#and that i was walking around with perpetually darkened eyes

[transform4u]

I’m a gay guy who wants to become the stinkiest, gassiest, straightest guy I can be. Turn me into a total douchebag.

You walk into the locker room after your workout, feeling the satisfying burn of exertion in your muscles. You glance at yourself in the mirror, expecting to see the gradual progress you've been working so hard for. But as you look, your heart sinks. Despite months of dedication—cardio, weights, cutting back on indulgences—the reflection staring back at you isn't what you hoped. Your toned physique remains elusive, still the stubborn love handles and soft patches around your chest. It's disheartening, to say the least

Shaking off the disappointment, you head towards your locker to change, wrapping a towel around yourself. The routine seems familiar and comforting. You reach for your deodorant but your hand comes up empty. Panic flares up as you frantically search through the locker. Your change of clothes, meticulously packed, is nowhere to be found.

You turn around, hoping to find your gym clothes hanging on a nearby hook. They're gone too. Frustration wells up inside you. Could this be one of those annoying pranks by the jocks? You glance around the empty locker room, feeling a chill despite the warmth of your workout.

Then, relief washes over you as you spot a can of Axe body spray and a spare set of gym clothes left on the bench. It's not your preferred brand, but it'll have to do. You check again to make sure you're truly alone, then grab the body spray and clothes with a mix of resignation and determination.

It starts innocuously enough as you pick up the can of Axe body spray, preparing to mask the lingering sweat of your workout. But as the mist envelops you, your nose twitches in surprise. This isn't the usual fragrance of Axe you're familiar with. Instead, it assaults your senses with an overpowering blend of odors that hit you like a wall. It's like stepping into a locker room right after football practice—a cacophony of sweaty bodies, old beer, gaseous farts, and the lingering scent of greasy fast food.

Despite the initial shock, your nostrils widen involuntarily, almost as if they're drawn to absorb more of this pungent aroma. Your mind starts to cloud over, thoughts slowing down as if submerged in a thick fog. Suddenly, a burp escapes your lips, echoing strangely loud in the otherwise silent locker room.

In your mind's eye, you hear the clang of weights hitting the ground hard, accompanied by deep, primal grunts reverberating through the gym. Words like "bro," "dude," and "broseph" echo in your thoughts, drowning out any semblance of coherent thinking. Concepts like math and logic are replaced by a bizarre language that seems strangely familiar yet foreign—Algebrah.

You look down at the oversized gym clothes in your hands, noticing the unmistakable musky smell of sweat emanating from them. Despite their apparent dirtiness, you find yourself inexplicably drawn to put them on. The tank top, stained with sweat, clings to your skin as you slide it over your head, feeling the moisture meld with your flesh, darkening your complexion as sweat drips down your body.

A deep grunt escapes your chest, and you feel your facial muscles shifting. Your jaw widens, your features chisel into a look of contemptuous arrogance. Your brow furrows, eyes narrowing into a perpetual glare that seems to belittle everyone around you. A smug grin plays across your face, never quite reaching your eyes, hinting at a mocking amusement at the expense of others.

As the oversized gym clothes settle on your body, an electric surge courses through you, igniting every fiber of muscle and fat. It's as if a dormant power has been awakened, propelling you into a state of heightened physicality. Your chest expands, muscles rippling and tightening with newfound definition. Abs form like chiseled stone, each crevice pronounced under the fabric. Biceps swell metaphorically, bulging like mountains under the strain of the sleeves. Your body takes on the imposing shape of a competitor, exuding strength and dominance.

Legs balloon with muscle, each movement accentuated by the powerful stride of an athlete. Your Adam's apple protrudes prominently as your voice deepens, resonating with authority and command. Veins pop on your arms and neck, pulsing with the rush of heightened testosterone.

Driven by an overwhelming surge of energy, you can't resist the urge to pose and flex. Every movement feels instinctual, showcasing your newfound physical prowess. A metaphorical cloud hangs over you, casting a shadow on your former kindness and empathy, draining them from your soul.

A fire burns within you now, a primal desire to assert dominance, to claim what you believe is rightfully yours. The notion of superiority takes hold, fueling a sense of entitlement that grows unchecked. You're no longer content to blend into the background; you crave attention and respect, demanding acknowledgment of your prowess.

With each passing moment, you embrace this transformation into an alpha presence. The gentle demeanor you once knew gives way to a boorish, obnoxious attitude. Confidence borders on arrogance, laced with a spiteful edge towards anyone who might challenge your newfound status.

The gym mirrors reflect a figure that commands attention, exuding an aura of power and dominance. You've become a force to be reckoned with, driven by a relentless pursuit of being the best, surpassing every man around you in both physique and attitude.

You feel the change taking hold of you, a sense of entitlement washing over your body. You're no longer just another guy at the gym; you're the alpha male everyone should look up to. When you catch someone staring at you, resentment grows within you. "What are you looking at, fag?" You scream at him with all your might. Your voice echoes throughout the locker room as everyone turns their heads towards the source of that deafening sound.

You chug down your protein shake and feel it slosh around in your gut as a hot protein fart rips through the air like a cannonball shot from hell itself! PFFFFFFFRRRRPPP The laughter that follows is deafening - "HAHAHAUHUHUHUHUH" you dumbly chuckle to yourself.

You scratch your balls, feeling them swell in size as you watch your dick grow long and hard. The smell of cum fills the air around you as gym shorts stain.

As you leave the locker room, instead of entering the gym, you find yourself at a raging frat party! Music blasts from speakers while beer pong tables line one wall and kegs stand ready for more drinking games. Everywhere people are grinding on each other or playing some kind of alcohol-fueled contest. And there's no way anyone can challenge your status now - they're all beneath you!

With a swagger in our step that matches our massive cock size, you make your way through the crowd looking for someone who might catch your eye (or lustful gaze). It doesn't take long before someone does just that - an attractive girl stands alone by one of the pong tables watching everyone else have fun without her…and now it's time to show her who really rules this place!

Before you can make your approach, your best bro Jackson greets you with a beer. You sneer at him and think to yourself, "Fuck, his muscles are huge…no homo." Chugging down the beer in one go, you let out the loudest, most obnoxious buuuuuurrrrrp right in Jackson's face. Your muscles swell even further as your hair begins to bloom from your chest and pits - reeking of sex, beer and sweat.

You feel like a beast - unstoppable and dominant. The smell of sex fills the air around you as people turn their heads away in disgust or lustful desire. As if on cue, another obnoxious fart escapes from your body -"coming out the other end bro!" PFFFFFFFRP The smell is enough to make anyone gag but somehow adds to your newfound confidence instead of diminishing it.

With a roar that could shake mountains apart comes another loud beeeeeeeellllch followed by laughter echoing throughout the room; no one can challenge you now – you rule this place!

As intelligence leaves your body, you feel yourself transforming into an obnoxious 20-year-old frat bro asshole - a fucking douchebag. You start acting like one too: spiking punch bowls with vodka, throwing up gang signs in pictures, making out with random girls at the party and then leaving them hanging when they ask for your number.

With your bros by your side, you decide to pull some pranks on unsuspecting guests. First up is filling all the kegs with pure vodka instead of beer which leads to chaos. Next comes sneaking into the bathroom and replacing every roll of toilet paper with wax paper - resulting in disgusting messes left behind by those who dare use them afterward! Finally, someone suggests stealing one of those inflatable pool floaties shaped like giant beers.

At the party, you spot the hottest, sluttiest girl who looks like she's about to pass out drunk. Letting out another loud buuuuuurrrrp, you grab a beer and start flirting with her.

"Hey there," you say in your most obnoxious bro voice. "You look like someone who needs some help getting home." She giggles drunkenly before nodding her head yes. You lead her over to an empty couch where she collapses onto it with a contented sigh.

Your hair lightens to a shade of blonde as you continue flirting - telling her how hot she is and how much you want to fuck what's left of her brains out (if there even is any). She laughs dumbly at your crude jokes while playing with one of your now massive biceps; apparently size does matter after all!

Chugging down another beer, you feel even more entitled than before. "This girl doesn't deserve someone like me!" You think to yourself as your cock starts growing harder in anticipation for what's about to happen next…

"Hey baby," you say in your most douchebag voice possible. "Wanna go somewhere private where we can get better acquainted?" She nods drunkenly before stumbling after you towards an empty room nearby - clearly looking for a quick fuck without any strings attached.

You take her up to your bedroom - a disgusting bro-pad filled with dirty clothes, empty beer cans and used condoms strewn about. The smell of sweat, sex and stale pizza permeates the air as you close the door behind you.

"Make yourself comfortable," you say in your most obnoxious voice possible before flopping down on the bed next to her. She giggles drunkenly at your crude humor while trying not to gag from the overwhelming stench of testosterone-laced filth surrounding them both.

You drunkly fuck her brains out; she moans like a slut as you flex your massive biceps for her. "Hunter… Hunter fuck me baby!" she pleads between breaths.

She starts working your cock like a dumb little slut, desperate for any kind of attention from this obnoxious frat bro asshole in front of her. As you pass out from exhaustion she slips away without leaving so much as a note or thank you - typical!

Waking up to the smell of beer and sex lingering on both yourself and everything else within reach confirms what has become apparent: You've become the stinkiest, gassiest straightest guy around! A total douchebag through-and-through who doesn't give a shit about some random chick! She was just some slut to bang, and there were plenty of bimbos on campus that hadn't serviced the Hunter's cock. Letting out another gassy fart that fills the air with its putrid stench, you dumbly chuckle to yourself – damn your life was great!

[the-ascended-weeb]

Hound, Hounded

The way Deadpool and Wolverine got me back on my shit foaming at the mouth over Logan. Anyways, This is meant to be multiple parts and follows the events of the Movies. Go watch them if you haven't, 2000's Logan will send half of y'all into cardiac arrest.

Please lemme know if you like it, what you don't like about it, if Logan seems OOC to you, etc! Also this is an OC fic as of now but if you all think it's fit better as a reader insert I'd be down to edit it.

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

X-Men Movie!Logan "Wolverine" Howlett x Fem!OC

Summery: Maeve is on the run with her little sister Marie. With no other options, they hitch a ride with the brooding man they meet in a bar.

TW! Cursing, Logan being a grumpy softie

Enjoy!

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

Soft white puffs of snow whipped past the window, fading into the fog that perpetually hung over the mountain pass. The engine of the truck struggled to fight back the ever-present cold that made its way into the cab, despite the heater being on full blast. Maeve sighed and tried futilely to shift into a more comfortable position with no luck.

Beside her, her little sister Marie twitched in her sleep, curling into Meave’s side as far as she could in a search for warmth. The elder sister stilled, waiting for her to finish moving around before settling herself.

God, she needed to sleep.

The ravenette could feel exhaustion pulling at her mind and body. It had been days since she had gotten a decent amount of sleep. Or any at all for that matter. She knew she needed to eventually, but she couldn’t. 

‘You can sleep when Marie is safe.’

The thought rang around in her mind like an alarm, a reminder she told herself every time her hazel eyes fluttered closed for a moment too long. She had a baby sister to care for, which took precedence before anything and everything, even herself if need be. She wouldn’t have it any other way, either.

Maeve continued to watch out the window into the growing darkness, preparing to depart when she felt the slow deceleration of the truck.

“We’re here.” The gruff voice of the driver announced, getting out of the truck with a slam of the door. He left before either of them had moved. Rude. 

Huffing, she turned and as gently as she could, she woke Marie up, taking the girl up under her arm to guide her and shield her. Their packs were slung over her other shoulder as she led her younger sister toward the old wooden shack that some might call a bar. However, night had blanketed the mountain in entirety at this point, and this was the closest thing to shelter they were going to get, so they were taking it. And some food while they were at it. 

The wind shut the door behind them with a ‘wham!’ that was drowned out by the buzz and bustle of people. Looking around, inside was what one would expect, at first. An old wooden bar flanked on either side by stone walls that turned into darkened hallways that led into another room with a metal cage encircled by metal bleachers. Pipe structures popped out of the concrete every so often, holding dancers and entertainers who seemed to be there just for fun, and too drunk to do anything other than sway and cheer.

The sisters found two empty seats towards the edge of the bleachers and sat down. The cacophony of roaring voices was deafening. Beside her, Marie cringed at the sound of every punch, horror on her face as the fight ended quickly, and brutally.

Maeve watched the fights with little interest, keeping one eye on Marie and one eye on the ring. A stout old man had entered the ring, with a microphone in hand and a phony look plastered on his face.

“In all my years I ain’t ever seen anything like it. Are you gonna let this man walk away with your money?!” He exclaimed, jabbing a fat finger in the direction of the lonesome man in the corner of the ring. The crowd’s response was damn near rabid.

To their left a huge man stepped up, exclaiming his will to fight with more confidence than any sane or sober person could, or ever would. Did none of these people have brains? This mystery guy in the ring had taken out three guys in seconds with not a mark to show for it. She had years under her belt as a martial artist, but not even she could claim to walk away unscathed from blows like that. What chance did these idiots have?

Nonetheless, the new fighter stepped up into the ring, the bell ringing seconds after his feet touched the floor. He immediately went in with a kick to the back, followed by two right swings and a kick to the ribs. The guy taking the beating didn’t seem to notice, or care for that matter. It was unnatural. His unflinching approach to the fight, not bothering to block his opponent. It was like he knew he was going to win.

And he did with only three blows.

The crowd cheered as the challenger went in for another punch, only for his fist to crumple as it was met by the defenders’, and Maeve wasn’t sure she heard correctly at first. Then he swung again, and she knew it hadn’t been in her imagination the first time she heard it. The sound of bone striking metal. 

The man stood back up, fist up and ready to charge-

Only to be K.O.ed by a headbutt to the skull, collapsing in a heap on the mat. The mass of people booed and the announcer collected the bets. The entire time, Maeve watched him, the ‘Wolverine.’ His face was swathed in darkness as he smoked a cigar and downed another whiskey, looking more annoyed and less like he had just suffered blows to the spine and ribs that would have most people out of the count for at least a week.

The crowd filed out of the building, with only a few stranglers left in the building by the time all was said and done. Maeve stood to follow suit, holding Marie close to her as they exited the room. She swore she felt eyes on her as they exited. Peeking back she saw no one but the announcer and the Wolverine, still standing in the shadows with a cigar in hand, shrouded in smoke.

She didn’t know why, but she had the feeling she should stick around that man for a while.

–

Logan was feeling like relative shit by the time he finished cleaning himself up and re-entered the main bar. The owners didn’t spare him a moment as he collected his winnings and promptly sat down at the bar opposite of an admittedly attractive woman, and who appeared to be her younger sister.

He had noticed the woman back at the cage fight. When the crowd around her challenged, gambled, and drank away their common sense and money, and her sister watched on with horror at the beat-down before her, the dark-haired woman analyzed the situation with sharp eyes and a bemused smile. He wouldn’t be surprised if she had some kind of formal training, or if she knew what he was. The thought of being chased out of town and having to relocate again left a pit in his stomach. Regardless, as he watched her from across the bar, she made no move to do anything about him, seemingly absorbed in caring for her sister beside her.

Then she caught him watching (s̶t̶a̶r̶i̶n̶g̶).

And with a smile that was damn too bright to be in a dump like this, she winked at him.

Logan rolled his eyes and scoffed, but found himself with a smirk tugging at his lips as he turned away, ordering what was probably his twelfth whiskey of the night. Or morning, whatever time the fuck it was by now. Probably one.

He’d be a liar if he said he didn’t like the way her smile made him feel. 

To his right, the woman(a̶n̶g̶e̶l̶) had turned away from him to watch the TV. He took a glance at it and felt his jaw clench. The UN meeting was going to take place in New York soon, and there the world leaders would get to decide if they wanted to royally fuck over mutants or not. He glanced back at the woman, expecting a look of disdain, disgust, and loathing, only to find a face of carefully masked anger mirrored his own. And as she held her little sister closer, leaning down to kiss her on the forehead, the realization that he might not be the only freak in this bar struck him fast and left a fire of concern in its wake, one that he tried very hard to stomp out. Her eyes met his for a moment, and he could see the fear there as she quickly looked away again, only for her eyes to snap back to him, eyes narrowed with apprehension. But she wasn’t looking at him.

And when he felt a hand grip his shoulder, he couldn’t help the sigh of exhaustion that escaped him. He was fed up with these god-awful people.

“You owe me some money pal.”

He made no move to hand over anything. Behind him, he could hear the other man who approached mutter to the other, clearly trying to save his friends’ hide, “C’mon man, this ain’t worth it.”

The two bickered behind him for a moment, and it took all of his willpower to not smash the glass in his hand against the guy’s skull. The pretty lady was watching closely, likely trying to discern if she should step in or grab her sister and run. Then he felt hot, foul breath against his ear as the man he had humiliated whispered.

“I know what you are.”

“You lost your money, you keep this up and you’ll lose something else.” He snarled back quietly. His night was already shitty, made only slightly better by the lady across the bar, and he didn’t feel like cleaning blood out of his clothes if he could help it.

But if it was a fight he was in for, then it wasn’t his blood he’d be washing out.

Another moment of silence passed by before he heard the flick of a knife and felt his eyes roll in his head, vaguely registering the woman shout a warning. He had his claws to the man’s throat before his little knife could do anything. The metal sliced his skin and muscle, a dull pain that he focused on, was used to. It was probably that pain and the two girls behind him that kept him from gutting the idiot in front of him. 

