#and the haziness around the trees and the dust particles

[post-futurism]

shot with my Amex on black and white for the first time, really pleased with the results

[amuromi]

★ ₊ ⊹ ⋆˙ ┈ 𝐆𝐎𝐉𝐎 𝐒���𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔 X ᶠ!ᴿᴱᴬᴰᴱᴿ, 𝐆𝐄𝐓𝐎 𝐒𝐔𝐆𝐔𝐑𝐔 X ᶠ!ᴿᴱᴬᴰᴱᴿ

✦ ⋆˙ 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓 ┈ 9.8k

✦ ⋆˙ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒 ┈ NSFW! college!au, minor illness/sickness (heatstroke), semi-established relationship (poly), hurt-comfort, feelings of inadequacy, pet names (baby, baby girl, honey), fingering, oral (m & f!receiving), safe word (not used, just mentioned)

✦ ⋆˙ 𝐀!𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄 ┈ It’s kinda crazy that Gojo, Geto, and Shoko ended up in the same class because how did jujutsu tech manage to find two special grade sorcerers and a reversed curse technique user all at once. Being in their class would’ve been like Destiny’s Child except everyone but you is Beyoncé.

✮ 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐒 & 𝐀𝐆𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓!! ✮

A bird swoops lazily overhead. A black dot silhouetted against the white flame of the sun burning overhead. Sheets of heat shimmer off the pavement, tracing out rippling waves in the humid air that wane only in the shade of the trees. Still, spears of sunlight pierce through the leaves, each wavering beam feeling hot as cigarette burns even in the small halo of shadows cast by the outstretched branches. A breeze meanders through the courtyard, doing little to stave off the midsummer heat. Like tossing a single cup of water on a blazing inferno, the reprieve from the heat is only momentary. 

If the oppressive heat bothers Shoko, she doesn’t show it. Her face is veiled in a grayish haze as she takes a drag of her cigarette, sinuous threads of smoke curling through the sweltering air. Another breeze limps past with a bit more force, enough to knock the smoldering ash from the end of Shoko’s butt. It lands in her lap, eating a black hole through the cloth of her skirt before she can dust the mess away. A dot of pale skin beams through the deep blue fabric, too big to be salvaged. Shoko gives you an unamused glower when she catches the edge of your stifled laughter, tossing away the remnants of her cigarette to look closely at the damage. She brushes away the last bits of ash before clicking her tongue, sulking over the destruction of a recent purchase. 

“Maybe if you hadn’t been smoking on campus…” you hum with just enough amusement to earn you another side-eyed glare. Despite the heat you lean in closer, until your shoulders are touching, so you can whisper in her ear. “Do you want me to buy you a new skirt, honey?” 

Shoko matches your sardonic tone, eyes curved into half moons as she mockingly hums. “Fuck off.” 

She smells like cigarettes and melon shampoo as another gust of muggy air wafts past, stirring up sparkling particles of pollen that cling to the sheen of sweat shining on your skin. Everything is sticky and overwhelming, but the world shrinks to something more manageable as you tilt your head back, eyes closed to the pinholes of sunlight twinkling through the treetops. Bursts of red play behind your eyelids, vision going bright and hazy when your eyes finally open. 

“I’m assuming you’re done for the day?” Shoko asks, nodding to your abandoned weapon as she fishes in her pocket for another cigarette. Yaga-sensei had recently granted you stewardship over a cursed tool from Jujutsu Tech’s extensive armory with explicit instructions to practice before taking the bow on any field missions. Gaudy and ornamental as it is–clearly a show of some past sorcerer’s craftsmanship–the bow carries the ability to hit any target the wielder can imagine. It’s why Yaga-sensei entrusted the weapon to you to begin with. Your infallible memory makes you the perfect user of such a cursed tool. Given enough practice. 

It’s been a strenuous task and the courtyard is littered with the fruits of your labor, arrows imbued with trace amounts of cursed energy strewn across the ground. 

“It’s better to start small,” is all the advice Yaga-sensei had to give on the matter. Practice, as per his instructions, has been little more than standing in one spot while Shoko went around campus naming off landmarks and collecting the arrows as they hit their target. The torii gate near the dorms, the old well behind the cafeteria, the broken statue near the track field. Your phone battery is nearly depleted from how long she’s been going around the school grounds, giving you new targets through the speaker. The soreness in your arm had been expected given that the bow was sized to someone larger than you, making the draw strength something difficult to contend with on the first few shots. It’s simmered to something tolerable but that still leaves the mental strain it takes to perfectly visualize each location. It’s taxing on the mind, and the beginnings of a headache that could be attributed to heat exhaustion is starting to drum up behind your eyes. 

When you don’t offer an answer Shoko brushes her fingers across your forehead, outwardly it seems like she might be brushing the stray hair from your forehead but you recognize the trained calculation behind the simple touch. She wipes your sweat on her ruined skirt and purses her lips. No verbal admonishment comes, but you can tell by her expression exactly what she’s thinking. Estimations of your temperature as it correlates to your current state surely running through her head, but she’s never been one to nag you into submission. Shoko is nothing if not a watchful entity. Simply standing idly while people make decisions, only giving input when asked. Which you haven’t because you can expect a barrage of “I told you so’s” for straining yourself to this point of exhaustion over simple practice. Not a mission, not even a precursor to an aptitude test. Just practice for the sake of honing your skills. 

It’s that gnawing sense of perfectionism that has you standing despite Shoko’s skeptical glare. She won’t say it but the medical training in her is clearly showing on her face, frowning as she watches you collect your arrows. They’re still imbued with trace levels of your cursed energy but without the bow they’re only going as far as a normal arrow. The sun beats down on your back, singeing your skin even through the fabric of your shirt every time you stoop over to pick up another arrow. Shoko sighs, muttering something about “always so damn stubborn.” 

“It wouldn’t kill you to take a break.” She says. More directly this time. Combat has never been Shoko’s strong suit. Her reversed cursed technique being far more suited to the walls of an infirmary than any active battle. Practice for her is suturing and sterilizing. Nothing like the grueling physical feats you’re expected to endure for the sake of honing your craft. But even still she’s one of the few marvels attending Jujutsu Tech because no one seems to have a stronger aptitude for reversed curse techniques than Shoko. It’s truly unfair that of your four-student class, you’re the least remarkable. It makes you want to work harder, twice as hard as anyone else, to prove you deserve your place here. So instead of slowing down and taking that recommended break, you roll your shoulders and force yourself to focus. 

“I took a break.” You did. Because why else would you have been sitting around underneath a tree if not to take a break from the boiling heat that’s melting you down to a paste with the way you’re sweating. Your skin and brain feel like they’re about to liquify and evaporate. But you can’t relax. Even when you sat beside Shoko the feeling of peace was only momentary. The silence brought on by exhaustion only lasted until you gained a second wind strong enough to get you back on your feet, bow in hand despite the way your shooting arm is really starting to ache from the heavy draw weight. You had some experience with using a bow and arrow but it didn’t mean the strength needed to shoot such a massive weapon wasn’t laborious. Still, the dull throb in your arm gives you something to think about that isn’t them. The other two members of Yaga-sensei’s second year class. 

Flashes of white and black cross your mind. Abstract, undefined. Not enough to draw your mind away from your next target: the dead tree in the far corner of the courtyard. Should you shoot facing away or try aiming upwards, towards the sky? An ordinary arrow would fly straight up, perhaps get snatched off course by the wind, but no matter the direction you shoot, an arrow shot from this bow will always hit its mark. You feel the cursed energy singing through your hand as you nock your arrow. 

“That wasn’t a break. You sat down for two seconds.” Shoko rolls her eyes as she watches you draw the bow. “I know you said you’re fine, but–”

“I am!” You say too quickly. Shoko frowns at your insistence. “I just…” You struggle to come up with an explanation for your erratic behavior that doesn’t start and end with the anxiety burning like acid in your stomach. Stinging and simmering as it spreads through your nerves, leaving you with nothing to say in your defense. You hazard a shrug, hoping your indecision will mollify Shoko. It doesn’t and she levels you with an expectant tilt of her head. 

“It’s stupid.” And it is. Because how can you explain that you feel like an imposter in a school with such a rigorous entrance exam? They wouldn’t have let you in if you weren’t worth the trouble of teaching and you know that, yet you still can’t shake the feelings of inadequacy. Not when you’re learning in the shadow of the two most promising sorcerers of the modern era. And it doesn’t help that in your bid to be more like them, you’ve gone and gotten yourself far too involved. What started out as you probably being a bit of a nuisance–always close, underfoot like a puppy–turned into them seeking out your company once you realized the desperation could be dialed back a bit. In trying to seem uninteresting after following them for so long, you made yourself easy to miss. Because, of course, they’d notice if the person always standing in their shadow up and disappeared. 

Now, you’re tangled in a web of their making. A fly struggling beneath the watchful eyes of those spiders keeping you close. It feels suffocating, like chains tightening around you every moment you let yourself slip deeper into the oddity that is your relationship with the Special Grade sorcerers. Gojo Satoru. Geto Suguru. Even thinking of their names has started to spike your pulse with anxiety. And “relationship” is too charitable a word for the arrangement you have with them, seeing as you’re little more than an accessory, something to be added and removed at a whim. A cage of your own making. It’s what you get for always trailing after them like their talents would pass through their air and cling to you, make you worth more than you are. Now you’re here. Always at an arm’s length. Never closer and never further, held firmly in a place they can always reach you regardless of your own conflicting feelings. 

It had been fun at first, to know they wanted you in their lives, in their bed. Although, the newness of the physical arrangement wore off quickly. Now it feels like the tenuous bond has degraded beyond what it had been even when you were nothing more than a tenacious classmate. Before you’d been acquaintances, maybe even friends, but now it feels like you’re something less than even that. A person to pass in the halls and accompany on missions. It stings at your pride to know you only lasted a year. Chewed up and spit out now that your second year classes have reached the halfway mark, a break between semesters fast approaching. 

“Can’t be that stupid if it’s bothering you,” Shoko says patiently, lighting up another cigarette. She takes a deep drag as she waits for you to shuffle through your thoughts, landing on the least offensive truth you can offer. 

“I want to break up with Gojo and Geto.” It’s hard to break something that was built on shaky foundations to begin with, but it’s the best you can come up with without explaining the winding ins and outs of your strange situationship with the men in question. Because Shoko–hell, everyone–thinks the three of you are dating. Like a proper relationship. A happy crowd of three. Shoko blinks through the haze of smoke streaming from between her lips before nodding pensively. 

“You can try.” 

It’s something ominous, though Shoko looks a bit miffed about having to be the one to tell you. Like you should know better than to even consider something like that. The words settle like cold stones in your chest. Heavy and shivering despite the heat still bearing down through the clouds. She goes to sit back in the shade, pulling out her phone to text someone. You ignore the tap-tap-tapping of her keyboard in favor of pulling back your bow string again, aiming at a cloud passing overhead. The arrow shoots up, before winking out of sight with a faint glittering burst, like a flash of light off the edge of a blade. It lands in the trunk of the dead tree with a dull thud. And because you can and it’s something to cut through the cluttered thoughts, you keep shooting. Landing arrows around the courtyard because you’re too tired to go through the ordeal of hunting up every arrow if you go back to shooting them around campus. 

“I think that’s enough for today.” A new voice rings through the courtyard, distinct enough to distract you. A face cropping up unbidden in your mind’s eye, thoughts of the people you’ve been spending your afternoon avoiding springing up like weeds in a garden. Blue eyes and dark bangs invade your thoughts and you lower the bow before you can send an arrow into someone’s head. If you lacked discipline, were more easily startled, you might’ve shot before your reflexes caught the mistake in your mental visualization. Gojo would be fine with his infinity but Geto has no such barriers protecting him from unforeseen projectiles. Red covers white and black as you imagine the arrow piercing through his skull. 

“I’m fine.” It sounds like you’re trying to convince yourself. Now that Geto is standing in front of you, your mind has turned to tangles once more. Your usually calm and collected thoughts knotting up on themselves. He and Gojo scramble your brain in a way no one should be able to, like a radio losing signal and turning to static. It makes you want to give up on the endeavor of loosening the mess with slow, careful consideration. Quicker to cut out the tangles and be done with it. White threads. Black threads. Snip them all and watch the tension unravel. 

“You shouldn’t be practicing outside like this when it’s so hot. When’s the last time you took a break?”

“I took a break!” Shoko doesn’t offer support when you look to her to corroborate the half-truth. Instead the fledgling doctor shoves her phone in her bag and you realize the betrayal. It must’ve been Geto she was texting. Shoko isn’t the type to share anything she’s told in confidence, so there’s no worry that she mentioned anything you said to him, but she must’ve said something to raise a flag in his mind if he showed up so quickly. Shoko dusts the dirt from the back of her skirt before drifting past the two of you, murmuring about going home as she leaves you alone with your not-boyfriend. 

For all her nonchalance, Shoko is quite perceptive. A trail of smoke follows after her as she retreats, effectively extracting herself from the equation before she becomes a factor in a fight. Because that’s all you and the boys seem to do anymore. Over nonsense. About you training too hard and them treating you like something that needs protection. Or perhaps it’s just you fighting. Spitting and clawing like a caged animal because that’s how they make you feel. Small and weak and trapped. 

Even from a distance, Geto is overwhelming and it has your hackles raising before he says anything more.  

“I took a break.” You bite out, hoping your attitude will ward him off. “Now let me practice.” Unfortunately, Geto won’t give you the satisfaction of being done with the conversation just because you’re feeling a bit angry. 

“You’re going to hurt yourself.” There’s that edge of concern you’ve come to know so well. That softness in his voice that sounds almost patronizing, like you’re not aware of your own body’s limits. It makes you sink deeper into your irritation. 

“Yeah,” you scoff, “because I’m some weak Grade One sorcerer.” 

“I didn’t say that. Stop putting words in my mouth.” Quieter, to himself, he mutters about how you and Satoru are just alike, “so fucking stubborn.”

“If you overwork yourself you’ll get hurt. I’m just worried about you.” And there it is. He’s worried. Thinking about you in a way you’ve never had to think about them. As something weak and needing a watchful eye to keep them safe. Gojo and Geto are literally the strongest sorcerers of the new generation. No one has ever had to worry about them. And if they have–you have, though you’ll never admit it–it’s a wasted effort. They return from every mission almost completely unscathed. Only as ruffled as a few hairs out of place because Geto is lethal without having to manifest his collection of curses, and nothing can touch Gojo without his permission. The memories of him letting you go beyond that barrier of infinity crop up unbidden in your mind and it makes you fit another arrow on your bowstring. Burns are starting to form where the bow chafes at your fingers but you pull back the string again, deciding to shoot another arrow dead ahead with no other target in mind. 

“Don’t worry about me.” The words sound empty even to your own ears. Because as much as you crave your own type of recognition, want to prove that you’re not the weakest–most useless–second year student, you like knowing that you have their attention. Something like if you can’t beat them, join them. You’ll never surpass Gojo or Geto’s abilities but you’ve still earned their approval in a way no one else has. Even if it’s all balanced on a precarious edge. So close but so far. They have each other, and then you. They could take it all away in a second and sometimes you wish they would. It would save you the ordeal of being seen as the bad guy for cutting ties with them when everyone knows how attached the three of you are. If you aren’t with Shoko you’re with them and seeing any of you alone is a rare occurrence. It’s something you’ll have to get used to because losing them might mean losing everyone. Shoko doesn’t seem to think it’s possible but what if you prove her wrong? 

Another shot hits its target. What if you’re wrong? 

Geto sighs, real loud like he has a right to be upset. Like his mind is anywhere near as hoarded yet empty as yours. The thought of leaving makes you feel light with released anxiety and heavy with the guilt of betrayal. All at once. Too many knots. Too many thoughts. The bow falls to the wayside as you press your hands to your head, trying to will away the pain stabbing behind your eyes. Headache–maybe heatstroke–made worse by all the stress Geto’s caused just by existing near you. You lean down, hands grabbing vaguely at the ground, smacking blindly across the pavement until you find your bow. 

The sun is bleaching everything bright white and it’s hard to see even with your eyes squinted against the throbbing pain and stabbing light. The arrows are abandoned, far too many strewn about to be of concern at the moment. Right now, all you want to do is get away from Geto. Go somewhere where he isn’t and recollect your thoughts. Somewhere inside, with water and air conditioning. Your footsteps are staggered, legs feeling more like melting wax than anything solid beneath you. 

Move, you try to say, go away. It’s a slurred groan but you shoulder past Geto anyway. Or, at least, you try to. Instead you bounce off of the solid planes of his body. It sends you stumbling in another direction, so quick that your vision begins to dip and swirl like looking through water. There’s the vague sound of something warped and panicked but mostly it sounds like you’re underwater. Everything is shimmering black and blue for a moment before even that fades to nothing. 

It’s cold. Not a bitter kind of cold but something chilled and pleasant, made less frigid by a vague sort of warmth wrapped around you to stave off the biting edge of the water. Everything is tepid and dim as goosebumps prickle up your arms. The budding shivers are chased away by gentle hands soothing over your damp skin. It’s enough to shock you to full attention after lingering in the soft ether between sleep and wakefulness. Water sloshes around you, splashing over the side of the tub as you bolt upright, hands gripping the edge of the porcelain as you struggle to make sense of your surroundings. The last memories you have are steeped in searing heat and blinding light, pinched with pain as the sun leached away at you. The sun is gone now, replaced with the milky white light of the moon. It spills through the open window, highlighting the sharp edges of marble and chrome; the expensive appliances of a luxury apartment. 

Hands tease at your waist, pulling softly to coax you back to where you’d been laying against their chest. You know Gojo just by touch. It’s a privilege few are afforded now that he’s developed a mastery of his infinity, yet here he is wrapping his arms over your stomach to keep you close to his chest. His heart beats steadily against your spine, a consistent metronome that clashes with the anxious skipping of your own pulse. The headache that had been pounding away at your skull like a hammer and chisel is gone, replaced with the sound of your blood rushing in your ear as each subtle touch of Gojo’s fingers tracing against your skin sends you reeling. 

Lips find the tip of your ear, then the edge of your jaw before settling against your pulse fluttering in your throat. His silence is nearly as deafening as your racing heart. It’s so strange to find Gojo so quiet as he presses feather-light kisses into your skin. A damp hand presses into your forehead. There’s a faint hum and then a sigh before his slender fingers drift over your eyes. His lips are at your ear again, the feeling of his breath rushing over your skin making you shiver in his arms. 

