#So meet Flash; Spark; and Phantom in that order!

[ars-daemonum]

Sinnoh Trio

[duskandstarlight]

Embers & Light (Chapter 30)

Notes: Well, it's here... the chapter you have all been waiting for. I can only hope that you like it and that it tugs at your heartstrings. This is my Valentine's day gift to all my wonderful readers who have stuck with me for thirty chapters for... this, I imagine. It's a start—a beginning for these two—as they step into something new. As usual, forgive any typos and I intend to reply to every one of you who commented on the last chapter. I'm so sorry for the delay in replying, things have been a bit crazy on my end, but I appreciate every single one of you.

ACOSF in two days...! And because I am desperately trying to keep spoiler free, please don't mention any snippets you may have received beyond SJM's teasers. That includes the leaked chapters—please keep it to yourself but of course, let me know what you think of the chapter and my inbox is open for any of you wanting to speak to me spoiler-free. Thank you so much <3

Chapter Thirty Cassian  

Pure, undiluted rage burned inside of Cassian. It roared, drowning everything out as he landed to a blood bath of winged males impaled with pine needles, charred ashen bodies and the evidence of killing blows. But Cassian only registered them because of the years of training that had been drummed into him to catalogue and analyse his surroundings.

His hands wielded twin swords as if they were an extension of who he was but his legs… they moved of their own accord, racing towards the opening of the cave without him asking them to. Towards that scent that Cassian had no problem detecting above the blood and shit and gore.

Behind him, Lorrian swore as they stepped over the threshold of the cave’s entrance, their siphons flashing and flaring to find rusty cages lining the walls and a pit of blood in the centre. The awful images of dirty abused girls registered as Cassian desperately scanned the cave—until his eyes fell on Nesta’s back. Her leathers were streaked in red and she was kneeling in a pool of blood before an injured girl who was wreathed in that wondrous, singing light.

Frawley appeared beside them in a swirl of smoke, moving in that way she often did that hinted she was more element than being, stopping them in their tracks a few feet away.

“What took you so long,” Frawley snapped to Cassian, one blue eye boring into him whilst the other flicked to Lorrian at his side, as if her attention could not help but be drawn to her husband. “Get Nesta out of the trance—now. Pull on that damned cord, do whatever you need to do. She channelled her energy from the fear and despair, but her body is dropping into exhaustion. She’s going to crash earlier than expected. We haven’t trained for this. Only you—”

Frawley’s voice tuned out as the crack of Cassian’s knee-caps jarred his body as he hit the rocky floor. Wet seeped through Cassian’s leathers, courtesy of the pool of fresh blood coming from the dead male to Cassian’s right, but he barely registered. He was too busy detecting the stale scent of arousal and death and cruelty. This was a male had no doubt stuck his cock where it did not belong and caused unimaginable harm to innocent, defenceless girls as they cried and struggled.

Anger soared into the snow ruffled peaks of Cassian’s fury at the thought and the cave… it quaked in response.

“Don’t bring the cave down as you do it.” Frawley’s words bit through him, her voice wholly ancient—too like Amren’s. “Put a leash on it otherwise we’ll be buried in rubble.”

It was easier said than done to reign in that snarling beast. But then time seemed to—change. From the moment Cassian pressed his back to Nesta’s and hoarsely began to chant her name, everything blurred and tumbled. As Cassian’s eyes shut of their own accord, the cave became as dark and depthless as a night sky devoid of starlight. As Cassian was pulled deep within himself, sucked inwards by a vacuum he had no control over.

The black Cassian spiralled down towards was as thick as tar, but to his right, a shadowed veil rippled in an invisible wind. It chanted in tandem with the screaming in his mind, that one word repeated over and over and over—a mate calling to its mate. A male calling to their beloved and hoping they were enough.

That beautiful healing lullaby had started to miss the right notes, the music falling into something off-kilter and gut-wrenchingly wrong. Panic rose like bile in Cassian’s throat and he reached for that twisted rope, and, without hesitating or second guessing himself, he tugged on it with all of his might.

The resounding crack and splinter in Cassian’s ears was awful. Pain threw itself down that bond and into the heart of his chest. And then, for a beat as that pain ebbed away, there was nothing… Even the healing music stopped. The quiet was so eerie Cassian could only hear his heart beating wildly in his ears. But then he felt it: fiery strength and steely determination. A light travelling down that tether to meet his, scenting of jasmine and vanilla—of Nesta.

Then Cassian was thrown outwards and his eyes opened to find the cave bleeding back into focus and that enthralling power dying at Nesta’s hands. Her magic dropped with such suddenness that she lost balance and careened backwards into his chest. The jolt had the world tilting again, but Cassian scrambled to collect himself, encasing Nesta safely in wings and arms.

By the time those smoky blue eyes snapped open and stared up at him, Cassian was already ferociously scanning Nesta’s body for injury. He catalogued every cut and scrape, every smear of blood. He turned her hands over in his to find them stained red. There was so much death on Nesta’s hands if the charred remains and bodies impaled with fiery weapons were anything to go by. This strong, sharp female fighting for what was right—to fight for those who could not defend themselves, even as it sent her spiralling into the darkest of places.

And Cassian knew it had effected her in unthinkable ways. Knew as he stared into those beautiful eyes that had held such life in the past month and found her pupils blown wide and unseeing. Felt the churning emotions that Nesta was too overwhelmed to keep in check as they hurtled down that bond between them. Frozen wrath and terror and agony. Each sensation a double-edged sword as it was plunged into the gut, over and over.

Fury clambered inside of Cassian at the injustice of Nesta’s magic. That not only was she burdened with the tireless task of keeping a check on her own heightened emotions, but others as well. Constantly monitoring them day in and day out so they did not become too much—so they did not swell and spill over the wall she had resurrected for herself. The wall that had been lowered so it was waist-high rather than a fortress—so she was not doomed to float through life numb and unfeeling and at a distance from others.

Understanding all of that—the sacrifice and burden Nesta carried—had the cave shaking again as Cassian ordered Nesta to put her walls up. Loose pebbles and dust rained down from the ceiling, and in the periphery, Cassian heard Lorrian swear and Frawley hiss, but that anger… he couldn’t control it. It was white hot and sizzling, boiling his blood and making his power itch. His siphons hadn’t stopped flaring since he’d first felt Nesta roaring down that bond and he’d known something was dreadfully, knee-tremblingly wrong. He and Lorrian had torn through the sky as he followed that invisible tie wreathed in light—emerald and ruby shooting stars tracking their way across the sky.

And now… that anger that had been pushing against his skin was morphing into something truly terrible—the monster who became consumed by blood lust. Just as he had that day when he’d slaughtered and tortured all of the males at the Spearhead camp—

A hand rested on Cassian’s cheek, cutting through that urge to massacre and ask questions later. The touch was grounding and so unquestionably right that he leant into that blood splattered palm, relishing in the cool, slim fingers which cut through that fire.

“Walls up, Nesta,” Cassian ordered, as he felt those talons hooking deep inside of her, clawing at her, tugging her down into the oily depths where he could not reach her. He watched those eyes glaze over until they were hollow, and even though that bond was open, everything went so unearthly quiet that Cassian would have thought some vital connection had been severed if it wasn’t for the faintest glimmer of her that sparked in the gloomy dark.

Everything moved too fast after that. And the entire time Nesta walked around the cave and clearing like a phantom ghost, even as she held her hands out to assist Frawley in healing any urgent injuries.

“We need a support unit or we need to get out,” Lorrian said roughly in Cassian’s ear, as together they surveyed the bastard tied to the tree. Nesta’s bindings still glowed silver and the bastard’s head hung limp against his chest from where Cassian had knocked him out.

“Frawley can cast a shield over this place so nobody can get in or out without our say so,” Lorrian continued, “but I don’t doubt that Ironcrest will have warriors out searching for us. Not after we left so abruptly without informing anybody of where we were going. I bet the first thing Rufous did was send a messenger straight to Marsh or Kallon. I suggest we leave and come back tomorrow with males we can trust to search the place.”

Kallon—the prince who none of them had seen all day. Not even in the sparring ring. And whilst Marsh hadn’t made an appearance, it was the latter that sent warning bells ringing in Cassian’s head. Something about it was off. All of them could all sense it, but right now there were bigger matters at hand. Namely what to do with the females.

“Can you host the girls at the cottage?” Cassian asked his friend. From the girls that had been able to speak, it was clear that all of them apart from Samra and Ailie had no parents to speak of. “Set up makeshift accommodation until we decide what we need to do?”

It was dangerous territory they were stepping into. A statement and the beginnings of power-play to take females from a camp, even if it was for their safety. Lesser actions had started wars between the clans, but Cassian would not stand by. Rhys wouldn’t either. Especially not when the males were wearing bands around their arms that Cassian was certain belonged to the rebellion.

“Of course we can,” Frawley announced as she came up beside them. Nesta and Sala were close behind. The manticore had stuck to Nesta like a shadow since Cassian had arrived, as if she too could sense that Nesta was far, far away. “It will be quicker if I channel us to the cottage.”

Lorrian was frowning with concern. “All at once?”

“Needs must,” Frawley clipped, but she did not meet her husband’s eye. “It will drain me after I cast a shield but I can do it. It does mean that I won’t be able to channel you and Nesta back to Windhaven. There won’t be room—”

“That’s fine,” Cassian interjected, with a quick cut of his hand through the air. “We’ll fly from the Steppes.”

“I can help.” It was the first time Nesta had spoken in a long while and it came out as a rasp. “I still have some magic left—to help heal the girls. I can heal their wings.”

Terror gripped at Cassian’s gut but he would not tell Nesta no. He wouldn’t take this from her—her ability to heal and bring life rather than take it away. Even though Cassian was tired, he could feel the whisper of Nesta’s magic churning back to life, no doubt fuelled from the sickening history that had seeped into the landscape.

Those eyes slid to Cassian as her chin tilted upwards. And although there was a fierceness to Nesta’s expression, something was missing, as if she wasn’t really there. “I can do it.”

He nodded to show he understood, just as Frawley added, “Caer has already gone on ahead to alert my sisters. They’ll come to help heal the injured. One of them can send word to Velaris for you, assuming that’s what you need to do.”

Cassian nodded. That was essential. Cassian needed to connect with his family to tell them what had happened here. He needed to let Rhys into his mind so he could showcase the horrors and get Azriel down to interrogate the bastard Nesta had thought to keep alive rather than bring about his death.

The male that Cassian knew to be called Alaksandar had struggled and thrashed against Nesta’s magical bindings when he had first spied the general—had pissed himself as he surveyed the iron rage on Cassian’s face. It had taken everything in Cassian not to murder him on the spot, but they needed him—needed the information he would bring once Azriel plucked out Truth-Teller from its shadowy sheath. Not that Cassian wasn’t tempted to wrestle the information out of the male himself.

Time sped by after that. Frawley obliterated the shattered remains of the shield hiding the cave from sight before casting an impenetrable web of her own. Then she had weaved another bubble—her magic a smoke that glittered with such gentleness that Nesta did not tense beside him. Cassian pulled her to him anyway, burying his hands in her hair at the nape of her neck. But Nesta did not look at him. Did not even seem to notice as they blended into smoke and mist—into water and earth and air—until they were channelled into the muddy paddock that served as a sparring ring at the back of the cottage.

Frawley’s sisters had kitted out the barn with inviting, spacious beds and cast their magic so it was wonderfully warm and inviting—safe. And even though Frawley’s sisters were far more intimidating than the white-haired witch, they had all dampened their glow, emitting an aura of calm that even made Cassian forget at times that they were something ancient—something other.

Cassian sought out Kalika as soon as they landed—the dark-skinned witch of the Northern Steppes and the most terrifying of Frawley’s sisters—and dared to ask her to cast a message to Rhys which disappeared on a moth-carried wind. Frawley’s other sisters—Narihara and Andraste—swished between the kitchen and the barn, remedying and administering sleeping draughts and tinctures designed to ease pain.

Frawley saw that all of them received her tea tonic and Cassian had felt energy flush into his system before it was promptly drained again as he ferried between the barn and the cottage, pressing drinks into Nesta’s hands whenever he saw her start sway.

Somehow Cassian knew when Nesta was done—when her body was close to giving out—the tea no longer enough to replenish her magic levels which had seen her hanging just barely on the precipice of her magic reserves. Nesta had not had enough power left to heal the cuts in the girls wings, but was able to knot bone and membrane back together. It had taken Madja weeks to repair the tatters of Cassian’s wings—the spell-work too intricate for even the most skilled of healers—but Nesta melded bone and membrane back together with an ease that others could not muster. Even Frawley’s sisters had eyed Nesta with cautious admiration, as if they could sense that celestial something inside of her that set her apart from everyone and everything. A queen on a much-earned pedestal.

Cassian found Nesta kneeling by another makeshift bed, her hands emitting that pure white light as they hovered over a set of bent and torn wings. The light was buttery soft rather than blinding white, and Cassian could tell from the way it sang softly that her power was a whisper of what it should be—just as his was. Despite the multiple brews he had drank, his siphons throbbing had ebbed to a flickering pulse, something which had Frawley eyeing him in that disconcerting way of hers as she brusquely waved at him to go home and come back when he was useful.

He had not protested. He wanted to get Nesta home. For her to convalesce in a place that was associated with safety and warmth. Where she could bathe and rid herself of the blood whilst he sat with an ear to the door. Where he could ensure that she ate and looked after herself. A place where she could be herself—where she could be quiet and digest and allow herself to be hollow if that was what she needed. But Nesta now—pretending to be ok when her eyes were so blank—was making it hard to breathe.

And still down that bond, Cassian felt nothing. Wide open, for once, but utterly empty—like a tunnelled-out void.

“Nesta.” Cassian touched his fingers so they rested gently against a shoulder. She did not reply or twist to look up at him, but the light faded from her palms, like a star winking out.

Cassian took a healthy step away as the girl Nesta had been healing watched him with wary, glazed eyes. He made himself smile at her, even as the girl shrank back into herself, pressing herself into the mattress as if she was willing herself to disappear.

For the first time in Cassian’s life, he wished he could vanish the wings and the tattoos—anything that marked him as Illyrian. That reminded the girl of the horrors she had suffered.

Bending over, Nesta spoke in such hushed tones to the girl that even Cassian could not hear her. But then Nesta was standing, her posture as steely and distant as she rose as if she were balancing a crown on her head. Narihara swooped in to administer the girl a sedative to help her sleep and Sala, who had been sitting on her haunches by the bed, rose to her feet.

Together, they walked in silence out of the barn. Cassian deliberately paced himself a few feet behind Nesta and the manticore who padded at her side. Dusk was well and truly descending and starlight already dusted the night sky. In the Steppes nature was its own creature and despite the cottage, it felt as if the sky was a tangible canvas, so low they could reach up and brush the starlight with their fingertips.

“Sweetheart,” Cassian rasped softly. He had intended to say something else, not that he knew what that was going to be, but as Nesta turned to him, speech left him. She looked so lost—so broken and traumatised—that Cassian felt as if he had been transported back to when she had first arrived in Illyria with him. When she was gaunt and traumatised and wholly unreachable.

Cassian’s blood-stained fingers lifted her chin so he could search her eyes. And in them—nothing. No whisper of that colossal fire or that fierce defiance that he loved. None of that at all. Only vast emptiness.

“I want to go home.”

The confession was small and almost childlike and Cassian nearly fell to his knees.

Home. She wanted to go home—with him.

Cassian pulled Nesta’s unnaturally pliant body to him. One hand fisting into the hair at the nape of her neck—into the tangled brown hair that had all but fallen from her braid. Nesta did not hug him back, but after a moment, she fisted her hands against his chest and her forehead came to rest just over his heart.

“Ok sweetheart, we’ll go,” Cassian murmured, dropping his lips to the crown of her head and pressing them there—instilling all the love and comfort into the gesture that he could muster. “I’ll take you home.”

***

Windhaven was sleeping when they finally landed outside of the bungalow with Sala close behind them. Even the skies had been quiet on the flight back: Cassian had only seen the odd Illyrian patrolling the skies, their figures a streak of darkness temporarily blotting out the starlight as they tracked the perimeter. They usually knew better than to stop Cassian mid-flight, but he had winked his siphons into the dark anyway, warning them to steer clear. The last thing they needed was to be stopped when they were so close to home.

The stone house was eerily quiet when they stepped across the threshold, and bobbing faelights gently flickered to life, illuminating the way as Cassian led Nesta by the hand down the hallway. He had been touching her at every opportunity since he had found her on her knees, covered in blood and her hands humming with that ancient healing light. Cassian had hoped the physical contact might anchor her, but Nesta had continued to slip away from him ever since, until their connection was nothing but an empty, lifeless corridor.

“Shower then bed,” Cassian told Nesta as he pushed open the door to the bathroom to reveal the large tub. “You’ll feel more fae once you have cleaned up.”

Nesta did not respond. She just stared past him, her pupils blown wide and unseeing. The sight nearly undid him. It had been a long while since he’d seen that look.

As he turned on the faucets and pulled the lever under the taps, Cassian wondered if this was how Nesta had been after the war. If whilst he and his friends had been toasting their success and trying to pretend everything was fine, she had gone up to her room, hollow and broken, already changed into someone else.

And the worst thing about it all was that Cassian had left Nesta to her own devices. He had not chased after her and reiterated what he had told her on the battlefield. Already he had been so consumed with the terror of rejection—the fear that now they weren’t on death’s door, Nesta might shatter his heart rather than allow him to kiss her.

It turned out that fear had only served to cement Nesta’s opinion of him—that he merely lusted after her, the bond tricking him into thinking he wanted something that he didn’t. That what his heart really wanted was Mor instead. Nesta had made that much clear the evening before.

He was a fucking idiot. Not just for failing to pursue Nesta, but for failing to intervene when he had known how sick she was. For not using his years of warrior training to understand what was truly going on—how it was not about him and his bruised ego, but something else entirely. Something much bigger.

Running a hand under the water, Cassian waited until it was hot and the tendrils of steam filled the room with its wispy fingers. When he turned back to Nesta, all it took was one look at her small and blood-stained body to know that if he left her to it, she’d stand in that shower long after the water ran cold.

“Usually we take our clothes off for a shower, sweetheart,” Cassian teased, hoping that his words would coax out some sort of reaction. When Nesta remained quiet, he cupped her pale, blood-streaked face with a hand. “Don’t finally give me that opportunity to undress you,” he warned.

Nesta’s fingers clasped around his arm and his leathers creaked at the impact. It was a silent plea for him to stay, so Cassian just gave her the lopsided smile he usually saved for her. “My lucky day,” he said softly.

Tugging off his stained clothing, Cassian stepped into the shower in his shorts. He bit back a groan as the hot water ran over his flared wings, soothing away the sharp cold which had bit into them as he flew them home.

After adjusting the temperature, Cassian held his hand out to Nesta. Her eyes were still devoid of expression, and although she was watching him, Cassian had a feeling that Nesta was really floating somewhere above them, detached from her body and unable to come back down.

“It’s nice and warm,” Cassian coaxed, but his voice remained a soft echo rather than playful.

There was a pause where time seemed to stretch out too thin. Where Sala looked beseechingly at Nesta with worried golden eyes. When the manticore nudged Nesta’s arm with her nose, Nesta startled, as if she had indeed been very far away.

He knew things were bad—very bad—when Nesta mutely peeled off her own leathers and joined him.

Cassian had fantasised about taking Nesta in the shower more times than he dared to count. It was usually hard and fast against the wall, her breathy moans ringing off the tiles as he made her come around him. It had never crossed Cassian’s mind that they might shower together covered in blood and still wearing their underwear.

Slim fingers curled around his as Nesta stepped into the tub and Cassian only had time to briefly note Nesta’s body had filled out—those sharp, skeletal edges softened with flesh and toned muscle built from hearty meals and rigorous training—before he realised just how cold she was. Goosebumps littered Nesta’s skin and her lips held a blueish hue that had alarm bells sounding inside of his head.

Wings and arms curved around her on instinct, coaxing Nesta under the water with him so he could cocoon her in heat. He foamed up a sponge, and when Nesta made no move to take it from him, Cassian gently began to run it over her pale skin—until dried blood smeared, running down her white skin before it swirled down the drain.

For the entire duration Nesta remained vacant and unresponsive. Yet, even though Cassian couldn’t feel the faintest flicker of emotion through their bond, he knew that she trusted him enough to care for her. So, when the water ran clear, Cassian did not ask for permission before he slowly started to unravel her braid. It was hard work—matted dark red ensnared the hair but after working shampoo into the strands, Cassian was able to run his fingers through without any snags.

Leaving Nesta to wash out the shampoo herself, Cassian started to make work on his own body. He was covered in far less blood than Nesta—by the time he’d arrived, it had been too late to massacre those bastards himself—but red coated his knees and legs from where he had dropped into the pool of blood on the floor. And his hands…they had been smeared with it from where he had held Nesta’s wrists, trying to coax her back to him as she plunged to rock bottom.

Cassian was so consumed by the memory that he was only just in time to catch Nesta tipping her head back under the faucet with her eyes wide open. A hand shot out reflexively, cupping Nesta’s hairline as shampoo started to run down her face and into the long spikes of her eyelashes. The bubbles must have stung, but Nesta didn't even blink. It was as if she hadn’t even noticed.

After that, Cassian didn't take his eyes off of her, and once Nesta’s hair was free from shampoo, he turned her in his arms so her back was flush against his chest and began to tackle her fingernails. Her body was so unusually pliant—so mouldable—that Cassian felt as if he were a puppet master with strings, her arms and hands limp as he scrubbed at the arcs of her fingernails until they were free of red.

In fact, Cassian had become so used to supporting Nesta’s body that he almost startled when he turned back from shutting off the now lukewarm water to find her facing him. Frozen in place, Cassian watched a pale arm lift so Nesta could brush her ice cold fingers over a whorl of ink curving around his left bicep.

Cassian was barely breathing—not only unsure of what to do but also of startling her, somehow—but then something broke inside of him and he reached for her hand, pressing his lips to her knuckles for far longer than he should have.

It hurt to move away from her—to step out of the tub and wrap a towel around his hips—but Nesta had started to shiver uncontrollably, her skin entirely bleached of colour. He threw the largest, fluffiest towel he could find around her body, and desperate to warm her up, rubbed his palms over her arms, encasing her in wings as he lifted her onto the bath mat beside Sala. And whilst logic told Cassian that Nesta was shaking from a combination of both shock and cold, it didn’t stop the worry that took a hold of him.

“Get yourself dry,” Cassian told Nesta. “I’ll go and get you some clothes.”

Suppressing a grunt at the winter chill that clung to the air and snapped at his wings, Cassian lit the log burner in his room before he quickly tugged on some loose pants. The unconscious decision for Nesta to stay with him was already fully formed in his mind. There was no way he was leaving her to sleep alone given her current state, and whilst Cassian could sleep in the armchair by her bed, the territorial part of him needed her safe with him, in his bed, as close to him as she would allow. And after last night… it wasn’t as if they hadn’t shared a bed before, anyway.

The panic that flared inside of Cassian when he arrived back at the bathroom with a clean nightgown clutched in his hand was so sharp and twisting that his breath caught. Nesta hadn’t moved—not an inch—and whilst Sala was nudging her companion’s torso with her muzzle, Nesta just continued to shiver violently as if she hadn’t felt the impact at all. Her skin was still wet and her hair hung lank against her shoulders. Droplets of water dripped steadily onto the floor tiles from where she had failed to ring it out.

Cassian swore. Stumbling towards her, he grasped at Nesta’s shoulders with his hands. She was cold to the touch. “Sweetheart, we need to get you dry,” he rasped.

He ducked his head to look at her, but Nesta just curled in on herself, her arms wrapping even further around her body as she shook. Cupping her face in his hands, Cassian hoped that his touch would bring her out of the far reaches of her mind, but she just continued to tremble, mute.

So, with gentle, efficient hands, Cassian towelled Nesta dry before pulling her nightgown over her head. He pressed her hair gently between the swaths of a towel, coaxing out as much water as possible, and when he was satisfied her hair wasn’t going to soak her nightgown, he stepped back.

“You’re staying with me tonight,” he told her sternly, and not bothering to wait for the  reply he knew would not come, Cassian scooped her uncharacteristically malleable body into his arms and carried her to his room.

The log burner was still blazing fiercely as he lowered Nesta onto the midnight blue sheets. He piled the duvets on top of her anyway, plus a few more thick blankets over that. Not wanting the fire to go out, he threw some more wood through the cast-iron door, working quickly in case the fire crackled or popped. With Nesta’s magic near drained, the last thing Cassian wanted was to trigger her flashbacks on top of everything else, but he was too concerned about her blue lips to forgo the fire altogether.

Only the top half of Nesta’s head was visible beneath the mountains of blankets, her pointed ears poking beneath her wet hair. She looked so small and vulnerable it was hard to believe that she had slain so many males earlier, that power of hers sizzling and burning through flesh until they were nothing but charred remains and shells of who they once were. Those males might have taken those girls freedom but Nesta had taken their lives before Cassian had even got to her.

He wondered when he would stop failing her—if he ever would.

“Come here,” Cassian murmured as he climbed into bed beside her.

Nesta surprised him when she did as he asked. Her knees knocked against his thighs as she inched closer—like a moth to a flame—and she rested her cold forehead against his chest without being prompted, right over his heart, as if the warm beat of life would thaw the frozen ice in her bones.

Tangling their legs together, Cassian tried to ignore how his skin hummed as their bodies intertwined, hating himself for reacting so strongly to her touch when she was suffering. He lifted a wing instead—an unknown apology—and wrapped it around her, using it to direct the heat from the fire towards their bodies.

The rustle of his wing made Nesta stir. Slowly, she looked up through her eyelashes and as their eyes locked, something clicked deep inside of him, turning. His heart let out a long, deep thump, the sound reverberating throughout his body. He felt it in the air at the same time that Nesta’s hands fisted in his tunic. The sensation was heavy and delicious and as intoxicating as any drug.

Their sudden intimacy felt so right. They had never touched like this—her body entangled with his—and now he knew what it was like, he never wanted it to end. He couldn’t bare the thought of sleeping without her. Even in his sleep last night he had reached for her, his wing protecting her instinctively.

He wondered if Nesta knew what that meant.

“Better?” Cassian made himself ask, rubbing a palm up and down the arm that wasn’t pressed to the mattress. It was a poor attempt to sever his thoughts, but his voice was hoarse… nervous. His heart had started to kick again, the sensation hard and slow against his ribcage, his blood thick and sluggish in his veins. Her eyes were the most blue he’d ever seen them; they were the colour of the sky after a strong bout of rain, as the clouds parted to make way for the sun.

Somehow, Cassian knew what was going to happen before it did. He couldn’t even say who initiated it, only that their heads tilted and dipped in unison, like two magnets inexplicably and undeniably drawn to one another.

If they ever kissed again, Cassian had always imagined that it would be passionate and frantic. A screaming match turned into a lusting frenzy, his mouth hot on hers as he swallowed her moans. But this… this was better. This was perfect. It was his undoing.

It was slow and scorching, the intensity of it so immediate that Cassian felt like he was suspended in time… hovering. And he knew… he knew that they were meant for this, he and Nesta. They were meant for one another from the instant their open lips brushed, from the way that they moulded together like they had been kissing for centuries. Heat bloomed in his chest, a torturous burning pleasure that spread through every nerve in his body, licking its way down his limbs before settling like a weight in his groin. His body was taut and pliant at the same time and all he wanted was to be even closer to her, to feel every inch of her body fit against his own.

He wanted to taste her skin, to bury himself in her scent. He wanted—

A groan rumbled through him as their tongues met, the sound deep and almost animalistic. Desperate for more, he tangled a hand in Nesta’s wet hair, gently tilting her head back so he could be granted better access to her mouth.

Nesta made a strangled noise in the back of her throat—the first sound she had made in hours—and her knee slipped further between his thighs, her body moving to press flush against his—

The movement sobered Cassian, the hazy fog of want parting slightly for reason to stumble through, like a newborn fawn on gangly legs.

The gravity of what they were doing hit him like a punch to the gut.

If she moved any closer, she would feel just how much he wanted her.

There would be no turning back, after that.

Even though his body was screaming for him to flip her onto her back and settle between her legs, Cassian made himself pull away. The movement felt wrong… agonising.

His hand shook with restraint.

If Cassian had ever doubted their mating bond, he wasn’t now. Instinct was driving him to claim her, even though he knew in the back of his mind—the part that cared so deeply—that Nesta was too raw, too exposed to know what she wanted. Even though she was the most vulnerable he’d ever seen her, the territorial male in him wanted to bury himself inside of her; to solidify the very thing that had been driving him insane for the past year and a half. What kind of male did that make him, he wondered? He was ready to bet all his wealth that it didn’t make him a good one.

Panting, Cassian searched Nesta’s face. She was breathing hard, her lips pink and swollen, her hair already starting to curl in the heat from the fire. Cassian had always thought her beautiful, but now she was breathtaking. It took Cassian a few seconds to realise why and when he did, his heart contracted to the point of pain: the light was back in her eyes, as if their kiss had woken her up.

Cassian’s resolve wavered. Maybe this was what she needed. Maybe—

As if sensing his inner conflict Nesta slid a cool hand up to his neck, levering herself up to press her lips to his. Her leg rode up over his thigh… over his hip and he moaned into her mouth, his will splintering as he felt the desire thrumming through her—between them. He tightened his grasp on her, resisting the urge to slide his hand round to her ass. To tug her closer.

With a last long, lingering kiss, Cassian made himself tear his lips from hers. “Nesta, stop,” he murmured against her mouth.

She stilled then, and as the implication behind his words dawned on her, that light started to fade in her eyes; dazzling blue dulling to an unreadable grey. Cassian pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead, to her nose, to her mouth. They were gentle and he hoped each one conveyed how hard this was for him, how he didn’t want to let her go, not really.

“We shouldn’t,” he rasped finally. His words sounded unconvincing even to his own ears, his voice husky and low despite everything. Sinful.

“Why?” Nesta breathed—her first word in hours coming out hoarse. Her fingers curled around his wrist where it still gripped her hip—holding him there.

“You know why. We can’t—”

“This makes me feel,” she whispered, her words breaking. And that was pleading in her voice. “You—”

“You’ll regret it tomorrow,” Cassian tried to explain, cutting her off because he had done this. He had fucked his way through enough females post-battle to know what she was doing. He understood the desperation for anything that would pierce through that pressing numbness that descended after bloodshed, but he also knew the disappointment that would chase it when she realised that pleasure didn’t last.

Cassian couldn’t sacrifice the progress they had made for a few moments of pleasure. Not now... not when they had come so far.

Nesta’s fingers slid down to his palm, the flat of her small hand pressing against his, encouraging him to slide up under her nightdress. He hissed—her thigh, her hip, her waist were sinfully smooth beneath his callouses. “I won’t regret it,” she promised. “You won’t either.”

Cassian studied her—the want in her eyes. What would happen if he denied her? Would he lose the progress they had made anyway? What if his rejection stacked that icy wall against him and she shut down the end of her bond again? He couldn’t bare the thought of it—of her barbed insults and the indifferent way she had treated him. He couldn’t do that again. Not ever. He had been slowly gaining on Nesta Archeron inch by inch, and he’d be damned if they started moving backwards.

It was a risk either way.

His greed won out.

Nesta’s mouth immediately yielded to him when he kissed her again, and this time it was her that moaned, the sound a strangled surprise in the back of her throat. Almost as if she hadn’t expected him to give in. Almost.

“Promise me,” Cassian murmured, his lips now on her neck as he propped himself over her. He allowed himself a moment to do what he’d fantasised about more times than he could count—graze his nose slowly from her collarbone to the nape of her neck—and relished in the way that she shuddered beneath him. “I don’t expect anything from you, this can just be... this. A one off. But promise you won’t freeze me out. That we won’t go back to before. That things won’t be cold between us.”

Pressing a kiss behind her ear, Nesta breathed another moan as he chased it all the way to the pulse point beneath her jaw. He sucked, feeling the flutter of life against his tongue—her body as it arched into him.

“I promise,” Nesta panted finally, her fingers curling around the strands of his damp hair. She tugged, telling him what she wanted, the words singing in the air between them; more, more, more.

As if in response, his blood surged, singing what it always sung—her name, over and over. The name he heard on the wind. Everywhere he went. Nesta, Nesta, Nesta.

“Good,” Cassian rasped into Nesta’s skin, his lips imprinting on the shell of her ear. He waited until goosebumps littered her skin and then he pulled back to stare into those blue, blue eyes to make his own promise. He hoped it would undo her as much as it undid him. “I’m going to make you feel good,” he told her. “I’m going to make the numbness go away, ok sweetheart?”