For a moment everyone stilled. The silence that had overtaken the bar was broken by the sound of a shotgun pump, and he could feel the barrel against his skull.

“Get out of my bar, freak.” The bartender behind him muttered.

He cut the gun in half. Frustration burned like fire in his skin. All he wanted to do was have a fucking drink, but instead, it looked like he would have to be on the move again. Fucking great. The sound of shotgun shells spilling out across the floor like marbles was the only thing he could hear as Logan stormed out into the frozen night.

A freak with no memories, no home, and more anger than any normal human should be able to feel.

His truck roared to life and he slowly made his way out of the small parking lot. The snow had stopped some time ago, but it was still frigid outside. A few hours passed and the frustration searing in his bones had yet to simmer. He had no idea where he was going. Just somewhere cold, remote, and with as few people as possible. Maybe he’d finally get around to building a house instead of living out of his trailer. A log cabin or something, and maybe a hunting dog or two that he could live his life in peace with until he finally fucking died.

The sound of a small thud brought him out of his thoughts and he exhaled sharply. If his bike had somehow come loose he was going to break something, and god forbid someone had had the balls to tamper with it because he was not beyond turning back around and smashing someone’s skull in. Maybe his temper would finally cool off then.

Shifting the truck into park, Logan hopped out and slammed the door shut, walking around to the tractor-trailer expecting to find his bike in disrepair or gone altogether, only to find it exactly the way he had left it. Satisfied, he almost got back into his truck, but then he stopped. 

Why did his bike smell like that woman from the bar?

It was then that he noticed the black mass lying in the trailer that he didn't recall putting there, and when he nudged it and felt a warmth he genuinely began to wonder if god was real and simply hated him in particular.

The woman jumped out of the back without a word, assisting her sister and taking their packs. She looked exhausted, offering only a small apology as she wrapped herself around her sister, beginning the trek back to the bar.

He got into his truck and began to drive away, trying to ignore their silhouettes in his side mirror. Not his problem. He had his own shit to deal with. They were better off without him. He brought trouble and danger with him everywhere he went. And yet he saw the scene in the bar flash through his mind, remembered how bright her smile was, how she held her sister and masked her anger, her rage at the world for being forced into this situation for simply being born different.

And apparently, Logan was a shit fireman, because he felt the concern from before that he tried so hard to ignore flare up in his chest. With a sigh, he put his foot on the brake and waited, watching as the two clambered into the truck.

The blinding smile of relief and thankfulness on the lady’s face twisted his insides more than he would ever be willing to admit.

[butmakeitgayblog]

can we talk about how lexa would act if clarke came walking out the bathroom with no pants on and lexa just dead stops mid conversation and just stares mouth wide open even tho the conversation was a serious one at that. she doesnt even continue talking until clarke is out of site because she just cant get out of the bubble of clarke with no pants and smirking the hell out of her.the rest of the days meetings are just not gonna work for her anymore.

I actually think Lexa would be quite adorable when it came to having Clarke feeling so comfortable in her space. Don't get me wrong, I agree with you in that, at first, it would take some time for her to get used to it. Not just having someone in her space like that, but Clarke specifically in her space. And nude. On a regular basis.

I think at first she'd be rather struck by it. The feeling of waking up and looking over and seeing Clarke sleeping on her extra pillow. Hair a blonde trainwreck (idk why but i feel like canon Clarke is a messy sleeper when she actually gets a full 8hrs in an actual bed), mouth slightly open in little kitten snores, and yet all Lexa can do is try and breathe normally because her heart pounds so hard it almost hurts.

But more it's the casual intimacies I think that would hit Lexa the hardest (in entirely good ways). The moments of discussing their plans for the day as Clarke pads out of the bathroom fresh from a bath, her hair slightly darkened from the water and smelling like Lexa's soaps. Smelling like Lexa herself. Almost like a... Like a claim over her. Over each other. Because that's what they do now 😳. They really do smell like each other's soaps and perfumes. They get dressed together sleep together and eat dinner together, and also Clarke likes to steal Lexa's slightly too big lounge shirts that show off just a little bit of buttcheek and a whole lot of cleavage when perpetually left half undone, just to parade around her their room while she gets ready for bed. Like she owns it. (She does. She owns everything, including the contents of her wardrobe and also Lexa's entire ass.)

And just. Sometimes it'd be more than Lexa can really make any sense of.

Because love was supposed to be weakness, and while she is indeed weak for this fuckin chaotic mess of a woman, the moments when Clarke catches her staring and grins at her, when Lexa can't stop herself from grinning right back at being caught... nothing about this between them feels like anything other than strength. Certainly not when Clarke adds an extra sway to her hips just because she knows Lexa is watching. When Lexa gets to the point where it's not quite so overwhelming thinking about Clarke in her space and in her clothes and in her bed that she can walk right up and put her hands on those hips without questioning if the touch is welcome.

So yeah, I think it'd be a process, but also once the dams had been opened I think Lexa would've welcomed it. All she'd wanted from the start was for Clarke to want her to be close too, and while I think some lingering hesitance from fear of invoking Clarke's anger would linger for awhile, I believe wholeheartedly it wouldn't take long for Miss Body Glitter Sultry Eyes Grabby Hands kom Lesbiankru to relax into the reality of being with Clarke. I think she'd look, and enjoy looking. And more than that, I think she'd enjoy the fact that Clarke knows she's looking. Aaand I think, despite being a walking gay 404 error message at any given moment, I think that flirty little shit would be making bedroom eyes at Clarke whenever she got the chance.

Especially when it involved her girl wearing no pants.

[fallecupid]

"how could i love you?"

.ᐟ.ᐟ warnings :ㅤ angst!dean.ㅤvampire!reader.ㅤgn!reader.ㅤㅤㅤword count: 6k

( author's note : i apologize in advance for errors in this text / vague wording / words that are incorrect in meaning ( if any are present in the content. ) english is not my native language, everything written below has been translated by a translator. )

The heavy clanking of chains and the dampness of the basement hit you like cold water in the morning. Confusedly trying to get some focus of events, you shook your head, almost instantly calling out an irritated lurch somewhere behind you. The gears were slowly banging one against one in your brain, not ready to acknowledge the worst of it. Though it was clear in the back of your mind that it was Dean. You could have sworn you were about to meet his disappointed gaze, or worse, a silver bullet to the forehead.

The man grabbed your chin sharply, not even trying to control the force with which he squeezed the soft skin that once held you so sweetly against him. "Don't look away, the least you can do is look at me." Dean leaned in slightly, gritting his teeth almost to the point of grinding. "After all the shit you pulled on me. How long did you think you'd be a doormat?" He cut himself short, pulling away and crossing his arms over his chest as a low rumble came from you.

The noise intensified behind you, and within minutes Dean Winchester was standing in front of you. His green eyes darkened, like he saw some bastard he should take his life, but damn it was ironic. You pressed your lips together, unable to even look at him.

A tiny signal of how much pain he was holding you in. To his inner turmoil, Winchester let go, he would blame himself again and again later, but not now. "Just let me explain..." Your parched lips cracked as you tried in vain to moisten them with saliva. Winchester, squinted his eyes, unable to hide the way his inner demons were eating away at him.

He couldn't get his mind around how disgusting you were. The little snake he held close, the bloodsucker in the same bed as him. It was utter nonsense, but it was true. And the worst part was that he loved you, even now, through the prism of hatred, he loved you.

The man paced the damp floor, which creaked treacherously beneath him, sagging wetly. "Try explaining." The chilling tone cut into you like a knife to the heart, but with the stipulation that it had been spun a few times. Under that invisible vise, the only thing you could do was stare meekly at the floor, swaggering your words.

"I wanted to say earlier...But i was enjoying the moment too much, you know? All your love, your affection, your smile, those damn teases.... Everything was available to me, like I'd won the damn lottery." You didn't dare look at him, just squirmed.

Dean stopped, looking at you, pursing his lips. A weak excuse, you knew full well he was smashing heads with the likes of you every damn day, yet you still lived off of fortune. Either you were a goddamn lunatic or crazy in love. He almost suppressed a smirk, running those words through his head.

But the moment of weakness didn't last long, he would remember again the moments where you almost got caught. The perpetual night walks, the drops of blood caked on your clothes, the odd behavior, after all. But Dean was just a brainless puppy in love for turning a blind eye so easily. Now all he wanted to do was bang his head against the wall a few times to beat the crap out of himself and the idea that you deserved forgiveness.

Still circling beside you, he hissed in your ear, warm breath stated with dry speech. "That's a weak excuse. If you'd lost control and gnawed on a neighborhood, right? A city? You're dangerous as hell." The man touched your neck, nuzzling it in a light touch, averting his gaze. Now the gears were already working in his brain. It was as if some contradiction was showing its ugly head every time he spat those caustic words at you, every time he wanted to take your head off. God damn him.

Still clutching your neck, his eyes followed yours, those damn eyes full of fear and despair, those damn eyes in which he was drowning and still is. Those lips, now pressed almost to white, used to kiss him supplely. Your hair, the familiar tuft of hair that rippled against his skin. And it was now that it overwhelmed him, as if he were looking through an old family album.

But that's the thing about scrapbooks, they hold those memories that can only be remembered, not realized. You're a monster, you killed innocent people, manipulated them. Torn in a cycle of doubt, he didn't notice how damn hard he squeezed your throat, of course it wouldn't kill you, but noticeable discomfort it might bring.

"Shit shit shit shit, I-" As if coming out of a trance, he recoiled, looking at your face, you almost on the verge of tears. The irony was eerily funny, because he too felt a lump somewhere in the middle of his throat.

"Just tell me, what the hell? Why are you torturing me?" He pressed his lips together, running his fingers through his hair. "You know damn well I can't kill you, but you look at me like I'm the ultimate evil of all." Muttering quietly, Dean took a few deep breaths, looking at you slightly blurred.

Shit. He can't just take your life, not after you pulled him out of a shit hole, not after you helped him rebuild Sammy, not after you gave him a goddamn house. He found a piece of himself. He'd already lost one, his father, and he wasn't ready to lose one by his own stupid oversight.

In fact, you'll handle everything together, won't you? Dean knelt down in front of you, his hands convulsively squeezing your cheeks, on which tears had long since flowed. The man pressed his forehead against yours, his voice shaking like he was in forty-degree cold. "I'm sorry, i'm sorry i'm a fool." He looked at you. "No, you're not.... Anyone in your shoes would have done the same." You muttered, meeting his gaze.

"I'm in my place right now and i'm being an idiot for letting myself love you." Bitter longing mixed with the heaviness of his voice as calloused fingers drew faint circles on your cheeks. "Hey... don't cry." Winchester leaned toward you, absorbing the regret in your eyes.

"That's right, you're a complete idiot for not shooting me in the head." Trembling, your hand tentatively reaches for his hair, groping the area. But here you are: he suppliantly reaches for you, unable to look at you anymore. It's as if all his hateful feeling has been washed away by the speech water, as if you were never a blood-singing brat and he never dreamed of killing you.

It's like everything's back to normal. He's beside you, you're stroking his hair, and he's tucking his lips into your shoulder. It's all so familiar, so warm. So much so that it could have been a happy dream, but no. We're in a harsh reality where every parasite will get to every innocent.

Just by that, you receive a crushing blow to the heart, his revolver filled with silver bullets poking into your soft chest. He doesn't even try to hold back the tears that are traitorously pouring out of him, the only thing he can do is scream as he stares at your now breathless body. Dean could have sworn there was a phrase frozen on your lips that cut his heart worse than any knife. "I love you."

Winchester's always been a hunter. No matter how long he pretends this doesn't concern him, he can't just leave it alone. Even if he's ready to shoot himself now, even if he feels himself shattering into a million pieces right now, he's still a hunter. And you, you're the vampire, the one he's hunting.

[lukesaprince]

NEW PICS OF RICHHARRY DROPPED 🤭

https://www.tumblr.com/twostepstyless/750088444260368384/barking-like-a-dog

YEAH BABY THEY SURE FUCKING DID

I can just imagine him coming home from a Pleasing meeting and maybe y/n didn’t see him before he left because she was working or out with friends. When he gets back she’s practically pouncing on him because she missed him and at first she doesn’t really register what the shirt says because she’s kissing him and asking him questions about the meeting and then she finally reads it and is like…

“What’s this?” You blinked, pushing his plush coat apart to read the letters. “You like to watch, huh?” You mused, looking up at him.

Harry smirked, smoothing his hands over your hips. “Mhm”

“And what exactly do you like to watch?”

“Oh… y’know. All sorts of things.” His grin was wicked, eyes beginning to darken as you started to walk backwards towards his front formal lounge.

“Oh really? Like what?” Your eyes were starting to blaze that heat he loved to gain from you, like the craved warmth you get laying in the sun on holiday. You turned your bodies so his back was towards his nice leather sofa and started to guide him towards it. “Like me?… you wanna watch me?”

“Always.” He murmured, already getting worked up at the idea of where this is going. “Why? Do you want me to watch you, darling?”

“Yeah… real bad, Daddy” you smiled, leaning up to kiss him before pressing your palm to his chest. He groaned and kissed you back eagerly, only to be pushed down onto the couch so you were standing over him. “Stay here.”

“I fucking love when you’re like this…” Harry groaned, rubbing his palms over his thighs as he watched you walk towards one of the armchairs opposite him.

“Even when you can’t touch me?” You tucked your thumbs into your pyjama shorts and underwear, pushing them down onto the floor in one go. At this point the only clothes you wore at Harry’s house was one of his t shirts and a pair of bottoms. Most of the time it was underwear and nothing else.

“Mhm. But I’ll only entertain this so far, baby. Y’know you can’t make yourself cum when I’m around.” Harry murmured, rubbing his hand over his stubble. Watching you perch yourself on his nice arm chair and spread your legs apart to show how wet you already were… fucking hell he just wanted to dive across the room face first and land between your pretty thighs.

Harry didn’t care whether you touched yourself when you two were apart, it was only normal and he thought it was an important part of connecting with your own body and mind. You two didn’t have that sort of relationship anyway, at least not 24/7. Harry most certainly had more control in the bedroom. Plus, with how often he thought of you, if he didn’t have a daily wank he’d be walking around with a perpetual hard on and he didn’t really want constant blue balls.

There was an exception though, a rule Harry put in place that you were more than happy to follow, and use to try and get him to punish you if you wanted him a little meaner than usual. If you two knew you’d be seeing each other that day, or were spending the weekend together you weren’t allowed to masturbate unless he instructed it.

The thought of you being in his house with your hands between your pretty thighs without him… God he couldn’t fucking stand it. He wanted to be the one to make you cum and he wanted you desperate and needy for him when you saw him.

“No? Not even by accident? Not even when you’re watching me?” You cooed, sliding your hands over your inner thighs and upwards to where your clit was already aching with need.

“There is no ‘by accident’, baby and you know it.” Harry smirked, shifting his thighs wider apart on the couch. He was already hard and straining against his pants, but he didn’t want to relieve himself just yet. Not when the show hadn’t even begun. He spread his arms apart behind him, staring right at you while playing with his bottom lip.

“Now go on, darling. Give Daddy something to watch…”

[aquariumgirls]

more propaganda for my Boy...

(under the readmore + a description of his appearance if anyone needs one) @tmntaucompetition

Leo and Raphie walked serenely amongst the crowd, the onryō purposefully phasing through some of the alternate turtles just to watch them shiver. He stifled his laughter before climbing atop Raph's shell. He knew that he technically didn't weigh anything to her (not that he did when he was alive either) but she still made a soft huffing noise anyway.

Suddenly, his eyes landed upon a bright, shiny sign reading 'LOST AND FOUND'. His gaze fell upon a small turtle in purple. Another Donnie, perhaps? Though they sure didn't look like /his/ Donnie.

Actually, they kinda looked like a little kid. Leo had seen plenty of little turtles, but none seemed to be unaccompanied or alone...

Except for this one.

Leo quickly tapped Raphie's shoulder, pointing her towards the lost and found. He scuttled off of her shoulder and slowly approached the little Donnie.

"Heeey... Little buddy? You uh, lost?" He did his best to speak as gently as possible, not wanting to scare the child. He knew he probably /looked/ normal but kids were perceptive.

The little Donnie sniffled, tears gathering in his big, almost puppy-like eyes.

"Oh, um, hey don't cry! It's alright! I'll stay here with you until whoever you're looking for comes and finds you, yeah? I can paint your nails?" Leo sputtered, unused to being around crying children. The little turtle sniffled again but held out his hand towards Leo, who took it gently.

"You have cold hands." The little Donnie stated, but didn't let go.

"That's just a side effect of my coolness!" Leo mock whispered, as if it was some big secret.

Raphie plopped down on the floor next to Leo who was practically standing guard at the lost and found. She snickered a little before grabbing her phone and taking a picture.

[I.D FOR ONRYŌ LEO BEGINS HERE]

Leo in his 'regular' form looks almost the same as he does in the show, with only a few key differences. The color of his scales are desaturated except for his facial stripes, which have darkened slightly into a deeper red color. His yellow stripes have turned black.

His eyes are blue and red with the red being on his left side. He seems to shimmer with a ghostly blue light, and glows like his ninpō is permanently active. His canine teeth are much sharper, and he has pronounced claws.

His plastron and shell are also covered in small cracks.