“Stop thinking.” His voice is unexpectedly harsh, like he’s angry with you, and it only makes you think harder. It’s obvious you’re in his apartment but the spaces in between point A and point B are blurred, a staccato rush of images flickering in and out of focus. You were at school and then suddenly you weren’t. Last you remember, you were with Geto. Near Geto. Trying to get away from him. And now you’re naked in a tub with Gojo, and he’s upset with you. He says it again, “Stop. Thinking.” 

Because you value your sanity, or what little shred of it you have left, you really do try to calm your racing thoughts but it’s so hard with him so close. And he won’t let you go. His hand stays over your eyes, pinning your focus on him and him alone. His voice. His skin. His anger. Because no matter how much Gojo tries to mask his emotions with a veneer of humor it’s always painfully clear when he’s upset. At least to you. His voice gets lower and his smiles get tighter. Every word that comes off his tongue now is graveled with restraint and it only works to further scramble your mind. Makes you anxious at the unknown. The feeling of being caught in a web springs to life again as his fingertips dance over your stomach, slender fingers feeling like the legs of a spider tying you up in its web. It gets your breaths quickening until you can’t fill your lungs fast enough, heaving and gasping as you grab at the edge of the tub, trying to pull yourself away from him again. 

Let go. Let go. Let. Go! 

It’s a mantra marching through your head until he lets you free at last, so quickly that you go spilling over the side of the bathtub. The tiles are cold and unsympathetic and you yelp as your knees land hard against the marble. Gojo watches you, blue eyes almost glowing in the dimness of the moonlight. You scramble gracelessly to your feet, snatching up the first towel your hand touches as you rush to be away from him. Today was meant to be spent in seclusion. Away from Gojo. Away from Geto. Yet you’ve been pushed towards both of them like a compass leading you north because Geto is just beyond the bathroom door, on Gojo’s bed. 

It’s brighter in the bedroom, lit by the bedside lamp as Geto looks up from his book. It’s set aside quickly in favor of moving towards you. With each step he takes you find yourself drifting towards the door. Your clothes are nowhere in sight and the towel you grabbed hardly offers enough coverage for you to flee back to your dorm in, but the alternative of staying here, with them, is wholly unappealing. Just the thought of spending another moment with them ties knots in your stomach. 

Nervous. They make you so nervous. So anxious about every facet of your existence. They won’t say it but you can see it in the way they treat you like something left over. Something to dote on when they’re done focusing on each other. It was nice at the start because you could pretend you weren’t bothered, but now it’s all you see. A divided front. You. And them. With such an obvious split, it’s only fair that you should have the choice to break free completely. Screw what Shoko said. Of course, they’d let you go. They hardly have you to begin with. But all that bravery evaporates the second your back hits the wall, cornered under Geto’s watchful eyes. 

“Back up,” you breathe, not daring to look him in the eyes. His hair is loose, sweeping over his shoulders to curtain your face as he leans his head against yours. All he says is, “no.”

“Please, back up, Geto.” He’s always preferred manners and you try to sound docile even as your voice starts to shake. You feel him shake his head. No, again. 

“S’not my name.” His hands trace up your shoulders, thumbs brushing against your neck before hooking under your jaw to make you look at him. Slowly he asks, “What’s my name?” 

“Suguru.” It’s something weak and scratchy as your throat tries to close around each syllable but he hums like it’s the sweetest sound he’s ever heard. The meager croak is echoed as Gojo emerges from the bathroom with Geto’s name on his tongue. There’s a dozen unspoken thoughts in that single word, all of which Geto seems to recognize in an instant. 

“She’s fine, I got her. Always.” Geto says like you’re a dog that tried to bolt the moment the front door was left open. And despite how insistent you’d been earlier, and how easily Geto said it now, you’re not fine. Truly, you’re the farthest thing from it, and their hovering is making it worse. They usher you towards the bed and you’re perched on the edge as they crowd in around you. 

There’s too much skin involved. With your clothes missing you’re left in a towel, clutching it to your chest to lessen even a modicum of the vulnerability you feel with both men staring down at you. Geto reaches to brush a strand of hair away from your face and you shrink back. His hand falls away but it only leaves space for Gojo to come closer. 

“Stop touching me.” Gojo hums like he didn’t hear you even as his lips find the furrowed space between your brows, lined taut with tension beneath the softness of his mouth. 

“Stop touching me!” Your voice is cracked and edged with hysteria but it works well enough to get them to give you even just a moment to think. Steadying breaths rattle in your chest as you try to pluck up the courage to look at them. Geto catches your eye first because he’s the easiest to look at. His face has always been more guarded, more neutral, than the telegraphing billboard that is Gojo and his big blue eyes. Your thoughts are already so scattered and looking at him will only make it worse. Geto tilts his head as if he’s weighing each thought in his mind. 

“What’s wrong?” His tone is cold. Stripped of that usual affection drawl, Geto’s voice sounds almost angry. Somehow it’s everything and nothing that you wanted to hear. Anger will make this easier. If they’re frustrated and bitter it will be easier to cut ties. Still, hearing how detached he sounds makes something inside you crack. 

“Let’s break up.” In all your imaginings there was anger. Shouting and fighting, though never begging. You couldn’t imagine you’d be worth the loss of even a shred of dignity to them. Why would they lower themselves to beg you to stay? But instead of anger, your words are met with laughter. 

Quiet at first and then louder as Gojo nearly doubles over with how hard he’s laughing. As if you weren’t even worth the effort to get upset. He couldn’t even muster a single harsh word. Instead he’s laughing and the familiar sound is like salt over soil, withering your resolve. The heat of your desperation simmers to something cold and shriveled in the wake of his poorly stifled amusement. 

“Stop it!” It’s small and petulant but he quiets down almost instantly, as if he hadn’t been giggling just a moment before. All the mirth drains from his face and turns to something blank and menacing, blue eyes flashing in the low light. You say his name hesitantly, suddenly unsure of yourself, and his eyes narrow. 

“Try again.” He’s as insistent as Geto that you call him by his given name. You’re far too close to be playing at calling them by their surnames, as if they’re just passing acquaintances and not your supposed partners. 

Softly, you say his name, “Satoru.”

“That’s right, baby. You know my name. Tell me again. Say my name.” He’s getting in close again, face so close to yours that you can’t see anything but him. Pure white hair, clear blue eyes. He’s smiling again. Something coy and teasing as he waits for you to say what he wants to hear. He hears it once then says, “Again.” And again and again as he leans in closer with each murmur of his name until his lips are sealed over yours and his name is only a breath shared between shallow kisses. 

“You know my name, baby,”–he spares another kiss–“so call me by it. I’m not some random guy for you to be calling Gojo. Never have been. Never will be.” The latter declaration sounds almost threatening, and it reminds you that you just tried to sever this bond of familiarity between the three of you. Yet here he is telling you it will never be that easy. Why can’t it be? How entrenched are you in their lives that you can’t walk out just as quickly as you came? Time spent with them is sparing between missions. Today has been a seldom quiet moment to yourself between field work and neither of them had come to see you until Shoko went and planted that seed of doubt with Geto. 

“We’re not together now,” you try to insist upon your previous request. “It would be strange to call you by your name. We hardly see each other. Wouldn’t people think it’s weird if I addressed you so casually?” 

“You know that’s not true.” Geto says, thumb pressed against his brow. A habit of his that spells out his frustration as clearly as any words could. 

“Majority rules.” Gojo teases. “You’re not leaving us so you better quit bringing it up before we think you’re serious.”

“I am serious!” You feel Gojo laughing at you more than you hear it. The steady rumbling in his chest as he pulls you to lay beside him on the rumpled sheets. He kisses the tip of your nose and chuffs out an amused “nah,” as if his words are enough to void your own. 

“What’s your safeword, baby?” Geto asks from the foot of the bed. The suddenness prompts you to answer quickly, an ingrained instinct drawing the word “cloudy” off your tongue. Geto hums and touches your ankle. His fingers aren’t as delicate as Gojo’s. There’s more weight behind even the lightest touch as his fingertips find the jut of your bone before drifting higher, raising goosebumps on your exposed legs. He climbs onto the bed, hand lingering on your skin as he looks down at you. 

“What’s wrong, baby? The truth this time.” 

“I want to break up. That’s all.” It feels like a lie when you’re confronted with Geto’s piercing gaze. Gojo scoffs from his place nuzzled against the column of your neck, lips pressing hot kisses against your fluttering pulse. 

Geto presses further. “Why?” 

Why? As if you had to justify your desire for distance when it’s all they’ve been treating you with. A constant reminder that you’re different, separate. They’re doing it even now, minimizing your words to nothing even as you try desperately to get them to understand that you’re serious. It’s like they’re keeping you on a leash and you’re tugging at your lead, begging to be set free. 

“It’ll be easier for all of us.”

“Easier, how?” Gojo asks as he traces over the shape of your collarbones above the cover of your towel. 

“No one will have to pretend anymore.” 

“Who’s pretending? ’Cause it sure as hell ain’t me.” Gojo snaps, arms cinching tighter around your waist. 

“You been lying to us, baby, is that it?” He doesn’t wait for you to answer. “Our girl’s been playing with our feelings, huh, Suguru?” 

“That’s what I’m hearing.” Geto agrees. 

That’s not true. If anyone’s been lying, it’s them. Treating you so sweet when it’s plain to see the only people that matter to them is each other. They’ve always been together until you stumbled along, weak and starry-eyed. Wholly intent on earning your place in a group of such skilled sorcerers. They doted on you, taught you, loved you, but how truthful can a love borne of pity be. You’re a kicked puppy limping along behind them and it’s taken you this long to realize how truly pathetic you’ve been. Training makes a sorcerer, not trailing behind in a race you’ll never win. Chasing the backs of two people you can never hope to reach. It’s cruel of them to pretend you were ever someone worthy of being beside them. It was never going to be you and it makes you wonder how long they planned to let you live in this delusion.

“I’m not the one lying.” It’s quiet, barely the wisp of a sound, but they hear it. Gojo sits up quickly, pulling you with him so that he and Geto can pin you between them once more. 

“So it’s us?” Gojo bites, voice grated with anger. “You think we’re lying about our feelings. You think we don’t love you?” It’s better that you can’t see him as he kneels behind you, chin hooked over your shoulder, but there’s nothing shielding you from Geto’s endlessly dark glare. His head tilts, bangs sweeping over his eyes as he stares down at you with a harsh set to his lips. 

“Who said that, baby? Who told you we didn’t love you?” When you shake your head, Geto scoffs. 

“Don’t tell me you made up that lie yourself.” Gojo grunts. “You got lost in that pretty little head of yours and decided we don’t love you anymore, is that it?” His hand is over your eyes again, turning the world dark. It’s something he’s always done, covering your eyes like putting a blanket over a cage. It forces your mind to quiet, to focus on less. A habit you assume he developed as an extension of his own. 

He dampens his Six Eyes with blindfolds and tinted glasses, so of course he’d know exactly how to quiet your mind when it starts to race out of control. Your hands lift towards your face, uncertain if you want to move his hand or hold it closer. Your fingertips rest against his skin, not pushing, not pulling, but without your arms against your sides the towel slowly comes loose to pool around your waist. Warm hands are quick to chase away the chill of the room as Geto’s fingers brush against your ribs, Gojo’s free hand settling lower on your waist. They both move in closer until you’re locked between their bodies. Gojo at your back and Geto against your chest. The latter lifts your hips, pushing the towel aside completely as he pulls you into his lap. You can’t see him through Gojo’s hand, but you’re sure Geto is staring at you, gaze likely steeped in disappointment. 

It reminds you of what Shoko had said, “You can try.” And this is your reward for the effort. Trying suggests a margin of error for failure, and you’ve failed spectacularly. Undressed and caught between the two of them, feeling their hands against your naked body as they try to convince you to stay. 

“You’re wrong, pretty girl,” Gojo hums, cheek pressed up against your ear as he leans over your shoulder. His voice comes from all around you. Humming through your spine and over your shoulders as the soft timbre comes up from his chest and settles as a low draw in his throat. You hear it nearly echoing in your ear as his mouth ghosts over your skin. He’s so close, hand still guarding your eyes from seeing anything beyond his skin. He’s got you surrounded and it’s only made more overwhelming as Geto moves in closer until you can feel his breath against your lips. His face is different from Gojo’s as he nuzzles against you. The white haired man is made up of straighter edges–a slim jaw and sharp nose–to match the deceptive softness he presents to the world, like a blade hidden in a sleeve. Geto is comparatively more broad, all brute strength and heavy hands as he presses his nose against yours. 

They’re being gentle. You can feel it in the way their muscles move beneath their skin, tensing and curling with controlled strength. They’re so strong and you feel like a feather caught between two rocks as they press against you, woefully inferior and easily brushed aside. Still they don’t allow you to float away. Both of them press close to keep you exactly where they want you. Lips find your skin. Warmth blooms across the curve of your shoulders and up the column of your neck as soft pecks graze your parted lips. There’s nothing heady or frenzied about this moment. It’s less feverish than you’re used to, yet there’s no absence of emotion because being between them has always been fraught with passion. A hand trails across your chest, settling over the steadying thrum of your heartbeat, and you realize belatedly that they’re going slow for your sake. Just a moment ago you’d been overwrought with panic and each of their glancing touches works to bleed the tension out of your body. 

“Still with us?” Geto asks. He and Gojo always seem to move in tandem. Geto’s hand has only just started to tip your head up to meet his gaze when Gojo’s hand finally slips away from your eyes. You must say something in the affirmative because Geto hums, thumb brushing over your lips before he looks over your shoulder at Gojo. Something unspoken passes between them in the briefest glance and then you’re moving, getting dragged into Gojo’s chest as he sits up against the headboard with you between his legs. His towel has been brushed aside as well, leaving only Geto clothed. He evens the odds a fraction by pulling his shirt off, ruffling his hair so it falls messily around his face. Pretty.

Geto scoff, “Now you have something nice to say, baby?” You hadn’t meant to say it out loud but they both seem amused if not a bit mollified by the slip of your tongue. 

“Our boy is pretty, isn’t he?” Gojo asks, shifting his hips until you can feel the length of his approval pressed against the small of your back. Wet and hot, leaking and throbbing against the base of your spine as his hands press against your stomach to pull you impossibly closer. 

“Gentle.” Geto reminds him, eyes fixed on the way Gojo’s fingers are making impressions in the softness of your skin. Any harder and he’d start to leave bruises but Gojo knows better. Geto wouldn’t let him hold you hard enough to break and Gojo himself is far too aware of his own strength to ever lose control like that. 

“M’always gentle,” he says against the nape of your neck, the sentiment nearly lost as his teeth scrape across the sensitive skin. A shiver skitters down your spine, skin dotted with goosebumps as his tongue soothes the faint sting his teeth left behind. 

“I know you are,” Geto agrees, reaching past your shoulder to touch Gojo. The man nearly purrs, a soft chuckling noise vibrating against your skin as his tongue tastes where your pulse is rushing in your throat. 

“We’re always gentle with you, aren’t we, baby girl?” Geto’s eyes are on you now. The pitiful little “yeah,” you manage to squeeze out around the lump in your throat hardly qualifies as an answer. But they are, and isn’t that the worst part? They’re so gentle with you like they know you’re too weak to handle them unbridled, like you’re wrapped in caution tape and stamped with stickers marking you as fragile. Weak. It’s embarrassing that even in their most vulnerable state they’re more than you could ever hope to handle. 

“Our girl.” Gojo sighs. The strongest sorcerer of the new generation and yet his touch is so gentle it seems almost hesitant as one hand moves away from your waist to dip between your legs. He echoes the whimpering sound you make as the pads of his fingers brush against your clit, seemingly reveling in the way your body tenses as he traces gentle shapes against the sensitive bud. His touches are fleeting, teasing, hardly enough as he pants against your shoulder. Geto’s hands smooth up the inside of your thighs, thumbing against the muscles as he spreads your legs wider for Gojo to touch. His second hand comes away from your waist to join the first, teasing at your fluttering heat before sinking a singular finger inside. He groans louder than you do, mumbling against your dampening skin about “so wet, baby,” as he works his finger inside you, adding another and another as he stretches you out with each curling thrust of his fingers. 

Geto seems content to watch, thumbing soft circles against the shaking muscles of your thighs as Gojo takes his time loosening you around his fingers. 

“You’re making a mess, baby girl.” Geto teases. You can feel it. Gojo is frustratingly good at everything he does and this is no exception. He’s winding you up tight as he hooks his fingers against that spot inside you that has you keening and arching away from his chest. There’s the faint sound of a protest, a groaning “no!” as Gojo’s body follows yours, not letting you put any distance between you. 

“Be nice,” Geto laughs, pushing against your sternum until your back is against Gojo’s chest once more. Once you’re settled his hand trails to your nipple, brushing against the pert bud before the heat of his mouth swallows your breast. His tongue laves over your skin, leaving a glossy wet trail across your chest as he nips and licks at your breasts. It’s all overwhelming. The heat of two bodies against yours, reflecting the warmth of your own. Sweat gathers where Gojo is panting against your neck, lashes tickling your cheek as he looks down as where Geto is leaving faint marks against your skin. Your hips shift, trying to shy away from the mounting pleasure but Geto’s hold on your thigh is unflinching and only works to push you further into Gojo’s lap. You can feel the latter grinding against you, cock drooling against your skin as he grinds against your ass. 

“Fuck, baby,” Gojo’s whining now, in that same breathy way he does whenever he’s at the edge of cumming. “You close, baby, gonna cum for me?” His fingers work faster inside you, rubbing real nice against your clit as he babbles a mantra of “cum, baby, please, please, cum,” in your ear. You do because they don’t give you much of a choice with the way they’re hitting all your weak spots at once. Just one of them is enough to override your senses, but together they all but melt your brain until your thighs are shaking and you’re staining the sheets with how hard you’re cumming. Gojo doesn’t let up on your clit but he pulls his fingers out of you with an embarrassingly slick sound to fumble for his cock. Geto helps, lifting you higher so Gojo can slot his cock against your pussy. He leans forward like he’s trying to wrap himself around you, rutting feverishly against your wet heat and whining when he doesn’t end up inside you. Geto seems to take pity on him, brushing Gojo’s hand aside to stroke his flushed cock soaked with a mix of both of you. 