Something moved behind the surface of Nesta’s irises as she shivered. And this time it wasn’t from the cold or from shock; it was hot anticipation and want and… her breath caught as his palm traversed along her now warm side, along the dip of her waist, hitching the material of her nightgown up, up, up.

Her fingers tightened in his hair as his movements turned light. As his fingers trailed from the underside of her breasts all the way down her side to the top of her thigh, coaxing her to shudder—for every nerve ending to sing.

Their kiss was searing and desperate when she pulled his face back down to hers. All around him, Cassian could smell the all-consuming scent of her. It was as intoxicating as any drug and he couldn’t help but cave, rolling his hips into hers, desperate for some sort of relief. He had never been this hard in his life, had never wanted anybody like this in the long time he had been alive. He needed to feel her skin against his, the sensation suddenly as vital as breathing—

“Off,” he growled into Nesta’s mouth, tugging her nightgown over her head and tossing it away. He flared his wings, lifting the heavy blankets so he could kick them down to their ankles. and—

Cassian swore at the sight before him. Nesta was beautiful. Where his skin was golden and marred with scars, hers was cream and unblemished—untouched—and her breasts… Cassian’s mouth turned dry and his insides twisted. They were far better than the inferior image he’d conjured in his mind, even as he pyrite glittered tauntingly between them, as if to say; I was here first.

With a soft snarl, Cassian reverently dragged his fingers over the smooth plains of Nesta’s stomach, watching her abdominal muscles tense, mesmerised.

“You’re perfect,” he told her with hoarse honesty, cupping the breast closest to the mattress as he took the other dusky nipple into his mouth. He sucked and teased it with the flat of his tongue, relishing in her sharp inhalation of breath… the way her fingers desperately wound their way through his hair again and again. “These are perfect. You have no idea how perfect you are, Nesta.”

A flicker of…something sparked down that bond. It was the first he had truly felt of Nesta in hours and Cassian tried to clamp down on that emotion, to dissect it, desperate to hold on to that sensation of… surprise. It was surprise, Cassian realised. As if she did not expect him to say that, let alone think it.

So, Cassian pushed back everything—his sincerity and awe and want for her and only her. And then he stared up at her with what he knew were dark eyes and scraped the peak of her nipple with his teeth.

A shuddered moan skittered the air around them and Cassian watched Nesta’s pupils dilate with a want that had his heart kicking in his chest. It was that sensation which sparked her into action, her hands feverish as they grappled at the material of his tunic, tugging at it until it was discarded on the floor beside the bed. Then her hands were on his chest, those lithe fingers feverish as they explored the hard lines of his stomach… the silvery scar that ran from his sternum to his lower abdomen.

Burying his head in her cleavage to stifle a groan, Cassian listened to the hammering of her heart as she followed the fine train of hair that started at his naval. In a desperate plea to distract himself from her touch—to distract her—Cassian cupped and squeezed her breasts, rolling his fingers over her nipples until her breath stuttered and her hands stilled just as they grazed the waistband of his pants.

Knowing that his restraint would melt if she wrapped her hand around him, Cassian began to press a path of open-mouthed kisses down her stomach. They were both still lying on their sides and he lifted his body, coaxing her leg against the mattress into a right angle just above his hip so he was cradled between them.

When he hoisted the leg slung over his waist up into a right angle and pressed it up into the blanket with a splayed palm on her knee, Nesta realised what he intended to do. He felt her waver and stiffen, her body going rigid against him, that bond constricting. So Cassian stilled too, taking the time to brush his lips over the right wing of her hip—to savour the taste of her skin against his tongue. To soothe away her hesitancy, somehow knowing that the vulnerability of him sliding down between her legs made her uncomfortable.

The gravity of it hit him then, that Nesta had never done this sober. And Cassian had no idea whether she had even experienced this before—whether she had found pleasure in it. Did not know whether the many one-night stands had bothered to have her clenching around them before they finished themselves of.

Pain sparked as fingernails bit into his shoulders in warning, but Cassian only waited patiently, kissing and soothing away that concern until she relaxed around him. Some animalistic, masochistic part of him hoped that she’d marked him there—that tomorrow he would look in the mirror and see the proof of what they had done. He’d wear those silver half moon circles proudly, more so than any Illyrian tattoo. If only Fae bodies didn’t heal so quickly…

Placing a final kiss to her lower abdomen, Cassian grazed a downward path with the tip of nose until he was hovering just over her centre. Until his head was resting on her thigh.

He couldn’t stop the groan that tumbled out of him at the scent of her. “Gods, sweetheart, I can smell how wet you are.”

The words stretched out between them until everything was pulled taut. Nesta’s hands had moved from his shoulders back to his hair. When he spoke, her fingers slid uncertainly through the damp strands without finding purchase. He didn’t need to look at her to know she was blushing. He knew her well enough by now.

But instead of swiping his tongue through her folds, Cassian reached up to run his mouth over the top-most part of the inside of her thigh. The movement was leisurely and unhurried despite the roaring of blood in Cassian’s ears. Because he had thought about this enough since having met Nesta to know how he wanted this to go. Nesta had spent a year fucking and chasing release and Cassian would not be another notch in her bedpost. By the time he was done, he wanted her squirming and moaning beneath him. He wanted her to anticipate his touch rather than merely using him to press the right buttons. He wanted her to be consumed with it; to feel that anticipation build until she was boneless against the mattress. He wanted to be the kindle for her fire and watch her burn and burn and burn.

He would not fuck her in a whirlwind of limbs and snarled, panting breath. She had done that. He would do something different—just for her.

So, Cassian made Nesta wait. With each brush of his lips he edged closer to her centre, moving from her thigh to her lower abdomen, his tongue swiping against creamy skin after every kiss until finally—finally—she trembled.

The movement travelled between them, vibrating down the thin tie that roped around his ribcage. A soft growl rumbled from the back of Cassian’s throat at the sensation, his grip tightening on her hip as he ghosted over her centre, his breath a phantom caress on her skin.

Yet, he still took the time to pause, letting a second stretch out into a moment—until Nesta’s fingers pressed into his scalp in anticipation. The touch was light but it spoke volumes, the movement more certain. Still Cassian made her wait, trying to calm the desire thrumming through his blood which wanted to spark him into movement—to devour her whole.

Those fingers twisted through his hair and that restraint dissolved as Cassian reached forward and swiped the flat of his tongue through her folds. The action was slow and premeditated, his touch gentle. For a moment, Nesta went preternaturally still, but then her breath stuttered as he did it again and then again, her hips tilting towards him of their own accord.

It was silent plea for more and a moan tumbled out of him, his chest rumbling as he moved closer, locking his lips around that bundle of nerves. Nesta’s breath caught again and again and Cassian catalogued it all—every movement, every intake of air—using her body language to dissect what she liked and didn’t like, lazily drinking her in until that bond widened and roared at each leisurely stroke.

It was this that Cassian had imagined over anything else. He had fantasised about going down on Nesta more than burying himself inside of her—more than her wrapping her lips around him, or the way her tongue would feel when it ran along the underside of his cock. So, Cassian took his time tasting every inch of her, and only when he had her panting did he pick up the pace; drawing circles and fluttering rhythms across her flesh, licking a path from top to bottom until she was writhing beneath him, edging her closer and closer to breaking point, letting that swell build inside of her until even he could feel it in the air around them—a tangible, living thing.

And down that tether Cassian felt the truth in every whimper... every moan. That alone nearly had him unravelling. Never before had he felt her so keenly, and Cassian had to fight the urge to drop his hold on her leg to wrap his hand around himself and relieve the pressure. He was rock hard, and even though his cock twitched with each burn of pleasure that flooded between them, he didn’t dare divert his focus from her. Didn’t dare make this about him when it needed to be about her.

Cassian had never been this turned on without having been touched before. He had never been this turned on period, and he didn’t trust himself not to cave if he so much as grazed the tent in his pants. And the knowledge that earlier she had moved to slide her hand beneath his waistband… just the thought of those cool, slim fingers wrapping around the length of him made his cock throb and his heart stutter.

Growling to rid himself of the image, Cassian sucked her folds into his mouth. The distraction didn't work. Nesta cried out and the sound had his hips thrusting, pleasure robbing him of any other sensation despite the fact that he was met with nothing but air. The sound was sharp and desperate and perfect, and he knew that he could do this all day; bringing her to completion over and over until she couldn’t take it anymore.

“You taste incredible,” Cassian groaned reverently, pulling away for the first time since he’d slipped down between her legs. His lips made a gentle smack against her wet flesh and Nesta whimpered, the sound a mixture of pleasure and embarrassment.

Another long lick followed by slow, wet kisses to her thighs—anywhere but her swollen clit.

He still wanted her to beg. He needed her to, and she wasn’t there yet.

Coaxing her onto her back, Cassian carefully hooked her legs over his arms so they avoided his wings. He had a feeling that if Nesta even so much as brushed them that something would snap inside of him; a beast unleashed.

Spreading her legs wider, Cassian reached up to cup her breasts, satisfaction thrumming through him as she arched into his touch.

Staring up at her with dark eyes, Cassian looked at her for the first time since he’d slipped between her legs. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her pink lips parted. He wished she’d open them; he wanted to be met with that depthless blue that latched onto his soul and made it hard to breathe.

“Fuck Nesta,” he groaned, his voice gravelly as he gathered her wetness on his tongue, drawing broad circles before sucking the bud into his mouth. “I could do this all day just to hear you moan.”

Nesta whimpered at the words, the sound wild and untamed against his ears, but her eyes remained squeezed shut. Gently, he dragged his fingers through her wet folds, purposefully running them over the sides of her clit, relishing in the way that her hips jerked at the touch. At the way that bond continued to widen, light spilling into the inky dark.

A wave of fresh pleasure coursed through him.

“That’s it,” Cassian murmured huskily, slipping a finger inside of her. He bit back a groan—wishing it was his cock easing into her. “I want you to come for me, sweetheart.”

Nesta mewled as he brought his mouth back to her. Curling a finger inside of her, Cassian focussed his attention on drawing wide circles with his mouth, coaxing strangled throaty moans as his finger and tongue worked in tandem.

Only when Nesta’s cries were a steady beat and her fingers were yanking at his hair, did he add another finger.

“Oh,” Nesta whimpered, her head rising from the pillows as he hooked his fingers inside of her at the same time that he drew her folds into his mouth. As he rolled her nipple between his fingers with his spare hand and dared another look up at her.

He groaned as those blue, blue eyes connected with his. They were glassy and swimming in the faelight, utterly mesmerising as her face contorted with pleasure. Nesta had never looked at him like that before; so open and vulnerable and soft.

It only lasted a moment and then Nesta’s head had dropped back onto the pillow in concession of the pleasure coursing through her—through him. It urged him to work faster, to continue his attention on that bundle of nerves that was hurtling her to release. As he splayed his palm on her flat stomach and relished the way it spasmed beneath his touch with every swipe and lick and suck.

When she rocked against him, Cassian’s moan was so coarse that Nesta clutched at his head with a near death grip. She held him tightly as the sound vibrated through her, but then Cassian was scraping his teeth lightly over her clit before sucking it into his mouth and Nesta cried out. Her legs attempted to yank out of his grasp to clamp around his head with a strength Cassian should have predicted for, but he managed to pin her down, holding her open.

“Cassian,” Nesta gasped—finally, finally saying his name out loud—her voice breaking and desperate as she tried to push her hips towards his mouth, begging. She was begging him now. “Cassian.”

“Yes,’ he growled, sensing how close she was. “That’s it, sweetheart. Come for me.”

He felt her walls grip around his fingers like a vice. Felt something peak inside of her—

And then Cassian slowed everything down. His fingers slid in and out of her, pushing in to the hilt in long, drawn out strokes as his tongue circled her—as that preternatural stillness seized her again. Cassian heard the break in her moans as that cresting pleasure suspended above them, ready to crash down. Felt the pleasure course through him so fiercely that for a moment he mistook it for his own—

The sudden cry that unleashed itself on the room was a sound that Cassian had never dreamed would come from Nesta’s mouth. He stroked her steadily through the waves of pleasure as she shattered against his tongue, convulsing beneath him again and again until her whimpers gave way to shuddering gasps. Until she shuddered from the intensity of it, her hands pushing his head away. Cassian allowed her limp and panting body to melt into the mattress as he pressed kisses to the bare skin of her thighs. Her fingers were back in his hair again, running through the strands that had dried into curls before she tugged gently, urging him upwards.

Swiping at his wet mouth, Cassian crawled back up beside her, pulling the blankets with him.

To his satisfaction, Nesta had thrown an arm across her flushed face and her chest was heaving, as if she were at loss for air. She didn’t resist when he moved her arm to the pillow, threading his fingers through hers.

She moaned softly against his lips as he kissed her. The sound was content—another noise he’d never heard from her before—and the knowledge that he had caused her to feel that way left him dizzy. Surprise speared through him as her hand curved around the back of his neck, keeping him there, deepening the kiss as she tasted herself on his tongue.

And down that bond, beyond the sated satisfaction and pleasure was amusement, as if she sensed his surprise and delighted in it.

“Ok?” he asked hoarsely when he finally pulled away. He rolled to the side, taking her with him, his hand splayed on the underside of her thigh, his wing thrown over her body like a blanket.

Nesta’s eyes were glazed as she hummed in reply, and a knowing smirk pulled at her lips as she skimmed her free hand down his bare chest to his stomach and his muscled twitched under her touch.

Locking her leg firmly around his hips, Nesta pulled him flush against her. He snarled softly against her neck when she ground into his erection. His blood was boiling again, a heat ignited in his very core, and it was an entire feat of its own that he managed to tear himself away from her, catching her hand just as those fingers dipped to slip between the hem of his pants.

He watched Nesta frown, and the expression on her face was so unchecked that something twisted inside him.

She wanted to touch him. She wanted more...

“I said I’d make you feel good,” he rasped in explanation, bringing her hand to his lips so he could press his mouth to her knuckles

When he was done, he gently ran a hand over her hair. “Sleep, Nesta. Your body needs to rest.”

“What? No,” Nesta protested, that defiance he had missed for the last few hours firing across her expression.

But he just pulled her closer to him, and unable to help himself—knowing that he might not get another chance—he kissed her again. It was slow and tender, his fingers pushing back her damp hair from her face. It was a kiss to soothe rather than to arouse, even as his cock throbbed painfully against his stomach. His thumb brushed an arc across the glowing skin of her cheek, savouring the ability to touch her like this; without fear of her pushing him away, or worse, punching him in the gut.

“Sleep,” he urged again, wrapping his wing tighter around her—cocooning them. He felt Nesta’s body start to relax into the mattress, felt the blanket of sleep settle over her in that post-climactic haze. He pressed his mouth to her forehead—now warm beneath his lips, as if he had chased away the cold. “I promise I’ll be here when you wake up.”

Tags: @arinbelle @superspiritfestival @sayosdreams @perseusannabeth @mylittlebigplanet @biggestwingspan-az @bellsqueen @ekaterinakostrova @bookstantrash @prophecyerised @rainbowcheetah512 @awesomelena555 @wannawriteyouabook @iammissstark @lovelynesta @melphss @nestalytical @darkshadowqueensrule @laylaameer01 @a-trifling-matter @grouchycritic7794 @thalia-2-rose @champanheandluxxury @swankii-art-teacher @princessconsuela02 @lavendergoomsltd @little-diyosa @princessofmerchants-reads @jeakat @sjm-things @imwritingthesewords @nestable @inejbrekkxr @silvernesta @inyourmindeye @amelie775 @iwastoowildinthe70s @helen-the-weirdo @pizzaneverdisappoints @wishfulimaginings @trash-for-nessian @my-fan-side @sophilightwood @hatemecozuaintme @vidalinav

[definitelynotsuzumi]

Zapped to Another World [Chapter 3]

[Masterlist]

Chapter 3 is finally up! T-T I am really sorry for the delays and future delays since I am juggling between school and Genshin. 

Despite the roof over your head and the cushy bed beneath you, you could not sleep.

You heaved a sigh as you reached your hand into your chest, detaching your Gnosis. If your knowledge was right, you were basically the 8th Archon. A phantom one, judging by Venti’s reaction.

“Oh good, you have not lost it yet.” A familiar voice echoed. You nearly rolled off the bed in surprise as you turned to face Artem.

“How? But I? Huh? What are you doing here?” You stuttered.

“Oh silly head. Or maybe I am the silly one for not letting you know. A Gnosis is a way that Archons can communicate with the Celestia. In other words, me!” Artem threw you a mischievous smile. He seemed a lot more easy-going. Was it because I agreed to this life? Or is it because his sister isn’t here?

You suspected both as Artem kicked back in the air.

“I am aware of that but…Doesn’t this make me…Irrelevant in this world? Weren’t there supposed to be just 7 Archons?” You knitted your brows as he casually floated around the giant room.

“Well, originally, yes. But things change!”

“So, what exactly am I an Archon of?” You looked back onto your Gnosis. As you had agreed to the “contract” when you fell, the Gnosis had transformed into what looked like a chess piece, with a sphere adorning the top of it.

“This world! Isn’t that exciting?”

Figures. The shape atop your Gnosis was shaped like a planet after all.

“…Honestly, not with the Fatui out to get people like me.” You sighed.

“Oh, if they try anything funny with the Order I have made, rest assured, us gods will deal with it.” Artem’s easy-going aura turned bloodthirsty.

You held your tongue instinctively as Artem laughed humourlessly.

“I am well aware of the Tsaritsa straying from her path and interfering. But I have faith in that Outworlder.” Artem hummed as he messed around in your room. He somehow managed to find lipstick paper in the drawers and had put it on. 

“And me. Surely there is more to my existence in this world. Am I right in saying that?” You grasped your Gnosis tightly in your hand.

“Well yes, you are the failsafe I have created. It was pure chance that I lost that game and my temper ehe~” He blew you a kiss with his extremely pigmented lips. 

You were tempted to shout. A pure chance that I got killed by that lightning volt, you mean!

“Aren’t you glad that it worked out?,” Artem closed the gap between the two of you, his eyes staring into yours. There was a dangerous glint in his eyes, as if he could hear your thoughts.

“I am glad for this second chance in life. But it is honestly concerning for someone like me…” You gulped back your fear of the god.

“Understandable. By the way, try to keep your existence as an Archon as downlow as possible. While the Archons may be aware of another one, they will not be able to pinpoint who it is exactly until they meet you. If they got rid of the failsafe, I will be forced to get someone to step in.” 

“…Do you mean the Sustainer of Heavenly Principles?” Artem blinked in surprise.

“Wow, I’m surprised a human from Earth knows about her.  Yes, yes you are right. Clever girl.”

You felt the cold claws of dread grip your heart.

“Communication is a 2-way street. If they can observe and interact with the Celestia, they can interfere with it. That means, if they tried hard enough, they can very well overthrow the gods of the Celestia.” Artem turned serious.

“That is why you exist now. The original plan was to summon a hero from Elysium as a failsafe but seeing as to how things turn out, well, here we are.”

“You talk as if it is my fault that we are here now…” You frowned, “You raged during a game of Uno. Uno, of all games! And caused a whole lightning to zap me into the afterlife. Not to mention, the guilt trip that you pulled just to bring me here.”

Artem rolled his eyes, as if you were snapping over a trivial issue.

“Now you just sound like Solaria. Blegh.” Artem faked a retch before returning to his serious expression.

“Sorry if I made it sound bad that you are here. I mean no ill-intentions. You didn’t deserve to die because of my temper.” Artem patted your head, exhaling heavily through his nose.

You heard footsteps come by your door. Artem gave you a wink as he disappeared into a burst of golden sparks. You hurriedly stored your gnosis to your chest again.

“Miss (L/N), I apologize for the disturbance. Master Diluc has instructed me to provide you with clothing.” A maid came by, a set of clothes and shoes in her hands.

“How kind. Leave them by the dresser. And send him my…thanks.” You watched as the maid bowed her head, putting them down on the oak dresser before scurrying out of your room.

Rising and feeling the silken fabric of a simple red frock, black shirt and a matching cape, you exhaled through your nose. You knew that you were caught up in something complicated and the feeling of helplessness came back to you.

Artem’s voice then echoed in your ears.

‘Find the Outworlder and see to it that he saves this world. If not, well…’ A vision of Mondstadt in flames with the familiar black-red cubes flashed in your eyes.

‘Let’s just say, the option of going into Elysium will be open.’

You did not know when you had drifted off to sleep, but you were glad for those few hours of rest. You slipped out of your day-old school uniform and donned the fresh clothes Diluc had given. They felt light and soft, perfect for traveling under the sun. Given how the sun was blazing through the morning dew, you decided against the cape and slipped it into your bag as well.

Preparing your things, you were not a fan of how the bag of mora you had received from Solaria was getting lighter. Maybe I should become an Adventurer as well…

Walking down the wooden stairs of the Winery, you were surprised to see a huge spread of food on the table, with Diluc leisurely eating his way through a pile of steaks, potatoes and cheese.

“Have some, the people of Mondstadt call this Pile Em Up.” Diluc pushed over a steaming plate. You swore you saw it sparkle in the candlelight.

You tentatively sliced a piece. Meat and cheese at this time of the day seemed a little rich, but as the warm ribs melted in your mouth, you could not hold back a satisfied sigh.

“Your maids are excellent cooks.”

“…I cooked it.”

“…Really?”

“Do you not believe that I can cook?”

Diluc gave you a bemused smile. You looked back down onto your steak. You mentally yelled at yourself to quit blushing.

“I-well, you don’t seem the type to cook so…I just thought…”You stumbled over your words. You could feel his eyes on you. You noticed a small, genuine smile forming on his lips. You have landed on one of the topics he admits pride in.

“Well, I do work as a bartender in the tavern at times, naturally I will need to be able to cook.”

A soft warmth formed in your chest as you smiled back. Finishing off the delicious plate of the juicy meat, you blinked in surprise as he offered you a pack of dried sunsettias and apples.

“The journey will be long. Please be safe on your travels.”

Huh. You always had the impression that he was cold and aloof, but Diluc seemed different than what you have seen in the game.

“Uhm, thank you for everything you have done. I will pay it back some day!” You bowed before turning towards the path leading out of Dawn Winery.  

“Uh…Uhmm….” You murmured in growing panic. Solaria had forgotten to pack a map! You were incredibly lost. A boy with white hair bolted past as you heard the sound of gibberish following behind him. You had a bad feeling about this.

“…Uh oh.”

You looked back. A group of very angry Hilichurls were running towards you and the boy.

“UH OH!”

You sprinted in the direction of the boy but you soon found yourself face-to-face with a cliff. The boy was nowhere to be seen.

You had to fight.

You turned around, grabbing an arrow that flew past your face. Everything seemed slower than you thought it would be.

Gritting your teeth, you pushed your arms in front of you. Your eyes shut themselves tightly as you willed for the area around you to freeze over. The screams of the Hilichurls stopped as you felt the icy winds against your cheek.

Cautiously, you opened your eyes to see them frozen solid. You walked up, tapping the ice with your knuckles.

It was as if they were made out of ice rather than being flash-frozen.

Whatever had happened, you were certain that you would be safe. Looking around, you noticed a blob of white hair in the bush near you.

“You alright there?” You called out. The boy poked his head out of the bush.

“A…Are they gone -AH!” The boy jumped as he saw the Hilichurls’ angry expressions before realizing that they are frozen solid.

“It should be safe and anyways, what is the use of a sword if you don’t use it to defend yourself?” You sighed, noticing a sword strapped to his side.

“They kind of caught me off-guard…” His expression of guilt made you feel bad as you awkwardly patted his head.

He reminded you of a little brother.

“What’s your name?” You asked as you took in the familiar garb he was wearing.

“I’m Bennett! I had a commission to retrieve treasure from the Hilichurls but…well…”He stole a glance at the Hilichurls, who remained frozen solid in their spots.

“I’m (Y/N) but I got lost…I forgot to pack in a map…” You sighed, scratching the back of your head awkwardly.

“Oh! I can help with that!”

Bennet fished out a crumpled piece of paper. It was a map! You were saved!

But just as you were about to thank Artem for his kindness, an arrow ripped through the middle.

The Hilichurls you froze over must have melted as you heard their angered screaming.

“Oh for f-“

Bennett drew his sword. You were familiar with his skill in the game as you saw him charging energy into his sword. Raising your hand, you willed for your power to protect him as he swung his sword. Flames rose as he struck down the Shield Hilichurl.

“Huh?” Bennett was confused when he realized he was not sent flying.

“Focus, Bennett, focus!” You yelled as you blasted the Hilichurls away from him. As much as you hated how his unluckiness seemed contagious, you did not want him to be hurt.

“Thanks!” Bennett beamed at you as he slashed down the Hilichurls. That seemed to be last of them as you finished off the Shield Hilichurl.

“Wow, thanks for saving me back there. Seriously, I owe you one.” Bennett made his gratitude known, thanking you profusely.  You sighed as you sat down on the grass.

Bennett took out the torn map and looked extremely sheepish.

“Don’t suppose you have an extra one?” You sighed again. Bennett shook his head in response.

“Hey, are you two okay? I just saw the bodies of the Hilichurls and I came by to investigate- Oh hey Bennett!” A girl’s voice greeted you both.

“Hey Amber! Yeah, I kinda got into a fight with them but she saved me!” Bennett excitedly introduced you to the Outrider.

“She’s uh…What’s your name again?”

“I’m (Y/N) and I’m trying to get to Liyue but I got lost. Bennett was showing me his map until they ripped it. Don’t suppose you have an extra in your pockets?” You wiped off the sweat as you stood up to greet Amber.

“Oh! I can help with that!” Amber gave you a neatly folded piece of paper.

“Please take care on your travels then. There is a rise in Hilichurl sightings in the area.” Amber saluted.

“Don’t suppose you’d like to join Bennett’s Adventure Team?” Bennett gave you a puppy-eyed dog look.

“Uhm…Well, I really need to make my way to Liyue…Unless you’d want to come with me and abandon everything you have here…”Bennett’s face fell. You instantly felt bad for the poor adventurer. You knew it was a tall order for you to ask him to come along. 

“Hey hey…I’ll be back soon. We can do more adventuring once I fulfil my mission, okay?” You smiled at Bennett, who brightened at your promise.

‘If I am still alive, afterwards,’ A dark thought flashed through your head.

Waving good bye to the two, you continued on your path, leaving Mondstadt behind.

Meanwhile

Diluc’s servant gulped as he approached a small cottage in the bamboo forest. Knocking the wooden door, he cleared his throat.

“Diluc sends his regards.” The door immediately opened to reveal a girl with dark brown hair.

“Oho! Finally! He calls! Did he happen to include an engagement ring by any chance?”

“U-Uh no, just this letter-“

“Oh how boring.” The door slammed shut.

“He includes payment with this letter.”

“Why didn’t you say so earlier?” The door swung open again. The girl swiped off the bag of mora the servant had prepared and wax-sealed letter smoothly.

Ripping the letter open, the girl scanned its contents carefully.

“As straightforward as always. Thanks for your hard work, I guess.” Waving off the servant casually, the girl smiled to herself.

“A recon mission for a stranger in red and black, huh? Well, well, well. Time to dust off the old umbrella.”

[mattzerella-sticks]

Not Here for Me

If he had the choice, Dean never would have stepped foot inside this place. But Sam was curious - and curious is a hell of a lot better than the depression that clung to him day after day since Jess left him. So Dean swallows his pride, joins Sam as his babysitter. So he won't get find himself in any trouble. Trouble, however, is more likely to find Dean. In the bowels of his personal hell, can Dean resist temptations that have plagued him his entire life? Or will someone descend and lend a hand, showing Dean that the darkness he imagined only lived inside his own mind. And all that he feared was not as he seemed if he let himself step out of the shadows of his past.

(Dean/Cas, Human AU, 2000s-set, 8,113 words, tw: Dean’s childhood & upbringing by one John Winchester)

ao3

           His ears hurt. Dean stares at a small puddle of maybe-water-maybe-vodka that collected on the bar top, focusing on it instead of the pounding bass drum and blender whirring that’s somehow considered music. At least that’s what Sam told him seconds after entering, meeting Dean’s disgruntlement with patented exasperation. Floppy bangs pushed back for its full effect. “You’re such an old man,” he said, “Can you pretend you’re happy being here?”

           “That depends,” he fired back, brow raised. Pulled taut like a bowstring, retort knocked and waiting. He lets it fly, “How quick do you think I can get drunk?”

           The answer – very quickly. Dean balked when Sam ordered them these bubbling potions the color of lava lamps mixed with Barbie vomit. Served in dainty glasses Dean could easily break if he applied even a fraction of pressure between his thumb and forefinger. Rim lined with salt and a wedge of lime. Sam suggested they cheers. He chugged his before Sam raised the glass. He flagged the bartender, ignoring Sam’s glare. “What the hell did I drink?” he asked.

           The bartender pursed his lips, eyes dragging over Dean’s frame as if he were stripping him bare in the room; peeling away the layers of his jacket and plaid button-down and faded band tee like they were tissue, freckled-and-pale skin freed for the bartender’s enjoyment. He sowed seeds of unwanted fantasies. Dean cleared his throat, repeating the question, digging out those dropped seedlings before the bartender’s imagined wanderings might flower.

           If Dean wanted to encourage attention, he’d have dressed like him. Mesh shirt with uneven holes, some stretched wider than most. Its woven fabric failed at hiding the sweat that dampened his obviously spray-tanned skin, strips of orange paint peeling like a rind. The bartender wiped his brow, a streak of bright white skin revealed. “A strawberry margarita.”

           “Of course,” Dean nodded at the selection behind him, “got anything that doesn’t taste too… sugary?” A frown dragged every wrinkle and crease forward on the bartender’s face. He clarified, “A beer. What beer do you have?”

           They didn’t have any. Dean asked for a vodka neat, Sam criticizing his choice as the bartender retreated. “You’re so boring.” That was three vodka neats ago.

           Sam left his station beside Dean soon after his first drink, swept away in the tide of bodies pulsing in the center of the club. Each individual moving to a different beat. Their dancing unsyncopated and wild. Yet, despite how hopeless it looked, bodies acting independently from one another, the writhing mass shared one mind. Although, even assimilated by the crowd, Dean can keep track of his little brother. Head poking free of the mass like some odd periscope. Scanning every few seconds until their gazes met and then submerging once more.

           Dean isn’t searching for him now. He studies his small puddle of definitely-vodka. He swiped his finger through it earlier and sucked it dry; cheeks hollow, eyes half-lidded and unfocused. Dean heard someone’s glass shatter over the wretched din of noise, timed perfectly with his finger popping out of his mouth like a burst bubble. The sharp smell of alcohol fries his nose hairs. It dulls the throbbing ache caused by his surroundings, Dean’s frayed nerves sparking underneath, jumping like live wires since Sam detailed their plans for this evening.

           “You wanna go to a gay bar?”

           Sam rolled his eyes with so much force they rattled inside his skull like a novelty magic eight-ball, his hazel gaze landing on him, answer written neatly, ‘It is decidedly so’. Dean shook it again, scoffing. The answer changed. Not in Dean’s favor. ‘Yes – definitely’.

           “Why?” Dean leaned across their small table, “Are you…?” He asks with a wry twist of his lips and a limp wrist.

           “I don’t know,” Sam told him.

           “You don’t know? Isn’t that a requirement for a – a gay bar?”

           “Not necessarily,” he explained, sitting across from Dean finally. Sam’s windbreaker swooshed with every dramatic sweep of his arm. “I mean… sure, most of the people there are gay. But it’s not like they make you flash some official gay card at the door…” Expression pinched, he powered head, avoiding the conversational detour and sticking to the main highway of his argument. “Besides, there’s more than just gay.”

           Dean nodded, “Like what?”

           “Bisexual, Pansexual… Asexual, Demisexual –“

           “I think I might be that,” Dean laughed, tongue swiping over his bottom lip. “It means you’re attracted to Demi Moore, right? Because if Kutcher weren’t in the picture, I’d definitely be all up in her business!”

           “Don’t be an ass, Dean,” Sam said, “Demisexuality is a real thing, okay? It’s only being attracted to people who you have a deep, intimate bond with.”

           “Oh, is that so?” He stretched his legs out from beneath the table, knocking into Sam’s. “That what you’re learning in college? I thought you wanted to be a lawyer. Or were you a bit presumptuous when you made that e-mail, lawboy?”