In his 'real' form, he looks like how he did when he died.

His neck is broken, hanging permanently in a 90 degree angle (think of the crooked man from that one rpg horror game, ok?) with the bone warping his skin. His eyes are dull, and both are red.

His shell is completely concave, looking very much like a totaled car. His right leg is shattered with a large metal pole sticking through it, and his plastron has multiple small holes and large cracks. His claws are much longer and larger, and a black sludge continuously oozes from his mouth + eyes. He is perpetually covered in blood, and his left arm is severed. (it still floats near his body.)

[0averysillygoose0]

I can still make the whole place shimmer (With the skin of a Killer Bella) -Chapter seven

Prologue and previous chapters are in my master list♡

Summary

Angelica Cullen was supposed to have died over 300 years ago, but now she gets to watch as her adoptive brother stalks some girl from Arizona.

Born in the 1600s to one Carlisle Cullen and his first wife- a woman whose name has since faded into obscurity, Angelica was never supposed to amount to much more than marriage and children. Now a perpetual sixteen-year-old who wants nothing more than to be able to paint her nails in peace to the Mama Mia soundtrack, she finds herself with little to occupy her time.

Her relationship with her family is growing more strained by the day. The cycle of high school has long since become dull and draining, and despite her desperation for something else, she's forced to stay stagnant for 'the good of the family'.

A family who's wearing her patience thin.

Then Bella Swan moves to Forks and Angelica's pressure is suddenly raised as the Cullen family is thrown into a potentially life-ending challenge every five business days. The Quillute are watching closely, as are the Volturi for any slip-ups, and in the world of the supernatural, Angelica has the grace of a baby deer.

♡ ♡ ♡

Chapter 7 Talks of therapy and My Chemical Romance

“What car accident?” Angelica demanded, scrambling to unbuckle her seatbelt as Carlisle’s car door shut behind him. She nearly tripped getting out of the vehicle, too caught up in her desire for an answer. Her father’s hand curled around her elbow, catching her before she even had time to fall. 

“I don’t know the specifics, Alice just told me there would be one happening soon that would affect all of us. You forgot your bag.” He added.

“What do you mean she doesn’t know the specifics-” Angelica protested, shaking her head and ignoring his last sentence. “She can see the future- that’s her whole thing!” Her words echoed in the garage.

Carlisle shook his head. “I don’t know.”  “What about you promising we wouldn’t have to move?” She asked quickly. “Because a car accident has very life changey connotations.” 

“I specifically asked her if we would need to, and from what she could gather, this won’t cause that.” He said reassuringly as he walked behind her to retrieve the girl’s pink backpack himself.  “You worry too much, Angelica.” Carlisle said, his brows knitting together as he studied the girl’s face. Dark circles hollowed out her eyes, which had begun to darken with hunger, making them look larger than they were. 

“I worry a normal amount.” She mumbled, tugging her sweater sleeves over her knuckles. 

He shook his head, pausing before he spoke next. A thoughtful expression decorated his face. “You know, I have that psychologist friend of mine-”  “I am not talking to him.” Angelica said firmly. “The last time we saw him, he only talked about Freud and he was an actual, honest to god motherfucker.”  “Angelica, mind your language.” He chided, handing her the bag. “I’m serious.” Carlisle’s hand rested on her shoulder, gently guiding her towards the door that led into the house. They stepped through it and as they crossed through the foyer. Angelica went to take off her uggs but he motioned for her to just keep walking. She rolled her eyes, ignoring the gesture and kicked off her boots. She was many things, but a mud tracker would not be one of them. 

“No, like for real. Freud was the one who came up with the Oedipus complex, where you wanna-” She continued as she followed him to the living room.. 

“I’m aware.” Carlisle said quickly. “But, Freud aside, maybe it would help you to speak to someone..”  “I’m fine. I can vent to my friends.” She shrugged, throwing her bag onto an overstuffed armchair before curling up on the awaiting chesterfield. 

“Yes, but it’s different.” Carlisle said carefully. “You wouldn’t need to hide anything from him, he knows what we are. He’s a professional and he’s been doing this for over a hundred years.” 

Angelica frowned. “Yeah, but what would I need a therapist for?”  “Well,” He looked down, and a reluctant expression crossed his face. Angelica stared up quizzically, eyes boring into him. “During our disagreement a week ago,” She could hardly believe he’d actually brought it up on his own accord, “You told me that when you get worried about something it doesn’t go away.”

“Yeah, but-”

“Just let me finish.” He said gently, sitting down beside her. “I called him to chat about it today and we talked a bit about,” Carlisle grimaced, “ About your past , and  he said it sounds like you might be experiencing some anxiety as a result.” 

Angelica’s nose crinkled in disdain. 

“Why did you say ‘past’ like that?” 

“What do you mean?”

“You said it like I was a character in a teen drama with some tragic backstory.” She pretended to gaze off dramatically. “ Your past.” She shook her hands for emphasis.

He sighed. “How do you want me to say it, then?”  “I don’t know, normally?” She shrugged.

“Moving on,” Carlisle said quickly, “I think you could really benefit from speaking to him.”

“I feel fine, Dad, I just get nervous sometimes.” 

“Just one session.”  “I’m not the only messed up one. Rose had basically the same thing happen to her, so why isn’t she in therapy?”  “Because she’s an adult and can make her own choices.” He supplied. 

Her eyes narrowed. 

“And I’m not?”  He opened his mouth to reply but seemed to think better of it. 

“You’re technically older than her, yes and I understand that it can be frustrating, but it’s different, you know that.” He said finally, words delicately chose. “Angelica, would you just consider it- seriously consider it?”  She sighed, seeing the concern in his eyes. She could tell it had been weighing on him, and likely Esme as well given how often he confided in her. Angelica knew that he was doing this for her, or at least that’s what he felt he was doing. One session was a minor commitment in the grand scheme of things. And, she thought, a brief slip of excitement cutting through her contemplation, having a therapist, might just be the exact thing that could get her more freedom. An advocate. 

“Okay.” She lamented.“But you don’t need to worry so much about me, you know?” 

“You’re very worrisome, I can’t help it.” Carlisle joked and she rolled her eyes goodnaturedly.  

“Okay.” Angelica scoffed. “But, like you know that all that stuff from,” She paused for effect, “ My past, is well, in the past. It’s done with now.”  

“Mhm.” Carlisle pulled her into his side, his arm snaking around her back. She leaned against him.

“Maybe you should talk to him too.” Angelica teased. It felt good to speak like this again, unburdened with frustration and anxiety.

“Maybe.” He said absentmindedly, resting his chin atop her head. 

They stayed like that for a moment, quiet and content. Outside, the snow came down much quicker, painting the forest outside white. No one was home, Esme was off running errands and the others were still at school. It was times like this that almost made Angelica miss her life before they’d pulled so many people into it. It had been much simpler back then. She dismissed the thought rather quickly, because despite everything, she loved her family, particularly Emmett and Rosalie. Rose, who had ended her first life and begun her new one so similarly to Angelica herself and who treated her as a true little sister and not just as yet another addition to the family. And Emmett, well, Emmett was the only one who ever seemed to have common sense. They shared the same brand of humor, the same opinions. The pair made her feel at home.

The others were different, there were more layers and distance between them. Alice and Jasper were a different matter altogether. Although she loved them, she found it difficult to grapple with the boy’s past and Alice’s flightiness. She struggled to be as close with them, in comparison to the other duo. And then, there was Edward. Angelica had once wanted to be friends with him as well as siblings. He was the closest to her age, and they shared common interests in music and literature. But their personalities were similar in all the wrong ways, too stubborn and too set in their beliefs. 

Esme was undoubtedly kind and gracious, and she made Angelica feel comfortable around her. The woman was warm and welcoming and one would be hard pressed to find any flaws within her. Angelica loved her stepmom, she truly did, but she didn’t feel the same connection to her that she’d felt long ago with her own mother, or even Carlisle for that matter. She’d been assured that it was only natural, but a part of her felt at fault for it all the same. Especially when her mother, her maman, was often kept out of her life entirely. 

Angelica’s mother had been French and had looked the part. Her features had somehow 

erased most of  Carlisle’s in their girl, something Angelica guiltily took pride in. She knew her parents’ marriage hadn’t been born from love, but rather as a means to an end for their respective families. A guaranteed bloodline, a line of succession. 

Even if it hadn't been made obvious by their stilted interactions, although her recollections of their conversations had long grown blurred, her understanding of cultural norms at the time, and lessons she’d learned from her own marriage, she would have eventually led her to piece it all together. But, whatever love the late Mrs. Cullen had lacked with her husband, she’d made up for with her daughter. She’d adored the little girl who carried her ashy brown hair and stubborn attitude until the day she died. And although Angelica’s memories of her had long ago grown hazy, she could still recall her mother’s delicate hands weaving her hair into a braid at night and the way her r’s were made sharp by her lingering Parisian accent.

The distance between her parents seemed to linger, even all these years later.Carlisle never spoke ill of his first wife, the issue was that he seldom spoke of her at all. She didn’t miss how her father’s gaze would drop whenever her siblings asked her about her life beforehand or how he avoided complimenting the features she’d directly inherited from his first wife, which was unfortunate because her face was made up of her mother’s. She had her round cheeks, pointed nose, dark eyes and even her short stature. Angelica had concluded that it must have been difficult for him to see so much of a stranger- to him at least- in her. 

Angelica's train of thought was interrupted by a sudden buzzing from her pocket. S he rummaged in her sweater until her fingers curled around her phone.

lilly gave me ur number.

“I gotta go upstairs.�� She told Carlisle quickly. Her father nodded, seemingly lost in his own mind as well. 

The device beeped again suddenly.

this is hailee btw. 

Angelica laughed, smiling at the messages as she retreated through the house and up the staircase. She opened her door and shut it behind her quickly before throwing herself onto her bed, her pink silky sheets wrinkling. 

i guessed that lol. 

how r u?

better. how’s your friend and her boyfriend?  She could picture the girl’s eyes rolling in response. 

disgusting. they were talking about marriage today and theyre 18.

wild. 

hows ur thing? 

my brother is still being a freak but it is what it is

you should like stake him or something like van helsing style

Angelica let out a barky, surprised laugh.

fr 

r u coming to lillys bday party btw? in three weeks?

ya, i think.

k cool, i never know her friends so i need someone 2 talk 2. 

perf <3

She set the phone down and smiled. With a flick of her wrist, her favorite albums flew off of one of her shelves and into her hand. Angelica retrieved her laptop from its spot by her bed and took out the CD. Soon, Invisible started blaring through the tinny computer speakers, filling her room with the twang of country music. 

Who needs a therapist to talk to when you have a girl you met in the woods for twenty minutes one time and Taylor Swift?

*** 

The car accident, as it turns out, happened the next day, and to no other than one Bella Swan. Not two minutes after Angelica and the others had pulled into the parking lot and crossed towards the brick building that made up Forks highschool, the sounds of screams and shouts filled the air. 

True to his word, Carlisle and Alice had filled the others in as best they could on what they knew, which simply put wasn’t much. Just that Edward and Bella were somehow connected and, in the near future, there would be a car crash. 

Rosalie had griped to Angelica on their hunt that night, similarly to how the younger girl had complained to Carlisle only hours earlier, that for someone whose whole schtick was being able to see the future, Alice seemed to struggle with the actual important and defining details of the events she foresaw. Emmett joked that perhaps she didn’t actually see anything; she just got vaguely good and bad vibes. 

The accident itself had been a short affair, quick and relatively simple. Angelica had only just draped her backpack over one shoulder when she’d heard the sound of tires grinding against sleet and ice and panicked cries rising up from the crowd. She turned to see a van bearing down on Bella, dead set on the girl despite the driver, Tyler Crowley, desperately pulling every which way on his steering wheel. She’d barely registered what was happening when Edward took off from where he’d been standing beside Emmett’s jeep, he was made a blur to everyone but the Cullens as he raced towards the girl. There was a large crunch that echoed through the lot as Edward’s hand met the car.

Angelica heard a protesting cry brewing in the back of Rosalie’s throat as the blonde girl watched in a look that was a myriad of horror, anger and disbelief all melted together in a petulant little pot. Alice shook her head, sparing a glance at Jasper to make sure he was holding himself together. The boy bore what resembled a look of constipation on his pale face as he watched the scene play out. 

“Well, shit.” Emmett said simply. 

“Are you kidding me?” Rosalie hissed. She was glaring down at Edward, her gaze searing into him from fifty feet away. Angelica reached out, squeezing her sister’s hand reassuringly but it did little to quell her anger. They stayed frozen in their spot, watching the scene play out from a distance. Bella tried to get up but Edward insisted she stay where she was. The two continued to talk as everyone around them frantically dialed on their phone and shrieked to one another about the almost tragedy. Angelica frowned as she watched Bella glance over at them, then back at Edward. She’d noticed something was off.

Within ten minutes the paramedics had arrived, loading both Bella and a frantically apologetic Tyler Crowley up into an ambulance. Edward brushed them off when they offered him a ride,instead trekking through the crowd of shocked students and back to his family.

“ We need to follow them.”  He said quickly once he reached the group. Rosalie was eyeing him with contempt but she bit her tongue, knowing that it would be better to say her piece when they were alone.

“ Sorry, we?” Angelica asked indignantly.

“How do you think it’ll look if I go alone and my own family stays back. That’s suspicious.” Edward shook his head.

“I think it’ll look like we care about our education.” She retorted. “Also in terms of like suspicious things, I’m gonna say pulling a Sonic the Hedgehog in front of everyone is for sure worse-”  “I don’t have time for you right now, Emmett give me the keys.” Edward said sharply. He held out his hand expectantly and was met with a blank stare. 

“Dude it’s my jeep, I’ll drive-”  “Just give me the keys, Emmett.” Edward’s voice was sharp and left no room for debate. “Please.” Reluctantly, the older boy fished his keychain out from his pocket and let it fall into his brother’s open palm. They all piled in, Angelica and Emmett in the third row, Rosalie and Alice in the middle and Jasper and Edward up at the front. 

They peeled quickly out of the parking lot, following the red and blue flashing lights of the ambulances. As the emergency vehicles took a sharp right turn, a short cut to the Hospital, the jeep kept going straight. She wondered if Edward had purposely chosen the longer route or had been too flustered to realize his mistake. 

“So like… are we just gonna hang out at the hospital while she gets fixed or…” Angelica asked finally, her voice trailing off.  Her backpack was slumped at her feet. A few note papers threatened to spill out, all of them were marred with tiny sketches of jellyfish or mushrooms, along with highlighted passages that were riddled with small annotations. The weight on her chest had returned. “Like what’s the game plan here?”

“Why do you care?” Edward growled sharply. 

“I just want to know if I’ll have time to do my English Homework.” Angelica didn’t notice Rosalie eyeing her carefully through her periphery. “Or to like… if we’ll go back to school in general today.” 

Edward sighed. “Your selfish concerns make me crave the sweet release of death.” He muttered, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the shift stick tightly. Trees whirred by, lining the side of the road as they drew closer to the road that would lead them to the hospital.

“Ooh.” Emmett piped up. “He’s so emo! Alice, quick, play My Chemical Romance!” 

Alice sighed, ever suffering, from her spot in the middle seat. “I can’t reach the AUX.” 

“Jaz, pass it back.” Emmett persisted. 

Jasper just shook his head, wanting no part in the conversation. 

“Dude, come on.” Angelica sighed, holding out her hand, clenching and unclenching her fist in expectation. “I have my ipod.” 

“I’ve chosen the wrong side before, I won’t do it within my own family.”  Angelica blinked and turned to stare at Emmett, whose face bore a similar look of disbelief. The two turned back to face their brother in unison.  “Did you just compare the confederacy to Edward and MCR?” She asked.

“No.” Jasper said quickly.

“No, you for sure just did.” Emmett scoffed. “Whoa, Jas, I thought we were past this.”  “I am-”  “I won’t believe you unless you pass the aux back.” 

“Are you seriously using my history to get your way?”  Angelica and Emmett looked at each other for a moment. 

“Yes.” They said in unison. 

“He doesn’t deserve music anyway.” Rosalie muttered, too tired and irritated for the two’s games. Her suede high heel encased foot tapped against the floor of the car anxiously, melding in amongst the sound of the engine and the road beneath the wheels. Ice decorated the streets and clung to the trees above. The sky above was a dull gray. 

“Right.” Emmett nodded. “The silence shall be his only companion, like a true emo.” 

“Hardcore.” Angelica nodded. Her mindless comment earned her a prideful grin from her brother.

Edward turned around to glare at them. “Would all of you just shut up?”

“Would you just keep your eyes on the road?” Rosalie retaliated. 

“Everyone stop shouting at each other.” Alice ordered. “Let’s all just focus on getting to hospital and making sure Bella is okay.”  “Making sure-” Rosalie looked at her sister in disbelief. “What about us- his little stunt implicates all of us!”

“Everything works out in the end, just trust me.” The pixie girl said, offering the blonde a reassuring smile and a squeeze on her arm. “I promise.”  The car fell silent for the rest of the drive, everyone lost in their own thoughts. All except Emmett and Angelica who had quickly realized that speaking again would only earn them a scolding, whether it be from Rosalie or Edward and so they pulled out their phones.

this is so awkward. 

ikr? Angelica shook her head.

bro usain bolted his way across the parking lot and is mad at us for asking for a soundtrack

what a silly billy.