“I got you, baby.” Geto hums, leaning over to kiss Gojo. With the way they’re meeting in the middle, just over your shoulder, you can hear every sound they make with frustrating clarity. Every little groan Gojo makes as Geto kisses him. It’s loud and sloppy and you feel spit dappling your shoulder when they pull apart, joining the sweat already beading on your skin. 

Geto murmurs, “You too, baby girl,” before enveloping you in a kiss of your own. His tongue finds yours easily, coaxing you into a deeper kiss as he groans against your mouth. He kisses you like he’s trying to swallow you whole, to consume every part of you. It’s startling and grounding all at once. A kiss like that can’t be fake. It eases a bit of tension from your body and Geto feels it, humming against your mouth as he pulls away, a faint smile on his lips. He kisses you again only briefly before moving lower, dappling your skin in warm kisses before he settles on his stomach with his head between your legs. He gives Gojo’s cock a few more teasing strokes before wrapping his lips around his swollen length. Behind you, Gojo keens, wrapping his arms tight around you like you’re the only thing keeping him grounded. Geto’s eyes are on you as he swallows Gojo’s dick. 

“Fuck,” Gojo shivers against your back. “Wish I could see him. Tell me what he looks like, baby. What does our boy look like between our legs?” It’s an odd request if only because Gojo can see so much. Yet here he is relying on your vision to tell him what he can’t see. 

“S’pretty,” you tell him, “so pretty.” 

“Yeah,” Gojo agrees instantly. “Yeah, our boy is so pretty. Fuck, Suguru!” 

“He’s taking you so well.” Geto hums at the praise and Gojo whines behind you, hips jerking up. Geto’s hands settle on your thighs once more, gripping like he needs something to focus on while he’s taking Gojo’s cock to the hilt. You lay a shaking hand on his head, fingers carding through his soft hair, pulling it away from his face as he blinks up at you. 

“So pretty, Suguru.” He pops off of Gojo’s dick at the sound of his name on your tongue, shifting forward until his lips are wrapped around your clit. Your hand tightens in his hair, unsure if you want to pull him away or guide him closer as the simmering sting of overstimulation slowly bleeds through your body. He decides for you, pulling away far too soon and dragging you up with him. You fall against his chest as he nods for Gojo to move. You’re laid out in the space he leaves as Geto shoves his pants down his thighs.

There’s a wet spot on the fabric from where his cock has been leaking in its confines, precum beading on the flushed head. Gojo is quick to clean up the mess, kissing the tip of Geto’s cock and taking him halfway down his throat. Geto groans, tossing his head back in a wave of glossy black hair as he takes Gojo’s mouth with a few short thrusts before pulling the blue eyed man off of him. He keeps his hand in Gojo’s hair, guiding him up to his knees to kiss him again. There’s a peek of tongue between their mouths and it has your thighs pressing together just watching them kneeling over you. 

“Want you,” Geto breathes against Gojo’s lips, hardly parted from their kiss. “I don’t care how, jus’ want you.” An approving hum follows as Gojo lays himself on top of you, hips slotted against your. 

“Lift up,” he murmurs, sliding a pillow under your hips as he grinds his throbbing cock against you. “Feels so good, baby.” He whines. When he leans in to kiss you, there’s desperation sparkling in his eyes. He’s kissing you hard enough to push your head back into the mattress, nipping and licking like he’s trying to pour everything he can into the press of your mouths. His body is pressed against yours in every way he can manage. Fingers threaded with yours as your hearts beat in feverish tandem, hips pressed flush as Gojo grinds against you. There’s the vague sound of a cap popping then a pitiful whine against your mouth as Geto’s hand finds Gojo’s hip, holding him still as he presses a lubed finger inside Gojo. He melts in an instant, squirming and whining as Geto keeps him steady with a hand on the small of his back. He takes his time with Gojo, letting him relax into the feeling and stalling when he whines about it being too much. By the time Geto is satisfied with how prepared Gojo is, the latter is stumbling over his words, babbling about “please, I want it, please, please!” with his hips caught between you and Geto. He can’t seem to decide exactly what he wants but Geto does it for him, leaning against his back as he strokes his dick. 

“You want it?” Geto teases, nosing at the hollow behind Gojo’s ear. The white hair man nods, face drawn in desperation as he ruts into Geto’s fist. “What do you want, baby boy?” Geto asks as he drags the head of Gojo’s throbbing cock through your wet folds. 

“Inside!” Gojo’s voice cracks with the volume of his desperation. Geto chuckles and kisses his shoulder. 

“Whatever you want, baby.” He hums, guiding Gojo inside you. His shaking stills in an instant as he melts against you. 

“Fuck, baby,” he whines. “It’s so warm inside. Squeezing me so tight, fuck!” His babbling only devolves further as Geto presses inside him, nearly incoherent as he writhes between your bodies. The strongest sorcerer reduced to a whimpering mess before you, because of you. There’s something reassuring about it as you brush Gojo’s damp hair away from his eyes, tasting the salt of his sweat as you kiss his forehead. He can barely return the affection, nuzzling against your cheek as Geto pulls back to start fucking him in earnest. Gojo finds his rhythm pinned between the two of you, rutting into you whenever Geto pulls away. His fingers are back on your clit, making a mess between your prone bodies as he tries to rush you towards the edge. He’s already shaking and whining, teetering on the edge of pleasure from all of Geto’s attention. 

“Gonna cum, baby?” Geto huffs. There’s a nod and a litany of words spilling from Gojo’s lips that sound like “m’close,” as his hand grabs Geto’s thigh to pull him closer. Gojo grinds against his cock, fingers not letting up on your clit as he makes himself cum on Geto’s dick. 

“Good boy.” Geto coos, hands soothing against Gojo’s waist as he shivers. He’s close, you can tell by the way his hips are stuttering, balls tightening as they smack against your skin. He cums hard, body going rigid as he spills inside you. Still, even when he’s finished he doesn’t stop moving his hips. Bright blue eyes stay locked on the frothy mess seeping out around his cock until Geto gets him to pull away. His cock is soft and flushed between his legs, strings of your shared arousal staining his skin as Geto lays him down beside you. Gojo is quick to cling, slinging an arm across your waist as his head settles against your shoulder like he can’t bear to part from you for even a moment. His hand seeks out yours, twining your fingers as Geto fills the space Gojo left inside you. He chuckles at the wet sound it makes as he sinks inside you, hair curtaining your face as he leans down to kiss you. 

“Feel so good, baby girl. So fucking good. Can’t believe you wanted to take this away from us.” He groans as he sinks into your heat. Gojo had gotten you to the edge, wound you up near to snapping, and Geto doesn’t seem keen on giving you a moment to relax. His hips grind against yours with startling intensity, like he’s fucking all his anger into you. 

“Tryin’ to leave us like we don’t fucking adore you. You don’t even realize how much we need you, do you?” He grits out. They need you? It sounds inconceivable, and yet here you are. In Gojo’s bed, with Geto losing himself inside you. Who else has been allowed to see them like this? 

“You’re good, baby.” Gojo whispers. “So strong and so kind. We gotta be gentle with you, can’t let you get tarnished and jaded the way we have. Gotta keep our girl protected and happy for as long as we can.” He kisses your ear. 

“We’ve seen so much,” Geto pants. “Can’t let you end up like us.” Somewhere in his soft groans there’s a promise, a vow to keep you away from the things they’ve seen. It makes something come loose in your chest, a tension unraveling at last as tears prick at the edge of your vision. It’s a sorcerer’s job to protect and they were protecting you. All this distance and turmoil you’ve been suffering because they want to protect you. Not because you’re weak but because they’re strong. You’ve heard whispers of the things that happened while they were in high school, things you’d never wish on your worst enemy. Gojo had died somewhere in their second year. Of course they want to keep you behind them, a wall between you and the cruelness of their world as Special Grades. Your vision swims with tears as you pull Geto into a kiss, mumbling out sniffling apologies. 

“M’sorry, m’sorry! I just wanted you to take me seriously. It always feels like I’m an afterthought when it comes to missions.”

“Baby, you’re the only thought.” Gojo sighs. “You’re our soft place to land and we’d like to keep it that way. We like you soft. You can be strong all you want but when you’re with us, you gotta let us treat you nice, yeah?” You think you nod, babbling back an affirmative, but it’s hard to know as the head of Geto’s cock grinds against your sweet spot, his fingers rubbing over your messy clit. Gojo thumbs at your nipple and it’s the last bit you need to send you over the edge with a cracked shout. 

“That’s right, baby, shit.” Geto groans as you clench around him. He presses in close, forehead against yours as he works himself to the edge. Each panting breath is shared between you as you rest the hand Gojo isn’t holding against the nape of his neck, nails scratching lightly in his hair. 

“Please, wanna feel you. Please cum, Suguru,” you whisper against his lips. He returns the coaxing with a soft “fuck,” pressing his weight against you as he cums with a graveled grunt of your name. You feel the mess leaking down your thighs, a mix of Gojo and Geto dripping out of your cunt as Geto pulls away with a few fluttering kisses. 

“Thank you,” he says between each press of your lips. “Thank you for trusting us.” Belatedly, you realize you had trusted them. Implicitly. Geto had even gone as far as reminding you that you had an out, asking for your safe word even when you could tell he didn’t want you walking away from them. Even in your anger and panic you’d trusted them to treat you carefully, and they had. Gojo is still pressing soft kisses into your skin as he clings to you. His leg has found the space Geto left between yours, hooked over your thigh to keep you from squirming away from his sweaty embrace. 

“Don’t get too comfortable.” Geto says as he runs his hand up Gojo’s thigh. “We all need a bath and I’ve gotta feed you two.” 

“M’not hungry.” Gojo grouses, burying his face further in your neck. 

“Don’t be a brat.” Geto groans. “And we definitely need to get some fluids in this one.” He says, wiping the sweat from your brow. “She was already dehydrated. We shouldn’t have tired her out like this.”

“I’m fine,” you tell him, really meaning it this time, but Geto brushes you off. 

“You probably feel fine but you’ll be complaining about a headache in an hour tops, so up you go. Shower, then food. You can whine about how mean I’m being once you’ve gotten something to drink.” Gojo grumbles something that sounds faintly like “I’ll hold you to that,” as he gathers you into his arms and carries you to the bathroom. They argue about who gets to wash you and what food to order, falling into the familiar rhythm of push and pull between them with you as the mediator, gently guiding their petty arguments with a soft laugh. It’s a comfortable place to be, just one step behind them. 

[dayfalwastaken]

Power Testing - Spider-Man fanfic preview.

Mirroring a lightbulb lighting up, he jumped to his feet, his mind racing with a few spots in seconds. The first place he’d thought of was Doc Ock’s underwater base, though that one had been flooded from top to bottom. There was Vulture’s so-called “Nest”, but that… Nope. The Lizard’s hideout in the sewers- a more acceptable alternative if he ignored the smell. Although… Nah, bringing the Symbiote down there would make him eligible to experience the “Lethal Protector Treatment™”, and if that’s what led to Venom he’d have no right to get mad. There were those couple of weapon cashes belonging to Mr. L that he’d busted, but they were too small for what he needed to do. Or…

He finally gave the warehouse a good, long look before letting familiarity take him down the wall and through a broken window. What he saw inside left him with his mouth agape.

Or he could use Mysterio’s old prop house. Peter shook his head. These were too many small miracles one after the other. He knew he shouldn’t jinx it, but something bad was going to happen in return, wasn’t it?

He’d forgotten all about this place after the Police had raided it. The building had been abandoned in every sense of the word so there hadn’t been a reason to keep tabs on it. Every nook and cranny had been inspected, all evidence collected and nothing of interest had been left behind. Even Mysterio had known better than to return here. Before he’d been imprisoned, that was.

“Man, I hope he’s real this time. If it turns out he’s another bot I’m breaking that snow globe of his and leaving him hanging off the Brooklyn Bridge.” He muttered as he dropped to the floor.

The warehouse was huge and filled to the brim with dilapidated movie sets and harmless props, the only things not to be stripped clean by the Police. In front of him was a large theater stage, complete with red curtains with golden accents and spotlights to shine on the would-be actors below. Surrounding it were the sets, which came in all shapes and sizes. One was an old town that looked like it had been ripped straight out of a western, another was a miniaturized castle that belonged in a Disney film. A mockup tropical island was stationed to the far left, featuring fake vegetation, palm trees and a greenscreen where the sea should’ve been.

Near the stage, to its left was a full-sized T-Rex animatronic, sitting behind a row of costumes ranging from astronauts to horror movie monsters and caped crusaders. Other such props were littered about, many in open wooden boxes and on… barrels of all thing. Dust had gathered in absurd quantities on everything, all surfaces having a hazy layer of grey to them. Not even the air had escaped, the roof’s skylight allowing the moon to shine through right in the middle of the warehouse, illuminating the particles throughout. Oh, and there were more cobwebs than he could count.

“Makes you think why a guy with so much money would put on a suit and start robbing banks.” He spoke out loud. He couldn’t say he related to those that chose a life of crime when they already had all they could’ve asked for. Were those types of criminals looking for fulfilment? Something to entertain them and stave off their boredom? Peter would never know.

Hideouts such as these fit the guy’s style more than Peter would’ve considered. Hidden in plain sight, being almost too obvious of a base for people to think they’d actually be used. The bad guys weren’t that dumb, right? Except that kind of reverse psychology was exactly what Mysterio specialized in. It explained why it had taken so long for him to be found out.

Peter walked to one of the barrels and picked it up, checking around to make sure he was alone. He wasn’t sensing… Was that breathing he heard? Or… No, that was literally the wind. A current must’ve formed from all the open windows, which- yep, if he zeroed in on them he could pick up the wind flowing in.

Neat. Couldn’t do that before.

The Symbiote sent something then. It was like a ping, a short vibration at the base of his skull, what his Spider-Sense could have sounded like in another life, to notify him of… He couldn’t tell. Like the tingles, he was given a vague sense of direction, pointing towards the stage, but it was too widespread to say if it was the stage or just in front of him in general. Even more like said power, a feeling of alertness flew through his being, making his hair stand on edge.

Peter took a stance and waited, expecting to be taken by surprise, but nothing happened. The Spidey-Sense itself didn’t trigger, which made him raise a brow. He knew how reliable it was. Unless he was too distracted to listen to it, the early warning system couldn’t fail him no matter what, so… if it didn’t ring then there was no threat in his proximity…

…Was Symby attempting to communicate or was it playing around with his powers, mimicking them for testing purposes? If so, had it gotten the idea from him? He thought the question again, more clearly this time, hoping for an answer only to be met with the usual silence. It was plausible this had been just a test- the Klyntar adapting to his body like he was to its and trying things out. But then… Peter was the host. He was the one who had to accept the foreign being, not the other way around…

And as he pondered that, the lack of ringing in his head kept on confirming he was under no danger. Not being spied upon or anything of the sort.

So… just a fluke? No bug squashing involved at this time?

No response.

Good talk. Well, I hope it was nothing. Because if it was then shouldn’t the faux sense have remained active to keep warning him? Instead, it’d been as brief as it could have, and Peter was fairly convinced it was in both his and the Symbiote’s best interests for enemies to be scoped out if they were hiding somewhere close. Whoever those enemies may’ve been, if they even were that. Keeping information about their surroundings hidden was detrimental to the both of them. A Symbiote, a being whose whole deal about bonding revolved around the “we” aspect would know better than to keep close threats hidden from its host.

So, it must’ve been a fluke. Or a test or whatever it was Symby was doing other than actually warning Peter, since keeping him in the dark about this was a dumb move…

You know, I mean, no rush- I know this is new for you too, but I hope the cold shoulder won’t last long. I’d really appreciate a second opinion in, well, everything really, `cause… if I’m being honest… Most of the time I’m just winging it… That, uh, haha, rolling with the punches- that’s kinda what I do. Even if I shouldn’t when I have all these memories to tell me what I can do better. I haven’t outgrown that yet… Ah, sorry for being impatient- I’d just love it if we could talk, you know?... Probably not. I dunno, sorry. Take your time, buddy. He tried to offer it feelings of encouragement, which he didn’t actually know how to do, but it was the thought that counted, no? Peter hoped so anyway.

A curt blink of acknowledgment was radiated back along with something akin to a metaphorical pat on the head, telling him his concerns were understood and would be addressed, before Symby severed the connection. He smiled slightly.

Heh, coming from the immortal alien goo that’s pretty comforting.

…Symbiotes were so above his paygrade, he couldn’t help but feel a little small when compared to the alien that hailed from the stars. Alien that had been alive for literal eons. The… expectations or standards a being like it must’ve had when it came to-

No, bad Spidey! Don’t thread that way if you don’t want to go into some dark places. Focus on the present.

Just the act of thinking… It was like working to defuse a bomb- trying not to mess things up permanently and second guessing himself at every turn, but then… What else was knew? Typical Parker luck. What was a new weight added to the balancing act, some more confusion to navigate through? He shrugged to relieve the distress.

Redirecting his attention to the barrel at hand, he clasped it with both hands and pressed them closer, caving the metal with a sickening whine. He froze when he realized that may’ve hurt the Other, but when his suit failed to produce a reaction he took it as a sign that he hadn’t accidentally harmed it. Must not have been loud enough, then. Continuing, he was left dissatisfied with the bent plate in his hands. Simply flattening it wasn’t what he wanted, so he crumpled the remains further into a ball the size of his fist. He repeated the process five more times before webbing the spheres together.

Nodding to himself, Peter began crushing it all at once- every one of those one hundred and eighty pounds of steel drums. He actually had to struggle the more pressure he applied, but it didn’t take long for those one eighty pounds to be compressed into something that could fit in his palm. That was over twenty thousand grams per cubic centimeter…

He closed his mouth as soon as it had started hanging open and dropped the metal pebble, staring at his hands. Whether in awe or terror, he wasn’t certain. He was leaning more towards terror.

This was how the Thing felt, wasn’t it? Always having to be mindful of the world around him since he could break it with a mere touch. Like it was made out of tissue paper. That must’ve scared him a little. Peter shared the feeling to a degree, superstrength did that to people, but this… was excessive to say the least. He’d had an understanding of it, but he hadn’t fully grasped just how strong the Symbiote had made him, and… He’d hate to have to use this much power against another human being, or any being for that matter. Ever.

Look on the bright side. Now you can give the world’s best bear hugs.