           “I still do,” Sam muttered, cheeks tinted a dark shade. “I… it was one of these classes I have to take, for my degree. Made me think about things I never knew about and – and stuff I said that, looking back, was… kind of offensive. That we joked about, what dad would say, sometimes…” Dean tuned Sam out partly, a refreshing static separating him from Sam’s words. Standard whenever Sam mentioned their dad, or if he saw something that reminded him of dad, or if dad cared enough to leave a voicemail for Sam on their shared answering machine. The little antenna on his brain’s radio drooped slightly, making Dean fiddle for the signal. He managed to catch the remainder of Sam’s monologue, barely. “…it’s a whole new world!”

           “No, it isn’t,” Dean sighed, tiredly scrubbing his chin. “Sam, you’ve only ever liked girls.”

           “To my knowledge!” Sam insisted, “I might’ve liked a boy, possibly. Maybe. I mean… do you remember Trevor?”

           “Trevor?”

           “Y’know, Trevor,” he fumbled through his memories, silence painstakingly ticking past. The clicking of their kitchen clock suddenly, obnoxiously loud. “That kid from that town we stayed at for about two months my sophomore year of high school, up in Montana.”

           Dean remembered that town. GED burning a hole in his pocket, he bummed through town hunting for a job since dad hightailed it for a phantom thread of a lead on their mother’s murderer. Not many folks were hiring, but a stern man in a rough-hewn Stetson and bushy mustache needed an extra ranch hand. Introduced Dean to his son, Dean’s new co-worker. Steve was a nice boy, older than him by a few years, with a warm temperament, skin tanned like leather from a life of fieldwork, and legs bent further than Dean’s by riding horses since birth.

           One day while tending the horses, Steve noticed how Dean’s focus drifted every few seconds, drawn to the saddles. “We can go for a ride,” he mentioned, “one night, around the property.”

           “I wouldn’t even know how to get on a horse, let alone ride it.”

           Steve chuckled, shoulders barely shaking from the act. His honeyed eyes were earnest and gooey in the filtered sunlight, distracting Dean more than saddles ever did. “I can show you,” he said, “it ain’t too hard.” He proved that by using their lunch break to teach Dean how to mount a horse. He demonstrated it, legs wrapping around its thick flanks, showboating and urging the steed forward by tapping his heels while Dean laughed, head dizzy from spinning, following Steve and the horse, as well as other things. “Think you can try it?” Dean didn’t. He shook his head, lip trapped between his teeth. Speaking felt blasphemous in that moment. “What if I helped?” Steve offered a hand, easily hefting Dean up atop the horse. They shared the saddle, Dean bracketed by Steve’s sturdy arms and supported by his firm chest. Dean felt every tug of the reigns as Steve guided the horse around the stable, and every whispered breath along his neck. Steve dismounted first, holding Dean’s hips and helping him down later. “Now imagine how nice that’d be, out on the plains, with nothing but the moon watching us?” He painted a pretty picture, even if Dean’s copied brushstrokes were shaky and inelegant. They made plans the following Friday.

           John returned Tuesday, and they left Wednesday. He’d never been near a horse since.

           But they weren’t talking about Steve. Why did he think of Steve? “Trevor?” Dean repeated, still unsure what Sam’s flailing meant.

           “My lab partner,” he said, “We bonded over our mutual appreciation of Vince Vincente and the Goonies… there were some days he’d give me the extra sandwich his mom packed, for some reason?”

           “You mean to tell me you had a crush on this Trevor kid?”

           “I might have!” Sam rose, shouting, “He was… he treated me well, and I liked hanging around him.”

           “He was your friend, Sam. Friend,” Dean sunk deeper into his seat, kicking Sam’s abandoned chair. “You have had friends in your life, right? I know I joke about you being a loser, but I never really meant it…”

           “Of course I had friends,” he scowled, “I have friends.”

           “And you’ve had girlfriends,” Dean reminded him, “Hell, you and Jess only broke up about a month ago! Did Trevor give you feelings like Jess did?”

           Sam visibly faltered, stooping slightly. Footing lost as the ground trembled beneath his feet. “Well… no, I mean – not, not that I can recall…” Spluttering, his hands balled tighter into fists. “But maybe it’s different, feelings for a boy and – and feelings for a girl.”

           “Sam, feelings are feelings regardless of who’s on the other end of ‘em. You just… you just know –“

           Like he regressed two decades, Sam stomped his foot in a very childish way. Whining, “God, Dean, can’t you be a little supportive!” Immediately his face stretched in regret, rubber band snapping as he leaped forward in years to his appropriate age. It didn’t matter; the barb struck exactly where it intended, puncturing soft underbelly, unguarded by Dean’s calloused defenses.

           Dean stiffened; gaze drawn to a whorl in the table’s finish. His thumb pressed hard at its center. He snorted, but it sounded more like an engine backfiring. “Supportive huh?” he asked, smile wide and wry, “You want me to be more supportive?” Thousands of examples flickered like a clip reel in his mind. Small things. Dean skipping breakfast so Sam can eat the last of their cereal. Wearing the same clothes, weeks on end, because Sam needed a new wardrobe, reedy body bigger than what they had. Risking arrest with every five-finger discount or hustled game or back alley trick; supporting the way their dad couldn’t.

           Bigger things. Lying, letting Sam play over at other kids’ houses; Dean frozen, watching the door in fear their dad came home early. Hiding letters from admissions for Sam, secreted from beneath their dad’s nose. He was an ever-present figure during those last few years. A shadowy patrol that continually followed since they were old enough. Dad had more use for men then children. Dean went as far as distracting him one starless night while Sam escaped, then accepted the consequences of his actions. He joined Sam weeks later with Baby’s keys and a split lip caused by, who he described to Sam as, some jackass biker. It healed in time for an interview, for a job he still has. Six days a week spent under the hoods of cars, working long hours and earning money to support them both, like before. Giving Sam the very freedoms he’d been denied – time, luxury, and safety.

           He held these words firm in his mouth, smoke bitter as it roiled. But, in his next breath, Dean released the past with a low hiss. Darkness rising, dissipating. “It’s okay,” he assured Sam, cutting off his rambling apologies. “Really.” He glanced at Sam’s outfit, fully taking in his choices. A color-blocked jacket of bright colors, reds, yellows, and oranges, that glowed over his tight, dark button-down. A hint of some printed graphic peeking behind the half-zippered flaps. Combined with a pair of Sam’s most distressed denim and flip-flops because It’s California, Dean, and you know how awful my feet sweat. As a whole Sam presented like a grade-A douchebag. Entirely unprepared for any bar, let alone a gay one. Dean’s instincts kicked into overdrive.

           “Fine,” he decided, standing, too, “you want supportive? Then I’m coming with you.”

           “What?” Sam trailed Dean’s wake as he left for his bedroom, cornering him while he slipped into some ratty white sneakers left by his dresser. “You’re coming?”

           “Sure.”

           “But… why?” Sam slammed his hand on Dean’s doorframe, blocking his exit. “You’re not gay.”

           Dean frowned at him, “I thought you didn’t have to be gay to go to a gay bar?”

           “Yeah, but –“ He knocked Sam’s arm loose, passing his brother on the way towards the door. Sam followed, buzzing behind like a mosquito. “You don’t seriously wanna go, do you?”

           “Obviously not,” Dean said, sliding into an oversized leather jacket. Another relic of their dad’s. Dean couldn’t leave without it. He couldn’t explain why. “But since you’re insisting on doing this, I might as well make sure you don’t get taken advantage of.”

           “That won’t happen.”

           “You kidding? A guy like you, wobbling around like a fawn – a sort of gay Bambi… you’d get eaten alive instantly. Or drugged.” He squeezed Sam’s shoulder, the finger of his other hand pressed into his brother’s chest like it was an intercom button, pushing so forcefully Dean thought it might burst through the other side. “I don’t need the stress of finding out you died at this gay bar because some idiot overestimated the amount of roofies they’d need to take down your elephant-sized ass.”

           Sam cringed at his worst-case scenario but hadn’t shrugged his hand off. Instead he returned the gesture with his own comforting touch around Dean’s wrist. “Okay,” Sam said, “you can come. Don’t embarrass me though, by being an ass.”

           “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

           “Hey,” Sam said later, Baby idling in front of a red light. Zeppelin blaring through her speakers, making conversation difficult. Dean lowered it for his brother. “What’d you think dad’d say, if he knew where we were going?”

           Dad’s opinion, of his two sons wasting their night in a gay bar, would ruffle the feathers of Sam’s newfound sensitivity. He hears their dad’s voice clearly, delivering a tirade about their terrible choices. Dean spent his time at the bar drowning that voice since arriving. He drains his fourth-or-fifth glass of its contents. It all splashes like the others, into his empty, churning stomach. Dad’s voice, the awful music, his nerves and senses slip out of mind. He sees dregs of vodka left in his glass. He uses the same finger that swiped through the tiny bar puddle and swirls it there, coating in in more vodka. Again, Dean sucks on his finger.

           Someone approaches while his lips graze knuckle.

           “If you get tired of that finger…” a stranger says on his right, reeking of cherry-and-liquored stink. Dean’s face scrunches at the smell. “I’ve got this big thing you can suck on…” His gaze wanders to where the stranger is.

           He’s a man with severely gelled hair, plastered back. A few strands were missed in the initial sweep and clung to his forehead, shiny and wet, making it seem like oil slowly bled down. He chokes on a gold chain that resembles a collar, broad neck seizing as he breathes. Steroids, Dean wagers, given how bulging veins snake past the sleeves of his stretched-thin shirt. Which makes him doubt the man’s ‘big’ claim. He arches a stupidly perfect, sculpted brow, leaning far past the bubble of Dean’s personal space. “You’d definitely have a lot more fun than playing with your finger,” he adds, taking Dean’s silence as an apparent invitation.

           He can’t remember when his finger slid free, but it did and, while spit-slick, jabs at Roidy’s brick-wall chest. “Not interested pal,” he says, “Why don’t you try a different fella?”

           “What if I don’t want a different fella?”

           “Then you are s’stupid as you look.” Dean waves, flagging the bartender for his next vodka. “Why don’t you take your big package crap elsewhere?”

           Undeterred, Roidy leans closer. Fingertips ghosting where Dean holds his glass as the bartender refills it. He tenses, squirming, imagining the very oil that drips from the man’s head coats his fingers, too, and through his touch smears it around Dean’s wrist. “Listen, you might not know this… but I made a promise tonight. That I would fuck the hottest, sexiest piece of trade in the club tonight. And congratulations… that’s you.”

           Dean squints, mockingly cooing at the other’s assessment. “I feel honored,” he says, sarcasm heavy like the hand pouring his drinks this evening. “Special, even,” Dean continues, “don’t know how anyone could turn y’away after that.”

           “No one does.”

           “Then I guess I’ll be the first?” Dean asks. The bartender huffs softly under breath, he and Dean reveling silently. They connect over this interloper’s antics. With a subtle shift in the bartender’s gaze, a snide flash of teeth, Dean understands. He’s not the first, only the latest. Certainly not the last.

           What he wants to be, though, is left alone. That doesn’t seem likely. Not with how Roidy gloms onto Dean’s side, an arm curling around his shoulders. Not if his biting smile meant anything, tearing through Dean’s dismissals. Not as Roidy whispers, barely audible because of the music, “If you’re going for discreet, I can do that… play along, that is. It wouldn’t be worth it if it were easy…”

           Dean’s mood sinks under such nauseating charms. He looks for assistance in the bartender, but he swam to safer shores at some point, serving drinks elsewhere. Unfortunate. He was starting to like him.

           Roidy snuffles Dean’s neck, alarms clanging within his head. Or possibly it’s coming from the many speakers placed throughout the bar. Either way that plus everything he drank, make thinking complicated and tortuously slow, like Roidy nosing along his collarbone. His thoughts fall apart before they make it to his mouth, Dean opening and shutting and opening his mouth hoping a few words can crawl themselves into existence. He manages a few garbled syllables that are greatly ignored.

           As swiftly as Roidy began his assault, he’s being tugged off him. Dean gasps for breath, spinning, facing the dancefloor now. Glaring at Roidy who glares elsewhere, at the owner of the hand that cleaved this growth from Dean’s side.

           It’s beautiful, for a hand. Tan, palm curled around Dean’s shoulder protectively. No cuts or scabs across the knuckles, nor any scars. If he were to touch it, he imagines the skin there is soft and smooth. Dean’s gaze travels, curious who might own such a gentle hand.

           Chasing the sinewy lines of his savior’s arms to broad shoulders, Dean feels his chest tighten in a desperate need for fresh air. However, it’s not terrifying like before with Roidy. This is unique and comforting. He inhales, then exhales. He has no trouble breathing. He still feels that tightness. Crushing once he finds his savior’s face.

           Marble. Statues are carved from stone – marble, specifically – he remembers from an old teacher’s droned lecture that returned with vengeance. Spoken during a field trip to some museum where Dean barely stayed awake as they flew room to room, always seconds from collapsing, waking momentarily for the next exhibit. Except when they entered a room of statues, and Dean managed fifteen minutes of attentiveness. Aided by chiseled features of a statue hidden between two columns near the farthest corner of the room. A man, naked, endowed, frozen in repose and staring into the distance. It might have been at a bathroom door, Dean’s memory supplied, but the statue saw beyond such borders. Dean wished he knew what existed where only statues can see. All he understood was the expression. Marble evoked steel. The statue displayed determination, tempered and ready for whatever barrels forward, with a hint of sorrow he must greet what is to come. The same expression shone on his savior’s face triggering his sudden recollection. Only his was brighter because of those eyes. An incomparable blue.

           On first glance, Dean wonders if that statue perhaps came alive. Journeyed from wherever it stood, in that town whose name he can’t summon up, to save him. Except that’s impossible. That statue is most likely there, forever guarding the bathroom. Blue Eyes is a man with his own history, parallel to Dean’s until he jumped in playing hero. But why?

           He can’t think of a reasonable explanation, because Blue Eyes finally speaks. “Hey babe,” he growls, Dean jolting from the pitch, like he stepped, shoeless, on glass shards littering the floor. An abundance of them must slip loose from Blue Eyes’ mouth whenever it opens after they shredded his vocal cords. “Sorry I’m late, traffic was crazy.”

           What?

           “What?”

           “Didn’t you get my text?” he asks Dean. Then, subtly checking on Roidy who watches, fuming from the sidelines, he makes an odd clicking sound. “Or were your hands full, and you couldn’t check?”

           “His hands were full all right,” Roidy interrupts, not waiting for Dean’s response. He tries shoving Blue Eyes back, but he refuses to budge. His strength real and not decorative like Roidy’s. He falters slightly; adjusts course and snags a fistful of Blue Eyes’ white button-down in case Blue Eyes wastes energy trying what Roidy did. “Why don’t you leave and let your babe hang with someone who’s there when he needs him?”

           Blue Eyes squints, lips slowly stretching, like a match dragged across a striker, until the flame of a smirk dances into view. “I can assure you, that’s exactly who I am. Wouldn’t you agree?”

           He does. He should. Blue Eyes listens for Dean’s answer, chin dipped patiently. Roidy’s is, as well. Both wait on him, Dean the difference between favor and disgrace. It’s a non-decision. He eases into his savior’s warmth, improvising by slipping his thumb through a belt loop on the other side. “Exactly,” Dean says, “you’re all I need, sweetie.”

           Dean knows there’s no reason to turn from Blue Eyes. Temptation wins, and he chances a peek at the loser. Roidy fumes, his sneer somehow making him appear uglier. He wipes at his brow, disrupting those few, sticky strands, and reveals covered pockmarks. They appear horn-like, in the bar’s dim lighting. That cherry-and-liquor scent sours, suddenly pungent like rotten eggs. “Whatever,” he mutters, letting Blue Eyes go, “your boyfriend’s a fucking tease.”

           “Go fuck yourself,” Dean drawls, laughing, squeezing Blue Eyes tighter. Encouraged by his presence. “At least you’ll know it’s consen-u-tal!”

           Roidy departs dreadfully, saluting them with his middle finger. Dean responds with a raised glass that quickly empties itself down his throat. Slumping onto the bar, releasing Blue Eyes, Dean motions for the bartender’s return. “Hey,” he slurs, “another vodk-eh and, uh…” He scowls, studying the rack, an array of alcohol lined up. “Shit, man,” he asks his savior, “what’s your poison?”

           “Tequila,” Blue Eyes tells the bartender, frowning at Dean, “You sure you’re good for this?”

           “What’s that s’posed to mean?”

           “That you look like you’ve had enough.” Blue Eyes accepts the glass of tequila, tapping its rim against his chin, lime wedge hitting the corner of his quirked lips. “How many of those vodkas have you had?”

           “’Bout this many,” he answers, hand open. Dean hums, considering the number. “Maybe one or two more. Or less? I must’ve lost count…” He shrugs, sipping at his latest drink. “S’okay, though, I once drank this meathead trucker under the table. A whole bottle of ol’ Jack at this… roadhouse off a highway somewhere east a’here.” Vodka sloshes with each gesture while he retells the story. “So I’ve got tolernance.”

           “Clearly.” Blue Eyes chuckles, and Dean – not sure for what reason – joins him. He can’t hear much of it, but the bits of his laughter that break over the bar’s chaotic din make Dean giddy. “Thank you,” he nods at his tequila, “for the drink.”

           “Hey, I’m the one thankin’ here buddy,” Dean says, “I don’t know what I’d’ve done if you hadn’t stepp-epped in when you did. Probably somethin’ punchy.”

           “He would have deserved it,” he finally tips his glass back. Dean’s Adam’s apple bobs in rhythm with Blue Eyes’, even if his drink rests miles away on the bar top. “Hey,” Blue Eyes continues, smiling, fiddling with the lime wedge, “what’s your name?”

           “Why you wanna know?”

           “Well, usually I know the names of the men who buy me drinks. Especially those who buy them for me after I’ve scared off pervy creeps.”

           “You make a habit of this, then?”

           “No,” Blue Eyes says, “you’re the first.”

           Unlike with Roidy, Dean believes him. “Dean.”

           “Castiel,” he reveals, simultaneously sticking the lime in his mouth. Teeth locked around it, he drains the wedge of its juice. Dean blushes, and the rush of blood to his head brings dizziness. Resting one hand on the bar doesn’t help. Neither does two. Castiel finishes his drink, placing the glass and shriveled lime near Dean’s hands, and yet his sudden lightheadedness persists.

           Castiel must notice this queasiness, because he grazes Dean’s elbow. Uses words Dean cannot presently grasp. A wave of concern sweeps across Castiel’s features, transforming them. Drawing Dean closer, lost in his orbit.

           A diversion is necessary. “So, Cas,” he starts, their faces inches from each other. To talk easier. “You gay?”

           “Uh…” Belatedly, Dean realizes his stupidity. His jaw drops, as if he can vacuum the question back. Pretend he never said it. Castiel, looking saintly under the bar’s neon glow, recovers faster. Replies before Dean might withdraw. “Yeah, yes I’m… I’m gay. Be pretty weird if I wasn’t.”

           “I must be pretty weird, huh,” Dean thinks aloud. He smacks his lips. They taste oddly like a morning where, after playing some hilarious prank on Sam, he came to with old socks stuffed into his duct taped mouth.

           Castiel skews his head to the side. “Why are you weird?”

           “Because…” It’s a bad idea. He recognizes how bad an idea this is. However, recognition and action are completely separate. And while he succeeds in the former, he fails spectacularly with the latter. “I’m not gay.” Then, slurring, he whisper-shouts, “I’m straaaaight.”

           “Really…” Castiel skims through tens of emotions Dean cannot discern with his vodka-addled brain. He settles on detachment, the tightness within his chest loosening as Cas inches backwards. Dean, instinctively, floats closer. That strain returns tenfold, like a python coiled itself around Dean. Squeezes him until Castiel bumps into a patron, bringing their chests flush together. Dean likes it even if he cannot breathe. Castiel smiles, but it’s noticeably different than those previously gifted. “If you’re straight, why are you at a gay bar?”

           “You don’t have to be gay to be in a gay bar,” Dean supplies.

           “It’d be a real plus though.” He barely caught Castiel’s mumbling. He can’t question what was meant, because Castiel clears his throat and repeats his question. “Why did you choose a gay bar for the evening?”

           Dean glances at the dance floor. Sam hadn’t left, enmeshed between writhing bodies. “I’m not here for me. My brother – he thinks he’s gay… or somethin’ like it,” he tells Castiel, snorting when someone other than Sam rakes a paw through his hair. Awkwardness flashes like lightning, disappearing behind forced puppy-dog features and Sam’s too-wide grin. “He’s here expermimenting while I’m the… uh – the moral support.”

           Castiel’s face publicizes his thoughts. The lines of his face twitch in simple patterns that are already familiar to Dean. And the pools of his eyes reflect the subdued variety of his feelings, providing needed transparency. With this change of his features, Dean guesses Castiel’s tensed mouthline and wishbone-bent eyebrows meant awe and respect. “That’s… very nice of you.”

           “Least I can do,” Dean shrugs, tasting sock once more, “it’s not like I’ll need’ta do more. Kid’s straight as a… straight thing.”

           Those pearled emotions seal themselves tightly in a clamshell, Castiel sending them back into murky depths. “How would you know?”

           “Because I’ve known the kid all m’life, Cas. He’s a shit liar… at least to me he is.” Dean settles against the bar, past resurfacing. A clear memory from their younger years. Sam never finishing his dinners, but somehow dropping a clean plate into the trashcan every time. Followed by a question, like clockwork, about taking a walk. “Around the motel,” he said, “nothing further.” His father’s rules. Never plainly set, but strictly enforced. Dean learned of them the hard way. Sam agreed, not even fighting like he usually did. Maybe that’s why, one night, he left their motel a beat after Sam. Dean kept close tabs on his brother. Not stopping him as he disobeyed orders and crossed the street, nor when a crowd of adults poured out of some ritzy venue, stares scathing as he passed. He maintained distance, only toeing nearer as Sam slowed for a better view of the alleyway he paused at, of a three-legged dog hobbling out of a cardboard box, tongue lolling, tail wagging. Sam greeted him in similar fashion, kneeling at the edge where light and shadows gathered. He pet and pet and pet this stray, stopping only to reveal the portion of dinner he hadn’t eaten wrapped in several paper towels. Dean scurried off in the direction of the motel, asking Sam how his walk was once he returned. He relates all this to Castiel. “Sam loved dogs. Always wanted one assa pet…” If this was his chance, Dean figured he might help. Became more lenient. Gave Sam food from his plate, not that he ever noticed. Lied to John during those rare moments he was home.  “Most of the things he got away with were only because I let him. I’m sure if he ever wanted a boyfriend he could’ve done it, and there I’d be covering his tracks like I did for his dog an’ his playdates an’ his girlfriends.”

           “Wow, you…” Castiel trails off. Or perhaps he completed his thought, and Dean missed it because their arms are pressed together on the bar. Dean turns, watching the other’s soft contemplation instead of Sam. Castiel meets his gaze, those pearls reappearing. Shinier, too. “What happened to the dog?”

           “Sam dropped off food the next two weeks, but by then our dad was dying to move on,” he explains, “I happened to overhear him bitchin’ on the phone and knew it’d be soon. So I took a personal day and brought his mutt t’the nearest shelter.” Hopefully Patchy found a good home, not that he cared.

           “You’re a good brother.”

           “I try my best.”

           “Your best is better than a lot of people’s…” Castiel knocks his shoulder into Dean’s, Dean chasing after it. “My brothers’ idea of kindness is the occasional birthday e-mail, when the mood strikes them that is.”

           “That sucks.” There’s more he wants to say, except Dean cannot make his mouth open again. When he finally unsticks his lips, he forgot all those words that seemed important moments ago. Replaced by off-tempo notes and cyclical phrases. Dean sighs, head lolling to the side while his lids slide closed over his eyes.

           He exists in darkness. A warm, welcoming blackness, like being swaddled in a blanket. Hiding under it while winds howled and raged, sheets of rain slamming atop roofs and pelleting windows. Safe, protected.

           That blanket is torn from him, Dean stumbling slightly. Castiel catches him and helps him stand upright, smirking. “Hey,” Dean whines, numb fingers twining loosely around Castiel’s wrist, “where you goin’?”

           Castiel nods at the writhing mass, somehow larger since Dean last looked. “I feel like dancing.”

           “No…” Dean tugs Castiel back towards him. He stays where he was. “Stay here,” Dean insists.

           “Or…” Castiel says, prying Dean’s hand from his wrist. His needy fingers seep through the spaces between Castiel’s and he clings tight. “Or,” he repeats, breathier than before, “you can join me on the dancefloor?”

           “I don’t dance, Cas…” His legs betray him, following Castiel into the fray. Vodka making his protests toothless. Vodka and Castiel.

           He meant what he said, though. He does not dance. Men don’t dance. Real men. Normal men. Dad never danced, not even at his wedding. Even though mom begged, dad would tell them that he remained firm in his decision. “Never trust a man who dances,” he advised, Sam asleep feet from where they sat, beers in their hands. Dean was fourteen. “No man wants to dance. If he’s dancing, it means he’s weak enough to have lost that fight. And if he likes dancing, then that’s not the kind of man you want to be associating with.” Dean nodded, because at fourteen why not? Dad rarely gave guidance that wasn’t pointed, aimed directly at him. Cutting, slicing bits and pieces off and leaving them behind in whatever motel they briefly occupied.

           With how Castiel moves, effortless and graceful, Dean bets he likes dancing. And if Castiel likes dancing, Dean wonders, truly, how bad it can be.

           You want these people thinking you’re some kind of fairy? They already have, before he walked onto the dance floor. No son of mine is gonna dance with a man! Luckily, he won’t be dancing with one. He’ll dance, surrounded by men. Do you want to look gay, Dean? He won’t. Not if he says he doesn’t. Not if he says he isn’t.

           A kid from his junior high days taught him that. How, by telling yourself what you do isn’t gay, suddenly you create your own version of truth. “Not for everything,” he warned. He paused, panting, as he – like Dean – recovered on the leather couch. Spent, video paused on his basement television, shorts – like Dean’s – around his ankles, “it doesn’t work all the time.”

           “But for this?” Dean asked.

           “Definitely this.”

           Dean listened; those sacred words used sparingly over time. Mostly during clouded nights when the money ran out, as did their supplies, and Dean’s skills at the pool table or poker game couldn’t compare to those of his body.

           He uses the words again. This isn’t gay. Castiel spins him, his chest plastered onto Dean’s back. He tries phrasing it differently. Dancing isn’t gay. Dean takes his free hand, the one not latched onto Castiel, and mirrors an earlier action he saw. Combs his fingers through Castiel’s dark brown locks. He amends and adds to it, too. Dancing is the least gay thing he can be doing in this bar. That appeases the monster clawing at his mind, its voice, eerily similar to his dad’s, fading away. Dean smiles, then lets go.

           The music isn’t so bad. Dancing isn’t as bad, either. Castiel is…

           Dean focuses only on the music and dancing. It’s easy, losing himself in the rhythm. Forgetting who he is, where he is, and why he is where he is. He becomes nameless, another body in motion. Faceless as the strobe lights flicker and hide his features. Thoughtless, no room for anything besides what he hears. Dean doesn’t exist save for moments that jab at his awareness. Castiel squeezing his hand. The feel of hair then stubble then hair as his touch roams. Gasps at the base of his neck that elicit headier gasps from Dean. Firm press of chest-to-back, joined hands resting over his heart while Castiel’s free hand lays atop Dean’s stomach as they rock together.

           Dancing is the least gay thing he can be doing at this bar.

           While it fascinates Dean, Castiel must tire of their arrangement, because he disturbs Dean’s oblivion by turning from back-to-chest to chest-to-chest. The wrong move, Dean thinks, as his vision blurs in such a violent way. The room spins and tilts long after he did, everything appearing off-balance. Save for Castiel, standing in front of him, not dancing anymore.

           That’s why he throws his arms around Castiel’s shoulders, Dean’s mind comforts him with seconds later. For safety. For stability. Since he, too, wasn’t dancing anymore. His legs were useless, bent further than normal. Making him smaller. Forcing him to angle his head upwards to meet his savior’s searching gaze. Lips parted silently, asking a question with the ghost of his breath. Dean thinks he hears an invitation.

           He accepts. Dives headfirst into it, vodka mixing with tequila and a spritz of lime. Castiel tastes better than any drink he’s had. He puts pressure on Castiel’s shoulder, climbing for easier access. Castiel helps; an arm braced around Dean’s waist steadies him. Guides their bodies into a holding pattern, a simple sway that won’t interfere with the others cavorting around them. Serenity made within the chaos of a raging sea; these waves don’t crash. Rather, they tenderly caress the shoreline before retreating in similar fashion. A line of sea foam, like the line of spit generously coating Dean’s mouth, the only proof it even hit.

           Dean breaks from their kiss, panting. His forehead rests against Castiel’s. “That was…” he pauses, testing each word he thinks of and ultimately rejecting them all since they fail to describe what happened. He settles for, “Wow.”

           “It was,” Castiel agrees, “Why’d you stop, then?”

           “I stopped?” Dean sifts through his memories, those last few minutes entirely unforgettable but completely hard to recount. “I did?” he whispers, “Maybe it’s because I’m straight?”

           “Are you sure?”

           “I…” He can be, if he says so. Unfortunately, Dean forgets those little magic words. Trapped in limbo, the space between truths. “I’m not… I don’t know.”

           Cas steps back, enough that Dean sees his entire face instead of those enchanting blue eyes. It eases the worry plaguing Dean’s mind. “Did you enjoy what just happened? What we did?”

           “Yeah.”

           “Then you certainly aren’t straight.”

           Dean nods. He swallows a lump in his throat, feels it tear itself down into his stomach. He imagines blood spouting out of these gashes, building, climbing up in an escape attempt. He chokes on it. It might not be blood. Maybe-blood-maybe-drool leaks from the corners of his mouth as he asks, in a daze, “Does that mean I’m gay?”

           “Or something like it.” Castiel reaches forward, combing through Dean’s sweaty hair in time with the music. “Hey,” he says, “it’s okay if you are. That you like… that you kissed me. It’s okay.”

           It isn’t. Dean knows it isn’t. Not for him. Not with all that’s expected of him. The blueprint of who he’s supposed to be. Who Dean Winchester is. Torn to shreds and raining overhead like the actual confetti that floats down from high above. That were released without notice. Dropped there while he stands, in the middle of the dance floor, petrified by another man’s kiss. Dad’s efforts wasted.

           “It’s okay,” Castiel repeats, “it’s okay…” He drifts further away; but before Dean can whine about his absence, he realizes his feet move, too. Castiel leads him from the belly of this ecstatic, partying mob.

           “Where are you taking me?”

           “Nowhere far, just off the dance floor.” They reach the perimeter, crowd thinned and weak; Cas releases his hold on Dean. Shrugs his shoulders, blessedly smiling at him. “Where you go and... what you do next, well – that’s up to you.”

           He’s unprepared for such freedoms. The simplicity of making a choice. A foreign concept when all your life, every decision was already made for you. For other people. Keys don’t choose which doors they open. Hammers don’t make plans on which nails they’ll hit and which they’ll avoid.

           Dean giggles, overcome by an intoxicating rush of getting to choose without any real consequence. No judgement, no threats, no guilt. If Dean told Castiel that kiss meant nothing and then bolted out of the bar, he would never have to deal with these conflicting thoughts, actions, and feelings. Never need to see Castiel again.

           That isn’t what he wants.

           Dean embraces the confusion because he, Dean, wants to. He kisses Castiel, driving them forward until they hit a wall, because he wants to. Tells him, “I want you,” because he does. Because it’s the truth.

           And Castiel’s truth, “You can have me,” slots perfectly next to his.

           Dean is intimately familiar with the art of kissing. Spent years practicing with ever-changing partners; girls from all over who were probably as bored as Dean felt. Girls who his dad saw and made him beam with pride. Enough girls, so that he called Dean names – different than the ones he thought Dean didn’t know about – like lady killer and chip off the ol’ block. Girls that were good kissers, bad kissers, and mostly unremarkable whatsoever. Dean lost his appetite for kissing, the act not being very fun for him. Not something he might look forward to, even if he said the right things and acted his part perfectly.

           Kissing Castiel wasn’t good. Wasn’t bad. Not unremarkable in the slightest. It elevated the idea of kissing onto another level. A holy act. Placing Castiel on the same level as all his previous entanglements would be similar to heresy.

           This isn’t just a kiss. It’s Dean sticking his face into a fuse box with all the switches flicked on. It’s Dean stepping out into a storm without an umbrella. It’s riding down an empty highway, no cops in sight, and abusing the gas pedal until the speedometer needle vanishes.

           This kiss is apocalyptic, destroying the notion that anyone besides they two existed.

