on Bucky's door.

"Hey", he chimed, when he took you in, he was slightly confused. "you okay?"

"yeah", you chuckled, mumbling slightly. "can I stay in here?"

He was more than happy to let you sleep in his bed, the two of you curled up together behind a locked door. He ran his hands through your hair, stroking his knuckles softly over your cheek. He traced the curve of your nose, the outline of your lips, even the line of your collarbones.

You kept your eyes closed, just let him admire you. You only opened them when he tucked himself against you, nuzzling into the crook of your neck, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you flush against him. You loosely slung your arms around his shoulders, tracing your fingertips over the plates of his metal arm. You hummed when they clicked and whirred softly under you touch.

"you're so soft", he mumbles into your skin.

You chuckle in response, "what?"

"no one is ever gentle when it comes to that thing", he shrugs his left arm as he speaks, you watch in admiration as all the plates click in succession.

"I think it's interesting", you whisper. "It's actually kind of pretty"

He laughs at your response, but he doesn't realise that your sketchbook is filled with icy blue eyes and a shiny collaboration of vibranium where a limb should be, all sketches of varying degrees of completion.

He lifts his head to gaze at you, just for a moment before hes craning his neck to plant a sloppy kiss on your lips, you eagerly return. He crawls his way up the bed, cupping your face in calloused hands, now you're craning your neck. He slowly rolls himself on top of you, snaking one hand to the back of your neck. You kiss, because that's all you can do, with your parents right down the hall.

Eventually he falls asleep and you slip out of his grasp, finding scrap paper and a pen. You sketch the broad expanse of his back, taking extra care to map out his scars just right, you search for all the paper thin scars and the ones that look like freckles, you sketch them too. He's a beast of a man, you should be scared of him, but you aren't, you've got him wrapped around your finger.

The next morning he slides into the passenger seat next to you, you smile at him. He rests his hand on your thigh, occasionally wandering higher or pinching the soft flesh, sometimes he leans in and peppers feather light kisses to your cheek. He gently bites at your neck, making you whimper and whine behind the wheel.

When you finally pull into his driveway, he insists you come in. You wave at Steve, gesturing to Bucky's open door, he throws you a thumbs up.

You shut the door gently, and Bucky's on top of you in seconds, hand on your throat, pinning you to the door, you whimper.

"it's okay, kitten", he growls, "I won't hurt you", you stay silent. He presses soft kisses to your cheek, trailing them across your jaw and down your neck, and then he lands on your pulse point, and he bites down hard. You yelp, and he pulls you up the stairs.

He does the same thing when he has you caged against the bed, his hands massage your thighs as he trails loving kisses down your neck, before sinking sharp teeth into your pulse point, making you gasp.

He does it again once he's buried deep inside of you, one hand prying your thighs apart and the other holding your wrists above your head. He mumbles words of praise between kisses; "such a good girl for me, taking everything I give you", then he clamps sharp canines into your neck again, only this time he tastes blood.

It's a welcome taste on his tongue; warm and metallic, and strangely familiar.

When he's finished, panting and glowing in soft evening light, you examine him closely. He smiles down at you, and he wonders what you're looking for.

"you could tear open my throat, and let me die in your arms", you whisper, but you're only half here, your mind has wandered, but he knows you still expect an answer.

"I could", he says plainly, accepting of the fact that you were so fragile compared to him, that he could rip you up and tear you open and let you bleed out in his arms.

"why don't you?"

"I'm a sucker for art girls", he whispers jokingly, but when you gaze up at him, he can see that theres something bigger at play in your mind, so he takes a deep breath and tries again. "you're soft, and familiar, and you make everything a little bit better. Why would I kill the object of my affections, when I could just mark her, make her mine, and have her forever", he words it as poetically as he can, desperate to satisfy whatever thirst you needed to quench.

You nod slowly, taking in his words. Then you roll away from him and pick your jeans up from his bedroom floor, you fish around in your pockets before you pull out a carefully folded piece of paper and hand it to him.

It takes him a while to realise what it is. It's one of your sketches, he identifies that immediately. But then he realises that its him, it's his back, the night you slept in his room at the cabin. He looks at it more closely, ogling at the detail and the perfect placement of every imperfection staining his skin.

He takes you in his arms, and presses a soft kiss to your pulse point, blood seeping slowly onto his lips.

'his', you think, and a part of you wants to never let him go, and another knows that eventually, you'll need to.

@vicmc624 @adriannajackson @zizzlekwum @chipilerendi @madaroni37

[maxrev]

For the kiss prompts: "in the snow" and "life or death" if I can combine them like that? your call) for an otp of your choice.

IT IS DONE...I had no idea this would explode into such a long prompt lol. I mean, I gave it a title and even added a quote xD. Anyways, here you are :) Thanks SO much for the prompt! A bit angsty but I figured the prompt called for it! 

Under the cut because...wow...

I’d like to thank @spaced0lphin for her wonderful musical work, as it provided inspiration to write this piece and @theoriginalladya for checking it over 

When I Took to the Sky 

Death is a challenge. It tells us not to waste time… It tells us to tell each other right now that we love each other. Leo Buscaglia

Arcing through the debris, the drop shuttle came to rest amidst the debris of a ship, snow puffing up into the air as it landed; flakes sparkling as they danced and whirled in the air before once again coming to rest on the ground. Pulling on his gloves, the pilot reached for his helmet resting on the passenger seat and tugged it on, twisting it snug with a snap. 

He took a deep, steadying breath...and stepped out onto Alchera. 

Ever since Niall had received the message from Admiral Hackett about placing a memorial here, he’d been pushing it aside. A memorial to honor those who’d laid down their lives for the Alliance. Hardly seemed enough, considering how dismissive the findings the crew of the Normandy had presented. But the fact he was employed by Cerberus now was cause for surprise in being contacted. Other questions followed though; why had the Alliance waited so long to decide on a memorial? Had he not rose from the grave like Lazarus, would they even have bothered? 

Once he’d agreed, he continued to push it aside. There were other missions to take precedence, a ragtag bunch of crew members to hunt down and recruit, and the Illusive Man to annoy - his personal favorite agenda. Anything took precedence over coming here. He simply wasn’t ready to face the part of his past which had changed everything.  There was hope coming here would heal old wounds, rather than deepen them.  

His steps were measured, faltering when he came upon a piece of the Normandy, his mind thrown back in time invoking memories he’d suppressed of a life changing event from over two years ago.

Two fecking years! 

It was a constant struggle to process the passage of time; dying and then being resurrected without any knowledge of it.  

Pausing at the mako, he was thrown into the past, scenes flashing behind his eyes…Kaidan's white knuckled grip as Niall slid the tank through snow and ice up the mountain on Noveria; Ashley yelling with uncontained glee as he'd skidded close to the edge of the lava pools on Feros; Garrus' mandibles twitching when he'd observe the mako on return to the Normandy; Kaidan's resignation upon being turned down again upon his request to drive...the near kiss they'd shared inside the cab a few hours before their last drop when their world ended.

Lost in his thoughts, he didn’t hear the approach of another drop shuttle.

A sound came from behind him, out of place in the absolute stillness around him. Niall whirled, one hand reaching for his maglocked weapon, the other erupting in a blue glow. Setting eyes on the source, both hands dropped to his side in shock. 

Kaidan.

Right away, he noticed he LT had changed. They’d spent so much time together; on the ship, off the ship, on the battlefield, he’d learned the LT’s subtle mannerisms. Gone was the quiet, sensitive marine soldier with stars in his eyes, the romantic he’d claimed to be back on the SR-1. In the eyes staring back at him carefully, in the posture of the man before him, there was a confidence and maturity he’d not had before. There was also doubt. 

It's me, Niall wanted to say, to reassure. It just wasn't so simple.

He watched the play of emotions in the deep brown eyes he'd dreamed about so often. Their eyes locked and he was thrown back in time. Although for him, it was only a few months ago...not two years, when they’d been sitting in the mess on the SR-1, drinking coffee and going over their notes on the Terminus. Niall had been going on about the goose chase they'd been sent on...

“I cannae believe they sent us out to the arse end of space for nothing! Wasted two fucking weeks looking for something which isnae even here.” He slammed his fist on the table, other soldiers in the mess startled at his outburst. Niall ignored them. 

“I’m sure they just wanted us out of the way but we’ll find something, Shepard. We just have to be patient.” 

Niall snorted, “My patience ran dry about an hour inta this mission. I’ll contact those doaty bampots and tell 'em what I really think.” 

Kaidan chuckled, took a sip of his coffee before answering, “Not your best idea by a long shot.” 

Winking at him and enjoying the slight blush across the cheeks, Niall smiled, “Aye but it’ll be fun and blow off some steam.” 

In the end, nothing came of it as the ship rocked hard to port and alarms began to blare around them...

A cough brought him back to the present, watching the brown eyes change in the light, the initial confusion fading to doubt, then replaced with wariness. 

"Who are you?" The first words to be spoken aloud between them, in the same velvety rasp which had haunted Niall’s dreams.

They cut deep, hurt worse than any wound he’d endured. He straightened up, pushing the pain away and answered. 

“Who d'ya think it is? Jolly ol' St. Nick? Tis me, Kaidan. Niall.” He felt like he was stating the obvious, words coming out sharper than intended. 

Silence followed his outburst, the sound of wind wailing in the distance filling the stillness. As the quiet stretched on, Niall reflected on the situation, quickly realizing if roles were reversed, he'd be suspicious as well. Indignation sailed away like a balloon on the wind.

Ready to apologize, Kaidan spoke before Niall could ready his words, “I thought--” voice hoarse with agony, he choked on whatever he’d been about to say, unable to continue. Looking away from Niall, he composed himself, took a deep breath and despite his attempt to remain calm, blurted, “You...you were dead.” 

Biting his tongue against voicing the LT’s mighty powers of observation, Niall fought for something a wee bit more serious and relatable. Now wasnae the time for jokes. 

“Aye," the words ‘but now I’m not’ still echoing in the air between them. How could he begin to explain what he dinnae understand himself? As if he were stuck in quick sand, he felt the more he tried to climb out, the deeper he sank. 

“So, the rumors were true.” 

“Och, aye, guess they were.” 

“When?” 

The wealth of emotion in the single word struck Niall right in the heart, nearly making him stagger from the pain. He fought for an answer, disregarding one after another as they came to him. 

With a heavy sigh, he decided on the truth, “Several months ago.” The dark brows inside the black helmet furrowed downwards into a frown he was all too familiar with. Even to his own ears the response sounded lame. “I dinnae know until then. I was...uh...I doonae even know what to call it...brought back to life?” He threw his hands up in frustration. 

Disbelief followed his statement, turning quickly to suspicion. He could see the change in Kaidan's eyes through the visor. Tone flat, he echoed, “Brought back to life." At Niall’s nod of confirmation, his voice rose, "How is such a thing even possible? Who is...capable of such a thing?” 

Knowing how Kaidan felt about the organization, Niall didn't spare him the facts. He'd find out anyway. “Cerberus.” 

The climate of Alchera was cold and frigid, unfit for flora or fauna to sustain life. Even inside his armor, Naill could feel the chill in the air and had simply wanted to walk through the ruins and leave quickly. He’d never expected to find a dog tag or get lost in memories. 

And now, with his confession, the temperature seemed to drop even further; at least where the two of them stood. Kaidan stared at him for several long, agonizing seconds. He didn’t bother answering, turning around and walking away.

Niall jumped forward, his gloved hands capturing Kaidan’s stopping him, “Wait, please. Don’t go.” 

His gaze dropped down to where their hands were joined; Niall's did as well, heart skipping in his chest. “Please.” He wasn't above begging, not when it came to Kaidan. 

Pulling his hand from Niall’s, Kaidan turned away; yet, he didn’t leave. Several minutes went by; Niall held his breath. “How could you? It’s...they’re Cerberus! You know what they’ve done. The...the things we saw!” 

Fully aware of what his impassioned words implied, Niall felt his anger rise in response, “Did ya think I had a choice in this? As if I could pick and choose who would ha’ the honors of...of fixing...of rebuilding me? Fuck! I wouldnae have chosen this at all...if anyone had ever bothered to ask me first. But here I am and will damn well make the best of it, ya ken?”

Silence stretched on around them. “Are you…you?” Kaidan whispered.

How many times had he looked in the mirror wondering the exact same thing? “I doonae know, Kaidan…" He repeated in a whisper, "I doonae know."

With the admission, he could not look at Kaidan anymore, gazed around them instead. He saw a glint of something shiny; another set of dog tags perhaps. 

To fill the void, he explained, “Saw something sparkle in the sun shortly after I landed. Walked over and found a set of dog tags belonging to Pressly. As I wandered among the wreckage I found more from the crew...the ones who…” he couldn’t say it out loud, felt a hand settle on his shoulder. 

Startled, he turned to stare at it, unable to process the gesture with Kaidan’s protests from a few short minutes ago. Did he believe him now or was it all just for show? Yet, Kaidan had never been superficial. Something Niall admired about him, then and now. 

“We’ll do it together.” The words startled him even more than the touch, but he was grateful. 

“Aye. Tapadh leat.” **

Searching the pieces of the Normandy side by side. As the looked, Niall noticed the sky darkening overhead. Caught up in the past, neither of them had paid any attention. A storm was approaching; a large one. Seeing another glint of metal, Niall brushed off the snow and wrapped the chain around his gloved fingers. 

The storm had intensified and was coming at them fast and furious. There wasn’t time for them to get to their drop shuttles and leave.

He turned and tapped on Kaidan’s helmet. “We need to take cover. Now! Get inside one of the drop shuttles!” Niall took off at a dead run towards the one closest, Kaidan hot on his heels. 

Jumping inside, Niall slammed his fist against the touchpad, shutting the door just as the storm growled over them, ice chips beating a staccato against the steel hull. Wind buffeted the Kodiak, causing it to rock before sliding a few inches along the ground. Unable to radio out and with no one able to contact them, they were sitting ducks at the mercy of the storm.  

Niall reached up and took off his helmet, scrubbing his shorn, itchy scalp with gloved fingertips. 

“You...you’re...the scars?” Kaidan finally managed. 

Niall had forgotten. Not completely healed when the Lazarus project had been sabotaged, he was left with scars where his skin hadn’t had time to knit back together. Chakwas told him by remaining calm they would eventually heal and fade but with stress, they would remain...or get worse. 

Well...

He turned towards Kaidan, their eyes locking. Niall wasn’t the man he’d been the last time they’d seen each other. 

“Aye, scars. I wasnae fully healed when...well, when I was brought out of my coma.” He went to replace his helmet. 

Kaidan stopped him, hand on his arm. “No, don’t. I don’t care what you look like, Niall. I just...I was surprised.” 

He nodded. No moreso than he when he first looked in the mirror. The image staring back at him had been a great shock. That mirror had been replaced. Niall went and sat down on the bench in the back; Kaidan remained standing, neither one speaking as the storm raged on outside. It might last an hour or maybe days. 

“Look, Kaidan--”

“Niall, I--”

Both of them spoke at once. Niall gave a weak grin as Kaidan chuckled and he noticed the pink hue covering the tips of the ears. Some things hadn’t changed. He felt as if a weight had been lifted and he’d been granted a boon. 

Looking at Kaidan straight on, he began again, “I ken how it looks. I do. But, before you draw and quarter me, I dinnae now what to do, where to go. The Alliance won’t ha’ me now and I talked with Anderson and Hackett. They know what’s going on with the human abductions. The Council won’t listen.” He spat the name, no more enamored with them than in the past. “What would ya ha’ me do?” 

“Plead your case, push them. Be relentless like you were before. They have to see reason.” 

Shaking his head at Kaidan’s blind faith, he countered, “Do they? Have they ever? Have ya forgotten Sovereign? The Citadel doesnae even remember, the damage wwept away like so much garbage, forgotten and moved on.” 

The shoulders slumped. Niall studied him, drinking in the sight of a man he hadn’t realized how much he’d begun to care about. Until he was gone. Yet, here he was right in front of him. And they were arguing, Kaidan too blind to see what was so obvious. He stood up, stepping forward until they were nearly nose to nose. Kaidan looked up. 

Niall lost himself in the brown eyes, a golden amber when the light overhead caught them just right. How had he never noticed before? The laugh lines spreading out from the corners of his eyes, the freckles above his right eyebrow. So many details he’s missed. No, he’d never bothered to find. Now, he noticed them all...and more. 

Adrenaline surged in his blood, excitement unfurling within him. He remembered the scars over Kaidan’s lips, wanting to touch them, see how they felt beneath his fingertips...against his tongue. They were right there in front of him now. Overcome with a tidal wave of pent up emotions, he acted on impulse. 

Leaning forward, he captured Kaidan’s mouth with his, losing himself in the scent and taste of him, in the soft lips, his tongue tracing the scars...finally. 

Lost in a longing he had no name for, it took Niall several seconds to register there was no reciprocation. His heart twisted painfully inside his chest. So, this was it, then. He took a deep breath, ready to apologize. But, as he stepped away, he stumbled, Kaidan surging forward to initiate the kiss this time. 

The Kodiak faded away, as did the storm outside. Only the two of them existed in this perfect moment and Niall drank it up like a parched man in the desert until they both broke away, simply in order to breathe. 

** thank you, Scottish Gaelic, informal

[fizzingwizard]

Tumblr sucks so I had to post this twice but you should still read it because I had a lot of fun writing it xD Yamato is so easy to tease omg

Today’s Digimon Adventure: 2020 episode is entitled, “Time To Bring Back Visual Kei Bands,” because that’s pretty much where WereGarurumon belongs. I know what you’re thinking, he’s a wolf man in jeans with a kind of grungy rock n roll cowboy theme, how is that visual kei?

My friend, it’s all about the NAILS.

Those perfectly manicured, PINK freaking nails.

Tto start I’ll say this episode lowers the tension significantly compared to previous ones. That’s to be expected, and doesn’t mean it’s boring. It does a lot - it lets us confirm some things about Yamato, and a couple things about Sora and Jou in relation to him as well. It is otherwise a carbon copy of episode 8 in terms of story arc. More below as usual

So this ep is Yamato/Sora/Jou main inside a Taichi/Koushirou/Mimi sandwich.

We are starting to see more of Mimi Herself, complaining and whining about the unfairness of it all. Taichi appears to have scaled this wall by himself and Mimi’s like “YOU HAVE TOO MUCH ENERGY, YOU’LL PUT THE ENERGIZER BUNNY OUT OF A JOB, DO YOU WANT TO BE RESPONSIBLE FOR HOMELESS BUNNIES?? HE HAS TO PROVIDE FOR HIS FAMILY”

Adding salt to the wound, Koushirou then zips up the wall like this..

zip!

The good thing about Mimi is, though she’s emotional, it’s easy to lift her spirits. She’s very in the moment. And fortunate that she has a partner who is both very patient and useful in these circumstances.

wheeeeee

Meanwhile the slightly-less-energetic group has put their heads together and decided to fly first class to their destination. I would ask where they got the basket but I’m sure I’d get the same answer as Taichi’s raft from episode 4 and Jou’s pergola from episode 7: these kids are extremely good at woodcraft and speedy

(or maybe Sora just had a giant basket in her bag, which we all understand by now is really a Bag of Holding)

While airborne they are Attacked!!! by SandYanmamon and not one but two tornadoes.

Jou: Wonderful!

(for a hot second there I mistook this for Birdramon’s line and was like “??? birdramon’s unusually sarcastic today” but of course it’s the king of morbid humor kido jou)

These Kyaromon appear out of nowhere to show off their dramatic eyeliner. Work it baby

Just when you think SandYanmamon and TWO FREAKING TORNADOES are enough, turns out there’s another threat lurking below the sand for the sole purpose of reminding us yet again “Pokemon this is not!”

SandYanmamon: Aaaaaaahhh nooooooooo i had so much living left to doooo heeeelp mommyyyyyyyyy

NOT IN FRONT OF THE CHILD YOU MONSTER!!!

Cool-headed Yamato figures out that the new monster is able to track their movements under the sand. He sends the others away while he stays behind to hold off the bad guy.