[kinetic-elaboration]

June 7: Canadian Haze

The Canadian Haze has drifted all the way down to where I live. I didn't really notice it in the morning, but the outside through the windows was decidedly...hazy! (there's really no single word synonym that describes it so well) by about 9 or 10. We had an air advisory warning for the rest of the day, and some people said they could feel or discern it in some way from the inside. I definitely could not, but I work in a different area of the library with less outside air flow.

I did do some dusting (of the shelves that should have been dusted last year but I guess I was the only doing that) and forgot to wear a mask. That was really dumb on my part. I always work a mask to move books last year but I think I just forgot/was in denial about how much I'd be stirring up. It got all in my lungs and throat and I basically felt it for the rest of the day. So when I left work, I felt like I wasn't in a good place to determine just what was going on in the air by, like, breathing it and seeing how I felt. I was not starting with a blank slate. Also my supervisor mentioned that she'd read that it was recommended we wear masks outside. So once that was said I basically had to or I would be up all night waiting for my imminent death from particle inhalation because that's how my anxiety and hypochondriac tendencies have developed since the pandemic. Pretty much no one else was wearing one though so?? I don't know.

The weather outside was really fucking weird. I'd never seen haze-from-distant-wildfires before; it wasn't really like what I imagined. It wasn't debilitating--far from it, not really noticeable in terms of breathing--and people were basically treating it like it didn't exist. If I just looked at the objects immediately around me, they seemed the same. But if I looked at things in the distance, like buildings or especially up at the tops of trees, they looked noticeably...dirty. It was a sensation not unlike looking out a window that hasn't been cleaned in a long time. You can't necessarily see the dust or the grime, but you just know if you took a soapy sponge to the window and gave it a few good swipes, the colors of everything on the other side would totally change. Except I wasn't looking through anything, that was just the color of the objects. The sky was a maybe slightly smudged 'white sky,' which we get here often. It's also the strangest thing: a sky that's totally white, like someone cut out the sky and now all objects exist against an utter blankness. But then we also get many dies of extremely blue sky with cute, fluffy clouds in it, so perfect they almost seem fake, so I guess it evens out.

Anyway, I've spent the evening curled up in bed, being tired, doing nothing, and watching TV. Now, shower and bed.

[bitsofmybrothersdxxix]

Suicidal Session

Summary: Unable to face the events following the reveal of his anxieties, Ichimatsu decides to flee from home and end everything before his life can get worse for him and everyone he loves.

⚠️Trigger Warnings: Suicide, cutting, depression, anxiety. Proceed reading with caution.⚠️

~~~

Encapsulated by the shadows of the night, he ran. He ran with his lungs hitching and empty, struggling for air. That mask that was pinched against the lower half of his face forbade him from consuming more than the hollow pants he managed, but he allowed himself the struggle a little longer as he darted through the empty Akatsuka streets. The moonlight crested against the road, overlapping it with a faint, blue-white wash. Leaves crunched as the wind fazed through them on the trees, detaching some and rendering them soaring into the open night.

But the shadows were still havens for safety, from eyes. Ichimatsu Matsuno took his chance to let them tug him, and in their protection he shimmied away from the household worth twenty-plus years of his life. At the kilometer or so he had ran, he was very aware that there was someone calling his name...At least, perhaps that was what he wanted to think. He didn’t think there was anything more to hatred anymore that was aimed at him, and so there was no point hoping for the impossible.

Intersections were occupied with limited, roaring engines as they zoomed past the green lights. City lights were bright, but activity was heavily minimal. Everyone was drowned by the stars lingering under their eyelids, and in this time of their tranquility there was nobody to notice the dirty creature running past them. Ichimatsu waited a moment before the lights flashed red before he let the moonlight strike against him momentarily. Then in an instant he was in the darkness again, each pound of his sandals on the ground a reminder of his journey and how far he was getting from the place he once called home.

Only a few more and he was going to reach the beach. Only a few more and he was going to reach the cliff. He had heard his brother’s story about that cliff, and as much as it was less than ideal, he supposed he was now hexed to follow in someone’s footsteps. Only unlike her, he wasn’t going to survive. There wasn’t going to be anyone waiting by the seashore to lock him into silent conversation over the choice he was going to make. No. He didn’t have that. And so, he was as safe as he was endangered.

Ichimatsu gritted his teeth. In his own anger, he clutched his knife. If his skin was pale then, it was albino now.

They had called his name, some furious, others horrified. The floor in which they had trekked on for the entirety of their lives was never that drenched in Ichimatsu’s red before. But the circumstances that had led to that single moment had been swift and unexpected, and their lives had forever been changed due to that. His sleeves were rolled low, grief opposing his brother’s genuine joy. The intentions were far from similar.

But now Ichimatsu was exposed, and those intentions were easily revealed for all to compare.

Their oldest brother was appalled, disbelieved, heartbroken. “Why...?” he had croaked.

The second oldest wanted to get close then, their third at his heels and their youngest with his upcoming waterworks at their side.

The fifth had just stared.

“Sorry.” Then Ichimatsu had fled the room, all the shouts rising and slamming his back as he quickly stomped down the stairs and passed through their mother’s kitchen, swiping the sharpest blade from its drawer. And finally with a mask secure over his nose, his mouth, the door was thrown off its hinges and Ichimatsu was lost in the shadows of Akatsuka Ward. His brothers yelled his name—was that really them, or his imagination? No, it didn’t matter anymore. They were his past—his future was now shrouded with their freedom from him.

Never to see them again.

Ichimatsu’s heart suddenly hurt, and his eyes burned. He wasn’t sure why—he was certain that his choice was going to save him from his misery. But somehow, just thinking about his past was making a part of him want to retreat from its mission, and his pace almost slowed. The knife went numb where his fingers went limp. The shadows, for their comfort, suddenly felt menacing. It swelled in his chest and rocked his body, and Ichimatsu was weak, wanting to just curl up in his own guilt and run back with...something.

No.

End it.

Almost involuntarily like muscle memory, Ichimatsu raised the knife and dragged it over his sleeve. It marked faintly through the fabric, and caressed a scar buried underneath, formerly in the process of mending itself again. But for now...It was a tap, but it was agony. Ichimatsu muffled a whimper behind his mask, but in the instance that he was returned to reality, he continued to blend in the black and make his way through the ward. The only difference now was that the darkness had managed to look hazy, and that his cheeks felt wet.

It wasn’t raining. At least, the skies weren’t unleashing any storm over the town. It was just Ichimatsu unleashing the storm upon himself.

And all he wanted now was for the storm to stop.

And there wasn’t any other way of permanently ridding something other than killing it.

The knife in his hand knew this solution. The cliff, surrounded by crashing waves, knew this solution. It was only few though, who decided upon this route. It was a wonder why—for sure, didn’t answering math problems in school always have students relying on shortcuts than elongated solutions? Ichimatsu and his brothers had been in this clan, but lately, it was more of Ichimatsu’s mindset now. For the duration of his life as an adult, he had been shackled to problems that had solutions that stretched further and further away, wanting no pencil to scrape the answer.

The other way? Yielding.

Yielding was always so much more easier than dragging yourself into hopeless desperation. It was such a simple solution, ending everything so easily and smoothly and wiping off all of someone’s issues with the speed of a flicking finger. Its only parallel was dying too much inside, with sorrow over joy, and the fearlessness of a coward. It was because of the acceptance of a weakness that someone chose wielding, and for someone like Ichimatsu...

Heh, Choromatsu wasn’t the only one self-aware sometimes.

Dim, the establishment of Sutabaa promised memories of their youngest brother’s humiliation. The bridge, that held the memories of romantic rejection underneath the rain. The small, rentable idol center, where one of them had often visited to support the stars that would never love him the same way. The waters, which was painful for being the spot where being tied to be eaten by the waves symbolized the lack of family appreciation. And the horse races, a place of cash, and the habitat for happiness that was outside the happiness created by family.

Family, except Ichimatsu?

Well, they didn’t need to worry about him anymore.

Even if Ichimatsu, for the longest time, always worried about them.

No more worrying.

The beach arrived.

At night, the waters were black, like ink, only they weren’t as blobby. They were extremely smooth, and collided against the sand, their sound whole as they swallowed tidbits of the particles that colored like dust. Dangerous and dark, they were literally the passageway to hell, aware of the intent of visit at this time of night in opposition to the joy brought by the day when couples splashed around, and women lay under their sun to let their skin burn in the heat. Children made castles made of sand, and played pretend as princes and princesses, mermaids and witches. Pictures were taken to capture moments that needed more than the mind’s efforts to remember.

The beach was supposed to be a peaceful, joyous setting.

Still, at night, the beach showed a different side of itself. It was as double-faced as the rest of them.

Ichimatsu stopped running the moment he reached the first transition of soil to sand. He was panting, and as he lowered his mask he smelled the scent of the waves as they wafted in the air. They were fresh, natural, and welcoming for a swim. But their color, their appearances...The waves were loud, gobbling beasts. For all the goodness they presented, they were still as evil as the knife in his hand, the scars on his wrists, the cracks in his fragile heart.

The wind tore at him, ruffling his messy hair, whipping the loose parts of his purple hoodie, embedded with the same green pine that he shared with them all. Was it worth it that he take off his hoodie and leave it behind, leave it in life instead of taking it with him to death? Or was this one thing that gave a reason to smile before worth bringing with him, so that there was still a mingling spark of goodness to take to his afterlife?

Ichimatsu choked, and the wind felt cold on his face. Or, the wind made his tears feel like ice. And with that, the chills that were shuddering through his body; Ichimatsu wanted to just drop down and release all of it, all of the thoughts and emotions bubbling in his chest and stealing his heart. Except he didn’t drop down. He dropped the knife which thudded and marked on the sand, and while his shoulders were quaking and his heart was pounding like a rhythmless drum, his mouth peeled open and the first sounds of his utmost sorrow mixed with the sounds of the waves.

When at home, Ichimatsu didn’t want to cry. When he did, it was when he was sure that he was walking out of the front doors of another day, to play with cats in the alleyway, where he would unveil the silver that was hidden in his pockets and slide it over what was exposed of his rolled sleeves. No one asked why he was pale upon returning home, why he was anguished in silence, nor why he refused to join them in days at the oden stand, the bathhouse, the horse races, pachinko. They held discretion over him because they feared his promise to kill them. They didn’t ever think the day would come when he held a promise to kill himself.

Now they knew. They knew, and there was no turning back.

Fear was grappling Ichimatsu’s system, and the thought if facing them before he succeeded in his hopes for a suicide was equivalent to confessing his sins and living longer in shame. It was unbearable, to wake up another day more tired than ever, wanting nothing more than to feast his eyes into a void where the promise of freedom vowed and vowed. Not this, to know that his secret was out for his brothers to take in, and for them to bear with this piece of trash much longer as long as he continued to live. They didn’t need him. He deserved to die.

His pain was everywhere: his arms, with all the wounds; his heart, from all its agony; his chest, from all his shame; his eyes, with all his crying; and his heart, with all his happy moments that would be reduced to smoke. Memories.

By the time Ichimatsu slipped his feet away from his sandals and faced the ocean, his whimpers turned into sobs. His tears were waterfalls that poured heavily down his face, droplets blotching his clothes and smacking the sand under him. But he didn’t stop any of them—it was better to cry over happy memories than sad ones. He loved his brothers too much to dwell on all the times he had let them down. It was better to think of the times that he had lifted them up.

...

When had he done that?

...

Oh god...

I’m sorry.

Ichimatsu’s hands clenched, nails biting into his skin. Shutting his eyes and releasing a sorrowful growl, Ichimatsu used the last of his stamina to race towards the cliff, threading across the sand and letting the sight of the tall mount of rock increase in size. Ichimatsu felt his own body incline as he stepped on the surface that rose off the ground, and the wind got stronger, whipping at him like an immortal force, and the sounds of the waves grew into bellowing. The edge of the cliff then became his starting point, and at the same time, his finish line.

Ichimatsu stopped running, peering down below. The ocean was dark, gloomy, serious in its granting of death. All Ichimatsu needed to do was let it do its task.

...He couldn’t.

Why?

...He couldn’t.

Ichimatsu continued looking down, saw his own tears drip from his eyes and get lost in the vastness of the water. Was it really worth it to get lost as well in there, to never come back?

He had five brothers, three older than him, two younger. He had parents who were willing to raise them despite the difficulty of six sons, and friends who willingly acted to their mischief the same way they acted to their friends’ mischief. They had a house where their lives were safely kept for the entirety of growing up, building and breaking their personalities. In all his life, there were so many happy thoughts. In his life, there were so many sad scenes. And yet in spite of all the smiles that had glued themselves for dominance inside him, why was the temptation of worthlessness so much stronger?

It didn’t make sense—so many things in life didn’t make sense.

And this choice of his, was it sensible at all?

No. But nothing in life made sense anymore. Therefore, it was worthless.

Ichimatsu let loose a sob, closed his overly-moist eyes, and let his bare feet go over the edge.

But then there was something that tugged him from above when it was supposed to be gravity pulling him down, and a bone creaked when it wasn’t required to. Ichimatsu cried out, his voice thick and hoarse, but in the next moment he realized he wasn’t falling anymore. He was hanging, and the water below him wasn’t swallowing him. It was still waiting for him. Death was close, but he had stopped before he could reach it.

Ichimatsu snapped his head up.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to break your shoulder. My bad,” Osomatsu apologized, his smile watery as he looked down at Ichimatsu. His hand was wrapped around Ichimatsu’s bicep with security, as if letting go was betraying an oath made with Akatsuka-sensei himself. But Osomatsu too, had eyes catching the hints of light peeping behind the clouds, silver that threatened to spill down his face. “It’s just better to have that broken than my brother’s whole life,” he added.

Behind him, the others were less than effective in containing their emotions. Openly weeping, Karamatsu had a hand to the lower half of his features, the other one carrying Ichimatsu’s purple sandals tightly and defensively. At his side, there were Choromatsu and Todomatsu, the former having a tight hand over Todomatsu’s shoulder in consolation as the youngest gawked at his older brother with big, horrified eyes. Choromatsu had his chest puffed, collecting the control he was struggling for. Todomatsu had collapsed in his emotional stability.

And Jyushimatsu...

“Ichimatsu-niisan...” Jyushimatsu was next to their oldest brother, and he too was like Todomatsu and Karamatsu in controlling the sway of his feelings. Except, he looked worse than all of them, his eyes overflowing almost as much as Ichimatsu’s were. And again, the stab of pain struck Ichimatsu like a bullet, and the dislocation of his shoulder was nothing but a pat on his anatomy in comparison. “Please...We don’t want to lose you...” Jyushimatsu whispered.

Hearing the words, Ichimatsu didn’t expect much from himself. Maybe he expected to just look down below and untangle himself from Osomatsu’s hold to resume his fall. Maybe he was to just die then and there, because the heavens pitied him enough and had finally decided to take him before he could grow more pathetic. But none of that happened. It was just Ichimatsu giving in to weightlessness, dipping his head, and sobbing as his features contorted entirely.

Sniffing, Jyushimatsu accompanied Osomatsu and with their combined strength they hoisted Ichimatsu off the edge, the oldest man lowering Ichimatsu down on the ground after. Immediately, Ichimatsu clutched his face and bawled, ashamed and shameless on his show of emotion, but it didn’t matter anymore. He didn’t know what to do. He was stuck now with his brothers surrounding him, piling around him, and there was no escape from the Matsuno brothers when they were certain of their goals.

Even one brother can’t surpass the strength of the remaining five.

So Ichimatsu just cried.

“Wh-Where’s the knife?” Choromatsu stammered, kneeling next to Osomatsu and Ichimatsu, Karamatsu occupying the other side with Todomatsu. Choromatsu swept a glance through the blue monotones of the beach before landing his attention back to the task at hand. His face fell, and he hugged his arms as he defeatedly locked his lips again.

“I shucked it into the ocean earlier,” Jyushimatsu reported to him nonetheless, dropping to the ground and placing a sleeved hand over Ichimatsu’s shoulder, rubbing it tenderly in tiny ovals. Cautious of the pain of the dislocation, and the pain that has iced Ichimatsu’s soul. “No one’s gonna find it anymore. My throwing skills are to beat, especially when I have determination set on something. Right, niisan?” He didn’t need to be viewed by eye for Ichimatsu to tell he was smiling faintly.

Oh. So they’d really do that just to get rid of evidence of Ichimatsu’s sorrows, huh? Well, wasn’t that just a tiny bit heartwarming?

Ichimatsu didn’t reply.

A sigh. “We won’t pry,” Karamatsu said, maintaining strength in his voice as he spoke, despite being so close to cracking. “But please. Stay with us, Ichimatsu.”

“Be our Darkmatsu-Kittymatsu a little longer,” Todomatsu pleaded, his hands trembling against Karamatsu.

“No,” Osomatsu stated, capturing the rare, stern tonality of his role in their family. “Be our Ichimatsu forever. Promise me that, okay, Ichimatsu-chan?” Osomatsu made for a small chuckle that rattled both their frames, and he rubbed the bottom of his nose like he always did.

Ichimatsu halted and looked up at him. And eye contact, Osomatsu’s serenity, his begging that reflected in his gaze, that made Ichimatsu crumble into more than just his own body like he had always used to for the longest time, but against Osomatsu’s. And immediately, everyone was tightly supporting him, trying to keep him intact in their love and support, in fear for another deadly session from him, and losing the fourth man that bonded their title as Matsuno sextuplets.

Yes, Ichimatsu broke down. But that’s why the others were there to build him up again.

~~~

Author’s Note: I remember first getting into Osomatsu-san and seeing all these depressed Matsu fanfics, and I wanted to make one myself. It wasn’t a mood. It was a feeling of lowness in my life and I wanted to further incorporate depth to it into this oneshot story of my favorite Matsuno.

So sorry if I butcher the feeling of sorrow and depression. I don’t wish to offend.

[himbowelsh]

If you want to, 9 or 19 with webgott? I hope you have a wonderful week 💕

i’ve got another prompt for #19, so how about #9?

sha-la-la-la my oh my, looks like the boy’s too shy  💋 (accepting!)  9.  one small kiss, pulling away for an instant, then devouring each other 

The stars are brighter tonight than any other time in recent memory... and it’s not like Austrian skies aren’t impressive as a rule. The nights shine brighter in the countryside than they ever did over the bustle of New York City. No matter how many times he sees the skies alight, David will never get used to it. Something divine shimmers in each blinking star, something earnest and mythical in the constellations strewn like New Years’ confetti across the sky. He is not a spiritual man, but Austrian nights make him feel like he could be, maybe.