           A hand joins the two roving his body, shaking his arm. Dean laughs, “How’d you do that, Cas?”

           “Dean,” Not-Cas says, “hey, uh… Dean?” He turns, Castiel’s lips adorning his jaw with favor, and finds Sam on his other side. Watching. Aware of what he interrupted, given his pained smile and squinted gaze trapped elsewhere. “Sorry, but I’m…” he clears his throat, “I’m kinda ready to leave, if you… you are?”

           His fingers curl where Castiel’s shirt is rucked up, dangerously teasing the line of his jeans. Castiel rolls his hips, rutting their cocks against each other again. “Yeah,” he tells Sam, “Yeah I can… we can go.”

           Dean extracts himself from Castiel, slowly, taking care to disentangle themselves. Dean flattens Castiel’s mussed hair. He fiddles with the buttons of Dean’s shirts, inexplicably unfastened. Neither speak of how these things happened. “Hey,” he starts, still hovering inside the other man’s personal space, “Um… thank you, for everything. Tonight. From the bar to – uh… to he –!”

           Castiel drags him into a kiss, one Dean returns heartily. His hands grabbing fabric while Castiel’s dance around his hips. Consumed by this, Dean ignores his cell phone being stolen. Only becomes aware of it when Castiel ends their goodbye with a smile, Dean’s phone in hand actively calling someone. “My number,” he explains, flipping his phone shut, “to use whenever. Hopefully soon.”

           “…Thanks.”

           “Good night, Dean.”

           “Night, Cas.”

           He lingers. He opens his phone, closes it, then slips it back into his pocket. Sam mutters an unintelligible phrase at them, shoving Dean from where he stood. Dean blindly navigates his way towards the exit, seeing nothing but Castiel’s shrinking face that disappears once they step outside.

           He expected heat. It’s cold. Not actually, but cooler than the room they left, where bodies and light and energy broke the thermometer. Fresh air brushes his skin, startling Dean from his stupor. Dean jolts awake. His heart plummets down past his ass, chest hollowing. He glances at Sam, about to ask if they ever entered the bar. Or if he hallucinated everything on the walk to it. Dean’s lips purse, then flatten. Sam already walked ahead. He jogs after him.

           No one speaks for half their journey.

           They pass a twenty-four-hour convenience store Dean remembers, and he knows Baby waits a block around the next corner. Sam chooses then to restart their conversation. “Looks like this trip was good for both of us,” he says, hands shoved inside his pockets. He won’t meet Dean’s eyes. “Learned a lot.”

           “Really?” He’s parched. Unbalanced. His feet won’t walk in a straight line, stumbling every few steps. He persists, “What?”

           Sam shrugs, “I might have… over-examined that memory of Trevor.” Sighing, Sam kicks an empty, abandoned can into the street. “I guess I was searching for a reason why Jess and my relationship ended like it did. We were going so strong I… I figured it might have been me. That I wasn’t able to love her the way she needed because I couldn’t.”

           “Sometimes people just don’t work,” Dean tells him, “and no amount of forcing it is gonna fix it.”

           “Yeah…” He spots Baby easily, street deserted save his car and some poor, busted Beetle. Dean searches for his keys, struggling. Sam talks all the while. “And then there are some people who… who click immediately.” Dean tenses, breath stuttering. “How long have you been –?”

           He’s back in the bar. He must be. How else could he hear this overwhelming, earsplitting ringing. The kind that makes him stagger, slump against the closest surface and collapse there into a tiny ball, protected from the voice that somehow talks louder than that goddamn ringing. The monster’s voice. The one that sounds strangely similar to his dad’s. Angrily shouting, calling him names. “I’m not,” he said, as always, “I’m not.”

           Another sound overpowers the monster and that throbbing din. “Dean! Dean, hey… hey-hey-hey-hey Dean… it’s okay… it’s me, Sam. Sammy.” Someone touches his shoulder. Dean flinches from it. “Come on Dean… I won’t hurt you.” Their voice hitches, sounding waterlogged. “Please, Dean… wherever you think you are, you’re not. I promise. I need you, man. Sammy needs you.”

           Look out for Sammy.

           Dean forces himself into the present, a herculean feat as shadowed claws dig at him. Fight his attempts. He pries an eye open, then the other. There’s only Sam. Sam, kneeling in front of him on the sidewalk. Sam who, though he denies it, carries so much of their dad with him it makes staying calm near impossible. Dean sees a reflection of who Sam could be, that dad hoped Dean might be, that Sam wished he never would be. It was the reason why fatherly adoration came effortlessly when it was for Sam, even during days they hardly spoke. Dean acted as their go between. Hearing praise and relaying it; forever the messenger, carrying wounds and scars.

            “Dean, are you… you’re with me, right?” Dean nods, tension melting away. He slides further, knees bumping into Sam’s. A wordless comfort. “Fuck I am so… so sorry. I didn’t, I never meant –“

           “It’s okay.”

           “It’s not okay, Dean. Fuck!” His shout echoes towards the moon, filling the space left by clear California night. “What if I asked you while you were driving, we could have…”

           They might have died.

           “Shit…” Dean hisses, rubbing his throbbing head, willing its silence so he can think. He gets one minutes. He uses it wisely, handing Baby’s keys to Sam. “Take ‘em.”

           “What?”

           “I drank too much anyway.” Wobbling when he rises, Dean proves that true. “You were gonna have to take it, regardless.”

           Sam’s expression softens. In turn, Dean’s skin crawls. “Thank you.”

           “Just go start the damn car.” Dean won’t follow. Rather sharpening his defenses for the inevitable. Bad music. Lawful driving. Plaintive whines and rhetorical questions, all in an attempt at making Dean talk. About tonight. About their childhood. About signs he didn’t see, how it felt being this while in dad’s presence. Sam will push and push and push until he’s flatter than cardboard. Contents neatly organized and fit for storage.

           He hears the soft rumble of Baby’s engine, then that of his phone. A text.

Unknown Number 1 (650) 378-0914: In case you’re wondering, my name is spelled C A S T I E L ;)

           Despite what a whirlwind these past few minutes felt like, Dean laughs. Giggles become snorting which become happier tears rolling across his cheeks, tracing over still-damp lines and erasing them from sight. He clutches his phone atop his heart, figure bent as he now wheezes.

           Dean reigns in his giddiness. Stares at the message, wondering what he will do. Once Dean decides, he realizes his thumb was already halfway done.

           He saves his number under Cas <3. Dean responds, snapping his phone closed quickly before he can reread and second guess.

           Sam honks, watching with interest. A thousand questions waiting, hidden by the curious bend of his brows. Because of Castiel, Dean must face them. Will answer them. Is ready for them.

[ibelieveinahappilyeverafter]

Danny Phantom Drabble - The Angel of Death

Basically? This won’t make sense if you haven’t read any of my other work involving Ghostwriter/Andrew Riter and Randy. If you have read most of my work however, enjoy!

Inspired by the following text from my girlfriend:  I just realized I could so totally see a younger Andrew "I'm here, I'm here, monsieur! The Angel of Death!"

Warnings: Minor character death resulting of guns and fire. 

                                                            ⁂

Whispers floated up through the stale, dusty air of the near forgotten warehouse their latest targets had taken to using as a meeting ground. Randy would have been more amused if he weren’t so disappointed in such a cliche. Plotting the deaths of government officials by way of bombing a government building was forgivable in its commonality, but doing so in a rundown warehouse close to the docks? It was, to borrow Andrew’s wonderfully bitter wit, an utterly disappointing story. 

The self-imposed leader was crouched over a set of plans and scribbled in notebooks, blowing out a stream of smoke as if to make the horrid cliches of the night even worse. “And you’re sure this can be done? I don’t want any more fucking mistakes after Jared and his lot.” Jared, hm? Now why did that sound familiar… Ah. He had been dealt with last month.

“Like I said before, boss.” Ugh. Boss? Really? “We got it all planned down right to the second.” There were grins and laughs exchanged between the group, Randy sighing as he silently raised himself to stand from his crouched position on one of the catwalks. He supposed, what with the group’s ‘meeting’ drawing to a close, he had better get to work. 

Scanning the ground and seeing a small pebble, Randy smirked to himself before kicking it over the edge just so to bang against an empty oil barrel. The way the men jumped to stand or scrambled to hide things was more amusing than it should have been. 

The leader of them, Darrel, was the only one to stay calm. Randy had to admire him for that if nothing else. Randy watched as the man straightened himself up, flicking his used cigarette to the ground before crushing it under his heel, “Easy, boys. Just seems like we got a rat problem is all. Why don’t you start looking for it?”

Ah, well, there went all of Randy’s respect. Sighing and absently flicking a hand through his hair, Randy moved quietly and quickly, keeping the men in his line of sight. There were only six of them — seven including the leader. It wouldn’t exactly be a hard mission of theirs to finish. Then again, they didn’t seem to be complete morons.

They had immediately spread out to block the exits in a move that was somewhat intelligent. A shame none of them bothered to look up. What was worse, though, was one of them laughed, cooing, “Come out, come out, little rat. We promise we won’t hurt you. At least, not much.” And to think that these were men that some people feared. 

“Hey, Darrel,” one of them, one who had remained close to the leader, was speaking in a quiet tone — not quiet enough, though. They were in a large, echoing warehouse. “You’ve heard the stories, right? What if it’s one of them Sect-” 

“Don’t even fucking talk about them, man.” Oh? Darrel suddenly didn’t look so relaxed and confident. Perhaps he had some self-preservation instincts after all. “They’re nothing but a fucking ghost story.” Oh… now how could Randy resist an introduction as lovely as that one?

Leaning over the edge of the catwalk, Randy hummed a sweet little song under his breath, almost laughing as all the attention in the room turned towards him at once, “I have to say… I haven’t heard us called ghosts before.” While Darrel and the other man looked pale as the ghosts they had compared him towards, the other idiots all rolled their eyes or scoffed.

“What? It’s just a fucking kid?” A couple of them laughed, but Randy only went back to humming, running the numbers through his head once more. There were seven of them in total. Randy had six shots before he would need to reload. No matter how quick of a shot he was, one would still be breathing when their Priest finally arrived. “Hey! You even fucking listening!” 

Ah, but these were the types who didn’t deserve the mercy they could offer. Randy couldn’t have stopped his laughter even if wanted to, fingers twitching towards sleek metal that was already loaded. His claws were drawn and oh, how he so wanted to use them. As it was, he settled with a croon, a soft, “You know, if you were smart, you would be running scared right now.”

“Hey! Shut the fuck up! We ain’t afraid of shooting a fucking kid! We’re the ones you should be fucking scared of-” 

“You?” Randy was no longer laughing, instead he felt the disgust crawling up his throat. These men — men like that — knew nothing of what true fear was. “I’ve killed more people than years you’ll ever live. Although… I suppose that isn’t saying much seeing as how tonight will end.”

As if his words became the trigger themselves, an explosion of fire ripped through the warehouse. Randy was quick to position himself closer towards an exit, watching with interest as fire, set off by the gathered gunpowder in the building, began to leap from one wooden crate to the next. 

Swearing and short screams flew through the air, but what was clearest was a bright, piercing laugh, the followed words just as clear and bright and, “I’m here, I’m here, monsieur! The Angel of Death!” It was a voice Randy knew better than his own heartbeat and an order he was more than happy to comply to. 

The realization, he was certain, hadn’t sunk in for all of the now dead bodies that littered the burning warehouse, but Randy doubted it would have changed anything even if they did realize just who they had been. 

A flash of black flew towards one of the exits, Randy following at a more subdued pace as he shot his gaze over burning skin and glassy eyes, making sure all of the bodies caught before he let in satisfaction. Once he was outside in the cool night air, he couldn’t help his soft laugh, a familiar body moving to press up against his own. “The Phantom of the Opera? Really?” 

“I rather thought it good, myself,” Andrew, his sweet little brother, grinned as he spun on his heel, coat flaring out around him. He looked every inch the priest he claimed to be as he clasped his hands together and bowed his head. 

“A prayer for the dead?” Randy half-asked, looking to where the warehouse was burning bright, flames searing against the night sky. It wouldn’t be long before officials were on their way. 

“Always,” Andrew responded, voice reverent before he continued in a softer voice, “But as for the cowardly, the faithless, the detestable, as for murderers, the sexually immoral, sorcerers, idolaters, and all liars, their portion will be in the lake that burns with fire and sulfur, which is the second death.” 

How fitting, Randy mused to himself, watching the flames burn and rage, the sight reflected in Andrew’s bright eyes, the green turned almost red from the skewed light. 

The grin on the younger’s face did nothing to temper his ‘prayer,’ only warping it further as he purred out a sweet, “For our God is a consuming fire…” A consuming fire, huh?  “Amen.”

Randy turned his back as the fire ravaged everything it touched, Andrew quick to tether himself back to his side now that their mission was fulfilled. It was over, and yet… Randy couldn’t help but feel as if something had sparked. 

A consuming fire… 

Not a bad idea, really. 

[phantomwarrior12]

A Timely Rescue

Prompt: All of y’all insisting on another chapter xD

Word Count: 2,478

Summary: Sometimes hunters are the ones who need to be rescued.

A/N: Hey folks!

It’s here at last! The moment you’ve all been waiting for! Upon popular demand, here if chapter two of A Lonely World. I do apologize for the delay, y’all would not believe how crazy life has been since I released chapter one. And, since I wrote this one, I opened my dumbass to a whole ass series, so, y’all have that to look forward to! xD

So, feel free to leave a like/comment to let me know your thoughts! Without further adieu!

Enjoy!

~Phantom

A Time To Know Your Enemy (Ch. 3)

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

The tip of biting steel traces along your skin, a whisper of fear over flesh as you stare with unwavering defiance into midnight.

This wasn't how the hunt was supposed to go. They weren't supposed to be here. This was supposed to be a vamp nest.

Your jaw sets as the blade draws blood and your features contort into a grimace, trying to conceal the searing fire that sings through your veins with an ill-timed, "That the best you got?" You're not prepared for the blade to delve deeper. You're not prepared for the tears to slip traitorously down your cheeks and provoke taunts from your tormentors.

"What was that, little hunter?"

"You gonna cry? We should find a spell that calls for the tears of a human and see just how many different techniques can bring a hunter to tears."

Spite and fury churn in a dangerous concoction in the pit of your stomach. Somewhere, there's a twinge of indignation. Somewhere, there's a building flame that ignites along your ribs and flares along your forearms. Somewhere, there's a nagging fragment that leaves you anxious and wondering if anyone is actually coming to your rescue.

The Winchesters don't know where you are. You're not sure if your prayers are reaching Castiel and there's no chance in heaven or hell that you're going to escape your bindings with two demons circling you.

Yet, despite the hopelessness tugging at your soul, somehow you know these demons are well and truly fucked.

At first, it's a blast of brilliant light that permeates every inch of the room, forcing your eyes shut and your face towards the floor. Then it's a deafening cacophony that splits the air in a high pitched whine that has you straining against your restraints in a desperate attempt to shield your ringing ears.

Somehow, through it all, you can hear the screams of your hell-spawned tormentors. You steal a glimpse of their collapsed frames, eyes burnt out and forms limp as the light and sound fades. As silence falls, you blink slowly, trying to clear the disorientation, barely registering footsteps off to your left. Hunter's instincts kick into overdrive and you're not sure if the newest arrival is better than the former company. You summon what strength you can, feebly wrenching your wrists against biting metal before you feel two fingers press tenderly against your temple and your frame eases beneath their touch. There's a faint whisper of something cool flourishing across your skin, a steady thrum of energy you swear you recognize from somewhere - somewhere celestial.

"Cas?" It's all you can manage in a feeble whisper, swiftly silenced by a violent scream that rips through your chest when the blade is pulled unceremoniously from your shoulder. And then it's gone. Wounds mend, bruises fade and the sharp ache in every muscle ebbs but your head feels heavy and your eyes beg to be closed. When you roll your head to the side, it isn't the tan trenchcoat of your angel friend, but rather dated leather and blue jeans. Confusion emerges victorious before your eyes sag shut and consciousness caves to exhaustion.

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

The next time you open your eyes, there's a soft breeze dancing through the curtains of your motel room, filtering sunlight streaming over sheets with each whisper of fresh air. The palms of your hands dig in, scrubbing at the sleepy daze over your eyes, willing it to disappear as you sit up on the ancient mattress with a series of squeaks and groans from the springs.

As your gaze shifts over the room you realize all is as you'd left it, a pristine order that suggested the previous evening's events hadn't happened. It's then that the memories come rushing back and you reach instinctively to check what should be a gaping hole in your shoulder.

"Rescued, right? Not Cas, he'd have stuck around," you murmur, swinging your feet onto the floor, fingers threading through disheveled hair, "Balthazar's still on the run...that leaves--" you lift your head, tugging the sleeve of your flannel up and stare at the patch of skin where the invisible sigil hums soothingly along frazzled nerves. Your fingers trace along the skin as your eyes squeeze shut, "Gabriel, I know what you are. I know you're there." You take an uncertain breath, a silencing anxious wave crashing over you. If the archangel is anything like his brother, he can sense it, but he doesn't come.

You wait a long moment before you summon the composure to speak, "Gabriel - I want to thank you...properly." Your eyes open and drift over the room, "Can you at least show yourself before you hit the road again? It's not every day an archangel comes to my rescue."

One. Two. Three minutes pass with utter silence, the only noticable trace of movement being the curtains.

Your shoulders sag, features falling with a dejected breath, "All right. Message received," you stand, moving over to your pack to retrieve a clean set of clothes, pausing only when you detect the unmistakable rustle of wings, "I didn't take you as the shy type, tough guy." You cast a glance over your shoulder, quirking an eyebrow.

"I like my dramatic entrances. Besides, I prefer the term cautious. Humans are unpredictable, and after Cassie let the cat out of the bag? Well, let's just say I'm not overly eager to have all of heaven on my tail any time soon by showing my mug once too often." Gabriel props himself against the bathroom doorframe.

"Then why come to my rescue?" Your head tilts as you turn, studying his blank features for any trace of the warmth they'd held the first night you'd met him, "Why the branding?"

"Is that a hint of disdain, sweetcheeks?" A cocky grin slides easily across soft lips, a mischievous glint flaring to life in alluring whiskey as they trail over your frame. You straighten up, fighting to maintain a detached expression despite the heat rising in your cheeks beneath his weighted gaze.

"Curiosity, at best. Enochian sigils seared into your skin is a little more drastic than getting a man's name tattooed on your arm after the first meeting. So, do I get to hear the story behind my new invisible ink?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

"Oh, I'm sure it ties in to that night at the bar, but why I earned such a rare branding is still a mystery. You brand every woman you meet?" There's a shadow of a smirk tugging at the corner of your lips as your arms ease into a comfortable cross in front of your chest.

"What happened to that 'proper thank you' you promised me?"

"I need some answers first." You gesture to the bed expectantly.

"Bed? I like where this is going." he flashes you a wry grin and a wink that sparks a stutter in your heartbeat.

"Don't get your hopes up, smartass." You retort as you take a seat on the mattress, determined to remain composed. Though, despite your best efforts, you're failing spectacularly. Your only saving grace is that maybe, just maybe, he won't notice.

"I'm nothing but hope, sweetcheeks," he glides onto the mattress beside you, leaving very little space between the two of you.

He knows. There's no way he couldn't and yet, you can detect nothing more than light-hearted heckling in those glimmering flecks of honey and hazel. The same warmth you'd glimpsed that night in the bar all those months ago. He's different. Granted, he's an archangel and that, no doubt, is to be expected. Still - he's different in a way you can't quite describe. In a way that's there, and yet just out of reach as he reclines on the bed, propped up on an elbow with a broad grin.

"You gonna ask your questions, sweetcheeks? Or just admire the view?"

You're flustered. You're out of your depth and this is stupid. So, you fall back. You slide further onto the bed and cross your legs, squarely facing the archangel and the grin fades to something unidentifiable. You wouldn't call it affectionate or heated but - you don't know what you'd call it as you adjust your flannel and roll your sleeves back down.

"Depends. You going to give me straight answers this time?"

"I gave you straight answers then," he tilts his head just enough to seem all the more adorable. Of course, he probably intends to it to convey his truthful intentions, but the glimmer in those honeyed hues is damned distracting.

"You did," it's a reluctant concession, "but you weren't altogether forthcoming. You left some key information out in those answers."

Gabriel's lips tug upwards into an almost condescending smirk as a golden brow arches, "You're a hunter, sweetheart. You know better than anyone that your opening line shouldn't be monster-related. And given your history with angels," the smirk falters and with it, the playfulness of his voice, "You'd have been out of that barstool in two seconds flat."

You look down at your hands, almost ashamed. He was right, you would have run, regrouped with the Winchesters. But in your experience, archangels haven't been on the side of humanity, and based solely on that fact, you'd never have let him as close as he had been that night - not by your side and certainly not in your arms.

His voice draws your gaze back to his features, "But you knew something was up. The moment I sat next to you, you tensed - like you sensed something was off about me." He props himself up a little higher, honey flecks flickering over your features as if he were trying identify that piece of your soul that separates the human from the monster-hunter, "Didn't you?"

His question is more of a statement than an inquiry and you offer a solitary nod.

"But you didn't run. That hunter alarm had to be going nuts." He slides a little closer, reaching a seated position, "You've been around my baby brother long enough to sense that--" he pauses, reaching out and his hand hovers over your knee, "spark - that faint buzz on the edge of your senses that only comes around when something divine enters the room."

A shy smile slips across your lips at the tingling sensation along your knee and you dare to meet his gaze, "Even if I hadn't, your inability to keep your grace in check gave you away."

He chuckles lightly, "You seemed drunk enough, I figured I'd test just how much. I could see the confusion in your eyes, but you...let it slide. Why?" There's intrigue building in his eyes, determination drawing his brows together into a gentle line.

"I thought I was asking the questions," you deflect, ignoring the sudden weight of his hand on your knee through the thin layer of your sweatpants - though when you'd changed from jeans to sweats, you had no idea.

"Indulge me." His head tilts and the rapid flutter of your heart forces your gaze to the dwindling space between you.

"I've - sensed that buzz in a room when an angel enters. Sam and Dean don't understand it," your fingers wind around the string attached to your pants, weaving in and out and over and under to occupy the anxious thrum through your veins, "but I can also sense their intentions. Their hatred when they're looking for a fight. Their fear just before that blade falls. Their anxiety," y/e/c locks with honey, "when they stride up to a hunter in a crowded bar and attempt to make small talk because they're just as lonely." Your voice fades to a soft murmur, "Their relief when they realize they're safe, if only for a moment, in a loud room with a complete stranger. And their warmth when the walls falter," you lean in, holding inches from the archangel's lips, "and they can be what they are."

"And what are they?"

You could swear there's a twinge of fear in his voice, as if a being of his magnitude could be terrified of the next words to come from a mortal's lips.

"They're--"

I'm on the highway to hell! Highway to hell--

Your shoulders sag, your chin dropping to your chest as you lean past him to pick up your phone, "Hold that thought."

He smiles gently, watching you stand from the bed and pace a few short steps away and answer the phone.

"Dean?"

"Y/N! Thank God!" You can hear the relief in the eldest Winchester's voice, you can only imagine what his expression is, "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine--"

"We've been trying to get ahold of you for hours. When you didn't check in last night, we got worried. What happened?" It's Sam's voice you detect next as you steal a glimpse over your shoulder at Gabriel who seems enthralled with a loose thread in your sheets.

"Wasn't a vamp nest," you lean against the dresser, watching the archangel absently, "It was a trap."

"A trap? A trap set by who?"

"I wish I knew. If--" you stop yourself as Gabriel lifts his head, concern flashing in whiskey as they lock with y/e/c.

"If what? Y/N, you still there?" Another twinge of fear in Dean's voice.

"I'm here. Uh," you rub the back of your neck, "If I hadn't brought my angel blade in, I'd have been screwed. I was jumped by two demons.

"How'd you escape?" Sam pries, no doubt exchanging a concerned look with Dean.

"Lucky, I guess. Everything's kind of a blur." Your fingers find their way to your temple as you begin to pace, taking your eyes off the archangel on your bed. "All I know is we'll need to have a chat with Crowley."

"Could be Abbadon, but we'll check it out all the same."

"Sounds like a plan." You turn, gaze falling to the empty bed and your heart sinks.

"Alright. Send us your location, we're on our way to you right now."

"Will do. See you in a couple hours." You hang up, hand falling to your side in defeated resignation. You drop the phone unceremoniously onto the bed and glance around the room, taking note of the brilliant red on your nightstand. You cautiously move around the bed, a soft smile tugging at the corner of your lips as fingers curl around the singular rose he'd left in his wake, something Enochian inscribed into the ribbon wound elegantly around the green stem. You'll need Cas to translate, but you realize you never got to ask your questions. Part of you wonders if his disappearing act was a deliberate attempt at preventing it. Though, one thing was for certain - the archangel had no concept of manners.

Would it kill him to bid a proper farewell for once?

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

Chapter 3

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[crystalconjunx]

A Christmas Star

MegaStarBee NSFW

Starscream hadn't meant for Bee to see that particular fantasy.

One minute he was sparkmerged with Bee, and the next they were both lost in the recesses of his processor. They drifted together for a time, gliding through their memories of Iacon and Earth. Bee wanted to know what he remembered about "Christmas," as the humans had called it. He remembered ice damaging Thundercracker's wings and Skywarp trying to walk on a frozen lake.

Then his spark oh-so-helpfully supplied him an image of Megatron. They had been scouting for a new energon supply when they came across a large expanse of gardens covered in lights. It was rudimentary compared to Cybertronian decorations, but still pleasant.

Bumblebee knew that their past relationship was… complicated. He also knew that Starscream still possessed some feelings for the gladiator.

He ignored the warm acceptance and encouragement radiating from the little yellow bug in favor of accessing the thought. It was probably just another random memory of him and Megatron bickering, fragging, fighting. They were usually all the same.

Only, this wasn't a memory.

It was so much worse.

Bee yelped as the spark-conjured Megatron stepped forward and grabbed him. It pulled him in for a kiss, bending him backwards as the large silver phantom dipped him for better control.

Starscream yanked his real frame away from Bee's, sparkcasing snapping shut immediately.

Bee returned to himself with a jolt. 

"Starscream, what the pit was that?" He asked. "Is that- do you… want that?"

"It was nothing!" Starscream hissed. "Just a glitch in my processor or something."

"We should talk about this, Star. About him." Bee said.

"No, we shouldn't. You should know when to shut your mouth, autobot." He hissed.

He knew he'd fragged up the minute the words left his vocalizer. It'd been a long time since he'd said something so venomous.

He turned away and stormed out of the room, not needing to see the look of hurt in his conjunx's eyes to know it was there.

Nor the disgust that was sure to follow.

I have a surprise for you.

Starscream had received Bee's message about an hour ago and still he found himself questioning whether or not he should respond.

He was Starscream, Leader of Cybertron and part of the new triumvirate between Optimus, himself, and Rodimus, and he shouldn't have to apologize. He had never apologized for a thing in his life.

He still hadn't apologized to Bee. Not like he ever had before, but...

It had been two weeks since their last merge, and Bumblebee still hadn't brought up what happened. It was uncharacteristic of the autobot not to bring things back up.

Today was Christmas. The day he'd wanted to see if Star knew anything about. He'd wanted to share in some joy with him.

The Beetle undoubtedly had some tender-sparked autobot nonsense planned for the Earth holiday— not that he minded. He'd actually grown to enjoy Bee's little displays of affection, though he'd give up flying before he told the grounder that.

His pedes tapped gracefully onto the ground as he landed outside their shared habsuite and made his way inside. He frowned in disappointment when he noticed the lights were off in the main entry.

Not a large surprise, it seemed. A datapad sat open on the counter.

Meet me in the berth.

Oh, so that was the kind of gift Bumblebee had in mind, was it? His wings flared excitedly at the unusual display of boldness from his little conjunx. Perhaps that could be his way of apology, then.

He stopped outside the door just in time to hear the sound of a soft cut-off moan.

"Bee," he chided as he opened the door, "Have you started without me?"

Only, it wasn't just Bee in their suite.

Megatron, kneeling at the end of the berth, had his Bee's legs held tightly around his helm while he lapped at the minibot's valve with his broad glossa.

He locked optics with Starscream before he let another long lick drag up Bee's sensitive protoform, ending with a rough swirl against Bumblebee's node. Megatron held the scout's legs firm as he overloaded with a cry, legs quivering as Megatron kept his glossa moving against him.

Starscream could see the wetness across Megatron's faceplates when he finally pulled away. He'd been eating Bumblebee out for at least half an hour, if the yellow bug's flashing swollen nub, shivering legs, and breathless sobs were any clue. 

His own mouth dried as he remembered being on that end of the silver mech's tongue. 

"S-starscream," the yellow mech panted weakly when he noticed his sparkmate's presence.

"Your little conjunx here said you were having quite the fantasies about us, Starscream. He came to me and asked me if I would be interested in joining the two of you for a night. " Megatron said as lowered Bee's legs and he wiped the back of a hand across his mouth. "And just as I've told him, I'm more than interested. I was wondering how long would pass before I would have to approach you." He said. "And I didn't think you'd mind if I got started without you. Bumblebee here is just so responsive." Megatron purred as he climbed up onto the bed and pulled Bee's his hips flush against his own. He ground the front of his panel down against the smaller mech's valve, painting a wet streak across his frame as Bee's hands came up to rest against his chest with a whimper of his name.

"Megatron, w-wait," he pleaded, pushing weakly against the gladiator. "I n-need a minute."

"Are you going to sit over there and watch as I ravish your little autobot, or are you going to help?" Megatron asked as the seeker watched him tease the beetle's horns. "I don't mind either way, but I think your conjunx here would like you to join in."

There was a firing of thrusters and suddenly Starscream was on the berth beside them, hands dragging Megatron's helm down into a heated kiss.

The large silver mech's engine growled in approval as Starscream began to nip at his lips, already egging the gladiator to further roughness.

Suddenly the seeker was on his back, wings pressed into the berth with a large hand wrapped around his throat.

"Already so impatient. Good to see not everything has changed." Megatron teased. "Though I am interested to see what has."

Starscream arched his back in delight as the servos around his throat squeezed his main energon lines ever so slightly, then whined when they relaxed and Megatron simply let his large hand pet against his neck.

"Megatron," he gasped irritably. "Do something."

"Bumblebee wanted tonight to be all for you, Starscream," Megatron answered. "So you will give the orders. What do you want, Starscream?"

A pulse of desire wracked his frame at those words. He was in charge? That rarely happened when it was just the two of them. It felt like it rarely happened at all.

Of course he wanted Megatron to spike him. He wanted to be held down and fragged and used just like they used to do all those cycles ago. He wanted Bee to ride his spike while Megatron did his best to break in this new frame in the way only he could.

He nearly said as much, would have begged for Megatron to do so until he turned his optics to the side and caught a glimpse of his poor sparkmate.

Bee was an absolute mess. His legs were soaked in a mix of his and Megatron's lubricants, his valve lips swollen while his biolights flickered weakly. He whimpered desperately as Megatron's servos flexed around his smaller throat as the ex-warlord followed his lovers' optics.

Megatron let his fingers slide up Bee's throat and tease into Bumblebee's mouth, letting two large servos push against Bee's glossa.

The fantasies were back with a vengeance.

"I want… I want you to frag Bee," Starscream answered breathlessly. "He can take it. I know he can."

"But S-star, this is for you!" Bumblebee argued weakly as Megatron pulled his fingers away. "I thought— I can't—"

"We did promise to give him what he wants, Bumblebee." Megatron purred as he dragged the beetle back against his frame. "Besides, you enjoyed my glossa plenty. You're so nice and wet for me already, Bee. Imagine how good it will feel to have your tanks full of me."

Megatron turned Bumblebee around, letting him fall across Starscream's frame facefirst before bullying down against his back.

"O-open your cable ports," Starscream ordered. "Give your cables to me."

Both mechs complied, handing him their cables as he connected them both to an odd-looking splitter cable with some kind of switch. 

Bumblebee gave him a perplexed look, while Megatron offered Starscream a sly smile before pressing Bee down with one hand as he adjusted his hips with the other, lining the grounder up with ease before letting his spikehead tease into Bee's valve. 

Bumblebee's hands groped for something to hold, finally grasping for Starscream's sensitive turbines and accidentally digging in when Megatron finally began to push into him.

The seeker watched Bee's face intently as Megatron's thick spike sank into that small, fluttering valve just as he had done so many times before.

Bee was a tight fit for him. Tight for the toys that let him know he could take a spike like Megatron's.