When they finally arrived at the hospital, they wasted no time seeking out Carlisle. All except Jasper, who had opted to wait in the car. Angelica caught sight of the waiting room as they passed the emergency department, and was surprised to see it filling up with other students as they filed in beside her and her family. The paramedics from before were lingering by the front desk, and upon seeing Edward, attempted to usher him into triage despite his protests. Only after they were assured rigorously by Alice that they were going off to find their father and would make sure Edward was seen did they relent. 

She scanned the crowd of highschoolers for her friends, but only found Jessica and Mike who kept looking up at them, their eyes flitting between Angelica and Edward as they spoke behind cupped hands. She resisted the urge to vomit and trailed after the others as they kept walking, possessing no time or energy to deal with the girl and her baseless rumors. 

It didn’t take them long to reach their father’s office. The rest of the group hung back, lingering in the hall, and allowing Edward to take the conversation by the reins. Afterall, this was his incident, not theirs.

“Carlisle,” Edward began, stepping into the doorway.

The others stayed outside of Carlisle’s sight line despiteAngelica wanted nothing more than to complain about being dragged her against her will. She bit her tongue, remembering how she handled this incident would be a deciding factor for Carlisle when it came to upholding his end of the deal. 

"No, no it’s not that.” Edward assured him quickly, despite the man having yet to say a word. Carlisle let out a relieved breath.  Angelica detested when they spoke this way, with her father’s words kept away in his mind and only Edward responding aloud. She got the impression that if it was possible for them to make the mental link go both ways, they would.

“She’s hurt though, Carlisle, probably not seriously, but-”  “What happened?”  “The car accident Alice saw,  it was her. It was ridiculous, she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time but I couldn’t just stand there- let it crush her...”  His voice trailed off. “A van skidded on the ice. She was in the way and even with Alice seeing it coming there wasn’t any time to do anything, but really run across the lot and shove her out of the way. No one noticed… except for her. I’m… I’m sorry Carlisle, I didn’t mean to put us in danger.”  Angelica frown softened and a small bloom of pity took root in her chest. He sounded scared, almost childlike in his worry. She’d been mean earlier in the car, she thought guiltily. Perhaps she should say sorry. There was the sound of footsteps from inside the office as Carlisle drew closer to Edward.  

“She knows there’s something… wrong with me.”

“Did she say anything?”  “Nothing yet, she agreed to my version of events but she’s expecting an answer.”  Edward paused. “She hit her head- well I did that. I knocked her to the ground fairly hard. She seems fine but… I don’t think it will take much to discredit her account.” He didn’t sound like he believed himself. “I’m so afraid that I hurt her.” 

“I’ll see to her myself.” Carlisle said assuringly. “But, if we have to leave, we leave.”

Are you fucking kidding me? 

Emmett saw her before anyone, and reached out to catch the girl by her arm, but she was already on the move. Angelica rushed into the room, to find a defeated looking Edward and her father eyeing her with a shocked expression. 

“Sorry, what did you just say?” 

“What are you doing here, sweetheart? You’re supposed to be in school.” Carlisle replied calmly.

“He dragged all of us here.” She snapped dismissively, gesturing at her brother. Carlisle leaned out the doorway and caught sight of the others. Emmett gave a stilted wave.  “What’s this about if we have to leave we have to leave?” Angelica demanded.  “You know what I mean-”  “No I don’t because you told me that it wouldn’t come to that!”

“I’m sure it won’t, Angelica, it’s only if we need to-”  “You said we wouldn’t need to!” She protested. 

“Lower your voice.” Edward hissed, turning on her. “People will hear."

Any trace of empathy within her for the boy vanished. “Oh my god, just stay out of this!”  “You stay out of this!” He retaliated. “This has nothing to do with you and you just come barging in-”  “You made me come here!”

“Both of you, calm down-” Carlisle began, gently, resting one hand on each of the two’s shoulders. 

“You’re so selfish- this girl might be hurt and you’re worried about what? Moving?” Edward demanded indignantly. 

“I’m selfish? You’re the one who did all this!” She protested, giving her wrist a small flick. The door shut quickly, seemingly on its own.  “So, what was I supposed to let her die?” He snarled. “Why didn’t you do something then? You could’ve made the truck swerve!” Edward gestured madly at her still poised hands. Angelica glared at him. 

“I’ve never used it on cars before, dumbass!”  “At least I did something!”

“I barely knew what was happening, I knew as much as you did!”  “And yet you did nothing!” 

“Stop arguing.” Carlisle said sharply. The unfamiliar edge in his voice drove the two to silence. “This isn’t the time for this. Angelica, you stay here, wait with everyone else. Edward, you can come with me to make sure Bella is fine.” 

The two nodded reluctantly.

“I’ll talk with both of you about this later. This fighting needs to stop, it isn’t sustainable.”  “But she-”  “Edward, both of you played a role in this, both of you need to be a part of the solution. Now come with me.” Carlisle opened the door and gestured for the others to come in. “All of you just wait in here for now, people need to use this hall, we can’t be blocking it.” With that, he left, Edward trailing  behind.

Angelica stared at the ground, her throat feeling tight. She kicked at the ground, and didn’t say anything when her other siblings joined her. 

Emmettt shook his head. “You know, none of this would be happening if he just took my advice in the first place.”

“Your advice was stupid.” Rosalie said plainly. 

“No it wasn’t.”  “You told him and I quote, “Don’t stress it dude, everyone does a little whoopsie murder here and there”.” 

“Sound, tried and tested advice.”

This was going to be a long day. 

[monomorphilogical]

Outskirts of Las Vegas

through all your rained-through streets and neon signs

some affliction — contradiction of past times

and you're walking around like you're just any other number

spend your days living on the edge of that blade runner

gunning for something more human than human

months passed the blank slate memories made to ruin

there's a timeless need for somebody to be more than a body

all of the reflective off-world golden promise that you embody

I'm circling the same way back through that time passed

replaced all fractured bones with stainless steel made to last

passed deep thunder rolling around the shores of angels

took a fall from a heaven full of perfect strangers

perpetually staring up at the dilapidated pyramids of God

— but we're both still made up of flesh and blood

and through a soft-edged visual mispronounced by me

you tell me you've seen the way it would be

in front of you with fractured images bleeding contrast color

somewhere in that las vegas deserted taking cover

where I've become dust settled between your high rise concrete

you're so different — you're so sweet

following lines of that one empty freeway tried and true

never that far apart in the neon light besides you

white-knuckling to death with a cigarette in my mouth

glowing eyes onto those familiar lines faded out going south

'cause I know that if I go north you might not follow me

and I don't want anybody else to go after me

'cause they say some people are born with tragedy in their blood

you'll be be washed away by the endless genesis' flood

with their tears lost in the rain falling from a darkened sky

so save me from the bloodied and bruised echoing time to die

the blood still streams through their clenched wet teeth

I hope that when the world comes to an end I can finally breathe

'cause I know there will be so much to look forward to

— and I want to see it with you

so when they ask us if we want to go to hell or go to heaven

we'll tell 'em to go to hell when they count to seven

out there in a place where everything's as it was

I don't how long we'll have together — but who does?

we'll make up the rules and we won't talk about it

learn to love and until we can't go without it

'cause I met you in the middle of a strange victimless crime

but that's life and it's ending one minute at a time

so put your hands on me and tell me that you want it too

give me all of your mouth to mouth and worn through

won't you override all of the insincere memories once to be had

and hold me through the shakes when I get 'em real bad

a self-fulfilled prophesy in the outskirts of las vegas

through dust and dirt in endless homeostasis

[ethereousdelirious]

Sicktember 2023 Day 1

Prompt: Hopelessly Bad at Self Care

Fandom: Po.kémon

Characters, Br.assius, Ha.ssel

Wordcount: 1,138

Notes: *through a mouthful of drywall* these 2 make me feel insane

Brassius awoke in a fever.

This was not an unusual occurrence nor even an unexpected one; he'd felt it coming on in a slow creep: the sore throat and perpetual chill of yesterday magnified a hundredfold today.

He got up and wrapped his quilt around himself and imagined it was Hassel's arms around his shoulders. Rain tapped politely against the windows as though to draw his attention to the gray mists enveloping Artazon. The world was quiet and empty and Brassius was alone.

Everything around him magnified itself in relation to him, every sensation owning him completely. The scraping of the lid when he opened up his favorite canister of loose-leaf tea, the cold of the doorknob when he seized it. He let the quilt fall from his shoulders as the rainfall surrounded him and the door fell shut.

The curled tea leaves clinging to his shirt grew damp and fell, littering the trail his bare feet left in the mud. He weaved aimlessly behind houses and around the main roads, driven by feverish impulses— he might leave town, he might climb the windmill. His head spun and ideas never stayed for long. Nothing ever stayed with Brassius for long, his passions and notions as ephemeral as the clouds.

Rain dripped into his eyes and he blinked it away impatiently, certain in the idea that he had to go somewhere. Artazon was calling him. Nature herself singing out. Inviting him. And he was so tired, too tired and he would come because she called.

The rolling mist darkened for a moment. Brassius' head dipped, his body listing.

"Brassie!"

The voice seemed to emanate from everywhere at once. Brassius blinked, but the darkness at the corners of his vision refused to retreat.

"Brassie!"

Closer now.

His heart fluttered; he couldn't breathe. He couldn't see.

"Brassie!"

His head lolled and found something solid and rainwater dripped off his heels. He shuddered back to himself and the sweet smell of oranges made a home in his lungs. Something warmer than raindrops dripped onto his cheeks.

"Hassel?" He tried to move but couldn't, his arms pinned to his sides by a taut expanse of green fabric— Hassel's jacket. "What…?"

"You scared me." Hassel started to walk, pulling Brassius closer, somehow, to his chest. "I heard the door shut and you were gone— Oh, Brassie, you're burning up. Why didn't you say anything?"

If Hassel had been there warming his bed, Brassius was sure he would have remembered it. But no, he'd woken up alone and cold and aching. And beyond that… Before that…

Hassel murmured to him the whole way home, dodging under awnings and tree canopies to keep them out of the rain when possible. Not that it mattered at this point. They were both soaked through.

And still, Hassel weaved a meandering path in pursuit of shelter and hunched over when he couldn't find it, his broad shoulders shielding Brassius from the worst of the downpour.

At home, Hassel stripped Brassius and toweled him off and Brassius, malleable, let him. The dryer hummed and Hassel ran worn terry cloth over Brassius' fevered skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. "Did you have bad dreams, Brassie?" he asked, discarding a used towel in favor of a fresh one. He worked it gently over Brassius' feet, wiping away mud and pine needles.

Brassius wasn't entirely sure this wasn't a dream. Here was Hassel kneeling before him with such a look of rapture in his eyes that one might have thought Brassius was doing him a favor.

Brassius' back ached.

His head swam.

It must have shown on his face. Hassel froze, the towel still wrapped around Brassius' foot. "What's the matter?"

"I…" Brassius' chin dipped and there was no way to articulate the bone-deep exhaustion, that he couldn't sit up. He tried anyway, with his head bowed. "I'm tired, Hass."

Too tired to sleep, as they both soon found out. Brassius shifted beneath his covers, clutching his quilt, which Hassel had rescued from the porch. It was still a little chilled, but Brassius couldn't bear to let go of it. Tremors ran through his legs and he arched his back when the shaking became too much.

Hassel palmed his forehead and looked down at him with a tenderness Brassius knew he didn't deserve. "Do you feel cold?" he asked.

Brassius nodded, though his chief affliction was too elusive to articulate, that miserable sensation that his skin was wrong somehow, that his body didn't fit inside itself.

Hassel vanished with a word that Brassius didn't hear and time became the blur of his ceiling, colorful suncatchers indistinct at the edges of his vision. He shivered under his covers and the rain sounded like static, filling his head.

"Still awake?" Hassel asked softly, tapping his knuckles on the doorframe.

"Hass…" Something incommunicable warmed Brassius' face and pricked his eyes. There just weren't words, not for this. Not for Hassel, who had already done this once before and never should have to do it again. "I'm sorry."

Hassel entered the room properly and set a steaming mug on the nightstand. Citrus and rooibos mingled in the air. He sat and ran his hand through Brassius' matted hair. "I know, Brassie. I'm not angry. I…" He ran the backs of two fingers down Brasius' fevered cheek, tender as a lover. "I was never angry. I was worried about you."

"I know," Brassius murmured, miserable.

"I just want you to take care of yourself, that's all."

Brassius tightened his grip on the quilt and watched the steam curl in the air. Food, water, and sleep had always been trifles to him, boxes to check so he could jump into the creative process. It was his work that he sustained himself on, that gave him the drive to keep on living.

Until it hadn't.

Until it had fallen away and he'd had nothing and Hassel had found him broken and worthless and found value in him anyway.

"I don't think I know how," Brassius said.

Hassel took the mug off the nightstand and passed it over. "You can start by not wandering out in the rain when you have a fever."

"I… didn't mean to." Brassius let go of the quilt and let it settle on his chest. The thick ceramic mug was warm in his hands and he pulled it close. "But I think I was dreaming, Hass."

"Dreaming?"

"I must have been dreaming. She was calling for me."

Hassel stroked Brassius' hair again, his fierce eyes gleaming. "I'm going to call your doctor soon."

"Am I scaring you still?" Brassius looked Hassel in the face, seeking the heat in those eyes. "Do I really frighten you?"

Hassel smiled sadly and took Brassius up in his arms. "Only because I care about you, my dear."

[cam-ryt]

🤝🏽

🤝🏻 - Holding hands

_______________

The first time Alec hold Magnus' hand in public, he couldn't help but feel a bit nervous.

The closeted gay he had been for more than a decade still showed up sometimes, making anxiety claw at his gut and bringing out all his insecurities.

Holding hands was not really a big deal, except it was when you came from a very traditional family with a subtle homophobic background. Subtle because nobody was going to spit in your face for being in love with a man, but they would find a hundred other ways to make you understand how that was not okay. Like putting in your mind since childhood that the only honorable way to be a Lightwood was to marry a woman and to carry on the lineage.

And still he was there, defying all the odds just by having his fingers intertwined with the man he loved with all his soul.

He should have been proud, but some days he just felt like a total failure. He was used to the disappointed looks by now, but they still hurt from time to time, especially coming from his parents. Then there was the silent treatment his mother gave him for a couple months after his coming out.

Magnus was out for so long, and he seemed so confortable in his own skin. Alec couldn't relate. Somehow showing his true self to the world sent him into a spiral of wanting to be perfect in every other aspects of his life. As to prove he could still be a good son, a good soldier or a good leader, even if he was never gonna perpetuate the bloodline.

Maybe if he worked hard enough his parents could eventually get over their disappointment.

Maybe.

- Hey. I can almost hear you think. Magnus smiled gently at him, forcing Alec to come back to earth to focus on the moment.

He had no idea for how long he'd been lost in his thoughts but he could recognize the park next to the Institute so it had been at least ten minutes.

- Sorry, I... He started before bitting is bottom lip.

- Are you okay, love ? Magnus asked softly, his beautiful eyes lighting up with concern.

- I- I'm not sure. Alec answered, suddenly feeling a bit out of breath.

Magnus furrowed his brows and stopped walking. His fingers slid up Alec's wrist and nestled against the soft spot of skin between is palm and forearm. Alec was always amazed to see how fast his boyfriend was learning every little details of his needs. Like detecting the first signs of an anxiety attack.

- Do you want to sit ?

- Yeah... Yes, please. Alec breathed, already feeling is chest constrict and his vision darken in the corners.

Magnus quickly found a bench surrounded by a couple of trees where they could be partially hidden from the mundanes around them and led Alec to sit down on it.

- Breath with me, baby. He said gently, kneeling at his feet and taking his hands in his. You're safe with me.

- I know, I- I'm sorry... Alec replied in a choppy voice, clearly struggling to draw a complete breath.

- No apologies. Magnus shook his head. No talking. Just breathing. Okay ? I'll count with you.

Alec nodded and started to count in his head at the same time as Magnus.

Inspire.

1 2 3 4

Expire.

1 2 3 4

Inspire.

Again.

And again.

Magnus was softly circling the inside of his wrists with his thumbs as he knew that was something that helped keep Alec grounded.

- You're doing great honey.

Alec's breath began to steady after a couple of minutes and he could start to feel his chest lighten a little bit. His other senses gradually recovered as he calmed down and he somehow found the courage to open his eyes. Magnus' face was only a few centimeters from his own, and the setting sun was glowing in his hair, spreading warm colours on his cheeks and lighting up his eyes with complex nuances.

- You're beautiful. He blurted out before being able to arrange his thoughts.

- Why thank you, Alexander. Magnus replied with a surprised laugh that enlightened all his features. Are you okay ?

- I think I am.

He straightened up a bit and rubbed his chest to get rid of the last uncomfortable feelings staying there. He could feel Magnus gaze on his face and guessed the next question easily.

- Was that about us holding hands in public ?

Alec swallowed around the lump in his throat. What if Magnus thought that he was ashamed of them ? What if he was never able to show his affection in public because he was still too deep in the guilt his parents made him feel ? What if Magnus get bored of being a hidden boyfriend ? What if...

- Alec, please stop spiraling my dear.

Magnus gently cupped his face and pressed his forehead against his.