Tonight, the sky is putting in extra effort. Each star feels like a beacon, calling him away from war and mourning. One of them, he muses, might be Janovec. 

He spun off the road just that morning, with little warning and no fanfare. One second, he was alive. The next... the war had claimed him too, and he didn’t even have a bullet wound to show for it.

The men who died on D-Day were heroes. David saw them drown in waist-deep swamps... gurgle to death on blood and bullets... strangled by their own risers and left hanging from trees like Halloween decorations. Heroic deaths, all of them, and their parents must claim some sense of pride in knowing their sons lives ended, not in agony and fear, but in resolute patriotism.

American heroes still sob for their mothers in their last moments. David still hears their screams.

Isn’t it such a privilege to die for one’s country?

Janovec didn’t even get that. He wasn’t taken out by enemy gunfire — only it was an American Jeep, and an enemy tree. Hoobler didn’t die in the heat of battle. His killer was a German pistol, but an American hand. Van Klinken caught machine gun fire, but he bled to death on Dutch soil, with Dutch dirt in his mouth and Dutch ash mixing with his tears.

Will they be called heroes, now that the fighting is done?

Austrian summer is warm, but there’s always a chill this high up. It bites at David’s exposed skin. He draws himself up a bit tighter, knees pulling close to his chest. There’s no real danger of overbalancing. The street may be a dizzying distance below, but this part of the rooftop is steady and nearly flat. He’d never have climbed out otherwise. David is not in the business of risking his own life unnecessarily. He fought a war, which ought to be enough; he’s got no intention of dying now that it’s done.

(Done for some, in limbo for others. In a few months, will they all be speaking Japanese?)

It’s chilly up here, but quiet, and perfectly dark — exactly what he was looking for. The sky sprawls above him, endless and alive with constellations. Each one welcomes him, calls out to him, tugs at the exposed threads of his soul. There, glistening brightly off to the right — is that Janovec? There, the one with the steady glow — Hoobler? Or maybe it’s Jackson — maybe those twin stars, glittering playfully side by side, are Muck and Penkala. Maybe there’s a place in the sky for more — hundreds, thousands, him —

“You gotta be kidding me.”

The unexpected voice jars him, like waking from a deep sleep. David flails. If the roof were any more perilous, he’d have certainly gone over the edge — but if this occurs to the intruder clambering out the rooftop window, he doesn’t seem to care.

“Of all the places — ow, fuck —“ Joe Liebgott smacks his head against the top of the frame. He’s too lanky; on the ground, he carries his long limbs with the grace of a feline, but he clearly wasn’t made for cat burglary. David sucks his lip, determined not to laugh, as Joe awkwardly forces his too-big body through the opening. “Of all the places to get yourself killed, Web, you know how to pick ‘em.”

“Figured it would have happened by now, in some way or another,” he replies with an easy shrug. “Why wait for anyone’s help?”

Joe says nothing — unless another muffled curse as his foot gets caught on the frame counts. By the time he manages to haul himself out onto the rooftop, he’s got a tear in his shirt sleeve, and multiple bruises to show for the effort. Never mind the fact that David didn’t invite him, or tell him where he was going; Joe still huffs at him as if it’s somehow his fault.

“People who can’t climb out windows typically shouldn’t,” is all David has to say on the subject.

“If they were made to be climbed out of, they’d be bigger.” Joe inches forward on his hands and knees, peering over the ledge with his typical morbid curiosity. A low whistle echoes through the quiet night. With a sigh, David settles back in his comfortable spot, watching the interloper warily. He doesn’t know why Joe’s here. Nevermind what he wants — he’s never been able to figure that out, and they’ve known each other for nearly a year now.

Instead of explaining himself, as he can usually be relied on to do, Joe goes quiet. It’s... somehow worse than chatter. Silence is heavy, like a lead blanket draped over their shoulders, weighing them both down. It feels more intimate, somehow. There’s not much space on this rooftop, only a few feet of distance between them, but the longer the quiet stretches on the more that distance shrinks to inches.

If only he’d brought cigarettes — that’s something to share, and a good excuse for sitting alone at night. As it is, if Joe asks what he’s doing out here... David doesn’t know what he’d say.

Joe isn’t paying attention to him, though. His gaze, too, is trained on the sky. No one can escape it tonight.

Unexpected, unbidden, Joe breaks the silence. “You ever think about what’s up there?”

David tenses. Too close to home. “I mean... sure. Sometimes. I guess... lots of gasses, and dust particles, water vapor... and that’s just in our atmosphere.”

Joe casts him a glance that’s half-annoyed, in the way that isn’t really annoyed at all. David hates how  accustomed he’s grown to all those outspoken looks. “You know what I mean,” Joe says — and David says nothing, because he does.

“I used to... think there had to be something up there. Not really people, y’know? My Mom, she tried to raise us the right way — when our pet hamster died, she told us about immortal souls, olam haba, everything that’s supposed to come after. Except I never really...” He gestures for a minute, snapping his fingers like the words elude him. “Got it. My Mom will give you her opinion on anything, but even she can’t say for sure what happens when you die. It was all too hazy for me as a kid. I didn’t know what to look for, or... what it meant.”

David tries to understand. He comes up short, in ways he can’t identify but is painfully aware of. Even so, he tries.

“My mother’s family was Protestant. She used to say there were angels watching over us all the time.” His nose crinkles. “Just to get me to eat my Brussels sprouts, I think. The angels saw me feed them to the dog.”

Joe laughs, sound sharp as a knife in the gentle night. David can’t say why he’s pleased.

“Exactly, though. You Christians pretend to have it all figured out. God’s up there, he’s watching everything, and when your time’s up you’ll either go upstairs or downstairs.” His lips purse, the way they do when he’s trying and failing not to grin. “Jews are still arguing about how many heavens there are.”

“What do you think?” He asks the question before he means to, without really thinking. As soon as it’s out, David regrets it... but Joe doesn’t even spare him a glance.

“Aliens. Real ‘War of The Worlds’ type shit.” Finally, he allows himself to grin, and it only widens as he keeps talking. “Like to think Flash Gordon’s saving the universe up there somewhere. Maybe Superman too, but he’s kind of a chump. Probably some planets we ain’t found yet, suns and moons we ain’t seen.” He’s hesitates. “But I think I like that other idea now... that maybe there are people up there. Maybe there is something... something real after.”

He falls quiet. His hands are braced in front of him, taut as straining metal. David studies them, and doesn’t dare look at Joe.

“How many stars d’you think there are, Web?” Joe asks after a moment.

David has no damned clue. “A lot,” he answers confidently. “Millions.”

“Millions,” echoes Joe. The glittering stars are reflected in his eyes, like black pits sending each beam of light back outward. It’s almost hypnotizing, the way they flicker. If he stares too long, David knows he will get lost in them, so he forcibly tears himself away. Wherever Joe’s mind is going, he can’t — possibly shouldn’t — follow.

Guessing isn’t safe. Wondering isn’t safe. Seeking insight into Joe Liebgott’s mind, when it’s so… enigmatic to Webster’s own has never been, and will never be, safe.

The acrid smell of tobacco startles him. When he looks back over, Joe has lit up a cigarette, and is blowing a long cloud of smoke against the black sky.

“No, really, I’m fine. Thanks for offering,” David drawls, inching closer. Joe’s eyes flicker towards him; his mouth curls up around the cigarette. 

“Only got this one left, Web. If I had one to offer, you know I would.” He clicks his tongue. “I’m generous like that.”

“A modern day Santa Claus, huh?”

“Ho ho,” Joe replies.

David reaches for the cigarette. He doesn’t know why — it’s not like he really wants a smoke — but the idea of doing nothing, of letting silence linger between them as they both stew in their own thoughts, is worse. Also, if Joe gets a bit of relief via Lucky Strike, he’s got no right to hoard it. Determined, David leans forward, even as Joe angles away from him.

“Yeah, no, nice try.”

“Share! You — quit moving, we’re going to fall off the roof.”

“You’ll fall, and I won’t catch you.”

“I’ll drag you down with me!”

He catches the cigarette between his thumb and forefinger, and deftly plucks it from Joe’s grasp. Victorious, David brandishes it high, letting a thin stream of smoke blaze into the night. Over the chorus of Joe’s curses, he takes a drag. It goes too deep into his lungs, too quickly; he ends up sputtering, lurching forward in a chest-rattling burst of coughs. His grip on the cigarette goes loose, and it falls from his hand.

“Shit, Web!”

David is too preoccupied with his lungs turning themselves inside-out to pay attention to Joe… until a hand finds his back, rubbing steady curves between his shoulder blades. He sputters, but Joe is there, coaching him through it, until he’s finally able to take a breath without gagging.

“Oh boy,” he mutters. “Oh god.” Then, realizing Joe’s last cigarette has fumbled straight off the roof, to the cobblestones down below, he hisses. “Shit. Sorry.”

“Nah. Don’t bother.” Joe is still rubbing his back, even though there’s no need to — really, he’s fine. “I can get more when I need ‘em.”

“No, I’ll — I’ll give you some of mine when we get back inside.” He breaks off with another harsh cough. By the time he’s done, David is spent; only a moment too late does he realize he’s slumped back against Joe’s chest.

The other man doesn’t pull away. Joe supports him, easing David upright and bracing his weight. He handles him like a delicate thing… and from Joe Liebgott, who David has never known to be delicate in his life, the treatment is jarring. David looks up at him, gaze pulled as though caught in a magnetic current; he finds Joe staring back. His eyes are dark as ever, still lit with starlight. His lips are wet.

“You okay?” Joe asks.

“Yeah. Fine,” David replies.

“I ain’t mad, Web,” he says, “but I would’ve liked a little more of that smoke before you tried to eat it.”

“I got enough of it to share.”

David’s not sure what the hell he's saying. It doesn’t matter. Joe’s lips twitch.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

His head tilts. David’s eyes close. A second later, Joe’s mouth is on his, warm and tender, and he couldn’t exhale even if he remembered how.

Maybe David’s the first one to cup Joe’s face; maybe Joe’s hand is the first to find his hair; maybe they're twined together for hours, or only a few precious seconds. When they break apart, none of it matters. Joe’s eyes are wide, pitch black. Surely his incredulity must be reflected back in David’s own face, because right now, his heart wants to pound out of his chest.

Joe’s hand is still on his face. He only realizes this when a rough-padded thumb caresses his cheekbone, unspeakably tender. “You okay, Web?” Joe asks again.

“Yeah,” he replies, voice shuddering. “Incredible.”

He’s not sure who moves forward then — it’s probably both of them at once, seizing that impossible instinct driven only by heat and instinct. Everywhere Joe’s skin brushes against his, his nerves explode into an electric shower; his mouth is hot and needy, consuming David’s as soon as they find each other again. Joe draws him in like he’s the only thing left that matters, and David is helpless in his desire to give himself up.

Please, he thinks desperately, kiss me like I matter. Kiss me like we’re both alive, and going to stay that way. Kiss me like the stars aren’t watching, and we’ll live forever.

Joe’s lips are a fantasy, and they thoroughly carry him away. For a moment, he lets himself go. Nothing matters but the pressure of Joe’s lips, sucking dark bruises along his jaw, or the determined hands that grasp at his shoulders. In the heat battle, you learn to zero your focus in on one thing, and that concentration keeps you alive. This is a different heat, a different ear waging between them, but David gives every ounce of attention to Joe all the same. He drives him forward, keeps them moving even when their hearts are beating out an urgent symphony in twin ribcages, and David’s is ready to burst.

“Joe —“ He gasps, over the sound of the other man’s harsh breathing. Joe shushes him, fingers brushing his swollen lips. David leans into the touch. Joe leans back to accommodate him. They both lean too far.

“Shit!”

For a second, it’s blind terror — the ground sliding away beneath them, fumbling for a hand of foothold as the ledge looms closer… 

David catches them both, his heels catching on a gutter and halting his descent. Joe’s still holding onto him, so the momentum carries over. They’re dangerously far down the inclined roof; a certain broken back looks twenty feet below, the ledge within spitting distance. They don’t go over, though, and that makes the difference.

After a moment, Joe exhales a great, shuddering breath. One hand runs through his hair. “Fuck. Jesus fuck. Just lost two decades off my life.”

“Better than losing it all,” David mutters. He’s determined not to look over the ledge. Unconsciously, his grip tightens around Joe; he doesn’t realize Joe’s holding him just as fast until a small tug pulls him back from the roof.

“Come on,” Joe mutters. “Let’s get the hell outta here before we both end up weird stains on the ground.”

He doesn’t need to tell him twice. David casts one last look up at the night sky — serene, twinkling like it knows a secret but doesn’t dare say — before huffing, and clambering up in Joe’s wake.

Existential questions can wait until morning. Joe, on the other hand, has never been good at waiting.

[nasa]

Be Glad You Don’t Have to Dust in Space!

Throw open the windows and break out the feather duster, because spring is here and it’s time to do a little cleaning! Fortunately, no one has to tidy up the dust in space — because there’s a lot of it — around 100 tons rain down on Earth alone every day! And there’s even more swirling around the solar system, our Milky Way galaxy, other galaxies and the spaces in between. 

By studying the contents of the dust in your house — which can include skin cells, pet fur, furniture fibers, pollen, concrete particles and more — scientists learn a lot about your environment. In the same way, scientists can learn a lot by looking at space dust. Also called cosmic dust, a fleck of space dust is usually smaller than a grain of sand and is made of rock, ice, minerals or organic compounds. Scientists can study cosmic dust to learn about how it formed and how the universe recycles material.

“We are made of star-stuff,” Carl Sagan famously said. And it’s true! When a star dies, it sheds clouds of gas in strong stellar winds or in an explosion called a supernova. As the gas cools, minerals condense. Recent observations by our SOFIA mission suggest that in the wake of a supernova shockwave, dust may form more rapidly than scientists previously thought. These clouds of gas and dust created by the deaths of stars can sprawl across light-years and form new stars — like the Horsehead Nebula pictured above. Disks of dust and gas form around new stars and produce planets, moons, asteroids and comets. Here on Earth, some of that space dust eventually became included in living organisms — like us! Billions of years from now, our Sun will die too. The gas and dust it sheds will be recycled into new stars and planets and so on and so forth, in perpetuity!

Astronomers originally thought dust was a nuisance that got in the way of seeing the objects it surrounded. Dust scatters and absorbs light from stars and emits heat as infrared light. Once we started using infrared telescopes, we began to understand just how important dust is in the universe and how beautiful it can be. The picture of the Andromeda galaxy above was taken in the infrared by our Spitzer Space Telescope and reveals detailed spirals of dust that we can’t see in an optical image.

We also see plenty of dust right here in our solar system. Saturn’s rings are made of mostly ice particles and some dust, but scientists think that dust from meteorites may be darkening the rings over time. Jupiter also has faint dusty rings, although they’re hard to see — Voyager 1 only discovered them when it saw them backlit by the Sun. Astronomers think the rings formed when meteorite impacts on Jupiter’s moons released dust into orbit. The Juno spacecraft took the above picture in 2016 from inside the rings, looking out at the bright star Betelgeuse.

Copyright Josh Calcino, used with permission

And some space dust you can see from right here on Earth! In spring or autumn, right before sunrise or after sunset, you may be able to catch a glimpse of a hazy cone of light above the horizon created when the Sun’s rays are scattered by dust in the inner solar system. You can see an example in the image above, extending from above the tree on the horizon toward a spectacular view of the Milky Way. This phenomenon is called zodiacal light — and the dust that’s reflecting the sunlight probably comes from icy comets. Those comets were created by the same dusty disk that that formed our planets and eventually you and the dust under your couch!

Make sure to follow us on Tumblr for your regular dose of space: http://nasa.tumblr.com

[voxyldy]

NAMJOON’S END OF YEAR LETTER W/ ENG TRANSLATION

🐨2020년이 가네요. 이름처럼 무언가 특별할 것 같던 모두의 기대를 무참히 비웃었던 해였습니다. 관객 없는 무대, 함성 없는 스테이지.. 이게 정말 말이 되나. 말이 되나. 어제도 그제도 매번 똑같이 생긴 스튜디오 대기실 의자에 앉아 무심히 되뇌고 곱씹고. 정말이지 넌센스가 센스가 되는 세상이 와버렸구나, 하고. 바위 틈으로 떨어지는 물처럼 무심히 학습되는 무기력. 좌절을 표상하는 모든 것들에 저항해보려 뭔가 자리를 박차고 일어나야할 것 같은 기분이지만, 같은 곳에 그저 있으라고, 머물라고 말하는 저 손가락들. 책을 읽고 또 읽고, 언택트ㅡ 로 시작하는 낯선 무엇무엇을 해보고. 홈트도. 배달음식도 먹어보고. 좁은 방 할 수 있는 모든 것을 다 해본 우리의 부단한 1년이 아니었을까요. 지금도 이렇게 진행 중이지만요.. 이러나 저러나 시간은 가고 세상은 돌고. 영영 안 가줄 것만 같던 이 해를 보내고 살아남아 다시 봄을 기다리는 사람들. 이번엔 봄이 정말 올까, 봄 같아줄 정말 그 봄이 오나. 실망하기 싫어 기대도 않으려지만 그래도 실낱같은 희망 부스러기 같은 거라도 꼭 붙잡고 있어야 또 잠에서 깰 수 있는 것이 결국 사람 아닌가 싶어요. 와중에 이 추운 겨울에도 많은 분들의 사랑과 애정어린 시선을 받고 있다는 사실을 다시 또 한 번 가슴에 새겨보면서, 쉽게 꺾이지 않겠다 결연히 혼잣말 해봅니다. 아무도 없어도 내가 듣고 있습니다. 이번 해를 보내면서는 좀 짧고 담담히 적어내려가보자 했지만 또 잔뜩 꼬리에 꼬리를 무는 말들을 보니, 저는 아름드리 나무가 되려면 한참 멀었나봐요. 매일 가지치기를 해도 머리 뒷쪽을 타고 자라나는 명료하고 흐릿한 말과 상상들. 손 내밀어 허공에다라도 한 번 저어보지 않고는 살아갈 수가 없다는 생각이 드는 건 그냥 원래 제 모양 같은 거겠죠 뭐. 주변 어른들은 '너는 원래 좀 썽이 풀려야되는 사람이다' 하시더라고요. 성도 아니고 썽이라고. ㅋㅋㅋ 요즘엔 미세먼지라도 없는 날이면 참 기분이 좋았습니다. 예전보다 더 그렇네요. 뭔가 기분좋음의 하한선이 한없이 밑으로 내려간 느낌? 쉽게 만족하니 좋은 걸까요. 그러면 갑자기, 혹시 지금 실제로 여러분 앞에서 무대를 할 수 있다면? 전엔 당연했던 것들이 왜이리 꿈결 같은지.. 허허. 올해를 소중한 걸 소중히 하지 않았던 데 대한 레슨으로 삼아보려 합니다. 아직 우리는 모르지만 분명 많은 것들을 우리에게 가르쳐주지 않았을까요. 깨닫게 될 때까지 오랜 시간이 걸리지 않길 바랄 뿐입니다. 노을이 처마 끝에 매달려 있습니다. 이 푸른 점 속 어떤 형태로든 남아보려 애쓰며 부유하는 나와 같은 많은 먼지들에게. 또 우릴 위협하고 집어삼키려는 바깥의 저 익숙한 냉소와 질시들에게. 편지를 씁니다. 이 한 해는 헛되지 않았다고. 끝내 사랑이라는 말 밖에는 떠오르지 않지만 무언가 더 좋은, 닳고 닳지 않은 말들을 찾아 헤매어 이렇게 또 쓰네요. 지칠 법도 한 이 나날들 속 이 피로한 여정에 기꺼이 함께해주셔서 감사합니다. 그저 건강하시고, 많이 같이 웃었으면 좋겠어요. 더 봄 같은 봄날을 향해 같이 걸어가요. 사랑합니다. 올해도 고생 많으셨습니다. 저희가 힘이 되었으면 좋겠습니다. Do remember they can't cancel the spring. 새해 복 많이 받으세요 ! (- -) (_ _) (- -) - 남준

TRANSLATION: 

2020 is leaving us. 