Starscream knew better than anyone how much preparation it took to take Megatron's spike to the hilt, and the blinking of Bee's optics as the ex-warlord just kept sliding into him told that Megatron had done his best to fuck Bee wet and open with his glossa and succeeded.

The shared sensations through the cable had them all groaning in unison. They could feel everything from one another.

Megatron's massive spike twitching in Bee's tight valve, desperate to plow into the tight little grounder. He wanted the autobot to beg for him, to come in that soft gentle voice as they spilled over Starscream together.

Bumblebee was helplessly caught between the dangerous wandering servos of his conjunx on his horns and the heavy wall of Megatron's frame as he was being practically split in half. He was lost in sensation and pleasure, drowning in the attention and lost in a haze.

And then there was Starscream's wild, burning desires at the sight of his conjunx being taken by Megatron. They could feel his field, his thoughts, his spark pulsing in desperate want as if he was shouting them to the world.

Seeing Bee taken from him, being stolen away by the warlord himself, did things to Starscream that he'd rather not admit.

Right now, he wanted nothing more than to see Bee fall apart. He wanted to watch and pleasure himself as Megatron made Bee scream in pleasure after dominating his little frame right in front of him. He wanted Megatron to frag Bee until he begged for mercy and Megatron simply kept going.

Maybe that's why he was guilty.

Maybe it was a little twisted. It was very Starscream. It was very Decepticon.

But he wanted more than that, too. The fantasy and Both he and Megatron wanted Bee's sweetness. He wanted to kiss him slow and gentle and warm.

Maybe that was a little autobot of him. 

The cables flooded thoughts into him with a resounding agreement, an acceptance and return of his desires. A whimper from his conjunx.

The softness could wait.

"Let's give him what he wants, Bumblebee." Megatron spoke as he met Starscream's optics again and pushed himself home.

The little yellow mech's hips writhed against each slick inch of Megatron's spike until at last he was pressed against Megatron's hip plating. Each movement of his hips only served to grind the spike against all the node clusters that were scattered through his valve.

"So tight," Megatron hissed as rocked forward against Bee's frame, the small movement catching his ceiling node against a ridge and sending Bumblebee into a hard overload that had him scrabbling for purchase against Starscream's frame. The charge reverberated through the cables, Starscream groaning in pleasure and Megatron cursed behind Bee's head.

Bee was practically limp against Starscream now, unable to hold himself up as Megatron's thick spike kept moving inside him. Starscream's claws were rubbing teasing circles down his audials and his sensitive faceplates, rising every now and then to give a rough tug to his horns.

"Faster." Starscream commanded. "Start gentle, but get harder."

Megatron obeyed, half pulling out of Bumblebee and pushing his spike all the way back in as if he was calculating how hard he could fuck the beetle without breaking him.

Satisfied with what he found, he finally pulled all the way out and slammed back into Bee.

Starscream's panel clicked open as pleasure rammed through his systems, both of his lover's pleasure flooding him with mixed sensations. Bumblebee's voice box was clicking with static, desperately trying to reset as he cried and fought underneath Megatron's strength, attempting to escape the onslaught of pleasure as the ex-warlord gave him no quarter. Megatron simply wrapped an arm around him and pressed close, letting his thrusts remain slow but impossibly deep.

The room was filled with metallic clanking and the wet slap of hips as Megatron used the beetle for his own pleasure.

Starscream pleasured himself from underneath the both of them, hands on his own spike as their interfacing brought his overload to the edge.

He was never going to last long, not like this. Not with Bee's unfocused optics, not with Megatron's growls and the sounds of Bee's valve slicking each thrust while his calipers could do nothing but accept Megatron's spike.

He was close. He knew the other two had to be, too.

Without warning, he activated the splitter cable switch. All of his lovers' pleasure was suddenly being rebounded back into them. 

Megatron thrusted once, then twice, and suddenly slammed himself into Bee with a low, throaty groan. He held the grounder's frame harshly in place with one arm locked around his middle and another around his neck as he emptied his tanks inside him.

Bee's engine stalled and hiccuped, smoke pouring out of his frame as a gush of lubricant spilled from his valve and leaked onto Starscream's thigh. Megatron actually whimpered as their shared overload spun back into him, causing them both to fall into an agonizing loop of pleasure as their frames crashed and locked in place.

Megatron's spike was still hard and firm in Bee's valve, unable to depressurize and caught against his ceiling node as he kept emptying his transfluid tanks into Bee. His frame was limp and heavy, causing his spike to grind even more against the node and extending their overload as Bee fought desperately to escape the cruel cycling of pleasure.

Starscream was so close. He could feel Bee's frame on the verge of shorting, the dangerous turns of Megatron's engine as their fluids continued to flood down onto his thighs.

He reached down and switched the splitter cable back off, allowing all the charge to flow back into him.

The resulting wave of charge— or the piercing shriek of pleasure that followed— blew the bedroom light and left them trapped in darkness.

Finally, Starscream managed to wriggle out from underneath the two and disconnected the cables.

The other two mechs had managed to pull themselves apart and were already falling into recharge by the time Starscream got his wits back.

He huffed in irritation. Of course he'd be the last one left awake in their mess of a berth.

He hadn't even had his turn yet.

He crawled between the sleeping mechs and wormed his way under their arms. Oh well. 

Maybe Bee could be the one in charge tomorrow, he thought. He wouldn't mind taking orders as long as long as Bee was giving them... And Megatron had to follow them, too.

[lonely-bored-writer]

Casper High Ch. 4

Danny Fenton spends a lot of time in his room, according to his parents- yet in all honesty he often flies out the window to attend to other ghostly matters. If he wasn't busy fighting ghosts, he was busy catching up with school work, or talking to his best friends over the phone or computer. Nonetheless, this past week consisted of Danny spending smaller amounts of time doing his normal everyday routine, and instead spending time with a certain Winchester.

It reminded Danny of all things he missed about having his friends around to physically interact with. He had gotten so used to eating lunch alone, and spending all of his time consumed with other things, it was nice to have new things to do. To have someone spend hours doing absolutely nothing with but enjoying each others company nonetheless was a refreshing break from his usually chaotic life.

"Wait, so Sam believes in Phantom even if he hasn't seen him?"

'Maybe Sam has added a bit of complication to his life,' Danny thought, it was odd but not totally unwelcomed.'

"I don't know, maybe, Tuck. Something Mikey said to him a few days ago brought this interest out." Danny sighed, running a hand through his unruly hair. "He's spent some time doing research in the library."

"But every piece of evidence is gone right?" Manson asked, her attention being pulled from the black makeup she was applying, her back facing her computer screen so that the boys could see her face in the reflection of the large mirror in front of her. "I mean, everything with backing, damning evidence that could prove that Phantom isn't much more than a fable now."

"Well yeah, but we already know that some people believe the fairy tale stories still in the library." Tucker cut in before his raven-haired friend could respond. "We've got nothing to worry about Danny, it's like bigfoot, no one has hard proof- and any 'proof' is easily debunked."

"I guess you guys are right." Danny nodded, not able to shake the looming feeling that things wouldn't be that easy- nothing in his life ever truly was. "Anyways, how about we focus on the fact our Sammy has gotten a date."

"Ooooooh, that's what the make up is about? Must be a lucky girl." Tucker grinned, placing his chin on one palm, "Spill the beans, who is this chick."

"You're so lucky I'm hours away and you're safe from my boots right now." Sam glared, before continuing. "Her names Aino, and she transferred here a few months back. She's the one from the super glue incident in art class."

"I like her." Tucker stated, matter-of-fact. "You have my blessing."

"Well thank you dad, not that I asked." Sam rolled her amethyst eyes, leaning out of frame to fix her eyeliner, using a smaller mirror to help with precision.

"I like her name." Danny added, smiling at the groan it got from Sam, "Besides, anyone who can somehow sneak thirty pounds of super glue into a school is perfect for you in my book."

"She's actually planning to do something similar with pudding in a few weeks actually."

"Nooooooo!" Tucker dragged, pressing a hand to his chest. "Sam you have got to marry this girl, or I will."

"I'm sorry Tuck, but she's not into guys who have already been married to their PDAs." Sam shot back in a heartbeat, pulling a laugh from her friends. Moving back, she turned to the computer. "How'd I look?" Sam had changed some since she left Amity, if only to become more… Sam- that was the best way to explain it. Her short black hair only got shorter, before the left sided became shaved down to spite her parents, a few new piercing decorated her left ear lobe, and a brow piercing rested on her right brow. Her outfit was a simple black tank top, grey shorts, fishnets and an oversize army green jacket over it all, finished off with none other than her favorite pair of chained combat boots.

"Perfect."

"Goth, and intimidating."

"Just what I wanted." Sam grinned, running a hand through her hair.

"So, when do we meet this lucky lady?" Danny laughed at the glare Sam flashed the camera.

"This is our first date." Sam deadpanned, unblinking, already done with her friends shenanigans.

"Dude, that's not the right question." Tucker chastised, tapping the camera. "What you meant was when is the wedding."

"I'm gonna go now." Sam hissed, her camera going black before signing off.

"How much do you want to bet we meet Aino in a week." Tucker laughed along with Danny.

"I bet in three days." Danny grinned, glancing over at the time before sighing. "I have to go on patrol soon."

"Don't fret dude." Tucker sighed. "I've got to finish a last minute robotics paper. It's a pain."

"Good Luck." Danny smiled, before the two bid their goodbyes. With a sigh, the halfa pulled himself out of his computer chair and made his way to his window. Time for another night filled with flying around the town for hours.

It was two in the morning when Danny found himself wandering around the park as Fenton. He did this occasionally when he couldn't sleep even if it served best to try to sleep anyways. By this time the park was often completely deserted so it was interesting to find someone swinging nonchalantly on the swings bathed only in the moonlight... and their own glow.

The shiver that raked down his spine, and puff of soft blue air was enough to confirm this was a spirit. Based on the softness of the glow and the much more human-like skin was also a large indicator that this spirit had yet to fully manifest.

"Hey?" Danny called out softly, making his way over to the swings. His only response was a glance. Danny was able to make out the light pink eyes, and scarred cheek. "Wanna tell me why your here at this time of night in a park?" Danny asked, settling himself next to the spirit.

"Where else will I go?" The ghost asked, kicking his legs softly.

"Maybe to the Zone." Danny offered softly, swinging slightly as well. The confused look he got confirmed his suspicions. "You don't know what that is, do you?"

"Is it like Heaven?" The voice wavered and echoed softly, like it wasn't all there, which matched the ghost's appearance perfectly in an eerie way.

"Not quite. You can make your own little paradise though in the Zone." Danny smiled, looking up to the moon. "A hunter has his own hunting grounds, a scientist his own lab, a singer her own studio, whatever you want. Your imagination is your limit."

"What's your name?" The ghost whispered, staring at their feet.

"Danny, though most ghosts know me as Phantom or the 'Ghost Child'."

"Wait, you're Phantom?!" The spirit looked over shocked. "You aren't as mean as I heard you would be."

"Depends who you talk to." Danny chuckled. "But for the most part, I just try to keep the peace."

"What's your name?" Danny asked after a lull in the conversation.

"Ekon." The ghost, now identified, responded. "I'm not sure how long I've been a ghost if I'm being honest."

"It happens." Danny explained calmly. This ghost used to be a human and it was obviously nervous and unsure- being harsh would do nothing except possibly permanently scar the ghost for the rest of their eternity in the afterlife. "Some ghosts could be dead for years before their consciousness manifests."

"How can I go to the Zone?" Ekon asked suddenly, turning coral pink eyes to Danny.

"Just have to go through a portal." Danny offered a smile. "Lucky for you, I happen to have one in my basement."

"You're a lot nicer then I expected." Ekon spoke, a twinkle in his eyes. "When can you take me?"

Danny paused, running a quick mental check over how he was feeling. He was all caught up on his homework, and he doesn't feel tired…

"I can take you now." The spark of hope that filled the spirits face was worth missing sleep tonight.

Danny needs to stop missing sleep. After so many all-nighters, and the caffeine filled drinks that he often times consumed allowed his body to grow a tolerance against the heavenly beverages, not allowing him to take advantage of their effects anymore. The plus side was he forgot it was a weekend, and was able to sleep an extra two hours before his internal clock woke him. That and the smell of bacon.

"Morning honey, how did you sleep?" Maddie greeted her son with a kiss to the top of his hair, setting down a plate of waffles and bacon in front of him.

"Thanks mom." Danny smiled, just now realizing how hungry he was. That most likely had to do with the hours he spent in ghost form inside the Zone, settling Ekon in and creating an amiable friendship between the new ghost and Klemper. "I slept alright, you?"

"Not very much." Maddie admitted, sipping on a cup of coffee. "Your father's catching up on sleep, but we're one step away from a giant break through."

"Really? What about?" Danny stifled a yawn, popping a piece of bacon into his mouth and dousing a heaping serving of syrup on top of his waffles.

"Your father and I think we narrowed down to the exact component in ectoplasm that give ghosts their abilities." Maddie explained. "If we can separate that component, we could very well apply those abilities to absolutely anything."

"That would explain the ecto-dogs in the fridge." Danny supplied around a mouthful of waffle, pulling a laugh from his mother.

"Swallow first, then speak." Maddie reminded, getting a sheepish smile in response. "And yes, it even opens the possibility of humans being able to use such abilities."

"What-" Danny choked, coughing slightly before continuing. "Wouldn't that turn them into a ghost?"

"Not quite." Maddie shook her head, pausing slightly to put her thoughts in order. "The healing factors found in these specters can do wonders in medical advancement if we can place the exact component."

"Ah..." Danny trailed, eyes trained on his half eaten waffles. His mind mulling over the information he learned and wondering if it was a threat or not.

"Well, I'm off to join your dad in his nap." Maddie stood, dropping her mug in the sink. She continued after dropping another peck on her son. "I left a bit of cash on the coffee table in case you plan on going out."

"Sleep well mom, love you." Danny waited until he heard the faint 'I love you' before standing to leave. He did plan to meet with Sam Winchester at the nasty burger in a few hours. It didn't mean he had to stay in his house until then- he could walk around Amity for a bit before making his way over.

"Hey Sam." Danny greeted with a smile, sliding into the booth across from the taller teen. "Sorry I'm late, my dad dragged me into one of his experiments." Danny offered an apologetic smile. In reality Danny felt bad for lying to Sam, on his way there he was stopped by Cujo who was dragging around a scared Ghostwriter. That had been quite a chase.

"You're good, I actually hadn't noticed." Sam returned with a sheepish smile, closing his laptop.

"What's the distraction this time?" Danny asked, settling in his seat and stealing a fry from Sam's tray.

"Creative writing." Sam sighed, laying a hand on top of his computer. "Mr. Leedee comes back from leave tomorrow, and I complete forgot about his project. Given we are just coming up with an idea list, we get partners tomorrow."

"Ouch, projects are never fun. Throwing in partners? That just makes it worse." Danny responded. "What's the topic?"

"We're supposed to write a story based on a fable, or fairy-tale, or urban legend we know about."

"That shouldn't be too hard. There's tons to choose from." Danny offered, receiving a sheepish smile back.

"That's the point, there are so many." Danny couldn't help the chuckle that escaped him.

"What are your choices?" Danny asked, accepting the laptop as it was slid over to him. The raven haired teen's eyebrows furrowed at the list; the Winchester had only listened one fairy-tale while the rest seemed to be urban legends. "I'd say Hansel and Gretel. Less morbid then the rest." Danny deduced, sliding the laptop close.

"Well, let's hope my partner is fine with that." Sam offered back, before relaxing. A small silence passed between the two, the two teens taking in the food before them before conversation rose again. "Anything new?"

"Not really, I'm still waiting to hear about Sam's date with Aino."

"Sam had a date?" The youngest Winchester looked shocked.

"I didn't tell you?!"

"I never thought Sam would find someone to date in high school, especially with how you described her- nothing against her though anyways."

"Honestly, neither did Tuck and I." Danny laughed along with Sam, happy to see his new friend take an interest in his best friends. "So get this, Aino was the girl from this incident..."

[leal-5]

Tomb of Time Destiny Chapter 19

Erza POV

It seem to happen in slow motion. One minute we were winning, and then suddenly Mard Geer appeared from the shadows, his face grinning darkly as he whispered in my ear. ‘You knew what the cost of betrayal would be, Erza Scarlet.’ I immediately looked up to Lucy and Levy, but they were still safely taking out phantom soldiers. I whirled back around to face him, but he was gone. It wasn’t until then that I saw it.

“Look out!” I screamed just a second too late.

My heart stops as I watch Juvia spin around just as an enormous thorned vine came at her. I helplessly watch her jump away, but not fast enough. Something hot sparked in me I witness a thorn slice her from her hipbone to her stomach. Juvia gasped and leaned forward a bit, as if more surprised than in pain. Levy screamed and dashed down stairs as fast as she could, sprinting over to Juvia just as pressed a hand to her side slightly perplexed at the blood that was oozing from her hand. Dazed, Juvia looked up and met my eyes just as her knees began to wobble. Levy made it just in time to catch Juvia, gently easing her down as a pool of blood began to form around her.  

All noise seemed to be muffled as I turned around just as multiple vines of thorns shot out from all directions, surrounding the entirety of the Phantom Lord castle, grabbing both our allies and our enemies, wrapping them in a tight grip. Natsu, Gray, Gajeel, and Jellal tried to fend off the thorns with magic, but it was coming too fast. They soon found themselves wrapped in it too.

‘You were warned the price of betrayal, Erza Scarlet.’

I looked back to Juvia again, Levy was sobbing while desperately applying pressure to Juvia’s wound and I watch as Juvia’s breathing became more and more labored. Gajeel and Gray cried out Juvia's name in alarm, but all I could really focus on was the enormous pile of blood that was pooling around Juvia. So much blood…

"AHAHAHAHAHA!!! "

All my senses rushed back to me when heard Mard Geer laughing maniacally while staring right at me, relishing in my torment.

I finally snapped.

“I’VE….. HAD…. ENOUGH!” I yelled to the sky as the hot feeling in me exploded into a red magic circle, my hair flying about my face wildly from the force of it. “REQUIP: HEAVEN WHEELS ARMOR!”

A bright light surrounds me as my current armor changes into a much longer skirt that was covered in feather-like silver plating and a revealing breast plate. A tiara and two large wings appear on my back. Lastly, two magic swords appear in my hands and over a dozen swords spin in a circle behind me.

Wasting no time I immediately jump up and furiously shout “DANCE, MY BLADES!” and with a wave of my hand the amount of swords behind me double and triple as they spin even faster before shooting out in all directions, effectively slicing the vines and beginning the process of setting everyone free.

Mard Geers laughter stopped as he stared at me in shock. “You’re a witch!”

“TRINITY SWORD!” I yelled as I jumped at him, slashing my swords at him in a delta formation. He immediately called up a thick wall of vines to protect himself. The crash was loud and made the wall break. Mard Geer slid back from the impact of the collision, raising an arm to protect his face from they flying debris. Once it all settled he lowered his arm and squinted through the dust and debris. A flash of red was his only warning before my fist connected solidly with his face, knocking him back several feet into a wall, cracking and denting it horribly. He hacked and coughed, raising his hand to grab onto a vine to lift him out of the way seconds before the sword I threw could pin him there through his stomach.

Gritting my teeth, I run full speed at the wall before jumping and sprinting horizontally up the wall, wrenching my sword out of the wall in the process. I then push off the wall and rush forward, attacking Mard Geer relentlessly from all directions. At first he clumsily brought vines up to stop my attacks while stumbling back, but then he suddenly smirked and two vines burst from the ground in front of him coming straight at me.

“Tss… You’re no stronger than any of the other witches I’ve taken out!” He yelled while attacking me from all sides with his vines.

I jump and flip out of the way, skidding to a halt to catch my breath. “REQUIP: CELESTIAL ARMOR!!”

A white light surrounds me again as I switch armors while continuing to dodge his vines. Soon there were so many all I could see were his vines and all I could do was dodge the thorns.

“Hahahaha! Look at you! I have you jumping all over the place like a puppet!” Mard Geer laughed.

From the corner of my eye I saw Jellal and his brothers, still struggling out of the vines since I unequipped my swords could completely finish cutting them out, except, Jellal wasn’t trying to get out. He was too busy staring at me with open disbelief and….awe. His eyes shifted from mine, to my armor, then back at me before they lost focus for a second and widened. “ERZA LOOK OU-”

My distraction was all Mard Geer needed. He appeared suddenly, running up one of the vines and catching me completely off guard. His kick to my stomach sent me flying upwards and he used a vine to catch me in mid air, squeezing the air out of my lungs and slowly trying to kill me. I heard Jellal yell my name but I squeeze my eyes shut as the thorny vines tighten more and more on me.

Mard Geer rose calmly on a vine as more and more vines appeared. Lucy and Levy  screamed and cried as they were dragged away Juvia’s lifeless body, blood still oozing from her wound. They tried to lung back towards her but the vines merely tightened their grip. He leaned closely to me, putting a hand under my chin and forcefully turning my head so I would meet his eye. “Such a shame I have to kill such a beautiful creature.” He said with a wicked smile. I glared at him. “You won’t get away with this!” I screamed at him while struggling against my restraints.

He laughed at my retort. “Oh, but you see Erza, that's where this becomes interesting! I am actually a hero! Would you like to know why?” I glare at him. “No? well I’ll tell you anyway. You see, I saved the day by killing a crazed witch that used the siege on Fairy Tail as an opportunity to massacre countless Phantom Lord soldiers.” My bangs overshadowed my eyes as he reached up a hand to cradle my cheek.

“Don’t touch her!!” Jellal yelled angrily, struggling to get out of the vines but Mard Geer ignored him, focusing only on me.  “So really, I have you to thank Erza. Thanks to you, my council judgement won’t be as harsh. AhahAHAHAHA-”

A bright red glow from the ground caught his attention even through all his writhing vines. “What the-”

Before he can comprehend what is happening I slice through his vines with the dagger I used against the giant knight earlier and grab Mard Geer, pinning his arms to his sides with my legs as he stared up at me in horror.

“THEN I’LL MAKE SURE THE SEVEN STARS JUDGE YOU MORE HARSHLY!!!” The red light becomes brighter and all seven seals I had scattered around while I was dodging Mard Geers vines earlier revealed themselves. Jellal’s eyes widen in alarm when he recognized the pattern of the seals. “ERZA! STOP! YOU’LL KILL US ALL!!”

“GRAND CHARIOT!!!” I yell loudly as my body is engulfed in a white light. Red beams shoot up to the sky from each seal, becoming larger and brighter the closer as we near the ground. The floor cracks and breaks from the immensity of it all and large boulders from the torn ground go flying and everything is engulfed in a bright blinding light that can been seen for miles.

When it’s all over, I’m standing beside a large crater, breathing heavily in my Adamantine armor.  The barrier I encased around Levy, Juvia, Lucy, Gray, Natsu, and Jellal in order to protect them from the spell flickers a bit before dissolving entirely along with my armor. They emerged unscathed. There is nothing left except for a few dead vines and a large crater in the middle of what used to be the Phantom Lord courtyard. The last thing I remember was Jellal calling out my name as I wobbled a bit before I falling to my knees and face planting in the dirt.

###################

I watch excitedly as I wait for my turn to open my birthday present. We had flour and icing all over ourselves since our guardian insisted we bake the cake together. “Alright, calm down everyone it’s present time!” Our guardian said while smiling at me brightly while stepping away from a large box that she really wasn’t doing a good job at hiding. We all gasp and I jump up and down excitedly.

“Is it from that far away place you always go to?” Levy asks with sparkling eyes. Our guardians smiles down at her and nods. “This one especially took me a long time to find. Over three months!”

Lucy giggled. “But you’ve never left us alone more than a few hours!”

She laughs. “Indeed, I haven’t.”

“Juvia is dying of curiosity! Open it Erza-chan!”

With a nod from our guardian I dash forward and rip the wrapping from the box. “ARMOR?!” I squeal excitedly as Levy, Juvia, and Lucy huddle around me and awe at the large armor.

“It’s not just any armor Erza. It’s a special defense armor. Best one I could find.” Our guardian said, clearly pleased with herself. “It's called Adamantine armor.”

Unable to contain my excitement I yell  “Requip: Adamantine Armor!” A red magic circle forms at my feet but nothing happens. I frown and try again. Same result.

“Maybe it’s broken?” Juvia suggested after my third try. I shook my head. “It’s new! It can’t be broken already.”

“This armor will take time for you to master, Erza. You’re only six years old. Remember how long it took you to even summon your Heaven Wheels armor?” Our guardian asked me with a gentle smile.

“A year…” I mumbled dejectedly.

“Exactly! Tomorrow we can begin training for your new armor, for now, let's finish this delicious strawberry cake we made!”

My eyes light up at the mention of strawberry cake and we all run back to the kitchen table.

#############

I slowly try to blink away my fuzzy vision and gather myself. But bit by bit, from the outside in, each inch of what I could see was clarified and I internally panicked for a moment, unsure of where I was. I blinked once more before I recognized that I was in a room, not in a dungeon. My head whips in the direction of the door when I hear someone opening it.

“Erza!” Is all I hear before Lucy throws herself at me and crushes me in a tight hug. She has quite a grip. “Thank heavens you’re awake!”

“Ju-Juvia�� I croaked, my throat a bit dry.

“She’s fine. Levy sewed her up.”

My jaw hit the floor as I stared at her incredulously. “Levy? Our Levy McGarden sewed Juvia's open wound up?!” I all but shrieked as Lucy handed me a cup of water.

Lucy grinned a bit as she nodded and handed me a cup of water. She watched me drink for a moment before biting her lip nervously. “You were asleep for three days Erza.”

Damn.

“...Well it has been a long time since…”

Lucy nodded when I let my sentence hang. “Juvia woke up yesterday. She’s been wanting to see you for a while.”

I throw my legs over the side of the bed and test how steady I was. I wobbled a bit but I refused any help from Lucy.

Juvia POV

It was Levy who had sewn me up. That was enough of a shock that I almost melted back into a week of unconsciousness. Our tiny, Weak-kneed, slightly green at the sight of manure or moldy cheese in the fridge Levy, had found it in herself to disinfect my wound with alcohol- thank heavens I had been unconscious- thread a needle with sinew, and sew up my side like I was an elementary school project.

Imagine my shock when I woke up and was told that Gray himself raced me back to Fairy Tail, screaming at everyone to find a medic. The nearest one ways days away so Levy stepped in. She saved my life. Unfortunately,not that I'm alive she wont stop teasing me about jow Gray would come every day to check on me. If I didn’t know any better I’d say he was worried for me! I was more worried for Erza though. It had been over ten years since she used her magic, and of course, she over exerted herself in doing that Grand Chariot spell.

I lifted my shirt and stared at my six-inch wound again, gaping at the perfect, even curves of each stitch.

I looked up just as I heard Erza’s voice say “My gosh, Levy actually did it.”

“Erza!” I cried happily, wincing in pain when I move my still tender wound a little too much. Erza immediately rushes to my side and pushes me back down onto the mattress and examines my wound up close. “They’ll have to come out” she whispered quietly while throwing me an apologetic glance.

I closed my eyes and winced, thinking of the pain to come. But not yet. Levy explained to me that we had to let the flesh weave itself together again without letting the sinew become embedded within it.

I could feel the whisper of air as Lucy fell to her knees beside me. “What are we going to do? They’re calling us ….princess warriors. Literally. They think we’re All That and more. And that Tall dark guy and Natsu are following Levy and I around everywhere we go.” She rolled her eyes.

‘That’s super cute.’ I almost squealed. Even Erza was smirking.

“Well, you and Levy saved all our lives with your arrows,” I said. “I’d bet you money they’ve never seen a woman do that before.”

She shook her head. “How are we going to get out of this? Erza already revealed that she’s, what these people call, a witch and I pretty sure they’re suspecting us too.”

I closed my eyes, heaved a sigh, and then peeked at her. “I have no idea.… How is Simon??”

“Oh, amazing,” Levy said. “Apparently, that’s just another reason to throw us a big party. They’re all excited because he’s back from the dead or something.”

Erza and I looked at each other and smiled. I for one, was afraid that I’d wake up to find Simon gone, even buried.

Levy rose and gestured in the direction of the courtyard. “You guys, everyone’s been going crazy out there every since they found out Juvia woke up, and now that you’re both back from the brink, there’s no way they’re going to be able to hold it off any longer.”

Erza’s smile faded. “What do you mean?”

“It sounds like the entire town is coming in for the celebration.” I said. “Something about a three-day feast to celebrate our victory. And we’re the guests of honor.”

Victory. Phantom Lord defeated. For Fairy Tail, it would be huge.

“I don’t get it.” Erza said quietly. “Jellal and the others saw first hand that I wield magic. I heard firsthand from Mira that witches are to be executed on sight. Why did they bring me back?”

Lucy said the only thing that came to mind. “The he must really like you.”

Erza shook her head and began pacing. “This goes beyond that, Lucy. His own mother was killed by a witch! There’s no way he can just find out I’m one of them and just be okay with it. Most likely, the only reason he hasn’t told everyone in Fairy Tail that I’m a witch is cause he feels indebted to us for saving his life, his brothers’ lives, and his cousins life.”

She had us there.

“We have to get back to the tomb.” Lucy said quietly. “Try it together. I mean, to make the jump back.”

“Maybe we can get you to the tomb on my own somehow,” Levy said, looking at my side again. “It’d be better if we could get you home and to the doctor.”

“And how do we explain that?” Erza asked, pointing to my side.

“That’ll be tricky,” she said, pursing her lips. “I still can’t believe I did that, sewed you up. Ha! And Minerva teased me for reading DIY sewing books! Who’s laughing now, Minerva!?” Levy laughed while shaking a tiny fist in the air.

A knock sounded at the door, startling us all, and a moment later, Mira peeked in. She looked at me with her kind eyes. “I thought you’d enjoy a bath.”

Her eyes widened and she squealed uncharacteristically when she saw Erza sitting beside me like nothing happened. “You’re awake!! Oh my gosh you’re finally awake!!” She shot across the room and hugged Erza tightly.

“Of course. Juvia gets wounded in battle and Erza gets all the credit.” I joked in english with a giggle. Lucy and Levy laugh as Erza just awkwardly pats Mira on the back but almost as immediately as she had grabbed her, Mira pushes her away in shock. “Oh my gosh you're awake! You're awake! I have to- I have to-”

“Don’t hurt yourself, Mira.” Erza sweatdropped.

“I have to tell Simon and the others” She said while bolting to the door, her voice carrying down the hall.

“I need to tell them right away!”

We stared at each other questioningly, wondering what exactly just happened, when a large yell of joy came from the courtyard.

“Well, sounds like everyone knows your both awake now…” Lucy said with an awkward chuckle.

[felicismagic18873]

Beyond the Blaze(5)

Summary: 4 Years old, Alyssa Potter finds her life taking a magical turn as she steps into a world of cute green giants, talking robots and misunderstood aliens. All of it is almost enough to make her forget the probable destruction of her own world.

Pain.

It seemed like the pain was his only steady companion nowadays. Rushing through his body, spreading like a fire and burning away all that was of him. It repulsed him. Loki always did hate fire, choosing to stand a bit farther than everyone else. Maybe that is why he hated Thor too because he burned like the brightest of hellfire, beautiful and deadly. A fire that didn't deserve to be tainted by his cold presence.

Runt.

Abandoned.

Tortured.

Loki bit back a scream when waves of phantom pain caressed his once almost healed wounds with the gentleness of a deceitful lover. The only show of his pain was the slight narrowing of his eyes. He'd learned his lesson at the hands of those spiteful beings. He'll never give them the pleasure of seeing the signs of his pain.

The muzzle felt tight on his face. He longed to lick his lips the dryness of them reminded him of days-or was it years?- of going without a drop of water.

There was a soft sound, one that'd escape most people's notice but not his, never his. Not again. It was most likely the doors of the elevator opening. There was a slight shuffling of feet. Loki wondered what Thor was doing lingering at the door.

Come on Oaf, distract me.

It was the light steps that informed him that it wasn't his br-Thor. Thor's steps were as light as a bilgesnipe meaning not light at all. This wasn't him.

A form darted to the side before he could see and wide green eyes filled with awe, peeked at him from behind one of the furniture pieces.

A child.

What was a child doing here?

A moment or two passed. The child took an unsteady breath and came out of the dark. Loki barely managed to keep his own shock from showing.

The childling could pass for his daughter. He tilted his head curiously wondering what new tactic was this. He'd thrown the 'invasion', the so-called Avengers had won and he'll be taken to Asgard in a day or two. What more could they wish to gain from him by sending a child to him?

Were they out of their minds? Careless mortals.