The Kyaromon lead them to a cave where they meet...

ewww uuggghh noooo I hate them aaaahh make it stoppp

and also Neemon! and I’m just going to assume this is a parallel universe version of Frontier’s Neemon because it tickles me to think this is what he actually sounds and acts like and is just riding Bokumon out of pure spite

also Bearmon’s cap says “Bears.” Not bear, bears plural. I believe he’s an outcast former member of the Gummy Bears.

The Labramon look like Rainbow Brite rejects

Pictured above: First lovers’ tiff!

Neemon doesn’t know about the holy Digimon and tells the kids he is leading his group of perfectly helpless Digimon across the monster-infested desert because of the dark forces taking over everywhere. They will seek asylum with Leomon! We got our first mention of Leomon! Quick, cast your bets, how long till he dies? My guess is sooner rather than later because this seems like the kind of show that likes to kill your darlings.

Sora takes one look at this pathetic group and goes “We must go with them to protect them!” conveniently forgetting that she just got her ass kicked, but hey it’s the thought that counts

Yamato is quick to disagree.

Yamato: Did you forget that I stayed behind while you RAN AWAY? When you say let’s protect them, you mean I’M gonna be protecting them, right? RIGHT? That’s what you mean RIGHT??

(he thinks, but doesn’t say. that wouldn’t be Cool)

Yamato doesn’t want to lose sight of their mission, which is to fix things in their home world. He’s already at his limit hanging out with other human children who don’t know what they’re doing, he doesn’t want to be slowed down by freaking Bearmon. Wishy-washy Jou is like “Eh, either way sounds like death and torment to me, so...”

The interesting thing to me here is that no one’s upset. A bit surprised, I think, but Sora just stands her ground, Jou wibbles but eventually gets pumped up enough by Gomamon to decide to help her. They don’t even try much to stop Yamato from leaving which I think is what surprised me the most. I would have expected at least a vibe more like “We shouldn’t split up!” or something. If Taichi were there, maybe we’d have seen more conflict... but I’m really not sure. So far, conflict among the kids has been very low key. Even last week, the first time we saw Taichi and Yamato butt heads, to the other kids it was shocking but to a 99 Adventurer like me it was barely a kerfluffle xP

Well, anyway, the result is Sora and Jou stay with Neemon, and Yamato goes off on his own, and there is surprisingly little bad blood about any of this. They are all just getting to know each other though, so maybe that loyalty’s not quite expected yet.

Same as episode 8, Gabumon hints that there’s more to Yamato’s behavior than he lets on. He’s not just coldly abandoning his friends... except that he totally is >_> (As an adult, I don’t exactly think Yamato is wrong. I’d be more likely to agree with him than the others probably xP But these are children in a show for children, so Protecting Others and Following Your Feelings get a boost over cool rationale.)

Gabumon says Yamato should open up to the other kids. YEAH RIGHT. Yamato says “You’re all I need.” AWWWWWWWWW this wont backfire on them in a way that will wrench out my heart and tear it to a million pieces in forty episodes or so, no way

Ikkakumon becomes a Sand Boat while Birdramon covers the sky. At first I was like “hey! not a bad plan!” If they can help Neemon’s group get across the desert faster, it will be a big help even if they can’t take them further.

Of course, first they have to deal with the SandYanmamon.

Ikkakumon: Why does everyone go straight for the horn!?!

Oh, and also the two tornadoes.

Sora, standing on Birdramon’s leg: don’t look down don’t look down don’t look down

And now Sora’s on fire! That is it, I’m headcanoning it that the kids are basically invulnerable as long as they are touching their partners. THERE’S JUST NO EXPLAINING THIS

The flaming elementary school child does well until her partner is snared by the same monster from before, who turns out to be Scorpiomon. But this ain’t your momma’s Scorpimon from 99 Adventure, who was really Anomalocarimon but that was too hard to expect kids to say. This is the real Scorpiomon who is much scarier.

All of a sudden, from above!

ACTION LINES!!!

Yamato and Garurumon, both physically incapable of doing anything normally when there is a cooler, more awesome method available, drop into the battle from the air and start burning shit up.

They stand, bodies licked by blue flame, piercing eyes bright with the fever of battle, the sound of swooning fan girls echoing into the night

Garurumon does his best but Scorpiomon is a level higher so, duh, he doesn’t stand much of a chance. WHAT WILL OUR HERO DO.

Well, first, same as in episode 8, he flashes back to each of his newfound friends, gaining strength from their memory. Yamato is so sentimental it Hurts

Then his mind flashes to someone else...

... his favorite bobble head doll. No wait, that’s his round-headed baby brother, Charlie Brown.

he is infused with the power of Friendship!!!!!!!

Garurumon: What... is this feeling... so passionate... so... powerful... FFFRIENDSHIPPPPPP IS MAGIC

He then evolves into a brony into a furry in the coolest freakiest way he knows how.

WereGarurumon is basically everything the creators thought little boys like besides dinosaurs (because Taichi’s got that one covered) thrown together to make the ultimate little boy dream action figure: wolves, leather, hardware, piercings, brass knuckles, belts, skulls, scars, dog tags, and fuchsia stiletto nails

Ikkakumon: Sugoi... so shiny... oooh... blinding me...

WereGarurumon kicks Scorpiomon’s ass, it’s a cool battle scenes complete with kicks so fast his foot appears detached from his body. He then gives Yamato thumbs up.

Yamato: With nails like those the brass knuckles are kind of overkill...

Yamato dodges apologizing for going off on his own like that by saying he only came back because it’d be useful to him to have the others around as a decoy. Jou’s like FRIGGING DECOYS AGAIN??

But his dedication to remaining cool and aloof falters and he ends up telling them he’s just extra pressured to get their mission handled because he has a little brother, Takeru, living in Tokyo who is probably very scared stuck in the blackout. Sora and Jou are like “Oh, that makes sense, that’s why you’re so high strung.” They don’t point out the obvious, which is that they also have families affected by the blackout... >_>

Jou passionately thanks Yamato for being so forthcoming so early in the season and looks forward to telling Yamato about himself in the future.

The others: “But we already know all about you.”

Jou: “But HE doesn’t!”

xD look forward to it, Yamato...

It’s episode 11 and Yamato can already smile like this... I had to cap it.

Yamato: Ahh, I’m finally getting used to wearing this purple shirt. Still can’t get quite suppress the urge to cut off the sleeves though...

The other slice of bread completes our sandwich when we shoot back briefly to Taichi/Koushirou/Mimi’s group.

Taichi gets annoyed with Koushirou for the first time because of how much time Koushirou spends taking pictures of everything. Koushirou is that kid on the museum field trip who holds up the entire class reading every last word on the exhibit plaques while everyone else groans ‘cmon dude I wanna get to the dinosaurs before we go extinct too!!’

fyi I, Fizzing Wizard, was and am that slow ass kid

Mimi’s even more impatient than Taichi and in her boredom she starts touching things, because she’s never seen The Mummy.

IT’S A TRAP!!!

lol

Next ep’s trailer includes:

Andromon!!!

And Lillymon!!!

Oprah voice: You get a Perfect level and you get a Perfect level and you get a Perfect level and you get-

Yeah so, clearly everyone’s gonna get to Perfect level much quicker than in 99 Adventure, which again, it’s good they’re mixing things up. The question is, what’s next? My guess is down the line everyone will get Ultimate levels and of course, at some point we’ll see Omegamon. I wonder if there will be other Jogress possibilities? Just because it’s hard to believe evolution will stop being important, but if they’re going through both Adult and Perfect so fast it doesn’t leave much left for the rest of the season...

I give this ep a 5.5/10 for being basically a remix of episode 8, and I’m looking forward to getting new stuff for Yamato eventually. Next week’s looking to be Mimi-centric if Lillymon’s any indication, but I’ve got my fingers crossed for a few Taishiro moments anyway.

[liightningchosen]

RE:  SAVITAR. 

Obviously the Savitar arc in season 3 has several issues; on this blog, that arc and how Savitar is written are completely canon divergent and ignores most of what the CW tried to force down our throats. The concept was good but I’ve worked for three years now to develop it and make it better. This is under a read more because it’s obnoxiously long, but for those interested in Savitar and fixing the CW’s bullshit, here we are. This now also includes the JOINING THE ROGUES survival au!  UPDATED: 6/5/20.

I  WAS  MADE  TO  BE  A  MONSTER.

THE  CULT,  AND  HIS  NAME:   Savitar did not choose his own name, and the role of   “Savitar”   is a persona. He has no other name because he refuses to be Barry. Throughout the main arc of season 3, he adapts   “Sav”   as a placeholder, and is comfortable with that. In the Survival AU, he changes to Malcolm / Mal   (more details to follow).   The name Savitar itself originates from Hindu Myth, and the Cult of worshipers stems from a rogue sect of those practicing but following him specifically, and is labeled a cult by other standards.

I  AM  JUDGE,  JURY,  AND  EXECUTIONER.  I  AM  THE  WEAPON  THAT  HANDS  OUT  THE  SENTENCE.

GOALS  AND  MOTIVATIONS:   Savitar’s number one goal is survival. He is forced into the role in a way, because if he doesn’t complete the cycle, he will not be created, and the timeline is a bind around his wrists. Doing this, however, includes breaking Barry Allen, which is priority one. He has to be broken to a point where he will create the time remnants to stop Savitar and to create him. The only way to truly do this is take his rock away — Iris West. No matter who Barry is in love with, no matter what the timeline is, Iris is the most important person in his life, and represents the one thing that would break him more than anything else. While building up to this point, he follows the basics laid out by his memories of the previous cycle, and hurting Barry and those around him is the secondary goal; hurting those closest to him still hurts Barry in the process. Savitar knows how the cycle should play out — key word should — as he has the original Barry’s memories before he split off into time remnants. But he knows how easy it is for the timeline to shift and bend, so he sticks to basics; using Julian and the cult, creating Wally to free him, killing Iris, and breaking Barry.

I  NEVER  HAD  A  CHANCE  TO  BE  SOFT.  I  WAS  ALWAYS  BLOODY  KNUCKLES  AND  SHARDS  OF  GLASS.

ORIGIN  AND  REASONING:   Savitar was   “created”   when Barry split off multiple time remnants   (creating several versions of himself in the present day, which he learned from Zoom and used in the fight against Zoom)   to fight against the original Savitar of that cycle. Still calling himself Barry, he is the only remnant to survive, and he sustains a massive injury from the lightning from Savitar’s attacks, burning the right half of his face and damaging his right eye. While his eye healed to function almost completely, the scar remained. Because he wasn’t the original Barry, Team Flash didn’t treat him the same, making him believe he was a broken copy that shouldn’t even be alive. It wasn’t the Team Flash he held in his memories, and he’s so hurt and angry and wants revenge but he doesn’t know how to take it and — and they weren’t his memories anymore. He realized then that Savitar could only be one person. Himself. Savitar had talked about how this had happened a thousand times and would continue to happen over and over, and that they’d never see him coming. The broken version of Barry Allen realizes this, pretends to run off to the other side of the globe, but instead takes the Savitar suit, starting the cycle. Unfortunately, he doesn’t fully realize the consequences, and Barry is prepared, throwing Savitar into the Speedforce Prison that had been prepared for this occasion as soon as he sees him. Savitar sits there for thousands of years, and while it breaks him down, he builds himself back up. No longer is he Barry Allen — he steps into the role of Savitar, god of speed, and the Prison unintentionally imbues him with more power than he’d ever had as the Flash. There, he plots his revenge fully, from his own memories he can put together the nightmare that he wants to enact. While hurting Team Flash is a side goal, the main goal is hurting Barry, who created him and tossed him aside after everything — a Barry Allen who’d lost Iris was a monster, and he was only embracing his role.

I  DON’T  RISE  FROM  THE  ASHES;  I  MAKE  THEM.

CORRECTED TIMELINE:   Now, from the out of character standpoint, it really grinds my gears that the show waited until 3x20 / 3x21 to reveal that Savitar was Barry. It was cheap, meant to shock us, but then was given no room to actually develop as a plot in general. In my version of canon, 3x15-3x20 are condensed into a much quicker sequence of events, happening in days rather than months, allowing for the Savitar reveal to be in early March of 2017, rather than May. Then, the events of 3x21-3x23 progress over the course of two to three months, rather than two to three weeks. This allows for Savitar to have several unmasked moments with a majority of the team. He enjoys seeing them to torment them, as he is faster and more powerful, so they can’t stop him one on one. Though, those little moments are self indulgent as well, as he’s getting to see the people he called family once — that Barry called family once. He has to keep reminding himself of this. Overall what this means from a plotting standpoint is Savitar is running around without the need for hiding in his suit for much longer than 3 episodes, and he causes plenty of turmoil while he’s at it. This also means that Barry doesn’t need to go to 2026 for information on who Savitar is, but instead for information on how to stop him.

BUT  WHO  PRAYS  FOR  SATAN?  WHO,  IN  EIGHTEEN  CENTURIES,  HAS  HAD  THE  COMMON  HUMANITY  TO  PRAY  FOR  THE  ONE  SINNER  WHO  NEEDED  IT  MOST?

SAVITAR’S  POSSIBLE  “REDEMPTION”  AND  HIS  HEART:   I also refuse to believe that Savitar is too far beyond redemption. There is no physical way that he has Barry Allen’s golden heart — starting off the bright shiny optimist who wants to save the world no matter how much it kills him — would turn into a heartless monster. No matter how much he went through, hate and love are too close. If Savitar were to truly be too far gone, he would be indifferent to Iris, and he wouldn’t hate her or Barry. Hate is too close. No matter how small, there is a sliver of Barry left, and I also think this is seen with Jesse Wells, who Barry sees as a little sister. His line of   “I have big plans for you, Jesse Quick.”   is such bullshit, because he doesn’t have plans for her — he’s using it as an excuse not to kill her right there, because he doesn’t want to. I also think there is hesitation to hurt Joe and Wally, as that is his foster and found family as well. But he won’t let them get in his way, that’s the only time he attacks them. I really think that given a proper arc, the   “redemption”   that they played on in 3x23 could have been more full fledged, but as it was rushed, Savitar still chose to go after Iris. He would still do this unless someone truly offered him a way out — in his mind, this is also the way to create his survival, in order to reset the cycle once more. His redemption does not come in the form of being a “hero” and he certainly wants to be nothing like Barry, and instead comes with him choosing autonomy instead of referring to himself as the throwaway. This means though, that he will never border into a   “good”   alignment and instead will neutral, focused on his own survival.

I  RULE  THE  STARS,  NOT  THE  OTHER  WAY  AROUND.  I  LIVE,  I  LIVE,  I  LIVE.

ALTERNATE  ENDING  /  SAVITAR  CHOOSING  TO  BREAK  THE  TIMELINE:   In any arc where Savitar chooses not to kill Iris, it is a choice he makes himself because he wants to embrace the good in him, not because the Team stopped him; his heart may be gold but it is far from clean. He is already choosing to go by the name Sav at this time, because it’s distancing from Savitar, which he doesn’t enjoy as a name. In this arc as well, Sav joins the Rogues, and gets a great deal of help from Leonard Snart   (@cvldthief​​)   as he develops his autonomy and creates a life as a separate person from Barry. Over this time, he becomes less brutal, and while he still does kill, it’s only when he finds necessary to defend himself or the Rogues. He doesn’t wear a mask, because no one would be able to tell who he is   (the scars have marred him from video recognition, and only those who knew Barry would recognize even a little similarity).   Additionally, he begins to remember that Nora and Henry mentioned if Barry were to have had a twin or brother, they would have named him Malcolm. He adopts this name for his own, opting for Mal more often than not. Mal, meaning bad or evil, represents a reclamation of the past atrocities, but his own personhood and healing along with it.

TRUE EVIL, ABOVE ALL ELSE, IS SEDUCTIVE.

EARTH  302  DIFFERENCES:   Earth 302 is a verse i developed with @resurrecticn​​​​ and we’ve been building for three years, and there are significant differences that I just want to outline. In this verse, Savitar cannot be redeemed. Before he truly became Savitar, he went back in time to see Iris himself, meet her and make a memory for himself, truly have a memory that isn’t Barry’s. But she treats him so disgustingly, unintentionally. She cares about Barry, but at the time she still believes she is meant to die. After all of the hate and being cast aside, Savitar shuts off his humanity in a way. After millennia in the Speedforce Prison   (longer than normal Savitar, as he struggled to free himself),   he manipulates Iris against Barry, using her to satisfy his own anger as well as hurt Barry even more. He gives her speed — more than Barry but less than himself, to put her in a position of power against Barry but not himself. He could kill her, but it’s so much more satisfying to use her. He is toxic and evil and cannot be saved.

[vvirgils]

Chronicles of Straith #2- The Witch’s Dragon:Chapter 2

Chronicles of Straith #1- Fate’s Door ///Chapter 1/Chapter 3//Masterpost

Roman mussed their hair in the mirror. It was short, boy-short. They hadn’t gotten a choice in the matter after the coronation, the hairdresser whispering a brief apology before chopping away. It didn’t look right, and Roman itched to grow it out, but they knew that wasn’t an option.

A king, after all, had to look presentable. Long hair wasn’t presentable, no matter how much Roman happened to like it. Of course, nonbinary gender presentations weren’t presentable either, much to Roman’s chagrin. But right now, it didn’t particularly matter, because Roman was going to have lunch with the Sorcerer’s Apprentice.

Or better defined as Roman’s friend—their first friend—and their closest confidante since Patton and Logan were busy with other things.Namely, running a bookstore, democracy, and each other. Roman trusted Virgil more than anyone else, in the castle and beyond. She had been with them since before everything. The grand adventure. The quest lost to the ages that saved the kingdom and returned magic to the nation. Virgil had introduced them to the wild world of adventuring-the first outside of Roman’s own mind. And, truth be told, there were feelings simmering beneath the surface of their conversations that Roman wasn’t equipped to handle.

Lunchtime every week was usually the only time they got to talk about anything other than business. Along with Rafaela, Virgil was running the shiny new Sorcery Department of Straith, and her path frequently crossed with Roman’s, although usually just for minutes at a time. She always needed signatures, a word of input, or persuasion, but their lunches together were the only time Virgil wanted Roman’s company.

For old time’s sake—it reminded them both of the stolen hours spent planning—they met in the library. They weren’t supposed to eat there, but being the king had its perks. Roman had a (trusted) cook bring them something small, and got to be away from responsibilities with Virgil. It was a calm oasis amidst the chaos of Roman’s life. Sixteen-year-olds were not well equipped to run a country, but Roman was doing their best.

Descending the stairs to the library doors, Roman unhooked the small gold crown from their hair and stuck it in their pocket. No one recognized them without a crown, the young ruler was finding, and they used that to their advantage when hiding from anyone that would want the king. Which turned out to be a great many people.

Roman flung open the doors to the library, making the pages of the librarian’s book flutter. He barely gave Roman a glance as they passed, probably not caring. Either he was too caught up in his book, or the librarian was accustomed enough to Roman practically living here to raise an eyebrow.

Virgil waited at their usual table, the one next to the window where sunlight always lit whatever you were reading. She had started on the sandwiches already, and a smile broke out on her face when Roman walked in. Her dragon, Laurus, snoozed on the nearby windowsill, sending up puffs of smoke with every exhale.

Sliding into the wooden seat next to her, Roman reached for the other sandwich. “Starting already?”

“You can’t expect everyone to wait for you, your majesty,” Virgil said, taking another bite out of her sandwich. Roman laughed.

“Didn’t expect you to, just thought it was unusual. You must be busy.” They unwrapped the sandwich, trying to distract themself with something other than Virgil’s face.

“I could say the same about you, but I’m more focused on this sandwich right now. What’s new in the life of a king?” She wanted to catch up with Roman; it had been too long since they’d last talked, and a hundred things must have happened since then.