- I understand if you're not ready yet. I'd never do anything that makes you feel uncomfortable, you know that.

- But what if I'm never ready...? Alec whimpered, feeling tears prick up the corner of his eyes.

- Alexander. Magnus backed away slightly to look him in the eyes. You're the bravest man I know. And the only one that kissed someone else than the bride at his own wedding.

Alec's cheeks immediately heated up.

- I should not be proud of this.

- You should be proud of standing for who you are. You should be proud of making your own choices. What you did back then, and what you continue to do every day is not easy. Nobody said that being himself and showing it to the world was easy. But I saw what you're capable of, and I know that one day you'll be able to be as proud as yourself as I am.

Alec sighed softly and pressed his head against Magnus', interlacing their fingers.

- Thank you. You're really good at giving speeches. You should be a life coach.

Magnus let out a chuckle and pressed a kiss to the tip of his nose.

- Maybe in another reality, who knows ? Do you need another couple of minutes ?

Alec shook his head and took a deep breath.

- No, I'm ready.

When they left the bench to continue to the Institute, Alec still not let go of his hand.

[feverinfeveroutfic]

eerie inhabitants | chapter thirteen

jesus, it’s been, what, nearly a year since I updated this one? then again, a lot was going on last october: she needed to rest for a bit. but it’s time to bring it back from the dead in time for spooky season! 🍎

Tunnel vision sank over me as Eric and I ran as fast as we could to the Winchester house. The front door had been sealed shut, but it made no difference to me whatsoever. All I cared about was saving Abby from there lest Marty do something to her in there. I knew the vampires and their lust for blood and flesh, but he was a total unknown: as far as I knew, he could take her into there to slaughter her for her blood.

I knew that the blood perpetuated the state of undeath, but I wondered what on Earth he had in store for her in there as we reached the trimmed bushes near the front of the house.

Blood for the vampires. Blood on his hands.

He was going to sacrifice her to the demons.

Spook central. All I could think about with the house was that it had been deemed as a hotspot for all manner of ghosts and demons in particular.

Eric and I skirted along the bushes, and past one with pale white tubular flowers that pointed up towards the darkening sky overhead. He put a hand upon my head to keep me down, perhaps away from any prying eyes through the windows off to our left.

“Jesus, it's been so long since I've been here,” he confessed to me right then.

“You don't think anyone's looking out from the windows, do you?” I asked him as he pushed me further towards the ground: above the flowers were the rafters of the balconies on the second floor.

“Probably not,” he said. “Demons aren't that obvious—I just don't want you to come in contact with these flowers here. These are moon flowers. They won't hurt me but they could kill you within a couple of days.” We reached the end of the bushes and the first concrete column before the front door. I glanced back to those white flowers in their long trumpet shape. The mere thought of us having oleanders all around the Bay Area already sent shivers up my spine, but the thought of brushing against a plant that, unbeknownst to me, was incredibly poisonous made me think of life itself.

The two of us then turned to the heavy wooden double front doors of the Winchester house, the left of which was slightly ajar, and I knew that Marty was in there with Abby. I shuddered at the thought of what could go down in there as I led Eric to the front step.

“From this moment forth, I refuse to ever call him Marty,” I told him. “He's Mr. Friedman from now on.”

“Yeah, same here,” Eric added with a nod. Before we reached the front door itself, a deep chill set into my body.

“Temperature drop,” I said as I closed the lapels of my jacket over me, and he nodded at that.

“It's going to be even colder once we go inside,” he informed me. “It's been a while for me, but I know the kiss of death when I feel it.”

I rested a hand upon the panel right before my face, and I pushed the door open.

The hinges remained silent even with the heavy oak under my hand. We were met with a vast front foyer with a neatly scrubbed checkerboard floor and a wide spiral staircase on the side of the room before us. The ceiling rose high over our heads into a dimly lit arch accentuated by a large, elaborate chandelier with dingy old crystals. The musty smell of old curtains from behind us washed over us like the coldest winds from the ocean.

All the while, it was colder than a walk-in refrigerator in there, and even with my jacket on, I still shivered as if I had been caught in a windstorm.

Eric left the door ajar behind us, and I made a note to remember the ray of light at the front of the otherwise dimly lit mansion once we fetched Abby out of there.

“Okay, what do you think we should do?” I asked him with my hands stuffed into my pockets.

“For starters, let's stick together,” he suggested. “I don't want us to get separated and then lose each other in here, what with all the ghosts and demons and everything in here.” He glanced over to the right and what appeared to be the kitchen as well as the dining room. “There's also about a million bajillion rooms in this house, too. It's a literal maze.” He gestured for me to follow him in there, where the air felt like ice. Eric reached back for me even though I was keeping up with him.

I swore I heard a voice before us, a woman's voice, and one that whispered to us from around the corner in front of us. Eric glanced back at me with a look of concern on his face.

There was no one there.

But the voice soon faded out as we came closer to the dining room, a cozy warmly lit room with a long table covered in an off-white tablecloth and surrounded by enough spindly chairs for a big dinner party. Everything in that room smelled of dust and uprooted plants; the entire room itself was completely silent, without a noise one. That is until a whisper on the other side of the room caught our attention.

“That sounded like Abby,” I said to him.

“Are you sure?” he asked me. “I didn't hear anything.”

“I swear, I heard someone whispering over there,” I insisted with a gesture to the far end of the table. Only shadows covered the far end of the table, but I could hear a girl whispering something over there.

“Somewhere around here is a cluster of fairies,” he told me as we skirted along the perimeter of the table; we passed every chair, and every chair sent a chill up my spine. “They partake in the rituals with us by lighting things up, but they like to be in places that feel deadly.”

“They could probably also guide us, too,” I added. “You know, in the instance of it being too dark at points.”

A dull pain emerged in the back of my right hand right then, as if I had been holding onto something too tight, and it took me a second to realize that it was so cold in that vast mansion that I was gripping onto every iota of warmth I could at the moment. I took my hand out and shook it about to relax the muscles.

Eric reached the end of the table first, and I followed suit right behind him: indeed, there was nothing there at the far end, only a hole in the running board of the wall to give way for mice.

My hand still ached once we reached the kitchen, a sterile room with no fridge and a large faded gray sink with an old plug in the drain. Indeed, as we reached the old gas stove on the right side of the room, my hand began to sear as if I had been burned. I glanced down at it to see if there was any sort of wound, but I was only met with nothing. Eric glanced back at me again, that time with a concerned frown.

“Are you okay?” he asked me.

“My hand hurts,” I said. “Like... a lot.”

“Well, quit shaking it about—let me see.” He held onto my hand and jerked back his own. “Whoa, holy shit.”

“What?”

“It's hot! Like, scalding hot.”

“It's hot?” I clasped onto my palm with my fingertips: the skin felt warm but not hot. I looked on at him and his eyebrows raised up in question.

“Do you feel okay?” I asked him.

“Me? Yeah. A little unnerved because we're here, but—” He stopped, and he looked on at something right behind me. His eyes widened, and his mouth dropped open.

“What is it?”

“You should get down,” he advised me.

“What?”

“Get down!”

We ducked down together in unison, and all the while, I kept my head bowed towards the faded old linoleum underneath us. I swore I saw the reflection of something that I didn't want to know right over me. I closed my eyes so I wouldn't have to see it.

“Okay,” Eric whispered to me. I lifted my head to see him and the terrified look on his face.

“What was that?” I asked him.

“It was a demon,” he told me. “Last thing we need is to be assaulted by those motherfuckers, especially you because you're a mortal.”

We both stood back up and headed out of the kitchen. He wasn't exaggerating when he said the mansion was like a maze with all the connecting rooms and stairwells tucked around hidden corners, stairs that seemed to go nowhere whenever I glanced up towards the very top of them. And all the while, the house treated us to pockets of cold and iciness in comparison to how it felt outside. And all the while, the pain in my hand persisted: I could only assume that I clenched it too hard in my pocket, but as far as I knew, that would not bring about an intense heat that hurt him when he felt my skin.

There was one narrow hallway, and one where I had a feeling was going to lead us to the front door, where we climbed a flight of stairs to reach the black door at the very top, and with each and every step, we were met with a soft knocking noise in the walls.

“Poltergeist?” I asked him.

“The one and only,” he replied as he reached the door first. He nudged it open only to reveal yet another dimly lit hallway, this time lined with mirrors, and with what appeared to be a flight of stairs at the far end given the edge of the railing right at the corner. Right in the midst of the hallway was what caught my attention.

“There she is!”

We ran side by side down the hall to find Abby laying on the hard wood floor, on her back with her arms held out, eyes closed and lips slightly parted. Someone had taken her sweater and her shoes, and she had what appeared to be soot on the side of her face. Through the dim light, I made out the pallor to her skin, which in turn made my heart skip several beats. Eric knelt down next to her with his hand before her nose.

“She's still breathing,” he told me, to which I sighed with relief. “She probably fainted trying to get away from him.” He gave his hair a toss back with the flick of his head, and then he slipped his hands underneath her body. He scooped her up from the hard floor and then cradled her in his arms. I stood up with him: indeed, I could see that she was still with us, even though her skin was pale and her hair had matted to the sides of her head with sweat.

“Let's take her back to the Cavestany house,” he suggested, as he held Abby close to him. “I'm sure his grandmother has an ace up her sleeve.”

“And just where do you think you're going?”

We turned around to behold the sight of Mr. Friedman and a mallet and wooden stake on his belt.

“Get out of the way,” Eric warned him.

“I'll get out of the way only if you hand her over.”

Eric raised his free hand and his claws jutted out from his fingertips. Long and sharp, they shone under the refracted light from the mirrors, ready to slice him and dice him: for the blood of the vampire slayer. Mr. Friedman swallowed at the sight of those claws.

“Get out of the way—or I will make you get out of the way,” Eric warned him; his voice lowered to an unearthly growl, like that from the depths of the underworld. Mr. Friedman then turned his attention to me, to which his face turned white as a sheet. He pointed at me.

“You've been possessed,” he told me.

“What?” I demanded.

“What?” Eric echoed with a glimpse over at me. He raised his eyebrows at me, and I turned my attention to the mirror behind him. No reflection of either of us: indeed, it looked as though Abby was floating in midair. I returned to Mr. Friedman right as it felt as though my body was burning.

“How?” I added, and a sharp pain seared across my hand. I raised it up only to show off the burn in my palm the shape of a six pointed star. I showed it to Mr. Friedman, right as a deafening roar filled my ears.

Voices in my head, all of them chanting in unison some language I didn't recognize. The language of the antichrist.

I fell to my knees. Everything was quickly growing dark as I could feel myself burning up and descending into hell. I raised my hands up as if to hold onto something on the way down, but I was met with an incoming blackness.

I was falling fast.

Through my fading vision, I saw the six pointed star again, this time from Mr. Friedman's chest. His voice chanted out something, something that reminded me of the battle over at Mark's house. The demon burst out of my body, out from my right arm, and my body slammed to the floor, hard.

Out of breath and sweating, I lifted my gaze up to him and the crown of curled hair upon his head. Eric stood back with Abby's face pressed to his chest.

The pain in my hand was gone, but now I had been left with that second degree burn on my palm as well as an open sore on the first two knuckles, both of which hurt like hell.

“Holy shit,” Eric muttered.

“Oh, my god,” I breathed out as I lifted myself up from the floor with my free hand. “What was that, Latin?”

“Hebrew,” Mr. Friedman replied. “They're all more afraid of me than they are of you.”

I coughed and wiped the back of my mouth with my free hand. I glanced over at the mirror again, and that time I saw my own reflection.

“Thank you,” I told him, and I stood up, albeit with some difficulty as it had ravaged my body down to the foundations.

“And again. Get of the way.” I pushed past him and Eric ran after me to the stairs. I led him back down to the waning ray of light through the front double doors: the burn on the palm felt so raw, as if I had undergone some sort of stigma, and yet I could feel the star carved into the flesh. The open sore on the knuckles glistened with blood and fluid from under the chandelier crystals, and it took me a second to see the crater down in between the joints. It really did burst out of me with a vengeance. We skidded outside and the cold air only made my wounds hurt even more.

“Let's go to Rob's house,” I said in a broken voice: the palm and back of my hand throbbed in pain, but I resisted the urge to tuck my hand away inside of the pocket. Eric held Abby close to his body and clasped a hand onto me so we could fly her back home and before Mr. Friedman could catch up to us.

My own healing would have to wait for the time being.

[sanddusted-wisteria]

Empty Skies, Hazy Skyboxes, Ch. 5

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

Qi opened the saloon’s front doors, and was greeted with Owen’s smiling face from behind the counter.

“Hey, Director! Glad to see ya.”

Qi gave him a nod. “Good evening. The usual, please.”

“Meat-stuffed mushroom with a summer sand tea, comin’ right up.” As Owen moved to the kitchen, Qi took a seat at the bar, two seats down from Justice, who raised an eyebrow in greeting as he approached.

“Evenin’, Director. Holdin’ up okay?”

“I am indeed ‘holding up’,” Qi said in a way that he hoped seemed casual. “Thank you for the concern.”

Justice nodded thoughtfully as he took a sip of his yakmel milk. “‘Course. Just makin’ sure.” His awkward manner was of no surprise to Qi. Everyone seemed to be acting cautiously around him today. Everyone knew what day it was.

Justice drained the last of his milk and stood up, leaving a couple gols on the counter. “Well, I gotta get back on patrol. You need to talk, you can find me anytime. Unsuur too, but…y’know.” With a stiff nod, he left the saloon.

The kitchen door swung open and Owen came out, carrying his food. Qi fished around in his pockets for the payment.

Owen just held up a hand. “On the house,” he said, a sad glimmer in his eyes.

“Oh… Oh.” Qi had no idea how to respond, so he just picked up the fork and started digging in. Owen silently went back to cleaning up the bar, opting to leave Qi alone. He knew his customers well. Qi never liked conversing with anyone while he was eating on a normal day. And today…

“Oh, there you are, Qi hun.” Qi glanced over his shoulder to see Vivi strolling in. “You didn’t come for dinner tonight! We all sat there for 15 minutes all worried!”

“Ah. Vivi. Apologies. I’d completely forgotten. I’m a bit absentminded today, you see…”

Vivi’s face fell. “Of course, child. Don’t you worry ‘bout it. I’ll wrap it up and drop it off at your research center so you can have it tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” he said blandly, eyes unfocused.

He was brought back down to Earth with Vivi’s gentle hands on his shoulders. “Take a deep breath, hun.” Qi closed his eyes, slowly drawing air in…and out. “That’s it.”

In…and out.

In…and out.

The fog in his head cleared a little bit. He opened his eyes to see Vivi’s sad smile. Tears pooled in her eyes.

“Tell them…that we all miss them…so much,” she whispered.

“...I will.”

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

Qi left the saloon into the darkened street. Street lights started blinking on around him, but he turned and headed away from the lights, out towards the workshop. The last orange tinges of the sunset disappeared behind the mountains in the distance, stars already peeking out of the newly-dark sky. Qi kept his eyes straight ahead. He wouldn’t look up. Not yet.

He opened the door to the house and went to the bedroom, opening up the closet. Rolled into a neat little bundle and tucked safely in a corner was their stargazing blanket. He picked it up, dusting off some of the sand that was perpetually stuck in its folds. He took one last steadying breath. He was ready.

Qi walked through the barren streets towards the back of town. The cold night air made him shiver, and he clutched the rolled-up blanket to his chest. Finally, he stood before the graveyard gate. He opened it carefully, trying not to make it squeak. He padded silently towards their headstone. “Hello, starlight…” he murmured as he crouched down to brush the sand off the carved stone, his thumb tracing along the epithet.

Sandrock’s shining star.

Sandrock’s spirit lies with them, and their spirit lies with Sandrock.

He spread the blanket out on the sand beside the headstone and laid down. “I’m doing alright. I just submitted another paper to Vega 5’s astronomy journal. Bound to be accepted, of course. A review on all the astronomical relic discoveries we’ve made in Sandrock so far. And of course, I gave you credit where it was due.”

…

“Mi-an has been helping me build new components for the Mobile Suit. Recently I’ve managed to improve its mobility on soft sand by almost 200% by adding some retractable treaded wheels.”

…

“Sleepyhead came back a few weeks ago for the Portia road project. You should’ve seen his face when the Mobile Suit was in action! He’s off to Portia now, for their part of the project.”

…

“Yes, yes, don’t worry, I’m still getting a responsible amount of sleep every night. Regular full meals, too. Vivi would never let me live it down if I didn’t.”

…

“Elsie says the animals are well. She told me to tell you that, erm, ‘Doodles says hi’. The idea that a yakmel could say anything is ludicrous, but I wasn’t about to waste time arguing about it.”

…

“Tonight the Perseids are at their peak. Oh!” He pointed to a brilliant shooting star that lit up his vision. “Magnificent, isn’t it? It’s a debris cloud from the Swift-Tuttle comet that Earth happens to pass through every summer.”

…

…

“I still miss you. I miss you terribly.”

…

“Sometimes it still hurts to look up at the night sky like this… Just another reminder of…”

…

“B-but…I think I am getting better. Hugo and his family have practically taken me in as one of their own. They know what it’s like…”

…

“They all miss you too. You were practically a part of them as much as I am now.”

…

“I never realized how nice it feels to have someone care for me.”

…

“Still…it never feels the same as you.”