"H-Hello." The childing whispered before standing up a little straighter and saying more firmly, "Hello. I am Alyssa Potter"

Loki dipped his head a little as a greeting. He was bored-and curious-enough to accept the company. No matter how small. The girl smiled with her whole face making her almost radiate light. There was something about this child that he was missing.

"It's nice to meet you, Loptr the cunning." The child put a small fist on her chest and bowed her head. Loki's eyes sharpened. Oh, this child knew who he was. Unlike the other mortals, she knew. He could see it in reflected in the respect and awe in her eyes. Even if it weren't for her respectful-slightly off angle-bow he wouldn't have missed it.

He tilted his head curiously. The child looked up with a hesitant look biting her lips. She took a deep breath before a tide of words escaped her plump lips, " I hope that was the right way of sayin hello. Em...Mel told me about the bow, but not about what to say. She just said be respectful. But-" She stopped suddenly biting her lips a little harder.

For a moment, Loki wondered how the blood would look against the red of her lips if she ended up cutting it but shook the thought away. The child was looking at him as if expecting an answer, then her eyes fell on his muzzle and understanding filled her face. Her lips parted, "Oh."

Oh indeed.

The child tugged at the necklace she was holding bringing his attention to it. Her whole hand covered the stone but it aroused his interest. It almost seemed like the necklace was shining with an inner light.

He barely suppressed a wince when the pain made itself known again, angry at being ignored. His run-in with the green beast hadn't helped his case. The only thing it had done was abuse his already battered body. His eyes closed on their own accord trying to push back the haziness that surrounded his mind.

A soft hand rested on his muzzle, the soft fingers touched his skin making his eyes snap open. Green eyes stared into his own. Bright with youth, unlike his own tired ones. The big eyes looked worried and he felt like scoffing. No matter how in awe the child was, he did not need her worry.

"Are you okay?", was whispered softly as if the words took all the courage the child had. Loki didn't dare to move. The mortals were foolish enough to leave a child with him unattended. But it didn't mean he was cruel enough to harm her. "I don't know what you did, . But I am sure you had a good reason or at least I hope you did."

The warmth of the hand on his cheek didn't feel revolting, it felt dare he say calming instead. A tingle spread from the child's hand into his body. Loki's eyes widened when he felt the ache in his body soothing away.

Sorcerer!

The child was a magic user!

Loki felt like laughing. He, Loki the cunning, had managed to miss the most obvious thing about the child. There was magic running through her body. He could see it now, curling around her body like the embrace of a mother.

He wondered if she knew what she was doing soothing his pain. A look into her eyes revealed that no, she didn't. She still looked worried and confused. She stepped back, the fingers around the pendant tightened. She gazed at it for a moment before shrugging a bit.

The raven-haired child was not aware of the powers of her pendant, it was healing him. A gift then? Maybe from the being known as 'Melina'. The name sparked a feeling of recognition but it slipped away before he could grasp it. It seemed to happen a lot nowadays.

"It's just a mix-up, I'm sure." He heard her mumbling then she smiled at him with eyes filled with a childish hope," And they'll letchu go once you explain it at the trial! You can convince them like you convinced the dwarves."

Loki's eyes widened. Dwarves? How did-

The child misunderstood the look, she gave a sheepish look.

"I know the story's not for kids but I asked Melina again and again until she told me. Its one of my favorites."

Melina. The child kept repeating the name again and again. It was awfully familiar. If only he could place where it was from. It irritated him a great deal when a headache was all he got for his trouble.

"You know I didn't believe when he said that you were gonna hurt me. I was right wasn't I because-"

The child's eyes widened and a small shriek escaped her lips when the elevator opened with a grating noise. It was forced open by the robotic hands of that insufferable-invaluable, curious,interesting-mortal man, Tony Stark.

All emotions drained from Loki's face in record time leaving behind a smug mask that was oh so familiar. The child was staring at the energy repulsor pointed towards him with something akin to awe instead of fear. Strange child.

"Step back,Kiddo" The robotic voice lacking its usual teasing notes ordered. "I'm gonna blow this Popsicle ."

Instead of doing the logical thing and stepping away, the girl visibly pushed back her awe and glared at the genius.

"Hey! That's not nice."

Stark scoffed," What's not nice is him frying up my elevator control," brown eyes filled with scrutiny turned towards him, the child stumbled back a little her face taking on a curious look, "I thought we talked about this, Jack Frost. Any more funny games and you'll be enjoying the rest of your stay at vila de shield instead of my tower of awesomeness. I've got my eye on you."

Loki understood the real threat behind the casually spoken words. He made a face internally at the horrendous nickname but opted not to tell him that he had nothing to do with the child being here. It's not like he'd believe him anyway.

"Speaking of which," Stark continued nonchalantly putting himself between Loki and the child. He tried to make it look like a casual movement but Loki could see that he was trying to protect the child. The child that was oddly silent and serious as if in deep thoughts.

"Where is your keeper?"

Loki growled at Stark with an intensity that'd made stronger men cry, Stark just flashed a shark-like smile. He did love danger.

"Aw come on don't be like that. We all know that Thor is your glorified nanny."

Loki looked away.

"Jarvis?" The Artificial butler must've shown him something because Stark was nodding and humming the next second." Makes sense." He declared. "Now off we go. See ya later, alligator"

And with that Stark walked out guiding the silent child with him.

This certainly gave Loki a lot to think about.

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

Tony lifted his hand from the kid's shoulder to run a hand through his hair. His lips parted a little and his eyes fixed on the child, the kid was looking down at her shoes with a strange fixation as if solving some deep equation.

His mind raced over a thousand different outcomes yielding nothing. He was honestly in complete disbelief and confusion. And that was a big statement since Tony was usually the person least confused in a room. His brain worked faster than others in a way that considered unique-abnormal a voice sounding a great deal like his father whispered-and he didn't like the feeling at all.

How could Loki do something like messing with his whole system, messing with Jarvis and somehow compelling a kid to come to him when Thor had assured him that the bag of cat's magic was repressed by the handcuffs and he couldn't even hurt a fly. There were only a few things that came to mind.

One, Thor lied to them cause even if the blonde was really a big golden retriever he was basically a stranger and it was the matter of his brother, adopted or not.

Two, Thor had no idea and somehow Loki managed to break the handcuffs, unlikely seeing how banged up he still looked when his magical mumbo-jumbo should have healed him.

Three, there was an external entity that helped him do it but everyone was freed from the glowstick's thrall so no one came to mind.

And last but not least, there only other person present was responsible for it. The kid. And that was the least believable option but it had to be mentioned cause the kid was acting all weird.

Speaking of which, "What's going on in that pretty head of yours, Lilo? Did Raindeer games say something? Ignore him, we all do."

"My names Alyssa, not Lilo." The kid replied in a distant voice, still obsessively staring at her shoes.

Tony's eyebrow raised at the sullen tone, a contrast to the happy if cheeky tone she'd had earlier. Was this normal with kids? Mood swings? He had no idea but it irritated him, it made him want to fix whatever made her so morse and sad. And why wouldn't it, he was a mechanic it was his job to fix things.

The door of the elevator opened again, Tony ignored it. He knelt down, wincing when his jeans touched the floor, and with his index finger under her chin, he gently raised the kid's face to his own level. The kid kept her eyes lowered for something but sensing his stare she finally met his eyes.

He looked into the slightly shiny eyes for a second before forcing a smile on his face trying to make her feel relaxed. It worked for an unseen tension bled out of her shoulders.

"So, I have no idea how to do this. Its usually someone else's job, you get me, kid? Sooo go a little easy on me and tell me what's bothering you? Was it Loki? Cause I will mess his shi-I mean I'll talk with him if he said something and by talk I mean threaten him to Pakistan and back and-"

"I am sorry!" The kid blurted out cutting him off, "I am so sorry. I didn't mean to-I mean I did but...I didn't want you to worry and I-"

"Wait that's what you're so bothered about?" Seeing her tentative nod, he shook his head with an exasperated look," Oh come on, Kid. Consider it forgiven. It was no big deal. I do stuff that worries people all the time and it's my fault most of the time. You were just at the wrong place at the wrong time. "

Considering the issue to be resolved, he mentally gave himself a pat on the back and stood up. He almost missed the kid's whisper, "But it was. It was my fault." The words rang with the echo of another person's exact same declaration. Barton's.

He stilled. The dread that had gripped him the moment Jarvis informed him of her little detour came back with a force. He'd imagined walking in a moment too late and finding the little cheeky kids body spread over the floor with a dark figure standing over her.

Did Loki do something to the kid?

"Nah it wasn't you, kid. Its just gods and aliens and things messing with our minds. Whatever you think you did, it wasn't you."

A small hand grabbed his own, a scene similar to one before but with something heavy coating it.

"It was me, Mister Robot. I wanted to see Loptr and I wished it so much that it happened. It happens to me sometimes."

It felt like something important was happening, that the kid telling him this-whatever this was- was something momentous. The kid was staring at him as if waiting for a reaction.

Tony wondered what to do but a single glance at the kid's innocent face twisted with anxiety and his decision was made. He decided to trust her. At least until he could confirm what actually happened.

"You did this?"

The kid bit her already red lip and nodded her head, her eyes lowered again. He recognized the expression, it was the same one he had every time he stood in front of his father waiting to be punished.

"Okay." And with that, he put a hand over her shoulder, absently filing away the slight flinch that it induced and guided her out of the elevator.

"You're not angry?" She asked hesitantly look at him from under long black eyelashes.

"What? Angry? No ways!" He exclaimed a little, the dramatics worth it when the kid's eyes widened with wonder as she sat on the sofa she'd slept in earlier. "Excited and curious, more like it. So how did you do it, Matilda? Cause I'm completely lost."

Alyssa's smile lifted her whole face, her eyes scrunched up a little and her cheeks regained some of their colors. Tony noticed how ashy she'd looked earlier and pushed down the thought that the kid was afraid of something, of him.

"I dunno," she shrugged, still smiling. "I just wish for stuff to happen and it does. It's magic."

Tony hummed, "And you've always done stuff like this?"

"Uh-huh", the kid nodded. Tony mind finally came to the right conclusion and he felt like cursing. It was so obvious! How could he miss it? Jarvis did tell him that the kid said she wanted to see Odin junior and she also said she did it. It was so right in front of him and he couldn't see it!

"You're a mutant! That makes so much sense!" He declared happily, " I wonder if Hulk could sense it. Maybe your ability affects the electromagnetic fields in some way."

"I'm..I'm a what? Whats a mutant?" She leaned forward, putting her elbows on her knees and cupping her face with her hands.

Tony flopped next to the kid. His one leg folded under him and the other hanging off the side of the soda. Dark curls bounced a little as she also turned a little so she was facing him. Her green eyes shining with curiosity stared at him. Tony sat a little straighter.

"Its someone born with the X-gene.", he finally said.

"Wha?", her nose scrunched up cutely. Tony suppressed a smile knowing it might be taken the wrong way, that maybe he was laughing at her for her lack of info.

"Right. Little kid. , well its someone who...can do awesome things because of a gene...because of something written in their DNA." Seeing the blank look on her face, he groaned. "Agh, wait you don't know what DNA is, how do I even-"

"I think I get?" She tilted her head thoughtfully. " I was born with special powers?" Tony nodded, it was close enough. "Maybe I am a mutant. Huh. I called myself a wizard"

"Aren't boy witches called wizards?"

"Yep"

"Okaaay whatever tickles your fancy then."

Alyssa nodded her head with a serious expression, "Oh I am very ticklish."

Tony didn't bother to suppress his laugh, it made Alyssa laugh in turn even though she probably had no idea what he was laughing about.

After catching his breath he asked the question that was nagging him."So who are ya really, midget?"

"What dya mean?

"Name, address you know the usual." He tried to say with a casual air, not wanting her to know that he was already running a worldwide face check, it was slow but thorough.

"Well my name is Alyssa Potter and I used to live in Silvercoast, Surrey"

A blue projection showed up in front of Tony making Alyssa gasp with awe, she reached out a hand but pulled it back the last minute.

"Silvercost, Surrey. You sure kiddo?" He swiped the list of neighborhoods in Surrey. There was no Silvercost in Surrey. " Maybe you got the names mixed up? It could be 'Staines' or 'Sunbury' or something.", with a quick action, he made the face search exclusive to Surrey.

"I'm sure! But.." She hesitated a little."I dunno if Silvercost is the same in this world."

Tony's fingers stilled over the projection, "This world?" He swiped away the projection and turned his full attention towards the child. "What in the beautiful clean energy planet are you talking about kid?"

"I am kind of...well...not from here?" She asked stumbling on her words a little then rushed to explain. " I had to leave because if I didn't then my powers would be taken away."

"Not from here." A dark vacuum filled with stars invaded his mind. He managed to suppress the images that were haunting him since the battle a week ago. "What do you mean not from here? Are you an alien or something? Do other planets also have a Surrey?

Alyssa smiled a little, "No, Silly. I am not an alien." Tony breathed out in relief. "I am just from another Earth. An alte-alter-different Earth."

Tony stared at the grinning child. A different Earth. Right. He wondered if she could tell that he didn't believe her, at all. Aliens were one thing. Claiming to be from an alternate universe was a whole another can of worms.

Unfortunately, or fortunately depending on who you ask, Jarvis interrupted any further investigation.

"Sir, Doctor Banner is inquiring to the reason for your sudden exit as well as permission to access the ongoing research."

Oh yeah, Tony had made sure not to tell Bruce what was going on so he had no idea what had happened. It's just that the last thing they needed was for him to go green again.

Tony scoffed, " You can tell Green Bean that he doesn't need to ask permission for anything. And I'll explain everything to him when I come down." Hopefully, Bruce would know what the little girl was talking about. Maybe she was just very imaginative?

"I will let him know, Sir." Then turning his attention back towards the kid, Tony took note of how she was playing with her pendant again. She seemed to do it a lot.

"Okaay I'm gonna be right back kiddo.", he declared standing up and decided to leave before he says something he might regret later.

The kid hmm'd. Right before leaving Tony saw the downcasted eyes and felt something pull at him. With a sigh, he turned around and signaled Jarvis to make a projection available.

The kid's hunched back straightened immediately and with a wide-eyed look, she stared at him in shock.

"Go wild." And with a grin that was returned, Tony stepped into the elevator for the millionth time that day. The day just seemed to stretch on and on.

"What's the ETA on Thor? You said something about him and Barton going after the glowing stick of destiny?"

"No specific time frame was indicated. They came to the conclusion that the scepter might be needed for the trial."

Tony hmm'd distractedly, it explained why Thor wasn't watching his brother but why didn't he appoint someone else in his place?

Something didn't feel right. Someone messed up and he was going to figure out who did.

[anearthstruckalien]

[[  Here’s part two of the thing I wrote earlier about Giegue’s conversation with the Apple of Enlightenment!  Just as a warning, part of the images that the Apple of Enlightenment shows him (towards the end) does involve something that’s likened to decaying SO if anyone that sees this isn’t cool with that (even though it isn’t really decaying) you probably shouldn’t read this.  ]]

[          In one (predictably) instantaneous motion, following his own confirmation of a mental readiness receive the likely unpleasant images of what the future is supposed to hold, said images enter his mind as smoothly as the pristine flow of an unfettered river.  One-by-one flashes of key events in the future come to the very forefront as though he were actually present in what has not yet occurred, but only as a passive and unseen observer; a phantom sneaking about in the shadows of what the Apple of Enlightenment had insisted would become his last few memories prior to… well nothing is confirmed yet.  Not as far as Giegue himself is concerned regardless of the Apple of Enlightenment’s status in knowledge.  There has to be a way to circumvent this and he will find it through observing this future, no matter how gruesome.  As such, the Psion takes an additional moment to ensure that he’s centered and properly oriented towards the new landscape before turning his void gaze upon the contents of the first image.

It looks like a human boy in an isolated part of an otherwise much larger town. A boy with messy dark hair, striped shirt, and a cap of a color that… someone used to refer to as ‘heroic’.  The hero of fictional and surrealistic stories. Ness.  Somehow it’s quite apparent that this one is Ness of Onett. He must have the strongest connection to the Earth’s Power.

But, almost as abruptly as the image had appeared, it vanishes and winds up replaced by that of a human girl in front of an institution titled ‘Polestar Preschool’ (and he squints briefly at that… what in the cosmos is a ‘preschool’?). A girl with curly blonde hair, an exceedingly pink color scheme, and assertive sort of… ‘kindness’ to her demeanor. Paula of Twoson.  She must have the highest affinity for PSI among them.

Then, as expected as ever now, that image vanishes to be replaced by that of another human boy at another institution, but this one seems to house older members to educate and is gated like some kind of prison… or that’s what his own perception of it is anyways.  A boy with blonde hair of a surprising symmetry and neatness, an overabundance of green clothing, and… glasses it seems.  Jeff of Winters.  It’s an underwhelming image, but he’s certain that there’s more to this one than that, machines.

And lastly, the image of yet another human boy appears with an… excessively (in his own opinion) large and decorated residence? in the background, though the boy himself is anything but that.  Rather it seems that the human boy is more minimalistic and rigid.  Set in strict regiments that have been conducted throughout most of his existence.  The only one that knows anything now.  Prince Pu of Dalaam.

           All the images—the Chosen Ones—seemed to have an overly vivid sheen to them, but among those the one which had shone the brightest was that of Ness’.  He must be their leader.  Ness.  That is the person whom he must primarily be concerned with if action is to be taken against this prophecy.  And the order in which the images were shown must be the order of their debut roles in this particular prophecy.  The order in which they will actively unite against Giegue himself.  And much like every other time prior, the surroundings warp around him and soon, the Psion finds himself in the background of Onett where the journey presumably starts (as indicated by Ness seemingly leaving his home with some special stone) and simply observes with a deceptively blank expression.  ‘Deceptive’ because though he may be keeping it pushed deep into the core of his being, the truth is that there’s an irrepressible sense of dread tainting what should otherwise be a perfectly rational and peaceful internal state.  One that he frankly refuses to acknowledge now for the sake of his task.  As such, the only indication of such a sentiment is present in the overall tenseness of his posture and the way slender arms neatly fold behind his back with an easy swish of a rat-like tail.  And it remains as such when the next set of images appear.

           From the start of the journey through its main events (the moments when the Chosen Ones meet each other, key conflicts among them and resolutions in the journey itself, the Eight sanctuary locations where power from the Earth seems to be bonded to the rock, defeating significant members of his own military forces, the stupid humans that fell under the brainwashing wave’s might) the same process of images shifting from one into another repeated itself, Giegue all the while remaining an ever-tense yet ultimately passive observer (with a barely concealed intense and ever-mounting feeling of dread and something like worry, but much more powerful) until… it seems that the end of the journey has been reached against all odds by the Chosen Ones. However, as the image shifts to the final battle (or what it was supposed to become he assumes) the role of the passive observer disappears along with any discernible environment… and instead shifts to something not quite so superficial with himself as the one being there.  A passive observer no longer, he has become the one whom is involved in this.  A lone life-form in the deepest of voids with a suffocating weight and just the barest and most vestigial outlines resembling the rough walls and jagged edges of a cave.

          A place where the relative monotony is broken by a blinding, extraordinary, and utterly incomprehensible flash of light that has him rubbing his eyes for a bit… only to pause when a sort of nightmarish pain (something he’s hardly ever experienced before) starts spreading in his left hand.  This immediately has him jerk his hand away as though it were something unwanted… only to regret that motion when he catches sight of what exactly is happening.  His hand looks somewhat charred, as though it had been utterly blackened by something sickly, and like it’s somehow decaying in its own inorganic way as indicated by its far more pitiful and weaker appearance compared to the unaffected parts of his body that still remain.  It… hurts.  It actually hurts.  And as though sensing this more conscious registration of pain, cracks spread from it sparking a feverish red before dying down into that same dead charring, and with it all yet another excruciating bout of pain to magnify what’s already plaguing him now.

           Pointed teeth grit as something sharp suddenly seems to practically slam (for the lack of a better word) into his head, words it seems but it’s nothing that he could comprehend ordinarily much less in a state as distracting as this.  Because with those heavy-set words, his hand distorts out its original shape and into something no hand should look like before promptly –disintegrating like dust and falling away into the inky void of his surroundings or lackthereof.  And naturally that isn’t even the end of it because soon after, the general radius from the cracks from before blackens and withers the next part of his appendage.  Another excruciatingly bout of nightmarish pain with a simultaneous start to his previously unaffected hand like some kind of sick and disgusting infection.  It hurts.  And that alone is enough to temporarily drive the conscious knowledge that this is not real from his mind in the form of desperate yet ultimately futile attempts to repair the damage while yet another bit of incomprehensible wording stabs through his mind.  It almost sounds the distorted screeching of an otherworldly entity.  An agitated swishing of his tail, ears flattening against his head entirely, and the infection spreads in cracks before settling in even further.  More messages.  Then a continued spread and pain.  More messages…

          The cycle continued to relentlessly persist until cutting away entirely.  The last image he sees is an unbroken and disturbed curtain of red endlessly stretching before (and around) himself.  And then… nothing.  Nothing save for the distant echoes of a foreign melody playing in the background.  ]

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

[          There’s no sense of how much time has passed, but hopefully it isn’t too much.  Either way the Psion seems to be back (or rather regain the sense that he has always been here) in his office space.  Back and standing up from his chair in overly alert stance.  Standing up and tightly gripping the Apple of Enlightenment, having somehow managed to shift it back to its ‘inactive’ mode, and intent on doing something with it.  However, what that something may be is a massive unknown, even to himself.  Instead the Psion merely stands there before abruptly moving over and stiffly placing the Apple into storage as though it were something poisonous.  Not too long after this motion is completed, there’s a conveniently-timed knock at the door which he’s much quicker to respond to this time where he walks over and opens it to properly address the one behind it.  ]

Giegue: [squinting a little too sharply which together with the somewhat sickly and tired look to his demeanor (which itself somehow manages to still hold onto neutrality) unintentionally gives off the impression that he is irritated for the interruption] What do you want?

???: I came to check up on your status. [takes a very long and hard look at the Psion.  Clearly something happened and though it could just be the stress of the work, something about it looks… wrong, as though it could be a precursor to something more in the future.] You have been communicating with the Apple of Enlightenment for quite some time… or did you finish early? [flexible tendrils clasp together thoughtfully] Are you okay? [carefully extends one tendril out towards the other as though attempting to get a closer look]

Giegue: [immediately moves his hands back and closer to his body as though he were flinching back from blunt force] Yes.  I am fine. [then a barely discernible sigh as he turns away following a  remarkably even tone in his words] We will proceed with the invasion of Earth soon. [starts walking back to his desk] A little more time is required for me to inform my direct superior of my revised invasion plans. [then a pause just before the chair before he briefly offers an intent glance over his shoulder] Prepare for it accordingly.

???: Of course.  Master Giegue. [and for just the smallest sliver of a second, it looks like they want to say more, but opt not to.  Instead a nod of acknowledgement is added to emphasize their understanding before they turn away and leave, the door itself immediately closing in behind them.]

Giegue: [sits down at his desk and stares unblinkingly at his hands for good few moments before just… brushing it all off (once again) and getting straight to work.  Such useless… things won’t get the results that he desires; allowing for it to otherwise waste any more time than it already has is completely unacceptable.  Hardwork, dedication, and strength will.  There is a workaround for this.  The prophecy can be circumvented.  And though terminating the Chosen Ones isn’t a viable option… time travel is no doubt key to succeeding.]

[inked-foundry]

A bit from a short story I hope to write about Seyss and Zeph! It contains some grumpy stuff but also a little fluff between these two ladies. Fluff isn’t really something I’m used to writing, so though I’ll take criticism on any aspect of this, I’m especially looking for advice concerning how their softer moments played out.

Seyss could already see the look of unadulterated horror on Zeph’s face as she rode her hoverbike into the garage. It was an utter wreck compared to the neatness of the garage, with all its organized toolboxes and motors propped on the walls. All Seyss could offer was a shrug of apology as one of the bike’s wrenched-open panels coughed out a few sparks. Then the bike died and collapsed onto the concrete floor.

“Sey!” Zeph burst. She slammed shut the hood of the maglev car she was working on, every muscle of her immense figure tense with stress. “What in the stars did you do to the bike?”

“I ran into a Firecrawler on my way back from a mineral deposit,” Seyss began, throwing her legs over the side of the bike to dismount. Her metal leg might have rubbed up against one of the burning panels, but the prosthetic didn’t have the nerves programmed to feel it. “Apparently the deposit had grown over the hellscape that thing calls an abode and I was impeding on its territory, so it did the damn well reasonable thing and started shooting acid at me.”

“You could’ve gotten yourself killed!” Zeph burst, running her gloved hands through emerald and ash hair.

Seyss only shrugged again. “It seems you have a habit of stating the obvious.” She walked over to one of the counters Zeph had tools set up on and sat down. Even sitting a few feet up, Seyss was hardly at eye-level with the mechanic. But all she cared about was getting a seat. After navigating the Dusts all day, Seyss’s upper leg hurt like hell from hauling the metal prosthetic around.

Zeph slumped over, rosy eyes wide and lips pouting. “C’mon, Sey, can’t you take it a little more seriously?”

“I took it seriously enough to make it out alive,” Seyss insisted. She reached over and unhooked her prosthetic from the bolts driven into her living leg, just above where her knee should’ve been. She sighed in relief when she felt the weight drop and heard it clang to the floor.

Zeph stared at the prosthetic for a few moments. She let out her own response sigh before meeting Seyss at the counter and deciding, “I guess you did make it out alive.” She gingerly pecked Seyss on the cheek before looking back to the hunk of twisted and charred metal they now called a hoverbike. “I just don’t know what I’m going to do with the bike.”

“Fix it,” Seyss offered. “Like you always do.”

Zeph laughed, a melodious sound that filled up the garage and rattled what hung on the walls. “You hold too much faith in me.”

“Then stop giving me reasons to have faith. The rest of this people in this stars-damned excuse for a planet have given me an excuse to give up.” Seyss leaned back and kicked her amputated leg. “Zee, do me a favor and prop me up in front of the sink? There’s just some grime I want to get off.” She ran her hand through her charcoal-and-honey hair to find pieces of debris. “Really want to get off.”

“Of course,” Zeph agreed. She slipped her powerful arms under Seyss’s torso and hauled her up without much of a complaint and went to open the door in the back of the garage.

Admittedly, the garage was the nicest part of their living situation. The interior was closer to an overgrown room, with a sparse kitchen in the front and recreational space in the back—if recreation included sleeping. Zeph propped Seyss on a counter to the left of the room, beside the sink.

Seyss turned on the tap. Zeph circled the couch and pushed the quilt messily draped over it aside, sitting down and snatching a small control. She pressed a button. A screen hung on the back wall flickered to life.

“Is it cool if I go check on the bike?” Zeph asked.

Seyss waved casually with one hand while the other grabbed a bar of soap on the either side of the sink. “Go see what the damage is. Just don’t tell me if it’s more than a hundred units.”

“I think a hundred units is the minimum,” Zeph sighed, but she headed back out for the garage.

Seyss got her hands covered in suds and gingerly started brushing them over the dirt. Nothing hurt enough to say that she’d been hit with any sort of acid. It became a mindless process. She’d find some bit of her skin that felt grimy and she’d start washing it off, half-conscious as she watched the screen.

It was one of the dumbass city nobles again. Probably appointed by the Empire or whatever name it liked to go by these days, given the symbol pinned to the lapel of his white jacket. His platinum hair was insufferably impeccable, dumb smile and piercing violet eyes not giving away a single emotion other than smugness.

Viscount—that’s what his name was. Or at least his title. Seyss wasn’t sure she cared either way at this point. He was jabbering on about his usual crap about the Scavengers that had been hired out and their safety. It was all useless bullcrap.

If Viscount had ever cared about the Scavengers a single day in his life, the rivalries would be over. The room Seyss and Zeph called a house wouldn’t be the best living condition they’d had yet. Seyss would have a new leg with actual neurological connections. They’d be off this hellscape planet.

Seyss suddenly found much more interest in washing off the last specks of dirt.

The garage door swung open, Zeph scratching the back of her head with a wrench. Her shirt was already covered in more dirt; she’d checked out the bike rather quickly. Seyss opened her mouth to ask how much it would cost.

But she shut up as soon as Zeph went to the opposite side of the room, to the rickety old wooden table where two jars sat between, each halfway-filled with folded paper bills.

Seyss had only assumed it would dry out the money they’d set out for spendings. But now they’d have to cough up their savings. She sighed, already feeling a phantom weight at the stump of her leg.

With a sigh, Seyss ordered, “Take it from the prosthetic fund—”

“We’re going to get you that new leg,” Zeph interrupted. Her voice held command to it, but nothing mean. The kind of command a parent used when trying to tell a child what they were doing was stupid and they cared enough to tell them as such. “We can get off this planet later, but you need that leg first.”

“I won’t be able to get a new prosthetic until we get our asses of this dust storm of a planet,” Seyss argued. She gestured to the job offers tacked to the walls, the pages of math done to figure out how much money Seyss was owed for her scavenging, the parts Zeph would need to fix a client’s vehicle. “We have all this money but it keeps flying away from us. Don’t you want a better life than this?”

Zeph smiled. “I’m happy enough, Seyss. I just want to make sure you’re happy.”

Seyss kept her mouth shut. She had wanted a new prosthetic since she got the clunky metal excuse for a leg. It hadn’t a single wire to connect to her nerves, nothing to tell her if it was burning or freezing, how much pressure she was using. That wasn’t even mentioning the burning pain she got from it by its weight alone.

“I’m going to use our travel fund, okay?” Zeph noted. But at this point, it was for more of a reassurance. Seyss knew that she couldn’t argue with Zeph’s logic, as much as she hated it.

Seyss just nodded. She turned away as Zeph overturned the travel fund jar and all the little bills came tumbling out, unfolding and flashing in dulled colors after changing countless hands. And they were changing hands yet again.

“Why the hell is it going to be so expensive to fix?” Seyss pondered.

Zeph thumbed through the bills—Seyss mentally counting them up—as the mechanic explained, “Honestly, most of the damage was cosmetic, and that’s a relatively easy fix if I can find the right screws and metal. The major issue was the engine and electronics in the front end of the bike.”  Zeph shoved the bills in her back pocket and started gesturing back and forth, giving Seyss a rough idea of where she was talking about. “There was minor damage to the back, where the tank and exhaust is. If any acid damaged those areas, well…” Zeph gritted her teeth. “You would be in a lot of tiny pieces right now.”

“Thanks for that imagery,” Seyss sighed. She grabbed a hand towel off the counter and started wiping down the droplets that hadn’t soaked into her pores. “Well, what about the engine?”

“The acid corroded through the hood and through the engine, so it’s a miracle it held up until you got home.” Zeph grabbed a slip of paper off the wall, ran over to snatch a pencil from the sink’s counter, and started writing down numbers and lists. “Your bike is an older model, so the engine is going to be a bit hard to find on the market.” Snorting through her nose, she added, “And I’ll be lucky if I can buy it off a professional and not one of those tech collector dorks.”

“Great,” Seyss muttered. “Peachy.”

A silence settled between them, both of them knowing what came next. They’d have to find some transport down to the major cities, since no one with any sort of money lived on the surface of the planet; that was asking for death. Anyone with spare units and dignity to their name lived in the underground cities. That meant the judgmental looks of nobles, Zeph having to fight off the urchins who were too weak to live on the surface, Seyss having to keep her leg from getting turned into scrap metal.

The cities didn’t have scorching ground and wealth was common, but there were still the shadow of its prosperity. At least on the surface, there was distance between desperate scavengers.

Zeph pursed her lips. “I see that look on your face.”

“What look?” Seyss spat.

“Your pissy look,” Zeph chimed. Rolling her eyes, Seyss crossed her arms as Zeph rushed over to haul her off the counter. Seyss tried to bat off Zeph, but she just held her at arms length and made her way for the couch. “Nope. Not today. You’re not allowed to be pissy in this house.”

Seyss let out a small gasp of anger as her shoulder rose and a stream of curses escaped her mind. Zeph remained entirely unphased. She simply slid her toe under a switch on the side of the couch and the footrest sprung up. After laying Seyss down (still sputtering profanities), Zeph walked to the other side of the couch and laid down beside Seyss, tall enough that her legs fell over the edge.

Zeph pulled up the quilt across their torsos, and upon seeing the spite seething in Seyss’s expression at Viscount, she grabbed the remote and flipped through channels to some fluff-filled, mindless flick.