“Just a lot of things, and they keep piling up. Kind of makes you miss running for your life, but at least it’s predictable. Like, if I tell someone this, my chief advisor will become furious, the cabinet will act scandalized, and everyone who doesn’t live inside this ancient pile of rocks will cheer. My dad massively sucked, but at least he prepared me, you know.” Roman started eating their sandwich, trying to repress the spark of bitterness about their dad. It was a sore subject, but being around Virgil always managed to loosen their tongue.

“Never thought I’d hear you say something positive about Epos,” Virgil said, quirking an eyebrow, “but I can’t imagine how hard being king would be without someone helping. I’ve got Rafaela, but you’ve got…” She wasn’t sure how to phrase it correctly.

“A lot of people who don’t trust me and treat me like I’m five? Yeah, but I’ve got you, Pat, and Logan. It balances out.” Roman tried to shrug it off, but the set of their features suggested that their predicament was troubling.

“Considering I’m actually losing sleep over the responsibility of like, restoring the entire reputation of sorcery, I have no idea how you’re alive,” Virgil said, reaching for one of the cups of water on the table. If there was one thing she could count on, it was self-doubt.

“Your guess is as good as mine. I’m not sure how I’m surviving it all, quite frankly,” Roman said, shoulders slumping inwards. “I mean, I thought that after what, four months of this? I’d be used to the constant demands, the pressure, the crown. But every time I have to give a speech it feels like walking into the room with Epos to lie my way into the throne.”

Virgil sighed. “Remember when we thought I was going to break Rafaela out of prison with just my own powers? Those were simpler times.” She finished off her sandwich, picking a stray piece of lettuce off the paper to eat. “Still can’t believe you didn’t tell us until after we thought the whole world was going to end.”

“For the thousandth time, I’m sorry. But hey, the stress of being king is kind of karmic,” Roman reasoned, taking another bite of their sandwich. “This food is really good.”

“I know, it is. You should seriously give him a raise,” Virgil said, sadly looking at where her now-eaten sandwich once was.

“As a matter of fact, my financial advisor will give me a twenty-minute lecture on budgeting if I give anyone else a raise. I am limited to two raises a month, which I already spent on the calligrapher and the candle-lighter. So I’ll keep it in mind for next month,” Roman said, taking a long gulp of water. “Do you know how Logan and Patton’s plan is coming along?”

“They’re working on it, that’s for sure, but I really don’t know,” Virgil said, shrugging. “I haven’t seen them as much as I’d like to. Things with Rafaela have been…busy.”

“I feel you on that, honestly,” Roman said, “Obviously, I’m the king and getting the best of everything, which I’m reminded of every time I visit—” They were cut off by something loud. A rumble, warning.

Something shook the ground underneath them. Laurus jumped down from the sill. A rush of panic flooded over Roman, and they ran to the window.

 Next to them, Virgil whispered, “Is that an explosion?” Her dragon cowered behind her, tail brushing her ankles.

A gray cloud hovered over a patch of the forest, with everything beneath it a muddy gray, like someone had coated the trees with concrete. The gray was stark against the snow-covered trees surrounding the cloud.Roman squinted at it. “What in the name of-”

Another rumble, and more liquid spewed from the same spot. The window frame shook under Virgil’s white-knuckled hands. Laurus’s tail clenched around her leg. She looked at Roman. “That’s going to leave a mark.”

They could hear people yelling outside, mostly in astonishment at what just happened. Nothing more happened, the cloud rooted in place above the desaturated trees. “Do—what do we do about it?” Roman asked, heart pounding in their chest. This was not supposed to happen.

“Let me contact Rafaela,” Virgil said, rolling back her sleeve to shoot a jet of magic at her purple bracelet. It buzzed back at her, and her brow furrowed. “Not available, and—”She tapped the bracelet. “—won’t let me track her.”

“Great. This is great. Just perfect. Couldn’t have asked for anything better,” Roman said, knowing that their break from reality with Virgil would have to end. “I should probably go, and talk with people. Let me know if you find Rafaela.” They had a sinking feeling that the explosion and Rafaela’s disappearance wasn’t a coincidence.

“I will, don’t worry,” Virgil said. Roman left the room, looking back at the mess they’d made at lunch. While they hated leaving things with Virgil like this, Roman only had so long before everyone started looking for them. They’d much rather that the entire castle staff didn’t find the king’s hiding place.

Roman slipped the small crown back into their hair and ran to the office, where there would no doubt already be people waiting for them. A teenager was definitely not the best choice for king, because Roman had no idea what to do about whatever was in the forest.

[insomniac-dot-ink]

The Breakdown Ch2

genre: supernatural gay ghost story

rated: M

words: 4.2K

summary: What do you get when you combine an urban legend turned real, a psychic hick, and bunch of ghost hunting Yankees? A bad time.

All Kevin Lampton wants to do with his summer is stop The Lady in White from killing anymore road trippers in the middle of nowhere Kentucky. Unfortunately, a group of ghost hunters looking for answers makes his job a lot more complicated.

Chapters: One, Two

Website⭐Ko-Fi ⭐Patreon ⭐ WordPress⭐Twitter

89 More Days

The sun was slowly leaking in through plastic blinds and striping the thin motel carpet with light and half the single bed in the center of the room. It was bare and rustic and cleaned with something quietly made of bleach and something more than bleach. Kevin flopped down on the bed without looking and reminded himself he had homework, milk to throw out, nails to cut, and a haircut to get.

It was sometime in the morning, a summer morning that didn’t need any definition or permission to exist. A time undomesticated by human concepts of time, it was just early and would be early for a while.

Kevin had homework to do.

He fell dreamlessly into deep musty sleep and didn’t wake again for 8 hours.

It was evening again when he blinked into consciousness, groaning and reaching for a half-filled water bottle and his laptop. He rolled onto his back and traced the ‘K’ on the ceiling with his eyes, written in cracks and imagination. He did the math in his head: he’d have approximately five hours of “Kevin-Time” now.

He indulged in several more moments of moping before stacking himself upright like a new game of jenga and unfolding. He forced himself to the shower, letting the lukewarm water work its way into his clenched muscles.

He closed his eyes, but not for long. There were hands in there, hands and eyes and a pale bruised gaze.

He sighed from deep inside himself and staggered to wipe the sleep out of his eyes and stand in front of the mirror. Kevin Lampton was lean, not tall, but the leanness gave the impression of at least a couple more inches of height.

He was springy in the way of wound-up corkscrews, sunburnt in an offhand way and long in a compact sort of way. He had a long face, almond-shaped, and a sloping jawline that was the opposite of the Hollywood box; those were his father’s features: soft and bordering on strange.

His nose was his own but only by way of being small and aligned with his ears.

His eyes were not his own, suspicious things with long dusty eyelashes and shifty movements, always breaking and starting and breaking again.

His teeth belonged to no one and he was lucky they weren’t more crooked, but they still overlapped here and there enough to dispel any wide smiles on his part in school pictures. His hair was the color of damp sand, not yellow, but a grainy brown that was lost to him in the way sand was. It was too long right now. It crept down his neck and hung over his eyes in wavy stiff tufts.

He’d have to get that taken care of, especially before class started again at the end of August. He sighed, August.

He was ready for August.

He gave himself another push and dug out his busted Lenovo computer and a Snickers bar from the back pocket of his other pair of pants. Four and a half hours.

He got to work and munched quietly.

89 more days on Sumpter Road, six more semesters of school, five if he got his shit together, one year at an internship, two years as any sort of underling and then… time spread out before him in a red jagged roadmap and he traced it with his eyes unblinkingly.

He looked back down at his online econ homework and typed as quickly as he could without his laptop limply falling backward in it’s continual over dramatic death throes. Bastard.

Four more hours.

A family pulled into the motel parking lot and he heard a shower turn on from somewhere beside him and rancorous yelling from somewhere above him. He imagined himself in a woody green forest, throwing up thick bark and leafy branches so the tiny waves didn’t hit from either location.

Someone was angry. Someone was having a very successful journey of self-exploration in a grungy motel shower. Kevin wasn’t really interested in either and frowned until the forest grew roots and blocked everything out.

The sun sank down in a bloody red bath outside and Kevin stuffed his pockets with more purified rock salt and packets of lamb's blood. He slipped his expression into something more than “tired and constantly terrified” for his cars sake and went out the door.

89 more monotonous days of trying to not let strangers die on a haunted road.

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

Kevin expected three things: that the elastic of his lucky boxers was probably going to snap soon. He was going to graduate college with full marks or die trying. He was going to meet a lot of strangers on Sumpter Road and then never see them again.

Some of the strangers may or may not piss themselves and it was his job to both stop them from being murdered and graciously look away from the aforementioned soiled pants.

He drove fifteen minutes from the highway motel back toward his night watch. His phone buzzed five times before he flipped it open.

“Hello?” He answered flatly, he was good at flat, he had a lot of practice.

“Kevin, me boy,” A smiling voice addressed him, Kevin glanced at the car visor and back down. “What do you want me to do with your shit?” Kevin twisted his mouth to the side, “Can I get someone to pick it up? I can get someone.” He lied easily and panicked quietly.

“Sure, sure,” Stevie said carelessly, “but you sure you don’t want us to keep it here? It’s only 3 months dude, don’t make us get a new roommate for next semester, I can already tell the Freshman are gonna fucking suck.” Kevin breathed out easily, “I’ll figure something out.” He said, which wasn’t really an answer. “Can’t do the summer though, I’ll get someone to get my things soon.” The ‘someone’ was whoever he could bribe to drive his few personal items from Lexington to his dad’s place in Frankfort.

“God, dude, please tell me you’re at least on some sort of vacation. Like, with a mimosa, a beach, and a girlfriend that isn’t your damn right hand.” Stevie tossed something across the room with a tin sound and gentle crash. Kevin rolled his eyes, “Yeah, she’s a real livewire, way more hands than me.” He said dryly. In fact, she had three more hands than him, five, six, seven sometimes.

“Whatever man, I’m telling you one of these days you’re gonna pop with that stick shoved so far up your stress hole that not eve-” Kevin paused, his eyes went wide, he approached the part of Sumpter road just outside of Reginald. “I have to call you back Stevie.” He cut off whatever new romantic metaphor his roommate was going to plunge into. “Somethings come up.”

“Fine, fine, avoid my damn point. But yeah, come get your shit.” “See you.” Stevie Johnson was a “friend,” but Kevin did not have friends that he couldn’t immediately hang up on. He hung up.

Kevin’s knuckles bleached on the steering wheel; the crickets chorused mockingly around him as he slowed down. The last bits of sun reflected, shiny and angry against the side of something very big and very black. A sore thumb in the dust, the type that wasn’t so much a bruise itself in this place but something about to bruise everything else.

Kevin’s nostrils flared; he wasn’t the type of psychic that could predict the future. He couldn’t pick out numbers from thin air or tell you the description of your true love. He couldn’t sell you your destiny or the identity of your true love for $4.99 a minute. 

He considered himself a pretty shitty psychic, but even he could tell this didn’t mean anything good. There was a big black van.

A big black van sat in the middle of the road, not off to the side, not in the grass, but on the very center ridge. Kevin narrowed his eyes so hard at it that he expected they might just become slitted peak holes. Officially, Sumpter didn’t have two lanes, but that didn’t mean sitting in the very center of it was not an absolute asshole move.

Kevin slowed to a stop in front of it to point out just how much of an asshole move it was. The windows were tinted completely black, the sides faceless, body high off the ground, and something was blinking green on the dashboard.

No, he swallowed thickly and wished he go back to dealing with that hippy couple who were convinced the ghost was an angel trying to contact them. They were babbling about that right up until the Lady on the Road started strangling them.

He would take the car of flower children smelling of skunk and rosemary over this any day.

He had a stare-off with the big black van and didn’t seem to be winning.

He glanced back at the blinking green light on the dashboard and Kevin parked close enough to recognize it as a black box and he had a feeling a little red arrow was on the other side. 

Both the driver and passenger seats were empty, but he could see the occasional movements behind the seats in the back. He knew what this was.

No, Kevin had a sudden sneaking suspicion this was retribution for his last job. He had watched, just watched, in his little visor and bright red shirt as a teenage girl had put ketchup in her milkshake. She put it directly in her milkshake without an ounce of shame. He just stood there and did nothing.

This was what happened to people who didn’t stop crimes, even after saving a considerable number of other drivers from a supernatural death.

He put his forehead on the center of his wheel and sighed, big and gusty and quite frankly one of his more impressive ones.

Maybe he should have expected this. People talked, online forums talked. The devil lived on the “Supernatural and Alien Experiences” reddit boards. Kevin watched the van until the sun succumb to a soft and hematic death on the horizon, and the black box blinked green.

He had found a new least favorite part his self-assigned job.

Kevin finished a burger he bought from a corner shop near his motel and his big gulp filled with shitty coffee he made himself. It tasted like dirt and grit, and he probably deserved that too.

The van looked new.

Kevin took his time checking his pockets, thinking about his homework, his hair, and then getting out of the car. The moon was a low half-coin in the sky, and he couldn’t put this off for any longer.

The night cast long shadows over everything like a paint brush that only knew two colors: silver and grey. Silver light licked up across the grass to the point you forgot they were ever yellow, and Kevin swore he saw more imaginary lightning bugs again.

A rusted white shack sat in the difference with small bent trees dotting the area around them; Kevin put his hands in his back-pockets and approached the big black van. His stomach sank as he saw his own reflection in the shiny surface.

His tank top was now upgraded to grey one instead of white, but his skin was still ruddy with summer heat and expression less than authoritative, mouth pinched and jawline obstinately soft. Throwing lambs blood was easier than this.

He trained his expression into something unflinching and private. He knocked on the side of the slide door with his knuckles and roved his brain for appropriate accompanying sentences. A stillness followed and he knocked again.

“Jesus,” a breathy voice said from within, “is that her?” The van shifted slightly, the sound of footsteps on metal, “Ghosts don’t knock.” Answered a much less breathy voice.

Kevin inhaled deeply, “Can I have a talk with you folks?” His voice sounded small and flat against the flat landscape.

Another thoughtful pause followed.

“Do ghosts usually ask to be let in?” “Smart ones do.” Kevin blew air out of his nose, “I’m not a ghost.” “That’s exactly what a ghost wo-” “Shut up Collie.” The door slid open and a blast of cool air rolled out and Kevin blinked into it for a moment. He looked up from two brown men’s oxford’s and confirmed his own worst fears.

There was a whole slew of wires and blinking lights and screens on the inside of the van. Electronics were stacked and piled and obviously not part of an FBI headquarters- or if it was FBI then the government was in far more trouble than anyone suspected.

Three people were inside. A girl was cross legged, another was stooped over a monitor, and one young man hung over Kevin like a loose bent tree. The whole group was dressed in black t-shirts and black pants, leather belts and heavy boots, a match set. Some sort of massive green goggles held one of the girl’s curly hair back and the young man had thick sunglasses with a similar green sheen to them. At night.

Kevin ran a hand through his hair and tried not to yank it, “Don’t mean to intrude.” He began, just as his grandma would have liked. “But I thought I should pay you a visit.” The three ghost-hunters exchanged a long look between them. The two young women had strikingly similar features, tan skin and darker brown hair tied up in wavy buns. They were both on the short side and had mouse-like noses in Kevin’s opinion.

Their eyes were similarly bright and curious, sisters? He didn’t have time to place it. 

Kevin was trying not to look directly at the young man in his terrible oxfords above him. 

“Well,” the man, boy? spoke first, breaking the silence, “We were just debating on the same thing when we saw you.” Kevin raised his eyebrows, “Oh?”

“That’s you, right man?” The guy pointed to his tiny hatchback and it somehow felt like a slight.

Kevin forced himself to look up, “Yeah.” The young man was broad-shouldered and annoyingly upright, the type of upright money could buy. He had a stretching expanse of neck, square jaw, and his face was easy in all regards. Roman straight nose, mouth that was far too satisfied with itself, and diamond shaped features. 

His hair was carefully curled at the top, a whip cream swirl on a professionally made cafe drink, brown and thick and very obviously never exposed to shampoo that stripped the roots.

Kevin employed a very small and very squiggly frown. The young man smiled, his teeth were straight, boxy, and streak-less, also the type money could buy. “Yeah, you should be careful,” he spoke with a flattened accentless-accent, not from here but from anywhere at all. “This road is haunted.” Kevin refused the temptation to roll his eyes. He cleared his throat instead and began carefully, briefly debating if he should shave off his local accent or soak his vowels in it like making backwoods rum pudding.

“Reckon everyone should stay away from it then,” he said pointedly, “must be dangerous.” He decided on rum pudding. The young man regarded Kevin through green-tinted glasses, unpolite and clearly not playing this game. He smiled with wicked delight, “Who are you?” It was asked in the way someone confirms a surprise purchase or family secret from a gossipy aunt. Unsurprised and yet ever so pleased about it.

Kevin took a deep breath and refused to duck down or look away, “Nobody. Just thought I should warn you as out-of-towners.” 

The young man took the time to squat, a quick and accusatory movement. “And what are you doing here, Nobody Man?” He was poking at something and Kevin thought a bit of lamb’s blood on his cheeks might improve his very smug appearance.

“Woah, woah, have you seen anything?” One of the girls asked, but the young man was still leering over him in a way that made him much more of a priority.

“Trying to stop anyone from getting hurt,” he said truthfully, “You should get out of here before,” he coughed into his hand, “Anything.” He didn’t need to give them any hints. The young man’s smile widened like a length of rope a magician kept pulling out of his sleeve. There just seemed to be more and more. “My name is Nathan Calvin,” he put his hand out to shake, “Those are the Alvarez sisters.” One of the sisters gave in a slight salute and the other one turned to him with an unhappy eyebrow twitch.

“How would you like to come up here, Nobody Man?” Nathan Calvin’s hand was still dangling in front of him, “You’re letting the cold air out here man and you came over to talk, right?”

The snake was wiggling its way in front of him in a very slick dance that meant very little to him.

Kevin hunched slightly, “I think it would be better if you considered hurrying on,” he gestured up the road, “this isn’t really a populated area. The highway is that way. And the nearest hospital is even further.” He stated without inflection. Nathan Calvin retracted his hand, but he didn’t seem any less pleased. “Come on up, come chat with us.” He boomed, “I’ll make it worth your while.” Kevin shoved his hand through his hair again, tired of this. “This isn’t the type of ghost you want to hunt.” You’re making my job harder.

Nathan cheered, “Somebody knows things!” He sang with a laugh, “what about some beer for your troubles? Money? Heck, Diana might give you kiss.” “That would take more beer than even you can afford Nathan.” Diana, the sharp-looking sister, said without looking up.

“Alright,” he chuckled, “no kisses, but I don’t think that’s what you’re here for anyway.” Kevin elegantly rolled his eyes this time, “If I talk to you will you leave?” Nathan Calvin just kept smiling. Kevin closed his eyes for a moment and then slipped his phone out to look at the time, 10:10.

“You have thirty minutes.” He climbed into the stupid shiny black van, “And then I’m escorting you out of here.”

Idiots.

They move aside and close the door behind him.

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

Belly of the Beast

Kevin was regularly uncomfortable- it was more of the jacket he wore for the possibility of rain and forgot to take off. His discomfort spiked as the light of the summer moon cut off as they shut the door, a pulled plug plunging him into a cavern of beeps and blinking things.

The sisters were curious, the boy was anticipatory, none of them were afraid in the slightest. Idiots.

Nathan Calvin took a seat cross-legged next to one of the sisters and patted the floor of the van in invitation. “Tell me your thoughts!” He yelled far too loudly in the echoey dark van.

Kevin narrowed his eyes at him, “Ghosts. Danger. Dying.” The boy laughed in answer. “Somebody take notes ladies.” One of the sisters, the one with the goggles looked up. “Have you seen her kill anyone?” Kevin’s frown became a tightening black hole on his face. Nathan put a hand up, “Hey now Collie,” he stopped her, “Let’s start with the small stuff.” He tilted his chin up, “Has she ever tried to kill you?” Collie, the goggles sister, was taking notes now. “No.” Kevin said truthfully, “But she will go after you,” he looked up at the ceiling, “It’s harder the more people there are.” Idiots.