…

…

His next words caught in his throat. He tensed, trying to force them out. They sat stubbornly on the tip of his tongue.

I love you, he thought. He felt tears prick at his eyes as he struggled to say it aloud.

He’d always found it hard to say it. Like he’d spontaneously combust the instant the words left his mouth. So he’d say it in every way but his voice. An “I love you” pressed into their skin whenever they touched. An “I love you” hidden behind his signature at the bottom of every diagram he gave them. An “I love you” in every drop of oil and every tightened bolt when he repaired their machines. An “I love you” steeped in every cup of tea.

An “I love you” whispered into the open air beside their grave, long after they could ever hear him.

…

The stars slowly turned over his head. He recognized things that he had told the builder about before on this very blanket: stars, asterisms, planets, satellites. They would always listen with rapt attention as he spilled everything he knew. Sometimes, they knew a story about something he would point out. Old myths, sometimes passed down from even before the Age of Corruption. Normally, he wouldn’t entertain such nonsensical and unscientific accounts of the stars. Stories of people and animals and allsorts getting turned into asterisms? Ridiculous. But the builder’s storytelling always managed to…enchant him somehow. And even without the builder’s narration, he had to admit that it was a beautiful sentiment. Being enshrined forever in the sky, admired for all eternity.

A small part of him, deep within his heart of hearts, imagined his builder up there. Winking at him from thousands of light years away, a quiet, persistent presence in the sky.

Always bright, always beautiful, always there.

His dearest starlight.

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

prev | index

[argonwrites]

Strange Minutes

My silly little piece about apathy and inappropriate behavior in public, with some sci-fi elements for spice. I submitted this as an entry last June 2022 to a certain contest hosted by a certain university and won second place. As someone who was competing against students pursuing master's degrees in Creative Writing, I think I did fairly well.

The website where this was originally published is still down as of writing.

Word count: 1279

Above the city which knows not sleep, the clouds of smog reflect the sickly sodium-yellow lights of lampposts below. In the corners untouched by illumination shadows twist and writhe: the implication of a presence both shaped and formless, existing between reality and imagination. A patch of void detaches itself from a length of darkened wall, manifesting into a man-shape as it comes underneath a lamppost. He pauses momentarily to check the time on his phone, and keeps walking.

Triste spies a familiar neon sign, half-faded against the facade, and enters the establishment. It is one of the last mixed bars in this area of the city, catering to both Augmented and un-Augmented in an age when most businesses would opt to enforce segregation. Only a handful of people occupy the tables and the counter, though physical presence in this era is the exception, not the rule.

The bartender nods in greeting as Triste seats himself at the counter. His order for tonight is something light, and the bartender slides a chilled bottle across the countertop. Triste takes a small sip and looks around: a woman sits across a man at one of the tables, their fingers intertwined on the tabletop; a group of friends at the far corner, laughing over a card game; and others like him, all drinking by themselves. An assembly of characters from various backgrounds and lives, all lonely or loved at this late hour. Which one is he?

The door to the bar opens, and the new patron who walks in reeks of burnt rubber and grease. Triste does not need to look over his shoulder to know the other patrons are watching the newcomer. They sit at the empty spot beside him, the whir of cooling fans and the subtle creak of moving metal becoming more apparent with the proximity. From the corner of his eye Triste looks at them: the dim light reflects off mechanical arms, and cropped hair reveals luminescent Augmented veins at the temple and neck. From what he can see of their features, the newcomer is beautiful, androgynous, though Triste immediately discovers he cannot remember the curve of their nose nor the jut of their chin when he looks away.

“Sorry for the smell. I know the wires stink,” they say, voice airy. Triste turns to face them.

“It’s fine,” he tells them, giving the newcomer a proper once over and barely stopping himself from grimacing at what he sees.

“I haven’t been on top of my upkeep,” they say, simply, as if the mechanical Augments aren’t one loose bolt away from falling apart. Triste looks once, twice, at the state of disrepair and knows this is the type of damage which warrants medical attention. A visit to the mechanic would do little to relieve the pain of nerve endings perpetually on fire, nor would it ease the sharp pressure of metal edges cutting into tender flesh. “I’ve been busy,” they continue, and offer a placid smile.

Triste gives no response and finishes the last dredges of his drink. The newcomer asks the bartender for a menu, and turns to Triste to ask for his opinion. “What do you recommend?” they ask, at which Triste raises an eyebrow. “I don’t go to bars very often.”

“What?”

“Recommendations?” The newcomer tilts their head, eyes glassy and pupils blown wide. Triste, now slightly miffed, points out several options, fingers drumming on the countertop as the newcomer pesters him with follow-up queries. “This. One for me and one for you,” they tell him, pointing out something strong, and orders before Triste can protest.

“I don’t know your name,” Triste says, when the bartender places two glasses before them.

“Does it matter?” they say, taking a sip of their drink. Triste checks his own for signs of being spiked, only drinking after ensuring its safety. “Ah, well, I’m Nora.”

“Triste.”

Nora only blinks at him, eyes glazing over as they stare at some faraway thing beyond them and, as if remembering themselves, redirects their gaze back to their glass. Metal fingers curl around it, and Nora downs half in one swig. Triste imagines the drink traveling down their throat in a searing line and cringes.

Implants jutting out the back of Nora’s skull catch his attention: small, stubby cylinders glowing blue-green, pumping their bloodstream full of some unidentifiable liquid. The skin around them is raw, red from irritation. “Inhibitors,” Nora tells him, when they notice where his gaze is directed. “I’m not that kind of person. They’re just inhibitors. And painkillers.”

“I’ve never seen Augments like that,” Triste says. His vision blurs, for a moment, and he blinks the haziness away. “I’m not un-Augmented. I have one for my heart.”

“They’re bioware. One of the newer lines. They’re a bit sensitive. It’s terribly easy for them to get hit. Have you ever seen someone die that way?” The last part of Nora’s sentence comes out staticky—a faulty throat Augment. Triste only notices now the slight bulge beneath the skin after hearing the distortion in their voice.

“Excuse me?”

“Yeah.” Nora bobs their head from left to right. “The cylinders are difficult to remove by yourself, but it’s possible. My friend was, what, fifteen? Sixteen? This was when implants were new,” they say, speech somewhat incomprehensible beneath the static. Triste strains to hear them. “She yanked hers out one time when she was upset. I remember her screaming after it came off in her hand. It was horrible, but for some reason I can’t remember anything else.”

Nora finishes the remainder of their drink, wiping their lips with the back of their hand. “I know she died on the way to the hospital. Do you think it hurt?” they continue. “It must have. I wonder how it felt. I want to—”

The static explodes into tinny feedback noise, cutting off whatever Nora is saying. The other patrons turn to look, and the bartender moves to leave his position behind the counter.

“I’ll take them outside,” Triste says, pulling Nora to their feet. The world sways as he stands. Nora does not resist, their attention fully directed to the malfunctioning throat Augment. Triste watches them claw at their throat, sees red welling up where their fingers leave gashes in the skin. He can see their lips moving, but whatever Nora might have been saying comes out as pained screeching.

The stench of piss and smoke fills his nose as Triste exits the bar, the humid air of the world outside immediately greeting him as he steps out onto the street. Nora stumbles away from him, mechanical legs sparking as their knees hit the sidewalk. The screeching continues, eventually devolving into wordless groans, followed by silence. Nora remains still where they kneel on the pavement, save for the slight movement of their shoulders as they breathe. Triste waits.  

“That happens sometimes,” Nora tells him, voice airy once again, and stands up. Something dark drips down from their fingers to the sidewalk. “When I talk about my friend. Sorry.”

“You should go home,” Triste says, unsure of whether Nora understands him through the slight slur in his words.

“Okay. Good night,” they say. Then, in the clearest voice Triste has heard from them, “Take care of yourself.”

An unpleasant feeling settles in his gut as he watches Nora dust themselves off and walk home, wherever it may be. Nora will not see the sunrise, Triste knows, somehow. Perhaps this will be last time anyone will see them alive. He stares at their retreating figure, wandering and stumbling beneath sickly sodium-yellow lights in these strange minutes past midnight.

Triste takes one last look, and heads back inside.

[spiderispunk]

The Drifter

Pairing: Bruce Wayne x Fem!reader

Word Count: 3.8k

Warnings: Smut [18+]. Handjob. Fingering. Voyeurism (Bruce’s Contacts). Unprotected Sex. Canon-Typical Violence (Mentions of blood and bruises, briefest mention of attempted assault). Complicated Emotions (I like my vigilantes repressed).

Summary: The Batman– or as you would later come to find out Bruce fucking Wayne– came to check up on you later that week. That home visit turned into two, which turned into 10 which turned into many many over the course of the next two years. And the nature of the visits evolved as well. At first, a wellness check, then later something more personal. If you had to put a reason to it, Bruce was lonely. And as it turned out, so were you. It was a big city, after all.

A/N: Woooow did it feel great to write something for the first time in MONTHS. This was definitely a labor of love emphasis on the labor part. I’m ultimately really proud of it, and I hope you all enjoy. Leave a comment if you do!

Wednesday. June 22nd.

You’re lying in bed, eyes trained on your cracked ceiling. 

It’s one of those typically dreary Gotham nights. Dark and cold and wet. 

Outside a storm rages, sending unforgiving sheets of rain slamming against the dirty concrete. Thunder crashes, the loud booms rattling your windows. Lightning cuts across the sky like the silver flash of a knife. 

Each BOOM!, each flare sets your teeth on edge. You’ve always hated thunderstorms– an irrational fear that’s stuck around from childhood– and Gotham seems to have its own perpetual cumulonimbus cloud parked squarely above the city limits. 

You find it impossible to sleep on nights like these. When the heavens seem at war with the earth. Caught in a perpetual clash. Perhaps that’s why you don’t mind that these are the nights when Bruce tends to darken your doorstep the most. 

You’ve come to appreciate the sporadic visits. They bring an odd sort of comfort and security that you never thought you’d find again in this godforsaken city. Gotham was a cesspool way past expiration, but it was your home. You never minded the grime, the dark back alleys and shady neighbors. Never clutched your pearls in fear when you read the news. 

That was until you found yourself held up at gunpoint on your way home from work long ago on a rainy night just like this one. You’d handed your purse over without any argument and kept your head down, just like you’d been taught. The assholes had almost let you go too, until a whispered challenge from their leader had them surrounding you once more. 

You closed your eyes and hoped whatever happened would be over quick, but it all ended before it even began. The next sound was the sickening crunch of a jaw as a blow connected with it. Standing over the ringleader was the Dark Knight himself. He pressed the heel of his boot against the guy’s swollen cheek, staring down the other men with hard eyes. 

Without their leader, the gang ran. 

You were still frozen, blood roaring in your ears as you looked him over. You knew the Batman helped people, but he’d also just broken a man’s jaw with one kick. 

“You okay?” He asked in a voice you would eventually learn was not his own. 

“Y-yeah,” you answered. 

But of course you were not. You were cold and tired and riding off the high of waning adrenaline.

The Batman picked your purse up and handed it to you. It was soaking wet, but otherwise intact and full. 

“Thanks.” You sloughed the water off. “Is he gonna be okay?” You glanced down at the unconscious man at your savior’s feet. 

He regarded your attacker with a curled lip. “He’ll live,” he said coldly. “Is your home near here?” 

“A couple blocks.” You said, though you absolutely should not have told this lethal stranger where you lived.

“I’ll walk you there.” He took off his cape and offered it to you. “This will keep you dry on the way.” 

The Batman– or as you would later come to find out Bruce fucking Wayne– came to check up on you later that week. That home visit turned into two, which turned into 10 which turned into many many over the course of the next two years. And the nature of the visits evolved as well. At first, a wellness check, then later something more personal. 

If you had to put a reason to it, Bruce was lonely. And as it turned out, so were you. 

It was a big city, after all. 

There’s a knock on your window. You barely hear it, so lost in your thoughts about the past. Then it happens again, the quiet tap-tap-tap of his knuckles against the glass of your bedroom window that signals his arrival. It’s a miracle you even notice it over the din outside.

He’s crouched on your fire escape, dressed in an oversized jacket and tactical pants. When he pulls back his hood, you can see he’s soaked to the bone. His dark hair is plastered to his face and the black makeup he wears around his eyes runs in streaks down his cheeks.

“Hi,” Bruce says simply. He doesn’t make a move to brush past you. Just sits in the rain, waiting for your invitation. 

“Hi,” you whisper. “Come inside before somebody sees you and calls the cops.” 

There’s a small smirk on his face. “What would Gotham’s Finest do?”

“Probably nothing.” You step to the side. “They’re too busy with the major crimes. Protecting us regular citizens is more your jurisdiction anyways.” 

He grunts in agreement as he climbs through your window. His steel-toed boots hit the floor with a surprisingly light tread. It used to freak you out how quietly he moved, especially in all that armor, but now you’ve sectioned it off in another part of your brain labeled Top Secret Freaky Ninja Shit: Do Not Touch. The less you knew, the better. And Bruce made that clear from the very beginning. 

He clears his throat, and you realize you’re still blocking his way into the room. So instead you step to the side and shut the window before any more rain can patter onto the floor. Not that it's of any use. Bruce seems to have brought the whole storm in with him. 

“Did I wake you up?” He asks, leaning back against the window sill as he peels off his boots and socks. 

You shake your head. “Can’t sleep with all of this.” You gesture vaguely, and on cue thunder booms. It sends a shiver through you.   

He cracks a small smile. “Thunderstorms, huh?” Bruce shrugs his jacket off. “Who would have thought?”

“Not all of us can be fearless vigilantes.” You roll your eyes. “Don’t drop that on the floor!” You snap. 

Bruce pauses mid motion. “Sorry,” he says sheepishly, and tosses the jacket back over his arm instead.

“You know where the bathroom is.” You cock your head towards the open door. “Think there might be an extra towel in there too.” 

His eyes hold yours for a moment. There’s a touch of…something…soft in those pale blue eyes of his. “Thanks,” he says after a beat of silence and brushes past you. 

Bruce peels his shirt off as he goes. Lean muscles stretching taut as his arms stretch above his head to rid himself of the damp cotton. The wet fabric slides up his back and shoulders, revealing a tapestry of injuries. Old ones sealed with jagged scar tissue. Yellowed half-healed bruises, and the most striking of all, fresh, angry red ones, already scabbing over from the night’s adventures. 

Whatever he’d gotten into tonight has left him a little worse for wear. 

Bruce hides the pain well, though. He doesn’t limp, doesn’t shudder. In fact, when he emerges from your tiny bedroom, he looks like an entirely new man. 

His hair is sticking up in all different directions from the towel he hastily dried it with. Most of the paint has been wiped from his face–staining the once white towel he’s tossed onto the floor– but there’s residue left behind under his eyes. His porcelain skin still glistens with cold water, the small droplets dot the sharp lines of his body.  

Bruce’s stance is smaller, shoulders hunched as he stands in the middle of your room. He’s softer without all that gear on him, yes, but there’s a hint of something wild in his gaze. Something rigid and tense in his bearing, as if he’s always one wrong move or word away from bolting back out the window. 

“You’re staring again,” he mutters, cheeks dusted with red. His voice is so smooth when he’s not hiding behind the mask. 

You shake your head and sit on the edge of the bed. “You’re hurt. C’mere.” 

“Not really,” Bruce protests, but still crosses the room to stand in front of you. 

He shudders when your fingertips touch the skin of his chest, sucks in a deep breath when your hand trails down. Past the existing scars on his chest and stomach, to the puckered line on his hip. 

“This one’s new.” You raise your eyebrow at him and he shrugs. 

“I didn’t know I had to catalogue my scars with you.” 

You press your lips together and narrow your eyes at him. “Someone has to keep track. Tell me about this one.”

“It’s shallow.” He shrugs. “You don’t need to worry.”

“What happened?” 

“Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

You scoff. “That’s not an answer.” 

Bruce’s eyes flick to yours. He clenches his jaw slightly, but doesn’t speak. 

“You can talk to me…I know how lonely it must be, living a double life.” Your thumb smooths over the mark once more. “I can handle it.” 

“Is there something you’re not telling me?” There’s that goddamn smirk again. He’s deflecting.

 “I don’t dress up in tights and an animal costume and run around at night, if that’s what you’re asking.” 

He steps closer, gently tilting your chin up so you have to look at him. “No?” The weight of his gaze slides down to your lips. 

You shake your head, mouth going dry. “Nothing that exciting.” 

“Shame.” Bruce gently nudges your legs apart, crowding your space. “We could’ve traded stories.” 

Your hand slips from his stomach down to the waistband of his pants. “Like how you got this scar?” Your fingers play lightly on his skin. 

“You’re not going to let that go, are you?” 

“Not until you tell me.”

“You’re demanding.” 

“I prefer persistent.” You mold your hand over the crotch of his jeans. “Tenacious. Determined.” You rub at the rigid imprint of his dick. “Assertive. Firm,” you say with a squeeze. 

Bruce rocks his hips forward. A quiet groan falls off of his lips. 

“So tell me.” You lean forward and brush your lips over the scar. “Was it an armed robbery? A knife fight?”

“No.” He sucks in a choked breath. “I– uh…I was testing some new ah–” He groans when your tongue pokes between your lips to trace his skin. “New equipment. Throwing knives that I made. One ricocheted off the post and nicked me.” 