The two remained silent for a while. The dialogue from the screen was cute at best, and poorly written to any critic that it concerned. Though neither really cared about the quality of the content at that point. Once Seyss’s breathing slowed, Zeph tossed an arm about her shoulders, heavy and comforting as a weighted blanket.

“The book was better,” Seyss muttered.

“The book wasn’t good to begin with,” Zeph insisted.

Seyss snorted. “Any of this crap ends up poorly written.”

Another moment and they finally turned to each other. Seyss wasn’t sure why she had always preferred sitting on the couch until she realized she was finally at eye-level with Zeph. Although the mechanic’s face was usually smudged somewhere, her eyes were always warm.

“Y’know, I guess I’m happy enough, too.” Seyss shrugged. “I’ve got you.”

Zeph smirked just the tiniest bit. “Then my job is done here.”

Seyss stuck her tongue out, mimicking spitting across  the room. “We sound as bad as this dumb movie.”

And as much as Seyss hated to admit it, she was still watching it by the time Zeph started snoring, just if she could get a grasp on what the world would be like if they ever got out of here.

[hystericalcherries]

aeon (1/6)

Pairing: Keith/Lance Words: 8.5k Rating: M Warnings: mild violence Tags:  Post-Season/Series 07, quantum abyss, Flashbacks, Flashforwards, Prophetic Visions, Visions in dreams, Mind Control, Dimension Travel, Boys Being Boys, Falling In Love, Mutual Pining, Gay Keith (Voltron), Bisexual Lance (Voltron) when the going gets tough... the tough write fix-it fics, Allura (Voltron) Lives, because fuck you jds and lm

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Summary:

Keith does not leave the quantum abyss untouched.

“Home can be anything, you know,” Lance says in lieu of a conversation starter.

Slivers of moonlight filter through the blinds above their heads, casting lines of truth across the sheets. Lance tilts his head forward and a band slides over his eyes, catching the ocean in them and drawing Keith into their rolling tides. And as distracted as he is, he doesn't put up a fight when a hand clasps his own, reeling them heartward.

“Home is just something you can come back to.” His knuckles brush against the soft fabric of a nightshirt, the v-neckline falling loose to reveal a sharp collarbone, and Keith feels his breath hitching. “Something that keeps you grounded.”

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Time, like most things in Keith’s life, has always been a luxury he never could afford.

It passes him by when he sits on the roof of his third foster home, knees skinned and wide-eyed, yearning for a place among the stars. It slows down when he’s seated in a cockpit, knuckles curled over the smooth leather of the controls, ever pliant to his direction. Every blink, every beat, every stride— he survives each second, waiting for the next with bated breath and clenched fists. He abides by its rules, taking his cue and going through the motions, hoping beyond hope that there’s something at the end of this long tunnel.

Time is different in the quantum abyss. Different in that it is a house guest, coming and going as it pleases. It visits Keith, embracing him like a long, lost friend, gifting him its presence and exchanging stories of a past he doesn’t remember and a future he doesn’t know.

It shows him things. Things that go far beyond the cluster of neutron stars that surround him, expanding into the Blue Lion’s shield and his father’s smile, mirrored in the eyes of his newly found mother. It colors the fur of his wolf, bounding along the stretch of a beach he’s never seen, sand shifting under his feet as he walks through a footpath framed by tropical leaves. Some of them are secondhand images, the rocking of his mother’s arms and the curd taste of vrepit sa, and others, the stinging bite of a glowing hand aimed at his heart and the sweet laughter of his team over a distant fire, are scenes he lives and relives, over and over again.

“It’s coming,” his mother says, eyes snapping to him and finding his own already looking back.

The dark stars awake, exhaling life into this corner of the universe, casting them into its shadow of light. It stretches and stretches and stretches, fingers exploring Keith, running a thumb over his lips and down his chest. It closes his eyes with a kiss, promising secrets in return for his time.

Keith gives it.

Water surges up to grasp his ankle, wet fingers running up and down his skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake. Grains of sand shift underneath him, following the curves of the shore and his body. Something warm and thrumming with life presses against his side, nestled under his chin and tickling his nose. It smells like citrus, vibrant and alive.

“Hey,” says a familiar voice, low-pitched and rolling with the distant sound of waves.

“Hey,” Keith says back automatically.

“I’m glad you stayed.” A hand weighs heavy over his stomach, skimming over his chest and up his neck, aiming to brush through damp hair. A hum vibrates his throat, brazen in its pleasure over the intimate act. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Me too.”

He does not leave the quantum abyss untouched.

It lingers, seeping deep into his skin and fitting itself into the tight space between his ribs. Unable to wedge his fingers through the cracks and pull it from his chest, he lets it stay, breathing around the radiation it emanates. With every heartbeat it contaminates his existence, slinking into his bones and voice, bouncing off warped pieces of organic debris whenever he walks or talks.

He has started calling them flashes. Flashes of light. Flashes of time. Flashes of life.

They happen in ambiguous intervals, gripping his mind on a whim and refusing to let go until he submits to its desires. When he walks the waking world it flares up, a rush of wind and the weightlessness of falling, and when he drifts off to sleep it slinks past the curtain of his eyelids, phantom limbs clinging to him and his own voice yelling shut up and trust me.

He watches his mother slow to a stop in front of him, eyes glazing over in a far off look. Her hands suddenly go lax and the crate of supplies in her hands slips, and it is only the quick reflexes of their newly acquired Altean companion that saves it from this planet’s abnormal gravitational pull. Her body goes rigid just as her face goes slack, a paradox of existence that reflects in the yellow of her eyes, neon in the absolute darkness of space.

Careful, he makes to touch her elbow. “Mom?”

Like a flick of a switch, she returns. Her eyes snap to him, wild and fierce, brows angled in an expression that he’s seen in the mirror. The stillness around her recedes and recognition shines through.

“Keith.” It’s soft, almost like a prayer. “You’re here.”

He nods, taking her hand. “I’m here.”

They don’t say much about it, but both are aware of the threads that link them together. His father had tied the first knot, linking them by blood, and the Blades, through trials of forbearance, had secured the second. Now the flashes anchor them, a single point, absolute in a world full of variables.

So they stick together, stepping back into a world governed by time, following its orders to march along a linear plane, and letting the vacuum of space seal them into an Altean pod, depressurizing and locking the abyss’ byproducts into their lungs. They watch silently as the pod’s navigation system leads them to a castleship made by a dead king, crumbling under the weight of a friend turned traitor; all it takes is a snap, betrayal in the name of good, and the world is tilting off its axis, spinning faster and faster as Voltron fights its own twisted image. Time passes and passes, skipping a stone over a great lake of stars— skipping one, two, three.

And for Keith, it is nothing. He has watched time fly by for two years, hardening his skin and broadening his shoulders; he has lived days as short as an hour and as long as a week, inhaling in the dawn and exhaling the dusk. It is just another moment in the sea of many.

It is nothing, until it’s not.

Without warning the large expanse of space is too loud, too vast, too much. Life on the back of the celestial whale had been muted, a peaceful isolation that he doesn’t appreciate until it’s taken away from him. Reality comes crashing down like a clash of swords, sparks jumping as metal slides against metal, aiming to slice and dissect. Warships surround them, clouding the atmosphere of Earth in a timeline never considered; hysteria crawls along the edges of their voice and wistfulness in their sighs, in time to the ominous beeps of their oxygen levels.

And he takes the mantle of leader once again, wearing the Black Lion’s pelt like a second skin. The others step up beside him with not a blink of vacillation, following him whilst totally unaware to how much he’s changed. The weight of it is heavy and some days he feels out of place, a wolf in sheep’s clothing. He tries his best to stitch himself back into their lives, but his fingers fumble with disuse, hypothetical needle pricking him and staining his work with blood.

And the flashes, they persists, trying to convince him of a life that isn’t his.

For as long as Keith can remember, he’s known he was different. A temper that flares like molten fire and a talent that could have him flying, upwards and onwards, across the night sky. He's been nothing but problematic his whole life— it starts with him climbing out the window of his first foster home and getting caught by the local sheriff stealing canned beans from the general store down the street, and ends with him getting lost in the stars he shot for. He is a boy conceived in the throes of chance, bred for the taint of war, and suspended in the cockpit of space. Wild and detached. Endlessly adrift, searching for a reason to bleed.

But the flashes say different. They tell a story filled with rising suns, holoscreen calls and a family found.

He doesn’t know what to believe, but he knows what he wants.

A ribbon of moonlight cast over the crest of a nose, highlighting pools of navy, zoetic like a cradle of stars. It comes with a feeling, timid but yearning. A seed, newly planted, breaching the surface and stretching towards the light.

He extends a hand—

Home.

—and grasps nothing.

~

Life on Earth after is nothing like life on Earth before.

The world had been cotton-edged when he first woke after the battle, fuzzy in a disorienting way that makes his nerves buzz and eyelashes flutter in the rays of new day’s sun; shapes sway in a colorful charade that eventually merge together to form the familiar faces of those important to him. Aches cramp up his muscles, a distant throb that a doctor had affirmed would heal with time. Time spent restlessly laying in bed as he listens to what his mother and Kolivan have to report about the state of the universe. Medical staff skitters around the two, unable to meet either of the Galrans’ gazes when they talk about newly found Blades and high-profile rebel groups taking back what was stolen from them. It keeps Keith grounded, hand buried in the soft mane of his wolf, anchoring him to the now.

A week and he’s deem fit for discharge, walking out of the hospital ward with his mother at his side and his bayard at his belt, ready to be thrown back into the fight— only to find out that there are none left.

The damage done to Earth is glaringly obvious the moment he steps a foot outside. Scorch marks burn into runways while decimated and overturned vehicles alike litter its path, fritzing wires and broken glass giving a simple stroll a dangerous edge. Buildings sag in their seats, missing chunks out of their sides where lazer blasts had struck true, left unprotected by a rudimentary particle shield and humankind’s own inexperience. The people appear even worse for wear, faces drawn and ashen; military persons walk with purpose around the ruin, uniforms ripped and weapons drawn, towing away rubble and guiding lost-looking refugees.

The planet is grieving and they are only a fraction of its whole, attempting to pick up its pieces.

(“It reminds me of Daibazaal,” Kolivan had said to him one early morning while they wait for the rest of the base to wake. The sunrise paints over his usually harsh features, softening the puckered skin of his scar and the hard ridge of his brow. “From what your Blue Paladin had divulged, Earth had shined like our planet once did, before the comet brought it crumbling to its knees.”

Keith had paused, head tilted. “Were you there— when it happened?”

“No.” A deep breath, pained but strong. “It was many decapheebs ago. However, the story has been passed down through our ancestors. Every Galra know the story of our planet’s end. It is the reason we still fight today.”

A blink and he was a ghost looking over his mother’s shoulder, down at the blade that’s placed in her calloused palm. The moment weighs heavily in his mind, a burden given and a duty shouldered, taken on by oath of blood. A figure looms over, the shadow of a beast tamed by war; they have many titles, many names, but Keith knows only one. Father, a young Krolia whispers, kneeling in the decaying relics of an empire, what do we fight for?

To the west, the Black Lion overlooked its pride. “Let us hope Earth does not make the same mistake.”)

It takes two months to finish cleanup, even with the help of the Lions. Sterilized by war, the Galaxy Garrison is a mere extension of the surrounding desert; a man-made mountain turned canyon, draining of hubris. Rebuilding what Sendak destroyed will take time, a currency that inflates in periods of trouble, dragging down the empty pockets of the castaways of strife. It’s a costly endeavor and even with contact of whatever remains of the coalition, it might not be enough.

Leaders and followers alike swarm him with this fact, pulsing in a beat that’s deleterious to his sanity; they want control and they want knowledge, demanding it from where he stands on the dais they put him on. It’s frustrating, how they try to tie him down; he pulls against the rope, a runaway searching for freedom. He had found it in the cockpit of the Red Lion, accelerating until they were one and the same, a bullet shooting out of a pistol, piercing an alien planet’s stratosphere in a blaze of condensed water and Altean alchemy. It had felt right back then, rivers of clouds buffeting armored plates with the intent of inching his ribs apart and grasping for his heart, trying to reclaim what rightfully belonged to the stars. Faster, he would chant, impatient now that the universe is spread out at his feet, faster, faster, faster.

Now there are responsibilities that go beyond him, all under the jurisdiction of Voltron’s astronomical shadow, and he is only one of the five gateways to that power.

Someone must say something to their superiors because he is put in charge of a new training regiment for the MFE recruits, a precaution turned requirement. It’s Shiro who first mentions it, sitting at Keith’s bedside with a bouquet of flowers Keith doesn’t bother asking about. His new arm levitates just below where the junction of an elbow should be, glowing faintly under the fluorescent lights of the room, soothing the scarring warlords have carved into him. The request ends with a robotic hand on his shoulder and, “I wouldn’t ask of it if I didn’t think you could do it.”

So Keith agrees. A nod and he’s in charge of Earth’s only space infantry, renewed and steadfast. A last defense to a planet on the edge of collapse.

“At ease,” comes Commander Iverson’s stark direction. Keith looks on as Garrison recruits shift to parade rest, gaze unwavering forward even as the red paladin walks through their numbers. Lieutenants, sporting bands of valor on their shoulders, march behind him, the precise clips of their steps barricading any option of retreat. “This is Cadet Kogane and he will be heading this operation.”

A few eyes flicker to Keith.

“You have been trained for space exploration, not in militant strategy, and you’ll need guidance beyond what Earth can provide you. Kogane has more than enough experience in the area— his time with both Voltron and the Blade of Marmora will give us an edge that our normal combat routines lack. You few have proven your worth in paving the way for what could become the norm in the Garrison’s combatant regiment, so I expect not to be disappointed.”

A brisk salute that even Keith reciprocates and the commander about faces, leaving.

Once the door slides shut behind him and his entourage, all eyes of the room snap back to Keith and he tries not to bend at the weight of them. Like a brick to the temple, it hits him. Whatever they take away from this experience could either save them or damn them. It’s a lot, being the deciding factor of life or death. What if he forgets something? What if it's not enough? What if—

Someone clears their throat.

Awaiting his order, the recruits are lined up along the perimeter of the room, varying in age, color and body type. A few of the faces he vaguely recognizes, abstract characteristics he remembers passing him by in these very same halls years prior. A scatter of freckles and straight-cut bangs. Dreads and a chiseled face caught in a blank expression. Straight-edged glasses and petite hands. Light brown hair and a pointedly unimpressed frown…

He takes a step forward, shoulders back like and head high, thinking of Allura as she pilots the Castle of Lions and Shiro as he walks up a docking ramp. “We’ll be starting tomorrow at oh-seven-hundred hours. All training equipment will be provided, so come ready to work. Dismissed.”

There’s a moment of hesitation, birthed from the terseness of his words, but all it takes is for Keith to raise his eyebrows and they are saluting back and filing out of the room. A few send him looks over their shoulders, whispering to each other, but he ignores them. Ignores them until the last of them are gone, leaving only Keith.

“You know,” a familiar voice starts just as he’s about to leave himself. “When they first said that you had come back, I didn’t really believe them.”

Keith turns.

“But,” James continues, standing just outside the perimeter of the mat, duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He looks exactly the same, bangs sweeping over the arch of his left eyebrow and a thin upper lip curling in a smirk. “Here you are. I’m not surprised, not really, but god, it makes me angry. You really had to prove you were better than the rest and get caught up in some galactic war, huh?”

Annoyed by the silent undertone of those words, Keith rudely asks, “Did you need something?”

The boy’s eyebrow ticks, but his face is composed mere seconds later. Without any fanfare, a small holoscreen is slipping out the folds of a bag and thrust into his hands; marked with the Garrison’s logo and having no pass code, it opens to a desposity of files, each with a military photo and a corresponding list of statistics. The detail put into it is superlative, giving a number of categories that range from dexterity to psychological analysis. Every member of the class is noted within the digital archive, with maybe the exception of Keith himself.

“Thought you might need something to base your regiment on. I don’t want this to be a complete waste of time and I’m betting you don’t either. Think of this as a peace offering.” When Keith doesn’t say anything, James’ eyes narrow. “It’s not that hard to understand. You want to defeat the Galra and I want to keep Earth safe— two goals with the same outcome. We don’t have to be friends or anything, but it’ll be in both of our best interest to put our difference aside and work together for once.”

Keith considers it. A mutual cooperation doesn’t sound completely terrible, but still something doesn’t feel right. Something that the other had said…

“What do you mean? Two goals with the same outcome. We both want Earth safe.”

“Keith,” the other says and it’s a shock, how his own name can be said in such a way that it makes him want to flinch. Pity had never been an easy pill to swallow. “We both know that you never cared for anything permanent.”

Rust coats the curved blade twisting in his gut and he stumbles back, unprepared for the pain that follows.

Unaffected, James nods and shoulders his bag. “See you tomorrow.”

The exchange ends just as it quickly as it begins, leaving Keith unhinged. He feels called out— for what, he doesn’t know—but it had him being pushed under the scope, magnified and focused to unimaginable degrees, only to find the results wanting. His body vibrates, buzzing for talk, for action, for something.

It takes only a thought for his bayard to materialize and form its commonplace sword. It takes another thought to realize that he can’t find solace here; there are no gladiators to battle against, no programmed levels to best, and no invisible mazes to run through. The Galaxy Garrison might be leading humanity into a new age, but it still lacks the basic commodities Keith had taken for granted on the castleship. His grip tightens and then loosen, weapon dematerializing.

He looks down at the holoscreen.

His own face, young and sporting a split lip, glares back at him.

Past the memory, his reflection sits. Two sides of a coin, forged in the fires beneath this planet’s crust but branded by a long-dead star’s radiation. Somewhere along a comet’s tail as it passed through this solar system, a divergence was made. It’s two feet planted on the ground but a gaze to the sky. It’s the alien blood that runs through his human veins. It’s a blade underneath his pillow. It’s the controls of the universe’s strongest weapon in his blistering grip. It’s what do we fight for? and who better than the very best?

Earth may be different, but so is Keith.

When his father passes away, Keith loses the ability to build a home. Instead, he builds bridges. He keeps to the space in-between, never taking that final step for fear of falling. Suspended in a loop, kicking up dust as he follows the skyline in search of an elusive end. Something that he can call his.

Keith makes bridges he can’t cross.

Like all things, life goes on.

A semblance of normality settles over Earth and its residents, putting together the pieces of what was torn apart. Buildings rise from the ground and people with them. Families, diminished in size and changed through trauma, attempt to flower from their recently upturned roots. Routines are revived as society takes its first breath through the trailing smoke of funeral pyres, looking less to survive and more to live.

At Shiro’s urgence, Keith and Krolia do the same and move into his apartment on Garrison grounds.

The space feels empty despite its modern furnishing and newly-stocked kitchen, but the two don’t mind, finding that it’s a better alternative to a dusty, old shack that holds too many painful memories. Not that their new home doesn’t have its own ghosts, for something still lingers of the man that smiles at them from the many photographs littered around the place. And though Shiro doesn’t say anything about it, it’s hard to ignore the wistfully sad look that overtakes him when Kosmo finds a set of keys between the cushions or an extra pair of glasses on the kitchen counter. Nonetheless, he doesn’t relocate to the captain’s quarters on the Atlas, keeping to his humble abode with its somber memories.

It takes not even an hour to transfer what little belongings they have from the Black Lion and try to fill up the space, conjuring a future in what remains of the past. Day by day they live, trying hard not to stumble.

Everyday, he wakes and does what’s needed of him. He’s showers and trains and teaches and salutes, habitual as he fits himself into a mold. There are no complaints, not when he leaves no room for them, mouth downturned in an impressive frown. It’s tedious, but Keith bears it, knowing that it is in this niche which he is most useful.

He doesn’t see the rest of the team as often as he’d like, what with their busy schedules, but there are glimpses; a passing smile as a lieutenant escorts Allura and Coran into a another conference and a quick greeting from the Holt siblings before they’re off, fumbling with a treasure trove of blueprints they carry, tempered by the side-hug Hunk bestows and fist bump Lance gives before the both of them are being called by their families.

Keith tries not to feel hurt by how easily they drift apart.

“Don’t let it get to you,” Shiro tells him over breakfast, somehow knowing exactly what is wrong despite Keith having not said a word on the matter. “There’s just a lot going on. Everyone’s still trying to find their balance.”

Keith just crosses his arms and shrugs noncommittally, pretending he doesn’t realize how petulant he must look. “It’s fine,” he says. “They can do whatever they want.”

“Keith, you’re allowed to care.”

The other’s tone, gentle and supportive, has Keith unwinding the knots in his muscles with a sigh. He looks to his friend and then away, fixing his gaze to the group of students huddled together under a tree in the Garrison’s main quad. One of them says something he can’t hear and the rest erupt into laughter. “Yeah, I know.”

“Things will work themselves out, just you wait. Okay?”

“Okay.”

And like about most things, Shiro is right.

As days pass, so does the madness. Walking through the barracks of the Garrison is still weird, but it gets easier to ignore the whispers that follow his form, snagging onto his borrowed clothes, tracing the outline of his scar and burrowing deep into his pores. The walls don’t press upon him as much, sparing his lungs a great deal of effort when it comes time speak, and the polite murmurs of paladin from men and woman twice his age no longer makes his skin crawl. It becomes commonplace to cut through the base and see the lions, behemoths in their own right, sitting in the shadow of the human-altean hybrid Atlas; all silent observers to the going-ons of the base and the people that call it home.

People congregate, fulfilling the genetic deep need for interaction during mealtimes in the cantine, talk bubbling into something casual and among individuals made close by circumstance, stark against the backdrop of wreckage that still sits outside their windows. Faces become more familiar in that distant sort of way, crossing his path frequently enough to garner a nod in greeting or a vocal acknowledgement; it’s almost similar to time at the Garrison before Voltron, but different in that the attention is based on earnest admiration over his actions rather than grudging revere over his skill.

It’s then that the team comes back together.

Pidge is the first, dropping herself into the seat across from him as he eats breakfast, already halfway through a conversation she expects Keith to participate in. “I just don’t understand how an entire military base could be so stupid. It’s a wonder things ran so smoothly without me before now.” A huff and then, belatedly, “Hi, Keith”

“Hi,” he says past the initial surprise, followed almost immediately by small, pleased smile that he hides behind his hand. “What’s got you in such a mood?”

“Oh, nothing!” The girl stabs at her hashbrowns, cutting with vengeance, and he remembers her doing the same to the food goo back at the castle. “It’s just that everyone in the technical department has their heads shoved so far up their butts that it’s a miracle they can see the tabs on their computers! Can you imagine thinking that a single-sideband modulation is enough to broadcast a signal from one solar system to another? Absolutely crazy.”

He opens his mouth to try an attempt at consoling, but is interrupted by a tray heaped with food nudging against his own and a sturdy body is pressing up against his side.

“What’s crazy,” Hunk begins around a full mouth, brandishing his spork like a baton, sending a glop of oatmeal to the floor and to splatter on a passing figure’s shoes, “is how you think a double-modulation is necessary at all. You’re just salty that people are agreeing with me. We didn’t need it for the castle in deep space and we don’t need now. Like, think about it, what would we even— oh, hey Keith.”

“Hi.”

Ignoring the spluttering Pidge undergoes at his previous words, Hunk turns to fully face the red paladin and it’s just like it was before, easy. As if it hasn’t been weeks since they last had a real conversation and only hours. “Haven’t seen you around. That class of yours keeping you busy?”

Keith shrugs. “I guess. Depends on the day.”

“Yeah, I feel that. Sometimes I’m so busy that I feel overwhelmed, and other times I have so much free time that I don’t even know what to do with myself.” It’s a tell of their time together in space that Hunk doesn’t press him for details on his class, for which Keith is thankful. “They have me and my dad working on the coiling of the Atlas’s main inductors. It’s slow work cause of the size of them, but we’re getting there. Hopefully it’ll stop the Atlas from shutting down secondary functions when in full mecha-mode. Then it’s straight to work on altering the zero gravity chambers.”

Pidge pouts. “Man, I’m so jealous. You get to work on the Atlas while I’m stuck teaching idiots basic coding back at home base.” She cups her chin, elbow nearly in her mashed potatoes, and sighs dreamily. “What I wouldn’t give to see what’s hiding in that ship’s mainframe.”

“Hey, it’s not all it’s cracked up to be— most of what we do is test out the system.” He lets out a gruff noise from the back of his throat, a cross between a scoff and whine. “It’s so annoying because we have get clearance for every one we do, which is a lot. Ever since they set up a connection between Atlas and that robobeast, things have been on edge. I mean, I totally get it — no one wants to be responsible for the termination of Earth’s only connection to the universe, but, still, it makes my job just that much harder. Dad’s going crazy over it and the limitations of what we can do. Clearance and all that, you know.”

Keith pats the boy on the bicep. “That suck, big man. Sorry to hear that.”

“It’s whatever.” But he sends Keith a smile before perking up considerable. A sparkle that Keith recognizes shines in the dark brown of his eyes. “But it does mean that whenever something does slip through the clearance, I’m the first to know.”

Pide, the youngest and most susceptible to the yellow paladin’s gossiping ways, cocks an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Hunk nods enthusiastically. “Her pod is a few doors down from the engine room. People are always going in and out.”

And Keith, though never one to dip into the rumors that run their course through the base, can’t deny the curiosity that spikes at the mention of the mysterious girl found at the apex of the robobeast’s heart. “Is she awake?”

“Not that I know.”

“Do they know why she was in the robobeast at least? Why it attacked Earth? Who sent it?”

“Not sure, but Romelle did say that she looked familiar, so she might be from the colony— though it’s already been so long since she left that she can’t be for sure. Still, how many colonies of Alteans are there in the universe? I’m guessing whoever took them is the one behind all this.”

That’s been the hook to a great many theories over the subject, Keith’s included. By this point, it isn’t of a matter of what but a matter of why. The reason behind the attack that nearly cost Earth everything is still a well-kept secret and will probably remain so until the Altean girl wakes from her self-induced hypersleep.

“I can’t believe this,” a voice declares loudly from Keith’s right, startling him and drawing the attention of not only their huddled group but that of the tables surrounding them as well. “We have our first ever gossiping circle as a team and I’m the last to be invited.”

It’s Lance, because of course it is. Standing tall and casual, hands on his hips and lips pursed in the usual fashion, the boy cuts a vibrant figure against the pale backdrop of the facility.

At his side, stands a girl.

“Oh yeah, this is my sister, Rachel. Everyone, Rachel. Rachel, everyone,” he introduces— unnecessarily, it would seem, because anyone would have to be blind not to notice the similarities between the two. The resemblance is uncanny. Both sport long limbs and the same sun-kissed skin, clear of any blemishes or imperfections. When she smiles in greeting, dimples appear in the apple of both cheeks, eyebrows arching in a familiar grin that has even Pidge casting a second glance. “But seriously, are you guys gossiping without me? How rude— you know I live for the drama.”

Hunk, the only person capable, chuckles. “We’re just talking about that new Altean girl.”

In unison, the newcomers shove their way into seats on either side of Pidge, tilting forward with matching expressions of intrigue. Keith quells the urge to lean back in response, sharing a look with the girl unfortunate to be squished between them.

“The one they found in that thing you guys fought?” Rachel asks, voice pitched high with excitement and flowing with the same lilt as her brother’s. “Everyone’s saying that she was in league with that Sendak guy.”

Pidge makes a pained face. “Better not let Allura hear that. She’ll freak.”

“Yeah, she’s already stressed enough as it is,” Lance says quietly, eyes soft in the way it always is when concerning the princess. “We don’t wanna make it worse.”

“Yeah, best just to stick with our assignments. I’ve seen how crazy stressed Romelle is lately. With Allura working with the new admiral, it’s up to her and Coran to try and find  where the colony has gone. There weren’t any new leads last time I asked.” Hunk licks the back of his utensil, eyes flickering across the cantine and stopping at various individuals, be they civilian or military. “I hope nothing else goes wrong. We’re kinda sitting ducks as it is.”

“Kolivan is doing his best to reunite what’s left of the coalition. Once that’s reinstated, I’m sure everything else will fall back into place.” Keith, says, trying his hand at reassurance. “Try not to sweat it.”

“Yeah, you’re right.”

After that, the topics digress into something lighter. They exchange stories, recounting first meetings and divulging in embarrassing mess-ups, laughing when they all start to one-up  each other and the anecdotes get more and more outrageous. It seems like both Lance and Rachel have an endless cache of embarrassing stories to tell and it doesn’t take long until Keith’s smothering a laugh into the sleeve of his uniform.

Eventually, the morning sun rises high into the noon hours and the obligations of the world start calling them. It’s too soon when Hunk’s pager goes off, signaling the end of his breakfast and their time together. Lance whines and Keith secretly wants to do the same when Pidge joins the engineer when he collects his belongings and gets up, trying to convince them to stay. But it’s all for nought because all it takes is another beep from the pager and they’re gone, promising to make time for another group meal even as they wave goodbye.

“So,” Rachel starts once it’s just the three of them, pushing her brother until she’s seated directly in from of Keith rather than diagonally. “You’re the famous Keith Kogane I’ve heard so much about.”

Unsure what her tone means, Keith proceeds with caution. “Yeah...”

“Is it true that you sucker punched Iverson and got expelled?”

“Ray,” Lance hisses.

But the girl is shameless, instead leaning forward, chin propped on her steepled fingers. She eyes him and sends a wicked grin his way, sharp like shrapnel. “I just wanna know if all the rumors are true. Iverson didn’t always have only one good eye and what I hear is that you’re the reason behind it. How about it? Are you up to the hype or is my baby brother a liar?”

“Baby brother,” Lance scoffs, offended. “We’re only—”

“Yeah, I took Iverson’s eye out.”

The sibling squabble stops before it can start, and Keith’s left with two very different expression angled his way; while Lance’s jaw drops in surprise, his sister’s drops in uncontained glee.

“He wouldn’t tell me the truth about Shiro. No one would,” he clarifies, focusing more on Lance and his utterly stupefied face. Honestly, he had thought this had been common knowledge after he left, spread through the student grapevine, and it feels odd talking about it now. It was so long ago and explaining why he did what he did feels like an out of body experience. “You know… back when everyone still thought the Kerberos crew was MIA. I was just really frustrated and well, Iverson was there and… yeah.”

“Oh my god,” Rachel says in the stunned silence that follows. “Oh my god, you’re exactly like Lance says. Unbelievable.”

Now, Keith has never really cared about what’s been thought of him by his peers. It had never mattered before. But he can’t deny his curiosity as he watched the blue paladin shoot his sister a look of utter betrayal, as if this interaction breached some unspoken contact. He wonders what his teammate had to say about him and if it differs to what would be said of him now.

Another side-eye, slow and sly, is thrown his way, accompanied by the rise of a signature eyebrow and smirk. The girl tips on her elbows, chin raised and closer than he normally lets strangers be. “You really are all that, huh. I guess I can see the hype.”

They have the same eyes, Keith thinks idly, a blue so dark it looks black

Then all he can see is brown curls and feel lips pressing to the apple of his right cheek. Across from him, Lance splutters, hands flailing as he says something in rapid Spanish, embarrassed on Keith’s behalf. Her responding giggle fills up Keith’s personal bubble until she moves away, nonplussed as she stands and responds back in kind before giving her brother a kiss on the cheek too. Another Lance-ish grin and she’s skipping away, ponytail swishing with the movement.

It takes a minute or so for Lance to reboot, flush receding. “Sorry about that. Rachel thinks anyone with fancy hair is fair game.”

The ghost of fingers skims along his cheek, tucking a long strand of hair behind his ear, and Keith fights against the urge to chase after the miniscule flash. Instead, he clenches his fists and stares hard at the other boy’s forehead. “She thinks my hair is fancy?”

Lance bristles suddenly. “Don’t get any ideas, Mullet.”

“I’m not.”

“Good.” A pause, filled with the talk of others, and then Lance is glancing over at him, lips quirked just enough to entice an excited flip of Keith’s stomach. “You wanna take the lions out for a spin? First one to the Atlantic wins.”

And isn’t that the bulk of it? Their relationship, two opposing forces that revolve around one another, waiting for that precise moment to either clash or conjoin. Lance, who fits so easily into people’s lives—seemingly without any effort at all too— sneaking his way into Keith’s, uncaring of the tight squeeze. It’s contradictive, how they can butt heads one moment and then share a smile the next.

Nevertheless, he has the intention to accept the offer, because it’s been a while since anything has got his heart racing and there’s nothing that does the job better than flying. Every intention to pipe up a witty remark just to see Lance react and then take a running head start to the lion hangars while the other boy was distracted thinking of a suitable comeback. It’s second nature, the push and—

—pull of hands around his stomach, secured tight as he guides a hoverbike faster. The wind is strong and merciless as it snags at his hair, coming loose from the strap of the goggles he wears and curling erratically at his temples. The body seated behind him presses flush against him, chest to back and legs straddling warm leather, while a chin juts over his shoulder and a smile skims over the shell of his ear.