This year was one that mercilessly mocked our high expectations for it. ‘A performance without an audience, a stage without their cheers.. Is this really something that makes sense? Is it?’ Indifferently repeating and brooding over this statement as I sit on the chair of the studio waiting room, the one that looked the same yesterday as it did the day before. Thinking that a world has come where ‘nonsense’ is what makes sense.

A lethargy indifferently learnt like water that falls from a rock’s crevice. The fingers that tell me to stay in the same place, to just remain there, even though I feel as though I should kick my seat over and stand up to try and resist all the things that symbolise discouragement. The books that I read and reread, the unfamiliar things that I try which begin with the phrase ‘untact’*. The home workouts. The delivery foods. Wouldn’t it have been a year that we tried all the things possible within a small room?Though, of course, it continues to be this way..[Note: ‘Untact’ was coined as a term to oppose ‘contact’, the negative prefix insinuating a form of contact that is undertaken while physically apart.]

At any rate, time goes on, and the world keeps spinning. We are the people who lived through a year that we believed would never end, who have survived, and who wait for the spring. Would spring really come this time, would it truly? It makes me think that a person must be one who, whilst trying not to anticipate something in fear of disappointment, still clings tightly to an flimsy thread of hope, for it must exist if there is to be a reason to wake up. And, as I engrave into my heart the knowledge that even in such a cold winter, I am still receiving the affections and attentions of many, I try uttering decisively to myself that I will not snap easily.

Though there may not be anyone beside me, I am listening to myself.

To farewell the year, I aimed to write things in a short and sweet manner, but seeing the words that keep biting at each other’s tails, it seems I’m far off from becoming a wide, wide tree. Lucid and hazy words and imaginings climb up the back of my head, growing even as I prune them every day. I guess it’s just the shape that I am, that if I push a hand up into the air, I feel as though I wouldn’t be able to live without stirring it. The adults around me have said that I’m the kind of person that needs my curiosities sated. And emphatically at that, too. Hehehe.

These days, I felt good if there was at least no fine dust in the air. I feel this way more so than before. Like my baseline of expectation has decreased spectacularly? Is it a good thing, to be this easily satisfied? If so, what if suddenly, perhaps now, I could actually perform live in front of you all? Why is it that the things that had seemed so natural now feel like such a dream.. ha ha. I am trying to consider it this year’s reproach for not having considered the precious things precious. While we may not know it yet, won’t there have been many lessons for us to take away? I only hope that it won’t take too long to recognise them.

The sunset is hanging off these eaves. To the great number of dust particles that endeavour, much like myself, to float so as to remain in this blue dot in some form* – and to the familiar cold smiles and animosities of the outside which threaten us and try to swallow us whole – I write a letter to you. To say that this year was not in vain. Though only the word ‘love’ comes to mind, I write once again in wandering search of better words, of words that are alike and not alike. Thank you for readily being by my side through the tiring itineraries of these exhausting everydays.[Note: RM’s stanza in ‘Blue & Grey’ refers to the grey dust of the grey city; the scientist Carl Sagan popularised the term ‘pale blue dot’ to describe the Earth.]

I simply wish that you would be healthy, and that you would laugh with me often. Let’s walk together, towards spring days that seem more like spring days. I love you. You worked hard this year also. It would be good if we could be a strength to you.

Do remember they can’t cancel the spring.[Note: This one line was written in English, and is in fact the title of a David Hockney artwork painted in lockdown. RM has previously shared a picture in front of his exhibition, and has been seen reading A Bigger Message: Conversations with Davis Hockney in a Bangtan Bomb.

Receive a lot of new year blessings!

(- -) (_ _) (- -)– Namjoon

12.31.2020

NAMJOONS LETTER ON WEVERSE END OF YEAR 2020

🐨💋💜💕🍾🥂🎇😌

SOURCE: WEVERSE / @doyoubantan / Wisha

[bibliothesoph]

Neverland, Drained Dry (part 15)

It's silent when Simon comes to. Everything is hazy both in his mind and in his spotted vision. There's smoke all around him and he can feel it deep in his lungs. He groans and rolls over, noticing a pain in his side as he does so. He sits up to examine himself and to survey the damage around him. There's a gash in his side, presumably from the wreckage of whatever the fuck was in that package. He remembers it now. The package from Baz. The present in the elegant green bow that said not to open until six o'clock, but then, when six came, he couldn't even open it because it exploded. It should have killed him at such a proximity...

Penny.

God, he remembers Penny bursting in and wrestling him for the package. He was mad about it because he thought the gift was Baz's way of apologizing and that Penny was just jealous, but now he knows that she was trying to save him. She took it far enough away that it didn't blow his head off. So, in comparison of what could have happened, the painful, bloody gash in his side is really not that bad. Even if it hurts like hell.

Everything is still smokey and hazy, but he knows that he needs to find Penny. He crawls through the wreckage in search of her shimmering light, the dim glow of her fairy magic that should bring him right to her. He can't find it, though. There's too much smoke and his side hurts so much and he can't believe that Baz tried to kill him. As if telling Simon he didn't want to stay didn't already kill him enough.

"Penny?" he calls, lifting up what he perceives to be a remnant of his fireplace. He sets it down and a cloud of dust and ash washes over him, covering his face in soot.

He coughs, trying to expel the particles from his lungs. It stings his eyes, the ash, so tears form to cry and clean them.

"Oh, Christ, Penny! Penny, where are you?"

He hears a faint cough or maybe the pained hint of Simon from nearby so he tries to follow the sound. It seems to be coming from underneath a pile of rocks. He flies over and, using all the strength he has left, starts to pull at the rocks. Debris falls around him and marks cuts into his arms, but he keeps pulling at the rocks.

"Baz..." she manages from deep within the fallen pieces of their home. "Captain Humdrum has him...he's in," she coughs, "danger."

Simon thinks about it for a moment, about Baz being held hostage by the Humdrum. If Baz is in trouble, that means that he wasn't the one that sent the package. It was the captain and his pirates.

Simon shakes it off, filing it away to deal with later. "Well, I've got to save you first!" He starts pulling away the debris again. It's hot to the touch and he registers that it's burning his hands but he can't bring himself to care about it. All that matters is getting Penny.

He crawls towards her voice and dim light, crawling under the vestiges of the life they had built together. "Hold on, Pen, hold on!" The purple light gets a bit dimmer. He's so close, though. He presses on. "Don't go out," he begs, not sure if the tears falling are just to clean his eyes. "Don't you understand, Pen? You mean more to me than anything in this whole world."

He's finally got eyes on her. She's small and frail and coiled up into a hopeless ball on the rubble. Her wing is bent the wrong way and he can see that she's just barely hanging on to life. The ruins tremor around him and more debris falls from overhead, headed straight for Penny. He gasps and leaps towards her, curling himself around her so the rubble hits him and not her. Rocks cut through his shirt and tear violently at his skin. He bites his lip to hold back a sob because he isn't what's important right now––only Penny is.

When the shaking and falling subsides again, he scoops her up in his hands and crouches. All around him is ash and burnt pieces of the place he's called home for as long as he can remember properly and there doesn't seem to be an easy way out. If this is how it ends, at least it ends as it should––with him and Penny together.

But he won't let this be the end. Penny needs to survive, at least. And he needs to at least try and get to Baz before it's too late. There's too much riding on him to give up now. And he's never given up before, even with much lower stakes, so he's certainly not going to quit. There's still some life in him, surely enough life for him to manage flying up and out of the wreckage. He cups his hands around Penny and closes his eyes, allowing his heart to guide him as it's always done. They're crashing through the debris and going up towards the dim light of the setting sun. The pain is so intense that he's numb. That's fine, though. He can deal with healing and resting later. For now, he lets the numbness carry him up out of the darkness and onto the solid land above.

He flies her into the forest and away from the wreckage. He thinks about Ebb's magic and the power of the earth and emotions as he contemplates what he can do to save his friend. He keeps her in his hands and closes his eyes.

He thinks about the first time he saw her––when he was alone and cold and wet––and how she was so kind to him. How she smiled at him and listened to his story of woe and took him away from his dreadful life and gave him a better one. He thinks about when they found the secret entrance in Hangman's Tree, entirely on accident, and how she told him that they could, in time, make it a home. He thinks about how much he loves her and how the thought of losing her forever broke his heart in two.

How it's a different kind of love than the love he feels for Baz and how it's not bad to love them both so much that there isn't room for anything else in him. How he would, and how he has, done anything and everything to keep her safe. To make her happy. How she protected him in turn and how meaningless and cold his life would be without her in it.

While he thinks about all of these things, he pictures his undying, everlasting love and appreciation for her as a star. Or maybe a bolt of energy. Something tangible and warm and real. And he thinks about it filling her up so at least she can know how he feels about the warmth and consistency of her friendship and how much it means to him if these are her last breaths. He pushes the feeling into her through his hands.

They start glowing. His hands are glowing. It's a golden light that leaks through his fingers and pours out of him uncontrollably. Penny starts to glow too. Golden at first, but then purple. Her purple. And suddenly her wing is fixing itself and straightening back out and there's life in her cheeks.

It's positively draining, but Simon smiles at the sight of it. It's like he's giving her his life. His love. Everything she needs to get back up on her feet (or wings, he supposes) again. Her eyes flicker open and she grins at him then flies up to kiss his cheek.

"Simon," she says, breathlessly but still so full of life.

His life, he realizes. He's given her some of his life to fill her up again.

She's crying. "Simon," she says again. "What did you do, you idiot?"

He manages a shrug. "Gave you some of my life, I think."

She gasps and flies down again, landing on his hand and giving his finger a squeeze. Because she's so small, it's the only hug they can manage.

"You shouldn't have. I don't deserve it. I've been a rotten––"

"It's fine, Pen. I...I wanted you to have it. I've got too much of it in me, anyways." He feels emptier, now. Less alive. Less excited about adventures with pirates and werewolves. It feels...well, it feels like shit. But it's okay because Penny's alive and well. It's something to get used to, but it might return someday. He hopes it does. He can't imagine living the rest of his life feeling this depleted.

[via-loki-blog]

for glory (#02)

synopsis: the 12 deities of both rome and greece have revealed themselves to the world, one of them being you: artemis, the goddess of the hunt and the moon―but among the gods you’ve come close with, you’re known better as (y/n). when the gods rage their wrath on the human race for their savaging of the earth, the avengers come together to defend it. within their team is the asgardian god of mischief and just so happens to catch your eye.  

pairing: loki x artemis!reader

warning(s): none!

word count: 980

notes: sorry for taking so long for this update !!! i’ve had standardized testing these past two weeks and a huge project due so i didn’t have much time to post :(( but here’s the second chapter !!!

the avengers

the surface

steve rogers sat by the large windows of the complex, his mind blank as he observed the sky fade into a navy color. it had been a year since the avengers defeated thanos, and life was only now beginning to set back into motion again.

losing nearly 3.5 billion people at once wasn't exactly the easiest thing to come back from.

his eyes were growing glossy and tired; he considered turning in early when something whizzed out from the lake―something with a silver glow. steve wanted to assume it was nothing, but his gut began to feel uneasy. he frantically searched for what came out from the lake when he spotted it coming down from the sky into the forest bordering the body of water.

boom.

the silver item detonated once it fell into the canopy of greenery, setting off a wave of flames and destruction. the earth shook and the compound began to collapse, a wall of fire licking at the stone barriers separating steve from the outside devastation.

he had been knocked back from the force, his vision hazy as particles of dust rained over him.

"steve!" tony stark was looming over him, already clad in his iron suit. "steve, you need to suit up!"

the captain nodded before running to switch out of his pajamas while tony blasted the glass window before him. not long after, bruce banner, carol danvers, sam wilson, and bucky barnes arrived in the main hall; rhodey, natasha romanoff, wanda, and vision came right after.

"what the hell was that?" natasha yelled right as steve returned to the main hall, and the team began to evacuate the building.

"i saw something shoot out of the water!" steve said as they ran, the eleven of them intending to leave this building alive. "it was glowing! it had a silver glow!"

a web of crack-lines spread in the concrete surrounding them, the ceiling behind them beginning to collapse at their heels.

the avengers had made it out of obliterated building in one piece, although  bucky had nearly been crushed had tony not shoved him forwards.

"get in the jet!" tony commanded over them, hurdling everyone into the small aircraft. carol jumped in the pilot's seat and waited for further instruction. "set course for the city!"

the gods

inner earth

you stood by the cave entrance you had first entered centuries ago, the memories of going into hiding washing over you. a sense of vengeance flowed through your veins; this time, you would show no mercy to your adversaries.

the gods began to convene around you with the big three (or six rather, including their counterparts) at the mouth of the cavity. zeus and jupiter, poseidon and neptune, hades and pluto… you could feel your skin tingle―the power they had just by standing beside one another was enough to make you feel uneasy. if the counterparts combined into their ultimate form and slammed their bare fists on the earth, the planet would crumble to pieces.

"our time has come," zeus stared down each one of you until his eyes clouded over; after he blinked, his eyes revealed a lighting storm within his eyes. "to victory!"

"to victory!" you all cheered, and the gods ascended up the dark passage to the surface.

you hopped into apollo's rusted chariot and he whipped the reigns, his white stallions dashing up the rocky cavern faster than the speed of light. as you all arose to the surface, you turned to face your brother. his eyes were filled with the same determined fire; the flames growing chaotic and his smile alike to that of a madman.

a bright glow greeted your return to the surface. you felt the silver fragments of the moonlight absorb into your skin, charging you with more power in your abilities than you had in the first war. your eyes glistened grey in the glow of the moon as you smiled maniacally.

"while we were hidden away beneath the surface, i received news from the sprites about a group of… 'heroes'…" zeus walked among the twenty four of you, his face dark as he pondered his thoughts. "i have heard of their strength and how they are worshiped as if they were us―as if they were gods."

pluto chuckled from behind him, the spirals of black aura surrounding his body growing darker; the plant life around him began to wilt at an alarming pace. "how moronic it is that they pose with such counterfeit reverence."

"i'd like to send my best to face these so called 'heroes,'" zeus turned to look at you and your brother, "my children…" he stood before you two, "of the sun and moon you pair constitute; will you take the task?"

"we accept, father," you and apollo agreed to his wishes.

athena trudged towards the three of you, a set of three unraveled in the paper on her palm. "go to this location; i believe it is called 'new york city.' one of the sprites reported that they are often in this city."

"thank you, lady athena," apollo took the paper and shoved it in the front pocket of his breastplate before seating himself back into his chariot. "are you riding with me or with your hounds?"