Your lips pause their descent. “What?” Your eyebrows furrow.

“No knife fight or armed robbery. Just regular human error.” His face is flushed scarlet, and you can’t tell if it’s from embarrassment or from your touch. 

He eyes you warily, unsure if you’ll laugh at him or not. Nervously, Bruce shifts his weight from side to side, the silence making him antsy. 

You gaze up at him a second longer, taking in the strangely human side of him presented to you. So rare were these moments of vulnerability. It was hard to believe from his carefully manufactured confidence that he was still new to all of this. Still prone to making mistakes. 

Still human buried under all those gadgets and kevlar.

You gently kiss the puckered scar. “Well, your secret’s safe with me.” 

His strangled exhale almost sounds like a sigh of relief. “Really?” 

“Yeah.” You pop the button of his jeans and slip your hand down the front of them. Bruce sucks in a breath as you mouth at his sculpted muscle. “I’m very good at keeping secrets, you know.” You wrap a hand around his hard cock and stroke slowly. 

“Yeah, I know.” His head tips back. “Thanks.”  

You watch his blissful expression with a smile, tongue poked between your teeth. “Anytime.” You squeeze him a little tighter, twisting your wrist as you keep up the leisurely pace. 

Bruce keeps his hands balled up at his sides, unsure of where to place them. You take one with your free hand and bring it to your jaw. He cradles your chin with an unfamiliar tenderness, and drags his thumb over your mouth. 

You part your lips, tongue dipping out to catch his finger. Bruce breathes harshly through his nose, dark eyes somehow growing dimmer. He presses his thumb into your mouth and you suck the sweat from his skin, hands still twisting and pulling at his throbbing cock.

Bruce’s hand falls from your face down your body. He traces a finger down the front of your neck, across the rigid bones of your collar, and further still until he reaches the peaks of your chest. He cups your breast, flicking a thumb over your clothed nipple. They harden under his touch, and you sigh quietly. 

He wears a fond smile on his face. There’s something inquisitive in his gaze as he repeats the motion again, garnering the same results. You know he enjoys the effect he has on you and your body. The way his fingers can pinch and pull until you whimper and tremble. 

Something in the way his gaze sweeps over your parted lips and lingers on your heaving chest gives you pause. 

“You’re still wearing them, aren’t you?” You ask, squinting to see a hint of the plastic. 

Bruce tilts his head. 

“The contacts.” You raise an eyebrow. 

“Maybe.” He breathes in answer. His eyes slide back to yours. “Do you want me to take them out?” 

Your breath catches, thinking about the possibility that he might watch these moments in private later. “No. It’s okay.” 

Bruce leans forward, forcing eye contact with you. “Just okay?” 

“Are you…going to play it back?” 

He wets his bottom lip with his tongue. “Not if you don’t want me to.” 

“I do,” you say quickly. “I want you to watch it. Want you to think of me.” 

Bruce pauses for a moment and swallows thickly. He seems to be weighing his next words carefully. “I always think of you.” His hand curls over your shoulder and pushes you back against your mattress.  

You push yourself back further onto the bed. Bruce follows, pants hanging low against his hips. He hastily undoes the ties of your sleep shorts and pulls them down and off your legs. You go limp under his searing stare. 

Bruce runs his fingers up the inside of your thigh leaving goosebumps in his wake. He plays with the wetness at the crux of your thighs, smearing the evidence of your arousal over his rough fingertips. 

You bite your bottom lip to stifle a moan when he lightly swipes his thumb over your clit. He swirls it again, sharp eyes zeroing in on the way your teeth dig imprints into the flesh of your full lips. You lift your hips in search of more sweet pressure. 

“Bruce,” you mumble under your breath, and you swear his whole body jerks. 

He buries his face into your shoulder, fingers still on your dripping cunt. “Say it again.” 

Your breath catches in the back of your throat. Bruce’s thumb continues insistently against you, each swipe jolting through you like electricity from a live wire. 

“Say it,” he mumbles low in your ear. “Please.”

Will he hear the desperation in your voice when he watches this again on some lonely night? You don’t know, but you hope so. 

You find your voice. “B-Bruce,” you whisper hoarsely. 

Bruce moans, teeth digging into your shoulder. “Shit.” Slowly, achingly so, he presses a finger into the velvet heat of your cunt, filling you deliciously. 

You arch off of the mattress and into the solid mass of Bruce’s chest. “Oh fuck.” 

His finger slides out and pushes back in again, and it’s not long before a second one breaks you even further open to him. He’s removed his head from the junction of your shoulder to stare at you. He catches your every reaction– every quiver of your lips, every flutter of your eyelids, each and every movement collected readily by greedy eyes.   

You bite your bottom lip to stifle your loud moans. They spill clumsily into the air and rattle around the small room. 

“Don’t,” Bruce says. “I want to hear you.” His fingers curl deliciously inside of you, making your thighs shake. 

And who are you to deny such a simple request, when he’s looking at you like this. Equal parts ravenous and reverent. You let yourself go, surrendering every gasp and reedy sigh to his ears, even though it means you won’t ever be able to look your neighbor in the eyes again. 

“Just like that,” you praise. “Oh– keep going.” 

Bruce flushes scarlet, your words going straight to his aching cock. He rocks back onto his knees, watching his fingers thrust in and out of you.

Soon you feel the tell-tale glow within you. That warm pulse that spreads through your veins like the calm before the storm. Pleasure so close you can almost feel it sharp and light on the tip of your tongue. 

“I’m close,” you whine, hips bucking wildly as you chase that high. 

“Let go,” Bruce whispers, and with his simple command you’re falling. 

You squeeze your eyes closed, lips parting as you sink deeper into bliss. Your limbs tighten and then go limp. And Bruce watches and guides you through it all. His fingers curl slightly, the tips stroking that blessed spot that leaves your brain in fuzzy shambles. 

When you finally swim back to the surface, brain still encased in sticky amber, he is there. His eyes dark, like the storm clouds that hover over the city. He takes a deep breath– to steady or to psyche himself up, you don’t know– and suddenly he is kissing you. 

A deep kiss. A hungry one. The clumsy slide of his chapped lips against yours. The awkward bump of teeth and a hungry flick of his tongue into the cavern of your mouth. It’s hot. It’s fast. It’s breathtaking. Your sigh is quickly swallowed, the warm slide of his tongue begs for another. 

So you give him another…and another…and another…until your shoulders heave from the weight of the stolen breaths and Bruce’s lips leave yours in search of something more. 

His hot mouth slides over your damp skin. Tongue swiping out to savor the sweetness of your soap. His hips rut against your thigh, cock straining so hard against his pants that it must hurt. 

You’ve never seen him like this. Eager. Wanting. You long to give him that sweet release. 

“Fuck me.” You slide a hand between your writhing bodies and squeeze his cock. “Please, Bruce, I need you inside me.” 

“Jesus.” His eyes flicker towards the ceiling, jaw clenched and muscles straining. “I don’t have a condom.” 

You pull his flushed cock from his pants and guide him between your legs. “I don’t care. I’m clean. You?” 

“Y-yeah.” Bruce’s gaze is still turned upwards. “You’re the only one…”

“Look at me, Bruce.” 

He does, and feels all of his self-control crumbling under the weight of your desire. And his. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t want you just as bad as you seem to want him. Your next words confirm it. 

“Please.” You look at him with heavy-lidded eyes. “I want to make you feel good.” 

And just as you couldn’t refuse him, he feels helpless against you. 

Bruce nods and sinks into you with a stuttered groan of your name. He’s not gentle or slow, and that’s okay. You don’t want that. Such intimacy is reserved for other people, under completely different circumstances. You want him hard and fast and broken, and that’s exactly what he gives you. 

He pushes your thighs further apart as he sinks into you over and over, burying himself to the hilt. The stretch of him sends your head reeling. You hold onto him for dear life, scoring fresh red marks into the freckled skin of his shoulder.  

The thought of leaving a somewhat permanent mark on his body delights you, and you press your nails deeper into the pale canvas of his back. 

Bruce’s hips buck into yours sloppily. His fingers curl around the slats of your headboard, and he uses them as leverage to pound deeper into you. He’s a mess, lost in the warm squeeze of you and beyond words. Only stuttered groans escape his lips. 

You do your best to follow his disjointed rhythm with your hips, urging him closer and closer to the edge. 

“C-come inside me,” you whimper, and are met with a jagged noise from the back of his throat. “Please, Bruce.”

He says your name through gritted teeth, eyes ablaze with wanton desire. He’s paradoxical– angel and demon rolled into one. Pure and tainted. 

In the end it’s a sharp tug of his hair and a kiss to the underside of his jaw that is his undoing. Bruce thrusts sharply, filling you with the warmth of his cum. Shudders wrack his entire body, and he falls on top of you with a soft groan. 

You lie under the weight of his body until your breathing syncs up. Until his muscles stop trembling. Until the weight of words unsaid threatens to crush both you and him. 

He doesn’t stay with you. He never does. You learned not to take offense long ago. After all, the comfort you both sought didn’t extend to pillow talk and gentle touches. 

Bruce slips his half-hard dick out of you with a ticked jaw. “Thank you,” he mumbles. 

You squeeze your thighs together, acutely aware of the sticky warmth that seeps out of you. “You don’t need to thank me.” 

He gives you a long look, searching for the right thing to say. The aftermath is impossibly awkward. You don’t understand why these moments are the hardest. It really shouldn’t be this tricky. 

Bruce hands his used towel to you so you can clean up. Slowly and methodically, he gathers his gear and puts it back on. 

“You’re heading back out there?” The rain hasn’t stopped. Actually it seems to have grown worse. 

Bruce nods. “I still have another six hours of patrol.” 

“Do you ever sleep?” 

“Does crime?” He fits his baseball cap back over his head. 

You pull your knees to your chest. “I guess not.” But you’re just a man, No matter how many layers you put on, you’ll still be just a man. 

Bruce shrugs his backpack back onto his shoulder. “I’ll be seeing you.” 

“Sooner than I’ll be seeing you,” you say with a small grin. 

He returns it. “Maybe. You take care of yourself, okay?” 

“Speak for yourself. I’m not the one running around at night dressed like a bat.” 

Bruce chuckles. He pulls his hood up and shimmies your window open. “If you need me–” 

“Call Gordon. I know. Wait, Bruce!” You call, halting his movements. 

He waits, half in the window, half out. What a perfect metaphor for his jumbled place in your life. 

You look him over, heart tweaking painfully in your chest. The next time you saw him, he’d be different. “Please be careful.”

“I’ll be alright,” he says. “Don’t worry about me.” Bruce shuts the window and disappears into the night. 

You can’t help but notice the warning in his words. 

But you’re in far too deep to listen to it. 

Tags:

@eupheme​

[hottpinkpenguin]

Could I request a one shot for Druig from Eternals?

The reader like Druig secretly, but Druig gets annoyed with the reader constantly because of how kind and sweet she is with the humans and the other Eternals. He gets in a fight with the reader after she almost dies in a Deviant fight. Druig breaks her heart with his harsh words against her, having the reader leave the Eternals because of it. When they meet up 500 years later for the Emergence, Druig sees how calloused the reader became and he tries to win her back. Maybe a hint of smut, who knows! Thanks! :) Your writing is amazing!

Always

A/N: THANK YOUUUUU for being so patient!!! this was a lot of fun to write, and I have broken it into 2 parts bc i am straight addicted to high words counts. Here is part 1!!! hope you love it Summary: Druig can't stand the risks that his fellow Eternal Damra's powers put him and the others into. One night after a Deviant attacks the city of Babylon, he tells her exactly how he feels, only to realize that maybe he feels more than he originally thought... Warnings: None Characters: Druig x Fem!Eternals!OC (Name is Damra, has powers over nature)

Babylon - 525 BC

Druig. Stop it, Makkari signed at Druig, interrupting his reverie.

Stop what, he retorted.

You’re glaring again, Makkari replied, rolling her eyes at him. Druig hadn’t noticed, but that had been happening a lot lately. He couldn’t help it – she was just so damn irritating.

Druig watched as Damra let a few human children lead her by the hand through the streets of Babylon, a human baby clutched in her other hand. She smiled down beatifically at the baby, and Druig couldn’t help but let a groan of annoyance slip past his lips. There she goes again, playing goddess to the masses, he thought sourly, shading his eyes against the midday sun.

Druig never understood Damra’s fascination with humans. They were a perpetually power-hungry race of beings, and Druig wearied of their tiresome thoughts always pounding on the edges of his mind. But not to Damra. Her affinity for the people of Earth had gotten the Eternals wrapped up in too many human conflicts already. She was always convincing the others to save these children or protect this village. Her constant meddling had almost cost Druig, Makkari, and the others their lives more times than he cared to count, and Druig was rapidly losing patience for it.

You’re hopeless, Makkari informed him, throwing up her hands in defeat and walking away with a final sigh of exasperation, leaving Druig to his brooding thoughts.

Druig watched as Damra’s silhouette faded from sight, swallowed up by the crowds of humans who’d gathered around to watch her force the withered crops into bloom and fill the dry wells with clean water. As an Eternal, Damra controlled nature, able to make a tropical oasis out of sand in an instant, control the minds and actions of a flock of birds or a swarm of bees, or change the tides of the ocean. Druig had seen her do all these things; her power was impressive, truly, and it was always spellbinding to humans, who sought futilely to exert the same influence over the natural world through their crude tools.

As Damra’s auburn hair disappeared from view, Druig thought about using his own powers to seize the minds of the villagers to ignore Damra’s self-indulgent show of force. He loathed that she flaunted her powers in front of the humans, even more so that she had used her powers to literally create Babylon from nothingness. Even Ajack had been against Damra creating such a sanctuary at first. But, just like all the others – human and Eternal alike – she’d been seduced by the tranquility of Babylon. Although he would never admit it out loud, Druig knew that Babylon was the first time since arriving on Earth that the Eternals had co-existed peacefully and openly with humans. A fact that Damra’s constant showmanship never ceased to remind him of.

His mood darkening by the moment, Druig turned on his heel, leaving Damra to the adoring throngs of villagers who had poured out into the city center, chanting her name.

*****

It was evening before Damra came back to the Domo. Her face was glowing and flushed, proof of just how long she had been using her powers.

As usual, all of the Eternals had gathered in the central chamber of the Domo to discuss the day’s events, hear any new directives from Arishem through Ajack, and bid each other goodnight. Makkari, still annoyed by Druig’s brooding, was resting comfortably on the bench across the chamber from him, chatting with Sersi and Sprite. Phastos, as usual, was working on one of his inventions that he planned to share with the humans (another pandering gesture Druig resented). Kingo and Ikaris were engaged in a sparring match while Thena watched appreciatively, calling out suggestions and coaching each from the sides. Gilgamesh sat quietly near Druig, lost in his own thoughts, and Ajack hadn’t arrived yet.

As soon as Damra strode in, Druig felt his jaw tense. Her neck was adorned with flower necklaces – favors the villagers bestowed upon her as a sign of their love for her and her powers. The soft pinks and blues of the blossoms made her look radiant and ethereal, and Druig hated her for it. Before he could stop himself, he was on his feet, glowering at her.

“Just how long are we going to keep this charade up, Damra?” His voice dripped with ire, and immediately the sounds of relaxed chatter in the chamber died out. All eyes turned to him, including Damra’s, the color of emeralds.

“I don’t understand, Druig,” she replied softly, the gentle smile she’d worn upon entering the chamber melting from her face as she saw his anger. He practically shook with the effort of controlling it.

“How long do you intend to keep this place and those people-” Druig gestured vaguely towards the city outside “- reliant on your powers for? How long do you intend to play God?” Out of the corner of his eye, Druig saw Makkari stand up and leave, clearly not interested in having any part in what he knew she felt was a ridiculous, misdirected, and bitter vendetta.

Damra turned to face Druig, her face placid but her body tense. He wasn’t surprised; Damra was genteel and soft around the humans, but she had a fierce spark in her soul. Secretly, he was glad she wouldn’t back down. He was itching for a fight.

“As long as Ajack allows,” she replied, jutting her chin out at him in an act of defiance.

Unsurprisingly, it was Phastos who came to Damra’s aid first. “What we’re doing here is advancing humanity by thousands of years in the span of a generation,” he pointed out. Druig shot him a dark glare out of the corner of his eye. Although Phastos had always defended Damra’s sanctuary city, Druig wasn’t interested in arguing with the inventor. Damra was his target, and he wouldn’t allow himself to be distracted.

“No, what we’re doing here is laying out a banquet for Deviants,” Druig spat back.

Damra’s nostrils flared and her eyes narrowed. She knew Druig’s position on this; they’d had this argument countless times, although never in such a public forum.

“It’s a risk worth taking,” she growled, her voice low and menacing.

Druig opened his mouth to reply, but it was Ajack’s voice that cut through the building tension in the chamber.

“Enough, Druig.” Her voice was commanding with an edge of harshness. She strode in to the chamber, coming to stand next to Damra and Druig, who were now mere inches apart, tensing for blows. “This is not how we resolve our differences,” Ajack scolded.

Ever the obsequious and dutiful Eternal, Damra backed down, stepping away from Druig and slowly making her way to the bench on the edge of the chamber to sit. Druig, on the other hand, couldn’t let it go. Sensing his mounting outburst, Ajack placed a hand firmly on his shoulder. “Not here, not now.” Ajack lowered her eyes and forced Druig to return her gaze. Despite her at times motherly countenance, Ajack was their natural leader and Druig had immense respect for her, even if he disagreed with her tactics.

