#behavior was recovered from the wreckage

[softinvasions]

Telephone Wire • Jan. 2024

poetry assembled from a national geographic article on touch. support me on patreon here.

[sxrensxngwrites]

Spirit Inquisitor Headcanons

This ask comes from an anonymous user who asks: "I was wondering if I could request the inner circle reaction towards finding out that their inquisitor is a spirit like Cole, like first meeting them and how'd they get along with them or how would they treat the Quizzy after finding out, maybe the inquisitor is a 'Hope' spirit since in lore it stated Hope and Faith are very rare spirits so maybe the Inquisitor was attracted to the real world due to the hope of both templar and mages in the conclave"

I absolutely ADORED this ask and had so much fun with it. I'm even entertained by the idea of an actual oneshot or fic... And for those of you that sent in other requests, I see them! Just getting to them slowly.

WARNINGS/TAGS: Inquisitor is referred to in the 3rd person with they/them pronouns as to keep it open for everyone, Hawke has a mention and uses she/her pronouns, There's a small mention on Anders and Justice/Vengence, most of this is sweet/fluffy in my opinion

The Inquisitor wasn’t always a spirit. In the grand scheme of things, the change has been fairly new–at least compared to Cole.

They went to the Conclave to watch the discussions between the mages and the templars. Unlike many others, they were hopeful for new beginnings and opportunities that would occur as a result. However, after the Conclave exploded, they were one of the many to be caught by the wreckage.

The Fade was already very thin at the site of the explosion, due to the nature of its cause. So, it’s not unreasonable for spirits to pass through. It’s not long before a spirit of Hope finds its way through one of the many rifts, it hopeful of the same thing that the Inquisitor wanted. Having similar wants, the spirit of Hope merges with the body of the would-be Inquisitor.

When they awake, they have no recollection of who they were before—only filled with a strange sense of levity despite the awful situation they’re in. They’re a bit uncoordinated, almost like a large child that isn’t quite sure what they’re supposed to do just yet. However, after the journey to the Breach alongside Cassandra, they become more in tune with the skills of who they used to be. 

In the beginning everyone is very quick to dismiss the strange behavior of the Inquisitor, chalking it up to them being shaken up from the Breach or some sort of residual magic left within them. However, as time goes on and they don’t seem to be recovering any memories, suspicions begin to arise. However, they’re such a sweet and optimistic soul, dedicated to leading the cause, that no one can stay put-off by them.

When Cole appears, there’s an immediate connection. The two are so similar it’s almost eerie. Neither seems to know exactly what they are, but they know that they are like each other. Hope and Compassion easily find a place alongside each other, and this uncanny similarity is what begins to raise Cassandra’s red flags—that it’s not just amnesia or a strange personality trait of the Inquisitor’s.

At Skyhold, the implications become far more severe. When the Inquisitor’s family writes letters and sends for them, they simply tell Josephine that they’re not quite sure who those people are or what they want. Their mother only says that the Inquisitor has the face and name of their child, but there’s a strange absence of everything else. 

It’s Hawke who points it out to Varric. From the moment she meets the Inquisitor she can identify what’s wrong. At first she could never tell when Anders was truly Anders or when Justice and Vengeance had seeped into his mind, but by this point it’s burned enough into her mind that she can see it in the Inquisitor. Of course, it’s different here: whoever the Inquisitor was before, they’re very much dead—Hope now piloting the body. Hawke is relieved that they’re not fighting over control on the inside; that has been Anders’ demise after all. Varric doesn’t want to admit the similarities, too afraid to face the same situation again.

When it becomes clear that the Inquisitor is dead and they’re actually a spirit of hope, reactions are mixed among the Inner Circle. 

Cassandra is very off-put initially. The concept scares her a great deal, but she eventually comes to terms with it. After all, she had begun to respect the Inquisitor for their devotion to the future. That respect couldn’t disappear at the mention of a spirit. The same could be said of Blackwall. Leliana and Josephine are also puzzled, but I think they’re both more open to it than Cassandra.

Cullen is admittedly very afraid. He’s still apprehensive of anything spirit-related since that night at the Circle Tower. However, he is won over by seeing the caring nature of the Inquisitor—and their hope for him on his journey to wellness.

Vivienne reacts very similarly to how she reacts to Cole. She’s ready to pull her support of the Inquisition immediately, but there is something about the Inquisitor that’s very endearing to her. I think their devotion to help her, even after she treated them so rudely, was enough to get her to stay.

The Inquisitor being a spirit makes no difference to Sera, Dorian, or The Iron Bull. They’ve certainly seen or heard of stranger things.

The relationship the Inquisitor has with Solas is very deep and profound. He seems to understand what’s happened almost immediately, and encourages the Inquisitor to touch into their spirit-side. Of course, he educates them on their origins and the Fade. They even journey there together many times.

Varric is still haunted by the image of Anders, so he’s hesitant to fall back into their friendship. However, after some encouragement from Hawke, he does his best to continue interacting with the Inquisitor again. It’s then that Varric realizes that he never knew who came before, but he does very much know he’s talking to in that moment—his friend, the Inquisitor.

And of course, Cole and the Inquisitor are virtually inseparable. They share such a strange coincidence, that it’s only natural they get along so well. They each understand the other and their own personal confusions, providing support for the other as they battle with the question of Who am I? 

It takes a while for everyone to get used to saying it out loud: that whoever the Inquisitor used to be was actually dead a long time ago and that they had been inhabited by a spirit for as long as they had known them. But after they say it out loud, they realize it doesn’t make too much of a difference. Just as Varric realizes, everyone else does too; Their friend isn’t the body, but the Hope inhabiting it.

[tired-and-healing]

Local Dumbass Has OceanGate Titan Sub Theory

I don't know shit about this except what I have looked into and thought about regarding my mechanical engineering degree.

Yesterday afternoon, when I first heard about it, I thought the extent was that Titan had gotten tangled in some wreckage and also had a communications failure. Granted, I was in the middle of a 15 hr car ride home so I couldn't do much research into it.

Today, I've done some research and thinking about it because the mystery of it fascinates me. I am going to kinda journal/ record my thought processes as I was messaging my partner about it earlier.

I felt inspired by the twitter user Peter Girguis and wanted to do the research myself in understanding the materials and design of the vessel in addition to understanding the timeline of events.

Background:

At 9:47 am on Sunday, June 18th, the vessel had lost communication contact with the Polar Prince, and the last known location was received at 10:00. Though the communication system and location tracking were separate, previous history denotes either one or the other experiencing blackouts before successful recovery. This time, both of these have failed in a 13 minute timeframe, approximately halfway through its 2.5 hour dive time.

Initially, I feel strange about the fixation of criticism over the usage of a game controller. Yes, I do find the humor in it, about the indication of cheapness, but it doesn't feel right to just blame the interruption of input connection from the controller for the loss of communications and then the location tracker.

Honestly, my interest piqued at the mention of the use of a new material being used for the design - carbon fiber

I watched the Sunday Morning segment about David Pogue's 2022 expedition because I wanted more context about the design and to get a better mental picture. The parts that struck me was the verbiage of the contract in combination with the attitude of the OceanGate CEO, Stockton Rush. It concerns me in the beaming pride that the man shows in his sourcing of shockingly cheap parts and the callousness of tossing the controller around. I find the lack of discussion around safety concerns or mitigation of risk factors incredibly disturbing.

I began to look for papers documenting the behavior of carbon fiber material under compressive load and surprisingly found this article detailing plans for a near identical vessel from a few years previous. I find it interesting that the sole reason carbon fiber was selected for use was because it would cut down on the cost of the vessel. Not safety, or because existing research pointed to increased durability, or anything. Just that theoretically, the material would make the hull lighter in weight and they wouldn't have to pay for the foam applied to metal-hulled vessels to offset the metal's weight.

I then found a paper detailing the failure mechanism of carbon fiber reinforced composite under longitudinal stress detailing the effects of the material under compression. From my understanding of the failure modes detailed in the paper I created my initial assumption.

What I think happened is that the carbon fiber hull could not handle the load cycling of repeated dives. At a significant pressure providing a compressive force on the material at freezing cold temp, the carbon fiber became too brittle and failed either along the the middle in an axial line or at the penetration sites required to attach the titanium end caps.

Also I noted that the monitoring system depends on strain gauges attached to the titanium pieces that measures the metals' deformation, but wasn't sure if they would be as effective in use for the carbon fiber. Furthermore I couldn't see how it was effective in use as an appropriate safety monitor, or how an evac plan was supposed to be constructed around it given the requirements of the human body and recovering from depth pressure.

The carbon fiber hull is entirely shielded from view from the outside because it is encased by the sleek looking glass fiber shell. This shell is incapable of standing up to the depth pressure and provides no structural support whatsoever. What it does do, however, is make the whole craft look nice and capable.

The hull is about 6" thick and thankfully when carbon fiber begins to fail under compression, the failure can be visible from the outside of the thickness to the inside. If the hull itself is thoroughly checked before each and every submersion, signs of failure and weakening can be noticed before a complete failure. The mission can be aborted and lives can be saved.

However, if failure is detected, then the entire hull must be scrapped and replaced by a newly manufactured one. Even if the visible signs of damage don't look "that bad", the extreme pressure placed on it is too much to fuck around with.

I also do not assume that the hull can be patched with additional layers of carbon fiber. I feel it is extremely important that all of the fibrous threads used throughout the hull are continuous and unbroken to prevent shear stresses from forming in between the undamaged remaining section of the hull and the patch.

Personally, I think there was a lack of effort on ensuring safety. I think they became overly familiar with the craft and began to think of it more as a reliable vehicle that enabled them to do research and secure funding instead of a material testing experiment where theye were cycling it though who knows how many loads with lives inside. I genuinely believe that when the incident reports are written, it will expose that the hull was exposed to many more cycles of loading in extreme conditions than previous lab testing experiments under controlled conditions. If we (the engineering and scientific community) are lucky, we will be able to recover and analyze the fracture surfaces from the wreckage and understand how carbon fiber fails in a cold and highly compressive environment.

Then I take a break and think about the role of Journalist David Pogue as people condemn him for poor reporting on his segment report, and look up his history in reporting and journalism

There's more I want to add to this later but for rn this is all I wanted to put down for rn.

[imagine-you]

in the midnight hour [billy hargrove/reader]

prompt: billy hargrove + demon + "did you think they could protect you?"

author's note: written for the hellfire haunts challenge hosted by @cryptidcasanova

word count: 5.4k

No one would tell you the truth.  

Not Nancy Wheeler or Jonathan Byers or Dustin Henderson. Not Max Mayfield or Robin Buckley or any of the other kids who were there when it happened.  

Not even Steve would look you in the eye and tell you how your boyfriend really died.  

And that, right there, was what hurt most of all. Because if your own brother couldn't be honest with you, then who could you expect to really tell you the truth? 

For months, you tried to uncover the mystery of the tragedy of Starcourt Mall. A lot of people had died including Chief Hopper and your boyfriend. The fact that Billy would never return to you seemed like something only your mind would come up with in your darkest nightmares. And yet, it was the reality you were faced with every day after that fateful night. 