There is no destination, just a direction, always forward and never back. Forever forward, on and on and on. It’s nice and he’s happy, filled with content and a desire for it to never end.

“—kay? Keith?”

Like a whip, he snaps back. Gone is the upward sweep of handlebars, the press of palms against the base of his ribs, the wind buffeting his face— all the tell-tale signs of a joyride, shared with a someone who he can’t put a face to. In its place, the distinctive rush of a crowded canteen.

It takes a moment for him to recognize that he’s been asked a question and a moment more to realize that he has to answer.

“Nothing. I’m fine.” The lie rolls off his tongue without a hitch, floating in the air and saturating the atmosphere with its flimsy misdirection. It’s starting to become difficult to keep his breathing steady. “Actually, I just remembered that I have to pick up some equipment for my class tomorrow. Can we do a rain check on the race?”

Lance blinks. “Oh, um, yeah. That’s totally— of course. Next time then.”

“Next time,” he agrees, distracted. Then his body is on autopilot, knees unbending and back straightening as he stands, the eyes of the many digging into the back of his skull. He leaves before anyone can notice the way his fists clench, knuckles going white, holding back a dam of memories that aren’t his. He doesn’t look back.

By the time his class starts two hours later Keith has mostly calmed down. It’s time spent doing cardio drills, working up a sweat until all he can focus on is the burning sensation in his muscles and the accelerated beat of his heart. It leaves no room for anything else, narrowing the world into a single point, and that’s exactly how he wants it.

His students must notice how on edge he still must be, because when they walk in and he’s adding another ten pounds to his already maxed out barbell, not one advises against it. Even James, who always seems to have something to say, keeps quiet and simply nods when he brusquely instructs the lot of them to pick up a staff and pair up. They leave him be, though not without the judgmental look or two as they pass his station by.

But, in the end, it’s not enough.

Not enough because even as he lays there, shirt plastered to his skin and the cushion of the bench molding to the trembling slopes of his shoulders and back, the flash somehow sneaks back. It hides in plain sight, stalking the length of his arms and tensing as they push the bar up and away from his chest, locking his elbows in a strain that isn’t healthy. Hides until he’s holding his breath, trembling under the weight and a second to utter collapse, only to surprise him with a reveal of phantom hands, transparent and long, following raised veins to the bony bend of his wrist.

Carefully, as if they were real, the hands run a thumb over his pulse, applying pressure until Keith feels like jumping out of his skin. A beat, loud and clear, reverberates through his body. It makes him want to let go and be held. But the weight of the bar nearly chokes him at the thought, recoiling in the suddenness of it all, and has the ghostly hands evaporating in a puff of smoke. Gone just as quick as they came, and he’s left with a bursting chest, gasping for breath.

No one notices his blunder, but it shakes Keith all the same.

Keith asks Allura about the flashes.

It takes a while, not because he’s gearing up to bring the topic forward, but because Allura is a hard person to catch in the months following the battle for Earth. It seems like everyone everywhere wants the princess’s focus, grabbing her outside of conference rooms and tailing behind her in hallways, proposals and questions alike dripping from their lips. It’s progress, imperative for the success of human and Altean kind alike, Keith knows, but still inconvenient when he’s tracking her down for a private moment.

But Keith is nothing if not determined, forgoing pinging her comm and scheduling time in favor of simply cornering her as she’s leaving the base headquarters after a meeting he saw her walk into an hour prior. He glares as the entourage that follows her, daring them to do anything other than watch as he grabs his friend by the arm and spirits her away.

“Keith,” she greets with a muted smile, following him down the outside corridor and to the south quad where a lone bench sits under a yellow palo verde. “To what do I owe the surprise? How are you?”

But Keith has no time for such pleasantries. Now that the moment has arrived, to finally receive an answer to an immortal question, he can’t focus on anything else. Making sure there’s no one within hearing distance, he makes his stand, feet shoulder width apart and arms crossed. “I need your help,” he tells her without preamble, pushing all the frustration from the last few days, weeks, months into his words. “Something’s wrong with me.”

The change is immediate. Pale eyebrows furrow and dainty shoulders square, kaleidoscope eyes zoning on him with intensity that matches a burning nova in the woes of death. “Tell me.”

So he does.

She doesn’t interrupt him when he speaks, merely sits there, ankles crossed and hands clasped delicately in her lap, and listens. Listens as he recaps his time in the quantum abyss. Listen as he recounts how the dark stars rose and set infinitely, blurring time in its most basic sense. Listens as he talks about the flashes, how they take over in the absence of sense. Listens to his frustrations at its perseverance, to its unyielding hold on his life. Listens to his want of its end.

“And this has been going on since you returned from the abyss?” she asks when he’s done.

He slumps next to her. “Yeah, and it’s only gotten worse since we returned to Earth.”

It’s quiet between them. Keith spends it anxiously rubbing his thumb over the jut of his knuckles, waiting to be reassured. Because if anyone can solve this, it’s Allura. Allura, one of the few remaining relics of the Old World, is a medium by which the universe communicates through. Whatever has happened to bring him to this moment must follow some precedent, something to pursue and procure.

“My people believed time was an limitless thing,” Allura begins after Keith has rubbed his skin raw, voice even and slow. “Something that the Life Givers had bestowed upon us in the age of chaos. Only those who knew the ancient art of alchemy could hope to understand its ubiquitous attributes. Some, like my father, even got close— discovering a source of energy that went beyond the simple science known previously.”

“Quintessence.”

Allura nods. “A substance with the highest known energy per unit volume in the universe. It has the power to alter and warp reality, creating rifts that might otherwise not exist. We saw as such with General Hira and her immoral troops.”

He remembers. The fight for the trans-reality comet and its precious ore, wanted by those who wanted peace in every reality, but only accomplished in tearing it apart. He also knows that the subject is still a sore one for the Altean, a reflection of what could have been if things had been different.

“It’s thought that quintessence ties us to this world. That it is merely a means of creation, not the origin of it. It’s something to be harnessed, like with the Lions and your bayards— but you can’t have power without limitations. You need something to counter it, to maintain it...” She clears her throat. “I believe that the abyss may be a pocket of what used to be the beginning of our universe. A pocket that doesn’t follow the natural order of time and instead uses quintessence to warp it, existing in an almost limbo state. Trying to balance between past and present. But in all honesty, this is only a guess. I’ve never heard of anything like this, from my father or Coran otherwise.”

The information is a welcomed addition to the nothing Keith already knows, but it’s not a solution and he’s says as much.

Her eyes flicker downward. “No,” she says quietly, “I suppose it’s not.”

“But there is a way to stop this, right? Something you can do?”

The girl hesitates.

And doesn’t that just get his temper going. The girl who should have the answers, silent in the face of the question. “You don’t have anything,” he accuses just shy of harsh, breathing hard through his nose. “Nothing to help me?”

Allura covers his hand with her smaller one, flinching when he jerks away from the touch. “Keith, it’ll be alright. I’m sure we can figure this out. Together, with the help of the team—”

“Oh no, we are not telling the others about this.”

“What? Why not? I’m sure they would want to know.”

“If I tell them then I’m going to have to tell them what I’m seeing and…” Anxiety curls at the points of his ribs, unbridled and uncalled for, when he thinks about the flashes and what they might means. The thought of such private scenes translating from mind to reality, of being spoken into existence, is too much for him to handle. “I can’t— I refuse to do that.”

“I’m sure no one will judge you for what you see. Whatever it is, we don’t yet know if it’ll even come true. If you’ll just—”

“No, Allura.”

They stare at each other, stubbornly trying to convince the other to have their way. It doesn’t last long because he knows that Allura’s moral compass won’t allow her to do anything in disagreeance to his own well-being and that forcing him to do this will bring her in direct contradiction with such Altean ideologies; she looks away first, frowning in such a manner that it cracks her symmetrical face, and the win goes to him.

“Alright,” she agrees grudgingly. “I won’t tell the rest of the team, but,” she adds quickly when she catches him letting out a breath, “you’ll come to me if they start getting worse. Of course, I’ll be looking into any surviving Altean archives to see if I can find anything that might explain this phenomenon, but any changes at all and I’m the first to know. Okay?”

“Okay.”

They shake on it, like its some big business deal.

“And am I allowed to ask what the visions entail?”

She looks to be genuinely curious and it elicits a fight or flight response in him, not that he acts on either of them. But it still has him tensing abruptly, boots scraping against the dirt in a involuntary twitch.

“No,” he says and that’s the last of it.

Until it’s not.

[imaredshirt]

Coco (more specifically Hector) and grabbed by the chin! (I’m sorry Hector you’re my fave but)

Here we are, nonny! Takes place right after the infamous flashback. And this one comes with a warning: Graphic descriptions of violence. Slight canon divergence.

Héctor had never been blinded by rage, until now.

As if the rest of the world had fallen away, the only thing Héctor could see was Ernesto, standing next to Miguel. Ernesto, and his pristine charro suit, well remembered in his mansion with it’s pool and massive ballroom, all gained with the songs Héctor had written for Coco and Imelda.

The family that Ernesto had kept him from seeing for over 90 years.

He’d been poisoned.

All rational thought was gone. Nothing but Ernesto existed in his mind, and only the drive to hurt and rage fueled him.

He launched himself at the man who had once been his friend, his best friend, and they fell to the ground. Nothing could fix what had happened. Nothing. Nothing the man could say or do could calm Héctor now, because–because–

He’d taken everything.

Ernesto caught his wrist before he could land a good hit, but Héctor didn’t care. He strained, and slung accusations that he’d blamed on himself for 90 years. Por Dios, he’d blamed himself for so long. But he’d tried, he’d tried to go home, and Ernesto had–

Hands grabbed him. He was dragged back, off of Ernesto and pulled along the floor. He could see Miguel horrified and standing back, but all Héctor could think of were the very last images he’d seen before death: an empty road, the train that would have taken him home, dark cobblestone under his knees.

Ernesto’s living face, kind and understanding, his hand passing the glass of tequila to Héctor.

Coco and Imelda’s faces. Memories of home flashing in his mind, too quick to treasure, bright like flames, and gone as if extinguished when the world had gone dark.

He’d woken up to a bridge strewn with petals, the lights of a city bright in the distant mist.

But he’d just wanted to go home.

Tonight home had been so close. Miguel had been his last chance. And Ernesto, with his lies and his false kind voice, had taken that from him again.

Ernesto, who stood by Miguel, and watched as Héctor was dragged behind two high doors.

“No!” Héctor cried, reaching forward, but anything he could do now was useless, because he’d failed. Again. Failed to cross the bridge to see his daughter. The Final Death was creeping over his shoulders and he would never see her, not in this world, or any other.

The blinding rage was fading, replaced by something agonizing and draining, as the guards pulled him into a dimly lit hall.

He still fought. He struggled in their grips and reached forward–for Ernesto, or Miguel, or the photo, he didn’t know. But he was so weak, weak with failure, weak with the Final Death ready to take him away. All he could do was yell.

The doors slammed shut, and the hall grew dark.

The guards holding him went still. With a jolt of hope, Héctor took the chance to try and wrench himself from their hold. If he could only get through those doors–

An elbow drove into his ribcage. He cried out, more in frustration than in pain, and tried to pull his arms from their sockets, not knowing whether or not he’d have the energy to pull himself back again.

But a pain exploded at the base of his skull, and all thoughts were silenced as he fell forward into a dark, quiet nothingness.

He woke up to the sound of footsteps coming near.

He tried to open his eyes, but the order to blink was sluggish in his mind, and it took him longer than it should have. It didn’t help that his ribs ached with every fake breath, and it felt like someone was trying to inflate a metal balloon in his skull.

He was lying on something hard and cold, and the footsteps grew louder, until there was blessed silence, and he could focus again on opening his eyes.

“Héctor? Are you awake, amigo?”

The words jumbled around in his mind before becoming a coherent question. Awake? Was he awake?

He wasn’t even sure if he was still alive.

Someone sighed. “Wake him up.”

I’m awake, pendejo, Héctor wanted to say, but before he could even open his mouth, something hard slammed into his hip.

He gasped and moaned, curling into himself, a flash of anger pushing through the agony.

He opened his eyes.

The tips of pristine white boots met his gaze.

“I don’t have time for your theatrics, Héctor,” Ernesto’s bored voice said, just as Héctor realized he was curled up on the cold tile of some dark sitting room. There was the sound of someone snapping their fingers, and Ernesto continued, “Lift him, por favor. I imagine he’s too weak to stand on his own.”

Hard hands gripped his arms. He was lifted onto his feet. He could feel himself trembling, and he felt heavy, as if his bones were made of rocks.

He tried to struggle, but his attempts were weak. He was too weak to even stand on his own. Still, he felt a burst of pride at his remaining resolve, and lifted his bowed head to meet Ernesto’s gaze.

“I’m not your amigo,” he managed to say, voice faint. “Don’t call me that.”

With a glint of humor in his eyes, Ernesto gave him a slow smile.

“I know,” he said. He picked at his chaqueta, as if there could ever be a speck of dust on the stiff material, and shrugged. “Not now, and not in the last days of your life.”

Anger and disbelief burned in his chest. Gritting his teeth, Héctor struggled, once again wanting to throw himself at Ernesto and fight until bones shattered. Even if it was his own bones, he didn’t care, he just wanted Ernesto to know his anger.

Only vaguely aware of the guards grunting in effort to hold him back, he growled, “I was always–let go, cabrones–I was always your friend! Since we were children, Ernesto! And you betrayed me! Damn you! Damn you! Pinche–”

He saw the change in Ernesto’s eyes, knew he was in trouble before it happened, but he didn’t care. He expected a blow to the ribs and grunted when it happened. The force of Ernesto’s fist against his sternum sent him curling forward, against the guards’ arms. The memory of something similar happening to him in life flashed in his mind, and he felt phantom air drive out of lungs he no longer had.

He was dead, but he felt winded.

The guards were the only things holding him up. He sagged, shaking, and tried to gather energy to raise his head and finish his insult.

Just then, a wide, cold hand gripped his chin, and jerked his skull up.

Ernesto’s eyes were aglow with fury.

Héctor tried to pull out of his grip, but Ernesto’s fingers tightened until there was pain. He was held in place, shaking with rage, forced to meet the cold anger in Ernesto’s eyes. 

Ernesto tilted Héctor’s skull up and to the side, eyes roving over the faded markings on Héctor’s chin and cheekbones and above his brow, taking in the bone that had yellowed over the years. Héctor knew very well how he looked, how old and raggedy he would seem to someone so well remembered, but he had stopped caring about his appearance long ago. 

Still, a wave of renewed anger went through him when Ernesto sneered, shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

“Look at you,” Ernesto said, amusement clear in his voice. “How far the great composer has fallen.”

Héctor parted his lips to speak, but Ernesto’s grip tightened in a silent threat. He narrowed his eyes.

“You’re right. We were good friends once, when we were young. But how much of a friend were you in the end? When you were so ready to leave me when I needed you the most?”

Ernesto bared his teeth in a snarl, and Héctor had to bite back a grunt of pain when Ernesto’s fingers dug harder into his chin. He wanted to curse. What was Ernesto trying to do? Crack the bone?

“I did not betray you, Héctor. You betrayed me. Long before I killed you.” With a snort, Ernesto released Héctor’s chin with a flourish, the force jerking Héctor’s skull to the side. “The blame for your misfortune should not be laid entirely upon me, should they?”

Héctor didn’t argue. He was well aware that his own actions had led him here, alone and nearly forgotten, but that did not change the fact that Ernesto had betrayed and murdered him. 

If he had only done things differently… if he could go back and change everything…

“I took the time to visit you before my show,” Ernesto said, wiping his hand on his chaqueta, as Héctor sagged, resigned, in the guards’ hold. “I wanted you to know that this is all your fault, in the end.”

“No,” Héctor growled, “You–”

Pain erupted where his abdomen had once been. Bright orange light sparked along his bones like fire, and he heard himself gasp and cry out. Suddenly the guards released him, and he was falling to the floor, curling in on himself, as pain ate away at him like it had so many years ago.

The spasms of the Final Death shook him one last time, before the light flickered away, and he lay gasping and shaking against the cold tile.

“I’ve never seen the Final Death before,” Ernesto said, light interest in his voice. “You do still know how to put on a show, Héctor.”

Héctor could not find it in himself to answer. He stared at the polished tile, shock and shame freezing him in a fetal position. He’d seen the Final Death many times.

But he’d never experienced the spasms, until now.

“Well, I do have a crowd to entertain with your songs,” he heard Ernesto say dismissively. “Throw him in with the boy.”

Héctor looked up with a gasp, suddenly alert. “Miguel? Ernesto, what did you–”

But Ernesto was gone.

There was the sound of a door opening and closing, Ernesto humming to himself, as the guards once again lifted Héctor and began to drag him towards a pale door in the corner of the room.

Shaking in their grip, Héctor could feel the shock and shame fading beneath fear for Miguel. Ernesto must not have sent him home. So close to sunrise, and the boy wasn’t home.

The door opened, and he was dragged through into the cool night air. A stone wall led away from the exterior of the mansion, and the guards followed it, silent.

Even as they dragged him over the cold ground, Héctor could feel some strength returning to his bones.

He was never going home. But he could help another return across the bridge before his time was up, even if it meant his dying breath.

[db-kt]

Shocker pt. 2

Because I still don’t have a better title lol.  Also, since I’ve forgot to mention before, this takes place when Danny and the gang are 16. There’s no Phantom Planet but the Fenton parents and Valerie know his secret. Why? Well, even I don’t know yet. XD

When the bell rang, announcing the end of classes for the day, Danny was absolutely relieved. Packing his backpack with his math homework, he waved good bye to Mr. Falluca. The teacher returned the tender wave, still frowning at all of the dead calculators that Danny had tried to use earlier in the class. It was hard for Danny to keep himself from apologizing to the teacher, instead he silently vowed to learn how to control this power sooner rather than later.

He automatically made his way to Tucker’s locker. Being the closest to his math class, the two boys would meet up before going to Sam or Valerie, who’s lockers were halfway on the other side of the school. Danny just hoped that during the afternoon classes that Tucker had forgiven him for accidentally breaking his beloved tablet.

Soon enough, Danny spotted Tucker opening his locker. Swerving through the crowd, Danny quickly stood by his best friend. There was a pregnant pause as he watched Tucker put a book back into his locker.

“Tucker?” Danny called out. No reply other than a quick zip from his backpack. Sighing, Danny began, “I’m so sorry. I swear I didn’t mean to break your tablet, I mean, Stella.” Tucker slammed his locker door shut. Danny flinched at the action and watched as his best friend looked at him with unreadable eyes. “It was an accident.”

“I know,” Tucker answered, his voice oddly quiet. Danny perked up either way, walking in step with his best friend as they made their way towards the front of the school.

“Then why are you giving me the cold shoulder?”

“Because I’m upset?” Tucker replied back starkly. “Dude you know I customized this to handle more processing power.”

“I know and I said-“

“Dude.” Tucker waved him off. He sighed, shaking his head. “I forgive you man.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, but-“

“Oh thank you Tucker!” Danny gave his friend a quick one arm hug. Even through the clothes, Tucker could feel the buzzing feeling that Danny was giving off. He quickly pushed off, raising a finger at Danny’s questioning look.

“But.”

“But?”

“But,” Tucker began again, walking, “you have to at least help me repair her.” He glanced to the dead tablet in his other hand. “I’m pretty sure you just fried the Motherboard.”

“Right. Okay. Easy fix right?”

“Should be.” The two entered the main hallway on the ground floor, the front doors in sight. They stopped at the TV monitors that would flash through a powerpoint of the academic photos and sports coverage of the school. Dash was – not surprisingly – in most of the sport pictures. “How are we going to fix your problem?”

“Visit CW?” Danny shrugged. “I don’t know much about…electrical powers.” He suddenly frowned. “Other than every electronic thing I touch goes dead on me.”

“What do you-“ Tucker trailed off once he got Danny’s meaning. “Wait. You’re telling me that you shorted out all of the school’s calculators during math?”

“Not all of them,” Danny whined. “Falluca stopped after the third one.”

“Third one’s the charm,” Tucker sang. He too suddenly frowned. “What about your phone?”

“Dead.” Danny pulled out the said device, pressing the button to no avail. “Mom and Dad will probably be pissed at me later.”

“You really are the enemy in today’s modern society,” Tucker said as he shook his head. Danny rose an eyebrow at his statement as he pocketed his dead phone.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Oh my Prince!” Tucker began dramatically. “Look upon the masses of your subjects.” He gestured to their fellow prisoners of the educational system, all looking stressed with homework waiting for them at their respective homes. “Are they not busying themselves over their phones? The social media? The texts, snaps, and calling to others?” He then shook his head. “As Prince, you should know what your subjects’ lives are like in order to rule over them justly.”

“…I’m not going to rule over the high school, Tucker.”

“Still. You can’t be oblivious all the time.” Danny scoffed and lightly touched Tucker’s shoulder, hoping that he’ll force a mild static shock onto the teen. “Ouch!!” Tucker yelped, jumping away from his best friend. “You did that on purpose!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m the oblivious one, remember?” Danny told him with a smirk.

“Very oblivious indeed,” Valerie agreed as she stepped beside them.

“Funny,” Danny said, deflating a bit before he questioned, “don’t you and Sam have the last class together?”

“She’s talking to the teacher about setting up a school wide debate on the ethics of school lunch again.” Tucker froze stiff at the answer. “Particularly calling for more vegan options.”

“She can’t!” he cried out. He grabbed Danny, forgetting the buzzing current in his friend’s body. “Doesn’t she remember the last time?!”

“I’m sure she does,” Danny said, trying to calm him down. “Besides, weren’t you listening? It sounds like she wants options, not changing the entire lunch menu…again.”

“Ohhhhh okay, that’s reasonable,” Tucker said, letting out a sigh of relief. He let go of Danny. “Your buzzing is still there.”

“Yeah, I noticed,” Danny deadpanned.

“What are you gonna do about it?” Valerie asked, curious.

“Probably go ask CW about it,” Sam answered, appearing out of nowhere. “Which if you are, we better get going. It takes 6 hours to get there.”

“I know,” Danny murmured as he led their group out of the school’s front doors. Luckily, most of the teenagers had left, leaving behind few who are chatting with their friends or their ride had not shown up yet. “But all CW could do is hopefully tell me who can teach me on controlling this other than Vortex.”

“Nah Vortex’s power is more focused on weather in general, not electricity,” Sam reasoned. “I would say Technus but…”

“His is more technological based,” Tucker continued, “if anything he could help you not zap batteries dead.”

“I said I was sorry!” Danny whined. Tucker chuckled, nudging his best friend.

“Sorry, you make it too easy dude.” The four stopped at a busy intersection, waiting for the walking signal. “Besides,” Tucker began once the signal turned, “I said I’ll buy you a pair of those sunglass thingies for the solar eclipse this Friday.”

“Oh yeah, I forgot that’s happening,” Valerie commented as they crossed.

“You forgot?” Danny asked, astounded as they reach the other side. “Valerie how could you forget something as rare as a solar eclipse?”

“Don’t they happen fairly often?” Sam asked, noticing how Danny seemed to get jittery. Tucker also noticed the symptoms of his friend getting overly excited.

“Fairly, but no in this area,” Danny answered, a big smile on his face. “Don’t you guys know that the next one that’ll happen where we can see it from Amity Park will be in 500 years? This is basically a once-in-a-lifetime thing!”

“Yeah that’s what the news has been saying,” Valerie commented.

“Because it’s true for once,” Danny stated bluntly. He paused, remembering all the times the news called him a menace and needed to be eradicated. Granted, his own parents said the same thing, but he knew it was for his and his sister’s survival. Shaking his head, he continued, “either way, I’m so pumped up for this! We may not be in the center of the path of totality, but we’ll still have a solid 45 seconds of the total eclipse.”

“And that means?” Tucker asked, trying to remember what the term meant. He recalled when Danny has first found out about Amity being in the path and Danny nerding out about it, but that was over a year ago and haven’t been brought up until last week.

“When the moon is completely covering the sun’s light,” Danny explained bluntly. He paused. “Well, not completely.” He skipped ahead of them, twisting around so that he walked backwards. “There’ll be a ring around the moon, but the point is the total eclipse is when you can have your glasses off and you can actually view it. Before then, the sun would get so bright, much brighter than usual so looking at it directly is damaging to your eyes.”

“But you’re already supposed to not look into the sun directly, you goof,” Valerie told him. “Unless, you’ve been doing it so much that you’re used to being blinded.”

“There is a reason why he keeps on getting pummeled while fighting ghosts,” Sam teased. That earned a laugh from Valerie. Danny huffed, crossing his arms as he pouted at the two girls.

“Very funny,” Danny deadpanned. “But what I meant to say is that the sun will be especially bright during this time; hence why the special solar glasses.”

“So you better wear them all the time then,” Valerie added, giggling a bit. She paused, lightly biting into her bottom lip. “I wonder if my visor would adapt to the change in solar light.”

“We can test it!” Tucker immediately volunteered. “I’m sure the Fentons have some kind of device that can stimulate and change the intensity the sun’s light.”

“Frankly, I wouldn’t be surprised,” Danny said, twisting around as they approached another busy intersection. “With how crazy inventing Dad gets when he comes up with a new idea, there might be something along the lines of ‘Can invisible ghosts been seen if the sun’s radiation intensifies?’ or some other hypothesis.”

He pressed the walk button and instantly regretted doing that. He yelped as his hand shot away from the pole, sparks twisting between his fingers as the traffic lights themselves went out. The air was full of car tires screeching to a halt, a couple of horns blaring when one car almost plowed itself into another.

“Whoops,” Danny commented, the sparks still flickering in his palm.

“Whoops?” Sam echoed quietly. Tucker and Valerie were standing still, frozen into silence. “Whoops!? Danny you nearly caused a major accident!”

“It’s not like I mean to, Sam!” Danny yelled back, whipping around to turn on his friends. “I just pressed the stupid button!”

“Well you should know better!” Sam retorted back. “You’ve been killing batteries all day!”

“Okay stop it,” Tucker commanded, hands out between the two. Danny looked like he wasn’t about to listen, but Tucker gave him a concerning as he continued, “and Danny you need to chill.”

“Chill?” Danny echoed rather affronted. He pointed to Sam, “she needs to chill first!”

“No dude. You need to chill.” He paused, wary eyes glancing around them. “Like, you gotta blink.”

“Blink?” Danny repeated. Then he noticed a slight green tint on Tucker, who was the closest to him and how Valerie seemed like she was seconds from pulling out a gun. “Oh. Oh! Sorry.” He clenched his eyes shut and counted to twenty, breathing slowly.

“You better?” Tucker asked. Danny nodded, opening his eyes again. However, Tucker continued to frown. “I think you need to blink again dude.”

“They’re still green?” Danny asked, confused. His eyes don’t feel like they’re using ghostly energy. He suddenly jolted, feeling the buzzing stronger than before. He glanced down at his palm. The sparks were smaller now than when he had first touched the button, but still sparking out of his own palm. “I’m over energized,” he muttered in realization.

“Then let’s hurry,” Sam ushered, grabbing Danny’s backpack to tug him into the street. “Hopefully your parents can figure out what’s happening with you.”

“I hope so too,” he agreed, making sure to keep his head downcast and sparks hidden in his fist as the four crossed the street. Two more blocks and a turn would have them arrive at FentonWorks in a few minutes. He’ll be okay till then, right?

[sith-shame-shack]

Prompt for you: Vader is nice to a child and everybody is terrified.

Ok, here is almost 900 extremely disjointed words of that. Vader meets a friendly child and tries to be nice, but he’s not having a very good time. This is partially inspired by something I read about how Vader, in the EU, was known to say that he did not ever eat or drink. 

This is me practicing, to get used to writing frequently. I’m going to do one prompt response per week from here out. My next one should go up next Friday. This is not good, but it is done! 

It had taken fifty-one days to pacify the Tysin. In that scant period, Vader’s troops had reclaimed the capital and made enough of an example of what partisans had remained to stave off the inevitable guerrilla campaigns for some time. Not long, likely only weeks, but long enough to re-install the ruling family and embed sufficient troops to keep the dissidents from interrupting exports. 

The task had not truly required Vader’s presence, after the rogue Jedi had been dispatched, but his Master had bidden him to remain on-planet until order was restored. Or, until the appearance of order was restored: Vader had no doubt that the conflict would simmer, stoked periodically by those cells that had escaped the Imperial intervention, long after the coronation of the child-monarch.  

Those eruptions would be handled by the newly-installed garrison. Vader was bound by his master’s wishes to stay through the impending ceremony, but no further: in less than twelve standard, he would depart, and apply himself to tasks more suited to his talents. 

Darth Vader had a number of talents, but diplomacy was not among them. As if summoned by the thought, a man in the livery of the reigning house appeared in the open door of the converted study. 

“The banquet is in two hours,” said the Regent’s groom. Vader looked up from the table where the fugitive Jedi’s cache of flimsi documents had been spread, and inclined his head in a silent acknowledgement. 

The groom did not take this as a dismissal. Vader waited, a spark of irritation stirring to life beneath the leaden exhaustion of a recently-completed campaign. The Tysian continued gazing steadily over Vader’s left shoulder. “It will be a formal occasion,” he continued slowly, as though willing Vader to decipher his meaning before he was forced to come to the point himself. 

When Vader showed no sign of doing so, he continued with a plausibly-disguised reluctance. “His Highness Regent Alfise respectfully submits that, if you do not have formal clothing at hand, he wishes you to feel welcome to avail yourself of the royal tailor." 

"That will not be necessary,” he replied, and did not bother to watch as the groom bowed and fled the repurposed study. 

If anyone at the banquet that evening found Vader’s unchanged appearance surprising or distasteful, they didn’t voice it anywhere he could hear them. 

The evening was an exercise in frivolity. Liveried servers, in the colors of the reigning house, stood at attention behind the elaborate antique screens sheltering the high table, where the royal family was seated with the newly-appointed Imperial governor. A variety of food and drink was distributed, by means of staff with serving dishes standing behind and to the right of the seated diners. Vader dismissed his assigned waiter immediately on feeling the tight prickle of her presence over his shoulder. She had not insisted. Her absence did not ease his awareness of being scrutinized, but it improved, somewhat, the sense of being hemmed in. 

The mask’s olfactory analyzers inhibited him from detecting most smells organically, but the few, faint impressions that did penetrate made him feel strange, a sick, hollow ache in his mangled guts. 

“Sir?“ 

“Lord Vader?” The small voice didn’t rise appreciably in volume, but as it piped up again over the low murmur of the diners, the smooth political patter and delicate tinkle of cutlery on china evaporated until there was nothing, nothing but a table of silent people and the hollow cycle of his respirator. They were looking at him. The regent’s mouth hung open, face frozen, as though watching an accident unfold. 

Someone was touching his arm. 

He turned at the waist, angled his mask down to acknowledge the child standing at his elbow, one tiny hand on his wrist. He couldn’t feel the touch, but the sense of her hand burned somehow like a brand, a sizzle of phantom pain. He resisted the urge to pull away, to move at all. 

“Speak,” he commanded, after a moment. 

“Arifine,” whispered the Alfise, his fear thin and pale, electric. 

“I was asking,” the child-queen continued in her practiced court Basic, sparing hardly a glance to her father, “If you would like an induction tube, to drink with? I have one that’s sterile.”

From the lace-trimmed pocket of her embroidery-stiff frock, she removed a plasticlear packet, sealed in the manner of surgical instruments. Inside was a drinking straw. 

“No,” he answered, the word rendered harsh and abrupt by the vocoder. Arafine’s eyes widened in a tightly-controlled startle that inexplicably made his cardiac implant tick his own heartrate up. “It is unnecessary,” he explained, pulse hammering behind his eyes. “I do not eat or drink.”

"Oh,” she replied, blinking. In the Force, her curiosity flashed, shining and alive, tempered only slightly by her manners and her fear of him. “I’m sorry. Is… Ever, do you mean?”

“Arifine,” her father interrupted, seeming to have found his voice. “Don’t pester Lord Vader. I would suppose that he eats in private—”

“You suppose incorrectly,” he answered, dryly, almost by reflex.

The girl burst out in a surprised peal of laughter, an uninhibited little shriek that pierced to the center of him. 

In her face, tinted bloody by the protective lenses of the mask, his mind flashed to other faces, in another time, small and contorted, high little voices raised in screams—