Kevin discerned the groups feelings, not the fresh ones, but the dangling roots that burrowed deep and colored their every movement. There was a shimmering veil of glittering silver and gold guarding them. It was thick and glorious, their mothers had no doubt swaddled them in it from birth and let them walk out into the world armored, invincible, and foolish. It was the type money could buy. Nathan Calvin threw his arms in the arm, “Elaborate!” He was enjoying himself like a polo-shirted boy at a private swimming pool that was already two margarita's in.

“You’re making my job harder.” Kevin only had so much room in himself for elusiveness, “I’m trying to help, what will it take to leave this road, money? Beer?” He turned Nathan’s words on him brashly, “I’m sure we could find someone to kiss you.” Nathan Calvin became somehow more delighted.

The other sister, goggle-less, tilted her chin up proudly, “We’re prepared,” she said simply, “Though this is a nice confirmation that she’s really here.” Alright, well maybe it’s time to leave them to their fate, he could use some more sleep and less animal blood on his hands. Haircut, milk, homework.

He closed his eyes for a moment and let the fantasy wash over him- the one where he left here and sank into a nice long nap. Then he opened his eyes again, “Tell you what,” he spread out his own smile, more brittle, less careless, but fireproof all the same. “I’ll tell you everything I know, we could do it over a burger, there’s a 24-hour diner at least fifteen minutes away.” It was more like thirty, but they didn’t need to know that.

Nathan Calvin drenched his smile in lighter fluid, “When does she usually show up?” 

Kevin clenched his hands by his side and narrowed his eyes, “When your guard is down.” “Our guard won’t be down,” said the stony-faced sister.

“We could let it down,” Nathan Calvin contributed and for all of his easy smiles he was very difficult.

Kevin blew air out of his nose, “Fine.” He sat down heavily on the floor, “Damn yankees.” He muttered that last part to himself. Nathan leaned back, “you’re local then, right?” “Do you like, protect this road?” Collie asked quickly. “You’re not dead, right?” “We’d know if he was dead.” “Speak for yourself,” Collie waved a hand dismissively at her sister.

“How’d you find her?” Nathan asked next.

“And what should we expect?” The other Alvarez sister wasn’t looking directly at him, but she was looking all around the van anyway, alert. Alert was something at least.

Kevin waved a hand in front of his face; they were lucky Kevin didn’t only save people that he liked. Kevin growled, “I’m sure she’ll be here and answer your questions.” “Does she talk?” The goggles sister, Collie, buzzed. She had a heart-shaped face, soft round cheeks, and an exceptionally soft mouth; Kevin looked away. “That would be perfect.”

“No, no talking. And I’m Kevin,” he finally said. “Who are you?”

“She doesn’t talk?” The alert sister noted.

“What else does she do?” “Tries to murder you,” Kevin responded tartly.

Nathan shifted, putting his arms on his cross knees and leaning forward, “but not you.” Kevin looked up at the ceiling, “look, I don’t know what y’all are doing here but-” “Isn’t that obvious?” The alert sister said, who he was also now classifying as the ‘Mean Sister.’ “-but this isn’t a joyride,” he finished bitterly, “I don’t want anyone getting hurt on my watch.” He looked down at his phone clock, 10:31. It’s still early, he reminded himself with even breaths. “On your watch?” Nathan repeated his words with relish, “God, look at this Diana,” he looked back to Alert Mean sister, Diana. “And Misty said this would be a bust.” He laughed.

Collie crawled closer to Kevin, “What’s up then? Are you not a ghost hunter too? You’re just like, a grumpy guy on this road?” Kevin pinched his brow together, “No.” He said ruefully, “I’m not a ghost hunter.” Nathan stretched his long neck back, “This is going to be fucking amazing. Anything on the instruments, Di?” Diana checked the instruments, she rose one eyebrow and shook her head curtly.

“Do you want to die?” Kevin burst out, sitting up straight and trying to hold their leader’s gaze through his tinted sunglasses.

Nathan chuckled, “Tell me,” he clucked, “What do you do with this ghost then, Nobody Man?” Kevin groaned, he felt like he was having several conversations at once and no conversations at all. “Kevin.” Was all he said, a stony tone that hung in the air long enough to settle into burnt quiet.

“Well, I’m Colleen Alvarez. You can call me Collie,” Collie broke the silence, “That’s my sister Diana.” “Older,” Diana added as if to explain something. “Right, I’m Nathan and you can call me Nathan.”

“I know. You said,” Kevin glared at all of them, “and have you all ever met a ghost before, ghost hunters?” Nathan and the Alvarez sisters all exchanged a poignant look. And then something started beeping.

Diana turned on her heel, “The EMF is picking up on something.”

“Woah!” Collie chirped as well. “The digital thermometer is shitting itself.” The temperature in the van rapidly sank.

Kevin ignored them and checked his clock, 10:37, she was early, but ghosts were rarely reliable. “Shit.”

The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end and a growl rumbled through the small space like a rolling thunder storm.

Here she came.

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[icarus-imagines]

Lesbian!Marceline X Female!Reader -Modern AU-

Word Count: 2,668

Category: Adventure Time

~I'll Never Forget You~

It took all your inner willpower to not flee the scene that had unexpectedly unfolded in front of you. All you remembered was having an unusually enjoyable day at your job to then come upon this scene while walking past an alleyway-no correction-an alleyway you almost walked past. If only you had just stayed a few extra minutes or left early for some little reason so you wouldn’t have had to witness this.

But you hadn’t.

And now you had to face the consequences to your naive actions.

The sight before you was one that would make anybody, no matter how tough their exterior seemed to the human eye, shudder and run away in a fearful panic. It made you do the same thing. Your mind screamed at you over and over again to run, to use flight and not fight. And you almost succumbed to your bodies wishes, but you knew you couldn’t flee just yet. You had to stay.

You wanted to rip your eyes away from what was before you, but it had inflicted your body so terribly that your body froze involuntarily.

Blood.

Oh, so much of it.

It’s dark crimson impurity endlessly poured from the man’s exposed flesh like a water fountain before you. Gushing and spouting out of wounds onto the cold hard cement without any sign of stopping any time soon. Red against a scratchy silver it looked exactly like those fiction crime shows you used to watch with your family on the weekends, but the only significant difference was that this was real. This was happening right before you. That is was unsettled you the most and made your own preciously warm blood drastically turn cold without a moment's notice.

Never had you imagined in your whole short existence would you have been an eyewitness to the grizzly taking of a humans life. Utterly monstrous and undeniably disturbing as it was you had yet to take notice of the person who stood in front of you. Their back turned to you it took a few seconds of examining them in the dark lighting before you had an idea of their physique.

Petite, tall, and though you wished to deny it, had gorgeously long raven coloured hair that blew your breath away. Their outfit was of a simple design. Laid back and comfortable. A plaid button up shirt, which was unbuttoned currently, with a black tank-top underneath. Their jeans had quite a few rips that, to you, couldn’t be deciphered as intentional or not. Matching red converse that tied the outfit together covered their feet. Though gazing down you watched in slight disgust as some of the dark blood that spilled onto the cement trailed through cracks, reaching their shoes and quickly staining the white underside of the once stylish shoes.

Clenching your hands into small fists, from an emotion that could not be entirely pinpointed, you squeezed until you nails dug uncomfortably into your skin and the top of your knuckles began to turn an off colour of white out of constriction. Slowly raising you raised your head up. Your mouth struggled with forming any words, your mind sporadic and dislodged.

Even with everything presented to you in the form of a horrifying display, the most horrendous facts about all of it was who was in front of you. The fact that you…

You knew them.

Who would ever displace those familiar clothes? The unquestionably thick and glossy hair that accented their beauty. That Goddess you had found yourself developing a less than innocent crush on over the past few months. Out of everybody, you knew, why did it have to be her?

“Marceline?”

Your voice was hushed, too quiet for a human to hear, but you needed to speak. To insert yourself to the scenario and ask her what had happened. You wanted to question her. Question her and maybe find a reason to why she was there. I mean she couldn’t have done something like this.

Killing someone? Her? Never!

Yes, Marceline may have a darker sense of humor than most people you knew, but that was her whole character. A spunky and very sought after woman who loved rocking out on her bass guitar and going to wild parties. Killing was a whole different level than Marceline. It had to be.

It needs to be…

Her form visibly tensed the moment her name escaped your lips. But she couldn’t have possibly had heard you. What kind of person has that kind of superhearing? Your suspicions on her hearing were confirmed when she quickly turned around to face you.

Your lips slightly parted in surprise at what you discovered.

It was Marceline, but at the same time, it wasn’t.

Her usually pale white skin had taken on an entirely different tint. A smooth cold gray similar to that of a gargoyles. And just like a gargoyle, her ears had a point, cheeks the same high lifted and sharp feature. Even her lips had the same colour. Two puncture holes lay at the side of her neck, somehow looking healed, yet not caved in with new skin. Crudely pointed fangs subtly poked her bottom lip. She looked like a statue looking at you. Immortalized and forever desirable to you, and admittedly the entire world if they all knew of her.

Another thing that struck you was her eyes. The usual blue spring eyes you were used to seeing on an everyday basis had morphed into a strikingly scarlet hue that struck you. While looking into their unknown depths filled with countless secrets untold,  they almost stranded your body motionless.

“(Y/n),” she uttered, in return, beautifully. With one single word, your name, she had rendered you frozen.

Your hands, that had previously released themselves from their small fists and now clasped together in front of you, held tight. The (F/c) nail polish shiny and new upon your nicely manicured nails reflected the low moonlight above you both.

A small nervous smile climbed and printed itself upon your face as you tried to wash away the tension. “A-ah, I was just...just returning from work and was...was going to call you and ask how you were...how you were doing,” you spoke eyes now finding your (S/f/c) shoes now incredibly interesting at that moment in time. Your words were shaking and didn’t hide the fact you truly were scared.

Your words awkwardly trailed off as your humiliatingly futile attempt at a conversation with her hung in the air. It was hot and bothersome from the tensions that gathered in the small molecules around you both. You hated it. You wanted to do something about it, but knew you would be left empty-handed at the end unless she acted too. Surprisingly she did.

“How...caring of you,” she said, voice steady and well-controlled even in a setting such as this one. How you admired her strong resolve. “Like always you think of others before yourself, I’m quite envious of that quality you have you know.”

The small smile she had held onto started to turn into a sad frown as she talked. Not expecting it she began to walk towards you, her hair flying behind her with the small gusts of wind, making her look like an angel. Her appearance creating an aura of strong power and superstition.

She stopped a few feet in front of her, it was obvious she didn’t want to get too close to you. She was treating you like a fragile woodland creature, meaning she didn’t want to scare you off. It was obvious to see it would be easy to do exactly that right now.

“I’m sorry you,” her words cut off as her eyes moved in different directions of the floor until she looked up meeting your eyes in a focused stare. “I’m sorry you had to witness seeing something like this. I know you won’t understand, but all you really need to understand is that I didn’t do this.”

Your reply to her was quicker than you had expected and could be perceived as harsh if you didn’t use the right tone. You didn’t want her to get angry. “And why should I believe you?”

A small smile filled with amusement graced her plump lips. “You don’t need to believe me, but if I know anything about you after a year of friendship is that you trust your heart over your brain,” she explained a comical glint in her eyes knowing it was true. “You’ll believe me. At least...I hope you do.”

It struck you hard realizing this was true. You would trust anything that spilled from her lips. No matter what. You had always bashed yourself for being that way, but when it came from Marceline, how she liked it, made your heart soar with newly discovered pride.

“I think I do,” you mumbled out shyly.

For just a moment you saw the sides of her lips curl into a smile, but they immediately went down after a mere second.

“It makes me happy to hear you say that, but unfortunately I won’t be able to stay.”

“Stay?” you asked confusion starting to build.

She nodded her head solemnly. “You know what I truly am. I can’t let anybody. Even you, know about this,” she said. “I’ll have to relocate soon, rebuild my life, like all the other times this has happened.”

“But,” you quickly retorted, trying to carefully pick your words. “You don’t have to relocate! I won’t tell anybody about what you are. I swear on my life!”

Her eyes glimmered with unshed tears, she was strong unlike you who’s tears were about to burst from the invisible barrier that held them in.

“I know that,” she simply said, then repeated the sentence like a prayer. “I know that.”

“Then why can’t you stay if you know I wouldn’t and couldn’t ever betray you so hideously?” You asked voice almost breaking.

You didn't want her to leave. She couldn’t leave. Not when you had finally realized your feelings for her. She couldn't do this to you!

She held a look in her eyes that conveyed that she almost didn't know why, but she spoke up her reason soon after. “It’s just our way. It’s what we’ve always done.”

Even with that reason, it wasn’t good enough for her to just up and leave the relationship you both had worked so long and hard to build. You wanted to scream at her. Yell at her. Make her stay somehow. But when you look at her, a face full of anguish and sorrow, a look you’ve never seen cross the punk girls face before, you knew anything you said wouldn’t stop her from leaving you.

“Just because your a vampire doesn’t mean you have to do what other vampires do,” you said almost sharply. “You’re your own person. You can do what you wish with your life.”

“And that’s why I have to leave,” she responded lightning fast. “If I don’t they’ll somehow find out about it, they always do, and they’ll come to hunt us both down. I don’t care in the least if they kill me. But if they kill you...I-I can’t live with that.”

Your mouth opened to rebuttal her reasoning, but nothing escaped your mouth. You were silent as a tear trickled down your cheek and silently splashed on the ground, turning it a darker gray than what was already presented.

After a few minutes, she spoke up. “I have to go.”

You wanted to reach out and take a hold of her sleeve, make her stop, but you knew any attempt at doing so would end up with failure as the only option. So you stood there, silently, obediently.

You waited for her to step away from you, but she instead walked closer so her toes were touching yours and her warm breath met your skin. Slowly inclining your head upwards to meet her gaze you stood in shock as you witnessed her soft eyes shed tears. Hot and wet tears that cascaded down her inhumanly sharp features.

Before you could open your mouth and asked her what she was doing, her next action left you speechless. Her lips met yours in a connection that lit a fuse, lit an enormous fire of longing. It was filled with all the days, those months pining after each other in a circular dance. Never once touches, yet getting so close that it was almost sickeningly lovely. It was a rhythm and it was better than you had ever dreamed. A euphoria of discovery.

But like all things in this world, the chaste kiss came to an end when she pulled away and peered into your eyes one last time.

“This is goodbye,” she uttered.

“Yes,” you mumbled, “so it is.”

“Don’t look so glum,” she said wiping a tear from your cheek with an idle index finger. “This year was the best of my life, I’ll cherish it.”

“You’ll remember me?’ you asked desperately. “Even after I...I pass away?”

“You think I’d forget you so easy?” she chuckled a bit. “You’ll be one of my closely kept memories.”

This made you blush and even though you wanted to hide your face, you didn’t. You wanted her to remember you like this. For her to remember the girl with tear brimmed (E/c) orbs, (H/c) hair, and flushed cheeks.

You wanted her to remember you as you were.

“Thank you.”

“No,” she dismissed, taking your hand in hers for a few seconds as she squeezed. “Thank you, for making me realize that even I have my own choice. And for making this the best year of my life.”

Time almost seemed to slow as she let go of your hand and started to walk away to an unknown location. Turning around you watched her long hair, a black painted streak, her whole entity, a bright scarlet streak, against the cold gray city, walk away and leave you behind. She stopped momentarily and turned her head to peer over her shoulder. Her mouthed words echoed in your mind and calmed the growing ache you had already begun to grow in your human heart.

“I’ll never forget you.”

~*~*~*~

~Extra Ending~

~100 Years Later~

The hustle and bustle of the big city with its loud noises and exotic people made Marceline nervous, for she was used to secluded places and darker settings. But she had come here on instinct.

She felt like she needed to be here.

Making her way through all the people quickly, she bumped a person, making the said shorter girl fall on the ground. Marceline quickly apologized, offered her hand, and raised the girl up so she could stand on her two feet again.

But as Marceline took note of her appearance her eyes widened upon her discovery.

It was you.

You looked exactly like you had the last time she had seen you, which was around 100 years ago. She tried to figure out how it was possible, but when you looked up at her and smiles she saw sharp teeth appear and poke at your bottom lip.

You were clever, Marceline noted. You must have found a way to become like this and thought it was a little unsettling, she didn’t want you around other like her for fear of them hurting you. But even so, she had to thank them the next time she met them.

After a few seconds of looking into each other's eyes, you were the first to speak.

“Don’t tell me you forgot who I am?” You chuckled. “I thought you promised.”

“You think I’d forget you so easy?” Marceline quoted from your last conversation together. The bittersweet memory washing over you two.

“I’ll never forget you.”

[cutegirlmayra]

Recalling when Sonic called off his race with Tails just to get eggs for Amy, I can't help but think that maybe their relationship developed into something of slowly going romantic where they'd act couple-y without even realizing such as when Sonic fetched eggs for Amy like the "good boyfriend" would or a hypothetical scenario: Sonic wants to taste something Amy is eating, so Amy hands it to him and Sonic just bites it down casually. How's that for a headcanon? Or is it too far-fetched? XD

Please remember that Prompts are on Shutdown! Do not send me any! Sorry! I still have a lot to do!

Prompt:

“W-woah!” Amy was attempting to shimmy across the thin, tree-plank that led to where her and her friends were adventuring to retrieve a valuable artifact disturbed by Knuckles’s antics. While trying to move across, she saw a bug and lost her usually perfect balance.

“Amy! Take my hand!” Sonic, just ahead of her, stopped and reached back. She immediately, while moving left and right on one leg, grabbed it and sighed, seeing him lift it up to the rope above their heads.

“Thanks, Sonic. B-but now-!” the rescue caused a shift in the rope as well, shaking as Amy placed both hands on the rope.

“Grrr…” Sonic judged the situation quickly, biting his teeth down as he looked around him. “Okay.” He nodded, then lowered Amy’s hand that he was holding so they were down in the middle of them. “Just use one hand to cross, I’ve got you.”

“Alright.” Amy nodded seriously, and the two continued to scoot across the branch.

Sticks narrowed her eyes behind her, “Hmmmrrmmm…” she seemed to be sizing up their activity…

-Later~-

Sonic was in the market place, looking over things before seeing something shiny and pink. “Hey! It’s a bracelet!” he looked it over before a goofy smile skimmed his cheeks. “I bet Amy would like this.” He placed it in his chart, and on the other side of the market place, Amy was eyeing a blue watch that made racing car noises. “Haha!” she giggled into her hand, “Oh, Sonic would love this!” she placed it in her basket and walked on.

Sticks, popping her head out of the ‘expired/no good’ waste bin dumpster growled once more, narrowing her eyes at the two…

-Another time~-

“Oh! These cookies just don’t look right.” Amy frowned, wearing the pink bracelet as Sonic was fiddling with the blue watch, making it create car engine noises.

“Hehehe…” he giddily fixated on it’s endless fun, but Amy’s sigh suddenly drew him away and he looked at her cookie tray she had placed out of the oven. “What’s wrong with it? It smells great!” Sonic sat more upright, lowering his knee that was up a moment ago and turning more directly to Amy.

His eyes stayed glued to hers as she spoke, “Oh, it’s just that… well, the picture made them look so good… I hope they’re okay… I was going to give them to those poor, sweater-less orphan penguins but…” she put her hands to her hips, “I can’t give them these!”

“What about these?” he picked one up, “Ow! Hot, hot, hot!” he shook his hand, burning his glove a little bit on some melted chocolate on the side of the cookie.

“Oh no! Here…” Amy reached over, about to bite on the gloved-finger to get the chocolate off.

“Hey! This chocolate’s mine!” Sonic immediately withdrew the hand and sucked on it himself. “I went through all the hard work of getting it!”

“Oh, but it would have burnt your finger!” Amy protested, but he just shook his other pointer finger at her, as though telling it ‘nuh-uh, this one’s all mine!’.

Then, his eyes widened. “Emmm~ These are good!” he went in for another, taking a bite. “Amy! You can’t give these to the children!”