You didn't quite believe the story about there being a fire at the mall and it didn't make sense that Billy's body couldn't be recovered, because it was missing from the wreckage.  

You knew it was bullshit. You knew, deep down to your very core, that something more sinister had happened at the mall the night Billy died. And you knew that it was your fault he was dead.  

If you hadn't fought with him, if you hadn't told him you needed a little space, if you hadn't ignored his odd behavior in the days leading up to his death, then maybe he would still be alive. Maybe you would have dragged him to the Fourth of July celebration in town, even though Billy thought it was dumb, and you could have spent the night coaxing Billy onto rides and kissing him when the Ferris wheel stopped at the top, enjoying the sounds of everyone's laughter and fun.  

But no, instead, you had woken up the morning after, deciding to try to make things right with Billy, only to find out that you would never speak to him again.  

You had always hated living in a small town like Hawkins. When you went away to college in the fall of ‘84, you never wanted to come home, but Steve had convinced you a summer in Hawkins was what you needed to shake off the stress of your freshman year. You had grumbled and groaned, but you couldn't deny you missed your little brother, so once your last final was over in early May, you made the trip back home.  

You hadn't expected much to have changed about the town. You had only been gone a year and while Steve had told you about the crazy shit happening, including the circumstances surrounding the disappearance and death of Barbara Holland, you hadn't expected Billy Hargrove. 

He was bold and brash and kind of obnoxious, but he had no problem at all making you fall for him. His charm and playful smirks were one thing, but once you went out on one date and then another, you started to see the real Billy behind the mask.  

You spent a month and a half sneaking out to meet him, trying not to be so blatant about it when you realized your brother hated Billy. You didn't know their history, and it wasn't until Steve told you about the terrible things that had happened with Billy in the fall of '84 that you began to realize why.  

Your fight in late June with Steve over Billy had turned into a fight with Billy over Steve.  

"You terrorized those children," you accused, anger and indignation rising within you. "You could have killed my brother!" 

"Look, I was messed up, alright? I was angry and I didn't want to be here, and I took it out on everyone except the one person who deserved it. It's not who I am anymore, though. You know that." 

You knew Billy was talking about Neil. He hated his stepfather with everything in him, and while you knew Billy wasn't quite the troublemaker he used to be, it still didn't cover the hurt and guilt you felt over dating the guy who had once beaten your brother into a bloody mess.  

"I l--," you cut yourself off, redirecting, "I like you a lot, Billy. You know that. But I just need some time. To think," you clarified. "I still want to be with you, I just..." 

"C'mon, Y/N," Billy pleaded. "I'll apologize to your brother and those little punks, alright? I just want--" Billy abruptly stopped talking, defeat slipping into his tone. "Just let me know when you want to talk again," he sighed. "You know where to find me." 

And with that, he had turned and walked right out of your life. You had tried calling him and visiting him at the pool in the days after the fight, but it seemed like he was nowhere to be found. Up until the day he died, Billy had practically turned into a ghost, determined to stay off your radar of existence. You were worried he was ignoring you and you wanted nothing more than to go back to that moment you had your fight and try to fix things instead of trying to run away from the problem.  

The guilt ate away at you and tore you to shreds. You dreamt of Billy every night. The way he looked before he walked away from you. The slump of his shoulders, betraying the defeat he felt. The heartbreak written into every line of his expression and the way he glanced at you just once more before getting into his car and driving away.  

None of it made sense, and the more time passed, the worse you felt.  

It seemed as if life in Hawkins moved on, but you couldn't. Your parents thought you were being overdramatic over a boy you barely knew and you didn't know how to make them understand that you did know him.  

 You spent hours with Billy every night for over a month talking. He would drive out to pick you up from your house and then he would take a leisurely tour around town before finally stopping at the quarry. Billy would grab a blanket from the trunk of his car and spread it out over the hood of his Camaro. You would spend the rest of the night making up stories about constellations and confessing things you thought you never would to Billy.  

He told you about his family and his mom and how her abandonment of him still got to him. He talked about how much he hated his dad and how he couldn't wait until he made enough money to either get back to California or at the very least move out of his dad's house. You told him about your inattentive parents and how your family mainly consisted of your brother, the both of you accepting your parent's money when they couldn't spare you any love.  

You fell fast and hard for Billy, singing along to the radio as he sped along the winding, twisting backroads of Hawkins, both of you yelling lyrics and sharing delighted grins. You loved seeing Billy letting everything go and being carefree for once. He was a ladies' man and a party magnet, but you knew it was all a facade. Billy was his truest self with you on those night rides, bobbing his head along to Billy Idol and turning into a total goof just for you.  

 In the midnight hour, she cried he would sing, before pretending to hold a microphone out to you.  

More, more, more, you would finish, sharing an amused laugh with Billy.  

With a rebel yell, she cried he would prompt, getting another more, more, more out of you. 

It hurt to think you would never have another moment like that and it was soul crushing to know that the one person you had trusted for almost your whole life, the one person you thought had your back no matter what, was hiding something from you.  

For months, you searched for any clues that would tell you about what happened at Starcourt, but it was as if the building never existed in the first place. You were so consumed by guilt and despair that you dropped out of college, electing to stay in Hawkins. Steve was worried about you, and while your parents didn't even seem to notice you were still around, Steve tried to get you to talk about what was going on.  

But you couldn't trust him, and that only added another burden on you.  

You had tried, once, to get Steve to talk about what happened at the mall on the Fourth of July. But he claimed he didn't know. And while his performance might have fooled anyone else, you knew your brother better than anyone else.  

Steve was lying to you.  

And that absolutely destroyed you.  

You blamed yourself. You thought maybe Steve held resentment towards you for dating Billy. He hated Billy and you dated Billy even holding onto that knowledge. You had lost Billy and you had lost Steve and now it felt like you truly had no one but yourself.  

Months passed and by the time spring was approaching in '86, you were a shell of your former self.  

You were plagued by nightmares and phantom voices. You swore you were starting to see things and you started suffering through massive, brain-melting headaches that made your nose bleed. You were half-convinced you were dying, and you did your best to hide everything from Steve. He would only worry and while you didn't fully forgive Steve for hiding the truth from you, you still loved him more than anyone else on the planet.  

One night in late March, you woke screaming from a nightmare, phantom hands pressing you into the bed, claws ripping into your skin.  

Your suffering is almost at an end echoed in your mind, the chimes of a grandfather clock ringing in your bones.  

"Y/N?" Steve's voice shattered the silence. "What's going on?" 

You looked up to see Steve standing in your bedroom doorway, a bat held aloft in his hands, as if ready to fend off your attackers. Seeing Steve ready to come to your defense broke something inside of you and soon you were wracked with sobs and useless pleas to make it all stop.  

It took hours, but Steve finally got you to talk. He sat on the edge of your bed, worry etched into every line of his face, as he listened to you sputter out meaningless sentences before you finally confessed.  

The guilt and the pain and the agonizing certainty that it was shredding you to pieces on the inside.  

The nightmares and the voices and the hallucinations and the absolute torment your own mind was subjecting you to.  

You thought Steve would think you were crazy or deluded or just plain stupid.  

Instead, he looked panic-stricken for a moment before he practically jumped off your bed in his haste to get up.  

"Shit," he hissed before fleeing your room.  

That wasn't the reaction you were expecting. Before you could think better of it, you clambered out of your bed and followed him.  

You found him in his room, already pacing the floor, phone to his ear. "I'm telling you, Nance--," he cut himself off when he noticed you standing in his doorway. "Just call the others, alright?" He hung the phone up before turning to look at you. He grabbed his jacket from where it was folded over the arm of the chair near his bed and threw it at you.  

"Come on," he said, ushering you towards the door.  

"What? Steve," you tried to protest, but he had a hand around your arm and didn't seem keen on stopping for anything. "Where are we going?" You asked as you awkwardly pulled on his jacket, managing to finally wrest your arm away from him, but grateful for the warmth in the chill of the upstairs hallway. "I'm not dressed to even go anywhere," you pointed out, looking down at your pajama pants with the pink and grey bunnies on them.  

"Don't worry about that," Steve argued, hurrying you along. "We've got to go to Nance's house. Just...trust me, alright?" 

You nearly froze at the words, because that was the problem, wasn't it? You weren't sure if you could trust Steve. Except, he sounded so sincere and you knew just from one look at him that whatever had gotten into him was important.  

"Okay," you conceded with a nod of your head. "Let's go." 

You weren't prepared for the crowd that greeted you in the basement of the Wheeler house. Nancy was expected, and while you didn’t see Mike, you drew short at the sight of Max, Dustin, Lucas, and Robin. They were all sitting around the room, waiting for you and Steve to show up, and you suddenly felt unsure that you had made the right choice.   

"What's going on?" You looked to Steve, your only anchor keeping you rooted to your spot while wave after wave of fear threatened to take you down. "I don't understand..." 

"It's going to sound crazy," Steve started, ushering you into an armchair. "But what we're about to tell you is one hundred percent real, and I know it's not going to make a lot of sense, but Y/N..." he trailed off, looking helplessly to the others.  

"Your life is in danger," Nancy finished for your brother.  

An hour later, you still couldn't make sense of all the information they had piled on you. You had finally learned the truth about Billy's death and it was far more gruesome than you could have ever imagined. Despite finally knowing what fate had befallen your boyfriend, you still felt an immense wave of guilt threatening to tear you down.  

If you had never fought.  

If you had never asked for space.  

If you had never left him alone.  

Maybe Billy wouldn't have been taken. Maybe he wouldn’t have been at the mall that night. Maybe he would still be alive.  

It was all your fault. 

They also explained that your increasingly vivid nightmares and hallucinations and migraines were all symptoms that you were being marked for death by a monster they called Vecna. Vecna had already taken two people and you were likely next up on the list. They didn't yet have any idea about what to do to stop Vecna, but they would figure it out.  

They promised.  

Nancy and Robin were investigating a lead while you stayed in the basement of the Wheeler's with Steve and the kids. You felt restless and cooped up in the room, so you finally managed to convince Steve to drive you to the junkyard where Billy's Camaro was kept. It had been broken beyond repair, but it held some of your most precious memories with Billy. You paid the guy who owned the place to keep him from trashing it every month just so you could visit it and sit in the backseat, trying to make sense of where your life had gone so completely wrong.  

It was the only place you wanted to be in that moment and while Steve swore up and down that going anywhere was a bad idea, you didn't care.  

By the time you got to the junkyard, a migraine clawing at your temples, you were eager to see the Camaro again. It had been your only source of peace for months and you felt like it was the one place you could truly be safe.  

You waved Steve off when he tried to join you, wanting to be alone in what might be your final moments.  

You pulled open the door to the backseat, letting a wave of heat escape. You wanted to go back in time so badly you could hardly stand it. You could feel pain throbbing at your temples and a wet trickle of what you suspected was blood beginning to drip from your nose. You hastily wiped away the blood, jumping at the sound of a voice right behind you.  

"You shouldn't be here." 

You whirled around, breath caught in your throat, at the sight of Billy standing there.  

"Billy," you gasped, taking a shocked step closer to him. "You're hurt," you said, hating that there were a million other responses milling around your brain, but that was the one that won the fight.  