Frustrated at being stymied, Druig chewed his tongue, debating whether to obey Ajack in the truce or unleash the string of harsh words ready to pounce from his lips. After a few agitated moments of deliberation, Druig thought better of it than to go against Ajack’s wishes. With a snort of derision, he left the chamber, retreating to his own quarters to spend the rest of the night in an indignant temper.

*****

Damra considered confronting Druig in his quarters to finish what he had started that evening, but thought better of it. Ajack’s instructions had been clear when they had spoken after the others had left the chamber: Druig’s points were valid, even if his delivery was lacking. Deviants were drawn to the Eternals’ powers, and the intensity with which Damra used hers to sustain the sanctuary of Babylon put all of them – not to mention the humans who flocked to the city by the hundreds each day – in constant danger.

Knowing she would not find rest quickly, Damra opted to leave the Domo. The moon was out and it illuminated the ground around her in a ghostly, chilled light. The city below was beginning to quiet for the evening, and a soft breeze blew off the river to the south.

Damra had long felt unsettled by her fellow Eternals’ growing mistrust in her venture. She had felt so certain when she had first had the idea to create Babylon that it was what humanity needed. She and several of the others – Phastos in particular – had grown restless watching the agonizingly slow advancement of civilization. A few generations of prosperity, innovation, and abundance would launch the human race forward thousands of years, and ultimately it would shorten the time that the Eternals had to spend away from their own, Olympia. Most of the Eternals had been supportive of Babylon, at first, but not Druig. Never Druig.

Damra knew he disliked her, and she wished it were not so. For so long, she had thought of nothing else but to earn his love. When it had become clear to her that that would never happen, she had lowered her sights and aimed for his admiration, and then his respect once admiration became too tall an order. But it seemed that the more she was herself – the more she used her powers, the more she loved the people of Earth – the more he resented her. It was a deep, biting wound that she was slowly masking in anger, an ugly part of herself that she wished she could cut away entirely, like a cancerous growth. But no number of Babylonian paradises could ever fill the longing she felt for him. She felt weak and pitiful for loving someone who so clearly wished her gone. She knew that, despite Druig’s moodiness, he would never actively wish harm on any of his fellow Eternals, but she couldn’t deny the obvious: he wished she hadn’t been sent to Earth with the others, with him.

Damra was perched on an outcropping of rock, biting back hot tears of rejection, when she saw it. A shadowy outline, moving fast across the valley, golden eyes and a mouth full of fangs. Damra’s stomach clenched into a knot of fear. A Deviant.

Damra knew there wasn’t time to go back to the Domo to fetch the others, not without allowing the beast to reach the city walls and take countless lives. Her body alight with adrenaline, Damra called upon her powers to summon the nearest creature she could find. A small pheasant that had been resting in its burrow quickly approached her, summoned by her powers. With a surge of purpose, Damra sent the pheasant off in the direction of the Domo to alert the others; although she couldn’t force the bird to speak on her behalf, she knew that the others would recognize her powers at work.

Once the pheasant was off on its messenger duty, Damra placed her hands – arms alight with golden shimmering rings, a sign of her Eternals power – on the rocky ground. Focusing on the shadowy figure of the Deviant as it raced across the rocky plain, Damra forced her powers to radiate outwards in the direction of the monster. Within a few moments, the roots of all the shrubs, trees, and grasses closest to the monster erupted from the ground and began wrapping themselves around the Deviant’s clawed feet like snares. It slowed the monster, causing it to stumble and lurch sideways.

Damra saw a flash of golden light zip across the terrain towards the downed beast. Makkari dropped Thena and Gilgamesh on opposite sides of the Deviant’s head, and they began the attack. Damra could hear Thena’s battle cries from her. A second flash of gold burst into the sky - Ikaris, rising high into the night, beams of destructive energy burst out of his eyes. The Deviant let out a roar as it broke free of its bonds, slashing outwards. Damra began running towards the scene of the fight, joined by Kingo, who shot a burst of energy at the Deviant.

Damra - like Druig, Sprite, Phastos, Sersi, and Ajack - was typically instructed to hang back in fights as her powers were not always well-suited for battle the way that Ikaris, Kingo, Thena’s, and Gilgamesh’s were. But tonight, Damra found herself ignoring the yelled pleas of her friends to stay back. Staying shoulder to shoulder with Thena, Damra felt a combination of leftover anger from her fight with Druig and guilt over the knowledge that she was likely the reason the Deviant was here at all. It blinded her to the danger, and she felt drunk on the adrenaline.

Using her powers once again, Damra called to the rocks nearby, sending them hurtling through the air, aimed at the Deviant. Several struck their target, sending the creature stumbling and roaring in confusion as it suffered another strike from Ikaris’ eyes. Taking advantage of its distraction, Thena plunged her blade deep into the Deviant’s shoulder. The creature responded viciously, striking out with its powerful tail in a large defensive swipe, lifting Thena and Gilgamesh off the ground and sending them hurtling backwards. Damra knew the blow wouldn’t seriously hurt either of them, but they were thrown far enough away as to be temporarily out of the fight.

Turning her attention back to the Deviant, Damra dodged the beast’s jaws as they attempted to close around her. Vaguely, Damra registered the sounds of yelling voices screaming her name. She saw Ikaris circling above, trying to get an open angle to the creature’s throat to land a death blow.

“Damra, get out of here!” Kingo yelled, grabbing her by the shoulder and pulling her backwards as he shot another ball of flaming energy at the Deviant. It glanced off the creature’s tough flesh, setting a few bushes nearby ablaze. The monster looked even more sinister in the dancing shadows. Its ghostly eyes were drawn to the sound of Kingo’s voice, and once it had the two Eternals in its sights, Damra knew the creature was going for a kill stroke. Striking out first with its taloned claw, Damra heard Kingo emit a surprised grunt as one of its pointed, curved claws sank into his thigh.

He sank to the ground, clasping his thigh, the flesh there torn and ragged from the claw. Without thinking, Damra threw herself forward, coming between Kingo and the Deviant, which was pulling its head back for a death blow. Damra felt her powers radiating around her palms, and she felt a coil of fear wind its way around her heart as she remembered why she was never at the forefront of an attack.

Plunging her hands downward onto the ground beneath her, focusing on forcing her powers down into the rock below, Damra saw shards of shale shoot up around her and Kingo, forming a cage-like structure of rock splinters. The Deviant, momentarily confused, reassessed its angle of attack. As Damra watched the creature circle her and Kingo, groaning in pain behind her, trying to find a weakness in the makeshift shelter she’d been able to erect, Damra heard her name called out from the direction of the Domo. Risking a backwards glance, she turned over her shoulder. Between the pieces of rock, she made out Druig running towards her, her name fresh on his lips, and an expression in his eyes that she couldn’t name. As she watched Druig sprint towards her, the strange expression dancing across his face, she felt her heart pirouette inside her chest against herself.

The Deviant’s roar penetrated her momentary reverie, pulling her head back around to face the monster recoiling for its attack on the rock cage. Sending up a silent prayer to Arishem that her powers had been strong enough to save her and Kingo, she closed her eyes and tried to steady herself.

The force with which the Deviant threw itself against the rock caused the earth underneath her to quake. Several of the defensive splinters sheared off under the weight of the ravenous monster, now clawing desperately at the rock trying to gain enough of an entry to stick its deadly jaws through. Panic-stricken, Damra realized that the creature was going to be able to break through. Instinctively, she reached her hand back to connect with Kingo’s, wanting to have some connection with someone - anyone - in her final moment. The hot, rancid breath of the Deviant poured over her as it continued to tear ruthlessly at the rock. Flecks of its green-blue blood mixed with spittle splashed across Damra’s face, its snapping jaws now just inches from Damra’s face.

Suddenly, just as the beast was about to bear down on Damra for a killing bite, Damra saw a flare of light from outside the rock cage. The Deviant let out a strangled cry, its frantic movements coming to a halt, until it fell forward, its head impaling on a particularly sharp piece of rock. Damra turned back to look at Kingo in confusion, who looked pale from pain with a sheen of sweat on his forehead but thankfully still alive. “Ikaris,” he gasped out, as if understanding her unspoken question.

With a flash, Damra realized that Ikaris must have been able to get to the Deviant’s neck with the beast distracted by its cornered prey. Damra let out an exhalation, the adrenaline of the battle slowly leaving her body. She let her powers relax, the rock splinters crumbling around them, opening their vision back up to the landscape. The Deviant lay lifeless and still, a smoldering hole visible in its neck where Ikaris had landed the killing blast.

Ajack, Sersi, Sprite, Druig, and Phastos rushed into the scene of the battle. Ajack kneeled next to Kingo, quickly setting to work on his wound, his flesh seeming to stitch itself back together under her powers. Damra stood up unsteadily, her muscles sore from exertion and her mind still foggy with fear. She didn’t have a chance to recuperate, though, before Druig squared up in front of her, close enough for her to make out his individual lashes even in the dark.

“Do you see now?” he screamed, his accent thickening with rage. Damra took a step back as if smacked by the force of his words. She wasn’t surprised he was angry - he almost always was angry with her these days - but the intensity of his rage was beyond anything Damra had seen from him before.

“Druig, I-” Damra began feebly, unsure of what exactly she planned to say. Druig didn’t let her finish anyways.

“You brought that Deviant here, your powers brought it here, and it almost killed us!” Druig stepped forward, closing the space Damra had opened between them, an accusatory finger raised at her chest. The others watched, similarly stunned by the sheer magnitude of Druig’s rage.

“Please, Druig, I didn’t me-”

“Oh you didn’t mean to? You didn’t mean to almost get Kingo killed! You didn’t mean for the Deviant to attack a city full of vulnerable humans! Oh good, I’m glad that’s all cleared up!” His anger was turning sarcastic, his hands trembling with the effort to restrain himself from hitting her. Druig felt his mind go black with fury as all the animosity he’d bit back for months flew out of his lips. He saw Damra retreating from him, tears welling in her green eyes, her lip trembling, and he pressed his advantage.

“Shame the damn beast didn’t finish the job and rid me of you once and for all!”

Damra’s already tenuous composure fractured at his words, her knees buckling under her as she collapsed to all fours. Her chest heaved with silent sobs, and she couldn’t raise her eyes to look at him. Druig felt a pang of pity for his fellow Eternal, regret beginning to take root in his mind as he contemplated the words he’d just let fly. He disliked Damra for what she was hellbent on doing with her powers and for the risks it posed for all of them, but he didn’t actually wish her dead.

Unable to think of what to say or do next, Druig stood there, the burn of fury beginning to die down in his veins as Damra’s crying became audible. He looked around at the others, all frozen in place and staring at him with varying expressions of shock, bitterness, and repulsion. When his eyes finally met Makkari’s, she instantly turned away from him, leaving a golden trail of light behind her as she retreated back to the Domo.

As his desperation to undo the last few moments increased, Druig slowly sank to his knees in front of Damra, hoping she would look up at him. She didn’t, instead recoiling away from him as if he were going to hit her. The sight of her - someone he’d always considered a fair sparring partner and equally passionate rival - so utterly broken ripped something loose inside him.

“Damra, please, I didn’t mean-” The words died on his lips as the irony of the moment stripped his apology of any meaning it could have had.

Damra finally steadied herself enough to make eye contact with him. Roughly swiping away the tears from her cheeks, she held his gaze for a few moments. Damra felt an overwhelming urge to reach out for his hand, to throw her arms around him, to beg him to take back what he’d said; anything to get him to say that he wasn’t serious. She thought she saw a flicker of regret in his face, which was softened considerably from the mask of rage he’d worn only seconds before. The acidic sting of rejection and bitterly hot tears reminded her of how she’d gotten there. With a resolute inhale, she stood up, waiting for him to rise to his feet as well.

“Goodbye, Druig,” she whispered, her voice hitching with a faint sob. Before she had a chance to reconsider, she turned on her heels and started walking. She silenced a protest from Sersi with a sad shake of her head, her mind resolved. She knew there was no way she could stay there after what Druig had said. It would be too painful. Not only had his rebuke lodged in her heart like a blade, but the fact that he was right made it hurt all the more. The Deviant had been drawn there because of her powers, and she had almost gotten them killed, Kingo most closely.

Druig took a few steps after her, his hand raised in a reconciliatory gesture, but found the words tangling in his throat. He opened and closed his mouth futilely a few times, unable to put his emotions into sound.

She had no destination in mind, nor the gift of speed that Makkari had, so she let her feet carry her aimlessly into the darkness…

read part 2 here!

[star-trekkin-across-theuniverse]

Alone

You awoke with a start, sweaty and heart racing. Steve was out on a mission, and your shared bed felt lonely. It had felt lonely for months, even with him there, and your brain was playing with you in your dreams, reminding you of how distant he had been, how he’d almost been pushing you away. Like he regretted not going back and staying with Peggy when he had the chance. All the ways you could never measure up to his lost love taunted you in your sleep, particularly when he was gone. You shook off the nightmare and pushed out of bed, first visiting the bathroom and then heading to the kitchen.

You boiled a kettle and made a pot of sleepytime tea, sitting down at the breakfast bar to stare out into the night in the darkened room. The only light was from a small light in the hall that you’d insisted on. Steve had made fun of you for wanting it, but after breaking your toe stumbling to the bathroom one night, he understood you were just too clumsy to walk around in the dark and relented. The dim yellow light just barely crept into the kitchen.

“Couldn’t sleep?” A low voice asked, startling you.

“Jesus, Buck, make some noise when you walk,” you complained with a soft huff. Bucky had been in the second bedroom of your apartment for months. You’d grown accustomed to his nighttime prowling, but not enough to not be startled by him.

“Did you make a pot or just a cup?” He ignored your complaint. You tipped your nose in the direction of the tea pot and he sent you a grateful smile as he pulled a cup from the shelf and poured a cup. He sat down beside you and sighed.

“Bucky, I have a question. It might be stupid,” you started, just barely noticing he’d come out into the kitchen with just his pajama pants on.

“It’s the middle of the night and neither of us can sleep, that’s the best time for stupid questions,” he replied, blowing on his tea before taking a sip.

“Why Bucky? I know your middle name is Buchanan, and in theory that’s where it comes from, but it’s not pronounced Buckanan, so why Bucky?” You asked.

“That’s not so much a stupid question as a strange one. Why are you thinking about that, doll?” His laugh was soft and breathy.

“I dunno. I think about weird things when I can’t sleep at night? I mean, does anyone call you James at all?” You asked.

“I dunno how Stevie’d feel about you thinking about me at night,” he teased. “My ma did. Rebecca. Stevie’s ma did too, when she was still alive.” 

“Did your girlfriends call you Bucky?” You pressed.

“Mostly, yeah,�� He nodded. “James was for when teachers caught me defending Steve and when Ma was mad at me. Otherwise I was always Bucky,” he shrugged.

“Not a Jim? Jimmy?” You teased. His nose wrinkled.

“Do I look like a Jimmy?” He raised an eyebrow.

“Nah,” you agreed.

“Do you not like Bucky?” He asked.

“Hardly something you’d call a lover. And James is so formal,” you replied.

“Well, I don’t exactly have a lover to worry about what she’s calling me,” he laughed again. “What would you call me? If you were my lover?”

You turned on your stool to look at him. He was beautiful. More handsome than Steve, in some ways. Darker, both in looks and demeanor. Steve was good for the sake of being good. Bucky sometimes seemed like he was good more because he felt he needed to atone. He didn’t, you thought. But there was something about that history that just gave him that bad boy allure, even though he was just as decent and good as Steve. Almost like he was more beautiful because he’d had to work at being good again. It often confused you. You took in his whole appearance, the dog tags, the vibranium arm, the soft dusting of hair across his bare chest, the perpetual five o’clock shadow across his jaw. Beautiful. Definitely not a Bucky, but also not a Jim or James.

You reached out and scratched your nails across his stubbled cheek, laying it against the rough whiskers and sighing. His eyes closed and he leaned his face into your hand.

“Jaime,” you breathed, “if you were my lover.” His face turned into your palm, and he pressed a kiss against the skin there.

“I’d like that,” he murmured, his lips still against your hand, “if we were lovers.” 

His hands slipped to your hips and he leaned forward, pressing his forehead against yours. You relaxed against him and stayed there, faces touching, in the quiet dark. With a jerk, Bucky leaned away, a flush creeping up his cheeks.

“I’m sorry, angel, I was out of line,” he started, rising from his chair and stepping away. You followed him, standing and stepping into his space, shaking your head. You took his hand in yours and leaned against his chest, placing his arm at your waist.

“Just hold me,” you asked. “He never does anymore.” Both his arms came around you and brought you close. You felt his lips on the top of your head, and your arms slipped around his waist. You were both silent for a few minutes and then Bucky pressed his lips against your forehead.

“Sweetheart, I’m in a bad place. I can’t do this to Steve,” he murmured. You tipped your head back, and nodded, a single tear slipping from your eye.

“I know.”

“It’s killing me,” he breathed. “I think I fell in love with you the first time we met.”

“Jaime,” you breathed, bringing your hand to his cheek again. He closed his eyes and let out a soft groan, and his head dipped to press his lips against yours.

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@rampant-salamander @bolontiku