"my hounds, of course," you scoffed.

you whistled your hunter's when the earth began to shake, the thumping of heavy feet growing louder and louder until a pack of seven gray wolves the size of grizzly bears leaped through the trees into the clearing. "it has been too long, likos," your favored dog padded towards you, bowing in homage. you petted his silver coat; the strands of hair were each like needles, and although they were lethal for mortals, to yourself, they were not.

you mounted on the enormous wolf and gripped his hair in your hands. "pigaíno, likos, pigaíno!"

tag list @wxntersoldiers @arianna-17-11 @emmalbg @release-the-cathyrchkn @geekysimmerthings @tarynkauai @woohoney @whiskeywinter89

[veinsinneon]

“How is it like? Heroin I mean… how does it feel like?” Syd cut dryly through the silence from his restless, leg shaking position. The atmosphere was relaxed but he sensed it as tense, thick enough to slice with a knife. The tight alley the balcony was facing echoed with a short, sour laugh and words that followed. "I’m not sure I can say, I don’t want to prompt you to trying it yourself.” Logan leaned back, staring intently at the man in front of him. He was surprised at the sudden shift of the subject, at how he was put in the spotlight of Syd’s attention. "If I wanted I would get out of this place and buy some, yet I am still here talking to you, so I guess it’s safe to tell me.” Sunlight was lazily seeping through the trees, lighting up the small space. Particles of dust were dancing in the light, raising up then slowly falling down following their own choreography. Silence was only interrupted by muffled ticking of the clock from the back of the room behind. "I will preface this with the mandatory, it’s not a drug to be messed with and I mean it completely, take it from someone who overdosed twice and was found once by a friend and second time by my then girlfriend. I lost a loved one and a friend to addiction. I tried to quit cold turkey four times, only followed by relapse after relapse, then finally detox, rehab and proper therapy. I know people who ended up in jail. I was the biggest, lying asshole to everyone around me, because I didn’t care anymore, I wanted to stay in that heroin bubble and tried to push everyone away. I am sitting here only because I had someone who fought tooth and nail for me, who believed in me so hard I started to believe too, I understand curiousity and I don’t mind your question, from one addict to another without bullshit… it’s like-”, blue-eyed turned his gaze from Syd and pinned onto his own hands. "It’s definitely not how you think it is. If we take an IV use it’s an universe of experience on it’s own. But it’s not making you feel energized… there’s no fireworks. It is a great fucking feeling, like sinking into a warm bath. There’s no care that you could give, because everthing is meaningless. Not in a depressive kind of way, but more like, all that matters is what’s in your veins. You just float.” It’s a feeling that could never be forgotten, and then gets chased like the white rabbit. Logan sighed, immersed in his dark and hazy thoughts. You never forget your past lovers and this is exactly the same. "Your body naturally produces dopamine, it can turn off the feeling of pain or fear.” He continued. "Heroin binds to the opioid receptors and turns into morphine and you get the feeling of a rush of endorphines, your heartbeat slows, your breathing gets shallow and slower, you’re experiencing an absolute pleasure… If you could have an essence - it’s all of the best things you can think of; the best food you ever had, every happy moment of your life, sex – combine it all and you can loosely imagine how heroin feels like.” World moving at light speed while you’re stuck in heroin haze. Logan’s mouth corners twitched as a bitter smile plastered itself on his face. His thoughts swerved back and forth between gray colored memories. "That’s why it’s such a dangerous drug, it makes you think ‘oh, it certainly isn’t that bad right?’ There was no come down, you didn’t feel awful, no hangover, maybe a nice glow after, that’s all. So, there comes another opportunity to do it and again, you don’t see why would anyone be so scared since it’s doesn’t appear to be that bad. You do it and it’s great. You can get a balloon for $15, so like a pack of cigs and a nice beer, right? So, why not try. You can still go to work while on it. It’s how I functioned, getting dope, going to work to make more money to get dope. It makes everything that you hate totally bearable, maybe even makes you enjoy it; you love all the people around, ah a small talk during the lunch break? Lovely.” The sun got covered by a blanket of thick clouds and the balcony deprived of light source darkened. "You go on and on… until one morning you wake up at 4 am, you feel sick, you’re cold, you have a runny nose, you hate life, you hate everyone. Oh, time to buy some heroin to make you feel better. Oh, it’s 60 dollars now? Your usual dose is not enough? You’re spending $250 daily? Shit, what are you going to do now? Now, you need it not to get high and drift motionless through space, you need it, to feel normal, to function, to not feel like you’re dying. Because withdrawals after prolonged use are a pain. Literal pain, in every little part of your body, you can’t really tell where it’s located, because you feel it everywhere. Take every broken bone, tooth aches, open wounds; but it’s the mental thing that’s coming with the withdrawals, where you just feel the worst anxiety and the worst fear, sadness and dread at once. I wouldn’t wish it upon anyone. It’s not like with alcohol where the withdrawals can kill you, heroin withdrawals will not kill you, but it sure will make you wish it did. First few days are like this, even thinking hurts, you can’t move without being in pain, you’re shaking, can’t even get up from the floor that’s covered in your own vomit. It stops being a casual drug habit and turns into a chore.”

What’s the word that could describe it best? Agony. Your own personal hell that was created by your hand. Carefully designed… "All of that comes crushing with this ultraviolence that’s beyond anything imaginable. To a normal person you could put syringe filled with watered down tea and say that it’s heroin and they would be like cool, take it away, I don’t want to do it. But if you put that syringe in front of me, tell me that’s heroin in there I will get fucking uncomfortable, I would probably have to leave the room. I think it’s the part of the allure of heroin. Since I got sober I don’t want to get fucked up at all, but there are moments in my life, sometimes when I think Jesus, I would love to get some dope, but even though I have those moments, this desire, I don’t want to act on it. And meeting addicts and working with people trying to get sober and trying to stay clean is reinforcing that thing in my head, thoughts of I don’t want to have that life anymore. I don’t want to be at this point we’re all I think about every day is how I’m going to get in contact with my dealer, then go buy dope and try to not get caught with either having it on me or using somewhere, it’s a whole ritual that’s coming with usage. And when you’re in rehab everyone says how it’s so amazing you’re getting clean and your life will be wonderful. It sounds like lies, because sobriety is a bitch. Addiction is like taking your life and smashing it into million pieces, and then sobriety is taking all of those pieces and trying to put them back together but nothing fits, nothing will ever be right.” Logan blinked rapidly, realizing how his words have taken on a somber tone. The man next to him calmed down, his hands rested together, legs no longer bobbing to their own rhythm, his dark eyes fixed on a dead spot somewhere behind Logan. "The thing is… one dose is too much and hundred never enough. If you manage to stop – and success rate is extremely low – all you’re feeling is boredom. Emptiness, depression that cuts straight to the bone. It follows you for months, years, you are unable to feel anything. Happiness becomes a myth that only makes you despise people who feel it. It’s like mourning a loss, because heroin was like a friend, always there. It will always be there, in the back of your mind, long before you’ll feel like a human. You will think about it, it’s like an itch that you can’t scratch. People who never experienced it will never understand. They think that since you were sick and then quit means you’re completely healthy. Poof, problem gone.” Logan took a deep breath, and smiled as the alley was once again bathed in sunlight. "Heroin may be the best thing you ever experienced, probably is, but that’s hardly a living, and you can only be a dead man if you choose to be.”

[01010010-posts]

— the type of dreamer that can’t separate their head from the pillow.

the air in your lungs gets sucked out. you stumble on your feet for a moment, regaining full conscience of your body by closing your hands in forceful fists. your pupils wander around, still hazy from the sudden change in setting. the scenery is a multitude of grey tones. a warm wind carries nothing but particles of dust. dead trees with crooked branches drooping down. woe fills your heart. a desolated panorama. everything here makes you nauseous, sick at the pit of your stomach. it’s not really worth the strain. you hate it. screams make your head turns abruptly to the other side. a medium, coal-colored building stands in the middle of nowhere. the only sounds echoing painfully in your ears come from there. you lift one leg towards the direction but suddenly collapse to the ground, paralyzed, unable to move even a single finger. the muddy terrain grows– no, not quite; it’s you who are sinking to the bottom, then further, further, until all you can see is pitch dark. in a fraction of second you get to reality again. he’s still choking you, wrapping tightly around your throat; knuckles probably white from the effort, though you don’t know for sure, as they are covered by black leather with rimmed red stitches “loved the view of my brain?” he grits and sneers, a tuft of chocolate hair hanging from the side of his temple, the one not scarred, for an instant he lets his hold falls loose and you have enough oxygen to speak with hoarse voice “damn, bitch, you live like this?” his thumbs press again, angrily now, leaving you no choice if not to surrender your arms to your hips and faint. you feel light, as if floating, your thoughts spinning and your lids so so heavy. ugh. that must be the after-effect of being one time too cheeky. you try to pry open your eyes, nails fumbling around where your face should be, touching the skin on your neck. gulping hurts. putting your elbows as a lever you slowly wake up, raising your body. the room is empty, obscure– mhh, no, there’s actually a light, you just need time to adjust. yes, there’s a faint glow. it comes.... from behind? you shift on the mattress placed on the floor but something prevents you to move freely. what? in a rush you toss the faded pink covers, revealing a cuff around your ankle “the fuck?” you tug, rattling it in the process, trying to at least break the chain but it’s all for naught, of course, it’s metal after all “you definitely took your time.” you sigh, knowing that tone “would have never guessed you were this kinky.” he stops typing, hinting a chuckle, but doesn’t waver from his position at the computer “it’s always this way or nothing with you.” you drop onto the pillow, yet sore from the fight you had. you furrow your forehead, is it, really? it’s always your fault? what about him, mh? about the things he’s done, about the people he’s killed, about the “here.” he says softly, sitting at the edge of the bed, handing out a white and green bowl. you cast a sideways glance at his offer, analyzing him “i don’t want poison.” “it’s soup.” “poisoned soup.” “are you hungry or not.” “.... fine.” you get up again, taking the most certainly deadly meal in your palms. it’s warm. not leaving you space to continue your conversation he returns to his desk “yes, i cooked it but” he grips the headrest of his chair, swivels it a bit, takes a seat and proceeds to watch the monitor “no, you’re not going to get ill because of it.” you still have the spoon in your mouth as your expression changes into one of both annoyance and surprise “also, no, i won’t stop reading your mind.” is that so? “please refrain from repeating ‘fuck you’ over and over i’m trying to focus.” you smirk, eating at your own pace, distracting yourself by counting the cracks in the ruined wall, imagining shapes take forms of drawings; one a fly, one a weird looking person, another a doctor in a white coat, the last one maybe a cat. you don’t want him to understand your thoughts. you put your dish on the concrete, feeling full, somewhat sleepy again, and the headache has almost dried up “i need to pee.” “mh? there’s a bottle or something in the corner, you can reach it.” you blink twice, taking a big breath, okay, calm down, you probably misheard “are you serious.” “yeah.” “i swear i–” the door opens without a sound, no one touching it “nine, that’s not how you treat a guest.” they appear, spotless, vertical deep blue stripes over lighter cyan shades on matching shirts, brown suspenders and slightly darker pants; a nice change from their monochrome brother that too often blends in the shadows “shut up, eight.” they’re using codenames around you, figured. eight winks at you and with a movement of his brows you’re being lifted up. a swing of his left index and he rids you of your shackles. he mouths a ‘you’re welcome’ and while levitating he promptly carries you to the other part of the room, another door, it opens, oh it’s a bathroom!, the door closes. “you should adopt a different approach to [name] if you’re attempting to court them.” they whisper in synch, getting closer to the table, and he hears that another two times in their minds “there’s not any courting going on. [name]’s a hero anyway.” six gets to his right side, putting his digits on his shoulder “and?” eight gets to his left side, putting his digits on his shoulder “and?” he tightens his lips together, recomposing himself from the previous slip “villains and heroes don’t get along.” they exchange a peek at each other, devilishly smiling “you just have to make them a villain like us, then.” they chant in unison, snickering to his embarrassed face.

[good-for-what-aels-you]

Oasis

18+ content; NSFW. This is long, sorry.

Dawn breaks over the rolling plains of the Barrens and bathes the savannah in a golden light. Hazy shafts of sun filter into the downstairs of Juel and Gru’sta’s home, illuminating dust motes and other dancing particles, but the boy’s bedroll is empty. On his pillow has been placed a note: “I’ll be back before lunch.

-Ael”

The hike from his temporary home to the oasis was fairly short, just thirty minutes up the road and then down a footpath run into the dusty earth that coils into the heart of the lush and humid circle of life that dots the otherwise-plain flatland. Birds flit through the loose fronds of swaying palm trees and a gazelle lifts its head from drinking, darting to safety when Aelinus wades into the shallows. The muddy bank has been strewn with his clothing. A white tunic has been draped overtop a waterside fern. His leggings adorn an abandoned snapjaw shell inside which he has placed what remains of his belongings; his shoes and satchel, bulging with a fresh change of clothes. The chill makes him shudder. Gooseflesh rises on his arms and his breath quivers in his throat, feet sinking into the carpet of aquatic viridian grass that dances beneath the crystal surface, soon obscured by the slow-to-billow plumes of silt and plant matter stirred by every step that he takes until the water laps at his naked navel. At its deepest point, this particular oasis pool is scarcely deeper than he is tall. He appraises his surroundings for the briefest of moments before dipping his head into the cool water to comb the tangles from his curls with his fingers, emerging every few moments to take a little sputtering breath. The man’s back,  decorated by a criss-cross of long-healed welts, flexes and grows taut beneath speckled shadows cast by the sun above the palms.

Aelinus makes a little gasp and rears his head, slinging a fan of water from his blond curls which go immediately to clinging wetly to his face and neck while he huffs and sputters very softly, wringing the excess moisture from them. When he’s through, he flexes his fingers as best he is able and folds his hands above the water, that he may inspect his upturned palms. “...” In solemn silence, he observes the scarification beneath the now-healed lacerations he’d bandaged just three days prior. The pink marks stand out against the wrinkled and risen canvas of fire damage so old that he’s mostly regained the wan hue of his skin in them, but still lacks the touch, the feeling... How long had it been since he had felt his own skin beneath his fingers? Since he had known the tickle of grass between his knuckles? Aelinus thins his scarred lips into a small line and smooths one of his palms up his stomach and between his lightly-defined pectorals, thumbing at his collarbone. He dislikes the way the texture feels against his flesh, abrasive and alien. Not his own.

He cords his arms around himself and grips each of his biceps in the opposite hand, watching dirt-colored fish dart between the tall aquatic grass. A heron fishes gracefully on the far edge of the pool and he waits long enough for its surface to stop rippling so that he can stare at his solidifying reflection and the burns that disfigure the lower half of his face.

Aelinus unfolds his arms, pearly beads of moisture clinging to his freckled skin, and brings his hand to his chin, feeling slowly across the shape of his jaw. He can’t feel the wound, but he can sense the pressure that he’s applying to the dead tissue when his fingers skirt his lower lip and across to the corner of his mouth so slowly, like he’s afraid moving too quickly will shatter his reflection and the image will be gone forever; he might not have the will to look again. This was a rare opportunity.

The heron strikes and spears a small mudfish on its beak, startling him from his thoughts. The glassy pond ripples and laps at him, just above the swell of his ass and at the very beginning of his narrow hips. Gracefully, it secures its catch and takes flight to savor its meal and Aelinus, wading back to the shallows so that he can seat himself in the mud, drops his back against the bank to stare up at the cloudless sky beneath which dance the waxy fronds of the palm trees, “Stupid... I’m so... stupid,” he whispers, divulging the secret to himself and himself, alone.

With his head cushioned by the mud and thick undergrowth that lines the water’s edge and his body laid atop the tangle of grass and kelp below, the man permits himself a moment’s respite and seeks refuge, however momentary, from the tightness in his chest. Before long, his thoughts are drifting away from the oasis and the sound of the dry wind rustling through the grove, back to the bumping music of the club and the faceless bodies that dance and writhe to its beat. He can smell liquor and something thick, like cigarette smoke... but he can smell sweat above it all, intimate closeness that transcends words. Some of them were talking. Some of them didn’t need to.

What was it like? What was it like to feel so naked and so raw while everybody looked on? Vulnerability was frightening. They could show too much, delve too deep... lose it all. Would they care? Was there thrill to be had in letting go? He isn’t certain that he knows how or possesses the bravery to explore it, himself. Closing the lock and hiding the key is so, so much easier... No questions, no ache, and no attachment. 

His brows slope toward the sharp angle of his sellion as it bleeds into the bridge of his nose and a new arrival overtakes the scent of skin and smoke. It was... of baking bread and freshly-cleaned stables. Aelinus holds his breath and the faded memory of the man’s personal smell invades his mind’s eye. He can’t remember if it was sandalwood or something sweeter that had accented the aroma of a working man. His memory takes him somewhere even farther from Pandaria, back to Icecrown eleven years past. “Aelinus,” the man says, his broad-shouldered shape a hazy silhouette against the light of the tournament grounds. “We’re leaving tomorrow. I wanted to say good-bye.” He looks up from the rake in his hands and wipes the sweat from his brow on the back of his sleeve. Even in this distant memory, he still bears the scars on his arms, “What? ... already? But I thought-...” His small shoulders sink dejectedly and he can feel the warm amusement radiating from the crusader that steps into the stall, just one of many in the stables erected to house the noble steeds of the Argent Crusade. “I know, boy. I know. I promised you that I’d dedicate my next joust to your name, but I won’t get to keep that promise. Not yet,” the man says. His gloved hand swallows the boy’s shoulder and he thumbs tenderly at the smooth point of his chin. Aelinus secretly loves that he can hear the smile in his voice, but hates that he’s able to be stripped of his stubborn moping so swiftly. “I heard the Highlord’s speech... I know that he wanted to imbue his certainty into the others... but what if you don’t come back? What if you don’t get to keep your promise? What if--” The great gauntlet that descends upon his head to ruffle the mop of blond curls makes butterflies stir in the pit of his stomach.

“Aye... What if, boy? That’s a question that’ll only leave you wanting for more. Take it from me. Come on. I’ll pay for your supper.” The man smiles, white teeth behind a salt and pepper beard that’s grown just a bit unruly. Aelinus always thought that he was too young to go grey... but the war against the Scourge... did things.

His nostrils flare very softly and his hand roams up his naked chest, smoothing his fingers against his chin in the wake of the memory and the ghost of sensation he swears he can feel there. His lashes flutter and he tips his head back.

“Promise me you’ll come back,” Aelinus objects when he abandons his rake against the side of the stall, stepping through the small mess of dirty straw that he’d accumulated. “Okay? Do you promise?”

“Eh? You’re still at it, lad?”

“Promise me, Samuel!”

“Hah,” The chuckle reverberates in the human man’s broad chest, warm and gentle. “All right, lad. I promise.”

Aelinus’ breath hitches behind his lips and he squints against the golden light of the oasis, shooting upright. He makes a frustrated little noise when he props himself on his elbows and stares between his legs at the shimmering image of his erection beneath the shallow water. Huffing gingerly in time with his quickening pulse, he stands and towels himself off with his dirty clothes before he pulls himself into the new, abandoning the oasis and his memory for... another time.

[save-the-spiral]

sanctuaries for the worthy

There is a lot of magic in Ravenwood. Which sounds simplistic and obvious, but it’s actually really important to know, even when most of the students and even some of the teachers don’t know. 

It’s connected to the schools. They began with a simple schoolhouse for each of them, which acts more as an entryway into the dorms and the multiple classrooms that were built with magic with each expansion to the school now. But, in those schoolhouses, there is a portion of the floor behind the teacher’s desk, with the schools’ symbol carved into it, and inlaid with the school’s gem. 

If you are on that symbol, and the building’s magic deems you worthy, you are teleported somewhere.

There has to be a place where all that extra magic goes, right?

In the storm school, you are placed on a beach with black sand, as well as small amethyst gems sparkling among the darker grains.Turning, you can see how the ocean rolls peacefully, the water a bright violet that is clear, revealing the rainbows of coral reefs and the almost neon fish swimming through them. Behind you, the beach ends with a sharp cliff down to the void. Above you, there are dark purple clouds, quietly shifting. Every once in a while, lightning with strike the beach, leaving more purple gems, yellow smoke drifting absentmindedly.