He had blood pouring from a gaping hole in his chest, there were rips in his clothes and scratches all along his arms. There was something off about him, but you were so relieved to see him that you blatantly ignored all the warning signs.  

A sick, wicked grin appeared on Billy's face and a dark chuckle escaped his mouth. "Hurt? I'm dead," his voice echoed all around you. A bolt of lightning split the air, turning the sky from blue to red in an instant. "And it's all your fault. You weren't there for me--" 

"No," you denied, knowing that it was what you had been thinking for months, but it hurt even more hearing it come right from Billy. "Billy, I lo-lov--" 

"You what? Loved me?" Billy scoffed, stalking closer to you. "If you loved me, then you wouldn't have done this to me." With another flash of lightning, the visage of Billy in front of you was replaced with an even more horrifying version of him. He had flesh hanging from his bones and maggots crawling out of his ears. His teeth were bared, brittle and flaking, as he approached you. His eyes were hollowed out, blank spaces where he no longer had a soul. "If you loved me, then you wouldn't have left me." 

You gasped when he took a staggering step towards you and your back hit the side of the Camaro. Fog crept along the ground, curling around your feet, and rising higher. Everything was tinged in red and you could feel your heart pounding wildly in your chest.  

"Don't worry," Billy's voice grew deeper, taunting. "Your suffering is almost at an end." 

Those words finally broke the spell that Vecna had over you. It all came crashing down on you, the reminder that Billy was dead and not here with you. That Vecna was haunting you, intent on claiming you as one of his victims.  

You pressed yourself flat against the side of the car before hurriedly stepping to the side, keeping an eye on Vecna. Between one flash of lightning and the next, Billy was no longer standing before you, replaced with Vecna. He looked as if he had been wrapped in roots and vines, his skin scarred and decaying. His eyes were white and striking, freezing you in his sight. His left hand was curled into an elongated claw, terrifying and deadly.  

When he took a step closer to you, you finally managed to break yourself out of the trance he held you in. You turned and ran, bolting around stacks of cars and climbing desperately over piles of garbage. You sliced your knee open on a piece of rebar, but you didn't care. You felt the crushing weight of loneliness close in on you, and you tried to remind yourself that you weren't alone.  

Steve had brought you to the junkyard. The kids were with him, all of them worried about you. Even Rob, the nutjob who ran the junkyard, was somewhere there. All you had to do was keep running. Keep running, don't look back, and hope that you finally broke free of whatever nightmare world Vecna had you trapped in.  

There was the sound of someone humming far off, the noise drifting in through your terrified, panting breaths and Vecna following after you, twisting metal out of his path to gain ground.   

It was faint at first, but as you tried in vain to get away from Vecna, the sound came through clearer and clearer.  

You knew that song.  

"Billy Idol," you breathed with an incredulous huff, your mind immediately catching on the song, letting it infect your mind to drive out Vecna's curse.  

I'd sell my soul for you, babe drifted through your head before you felt long tendrils wrap around your ankles, bringing you down to the ground. Your face hit gravel and steel, blood coating your lips as you scrabbled at the ground, attempting to break free.  

You were forced onto your back, before you were raised into the air, pressed against a column of bones and viscera that had been erected from the ground. Vines reached out, tethering you to the column, restricting you until you could barely move.  

Vecna stood before you, a pitying look on his face. "There's nowhere to run," he pointed out. "Nowhere I won't be able to find you." 

I'd give you all, and have none, babe crept through the fog, slicing right through the hold Vecna had on you.  

Vecna's hand reached out, forcing you to look at him. He gripped your chin in his grasp, his nails biting into your skin. Your breath hitched in your chest and your mind whirled in a thousand different directions. Panic seared through you, freezing all along your veins, and threatened to rip your sanity from you.  

You tried to think of Steve or Billy or anything that would keep you from letting Vecna's eyes bore into yours, knowing that it would be all too easy to lose your mind to him.  

Vecna raised his elongated hand above your face, commanding you to stare up at it in horror. You could feel your eyes begin to roll up into your head as Vecna let out a wicked laugh.  

"Did you think they could protect you?"  

Darkness was creeping in and you could feel yourself beginning to lose the fight you were waging with your consciousness. You felt your bones begin to quake beneath your skin, threatening to shatter, as Vecna's claws pressed into your face.   

"Maybe not," you heard a voice echo, your anguished grief lending you to believe it was Billy's. "But I can." 

Vecna was ripped away from you and you fell to the ground with a gasp. You struggled to breathe as you forced yourself to look up. You blinked a few times, as if trying to wipe away the image before you, because it was so unbelievable.  

It couldn’t be.  

Could it? 

It was. 

Billy was standing between you and Vecna. There were blackened, scorched veins running along his arms and his hands were curved into claws, which he was using to rip apart Vecna, piece by piece.  

Billy took a moment to look at you over his shoulder. His eyes were charcoal voids ringed with red, spiderlike black veins surrounding them, splintering his skin.  

"Run," he demanded before he turned to face Vecna again, falling on him, tearing into him with furious, frenzied swipes of his hands.  

It took you a beat too long to understand the word, but once you finally did, you stumbled to your feet and took off towards where you had left the Camaro behind. You knew, instinctively, that you could find salvation there.  

You could see a white light up ahead and heard someone frantically calling your name. There were phantom tugs on your legs and tears running down your face. You felt like you were never going to make it, passing rusted cars and piles of trash, paper getting stuck under your shoe and causing you to slip and nearly lose your footing. You could hear Vecna roaring in displeasure and you worried for Billy's safety, but was he even Billy anymore? He sounded like Billy and looked a hell of a lot like him, but he wasn't quite Billy, was he? 

You tried to push past the fear and lingering questions and focus on just putting one foot in front of the other. You could hear Steve's pleas for you to stay with him and the sound of Dustin Henderson cursing in frustration and Max Mayfield's panicked cries for your attention. You heard Lucas Sinclair trying to get in contact with Nancy and Robin on the radio, begging them for a solution or idea that would save you.  

They wanted to save you. They cared about you. You weren't alone, despite what Vecna wanted you to believe, and Billy, whether a twisted figment of your imagination or not, had saved you. You didn't deserve to die and you weren't going to give into Vecna.  

You would fight for yourself and the others. You weren’t ready to die.  

With renewed determination, you rounded a stack of crushed cars and finally saw the Camaro. You could make out the shadows of your loved ones on the other side, and without thinking, you dove into the backseat of the Camaro. You crawled through the backseat until you reached the other side of the car, a blinding light filling your senses as you emerged, before you fell right back into your body.  

You gasped in a desperate breath before you felt yourself slam back down to the ground. Steve did his best to catch you, but your legs still twisted beneath you, and you felt them give out a warning twinge of pain. You met Max's worried gaze and managed to get out the only words you could think to say.  

"It was Billy," you said, your voice trembling. "He saved me. He was there." 

"But...how?" Dustin asked, his voice skeptical. "He died, didn't he?" 

"I don't know," you answered, unsure how else to interpret what happened in Vecna's thrall. Was it Billy or your own mind fighting back at Vecna? You wouldn't know. You couldn't know. Not unless you saw Billy again. Not unless Vecna came for you again. 

You felt desolation and sorrow begin to creep back in on the ride back to the Wheeler house. Steve didn't want to let you out of his sight, and everyone figured there was safety in numbers, so for the time being, you were all staying in the Wheeler's basement.  

Nancy and Robin came back, quietly explaining what they found out at the asylum with Victor Creel to the others while your thoughts were focused on what happened with Vecna. You had almost died a cruel and gruesome death. Death's grip had been tightening around you until Billy had shown up. You remembered the hum of Rebel Yell and wondered if that had been Billy's call to you, his way of asking you to hold on until he could save you.  

The others fell asleep, despite promising to watch out for you in turns. One by one, their eyes slipped closed, and it wasn't long before they were all passed out, exhausted from the events of the day. You felt wired and restless, so you silently opened the door leading to the backyard, hoping that the fresh air would do you good.  

You glanced over your shoulder, making sure you were going unnoticed, and slipped into the Wheeler's backyard. There was one light illuminating the space, but it was easy to stick to the shadows, leaning up against the side of the house, your breath forming clouds in front of your face.  

You wrapped your arms around yourself, trying not to shiver as you glanced up at the sky, attempting to make out all the stars you could. You thought of all the silly stories you told Billy about the stars and the way his fingers would trail lightly along your arm, listening to you ramble away. You always felt safe there with Billy, in the dark, just the two of you and countless stars in the sky. 

"In the midnight hour," you sang under your breath, the song on a loop in your mind since the events at the junkyard.  

"More, more, more," came a lilting, teasing voice from the darkness, jolting you out of your thoughts. 

He was there at the corner of the house, melting away from the bricks behind him until he was right there in front of you. His eyes were still ringed in red, but they no longer looked like pieces of coal that had melted into his face. You could smell smoke and fire on his denim jacket and there was ash streaked across his cheek.  

"Billy?" Your voice was barely audible, because you were terrified you were going to shatter the illusion and Billy would disappear again.   

"I'm here," he promised, his hand reaching out to gently caress your face. His skin felt so hot against yours and you couldn't help but shudder at the feeling of his heat. 

"But how? They said you died," you pointed out, trying to make sense of everything.  

"I did," he confirmed, halting your breath in your throat. "And I didn't. I guess I wasn't quite me when I got torn into by that fucker. A lot of me was gone, but there was still enough left around to try to save that girl. The one he wanted so badly he was willing to kill everyone to get to her." 

"Billy," you whispered, reaching out to grab his hand, ready this time for the searing heat of his skin. "What's going on?" 

"Hell if I know," he answered, a delighted smirk appearing on his face, as if laughing at a joke only he knew the punchline to. "I absorbed too much of that place," he confessed. "And when I died, I ended up there, and I was stuck. I wandered for a while, trying to figure out how to get back, but then I heard you. He had you and I couldn't let him take you too. Not like he took me or the others. He would have hollowed you out and poured himself into you. Turned you into a puppet," he spat, disdain and revulsion seeping into his tone. “A trophy for his shelf. He can’t have you. I won’t let him.” 

"I'm sorry," you blurted, the words you had wanted to tell Billy all along forcing their way out of your throat. They had been the two words stuck inside your head for months and finally getting to say them now, they felt nearly useless. What would an apology do when Billy would never be the same again? When this all might still be some kind of fucked up death dream your brain had cooked up for you?  

"Sorry?" Billy asked, bemusement clear in his tone. "What do you have to be sorry for?" 

"I wasn't there," you reminded him. "We had that fight and I didn't see you and then you died. Maybe if I had been with you, maybe if we never had that fight--" 

"Then maybe you would be dead now too," Billy finished for you. "I wouldn't risk that, baby. Because then you'd be like me." His eyes flashed black for a moment before they reverted back to their normal color. "Half-dead and only alive because of a fucked up creature from another dimension. I can feel it crawling underneath my skin," he confessed, his voice hoarse, as if it hurt for him to say. "It wants me and it wants you and it wants everything," he hissed, his breath brushing against your cheek. "But as long as I'm still in here," he said, tapping his fingers against his forehead, "I'm never gonna let it get you. You're safe with me," he promised, leaning forward so his lips brushed against yours.  