“H-huh? Why not! I thought you said they were good!?” Amy quickly took the tray away, holding it back from him and examining them. She placed it by the window as he continued-

“Because they’ve got to be all mine!”

He laughed, thinking himself funny but Amy just rolled her eyes, “You really like them? I mean, I guess I could add some ‘flare’ to them, that way, their presentation is a little more decent…”

“I say let the kids have them the way they are!” he relaxed back, smiling brightly to her in comforting optimism. He placed his hands behind his head, closing his eyes, “They’ll be shoving them in their mouths before ever having the time to look at them!”

His cheeriness brightened up her insecurity, “Ohhh… You!” she jumped over the table to hug him, disorientating him a moment as his arms flailed out from her sudden affection.

“H-hey! I was only stating my opinion here! Ames!”

“Hehehe~ And I encourage you to state it as much as you want!”

“Well, that’s a first.”

Amy laughed. The two were distracted so much, they didn’t see Sticks’s camouflage into a plant’s top-level foliage as she growled and reached in, grabbing a cookie and ducking back down into position.

-Tails’s place, again, at a later date-

“I don’t get it, Tails. It’s like a conspiracy… but it isn’t.” Sticks gripped the table, looking angry for some reason.

“Is this about aliens and the government again?” Tails didn’t even bother looking up from his inventions, but Sticks just snarled on the side of her mouth.

“Grraawwwhhhh… It’s not about the government, Tails!” she flung her arms up, “This is of a whole new caliber of lies and deceit. It’s been right under our noses… no… this has to do with a company… a friendly sort of company of friends… friends who can’t even noticing how deceptive they’re being towards each other and their other friends!” she gripped her head, showing her own confusion as Tails’s ears finally perked up.

“Sounds like corruption in the market, if you ask me.” He thought she meant a literal company…

“Ugh.” She shook her head, seeing he wasn’t getting it. “Whatever, I’ll keep eyeing the two before I make any further assumptions. But I’m tellin’ ya!” she rose a finger up. “Something fishy is going on with Sonic and Amy! They’re all giggly lately, talking about each other from across the way, trying out cookies recipes and the like!” She threw out some words that made Tails finally lean up, away from his gear.

“Wait… you mean… they’re not fighting or anything, right?” Tails seemed concerned on her second comment.

“What? No! I said giggly! Weren’t you listening to me!?”

“D-don’t get offended! You said they were talking about each other behind their backs… I got worried.” He put his hands up, covered in black gear-gunk to try and calm her down.

“Oh. I said across the way! Not behind their backs!” she defended, “Just come see for yourself.” She started to waddle to the door, looking more ticked off than ever before…

Tails finally followed her, giving her to her ‘spying’ ways and saw the two walking down the street.

“They just look like they’re talking.” Tails seemed a bit skeptical, hiding with Sticks in a bush. “Doesn’t this invade their private friend-life?”

“Ohhhh, it’s far from being started yet, Tails.” She passed him the binoculars. “Destruction of trust between friends in 5….4….3…2….” she pointed as suddenly a puddle came out in Amy’s way.

“Oh no!” she flinched her foot up, but Sonic bowed graciously and suddenly dived backwards, turning at the last moment with Amy’s gasp to push himself up and create a bridge over the puddle.

It was so extra, it made Amy giggle girlishly, covering her face a bit from her blush and walk over him.

It was a terrible idea though because even though Sonic was showing off his strength and chivalry, it also caused discomfort walking over his quills that poked or scratched up against Amy’s ankles.

“Ow, oh, ee!” she passed and then smiled down to him as he got up and looked over at being separated from her by the other side of the puddle.

He could have easily spin-dashed over it, but to be dramatic, he pretended to reach for her, throw more rocks in the water to create a bridge, and then hopelessly despair as Amy continued to laugh at his jokes.

Tails’s mouth hung down as Sticks’s anger peaked, tapping her finger on her folded arms. “They’re so adorable… it’s like they lied to our faces and then each others!” she was about to jump out of the bush. “YOU TWO ARE LIARS-!” she was thrown back into it by Tails.

“No, Sticks!” He held her down as she tried to struggle back up from his grasp.

“Let me at those lying, good for nothing-!”

“Calm down, Sticks! They probably don’t even know what they look like!”

“How can they not know how it looks like!? If they’re together, they should at least have the decency to tell their most trusted friend ever—that is to say me. But instead, they lie to our faces and continued to call each other ‘a good friend’. If THAT’S a good friend, I want to know what they think a dating dance looks like!” Sticks gestured furiously over to them, showing she didn’t buy that crap for jack!

Tails sighed, shrugging with his shoulders slightly. “Honestly… I’m glad they’re getting along so well. It wasn’t always like this… They probably just don’t want to ‘rock the boat’, so to speak.” He nervously twiddled his fingers a moment, blushing. “I-I kinda get that, you know? When the friendship’s going so well… you don’t really want to disrupt it by asking something kinda embarrassing like that.” He smiled over to Zooey, working daintily at her stall.

“I-I-It might ruin the great, wonderful… charming interactions you already have with each other…” he melted as the red on his face grew brighter. “Y-you know what I mean?” he looked around, seeing Sticks had disappeared suddenly. “S-Sticks?”

“Move, loser. I have some so-called ‘friends’ to bust.” She tried to move around a dude holding flowers out in front of her.

“B-b-but-!” the poor boy was ignored completely as she side-swiped around him and dashed to Sonic and Amy, his arm held out to her as she took it and they walked towards a movie theatre, just chatting excitedly to each other.

Sticks shook her fist, “GET BACK HERE-! YOU TWO ARE MESSIN’ WITH MY SANITY AND THIS MUST END!”

“No! Sticks!” Tails took off after her, “Oh, pardon me!” he maneuvered around the boy, before seeing how disappointed the stranger looked and realized…

Sonic and Amy weren’t the only ones who didn’t notice blossoming romances that were right in front of their noses…

The stranger nervously ran behind a wall, “Phew, that was close! If Sticks knew who I was then…” The boy took off his covering, revealing his intern-self. “Then I’d have to introduce her to my mother. And after all the times she’s come to Meh Burger and asked for extra fries… I don’t know, man. My mom might think it’s serious!” He clutched his head in fright.

Ever since that plane ride, her asking to ‘get closer’, he’s never looked at her the same way as all the other customers…

But that’s a misconstrued story for another day.

[thelionshoarde]

shance; vld6 reaction fic

@pink-contrail and anon mentioned lance calling shiro silver fox and i was just ALL OVER THAT except not REALLY because i had some feels and this got carried away and in the end I’M NOT SURE WHAT I REALLY EVEN WROTE?? AT ALL?? this is very strange but it is also for you shance fam, cause i love you. (gonna tag for a touch of ableism? boys going through tough times and dealing with it okay but not great and yelling at each other a little bit? feelings?? pre-relationship??)

you can also read this on ao3 here

“Hey,” Lance said, loitering by the door. “What are, uh... dude, what are you doing?“

Shiro pursed his lips, not bothering to look up from the clippers in his hand. His thumb was resting just below the button to turn it on, hesitant, just as it had been for the past five minutes. “Hm..”

“...Shiro? Should I --”

Shifting his hip against the edge of the sink so that it dug in, Shiro tried not to let his shoulders tense.

“-- want some help? I used to buzz my brother Marco’s hair all the time, you know. Got pretty good at it. No rough patches or weird lines or anything, I can --”

bzzzzt

Lance stopped talking, and Shiro could feel him hovering just on the precipice of the entrance way to the bathroom. He’d been doing that ever since Shiro’d woken up, really, treating him with distance and caution.

Well, except for that second time when he’d burst into tears and apologized in a high, choked voice for not hearing him, as if it was his fault that this had happened, as if it was Lance’s fault that Shiro had been dead, and as if it meant something that it had been Keith who got him back, and --

It did mean something. What Keith had done was... so much. More than Shiro had expected. More than he had dared to hope.

But it --

It wasn’t --

Huffing a frustrated breath, Shiro clicked the button again, letting silence fill the bathroom once more. It seemed suspiciously bright, suddenly, the overhead lights flaring at the corners of his eyes, like light through a prism, or water droplets. His shoulders heaved, just a little, and he leaned harder into the sink, shoulder twitching.

Why did everything feel like such a mess? So much confusion, so much uncertainty? What was Shiro supposed to think? How was he meant to react? Keith looking at him with those bright eyes. Pidge barely looking at him at all. Allura heartbroken and Lance wandering about like he’d forgotten his place in the world, too quiet and shuttered, it --

It sucked. A part of Shiro just wished he could go to sleep and not wake up until the universe started making sense again.

“You know...” Lance said, voice careful but still managing to startle Shiro. He had gotten caught up in his thoughts again, swirling and swirling, so fast and frantic. God, he was so tired. Rest, Allura had said, and he had so why didn’t it feel like enough? Why --

Frustrated, Shiro blurted out, “Just -- out with it, Lance. I’m not going to break if you speak your mind, okay? Just because I died the once doesn’t mean I’m going to drop dead at the first --”

“Whoa,” cut in Lance, voice sharp. “Whoa, whoa! What are you talking about?!”

Shiro dropped the clippers into the sink with a clatter; turned around and leaned against the sink so he could give Lance a strained smile. He half-hid his face beneath his hand, rubbing wearily at his forehead, knowing that his expression would still come off as pinched.

“Nothing,” he said. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”

Unconvinced, Lance leaned back dangerously far on his heels, eyes narrowed. “Sure,” he said, mouth twisted in suspicion. “Sure, yeah, definitely nothing. Should I -- Should I get Keith?”

Should I should I should I.

“I dunno,” Shiro drawled, sagging back in sudden exhaustion. “Should you? Seems to me like you’re awfully unsure of yourself these days, Lance. Not exactly fitting for the Red Paladin, don’t you think?”

This time, Lance rocked forward onto his toes, eyes narrowed to near slits, a slight flush of annoyance touching his face. It almost made Shiro smile.

“Fine. You wanna know what I think? I think you’re having a pity party in your bathroom, Shiro. Party of one, and that’s not cool. If you want to hack off all your hair, go for it. Just do it! Be bald! Bald and beautiful, baby, I’m sure you could pull it off --”

Damn, Shiro thought, blinking hard; almost forgot what a mouth he has on him.

“-- so just stop wallowing already, and let us help you. It’s not like it was easy for us, either, all right? Like, not easy AT ALL, DUDE. You don’t think we’re all reeling, here? You think you’re the only one who died, Shiro? Nope! Spoiler alert! That select group also includes me, in case you were wondering! And ohhh no, poor Shiro, his handsome boyfriend goes above and beyond to save him --”

“He’s not my boyfriend,” Shiro whispered, heart pounding.

“-- who cares,” Lance exploded, arms waving wildly. His face was flushed bright red, eyes gleaming. “It doesn’t -- that’s fine. That’s the point, Shiro. All of this -- everything -- it’s going to be fine. But we all need some time to not be fine, okay? So stop acting like we’re all, I dunno, crazy for dealing with it in our own ways, yeah? Or like we’re offending you for trying to give you the space and respect you deserve, you --”

“Lance,” Shiro said, helplessly, fingers curled so tight around the lip of the sink his knuckles ached.

“-- you idiot,” Lance finished, eyes shimmering with tears.

“Uhm,” tried Shiro. “Do you want to, ah, sit down? Take a deep breath, maybe?”

“Shut your face,” Lance groaned, rubbing the heels of his palms into his eyes with a showy grimace. “Ugh, this is -- exhausting.”

A corner of Shiro’s lip quirked; his heart was still racing, unsettled. “...Yeah. It really is.”

“I hate emotions. I’m returning mine. Do not want. Send to good home. Or bad, I don’t care, I just don’t want them anymore. First my one crush crushes on someone else and then gets betrayed, and I’m not -- I’m not going to try anything, okay? I’m not gonna be that guy, but shit. How am I supposed to feel, exactly? And then my other stupid crush gets a fairy-tale ending, and it’s just -- I’m done. I’m soooo done. I’m going to become a nun as soon as we get to Earth, Shiro, I swear it.”

...Shiro’s mouth felt dry. He wasn’t certain he could breathe.

Delicately, he asked, “Your...other stupid crush?”

Lance went still as the grave.

“Uhm. Pretend I didn’t say that.”

Shiro thought about pushing. He really, really did, but... the space and respect you deserve. Right. He could do that too, even when it felt like he was drowning, even though everything seemed too much, and distant, and strange. Even being back in his body was weird -- the sound of his heartbeat -- the way his teeth clacked together.

“I missed this,” he said instead, without meaning to.

Confused, Lance crossed his arms, leaning against the doorjamb once more. He still looked nettled though, ready to go off again. “What?”

“Your -- noise.”

Incredulous, Lance’s eyebrows rose, mouth dropping open in offense.

Oh, shit. Abort, Shirogane, abort!

“That came out wrong,” he rushed to explain, throwing up a hand -- whoops, wrong one. Just his right shoulder twitched, and Shiro jerked his head down to glare at it, annoyed. At least it made Lance pause, long enough for Shiro to say, sheepishly, “It was... real quiet, with Black. I could... everything she saw, I saw. But it... it wasn’t nearly enough. And you -- you’re warm, Lance. Loud, and bright, and I -- I remember thinking when the silence got to be too... too much, that I really missed you going off on one of your diatribes.”

“Huh,” said Lance.

Shiro shrugged, like he was trying to roll the awkwardness off him.

“I don’t really know what I want,” he admitted, feeling -- embarrassed, wrong, ashamed. “I feel like I should. I should. But I just -- I’ve been gone so long. And I had so much time to think that I’m not sure I know what to think anymore, you know? You’re all so... You’ve been living your lives, but I just... stopped.”

Lance flapped his hand at him dismissively. “Who says you have to? Huh? Who says any of us need to know what we want? Who says it can’t change, Shiro? That we can’t change our minds over and over again?”

“I...”

“Who.”

“No one,” Shiro yelped, “Fine. No one! It -- ugh! Lance, I don’t. I don’t want to do this right now, I just want --”

“To shave off all of your hair?”

Shiro grimaced. He’d almost forgotten about the reason he was in the bathroom to begin with. His hand was shaking when he brought it back to his forehead, rubbing hard at the skin beneath his bangs. “I just... it reminds me of all that I’ve lost.”

Snorting, Lance said dryly, “And a shiny bald head won’t? Just leave it, Shiro. Let it settle. Give it time.” Shiro rolled his eyes to the ceiling, because that hadn’t been subtle at all, ha. “It’s okay to start again. We’re not going anywhere. You’ve got time, buddy.”

“...it makes me look old,” Shiro admitted, nearly mumbling.

“Ha!”

Narrowing his eyes, Shiro twisted his mouth so that he wouldn’t accidentally smile. Lance was grinning at him, mood as mercurial as ever. Steadier, yes, more prone to startling insight, but still as willing to rise to a challenge or give in to humor as he had been, before.

Shiro wished he knew what all he had missed; he wanted the pieces of the puzzle, to see how and where he fit into all of this.

He wanted --

“What?” he forced himself to ask, though his tongue felt clumsy and strange. “You disagree?”

Almost gently, Lance teased, “Shiro, you’re a Silver Fox if there ever was one.”

...Huh.

“You just like white hair,” Shiro said on autopilot, not even thinking about what Lance had said earlier about --

“Yeah, well,” Lance muttered, scratching beneath his jaw and side-eying the medicine cabinet with intense interest, “hair isn’t really what makes someone attractive, you know.”

-- crushes.

As in plural.

“Right,” Shiro coughed, and what the hell, why was there heat rising in his face?

“Give it a week,” said Lance, eyes flickering back to him and then away again. “A week, okay? And if you still want to buzz it all off let me know. I’ll do it for you, okay?”

“...Okay,” Shiro allowed.

Lance nodded; one short, sharp jerk of his chin, and then he was grinning brightly -- Shiro couldn’t tell if it was fake or real or what, just that it was near blinding -- and started to walk himself lazily backwards, toward the door. “Well, then, my duty is done. I’m just gonna, go -- leave you to it, and --”

“Lance,” Shiro asked, lurching forward fast to catch him before he hit the door. “Why did you come here? I mean -- did you need anything?”

For a moment, Lance just looked at him, something in his gaze that Shiro couldn’t place. Something serious about the set of his mouth that made his heart beat unsteadily again. Uncomfortable, Shiro wanted to look away, but --

Somehow, he didn’t quite dare.

“No,” Lance said, simple and easy, “Just checking in.”

Weird, how his stomach felt all wobbly and strange. “Thanks,” he said, and had to lick his lips; they felt painfully dry. “Do you -- later, will you come back? Can I ask you... questions? About...”

Careful, Lance said, “Keith would --”

“Keith wasn’t here,” Shiro said, voice a little too loud. He cleared his throat, and said more quietly. “He wasn’t... here, with you guys. With me. And we’ve... we’ve already talked. I -- like I said, Lance. I missed your noise. I want to talk to you.”

He tried to grin a little, knowing it was crooked, but still hoping it would be enough to convince him. By the way Lance only looked more skeptical, Shiro didn’t think it worked, but --

“Sure,” Lance said. “That’s. Uh, fine. I’ll be by later, yeah? After dinner?”

Shiro nodded eagerly, and then said, dumbly, “Sure! I mean, yes, please, I’d... I’d like that.”

Thankfully, that was enough. Lance laughed a little, shaking his head, but shot off a little casual salute and spun on his heel, leaving with a lazy, rolling stride that Shiro found... a little distracting.

Maybe.

Everything was so confusing. Nothing was what he remembered. And it just -- he didn’t know how to deal with it, he didn’t, what was he meant to do with any of this, he just --

Spinning on his heel, Shiro stared at himself in the mirror, gaze defiant.

God, even his eyebrows had gone white.

Just give it time, he thought, trying hard. A week. Give it -- a week. Then he thought, ...Silver Fox, huh? and watched a grin steal its way across his face, a little smug.

[wideworldofwhump]

What are your favorite whumpy fic paragraph(s) - either from what you’ve written or what you’ve read?  Feel heartily invited to send me an ask!

Here are several of mine:

Psych:

Where There is Wailing and Gnashing of Teeth by dragonnan Warnings: cannibalism, extreme violence, blood and gore

His eyes stayed on the other man while he created another inch of space between them. Every shuffle away made his throat tighten even more. He wanted to run but all he could manage was another step. And then another. The stairs were only a few feet away now. Shawn's heel rolled over something on the floor and he nearly stumbled – his manacles clinking as he lost traction for several seconds. Falling against the wall, he looked first towards his captor. The giant had stepped deeper into the shadows and was now kneeling – still seeming to be oblivious to the stealthy escape. With impending doom avoided again, Shawn glanced down at what had tripped him up. It was long and rounded with a large knob on one end. A bone. There was no need for a degree in forensics to identify it as human.

He pulled his lips down and swallowed before stepping over the bleached white length. Now, instead of watching Tiny, he kept his eyes fixed on his path. There were more bones scattered nearby. Most appeared to be leg bones, though some shorter ones suggested they'd come from arms. Then he spotted what was clearly a skeletonized foot still strung with tendons. He had to swallow several more times as he moved past the remains.

Shawn jerked at the sudden clatter behind him – pivoting his head and squinting while he simultaneously began to pick up his speed. Tiny still wasn't looking his way but he'd stood once more. Something long hung from his right hand. It looked like a... cleaver.

His heels bumped the bottom stair and he fell backward against the concrete before he managed to spin around and scramble upwards – using hands and feet to tear his way to the top – no longer trying to be silent. His manacles continued to interfere as he slipped on the smoothed edges, rapping knees and shins and only keeping himself from a brutal fall out of desperation. His gasps had a voice as he reached the door and slammed into it – the terrified sobs for breath shaking out in a thin scream as he wrenched at the knob... and found it locked.

Sherlock:

The Tiger and the Shark by dragonnan

Warnings: rape, noncon, violence

“Isn't that an irony, then? Having spent so much time on one side of the microscope to suddenly find you've become the smudge on the slide. I wonder what they'll find under magnification?”