In the ice school, you are placed on a plateau of grey rock. All around you are mountains, rising up and towering over you. There are carvings from ancient thaumaturges who gained access to this land just as you have, depicting adventures and ancient spells. In the valleys, you see endless evergreens, all of them frosted with the everfalling snow. In the distance, where the valleys open into a clearing, there is a circle of ice that must be a frozen lake. It glitters like a diamond, and it fills you with longing as you stare up at the ceiling, large, threatening stalactites piercing through the light blue mist.

In the fire school, you are placed on a dark slope of deep red rock. A sea of lava stretches out in front of you, large islands of obsidian and other igneous rocks breaking through the hazy orange horizon. There is a hot, ever pulsing aura to this land, like you’re inside the belly of some dragon. The slope you’re standing on extends behind you, becoming steeper and steeper until it is at a mountain’s peak, cut off at the top, as a volcano should be.

In the death school, there is nowhere to be teleported to now. The death school has been ripped from where it once had power, and now any wizard can visit what was once a well kept secret among necromancers. You’ve been to Nightside before, right?

In the myth school, you are placed in a large library. Bookshelves are hundreds of feet tall, but never touch the ceiling, a mosaic of stained glass depicting myths from all worlds of the spiral. Sunlight streams through lazily, and you see the dust particles, all a little more yellow or blue than usual. Tons of comfortable chairs and couches litter what ground isn’t already occupied by rugs or stacks of books. There is a book for every tome a myth wizard has read, all of them placed here as you have been. 

In the life school, there is a large, open forest. The trees are always a rich, beautiful green regardless of season, and the grass is the same shade. There are plants of every type here, even ancient ones that have only been able to continue thriving right here. There is a system of tree houses in the canopy, their rope bridges actually made of woven vines, their curtains the bright petals of giant flowers. The sky is an endless blue, always light without a sun.

There is no balance school in Ravenwood now. Something happened. Niles was once of Wizard City, before it truly became Wizard City. The other school trees know him. Well, something similar to the death school happened, but on a much larger scale, forcing the entire school and it’s secret land to not even be a part of Wizard City anymore. You’ve been to Krokotopia before, right?

[canadian-buckbeaver]

Fell’s Revenge - Ch.4

Berry has been missing an entire day, the only clue that they can find of him is a single boot.  But as night comes, nightmares come to life, tormenting his loved ones.  And those who cannot sleep, wish that they could.

  Red came back late that night.  He had stayed late at the bar, for once not drinking his beloved mustard, but gathering intelligence.  He had mingled with the other monsters, and had talked to the numerous customers, asking them if they had seen anything weird or different.  Anything out of the blue.  Unusual monsters passing through, odd weather formations, or any sign of code abnormalities.  Sure Blue had disappeared from Swap, but if there was an abnormality, perhaps someone else had seen it… anything would help him and the others.  Any little clue.

It was a desperate attempt at being helpful, trying to do something for his bone-friend’s brother… and one that had yielded nothing.  It was the same news.  A monster pissed off another monster and one was dusted.  This monster ate this, and this one was fooling around with another’s mate.  Dust flew, EXP and LV was raised, and no one had seen any abnormalities in their environments.  No sign of odd monsters or visitors but this was not uncommon.  Tale and Swap monsters had long since learned to stay away from Fell and FellSwap, unless they wished to gamble their lives.

In other words, it was just another day in fucking paradise.

He sighed when he finally teleported home.  It was odd, he realized once he had glanced at the clock, it was off that Boss hadn’t gone to hunt him down and drag him home.  He had truly stayed out passed his so-called curfew.  Boss should have pulled him home hours ago.

Red had then teleported inside the house, he didn’t have time to bother with the numerous locks on the front door.  Boss wasn’t inside either watching TV.  Perhaps he had already gone to bed.

Walking past the dungeon that Boss had built into their basement, Red thought that he could hear soft noises.  Boss probably torturing Jerry again.  Fucker deserved it if he continued to mouth him off.  With a sigh he climbed up the stairs to his bedroom and collapsed on the bed.  They were missing something, he thought to himself as he finally drifted off to sleep.  Something big.

* * * * *

Stretch didn’t sleep well that night.  Alphys may have ordered him to sleep, but it was easier said than done.  For once it was not his insomnia that was keeping him awake.  The tall skeleton tossed and turned, his thin sleep ripped apart by the memories of Blue.  Each time he closed his eyes he saw his brother, or a forgotten boot in the woods.  His sweet, amazing brother.  The one who wanted to look after him, even when he himself lost hope.  Sans the selfless.  The one who always made sure that he had enough to eat, and honey in the cupboard.  The one who swore by his dating manual, and did anything in his power to become a member of the Royal Guard.  

The memories of the other timelines swam behind his sockets, running together in a muddled mess of visions, audio, and feelings.  Memories of an abandoned dust pile and bandana slowly faded to seeing his brother act as a bodyguard to the King Napstabot and even to King Asgore.  He could see his brother’s wonder at finally seeing the sun, breathing in the fresh Surface air.  Stretch could even recall the timelines where Blue himself took the throne, having the remains of the monster population, the survivors, finally see his greatness.  

He could still see those vibrant, brilliantly blue eyes, his starry pupils betraying his excitement as he solved another puzzle.  

Stretch could still see the little bundle

A lost boot, sitting alone in the forest.

Stretch sat up with a low groan, rubbing at his eye sockets.  They were missing something.  Something that was sitting there, staring at them right in the face.  Something that was mocking them.

Finally giving up on sleep, Stretch rolled out of bed and crept to the kitchen, pulling out a bottle of his beloved honey. Sipping on it, and then another bottle, and then another, he watched the artificial sun slowly rise, just peeking through the trees. Where was Blue? Where was his brother?

Numbly, Stretch wondered if his Berry could he even see the sun rise.  It was one of his favourite activities after all.  The start of a new day, new opportunities….

* * * * *

Undyne flicked through her cameras, sipping her quickly cooling coffee.  For all her mate had to say about being well rested, Undyne just couldn’t do it.  She herself had seen the tortured look on Stretch’s face.  And she could almost imagine his pain.  Blue deserved a quick rescue…

She shook her head.  Blue was lost in the forest.  Nothing more.  He deserved to be found quickly.  How odd that her mind automatically went to that Blue needed to be saved.

Was her instincts trying to tell her something?

She dismissed the thought immediately. In this timeline she was not a warrior, she was a scientist.  She needed hard facts and proof to find her evidence, support her claims.  Not just the fluttering of an over-caffeinated stomach.

Though, there had been studies that spoke of gut feelings, how they had aided both monster and human instincts in war and survival… no. Dismiss the thought.  Look for hard proof.  Everyone was innocent until proven guilty.  Such was the Underswap way.

Finishing up her coffee, she decided to once more look through her security tapes.  They had to be missing someone.  There was always clues wherever someone went.  Footprints or scratches, the smallest trace of foreign particles, or misplaced articles of clothing.  Blue’s boot…. It was in an odd place.  Especially if he was headed towards the portal.  Her first thought was that Blue perhaps had taken another route to the portal, and gotten lost on the way.  He could have lost his boot in his excitement, or if he was running after something…

Or running away from something.

Again, the mermaid shook her head and rubbed at her temples.  She had to get rid of these thoughts of Blue being kidnapped.  There was no evidence.  These feelings were nothing but becoming barriers to discovering the truth.  She began to poke through her tapes.  Her cameras were installed in many strategic places around UnderSwap.  There was no such thing as a blind spot for her.  She would have all the information and answers shortly.  She just needed an idea of what exactly she was looking for first.

Her hand wandered over the small pile, pausing at tape number three.  The scientist frowned.  For one that had easily dismissed her gut feelings… this tape… it caused her fingers to itch.  The tape was almost warm… picking it up, Undyne eyed the tape.  The camera was pointing up the trail in a small clearing, just heading up to the portal.  It would have captured Blue walking up the path, heading towards the forest.

With a small sigh, Undyne gently pushed the tape into the player, grabbed her coffee, and began to watch.  Her soul fluttered as she saw the small skeleton walk in front of the camera.  More confidently now she rewound the tape, watching it over from beginning.

On the film she watched Blue step into the clearing.  He was happy, his grin seemed to be a little larger than normal, but yet, completely natural.  There was nothing unnatural about that smile.  His eyes were sparkling, the pupils shifting into slight hearts, even the hints of a small, hazy blush on his cheekbones…  Undyne smiled gently as she watched him.  Berry must really like Slim.  He seemed even happier than normal, if that was possible.

As Blue disappeared into the darkness of the forest, she watched a rare Clachan blue bird fly away startled.  She sighed quietly at it.  If only Blue hadn’t scared it.  They never resettle in the same area if they were scared bad enough.  To her surprise another flew by, coming from the same direction.  They were not known to keep their mates too close to them.  Just in case the predator got the both of them.  But still… not unknown.

A few minutes of watching the empty feed she was surprised to see another two birds come from the same direction.  It might be a nesting spot.  After Berry was found they would have to watch this area.  Perhaps they could set up a breeding program for them.  Bring them back from the brink…

Yet, that warm, sick feeling was back.  Her gut was trying to tell her something, that she wasn’t paying attention to something… she was staring right at something and missing it.

It was on the third pair of the blue birds that Undyne looked closer.  There were wildflowers waving in the slight breeze, the clouds dancing lazily across the sky.  It really was a perfect day for a walk.  Even the other wildlife was out.  Butterflies lazily floating from flower to flower.  She saw a squirrel running across a branch, its mouth full of food, probably going to store away for winter.  The bees were busy buzzing.  A flock of crows (she dared not think of that other term for them), swooping through the branches.

Surprisingly enough there was a fourth pair of Clachan blue birds.  The flowers blew in the breeze, the clouds drifted across the sky.  Butterflies and bees floated from flower to flower… a squirrel, running across a branch, its mouth full of food…

Never a sign of the searchers.

Cupping her mouth against her horrified scream, she dashed for her phone, cursing herself and vowing to pay better attention to her evidence.  She prayed that they weren’t too late.  Blue didn’t deserve this…  Typing in a familiar number she waited.  One ring, then two rings, she began to become inpatient, fingers dancing on the desk.

“hello?” a lazy, but worried voice came over the phone.  There was the smallest spark of hope that she could hear, intermingled with the other emotions.  Undyne gulped.  There was no way to sugar coat this.  No way that this could be positive.  

“The film of my cameras has been altered with, even before we had collected them.  Blue…. It was an inside job… he was kidnapped.”  It was all Undyne could say before the voice on the other line began to cry and curse.  It killed her to hear Stretch like this.

But it drove her to do everything within her power to help him and little Blue…

Get him back safe….

She just hoped that they won’t too late.

[shadowdianne]

SQ Week- Enchanted Forest AU: Rewritten

A03 // FFNET

Enchanted Forest AU

A/N Spoiler alert! This could be classified as PRE-relationship

                                                 Rewritten

“And then King Charming and Queen Snow found the Author who they persuaded to help their cause. The Author gave them t power enough to contain the Evil Queen stopping then the dark curse the cruel sorceress had been plotting to cast against the White Kingdom…”

“And then?” Had Emma asked again and again every time the story reached that point. Ruby had always laughed at her eagerness before playfully either tickling her or smiling while her eyes glowed a translucent yellow Emma’s mother always said she did not ever question in front of other people or Ruby herself.

“Then everyone lived happily ever after.”

Of course such happy endings did not exist but that had been something Emma hadn’t known at that moment; with a laugh on her lips and her favorite caretaker telling her story after story of how the kingdoms had been before she was born.

Before the curse had been dissolved.

Now, with a torch on her right hand and the other holding a sword Emma herself didn’t really seem like that very same girl, and the world, the forest, that grew outside the cave she was in, did not as well looked much like the happy place she had once been told about. Or had lived in.

Swallowing thickly while she raised her torch a little bit more, she kept walking with the echo of her steps as the only thing that followed her inside the darkest parts of what had been the hidden entrance to the Dark Castle, the one in which the Queen had been caught 28 years ago and preserved it.

Killing hadn’t been her parents’ strongest feature after all and even if the prophecy that spoke about desperate times and measures when faced with the decision of murder they had both chosen to leave the Queen alive but without access to either her powers or her freedom. That had also been a tale she had been told back when she had been slightly older than the times in which Ruby told her the story of the White wars, the ones in which, as history books narrated, the future of the Kingdom had been decided.

“By doing what we did.” Often said Snow to a curious Emma. “We prevented the prophecy from happening so you did not need to become the savior.”

Back when she had been younger those words had sounded vaguely menacing, vaguely oppressing but still reassuring enough. When the Dark One had stricken the kingdom three years ago, however, and the word around the court had been if that was the moment a new prophecy needed to be made the blonde princess had realized that they, in fact, hold something she hadn’t been able to see before. The burden of a destiny she really hadn’t considered it as real, as worrying, until she had been taken out in front of her parents and asked why her, the one who fate had pointed as the savior of the land, couldn’t defeat the Dark One, the evil menace that was killing everything and everyone in the- in that moment- borders of the kingdom. Her parents had refused, had told them no until the body count had become too large and even the closest villages to the castle had started to fill with the weeping screams of the widows and orphans.

At the further side of the cave Emma saw what seemed to be the beginning of stairs and followed them, the sound of her booted feet changing, growing in echo as she ascended. The Castle had been abandoned ever since her mother had imprisoned the Queen and the particles of dust seemed to float in the murky darkness as she tried to see anything resembling to an entrance to the actual palace.

It had happened one night, back when Emma had already started to train and fight alongside her father after countless of discussions with both him and her mother. “I need to be the one they need me to be!” One fairy, one whose name was so ancient Emma had seen Blue tremble from head to toe when it had appeared, had approached the council it had been created due to the war and had told them about how magic always required a price.

“By stopping the curse.” The fairy had said, eyes black, cold smirk in place, “You prevented your daughter to become the one the kingdom needed her to be. You stopped Destiny. And Destiny does not tolerate such things.”

Her fingers had glowed for a moment and sparks had come out of them, magic suddenly seeming to hover in front of Emma. So strongly that the green eyes of the princess had been able to follow it as it approached her, as it became closer. Ruby had growled, Blue had remained mute.

“You cannot become the one you need to be without the Queen.” Had said the fairy. “You won’t be the Savior without her power, without yours.”

As she finally came across a second opening in what seemed to be a half-crumbled tower, Emma crossed it, finding herself in a long corridor in which specks of lighting were visible through the small windows that flanked its right side. At the other side the blonde distinguished a half-way closed door, one in which the emblem of the Queen, an apple tree, could still be visible.

Her mother hadn’t wanted her to go, had said that it was dangerous, that there were other things they could do. Thing was that there weren’t. Emma had sensed it the moment the fairy’s magic had touched her body, a part of her seeming to re-awaken under it. Within a month the blonde had left the kingdom with just a horse and Ruby’s scribbled instructions of how to find the castle. The werewolf had howled at her back as Emma had lost herself in the night and, for a second, Emma had thought back in all those times Snow had told her to never ask about the glowing eyes that she knew now were following her every move.

Walking through the corridor the blonde’s armor -enchanted by the fairies to make it more manageable- clanked ever so slightly as she moved; the door oozed magic, the power seeming to caress the air around Emma even if it never actually touched her.

“It was midday but no one would have said that…” She had heard the story a hundred times. About how her parents had broken into the castle only to find it empty except for the last room, the room in which the Queen had turned towards them, as terrible and cruel as ever, before facing its own fate: Being defeated by Snow White. However, as closer as she become to the ajar door the stronger she suspected that her mother’s stories hadn’t been as exact as she claimed. Here and there carcasses of bodies could be seen; some soldiers in which the armor of the Queen’s guard could still be distinguished between the debris and dust made her pause and for a second she stood there, green eyes glinting under the torch and a sword that had once been her father’s tightly clasped on the other.

She wasn’t a hero, she had never intended to be one, but as she licked her lips and kept walking she thought on the countless deaths, on how many the war had already taken and so she kept walking until she reached the half-way closed door through which a purple gloom could now be seen.

Once she pushed it open she needed to swallow a gasp as the torch illuminated what seemed to be an alive set of chains made by letters and words written in a language she did not understood. The chain, that glowed and moved like a living being, rose from a circle drawn on the floor of the room, the purple glow coming out of the runes written there. The chain ended in the wrists of a life-size statue-like woman whose eyes seemed alive enough for Emma to pause and blink.

Of all the things she had expected she had never imagined such a prison, such a nightmare.

“The author...” Ruby had said but she had never stopped to think what that meant. Now the ink and words that kept changing and forming in front of her eyes seemed to hold a much darker meaning than the one she had once upon a time give them and for them she stood as tall as she was, not really knowing what else to do except look at the woman who had once tried to kill her.

The statue, as Emma decided to describe it, was covered by a film of that very ink albeit this didn’t glow nor moved. Everything, however, from the spiky hair to the embroidered dress, was perfectly preserved and as she left the torch in one of the metal hangers that still hold its position at one of the closest walls she narrowed her eyes, unable to stop herself from looking.

In her head the Queen had been ugly even though Snow had always described as mere years older than Emma’s actual age. “She married your grandfather very young.” She had said with the shadow of a frown obscuring her forehead. Due to the tales, however, Emma’s imagination had given the Queen more years than the ones she had and now that she was looking at her, at the woman that had been casted away by the Author’s power, she now needed to readjust that image.

Because, if Emma was being honest, the woman covered in ink and trapped in old words of power that stood in front of her was nothing like her parents had let her imagine the Queen had been and she would be lying if she said she didn’t hear the calling that purple magic, the one that was no other but the sorceress’ being milked away with those tendrils that kept her in place as she would learn later on, kept screaming inside of her. So she raised her right hand and took off her gauntlet, her armor clanging as she positioned in front of the woman.

“You are the product of true love.” Had whispered the fairy as her form had started to dissolve. “You are the only one powerful enough to destroy her chains. Rewrite what was destroyed.”

Her hand touched the surface of the ink that kept oozing out of her wrists, forever bleeding black, and a blast of power run through her, so powerful, so strong, she almost fell as every inch of her hand seemed to be burnt in fire a thousand times over.

And then, gone, only a gasping mouth and two chocolate brown eyes looking at hers in the same wonder Emma suddenly felt. With the same hazy memories of a story that had never been told.

“Regina?”

A/N I’m evil I know Xd The ones that may have read more of my previous works may already know that I love leaving one shots in open endings so you all can hang me xd Bye! -scurries down towards her rock- Let me know what you thought! ;)