 It felt like a deal he was sealing with a kiss. You didn’t know what you would have to give up in payment, but in that moment, you felt as if you would follow him anywhere. Do anything he asked. Be anything he wanted. Just for more time alone with him. 

"Y/N?" You heard Steve call, voice high and panicked. The door behind you opened and you turned to see your brother rushing outside, his shoulders slumping in relief once he noticed you standing in the shadows of the house. "What the fuck are you doing out here? Are you okay?" 

You suddenly felt cold, bereft, and when you looked at Billy, it was to see that he wasn't there anymore. You could just barely make out his form moving away from you before he melted back into the shadows. 

"Yeah," you answered your brother, turning around to face him again. "I think I'm okay." 

[kudosmyhero]

Batman (vol. 1) #437 – Year Three, pt. 2: Changes Made

Read Date: March 05, 2022   Cover Date: August 1989   ● Writer: Marv Wolfman ● Penciller: Pat Broderick ● Inker: John Beatty ● Colorist: Adrienne Roy ● Letterer: John Costanza ● Editor: Dennis O'Neil ◦ Dan Raspler ● 

SYNOPSIS: 

Just hit by a missile, the building containing mobsters and Batman, who tried to warn them, explodes. The helicopter that fired the missile flies away, it's occupants sure that "nothing could've survived in there".

Nightwing, searching for Batman, finds a bar he has recently ransacked looking for information on the gangland murders, beating one patron until he could no longer speak. He calls an ambulance, and getting the same information without threats, races to the same site Batman is at, where he finds the rubble of a destroyed building. He recovers a less than grateful Batman, who nearly calls him Robin, from the ruins who says he didn't need his help and claims he'd almost cleared the wreckage on his way to his way to a secret hideout before gruffly walking away.

Elsewhere, Alfred Pennyworth arrives home at Wayne Manor upset that the parole board is going to release Anthony Zucco, blaming himself for not swaying them with his speech. As he walks through a hall way, he apologizes to a photo of Bruce Wayne for allowing a killer to go free and not being there when Bruce needed him as a child like he was for Dick Grayson.

Alfred remembers back to picking up a young Grayson at St. Jude's Orphanage and assuaging Sister Mary Elizabeth's fears that Bruce would be a bad role model because of what's written about him in newspapers. On the drive home, Alfred tells Dick that Bruce was at Haly's Circus when his parents were killed, and explains that Bruce's parents were murdered also. When they arrive at the Manor, Bruce shows Dick around, and during the tour Dick compares their situations in an attempt to gauge when his hurting will stop.

Bruce asks him if he still wants Zucco dead like he did before, to which the young man replies that he doesn't, but he does want to do something to make sure he never hurts anyone again. Receptive, Bruce speaks about seeing the young man's great acrobatic skills and talks about training him. Over Alfred's protestations, Bruce opens the secret passage to the Batcave and the trio enter. On the way down the spiral steps, during which Grayson continually loses sight of Bruce, Alfred tells Grayson that Bruce is likely seeking "continuity", someone to carry on his legacy in case he dies. Through a blinding light, Bruce espouses on the city being corrupt, criminals going free, police being outnumbered and needing help. Asked if he wants to help, he says yes as he sees Bruce Wayne dressed as Batman for the first time and together they train harder than ever before.

In the present, Batman enters the Manor and stalks off into his study, ignoring Nightwing behind him. Alfred, however, talks to him and confirms that his behavior is becoming increasingly erratic and violent and he has taken down every photo of Jason Todd in the house.

Thinking back to better times, Grayson remembers receiving his first Robin costume and going out on his first "public appearance" taking down one of Zucco's front operations.

Grayson enters the study, intending to force Bruce to talk to him this time, only to find he is gone.

Moments later at a restaurant in another part of town, the surviving mob leaders meet to discuss the recent attacks on them. After bringing up and dismissing the idea that it's one of them setting up the kills, one of them suggests an all out assault on the streets, spilling blood to force whomever is doing it to surface. As the idea is discussed, Batman--until recently disguised as a waiter--reveals himself and offers yet another alternative.

Still in prison, Anthony Zucco rashes Taft about the recent parole. Taft tells him it's all set up, and all a matter of having the papers signed, and Zucco warns him that he's planned ten years on how to take over this city using his book with everyone's secrets and doesn't want to see it massed up by a civil servant slip up.

After Nightwing leaves the Batcave, Alfred contemplates how things are going wrong; with Bruce no longer being reasonable, Dick being angry and resentful, and Zucco somehow having gotten someone on the parole board to vote for his freedom--which he has yet to tell Dick. Taking a long look at a handgun laying on his bed, he decides someone has to stop Zucco, as he should never be freed.

(https://dc.fandom.com/wiki/Batman_Vol_1_437)

Fan Art: Nightwing by Haining-art

Accompanying Podcast: Everyone Loves the Drake - episode 02

https://thebatmanuniverse.net/episode-2-8/

[scriptofdevilswan]

  After the wreckage, 

                        After the Dust

                      I still hear the howling, I still feel the rush

                    Over the riots, above all the noise

                  Through all the worry I still hear your voice

                          After the wreckage, 

                        After the Dust

                      I still hear the howling, I still feel the rush

                    Over the riots, above all the noise

                  Through all the worry I still hear your voice

The cracks of the headache, the forces staked against him. Hardin felt wobbly on his knees, he felt like he didn’t know how to breathe without her. Able to move on when he felt our souls were the same, meant to be. Hardin feared he was slowly falling through the cracks of himself. He told himself he could be better. He told himself he was done with the lies, done with falling back into old habits. He loves Tessa, she was all he thought about. Each time he closed his eyes he heard the sound of her voice. He recalled the touch; the tingling sensation of her lips against his skin, it was wicked how one touch of her fingers trailing along his chest, the way our bodies felt that attachment an addiction to each other. 

An addiction Hardin didn’t want to quit. He wrote the book not to hurt Tessa, he felt the story after her I knew nothing without her. I felt bare like I was lost without her presence. Lost without her; Our story was real and beautiful through the pain through the lies. Hardin wrote down his thoughts; the events that made him want to pursue being sober because of her. Because Tessa made him believe in himself; he was better confident more so because of loving her. But now it begged the question what was I without my muse? Was I able to write another word? 

Tessa she was beautiful, smart, she was gifted, she had a tender heart, she was funny, she made me want more for myself; she was why I decided to pursue writing, to be able to make noise of our story deep inside the pages. Hardin spent months trying; he found himself frustrated at the desk, his sobriety out the window; a glass of whisky by the computer, fingers traced the keys of the computer a countless number of times. A complete blank filled his mind. His lit up phone as his eyes narrowed down to the lit up screen. Her name, the last message an eagerness of moving on. As if Hardin Scott could ever move on from her; his heart ached each time he read the words. A spinning of thoughts; had she moved on? Was Tessa happy? Was our love not enough to deem forgiveness? 

It had been weeks since that message; not that Hardin didn’t have a list of calls out labeled to Tessa over his weeks of traveling, Lisbon, A friend from the past; the first girl he truly wronged, It was Natilie the girl who he once was infatuated with, her laugh; and Hardin liked her; but it was the first bet that haunted him. These weeks on the beach; an attempt of failing, defeated with himself; it was her that helped him recover, to realize the pain; what the consequences of his words; behavior had done not to his own heart; but to hers. The girl he wanted; Tessa; his heart felt broken, hands shaken as he thought of seeing her face again. Racing of beats in his chest. Hardin wasn’t perfect, but he knew how to love deeply, he knew how to hand his heart and soul over to someone, and he asked himself how does he live in this world without her? He doesn’t he believed in us; in a world of forgiveness; a world of feeling her body her soul with his. 

A taunting memory as he sat on his flight; back home, to where his heart still was. Head leaned back, he felt the jitters in the pit of his stomach, yet a content grin played at the corners of his lips. Her face a vision of Tessa in his mind as he closed his eyes; he was coming home for Landon for the wedding he was coming home for her; to heal our hearts. 

A rope of forgiveness; a rope I held on tight of; because I wasn’t Hardin Scott without Tessa Young.

[afu-uasi-hp-contractor]

🚨 Dallas Beware: The Afu Usai Home Renovation Scam Epidemic 🚨

Hey r/Dallas and r/HomeImprovement,

I wanted to bring to your attention a growing concern that's been affecting our community and potentially other areas as well. A contractor by the name of Afu Usai, operating under several business names like MA Concrete, HP Concrete, and HP Contractors, has been involved in a series of home renovation scams that have left families financially and emotionally devastated.

Here’s the rundown:

The Scam: Afu Usai approaches homeowners with promises of dream renovations at competitive prices. Once he secures a substantial upfront payment, the work either doesn’t start, or if it does, it’s never completed. Usai then becomes unreachable, leaving homeowners out of pocket and their homes in disarray.

The Victims: So far, multiple families across Dallas have come forward, sharing stories of lost savings and unfinished homes. These aren’t just numbers; they’re our neighbors, friends, and family members who’ve been left to deal with the wreckage of their trust and financial stability.

Subcontractors Left in the Lurch: It’s not just the homeowners suffering; subcontractors hired by Usai report not being paid for their work, adding another layer of unethical behavior to his operations.

Lavish Lifestyle: While his victims scramble to recover their losses and salvage their homes, Usai reportedly flaunts his lavish lifestyle on social media, allegedly funded by the money scammed from his clients.

This situation raises serious questions about the oversight of contractors and the protections in place for homeowners. How can our community better safeguard against such frauds? Are there legal actions being taken against Usai? What steps can we, as a community, take to support the victims and prevent future scams?

I'm reaching out to this community for insight, advice, and any personal experiences you might have had with Afu Usai or similar scams. If you're considering a home renovation, be vigilant. Research thoroughly, demand references, and never pay the full amount upfront.

Let's use this thread as a resource to share information, offer support to those affected, and discuss ways to protect ourselves and our neighbors from falling victim to such scams.

Thanks for reading, and stay safe, Dallas.

TL;DR: Afu Usai is scamming Dallas homeowners with fraudulent home renovation projects, leaving families in financial ruin and subcontractors unpaid. Let's discuss how to protect our community and support those affected.