Sherlock clenched his jaw – rounding on his brother only to find that Mycroft, too, had vanished.

The knock that followed jolted a lurch through his middle – though he gave no outward sign of startle. “Come in.” Soft spoken and presenting a far more relaxed state than he'd last exhibited with company – he held close to the wall and faced the door – eyeing the space left open alongside the DI – noting John a bit further back and offering a truly miserable act of nonchalance. The eyes that darted – the fists held tight to his sides – the pacing walk all spoke of a man on the edge of blind fury. A comfort or threat, Sherlock hadn't the time to analyze – though he was aware of the empty swell within when the door began to shut him away.

“Don't-!” His hand shook – outstretched towards the polished wood and glass. He blinked at his shaking fingers – trying to recall when he'd lifted his arm. Lestrade, in rare comprehension, left the door open several inches. No surprise when John edged to within a hand's-breadth – meeting the flitting gaze of his friend. Sherlock nodded, once. Without pause, John slipped into the room – only approaching until Sherlock went stiff. Wordless, he sat in one of the chairs instead – never once speaking.

Rather, he allowed Lestrade to launch into a droning monologue – detailing the pursuit of his captors – their vanishing from the grid expected and of non-information. Clearly they'd prepared for a departure that would avoid interference from Scotland Yard. The monotone sharing became background. If questions were asked, they were unheeded. Sherlock studied the tremor in his fingers and only, truly, returned to the room when the only remaining occupants were himself and John.

His friend sat across from him – bundled hands showing white at the knuckle.

“What do you need, Sherlock?” Sincere – soft – attentive. Well wasn't that just like John Watson – a dichotomy from the man who could likewise be furious, hard, and stubborn. And, in many ways, Sherlock needed all of those sides. He wouldn't settle for less.

His reply, just as soft, carried a thread of something he was not yet ready to face – though the reflected pain in John's eyes showed his attempts at redaction were unsuccessful.

“Take me home...”

Iron Man:

Not the Hero Type by dragonnan

If monsters chased him in the dark he could at least see where to place his feet to run away.

Maybe that was why he hadn't been paying attention. Or, maybe he'd been looking for this. He didn't know. He rarely cataloged his reasons for anything. He fired from the hip and most of the time it struck dead center. But when he missed, oh it was a spectacular miss.

And here he was. Unlikely candidate for a crime that went well beyond the trappings of mundane. Pathetic, perhaps. Laughable, certainly. Painful? Yes. Definitely. If his charm hadn't been enough to boot him from the Super Friends this little encounter would more than suffice for a dishonorable discharge. Worse, even, than that, he'd used up most of his bitching allotment to instant replay the previous evening. Maybe now wasn't the best time to compare and contrast the military's finest man of the American cloth with the washed up husk of occasional alcoholic part time ghost in the machine currently bleeding standard issue B positive on the concrete.

Half his age and twice his height, Stuart Little and Tiny Tim were pawing the trinkets they'd collected from his person after that yellow flag moment minutes ago. They'd gone all out on their little urban Robin Hood cliché too. Their mothers and/or parole officers would be so proud. In addition to the tire iron they'd also managed a suitably dark and litter infested alley. All that was missing were the ra... oh, never-mind. One of the cat sized squeakers was just crawling from the dumpster about six feet downstream.

“Where's the cash?”

Tony lolled his leaking skull left-wise; bringing himself up to speed that one of the fine young gentlemen had wandered back to his side of the alley sometime in the last few... hours? Yeah, that was a concussion.

“That's the-green stuff, right?” Slurring. Kinda took the edge off his response but hopefully the all teeth grin helped it along.

Yup, sure did. Helped it right into a fist planted somewhere to the right of his appendix.

“Umph! Mmm... stellar delivery.” He coughed, noting the flavor of freshly diced liver on his palette. “No, really,” he wheezed, pushing slightly more vertical against his wall. “Watch a lot of Lamont Peterson?” He cocked his head. “Nah, you strike me as more of a Butterbean fan...”

Strike – got it in one as the second wallop emptied lungs and sarcasm but had the satisfaction of a yelp and gouged knuckles as his assailant stumbled backward, staring. Not just a glorified pacemaker and dream chaser, it also slices and dices. Though smoothed and polished for that nonabrasive comfort and style, the casing of his arc reactor was still metal. Very hard and very undentable by human knuckles no matter how large they were. Maybe still lacking in verbal comebacks, Tony still managed a wincing wink through his scrambled gasps.

Doctor Strange:

The High Cost of Dying by dragonnan

“Shit! I told you to watch the door, asshole!”

And look at that, he'd been spotted. So much for trying not to raise a fuss. “Uh... hi.” Jaunty tip of the hand – going for that 'oops, I've just stumbled upon a crime scene; don't mind me, I'm just here for a package of Ding-Dongs' vibe.

Shotgun, who'd been rocking foot to foot, jerked a look over his shoulder before hefting his weapon a bit higher – a bit more threateningly – towards the frozen clerk. “Come one, come on, hurry the fuck up!!”

Handgun, darting attention back and forth between the cash register and the newcomer, jerked his chin and wildly panned his gun up and down.

“Nice tie jewelry. Hand it over! Along with any cash you got and that watch! Now!”

Stephen didn't move. “Yeah... sorry. See, I spent most of my cash on a hot dog and the little I have left is going towards either an orange Fanta or a Raspberry Nestea. I haven't completely decided yet but I'd sorta been counting on some time to browse.”

“I don't give a fuck! Empty your pockets or I put a hole through your fucking head!”

Stephen pursed his lips – mulling that over. The clerk had begun to move, now, jerky pecking at the register keys – stalling, possibly – terrified, definitely. Shotgun hunched his shoulders and checked the door again – gun drifting towards the cold case before re-centering as he focused back on target.

Meanwhile, Handgun took three wide steps forward – finger jabbing at the attractive shiny.

“I said give me that fucking gem, Pops!”

“Or you'll blow a hole in my head – sorry, fucking head – as I believe you'd articulated.” Still no move to follow through with those orders, however, and Handgun seemed to be realizing his threat wasn't as imposing as he'd likely hoped it would be. Shotgun, meanwhile, was snatching the meager afternoon take from the open cash drawer – weapon now aimed at a 90 degree angle towards the flickering fluorescent panels above.

Stephen flexed his fingers, palms outward. “Hey, you kids want to see a magic trick?”

Sweeping his arms in an arc, he conjured double shields; taking the moment of stunned shock to knock Handgun's weapon away with the edge of one burning ring – a follow-up swing taking Shotgun out of the fight with a blow to the back of the head – then spinning back towards Handgun-

Explosive force slammed Stephen down to his knees – golden shields fracturing into sparks. Unarmed, Handgun – mind skittering to the irony of that observation – spun and bolted – door jangling at his hard exit. On the floor, at his back, Shotgun groaned but otherwise didn't move.

A freezing drizzle of sweat made a long streak along Stephen's jaw. He couldn't, quite, seem to catch his breath. He was hunched on his hands and knees but couldn't comprehend the action of standing.

He felt a ripple travel from shoulders to waist – the cloth encasing his torso constricting – shivering mild panic through his chest and he fought not to tear the not-a-cardigan from his body – god, he couldn't breathe! Trying to push himself up, he trembled at the stiff ache throbbing through his midsection. His brain analyzed the symptoms even as he struggled to understand why... he was going into shock. His arms folded beneath him; dropping him to his side and he felt the first real bloom of heat in his back. He couldn't reach it with his hands but he could feel another sensation – wet – and understood, suddenly, what had happened... just not

“How... h-ho-how... what...?”

A shaking, terrified voice responded. “I'm sorry – God I'm so sorry! I'm so sorry! I didn-I didn-I didn't m-mean – please, oh my God, don't die – please don't die – oh my God!”

How to Train Your Dragon:

Asgårdsreia by dragonnan

Leaning forward a little, Hiccup dropped Toothless back towards the waves so that the approaching ship's sails could block out most of the brightness.

With a violent jerk, Hiccup hauled Toothless into a tight arc – breaking away from the ships – heart hammering as a flurry of arrows skimmed so close he could feel the tickle of feathered fletching against his cheek.

“Dragon hunters!” Gods, and he'd nearly flown right into them! Not only that; with the sun at their backs, they'd have seen him well before he'd have been able to recognize them. Stupid!

Toothless weaved and rolled as bolos shot towards them – roaring as one wrapped itself around a back leg. “Come on, buddy, we have to get out of here, now!”

Though the bolo wasn't heavy, the swinging weights hanging below them hampered their flight – Toothless shaking his leg to try to free himself as they grasped towards the clouds. More arrows shot towards them as well as several nets and Hiccup leaned hard to the right – forcing Toothless into a barrel rolling plunge to avoid the attacks.

Hiccup grunted as an arrow shot between his left side and inner arm – slicing a groove just above the gauntlet and nearly striking Toothless in the head. The sting of pain shifted into the background as they rocked hard to the right – then left again – swooping through the spaces between projectiles.

A yell shattered over his teeth as something solid smashed against his left leg.

Toothless immediately began to plunge as all control was lost – their flight a nauseating blur of black and red. Hiccup swallowed and sobbed air – his leg refusing to work the pedal. He unlatched the straps keeping him in the saddle – digging his right hand into pommel as his body lifted up from his seat. Left leg slipping loose from the pedal, fighting the forces pushing him back, he strained towards the dented mechanism.

Only a few meters from the waves, he caught hold of it with two fingers, and pulled!

There was a sharp, belly dropping, whoosh of regaining lost height. Hiccup's body slammed back to the saddle – his upper half in a precarious tilt half off the side where he white knuckled the damaged pedal.

“Go, bud!”

Toothless dodged a few more arrows and flattened out – wings extending as he rapidly picked up speed.

Cowboy Bebop:

Play Me Some More of that Old Blues by dragonnan

Tipping his head back, he stared up into the cobalt sky. There were no more answers above than below. If there was a God up there, he apparently found amusement in continuing this tragic comedy. His hands had stopped shaking, and he looked down at his palms. A small patch of skin on the outside edge of both trigger fingers was roughened; the result of firing handguns too many times. He wondered where his weapons were now.

A shadow covered him, and he glanced up. An old woman stood over him, holding out a single woolong note. “Go ahead, you look like you could use it.” He grimaced, then smiled abashedly, taking the bill. He started to thank her, but felt his throat tighten, cutting off speech. It made no difference; she'd already vanished into the crowd.

Sighing, he gathered his feet under himself. The trip up was a lot harder than the trip down had been. He had to lean against the building for several moments, sweating heavily and panting, while he waited for strength to return to him. Eventually, he pushed away from his support, forcing his wasted limbs to carry him onward.

Twenty minutes of struggle found him gasping under the shade of an awning. His thoughts had managed to solidify during his wavering walk, and the sequence of his former life played before him like a scratchy film. There was no sound, for he refused to hear it just now. Instead he saw only the grainy images of people he'd once known, and in a state of drunkenness, would have referred to as friends.

His eyes darkened as their faces were replaced by a flash of liquid light, reflections off a length of steel. The eyes that had always seemed cold, even when they were comrades, now glowed with the red anger of insanity. The voice burst in his head before he could stop it.

“Why don't you just DIE!”

He grasped his head, as if doing so could repress the memory. He'd known it was over then. Hell, he'd known it was over that day, that day he'd first seen her. Maybe there'd still been something of optimism in him; yeah, even that late in the game. Three strikes and you're out, right? Strike one; he meets the woman of his dreams. Strike two; the woman of his dreams happens to be the girlfriend of his best buddy. Strike three; his best buddy finds out. A bad situation for anyone, but a lot worse if the people involved happen to belong to a high profile syndicate. Even so, he'd thought, he'd hoped…

“I'm leaving… I want you to come with me…”

Blood and ashes, all that remained of that dream. His eyes tracked the movements on the street. So far, no one had even noticed him. Well, that hadn't changed from before. He'd had a habit of going unnoticed until he wanted to be seen.

A burning pain in his gut reminded him that the last meal he could remember eating had probably been a plate of sautéed bell peppers. How many lifetimes had passed since then?

He felt in his pocket for the money card, and found the woolong bill instead. Well, shouldn't let that go to waste!

Forty-five minutes later, he leaned on one arm against the side of a wall and retched violently. No solid foods, he'd forgotten that, and his intestines now felt like they were crawling into the back of his throat. But, God, those carnitas had tasted so good! His stomach jumped again and he heaved, nearly collapsing with the sudden wave of exhaustion. Pushing away from the wall, he tripped over a crumpled box and nearly lost his footing. He opened his mouth to curse, but the words were high-pitched and reedy. He clenched his teeth instead.

With his stomach voided he felt weak, and saw that his hands were trembling again. It had been over an hour since he left the… what had that place been anyhow? Shaking his head, and regretting the motion, he sat down on the box that had nearly tripped him up a few moments ago. An unfamiliar sensation was washing through him while he sat on his box. Always, always before he'd had a goal. Granted, that goal had cost him dearly, but it had been something. Since he'd left the syndicate, all he'd wanted was to recapture that moment of perfection he'd found with her. He never wanted to face down his enemies, had never wanted to meet for that final bloody showdown. Yet, it seemed… he shook his head. He never believed in destiny, fate, or any of that `profound' crap. What happened, happened. And now, it seemed, his survival had happened… again.

Supernatural:

The Big Stink by dragonnan

He wasn't sleeping. Typically, he logged a good four hours, which was better than average compared to most of the guys in his trade. But that had been before. And before. And a lot before.

Alcohol; handy shut off valve, it usually gave his bed times a soupy sorta blank. If he had nightmares, they were the old and familiar. But lately... lately it seemed his chosen sleep aid was closer to sugar water. Any spirits the bottle contained seemed to flow right out of the glass and into his brain; all sorts of herpy-derpy haunting going on. Enough times waking up in damp linens with Sam giving him that tetchy constipated Gomer look.

He smacked his lips and flinched at the rotting elk flavor. Dear God, it was actually worse!

“Holy fucking shit.” He moaned before ripping free of the bed and high stepping across Sam's mattress, and Sam, on his way to the bathroom. Forget the brush, he snatched the Crest and creamed his mouth with a third of the tube.

While he was busy moving the thick paste around his teeth, Sam shuffled through the door and made for the toilet.

“Told you to lay off the bourbon last night.”

“Ish nah the ruh-run!” Dean spit the first mouthful as Sam flushed; grimacing at the tube in disgust.

“Dude, what the hell sorta shitpaste is this anyhow?”

Sam snatched the tube away and fished out his toothbrush. “Still got that funny taste?”

“What do you think?” Opening his mouth wide, Dean leaned in close to the mirror; hanging his tongue out while he tried to see the back of his throat.

Sam watched from the corner of his eye as he brushed – raising his eyebrows as Dean pulled his lips up from his teeth. While Sam rinsed and spit, Dean left the bathroom in search of something more astringent than mint.

The aforementioned bourbon bottle was crowded for space on the little table between their beds. Barely an inch left at the bottom, Dean polished it off and then nearly gagged at the corrosive taste explosion. “Oh, hell, no you did not...”

“I didn't what?” Sam wandered from the bathroom towards the half fridge. Nothing in there but yesterday's pizza, so pizza for breakfast it was.

“What did you put in here? This tastes like week old skunk piss!”

“You probably have a cold, Dean. Messes with your tastebuds sometimes. Look, we'll pick up some Sudafed this afternoon and you'll be fine.”

A little too relaxed about the whole thing, if Dean hadn't been there to see it happen he'd swear his brother's soul hadn't made it back into his body. Touchy subject, that one. Not that Dean made a habit of dodging touchy subjects unless it was his touchy subjects. God that sounded dirty.

“Breakfast?”

He turned his head; tasting the fog of foul that turned right along with him. Sam was holding out a slice of cold Meat Lover's with extra bacon. Dean's throat bobbed in warning and he cut to the right without a word.

A second later, the delicate sound of gagging drifted from the open bathroom.

[twelvesignsrp]

congratulations logan, capricorn is now luca yamada with the faceclaim ryan potter ! 

Character Sign: Capricorn

Character name: Luca Yamada Birthday: January 19th Sexuality: Fluid Gender: Cis-Male Moon Sign: Aquarius Faceclaim: Ryan Potter Power:

MATTER ABSORPTION; The user can absorb matter, while removing it from the source, into their body and use it in various ways, gaining some form of advantage, either by enhancing themselves, gaining the drained power, using it as power source etc., either temporarily or permanently.

   Luca’s ability is complete earth based, meaning he can’t absorb matter that isn’t naturally made or largely complied of earth base compotents. Items like clay, stone, metal, sand, and even gemstone can be taken from and used. How it’s used? Think of it like a layer of armor, in some ways, as Luca can absorb the chemical or atomic makeup of a substance—it’s matter—then reincorporate that matter into his own genetic makeup. Basically his skin and to some point his muscles or organs completely shift into the matter he absorbs. Whether that’s taking in a concrete wall creating his arms to be as heavy and dense as stone or absorbing metal railing, to coat his knuckles to be as strong as steel. His ability doesn’t give him abnormal strength, endurance, or durability—but depending on the composition of the matter he takes does change him. Imagine you punching someone’s face and then imagine punch a stone face…the matter is what makes him “stronger” but he’s still human, and has his limitations.

LIMITATIONS; Firstly proximity is needed, via touch. Luca can not mentally or psychically absrob matter. Like the element of earth it is person and physical. Luca’s limitations grows via  science. Magic might be able to bend many rules in the world but never can absolutely break them. The porpotion to which the material Luca is absorbing is equally porpotion to how much he can collectively transform his body. If he absorbs a pebble or a stone the size of a brick, he can only spread that to about the size of his forearm or less… Walls, metal railings, or solid desk leave him more than enough material he let his body manifest into the element he’s absorbing. Secondly, as his powers grow stronger, Luca can have a slight chance of destroying the material he’s syphoning. Taking an objects matter is one thing, but if he takes too much he can destroy the integrity of it. As most stone objects, like rocks or bricks, have chances of disintegrating. So far most walls or metal objects don’t fully break down but might be structially more weak or it way rust. Lastly his limitations are that he’s still human, not inhuman. Luca can still feel the weight of his ability, almost as if he’s lifting weights. He must train himself physically and must work hard to withstand the physical demands of his ability. He might be able to take more hits, be denser or stronger, but that all fades once the matter does too.

SUB POWER, FERROKINESIS; Shape and manipulate metal, a solid material (an element, compound, or alloy) that is typically hard, shiny, and features good electrical and thermal conductivity. Metals are generally malleable—they can be hammered or pressed permanently out of shape without breaking or cracking—as well as fusible (able to be fused or melted) and ductile (able to be drawn out into a thin wire

Since Luca has absorbed large amounts of metals ranging from steel, iron, alluminum, and copper—when his power boost came into effect, his body developed what they know best. Metals. Luca is able to shape or manipulate metals, never create them from thin air. His ability is also weaker than if it was a main gift, as he often can only dismantle, twist, or destroy metal than truly shape it to much. His ability is normally heightened if he has recently absorbed metals or alloys.

LIMITATION; Luca’s limitations are practice and understanding. Chemistry was never Luca’s first choise, so understanding the softness of metals and their strengths and weaknesses have been a learning curve. If he tries to manipulate or form metal too sharply or outside of it’s scientific properties it can shatter or grow weaker than he’d want. As a weaker manipulation, he isn’t able to mess with heavy ammounts or large pieces of metals, much like his brain is too weak to mentally lift such a mass. Emotions can help him push pass that but as of now, he is limited to the largest thig he’s manipulating being a street lamp.