[kurt-wagner-official]

Post #5: UXM issues 101-104

I finally made it to the Phoenix Saga! This is one of the most important milestones of Claremont’s run, but the first chapter, issue 101, has almost no action or plot development, other than the initial spaceship crash and the cliffhanger. Instead, it’s mostly a series of character moments. As I said, the first few pages see the X-Men crash their ship into the ocean. As they all come up gasping for air, Scott tries to dive back under to find Jean, but then she bursts out of the water in her Green Phoenix costume declaring herself to be fire and life incarnate before falling unconscious. Xavier erases the X-Men from the memories of the onlookers and they get Jean to a hospital. The next few pages follow the characters sitting in the waiting room waiting for updates. Logan leaves to buy flowers for Jean, hoping to surprise her, but when he gets back and finds everyone else sitting outside her room, he throws them away and goes back to standing in the corner brooding. At this point in Logan’s arc, I actually do think his unrequited feelings for Jean add to his character. But years down the line, once he’s accepted the others as his family, and especially once Jean starts returning those feelings, it becomes an awful plot thread that regresses both characters every time they share a scene. But I’ll stop complaining about that for now. Scott has another nice little internal monologue, where he laments choosing the X-Men over Jean for so long. When the doctors come back with the news that Jean is going to recover, everyone rejoices except Scott, who goes off on his own to privately weep tears of joy. He still can’t open himself up emotionally to the new team, even Kurt, who checks on him but decides he needs the alone time. Xavier tells the rest of the group that he’s sending everyone except Scott on a leave of absence, both to give Jean space to recover and to give them all a chance to unwind away from the X-Men. Sean suggests Ireland, since he just got a letter from his lawyer saying he’s inherited his family home. We saw last issue that his lawyer was trying to get his help to stop Sean’s cousin, Black Tom, who killed him right after he sent it and has been waiting to spring a trap. But first, the X-Men take a scenic tour of the countryside around Dublin, where they start unwind and bond more (except Logan, who’s still in his edgy loner phase). When they finally get to the Cassidy estate, Sean becomes suspicious of the butler’s behavior (he’s being blackmailed by Black Tom, who’s taken hostages). As everyone gets together to make their way to dinner, the floor gives way to a trapdoor, and our heroes find themselves face to face with Black Tom and the Juggernaut. Ororo, who’s been uncomfortable the whole time she’s been in the stone castle, is now trapped in the dungeon, and has a panic attack just as the battle is about to start.

Issue 102 opens with the battle scene. Tom and Sean, being related to each other, are immune to each other’s powers, so they have a fistfight while the others get beat up by Juggernaut (also known as Cain Marko, Xavier’s stepbrother and one of the original X-Men’s greatest enemies). Ororo flashes back to her childhood, and we learn that she was born in Harlem to N’dare, a Kenyan princess, and David Munroe, an American photojournalist, who moved to Cairo when Ororo was a baby. Five years later, they were both killed by a French plane in the Suez War, and Ororo was trapped under the wreckage with their corpses- the source of her claustrophobia. This being a American corporate comic book in the 70s, the book doesn’t outright condemn the European invaders, but I do think it’s very telling that it’s an imperialist attack that traumatizes Ororo. It’s an interesting parallel to how we saw humans trying to control and destroy mutants in the last arc and many times later in the series. Back to the story; Ororo spends the next few years as a thief on the streets of Cairo before traveling south to her mother’s homeland, which is where Xavier recruited her many years later. The story cuts back to New York, where Jean is introducing Scott to her roommate, Misty Knight, a major character in the world of NYC street level heroes who Claremont often writes into his series. Xavier feels the mental anguish from Ororo and realizes she’s fighting Cain, but when he tells Scott to go help them he refuses, saying that Jean needs him and that he couldn’t get there in time anyway. This prompts Xavier to call him an “ungrateful, unspeakable cur,” until he’s interrupted by another vision of Lilandra, who he’s been having nightmares of. Side note- Xavier is a really terrible father, and it’s good to see Scott stand up to him, even though it doesn’t happen very often until Deadly Genesis destroys their relationship for a while.. Back at Cassidy Keep, Tom taunts Sean with the knowledge that he and Cain have a secret benefactor paying them to kill the X-Men before knocking him out. Meanwhile Juggy has defeated all the others, even Ororo, who pushes past her fears too late to save them. and the two plan to torture them until Xavier comes to their rescue so they can kill him too. They take everyone prisoner except for Kurt, who’s unconscious body is taken away by leprechauns.

In issue 103, Kurt gets an infodump from the leprechauns and the Cassidy butler, who tell him how the villains took the leprechaun families living in the Keep hostage on the orders of Erik the Red. Kurt also learns that he turns invisible in shadows, one of the several random powers he has that eventually become ignored by writers as they emphasize his teleporting. Cain and Tom are about to start torturing the others to draw Xavier in before Kurt shows up, using his image inducer to appear as the professor. He taunts them until Tom destroys the wall of the keep in anger, giving Ororo a view of the sky and the mental strength to summon a wind that frees herself and her friends. They escape, but their enemies still have Sean as a hostage. That is, until Kurt frees Sean, who destroys the floor under Cain’s feet, sending him down to the rest of the X-Men. Sean and Tom fight until the former knocks the latter over the cliff into the water, which thanks to Ororo is storming more than it has in years. Cain jumps in after him (because he’s secretly in love with him, but nobody at Marvel listens to me when I say that), and our heroes seem to be safe. Until we cut to Eric the Red telling his boss, the still unnamed D’Ken, that he’s recruited a new ally to destroy the X-Men- Magneto.

In issue 104, the X-Men are on their way to Muir Island to check on Jamie Madrox, who Moira left in charge while she’s in New York. When they arrive, however, their hovercraft mysteriously rips itself apart. They proceed on foot to the lab dodging a few more random explosions until they get inside and meet the culprit- Magneto. About Magneto- these days he’s remembered as one of the greatest antiheroes in Marvel history, but back in the early days, he was just another generic villain with barely any backstory or motivation. It’ll be Claremont who masterfully reimagines him as a Holocaust survivor driven by his fear of a mutant genocide, but that story doesn’t come until UXM 150. For now, he’s still a bland Doctor Doom. As he’s fighting the X-Men, Moira and Scott arrive on the other side of the lab, oblivious to what’s going on. It’s here that Scott learns that Muir Island has been the professor and Moira’s secret research facility since the beginning, and a prison for many of the X-Men’s enemies. He’s understandably pissed at the secrecy, but he has to put that on hold when they find Jamie unconscious. He tells them that Eric the Red showed up earlier with the still brainwashed Alex and Lorna looking for Magneto, who’d been turned into a baby a few years earlier in a Defenders story. Eric used his Super Alien Power Ray to age Magneto up and team up with him. Scott runs off to find the X-Men, who are losing badly. Magneto has taken everyone out and is about to finish them when Scott surprises him and stuns him for a few seconds. The team retreats on Scott’s orders to stop Eric the Red from killing the professor, leading to another argument from Logan about Scott’s leadership. Magneto walks free- and unknown to everyone, the battle has awoken Proteus. Meanwhile, across the universe, the Starjammers makes their first, brief appearance, talking mysteriously about the emperor’s plans to open a dimensional gate which could doom everyone. Lilandra has almost made it to Earth, but she’s under attack by an Imperial cruiser. Jean, Misty, and the professor are being visited by Jean’s parents and stalked by Eric the Red, who’s final pawn- Firelord- is almost here to help him destroy his enemies.

This was a lot longer than I expected, so I’ll end it here and cover the second half of the Phoenix Saga next post.

[wolfling06]

Hella late but here

Fnf Tickle hcs everyone! (pt. 1)

Week 1-5;

Daddy Dearest-

He's seems the one to kill anyone who dare try to tickle him.

except for his wife.

man im willing to bet she could wreck his shit and get away with it.... for the most part >:)

she is the onnly one who could tell if he’s in a lee mood, which isnt entirely often to be honest. but when it happens she picks it up ASAP He comes off to me as a maliciously teasy ler and intends to wreck anyone to a breathless mess. only Mommy gets a say lol

as a lee i feel he has really huffy laughter, but, with just the right touch (namely with Mommy) he has really free and bellowing but endearing laughter. maybe some squeaky giggles as well? 👀

speaking of, lets do Mommy Mearest next!

she is a teasy but motherly sort of tease.

knows every tease in the book from the little piggies to counting/eating ribs to compliments and baby talk.

“aww you have such an adorable laugh! i cant wait to see what other noises are made when i do this~” *proceeds to give a shit ton of raspberries*

as a lee she has a very angelic and melodious laugh, spots include her stomach, back, and neck. these spots are some that Dad’ll take advantage of quickly. she gets lee moods much more often than Mr. Dearest. but as a lee she would either ask or just be very giggly and jumpy to touch. though she wont let many tickle her, save for her husband.

Now, on to the mercenary.

Pico would most likely LOVE wrecking Bf’s shit every chance he gets. he would be a tad rough as a ler, not so much teasing as there absolute wreckage and some rough tickles (though not painful, he knows when it would be getting painful) as a lee, he’s more of a bratty lee that provokes and pokes and prods, maybe even will tickle others for a few seconds in hopes of them getting revenge. but not many are able to pick up in this given that they might not be all too different from his usual tough guy and almost jerk like behavior. 

however, as a lee his laugh would be uncharacteristically high pitched and shrill. maybe even squeaky as well. if you have an opening to do so, give hims so raspberries behind the ears to get some snorts as well <3

Bf found this out when they were still dating. they had been nuzzling and getting a much more docile response until he decided to take it a step further and..well, he’s never forgotten >:)

Skid and Pump time, Yeah!!

Ah the Spookeez, 2 of the most renowned lers of the whole group. they are both very energetic and teasy lers that compliemnt everything about their lee

S: “aww was that a snort?? thats so cute! do it again!” or “was that a squeak? which rib did i tickle to get that sound? i wanna do it again!”

meanwhile pump is one to always keep a close eye on the others vitals, to be sure they weren’t being pushed too far. 

“hey, you ok?” “is it ok if we keep going?” “do you need a breather?”

both are BIG on aftercare. giving and receiving tickles, both are big on it. skid would go and get a drink or something to help their lee calm down and recover while pump would cuddle them and as if they had fun. 

As lees they are ADORABLE

skid has very squeaky and bouncy laughter that just goes EVERYWHERE. from squeals to snorts to little ‘heheeee’ giggles to just the whole shabang in under ten seconds. some death spots include his feet and tummy. when he’s in a lee mood, he might say something like “im kinda hungry, can i have some raspberries please?” with a flustered look. seriously, give this boy some raspberries, he loves ‘em

as for pump, his laugh is more cackly and wheezy almost. reaching only shrill points when reaching a sweet spot. his worst spots consist of his ribs, palms, knees, hips, and arm pits. both the spookeez are equally sensitive for the most part and enjoy tickling the crap out of the other. but hey, thats what friends do, right? lol

(expect Senpai/Spirit and Tankman on another post because yes)

[thewildwaffle]

Unknown Powers

Entry Log Post Crash: Day 1

In all honesty, I am surprised by the number of our unit that survived the crash. Thank the stars, though. It could have been worse, it could have been so much worse. When the ship’s engines took damage yesterday and we started falling from the planet’s orbit, I thought we were all goners.

I suppose our survival is largely thanks to Human Fatima who risked her life and grabbed everyone and yanked as many as she could reach into the nearest closet. Between her and Human James and Biet Kuhir bracing the walls, we made it out with relatively minor injuries. I mean, we were all hurting, our medic is busy as frewan, but we're all alive.

The humans showed us how to construct some "lean-tos" out of parts of the ship to sleep in tonight. It's not much, but it's better than nothing. Apparently survival training in the wilderness is part of human upbringing? Or part of their required disciplines? I’m not sure. Before, I would have said that such requirements would have been a bit excessive, but now? I and every other survivor are very thankful for their preparedness.

Hopefully tomorrow we can figure out the rest of what we need: clean water, safe food sources, etc. I'm just glad we have scanners. They could very well be lifesavers for those tasks.