What do they study: Criminology

Biography:

self-con·trol

   You were precision in perfection, a graceful force biding your time. As a child your chaos was order; neatly stacking your toys in the spaces they held, to coloring in the lines—dazzling your parent’s with your “skills”. However those skills or talents they’d dote on you for, felt nothing but natural. You like having a plan, a goal to reap pride and glory from. Your bones were etched with method and reason, your muscles woven with patience that rivaled most your age; truly you aged faster than others. By ten your ballet shoes would be trade for kickboxing ones—as the control that ballet offered grew boring. The older you got, that graceful force churned and brewed needing an outlet that wasn’t just lines and beauty. No, your hands ached with a soreness you indulged in. You were learning to become a soldier of your own pursuits.

re·spon·si·ble

    Time moved on and your maturity produced your most remarkable trait. Your sense of duty. Martial arts only were steps to your goal, learning to protect yourself but a seed of virtue would bloom into protecting others. You, like all sixteen year olds, played your hand against Fate—tempting the laws of the world and breaking what you could, yet you never treaded too far across the line. You had patience for the things that so many around you eagerly wanted. You were a catious driver, a conservative when you partied, and above all else a studious boy. Your parents goals for you were lofty, but you worked towards them. Your dreams would stay on the back burner, as they would speak of being a doctor or becoming a lawyer…you held your tongue. Being dutiful to them meant everything, but you wanted nothing more than to be the opposite. For your heart was that of a lion, big and bold, beating to a rhythm of one thing; to become an officer.

pes·si·mis·tic

   Graduation had came, you walked the stage with your canary colored sash, being first and the best among your peers. However you found a part of you that you never expected. Doubt and fear, a trait you fought hard against with grit and horns. You pushed past a lot; your sexuality, your parents plan for you, physical struggles, test, college acceptances…etc. You should feel the weight you are feeling before you fly off to Durham. You’ve made it, you are pursuing your dreams, you are free from your past—yet with your future open to so much your doubt festers a colder side of you. Judgement and sharp words become your mask you slip on with ease, while your eyes hide a mind that is softer than you know. You never forgot your virtue, to uphold and protect the law and it’s people, yet you forgot how to be yourself. More comfortable to be hardhead than vunerable.

stub·born

   It’s been years and your life was on a track to success; everything you’ve wanted. However Fate is a fickle bitch, and you’ve found yourself butting heads and grinding your teeth for over a year now. Your life has shifted, to a plane or reality that has no control or understanding. That irks you. Your dreams are being put on pause, your finish line was so close but you and eleven others are being hijacked to something else. Part of you wants to run, to fight another day, to return to your life…yet deeper than that, a part of you that wants to serve and to be apart of something bigger keeps you there. Even if you rather not corroborate and feeling like you are being dragged along instead of leading it. You are here, you are now a witch, you are apart of something larger than the law.

Patrouns: Luca’s patronus would be that of a Heron, white with black tipped wings. Herons represent wild determination and inteligence. The grace of these birds are known for their adaptablity and diversity, since they tread between three elements—that of water, earth, and air. They are crafty creatures, fidning new ways to hunt and survive which for me describes Luca. His whole life has been polishing himself to be better, pressure and focus he puts on himself to hopefully be able to withstand it and become a diamond in the end. Not to mention his mother has a traditional Japanese painting that has a Heron in it; which Luca grew up loving and appreciating more and more.

Five interesting facts about your character:

Luca is tri-lingual knowning Japanese, English, and French. Most people find it surprising that he knows French as he’s American and attending a British school but his aunt is from Bordeuax, France—which he visited often as a child.

Luca is trained in martial arts, almost 11 years in Judo and Taekwondo. He doesn’t brag about how good he is, saying he does it to stay in shape and is just a agression reliever but really he is good. At seventeen he was nationally ranked in the top five, and a small ranking around the world. His coach thought he could work into trying out for the Olympics but Luca was more focus on college to do that.

Is secretly an HGTV lover and is a big fan of Property Brothers. He just loves watching people decorate and creating a space, which reflects as his apartment is very true to him and his aestehtic.

Most people are shocked to learn that Luca hates sushi, even most fish. His mother being more dissapointed about that, but still loves other Japanese dishes and is a bigger fan of rolled omlettes than anything. He still fakes liking it when his dates taking him to sushi places, just to be polite.

Luca owns a pet Husky named Opus, that is just 3 years old. The little guy (who isn’t that small anymore) is Luca’s pride and joy. They two are a perfect match between master and friend, as Opus is as loyal and trained as Luca is particular and ridged. He often shows Opus off by letting him perform tricks like getting him a soda or letting him open his bedroom dorm for him.

Character Quote: “Just because you are soft doesn’t mean you are not a force. Honey and wildfire are both the color gold.”

WRITING SAMPLE

    Have you ever have déjà vu? That overwhelming feeling of familiarity; well think of that times ten and add a wicked head high to it and you can imagine Luca’s reaction to watching the scene in front of him ‘return’ to normal. His eyes flickered images of predictions, rapidly fliping ontop of one another like a frame by frame photo—like if stop animation had become his state. He watched a women that was about to drop her bag, drop it four different ways, each trailing like a streak of light with how the apples would fall (which was 80% more likely to fall over into the road than not). His brain felt short circuited, shaking his head. Each person or thing, whatever was in movement, spliced into several things…several decisions being produced. Watching birds fly to three different points on a tree, to seeing a car stop infront of an oblivious teen girl to then watching the chances of it hitting her too all in the matter of moments.

   He moved out from the street and into a little vintage shop, hoping to gain clarity and solitude for a moment. His head felt less dizzy after he rubbed his eyes a few times, wondering if he was drugged or not. It wasn’t until the clerk asked him if he needed help, which he swiftly dismissed with a shake of his head and off to a rack to breath. “What the fuck?” he thought, before wondering what had happened. He’d spend several hours after that wondering more and more, but simultaneously worried about why it felt so comfortable too. It didn’t feel like a drug, like a blanket you borrowed from a friend to use—it felt apart of him, like he spend days and weeks making a blanket only to use it intimately.

ANYTHING ELSE?

Favorite colour is probably slate but recently I’ve been digging forest green a ton.

Also more so I’ve missed you all and this RP a ton, and stoked that I have the time now to devote to it than I did last summer. I have my own computer, myown place, and a better work schedule (even if I’m still gonna travel more and camp more)

[mollymauk-teafleak]

The Seal Lullaby: Chapter 7

Next chapter is up! Its angsty as all hell so, y’know, brace yourselves.

Thanks so much to everyone whose supported me and given me feedback on this and just generally kept me going like my fantastic beta reader @minky-for-short whose just amazing as well as other just general phenomenal individuals like @childofdustandashes @purearcticfire @oversaturated-ocean @lookatvanessasface @brainypaperbullets @arya-durin-51 @kilocurican @hollywoodx4

Usually, while Eliza was at work and Alex was left in charge of Philip, he’d set him down in the little nest of blankets and pillows he’d constructed underneath his writing desk with some snacks and a substantial pile of storybooks, colours, blocks and Legs of course, the most important item, to nap and play and read as much as his little heart desired, knowing his Pops was right there above him if he needed anything. It would always make Alex smile more than a little, to be in the middle of transferring some prose that some academics were starting to worry was drug induced from his brain to the keys of the typewriter the man behind the desk at the antique store had let him have for a steal, seeing as the belt needed realigning. From there, the mechanism and ink would do as it would, beyond Alex’s control, either neatly and succinctly stamping out the scholastically fascinating contents of his brain or emitting a horrible shriek and burp of protest, sticking in any number of ways and usually dribbling ink down onto poor Philip’s little feet, necessitating Alex to take a break from being the postmodern nouveau poet so many literary magazines claimed him to be, instead sitting on the floor with a screwdriver between his teeth, unspooled paper clips in his hair ready for action and ink staining his fingers beyond the reach of less than five thorough showers.

But still he’d smile, whenever he’d be in the midst of it all, tapping some place of himself that had become muffled since he started walking on two legs, mining some deeper reaches of his soul that he was always careful to go anywhere near because the glimmering in its depths could sometimes be diamond and sometimes be broken glass, because even as he sighed and rubbed his aching fingers, he’d feel Philip’s warmth and comforting weight wrap around his legs, settle on his foot.

“Bounce please, Pops,” he’d chirrup happily.

And Alex would smile no matter how hard he’d been working, no matter what angry, brooding memories were making themselves known, he’d rock his leg, bouncing his little boy on his leg, usually with a raspy but cheery murmur of, “Blast off!”

And the slightly musty office, no matter how many times he opened a window, would ring with his bubbling laughter, usually followed by his father’s, a little wearier but no less happy.

Philip would never tell his Pops, it felt like too heavy a thing to just throw into casual conversation and the moment would never really feel right, but from those lazy days of his early childhood, Pip would always associate the heavy whirr and smack of a typewriter, the taste of peanut butter eaten straight from the jar, the acrid smell of ink, the words of A.A. Milne and the soft hum of the record player, though only on Fridays, with some of the happiest and warmest times of his entire life.

This only made it more of a shock, more of an affront, when the peace was disturbed one day.

Alex knew he and Pip wouldn’t get much more days like this. Soon Eliza would be taking her maternity leave and then soon after that the new baby would be here and the times to uncover some peace and quiet with his little boy would be few and far between.

So, when the first throaty roar of thunder made Pip squeak in fright from under the desk and made Alex’s fingers on the keys stumble so the word ‘shark’ became ‘sharpkm’ (which didn’t quite have the same feel to it and completely murdered his iambic pentameter), his first reaction was one of annoyance.

Oh, fuck off, his thoughts directed bitterly and the oncoming storm that he could now smell and feel in the hollows of his bones, he’d been too distracted by work and Philip to notice it before, of course you had to come along and ruin one of the last days. Go on and fuck yourself.

He was only thinking it so virulently because he’d wanted to take Philip down to the beach later, make sandcastles and play chicken with the incoming wave and make believe pirates or mermaids until they saw Eliza come walking over the crest of the hill, walking carefully and with one hand resting underneath the bulge in her coat, so they could run to her and greet her like always.

That’s all he’d been thinking. But, as it happened, his spitting at the storm turned out to be rather prophetic.

The first flash of lightning had passed them by but this one broke through their refuge, strong enough to negate the soft glow of the lamp and turn the world to a photographic negative for a heartbeat. It’s partner, the thunder, came soon after, as much of an assault on the ears as the lightning had been on the eyes.

“Oh no,” Alex sighed, trying to lighten his tone, trying to pretend that he couldn’t taste the burning rising in his throat, he’d been getting so much better at controlling it recently, he couldn’t let go, he couldn’t, not in front of Pip…

When he heard the tinny, terrified sobbing, he’d thought at first that his breathing exercises and anxiety management had failed him, like it had sometimes before, his body’s terror had broken through the walls he tried to hastily throw up and the tears had come without his knowledge.

But no, he realised, after a heartbeat’s worth of vertigo, his eyes were dry. It was Philip who was sobbing. Alex ducked under to see him curled up in as tight a ball as his little body could be made to form, hands bunched up tight in his curls, Legs crushed desperately in between his knees and his chest, skin a petrifying sallow pale, what could be seen of his face was shiny and wet.

Alex had always found the phrase ‘broken hearted’ to be a funny one. Hearts weren’t made of glass or porcelain or clay, nothing that could be broken. Hearts were meat and sinew, if anything they tore. They bruised. They throbbed with pain but they didn’t break.

Seeing his little Philip like this, Alex saw the truth in that phrase. Meat or not, it felt as if his heart had been shattered so viciously that nothing was left but dust. Like glass in too hot a kiln, burst into a million jagged parts.

“Oh,” he tried not to cry too obviously but that was an impossibility, “Oh Pip, buddy, it’s okay. It’s okay!”

But Philip seemed unable to hear him, all he cared about was the new flash of lightning and fresh litany of thunder roars, making him tremble all over like a cornered animal, clap his arms over his ears and scream thinly into the noise.

Alex remembered the night, the one that really didn’t seem all that long ago but looking at the size of Pip now it must have been an eternity ago, surely, he’d never been so small he could fit inside Eliza? But Alex remembered how even held in the safety of her body, poor Philip had panicked and writhed at the storm. It didn’t look like he’d been able to shed his fear in the nearly two years since.

But this time Alex could get to his son, he wasn’t in some abstract plane of half existence, he was here and Alex wasted no time in reaching below the desk, pulling Philip into his arms, rocking him.

“Shhh, Pip, I promise, it’s only a storm,” he murmured, fretfully as his hysterics continued, “It’s out there and we’re in here and it can’t hurt us, I swear. Oh buddy…”

Philip’s sobbing continued like it was never going to let up, clutching his cloth giraffe so tightly that his knuckles went white.

Sometimes Alex didn’t think any of his Selkie blood had touched his son. He just looked like a normal little boy, a sweet thing with big eyes and an easy smile like any well loved and protected human child, only having inherited his father’s nose and coppery skin. But every now and again he’d be sharply reminded.

This was one of those times. In every harsh, furious flare of lightning, his baby’s eyes would look almost totally black, animalistic, the shadows that fell across his face could be mistaken for whiskers almost, for the length of a terrified heartbeat, his teeth seemed to sharpen almost on sight, refracting the glare in a way no human tooth, no tooth that wasn’t filed to a point, would, his face shape seemed…wrong.

Alex gave a low, tortured moan, showing no revulsion though he couldn’t promise that he didn’t feel any, he couldn’t tell. All he did was bundle Philip closer to him, pressing his lips to his clammy forehead, stroking his mussed-up curls, whispering that it would be okay, it would, nothing here could hurt him. His Pops would protect him.

But he didn’t believe him.

That hurt a hell of a lot more than he wanted to admit.

Alex tried every trick he knew to soothe his little boy, making Legs talk in the cheery, high pitched little voice that usually had Pip giggling away, bouncing his curls, pulling faces. He even kissed the bridge of his nose in light, flurrying pecks, right over the little birthmark that looks as if someone had splattered a little strawberry juice or plum flesh over his son’s little face. He remembered how Pip used to wonder how the mark had gotten there, standing on the little step in the bathroom so he could reach the sink and brush his teeth, looking in the mirror and rubbing at it with a confused expression. The explanation Alex had carefully chosen to give him (having no idea how birthmarks formed in the first place) was that silly Pops must have kissed him too many times in one place when he was an even littler thing than he was now, staining that little patch of skin with too much love. Eliza had snorted into her teacup when she’d heard this, involuntarily of course, requiring a sharp look from Alex not to blow this for him, please. But Philip had puffed up his chest like the pride flooding there had been a physical thing, taking up too much room to be contained in what space there was in his little ribcage. Since then, Philip had always requested kisses on his birthmark, like it was some special place, a mark of affection right there on his skin.

Alex had realised a few days later that he’d lied to his son.

He’d been lying in bed on top of the covers, naked and sweating slightly, with Eliza tangled around his body, resting her head on his chest while his thumb stroked along the line of her eyebrow tenderly, hazily examining the trail of his own birthmarks, the ones that blotched his hips and ran a trail right down to his ankle, the ones that pattered along his spine to end at the juncture of his thighs (the ones Eliza always teased him were her little landing strip). He’d been wondering in a listless, vague kind of way, demoting the thoughts to a back part of his brain while the rest concentrated more on the frankly delicious taste still lingering in his mouth and the press of Eliza’s breasts against his side and, as the way often goes, it was this back, dim part of the brain that produced the revelation.

Something had always nagged him about his birthmarks. And he saw it then, finally. They corresponded perfectly, to an exact far too precise to just be a quirk of happenstance, to the dapples and patches of darker fur that decorated his coat in another body.  

The link, small and almost unnoticed by him but there all the same, had sent something cold and skittering running through his tendons and sinews.

But even that paled in comparison to the realisation that came now, in the moment he held his terrified, shaking son while the storm roared at them.  

Philip’s birthmark. Alex knew in that moment that it was no normal collection of abnormal pigment cells (he’d looked it up later). He knew that somewhere, on the pelt that Philip didn’t have but could have, if he wanted it, if Alex could face what needed to be done, there would be a darker patch of fur on the hood that, when swept around his little boy’s shoulders, would transfer to a blotch of black or maybe blue or maybe even white on the muzzle.

Alex recoiled from the thought. He didn’t want to imagine Philip having a muzzle. He didn’t want to imagine him with a pelt. He didn’t want to imagine him feeling the pull of the sea, slipping his own pelt around him, changing, becoming like liquid and then solidifying, swimming away into some dark, jagged horizon. Beyond the reach of him or Eliza.

He couldn’t bear the thought. He couldn’t bear the thought of it happening, or the thought of him enabling it, as he knew he would if it were asked of him. Those kinds of instincts were buried too deep to fight against.

But it might just kill him to do it.

Alex found himself hugging Philip even tighter. He knew what he’d done to soothe him last time the storms had caused such a fright in him, the words to the song that had settled him were ready and waiting, curled around his brain like a dozing snake. But it was like he couldn’t quite make the motion to let them loose, he couldn’t take that jump. Like it was something poisonous in the truest sense, like it would only help to make the imaginary divide between him and his son turn as real and as impassable as it was in his nightmares.

He waited a beat too long. He was so close but as he parted his lips, another, somehow stronger and more livid burst of lightning filled the room, like whatever point such grim explosions originated from was only drawing nearer and nearer, until it would get so close as to consume them completely. Philip screamed louder, so loud that in the flash he looked like the Edvard Munch painting that had unnerved Alex so much when he first came across it all those years ago in Eliza’s room at her parents’ beach house, in one of the many art history books she loved, that he’d shut the book immediately and set a potted plant on top of it, as if to prevent that misshapen creature, who he both was disgusted by and identified with to the same degree, from climbing out. In this stunned moment of Alex’s, Philip’s blind panic took over his little limbs and suddenly he wasn’t in his father’s arms at all but falling, propelled by pure fear, landing on the carpet and fleeing from the room as fast as he could. Which was faster than any fully human three year old would have managed.

“Pip!” Alex yelped in shock, and a little bit hurt, “Pip, no!”

Philip wasn’t sure where exactly he was running to, he couldn’t hear his Pops’ voice over the alarm bells in his ears. All he did know was that the horror chasing him was there so he needed to be not there. Wherever that was, wherever the lights and the roars couldn’t reach him.

He didn’t know where to go, the light just seemed to be everywhere, up every wall, in every usually shadowed corner, even in the red, veined space behind his eyes. It hurt every single part of him, too loud, too bright, too angry, too everything. And there was nowhere he could go to get away from it, he was just running further into it with every corner he turned.

But then he heard the sea.

Alex threw himself into the hallway but Philip was already gone. But gone which way, this cottage was a relic, a maze of sharp turns and un-sanded floors? Alex cursed sharply under his breath, calling, “Philip! Pip, buddy, come on, everything’s okay. Please don’t do this…”

He went to his room, the one he’d insisted on taking because it would be next to the new baby’s room and he wanted to keep an eye on his little sibling in case they couldn’t sleep. But he wasn’t there, not in the little hammock Alex had rigged up for him with an old sheet and some rope, not wrapped up in the blanket Eliza had made for him, stitched with lions, naturally. Alex ran down the hall, panic now throbbing through his veins like his blood was suddenly almost too thick to flow properly. But Philip wasn’t in the bathroom either, he loved his baths and showers, it was like he couldn’t get enough of the water but he wasn’t there now. He wasn’t in the kitchen or the living room, as Alex checked each room and each time he saw no Philip, the panic rose to almost choking levels. He was silently begging gods he’d only ever read about in books that he wouldn’t suddenly stumble across the front door wide open, a window cracked or so many of the increasingly hideous ideas that were clamouring for space in his brain.

One last room, one last chance.

Alex hadn’t thought Pip would go to his and Eliza’s room, he’d been going through a phase of being a ‘big grown up boy’ and apparently big grown up boys didn’t need to come running to their mama and Pops’ room.

But clearly such laws of nature didn’t apply during storms, Alex heard Philip’s hitching sobs from behind the door that never fully closed because it was warped and because either Alex or Eliza had been thrown against it one too many times.

Alex was caught between wanting to cling to Philip desperately and having to force himself to give his little boy space, crowding him would only push him away further. He pushed back the door slowly, immediately getting to his hands and knees, keeping low and quiet, shutting the door behind him so the storm could stay on the other side. Hopefully.

“Pip?” he called softly, he could hear the broken little whimpers and sniffles coming from behind the other side of the bed, “Philip, I’m sorry, I know you’re scared but it’s okay. It’s only the weather, just rain and wind. You like the rain, remember? There’ll be puddles, after, we can go splash in puddles…”

Alex could hear how thin and reedy with stress his own voice was, so far from the gentle, comforting tone he wanted. God, he wasn’t built for this, where was Eliza? He couldn’t even comfort his own son…

“M’scared, Pops,” he heard Philip’s voice, he couldn’t believe the miserable croak came from the little boy he knew, the one with the sun in his voice that always seemed to make Alex feel a little warmer. A little bit of a better person.

“Oh no, Philip…” Alex looked around the edge of the bed, not caring about his qualifications to deal with this anymore, he had to try at least.

He stopped dead, recoiling a little in spite of himself.

“Philip…”

He’d thought the chest had been locked. In fact, he knew it was, it had been him that locked it, a week ago when an argument with a stressed, tired and hormonal Eliza had put the wanderlust back in his heart. He’d felt it; the stirring, the whispering in his ear like the ringing aftershock of an explosion. It always rose in the moments he was at his lowest, telling him that he wasn’t supposed to be here, he didn’t belong, it would be better for everyone if he just left. But, like always, he’d fought it. He’d gone and clicked shut the padlock that had come with the old trunk but was rarely necessary, hissing in pain as it had shut and nipped his thumb, making blood bead there. He’d sucked at the wound, tasting the salt and feeling better for it. It wasn’t seawater in his veins. Just blood. Only blood. He’d left the room, key kept as always in Eliza’s jewellery box, he’d gone and apologised to his wife, been apologised to in turn, hugged and kissed and comforted. And he’d forgotten the whole thing.

But that chest had been locked, it definitely had been locked.

And yet despite the evidence of the fading scar on his right thumb and the remembered ghostly tang of blood on his tongue, there Philip was, wrapped in his father’s sealskin like it was his safety blanket, like it was a talisman keeping back the storm.

A bone deep shiver made itself known in him, a hollowing at the pit of his stomach, as he watched Philip run his little fingers over the fur, the way he stroked his little cloth giraffe. He noted with a sick feeling, rather than anything close to relief, that his little boy’s fear was fading the further he retreated into the skin. The colour was coming back to his ashy face, his curls were even lifting a little, his eyes were turning back to their usual brightness. There was another growl of thunder from behind the heavy curtains and the door, the storm a threatening presence right on top of them, and Philip didn’t even notice.

Anything Alex had seen in that terrifying split second, in the glare of the lightning, was far away. Almost like he could believe it had never been there.

But Alex was only feeling worse.

“I can hear the sea, Pops,” his voice was only bewildered now, a little awed, back to sounding like a child rather than a cornered animal. There was even a smile growing, “It’s here!”

Alex tried to smile back, trying to share his enthusiasm even as the sound of the blood pounding through his temples in a panicked rush made him nauseated.

He could hear the sea too. Of course he could, his pelt was right there. Wrapped around his son. Every note of the low, ancient song that was currently echoing through Philip’s ears, Alex heard it too. He wondered if Philip was realising where his lullabies came from, where the affectionate words his Pops would whisper to him to calm him down came from, where his own love of collecting the smooth pebbles that fringed the beach came from, where his little quirk of always getting sleepy when it rained, like the sound itself soothed him. Alex wondered.

He feared that Philip was realising where he belonged. Not in his father’s arms. In a seal pelt.

Alex opened his mouth, to do or say what he had no idea. Anything. Anything at all that would get the thing away from him, back in the box where no one could get at it, where Philip could forget about it, never wonder, never feel caught between two worlds, pulled between two species like his father was. To keep him here.

No.

Alex shook himself, his jaw snapping shut with a sense of finality. The dry, resolute sound of a difficult decision being made.

Philip was happy. He wasn’t scared anymore. That was what Alex was supposed to want, whatever the cost. The guilt won out over the fear.

“That mean old storm can’t get you in here, can it?” he managed a wan smile, “All safe and sound.”

Philip, looking like someone swimming in a pool of silver wrapped up in the cloak of skin that was much too big for him, brightened and nodded like his father’s words were confirmation of what he’d hoped. He freed his hands, reaching for Alex, wanting him to come and join him under this amazing magic blanket he’d just found, exactly like they did on Saturday mornings, reading under the duvet on Mama and Pops’ bed.

Alex hesitated, not sure how to explain this, his hesitation. He and Eliza hadn’t broached the subject of Philip’s dual heritage, deciding to not…hide anything from him exactly, that would be wrong, but also not to state it explicitly. Not until he old enough to understand some of the more complicated parts of it.

And this felt very complicated.

Which left him with no choice but to not hesitate.

“See?” Alex murmured, pulling Philip onto his lap, swinging the pelt around his shoulders so it draped around both of them.

It still fit. Nearly three years and it still fit. He didn’t know why he should be surprised by that but still, it startled him.

All it would take would be one shift of his shoulders, a sensation like the un-focusing of the eyes and he’d be there. Problems would become simple again, shrunk down to the simple and understandable concept of staying alive. A basic directive, followed easily by instinct alone, and no consequences to anyone but him if he failed. No lives entangled with his.  No emotions to be wrestled with every day before you could do anything as basic as going to sleep. An odd juxtaposition of hard and easy. Maybe not easy, not exactly. But shallow.

“Nice and safe,” Pip chirruped suddenly, interrupting his Pops’ train of thought. In the slightly disjointed intonation of little kids, it sounded more like ‘My sand ‘afe.”

“Yeah, buddy,” Alex kissed the top of his head, finding a lot of comfort in the way he smelled, like brown sugar and peanut butter and blueberry soap, “Nice and safe.”

“Like Pops promised,” Philip beamed, craning his neck back to look at Alex.

Alex blinked, feeling enough emotion in that moment to choke him. It hurt but a hurt that was necessary, that was wanted, like bright sunlight in the eyes after walking from a dark room, the sting of a removed splinter, the ache in restricted muscles finally being able to move.

“I’ll always keep my promises to you, lion cub. You know that, right?” he hoped Philip didn’t notice the way his voice trembled.

He didn’t seem to. He nodded enthusiastically, curling more into his lap, face buried against his chest, “I know, Pops.”

Alex closed his eyes, winding his arms around his son, listening to the now distant rolling of the storm though whether it was by distance or the pelt drowning it out, he didn’t know. Either way, he pushed it far out of his mind, what he focused on was Philip’s thoughtful breathing, the way he hummed the theme song to his favourite cartoon under this breath.

He didn’t know where the song came from, he never did. It came from somewhere at the very root of him, like it was always running through him but he only drifted in and out of its current. It was nothing with a start and an end, it was more like a living thing. A living, breathing prayer, part of his DNA, the frequency at which his bones reverberated. Singing it for Eliza in the moments when she needed it, for their unborn child when they would refuse to settle even when their mother wanted to sleep, for Philip when he’d broken his wrist and had been forced to face one of his biggest terrors- the hospital. In those moments, singing it felt more like offering them something of himself, taking a deep, generous handful of whatever opalescent black soil lined the edges of his soul and giving it to them.

But it was worth it. A few bars in of the haunting, sloping melody, ran through Alex’s careful hands to fit what he needed it to, right now he needed it to be warm, full of promise and protection, and Philip closed his eyes, a happy smile on his face. He didn’t sleep but there was no more fear in his heart; it had barely left a mark.

It was the front door rapidly opening and banging shut, Eliza’s worried, fearful voice calling for her boys, that woke them out of the song, that had somehow flowed and changed to incorporate the old game of counting the beats between each lightning flash and thunder clap to follow the progress of the storm as it disappeared into the horizon.

“Alex? Philip?” she panted a little as she threw her soaked coat carelessly over the sofa, not caring that she was dripping rainwater onto the carpet, tracking mud, only cursing her body preventing her from darting up the stairs as fast as she wanted to.

Eliza had been worried to the point of nausea since the storm first hit in the middle of her final period French class. Her friend, Maria, the lady who taught in the classroom next to hers had been forced to drag her back from the door, insisting that there was no way anyone was going anywhere in a storm like that, least of all the seven-month pregnant Eliza. So, she’d been forced to pace restlessly this entire time, knowing in the very depths of herself that her boys were scared and needed her.

She gave a small, dry sob of relief when she heard their son’s voice from the bedroom, his flurry of excited, “Mama, mama, mama!”

It took nearly everything Eliza had not to give a cry of surprise at the sight of Alex, what was unmistakably his pelt around his shoulders, Philip in his arms. The answers to what she found, that flashed into her mind before she could think properly, would shame her when she remembered them later that night.

As soon as they found their skins, found where they were locked away, they would take them and run back to the sea…

But then Philip was at her shins, clinging on for dear life, chattering animatedly already about how scary the storm had been, how Pops had protected him, wasn’t it loud, is the new baby scared? Eliza murmured answered, petting his hair, but her gaze was fixed on Alex who had whipped the skin from his shoulders, as fast as if it’s touch burned him, back in the trunk and locked again with the kind of loud thud that couldn’t be argued with.

Once Philip had run out of the room (to go splash in puddles, like Pops said), Alex made an attempt at giving Eliza their usual greeting like nothing at all was out of the ordinary but his voice broke halfway through asking her is she needed him to rub her ankles and he began to cry. Eliza was ready, holding him, rocking him, not needing to ask; she’d pieced it together herself.

The tears lasted a while, but just like the storm outside it did pass. What seemed endless, insurmountable, did pass.

Alex had been rereading all the parenting books he’d picked up the first time around, when Pip wasn’t Pip but a concept, half to make sure any information that may have escaped the as yet boundary-less fields of his mind, partly to revel in the excitement of having another little baby to meet. And they all made it clear that parenting was hard, there would always be struggles and trials and exhaustion.

Alex remembered this and gave a shaky sigh into Eliza’s shoulder, prompting her to rub circles across his back soothingly.

Whoever wrote those books had no idea.

-

Angelica seemed like such a grand name for such a tiny thing.

Alex found himself having to balance these two ideas in his head, that of his sister in law, intimidating and commanding when she wanted to be, warm and playful and witty when she wasn’t being anyone but herself. And his new daughter, who he had laid lengthways across his lap, head gently supported in his hands that had finally stopped trembling a few minutes ago. This new little Angelica who he didn’t know yet but even know after the first hour or so of her life, he ached to know everything, every single little detail of who she would be, what was and wasn’t yet determined about her personality; how she’d smile, whether she’d like mornings or not, what movies she’d prefer, whether she’d fall in love, what colours would suit her, allergies, fears, nightmares, hopes. Everything Alex had given her, everything Eliza had given her and everything that would come from just herself, no one else.

Alex wept silently as he held her, his thumbs running across the tight, damp curls at the nape of her neck, watching the sunlight fall on half of her face but not wake her, just illuminate her skin. She was darker than Philip, more of his colours than Eliza’s.

Getting her here had been hard, worse than last time, proving that the old adages of practise makes perfect and fortune favours the prepared mind were bullshit. But she was here, their little Angie, who wore another person’s name but would become entirely her own person.

Alex couldn’t wait to meet her. Already, he was reeling with love.

He was usually good at picking up Eliza’s moods, reacting and adapting to them without needing prompting. It was part of his instinct, the way he could smell the state of the tide in the air or could hear bad weather before it materialised on the horizon. But today he was exhausted, he was overwhelmed and his senses staggering under the weight of a new world.

So, only today, he didn’t intuitively turn to see Eliza standing in the doorway, leaning against it as her legs trembled, fingers bunched up anxiously in the towel wrapped around her body. She’d washed away the sweat and blood and agony, sluiced it from her skin and down the shower drain in a tide of soap (Alex’s body wash, she always used that when she needed comforting so her skin would smell like his). But there was a gap in the bottom of her stomach now, a hollowness and want, the dazed uncertainty of her body unbalanced and wrongly shaped. And an exhaustion that ran too deep for words.

It was all of this that left her unable to fight back the fears that had been rising in her ever since the day of the storm. She was going to say it. As much as she knew that it wasn’t a good idea, she was still going to say it.

“Eliza!” Alex hissed, the excitement in his voice meaning it only just stopped short enough to still be called a whisper, “Eliza, look, she does the little eyelid flutter thing Philip does!”

Eliza tried for a smile, leaving ghosts of footprints as she padded across the room to gingerly sit on the bed beside her husband. The smile became something real only when she gazed down at her daughter’s face. She knew she wasn’t supposed to care but she’d sobbed with joy when Alex had bewilderedly told her it was a girl, clutching her to her chest and trembling with a joy that could only be expressed with near hysterical bawling.

She was too beautiful for words, their little Angie. Eliza thought that she’d keep her hair short for as long as her baby girl would allow it; she could see now, in the fresh, moony face of her hours old child, the bob of raven wing hair she’d grow to have, a colour so indefinable that it transcended such common or garden words as black, holding blues and greys and deep purples in it, given the right light. It would frame the sleek, defined face she would grow into- her father’s face, in a lot of ways- and highlight the dusting of freckles Eliza knew by some primordial maternal instinct would dust her long nose.

“She’s just gorgeous, isn’t she?” Alex beamed, the tears catching the dawn light filtering in through the windows as he repeated the words he’d already said again and again but they were still just as true, “I mean, Eliza, baby, she’s so perfect.”

“I know,” Eliza whispered, leaning against Alex’s shoulder so she could softly cup Angie’s sleeping face, prompting the little thing to lean into her mama’s warm palm.

Alex didn’t understand why their new daughter couldn’t just sleep in his arms but Eliza pointed out the way his own head kept nodding and the bruises under his own eyes, finally convincing him to set little Angie down in her bassinet by their bed so they could get to stealing whatever minutes of sleep they’d be allowed until she woke up.

Maybe she wouldn’t say it, Eliza thought, as she watched Alex’s back, the muscles moving in waves under his copper skin as he set Angie down, pulling the blanket over her and tucking her in so close and safe. Maybe she’d regained enough of her control to swallow back the words, after all, this was one of the most perfect and beautiful moments of her entire life. She didn’t need to say it.

But then her eyes drifted down to the run of birthmarks along Alex’s lower back, that travelled down the prominent ridges of his spine and disappeared under the waistband of his shorts. He’d told her what he’d realised about those birthmarks and she found herself hating them, they that dared to run down below that dark fabric and touch the part of Alex’s body that belonged to her as much as it did him, that she’d marked out and mapped with her hands and her mouth so carefully. Poisoning that so beloved part of him with memories of awful times and the possibility of heartbreak and loss. Reminding her of everything that had dared to hurt the man she loved.

And how the man she loved could hurt her.

Eliza knew with even harsher, granite carved certainty, that she was going to ask it. She had to know, in this moment as much as any. So, she could know for sure whether such perfect and precious moments were numbered.

Alex noticed then, and realised with a stab of guilt that he’d missed it before, when he turned expecting to see Eliza’s smiling face, her expression mirroring his own, but instead saw her fighting back tears.

“Baby?” he murmured, his heart sinking, scrambling over and kneeling before her, holding her face in his hands, “What’s wrong? Does it hurt?”

It did hurt, it hurt in a million different ways, but Eliza shook her head. The tears were undeniable now, now that Alex had seen it too.

“I just…” as inevitably as she’d accepted the words, now her tongue felt heavy and swollen and unmalleable.

Alex blinked, it dawning on him that this wasn’t merely that her torn and bruised and exhausted body needing some love and affection and sweet words, the ones that had been crowding at the back of his tongue all day and he would give freely and devotedly.

Eliza saw his expression and it only made her cry more, “It’s just…everything you said, what happened to your mother…the storm…”

Alex looked taken aback, “It was a long time ago, Eliza…”

Then was history repeating itself?

“But…I saw the way you…with Philip,” she managed to choke up just enough of the words for Alex to piece it together and know what she was talking about.

“I was only trying to comfort him, I swear,” panic leeched into his voice, “I felt nothing, I swear! That’s the first time I’ve put it on in years!”

Eliza’s jaw slacked a little and she caught his shoulders, shaking her head frantically, seeing him veer off the path she was trying to describe, “No! No, no, no….”

Angie stirred behind Alex, making them both jump. Just a sleepy huff and slight squawk before snuggling further into her swaddling and going back to sleep, but her parents both stiffened. Eliza sighed silently, placing a finger to her lips and getting up. Even confused, even scared, Alex moved swiftly to help her, supporting her hips where most of the ache was concentrated, her back which yowled painfully when asked to prop up the weight of her body.

They found themselves in the nursery, neither of them quite sure which of them had made the decision to come here, in his brightly painted room that would become Angie’s when she was old enough, still decorated lovingly as it had been for Philip. Maybe it was knowing the baby monitor standing sentinel on the bookcase would let them know if their daughter’s sleep was disturbed and she needed them. Maybe it was something else.

“Eliza, I promise, I…whatever that looked like, I don’t want to go, I’m not…” Alex scrabbled at his words, eyes wide with fear, not knowing what he should take back but wanting to do it so badly blood beat behind his eyeballs and made his vision swim.

Face wet with tears and lined with tiredness and sorrow, Eliza placed her palms on his chest, their universal gesture for calm down. Listen. I will explain. Trust me.

“Alexander,” she pulled the last scraps of his focus back to her with all four syllables of his name, “It isn’t that, I’m not…accusing you. I just want to know.”

“Know what?” Alex looked helpless, taking hold of her wrists.

Eliza’s mouth twisted bitterly, hating this, hating herself, hating that she just couldn’t have her Alex without needing to needle and question and worry. Her forehead dropped to his chest and she nearly wailed, “What that awful man did to your mother, stranding her, forcing her to stay on land…is that what I’m doing to you?”

Alex staggered a little, eyes widening.

“Oh no…” he breathed, not as an answer per se but at the realisation of how long Eliza had been carrying this fear like calcification on her heart, like something pressing too tight on her neck that couldn’t be loosened.

Eliza sniffled miserably, “Am I doing wrong by making you stay here, am I hurting you? You sounded so angry at what he did to your mother, I get that there’s nothing worse you can do to a Selkie, if I knew that I was putting you through that pain I couldn’t live with myself. Oh Alex…”

“Shh,” Alex soothed, hands coming up to run through her hair, damp from the shower, “Eliza. Oh god, my beautiful Eliza. No, listen…”

He gently placed his fingers under her chin and lifted her swimming eyes to his own. There was no insistence in the movement but Eliza went willingly.

“Eliza, you and I could not be more different,” he gasped in a trembling voice, “Baby, you didn’t take my skin, look, it’s right there, I could have it back any time I wanted! You made that so clear.”

“But…” Eliza bit her lower lip, she knew how Alex felt the pull sometimes, how he had to use all these tricks and coping mechanisms to fight against it. Surely none of that would be necessary if she wasn’t chaining him here?

Alex shook his head, running his thumb along her bottom lip line, seeing the thought gaining purchase behind her eyes and shrugging it off before the words could even leave her tongue.

“Eliza Hamilton,” there was firmness and promise in the way he spoke now, “I gave you my skin. It’s hardly even mine any more, it’s ours. Being here, this life with you, it scares me sometimes but you make it so worth it, it’s barely even a thing I consider these days. Nothing keeps me here but my own choice. My choice to be happy.”

As much as her self-doubt was roaring, that tone, the look in his eyes couldn’t be argued with. There wasn’t a shred of reservation, Alex at his most open and certain and real.

“I mean,” Alex huffed out a slightly hysterical laugh, “Look at what I have here! Look at what you’ve given me, Philip, Angie…Eliza, you are my life. They are my life. Where else would I want to be but right here?”

Eliza’s lower lip trembled but she let it, her tears held only relief now. Relief and delight as she had it confirmed for her that she was giving Alex the happy, safe life she’d always hoped she was.

Alex relaxed, smiling through his own tears, “There is something worse you can do to a Selkie, other than take their skin. You can keep them away from their mate. And Betsey, believe me, nothing- nothing- is going to keep me away from you.”

Eliza threw her arms around his neck, clinging to him as she sobbed. Over and over again she whispered the words, I love you, I love you, I love you, as he hugged her back, covered her salt tinged skin with kisses, pressed her to him, as he carried her back to bed and lay with her, his body curled around hers protectively, his grip never slackening even in sleep.