Entry Log, Post Crash Day 3

I said earlier that no one in our unit had sustained too serious of injuries. That's not to say anyone's in great condition, but we're hobbling around as best we can. The humans seem to be recovering remarkably fast. I know, I know, that may sound like their typical MO, but even medic Kippari Sefra seemed a bit taken back by their recovery and improved mobility. All's for the best, I suppose, the rest of the unit seems to barely be in commission. The humans have managed to forage and gather food and have been carrying water from a spring they found not too far from our site. They even gathered wood and started two fires in our camp yesterday. They left Kuhir and I and a few others to tend to them on shifts as they continue to gather supplies or construct better shelters. I don't know where they've found this newfound energy of theirs, but may the stars bless them.

Entry Log, Post Crash Day 8

Humans are weird, but I don’t think even they are supposed to be this weird.

Our camp has transformed into a nearly proper little village with all the work the humans have put into it. And it’s just the two of them! They are tireless, I swear! But not in the way they usually are, no. Everyone knows humans have ridiculous levels of endurance. This goes way beyond that. They move as if their blood’s been replaced with trimethylxanthine, or as they fondly call it, caffeine. Our scanners have not found any trace of the poison in the air or in any of the plants we’ve been consuming, so it’s not caffeine. Even if it was, their levels of energy still go beyond that. I’ve seen a human on caffeine plenty of times, they took out a third of an enemy boarding party on their own with nothing but a bent pipe. They’re crazy energetic, but then they always crash and need extra sleep.

Humans Fatima and James just keep going though, at even higher and higher levels of energy. Medic Kippari has been monitoring them, but they seem fine. They keep telling us to stop worrying and that they’ve never felt better.

But that’s not even the weirdest part.

Since the camp has been coming along so well, and since I’ve been able to get some rest and healing, I volunteered to go out with Human Fatima to help gather food. There are a lot of trees nearby and many have fruits that our scanners have confirmed are safe for everyone to eat. We were gathering up as many foods as we could in the baskets we had woven from some sturdy grasses when Fatima spied some fruits. They were ones we had found early on to be safe and they were so good we had eaten as many as we could until they started becoming scarce in our immediate area. These were the first ones we had found in a few days. The problem was, they were at the top of a very tall tree. Humans, turriets, and even a few of the larger skeeps are pretty decent at climbing trees, but this tree had no good holds or branches low enough to reach.

Did that stop Human Fatima? IT SHOULD HAVE?!?!?!

She put down her basket, braced herself and jumped. And I mean jumped. Like, five times her own height!

Now, I can’t say that I’m a human expert by any means, but even I know that’s not normal! What in the shining light is going on around here?!!?!

Entry Log, Post Crash Day 9

Okay, still pretty freaked out from yesterday. No one knows how Fatima can jump like that, the gravity on this planet is normal. I suppose that’s a bit lighter than gravity on their home planet, but not by much. Certainly not enough for a 50 crute jump straight up! After we got back to the camp and informed everyone, especially Medic Kippari, who is getting more and more overwhelmed with trying to figure out all the strange behaviors and changes of our humans. As soon as Human James found out what Fatima did, he tried doing the same. The humans have gotten stuck in the tops of trees three times today alone.

The most confounding thing is that no one else in our unit seems to be experiencing the same changes. 

No one’s sure how to feel about this. Whatever’s going on with the humans, they still seem to be in a stable condition. Granted, it’s a weird and unprecedented condition as far as anyone here’s concerned, but it’s stable. Even if it wasn’t, it’s not like we can really do anything about it in our situation. 

Entry Log, Post Crash Day 13

We were attacked today. Wild creatures native to this planet were passing through and must not have liked that we were in their territory. They showed no signs of advanced intelligence or sentience, just feral hunger and viciousness. We could hear them braying long before we saw them. I’ll be honest, I was very tempted to hide myself in the rough shelters with the wounded - the beasts were terrifying! - but I knew I could never live with myself after such cowardice. I grabbed what weapons I could and waited. When the pack of them came into our little clearing, I started praying my last rites. I was sure this would be it.

The creatures were huge, hairy, and had wicked tusks and sharp claws on the end of each of their six legs. What really got me were the pale eyes though. Looking into them, I thought my soul would liquify into my toes. We stood there for what seemed like an eternity, just hoping beyond a hope that they would leave us be. They didn’t though, the breeze shifted towards them and they started approaching and snarling with what I’m sure must have been hunger.

Before they could get too far, Fatima and James jumped at them, yelling and screaming. This startled everyone, but the monsters seemed to recover quicker and weren’t happy. I know a lot of crews like having humans around because of their reckless bravery and fierce protective instincts for those they bond with, but in that moment, I cursed them. I thought for sure they would be ripped to shreds in front of our eyes.

Instead, as the beasts leapt, the humans would grab them right out of the air and toss them across the clearing like they were a pack of gooji fruits. Their numbers swarmed the humans, but beyond any scrap of logic or understanding, the humans kept fighting, punching, scratching, throwing, etc.

I’m not sure how long it all went on, I was too numb from shock to correctly account for time, but eventually the pack of creatures retreated, squealing in fear of the strange monsters that kept them from what should have been an easy meal.

We checked them over and couldn’t believe what we saw. They weren’t hurt at all. Those beasts had been all over them, cutting, slashing and biting, but the humans’ skin looked like they’d hardly been touched.

I don’t… I don’t know what’s going on. I… something is wrong, or… hhhhhhrrrrr… this is weird. This is weird and I feel sick with worry. What is going on with our humans?!?!

Entry Log, Post Crash Day 16

Okay. I’m going to be honest with you, entry log and whoever finds this. Things just keep getting weirder and weirder, and I fear I’m just starting to get to a point where I can no longer be shocked. That may just be a defense mechanism, after all, if I continued to freak out over everything that’s been going on with Humans Fatima and James, I think I would mentally break down.

I just… I guess this is just happening. … Anyway.

Developments with the humans since we crashed on the planet’s surface include: rapid healing, increased strength and endurance, nearly impenetrable skin (as far as we dare test), extremely high jumping, night vision, increased speed and agility, super-keen hearing, and apparently the radiation of the sun doesn’t bother their skin in the slightest (this is apparently a problem on their home planet), in fact being in the sun all day, hard at work I might add) they seem to end up all the more radiant and full of energy. *sigh* Well, at this point, I wouldn’t be surprised if they started flying or whatever next.

Entry Log, Post Crash Day 20

The humans can now fly. Well, not properly fly, fly. More like when they reach the zenith of their jumps, they can hover a bit and control their descent. Do you want to know what my reaction was when I saw that for the first time? I just said, “Sure. This might as well happen.” Because that’s basically where I’m at now. No one knows what the frewan is going on. Hopefully the Glip Unit will have some insight.

Oh yea, I forgot to mention, we got a transmitter to work from the ship’s wreckage. Um, yeah, that probably should have been, like, the first thing I said, but honestly humans are flying now so…

Anyway, we made contact with the Glip Unit, apparently they were able to survive as well. They suffered a few casualties and had more injured than our unit, but considering their unit is larger, the probability of that being the case was high. The section of the ship they were in must have broke off from ours when we fell. They’ve got some humans in their unit, so maybe they have some insight for us. They’re bringing their tech too, so hopefully we can build a transmitter strong enough to send an SOS off-world.

Entry Log, Post Crash Day 25

The Glip Unit arrived today. They have four humans in their group. That’s how they were able to pack over what must have basically been half the wreckage from their part of the ship. As well as their injured, supplies, and important resources from near their crash site. Everyone carried as much as they could, but they, or I mean the humans, carried the vast bulk. They crashed over 40 PS units away from us. So obviously their humans are experiencing the same changes ours are. 

The ship’s chief science officer was with them though, and they did have a few interesting theories as to what caused these impossible changes. The most widely believed ones have to do with radiation. We’re not sure from what though, or why it’s not affecting anyone else. Human James brought it up that it was from the sun’s radiation. This planet is orbiting a blue giant. I think he was jesting because he also went on to explain about some “super man” who was from a planet with a red giant of a star who came to Earth and the yellow star’s radiation gave him incredible (and I mean that literally that they surely cannot be credible) super powers like super strength, x-ray and heat vision, super speed, and flight. Okay, that last one really made me stop and consider for a second. Well, those last two points actually.

But… no. That story is preposterous and obviously fictional. I’m pretty sure I even heard something about a “comic book.” From what I understand of human culture, I believe that means it’s just a fictional story made for entertainment or propaganda. Even the other humans, although more willing to entertain the idea, surely have taken it as a joke the way they are laughing and going on about it.

There must be some other reason. A logical explanation.

Entry Log, Post Crash Day 38

I realize it’s been a while since my last entry. I had to share my “bunk” as it were with some of the newcomers from the other unit and somehow misplaced my comm device in the shuffle. I’ve spent the better part of two days looking for this flargin’ thing. Turns out I had left it by the meal preparation fire spot. How did I find it? I didn’t. Human Rafael of the Glip Unit did. How? Apparently, when he found out I had lost it, he tracked it down through scent.

I’ve read the human handbook. I know that humans don’t have the greatest sense of smell, especially not in comparison to my own. And yet, I couldn’t track down my own comm device, but a human could. I’ve added this to the very long and still-growing list of new and improved abilities the humans have exhibited since arriving.

Well, um, also there’s been a bit of activity in the past twelve days while my comm was missing. Like I said, the Glip Unit moved in. Everything has been very smooth with combining forces and resources. We managed to set up a transmitter that’s been sending out a signal and how to find us this last week. We haven’t had any feedback from it yet, but it’s only been a few days.

We had a few more native creatures visit our camp. None as scary as the first beasts that attacked us, though there was a flock of small flying reptiles that took to dive bombing and biting at us. Once they were scared off, we later found that Humans James, Mae, and Boris had caught a few and were attempting to keep them as pets. We had them release their “tiny dragons” as they called them.

They weren’t happy, but listened and followed. Honestly at this point, I’m just glad the humans are still respecting the established line of authority. This is a wild planet, after all. We’re surrounded by nature’s laws of the strongest doing as they please, and honestly, the humans are without a doubt the strongest here. I don’t think they’ll do anything, stars forbid if they decided to mutiny. I do believe in our bonds though. I have faith in their loyalty and our friendships. Humans, even before all the weirdness this planet has added to them, have always been renowned for their legendary familial ties and pack bonding. I don’t think these new powers can strip them of that.

And honestly, I hope that my faith is accurately placed, because if not, we are in trouble.

Entry Log, Post Crash Day 44

I hope that our signal will be found, but no one knows how long that will take for it to heard and then send a response and for them to arrive to save us. It could be tomorrow, it could be… well it could be a long time from tomorrow.

The humans are concerned about food supplies. At first, many of us were confused at why. There’s plenty of fruit in the trees, roots in the ground, and non-poisonous wildlife to hunt. It was pointed out by some in my unit that such supplies could change. Their home planets, as well as the human’s planet experience what are known as seasons. It could be warm and plentiful for a space of time now, but it could rotate through times of cold barrenness that we are not currently prepared for.

We don’t know enough about the orbital path and tilt of this planet to know if such seasons could affect us.

Even though we���re not sure, the humans have been arguing that we should prepare for “winter.” They want to do this by reinforcing our huts for possible cold weather, gathering extra wood and storing it for fires, gathering soft plant fibers or tanning hides from some of the beasts that the humans and biets have killed for food, saying that they could make extra clothes with them to keep warm. For the most part, these actions seem pretty harmless, they are using the resources or byproducts of resources we’re already using. On some, the preparations are a bit time-consuming, but honestly, if it’s keeping the humans busy and occupied in their “spare time,” all the better.

The only real qualms some have with their preparations are the human’s requests to start planting seeds from the fruits and plants we’ve gathered for food. That would make sense in the long-run, but I had to voice my concerns with everyone - I know enough about human cultures to know that if they begin cultivating crops, the rest of humanity might view this planet as a human colony. It wouldn’t matter if the humans had only planted the crops for survival. Or if those humans were crew members of a Galactic Confederation crew. Similar things have happened with planets in the past, and the political disputes are still going on. I just… I don’t want to go there. The humans have argued that if they don’t do something to stock up for winter, we won’t even be around for such future disputes. I argued that we don’t even know if this planet will have a winter.

Acting Lieutenant Greetch decided that we would not allow crops to be planted. The humans weren’t happy, and honestly, I’m a little nervous. Not just because the humans are upset with the decision, but also because, what if they’re right? What if winter comes and we starve?

By the stars, I hope we’re found soon.

Entry Log, Post Crash Day 50

We received a response to our SOS signal! It’s from a Galactic Confederation ship. They’re coming for us! We’re getting out of here!

Everyone’s thrilled. We’re preparing a party of sorts - lots of food and games. Might as well use up the resources we’ve gathered, we’ve got plenty and will be gone soon anyway. We’ll even have left-overs to bring aboard the ship when it arrives, barring no one aboard has any allergies to our local fruits.

Entry Log, Post Crash Day 61

We saw the ship hovering in the sky this morning, high up in the atmosphere. By midday, several shuttles had been launched down to ferry us and our supplies aboard.

The Captain of the ship, Captain Benga, and a few officers and medics came down to survey our condition. They were impressed by our camp and even more so with the means of how it was put together. They’re just as baffled with the humans’ current condition as we are, though their medic did agree that some form of radiation did seem a possible cause. Captain Benga has asked that I turn in my entry logs once we get settled on the ESS Chickar. 

I thought the humans would be happy to leave. However, I noticed they were the last ones to board the shuttles. They wandered forlornly through the huts that we were leaving behind, claiming that they were going to give the place “one last check to make sure nothing important is left behind.” Human Fatima had to be ordered to her seat after the second “all aboard” call was given.

I have a sneaking suspicion, or rather, maybe more of a foreboding feeling, that humanity is not done with the planet that they now insist on naming Krypton.

***

End Entry Log.  Recording uploaded Galactic Stardate 208.147.4.2601 Data stored and copied aboard ESS Chickar.

Additional Notes:

Chief Medical Officer Squifra Gharti under Captain Liutan Benga. Concerning the humans found and rescued from the planet Tarsi 6 (Krypton) among Units Glip and Sen of the former ESS Luxena.

The six humans in question were found possessing awe-inspiring capabilities. From the included Entry Log, as well as from our own testing, we have listed their abilities to include prolonged stamina, vastly increased strength, agility, hearing, vision, smell, and speed. Healing speeds have been recorded up to 62 times more rapid than usual with certain injuries, though more serious wounds are unknown and will remain untested for obvious ethical reasons. Muscular structure appears to have remained largely unchanged from control group (humans assigned to ESS Chickar, as well as human anatomical information sources) and yet and capable of feats such as jumps over 67 standard miets, and are able to hover at the peak of their jump for up to a recorded two moortiks. Since the rescue, the limits of their new-found capabilities seem to be waning, albeit slowly. Time and additional study will be needed to know if the effects from the still-unknown source any of these changes on the planet will be permanent, or cause any additional side-effects in the future. Recommendation will include additional study as soon as we arrive at an appropriate facility. In the meantime, we are keeping the humans quarantined from our own crew’s humans in case any residual radiation affects them.

Many of the Luxena humans have shared insights that their changes were pleasant and wish to return to the planet. I would recommend keeping the information of all this within the Galactic Confederation confidentials for now. We do not need rogue humans or Earth agencies traveling to Krypton and then wreaking havoc on the rest of the galaxy.

[softinvasions]

write about this • Dec. 2023

words chosen from predictive text. punctuation and linebreaks added by me.

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[msmarvelwrites]

The Winter Ghost - Part 4

Info: A Devastating car crash causes you to lose your memory and start over. The only thing left in the wreckage was the horrific nightmares which plagued your mind. If you knew what today would entail you would have just stayed in bed. But you didn't and because of that, everything you knew was about to change.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Y/n

Warning: language maybe?

W/c: 3.5K (sorry not sorry)

A/n: Shuri is probably one of my favourite characters in the MCU so please enjoy her sass ❤️ Thank you again to @cutie1365 for editing and making this readable 💕

You sat in the cold steel lab, next to a pile of machines that whirled in the silent room. Small wires attached to your temples and hooked into the computers. You didn't know how you imagined Shuri, but a small 16 year old girl was definitely not it. This was who was going to be prying and prodding through your brain? I guess this is how S.H.I.E.L.D felt the first day you showed up. The thought made you stifle a laugh under your breath and wish you could only remember.

Every 10 minutes after scanning the hologram which hovered just above the desk she would stop, and ask if you were okay to continue. You would nod, unable to actually create coherent words. The process of regaining your memories was excruciating, to say the least. Shuri made it better though. She was bubbly and kind. Her voice was bright and reminded you of the wind chimes your mother used to hang on the porch.

Another blast of electricity surged through your brain, causing you to double over and yelp.

"Okay, okay, that's enough for today." She announced, crossing the room and placing a hand on your shoulder. You flinched her away desperately trying to focus away the pain.

"No. Keep going." You gasped, steadying your breath.

"Y/n, we have to take this in steps. If we dig too deep we can risk serious brain damage, or worse." She explained. You looked up at her concerned face, tears welled in your eyes but you quickly wiped them away.

"Dr. Shuri, please-”

"It's Shuri. Just Shuri. And no, I’m serious. I think we've retrieved some core memories, but there's no way to be sure." She spoke over you, turning her computer off and carefully removing the wires from your head. You winced as she pulled them out, but you were finally able to breathe right again. “We’ll just have to keep tabs on ya’.”

"How will we know what I remember?" You asked, watching her pack her equipment away.

"You won't," She stated, placing a small alcohol wipe in your hand. You blotted the small incisions the wires left behind. Gross.

"But, we'll keep doing bi-weekly checkups and monitor your behavior. There could be trigger words that Hydra has hidden in your brain. The last thing we need is you going all ‘Winter Soldier’ on our asses." Shuri giggled to herself and patted you on the back. You tried to hide the scream of pain that erupted from her contact. You suppressed a cry and smiled as best you could.

"Thank you Dr- um, Shuri. Seriously, I can't tell you what this means to me." You corrected, getting up and following him out of the room.

"Anytime. This is my new specialty I guess. I think I should consider updating my resume to super soldier fixer-upper."

You walked through the compound slowly, still unsure where everything was. Steve had assigned you a bedroom on the top level, close to Agent Romanoff, or Nat as she had asked you to call her. She and a few other former Avengers occasionally stayed in Wakanda after everything went south in Nigeria.

You hadn't really been asked if you wanted to stay here, but Nat explained that Hydra was keeping close tabs on you. It would be safer for you here while you remembered what it is they needed.

As you continued through the hallways you happened upon a large floor to ceiling mirror. You tried to not look, but your curiosity got the better of you.

Your hair was a knotted mess yesterday morning, so you decided to braid it back. Now, long strands fell from it, curling around your face and neck adding to your dishevelment. Dark circles bloomed under your y/e/c and reminded you of the sleep you so desperately needed. The faded Stark Industries tee-shirt hung loosely on your frame over the black elastic biker shorts Nat had given you to borrow. She promised she'd take you back to your Brooklyn apartment at some point to collect your own clothes. You huffed, trying and failing to tuck the few strands that fell from your loose braid back, only having two more shake loose.

As you rounded the corner you noticed two large metal doors. Loud thuds and grunts were protruding out from behind them. The closer you got, the better you could see through the small window.

Nat was sending a graceful roundhouse kick to Bucky's neck. He stumbled taking a few steps back but ultimately gained his balance again. You swallowed a gasp. Bucky was close to twice Nats size. You watched in amazement as she ducked between his legs, sending a swift elbow to the crook of his knee. He immediately dropped.

Quietly you slipped through the gym door, careful not to disturb the two while they circled each other slowly.

You watched in awe as Bucky threw a punch with his metal arm at Nat, who skillfully dodged it, grabbing his wrist and twisting. With the added momentum she swung onto his shoulders, still grasping his arm and yanked him backwards onto the mat with a loud thud.

"Holy shit!" You gasped, and quickly regretted it as the two super heros looked up. You knew they were on your side, but damn. You didn't know how anyone picked a fight with either of them. They both looked so venomous. Nats face softened when she registered your wide eyed gaze.

"She lives!" The Black Widow announced, laughing as she grabbed a towel, patting her sweat slicked face. Bucky stood then slowly, watching you intently like he was waiting for something.

You grin sheepishly and nodded. "That she does. Damn, Mr. Rogers wasn't kidding around. I still feel like I'm vibrating." You chuckled.

"Remember anything?" Bucky spoke suddenly, watching you carefully. You shook your head.

"No, not really. Shuri said it'll take time. That she recovered something, but-" you huffed, a little frustrated and body still sore. "I got this wicked headache instead." You finished. Bucky chuckled and ran his metal hand through his dark hair.

"So," You began, approaching the sparring mat, "do you think you could show me how to do that?" You ask Nat, referring to her insane fighting skills. Her eyes sparkled and she laughed softly.

"I don't know Y/n," she motioned for you to step onto the mat, "think you got what it takes?"

Her dazzling grin dropped almost as fast as her fist flew through the air. You could tell instantly that the blow would miss you entirely, but in that moment something snapped. You closed your eyes and you felt your whole body burst into flames. Images flashed through your mind and when you opened your eyes, everything moved in slow motion.

You looked to your left, watching the assassin's fist fly closer and closer. You tried to take a step back, but your body seemed to switch into auto pilot. In one smooth motion you blocked her wrist, and almost as fast jabbed her side with a harsh blow.

Natasha stumbled back, stunned. You looked down at your hands, like it was the first time you were actually seeing them. Holy shit.

“Oh God, Nat. I didn't mean to!"

Another fist flew at you, to which you ducked, dropping into a squat position you kicked your right leg out. In the same motion you twisted your body, sweeping your foot across the mat and taking Nat down as she gasped. You looked up at her, eyes wide and panting. What the-

"Fuck." Bucky finished your thought. Natasha rubbed her hip in discomfort as she reached for Bucky's hand, pulling her up.

"What the hell was that?" She challenged. You stood, stumbling back a few paces and raising your hands in surrender. What the hell had just happened?

"I- I don't know..." You stuttered, "Nat, I'm so, so sorry I-'' she waved her hand stopping you.

"I'm fine, don’t ever apologise for kicking someone's ass... Maybe you remembered something after all?" She spoke, raising a perfectly arched eyebrow sarcastically.

"My turn." Bucky rumbled. You would have frozen at the darkness in his voice, but your instincts kicked in. The soldier leaned back on his right foot, sending his left rocketing through the air and towards your face. Fire erupted through your body again, startling you awake.

Gracefully you wrapped your arm around Bucky's impending kick, absorbing the blow. His sheer strength made you stumble back a little, but you quickly slid back into the routine.

"Попался” Gotcha’, you smirked. Bucky looked at you, mouth slightly agape.

“What did you just-” He didn't have a chance to finish as you twisted your body, bringing your elbow up delivering it down onto his shoulder with a loud crack. You finished him off with a swift kick through his legs, tackling him to the floor.

"Ow," he mumbled through jagged breaths. You gawked at him in disbelief, holding his hands above his head, straddling the super soldier's waist. Bucky shifted slightly, realising the compromising position you both were in.

"Gotta hand it to ya, punk. That one actually tickled." He chuckled, as you removed your hands from his wrists. He noticed your body was still unmoving, eyes almost glassy. Carefully he tapped your thigh, knocking you back into reality. You physically shook your head, trying to center yourself.

"What happened?" You asked, still straddling Bucky. He looked at you quizzically, trying to read your face for any answers, but came up short.

"Y/n, I think we need to talk to Shuri again." He offered, picking you up by the waist and helping you off the mat.

"Yeah, I think that's probably a good idea." You said, staring wide eyed at the two former assassins.

When you entered the lab, you noticed Shuri was still there. She paced around the room, picking up sheets of paper, scanning them quickly before she looked at the hologram.

"Not possible." She breathed, still unaware of your presence. Bucky cleared his throat, alerting the engineer to the three of you.

"Holy crap!" She jolted. "Hasn't anyone ever told you not to sneak up on a girl with an endless arsonal of deadly weapons before?" Shuri clutched her heart, steadying her breath.

"No, actually." You voiced. Buck coughed trying to cover his laugh.

"Listen, babe. It's important," Nat started, entering the lab further and hoisting her petite figure onto an examining table. "Y/n just handed Bucky his tight ass without breaking a sweat, so we were just wondering... What the fuck?" She emphasized that last word with a raised brow and wide eyes. Bucky scoffed and rolled his eyes as if to say 'she hit you too.' You thought it was probably the cutest thing in the world, watching the former assassin stuff his hands into his pockets and glare at her like he was a kid.

"Y/n, how do you feel?" Shuri spoke, ignoring Natasha, which didn't bother her as she swung her legs daintily off the table.

"Um, fine I think. I'm a little tired but besides that-"

"What's happening here?" Captain America suddenly boomed, storming into the lab. You flinched, startled by his loud voice. Both Nat and Bucky look totally unfazed while Shuri only rolled her eyes. I guess Captains mood swings were a normalcy around here.

Natasha explained the situation to him while he passed the room, arms crossed and a scowl permanently glued to his face.

"How could you let this happen?" Steve finally barked, pointing an accusatory finger at Shuri. You thought if he had spoken to you like that you would melt away, but the small teen only scoffed and brushed him off.

"Hold up, Boomer. I didn't let anything happen. You brought her to me." She started, looking at you almost apologetically. "You told me to find Y/n's memories. That's what I'm doing. Unless you think you could do a better job with your zero years of education and that dinner plate you call a 'shield?'" She scoffed and went back to looking at her computer.

“You made my shield” Steve huffed under his breath.

“Uh, no. How dare you? I would never, the thing is incredibly impractical. I did make it better though.” Shuri mocked the Captain. Jeesh, the girl truly had balls, that's for sure.

"How do you feel?" Steve questioned. It took you a solid five seconds to realise he was looking at you.

"Oh, I'm fine. Yeah, I'm fine. Just really confused." You mumbled, terrified you were going to set the Super Soldier off again.

“Well I can shed some light, would that be okay with you, old man?” Shuri spoke sarcastically to Steve. He only rolled his eyes and waved his hand motioning her to carry on.

“I ran your blood through a few tests. I don't know how I didn’t see this before. I mean it's right in front of us. You failed the drug test. By like, a lot. Which I thought was weird but to each their own ya know? Anyways, I looked into it and your body is literally emanating radiation, which got me thinking. The only people I know who literally sweat steroids are-”

“She’s a Super Soldier.” Steve interrupted. You stared at him wide eyes and back to Shuri. This wasn't possible. You didn't feel super. Actually you felt pretty crappy, to say the least.

“Not exactly. At least, Y/n doesn't have the same chemical compound as you. Whatever serum she's drugged up on, it's not one I've ever seen before.” Shuri finished, holding a test tube of your blood up and analysing it. You felt like you were going to throw up. You didn't know if it was the chaos of the situation or the fun new information that past life Y/n was a steroid junky but it was enough to make you lightheaded. You stumbled back a few paces, uneasy on your feet. A strong arm wrapped itself around your waist, steading you before you could fall. You looked up at Bucky's warm smile suddenly feeling a little more at ease. Gotcha. He mouthed, and you took a deep breath. I am calm, I am okay… Just, breathe.

Ten minutes later and a bunch of arguing the room finally stilled. Shuri explained how she suspected Hydra had a weapon similar to the super-soldier serum, only more complex. The whole thing made very little sense to you.

"Why would Hydra inject me with the serum?" You argued, skeptically.

"Because, they physically couldn't make another drop. Y/n destroyed the lab with all their research. The one they gave to her was the first of its kind. It's flawed and unpredictable. Without her cooperating, recreating a serum was impossible. However, if they injected it into our friend here, they could monitor how it developed in a controlled environment." Shuri explained.

"So, you think the serum they gave me is their super secret weapon?" You asked, stunned. Shuri only nodded.

“You're the blueprint…” Bucky mumbled under his breath. You didn't know if he had meant for you to hear as no one else in the room seemed to notice he had even spoken.

"And you're sure it's in Y/n's system?" Nat asked, her eyes scanning over you.

"I mean, I guess there's only one way to know for sure. I have this…theory. I could be wrong, but I highly doubt it… Y/n, I think it's time you meet our resident teenage witch."

You followed the team into what looked they're common room. Plasma TVs hung on the walls and large floor length windows lined the room.

There sitting on the long couch was a girl. She looked to be about your age, maybe a little younger. You watched as red ribbons of electricity shot out of her hands and through the air like dangerous waves. The small tv remote hovered mid air as her red tendrils held it.

"Maximoff, front and center!" Steve announced loudly, startling the girl causing her to rocket the remote through the air. It flew past you, an inch from your face as it crumbled into the wall behind you.

"Holy shit!" You screamed, ducking as a delayed reaction and holding your hands over your head.

"Language..." Steve lectured under his breath. You mouthed a 'sorry' and stood up again.

"Didn't mean to startle you, I just have someone I'd like you to meet. He gestured towards you as her eyes followed.

"Hi." You spoke quietly. She smiled kindly and spoke apologetically, "Hi. I'm sorry, I didn't mean to throw electronics at you." She shrugged.

"Occupational hazard when you're around me. It's kinda' my thing." You chuckled at that.

"Perfect. Now that you've met... Wanda, will you please fight Y/n." Shuri spoke dryly. The girl, Wanda, looked from Shuri to you.

"Um, no?" You blurted looking at Shuri absolutely terrified. There was no way you were fighting this chick. She just fired a remote at your head with the ease and strength of a shotgun. Hell no.

"Please, you won't hurt her. It's for science." Shuri shrugged, but you weren't sold.

"Yeah, that's not happening. There's gotta be another way we can test your theory." You shook your head frantically. Wanda looked slightly intrigued, crawling across the couch and perching on the arm rest.

"What exactly would you have me do, Shuri?" She questioned, looking wickedly dangerous. The small engineer grinned, crossing her arms over each other.

"Do what we practiced." She cooed, dryly.

The team behind you took a few steps back. You hadn't realised they had deserted you until it was too late. Wanda created a small red blast of electricity in her palm. You watched as she shaped it like a snowball, carefully dropping it between her hands. You watched in awe as it sizzled and sparked between her fingers.

“I really, really don't like this idea.” You voiced, looking back at Steve and Shuri, who only watched in anticipation.

You turned back to face her as the energy surged towards your body. Before it could explode you crossed your arm over your face protecting yourself from its inevitable blow. But it never came.

Carefully you opened one eye, and then the other. More people now gathered in the common room. You looked around at their faces, landing on Bucky who, unlike his teammates looked horrified. You looked down at your hands then, and what you saw made you choke out a gasp.

Your whole body was glowing with the same red electricity Wanda has thrown at you. Your eyes darted up to her and she just stared at you in shock.

"What the hell is happening right now?" You yelled, terrified and feeling like your whole body was vibrating.

"Exactly what I thought would happen. You've absorbed Wanda's powers." Shuri spoke matter of fact, like this kind of thing happened every day. I guess with these people it did.

"Y/n, are you okay?" Bucky demanded. He felt powerless as he watched the Witch’s energy circled around you. You nodded, reassuringly. Though you didn't know if you believed it.

"Okay, what do I do. I don't want this-" you reached your arms out and with a bright flash of red, the electricity exploded from your hands, throwing Wanda off her seat and hurling her backwards. Quickly she caught herself mid air before she crashed through the window, hovering above the floor.

"Holy crap" She screamed, checking she was all in one piece "I sincerely apologise to anyone I've done that to. That really stings." She winced as she landed back on the ground.

"Shit, I didn't mean to. I'm so sorry!" You crossed the room, making sure she was okay.

Wanda laughed, "You sure do make a great first impression." She spoke sarcastically. You half smiled, not knowing how you could help.

"I guess that's kinda' my thing." You spoke, causing a dazzling smile to dance across Wanda's pink lips.

"This is so exciting! I’m going to run back to the lab and run a few more tests. Obviously you aren't able to control how you absorb your opponents powers. You're going to have to practice before we can try that again." Shuri spoke, tearing you away from your exchange with Wanda.

"I am not doing that again." You argued, horrified that you almost chucked Wanda out a plate glass window.

"Sure you are. Come now, science experiment, let's see what else you can do." You huffed and followed Shuri’s voice.

..…………

A/n: as always, feedback it welcomed!! Let me know what you think 💕💕💕

@projectcampbell

[psalloacappella]

show me how

Pairings: SasuSaku Fandom:  Naruto Rating: M Genre/Tags: AU; in which Sasuke is a driver, Sakura plays no games; also has an underground fight club; sexual tension; dominant Sakura; Uchiha bros being bros Ao3 | twt

In which Sasuke is the new driver for the Haruno heiress — and therefore, prey.

[In the words of Rihanna, You look like you can handle what’s under my hood // you keep saying that you will, boy, I wish you would.]

❦

His mother would say he’s aiming a bit above his station, lip-chewing, worrisome; his father would disapprove, thinking the new client spoiled.

Itachi, greyish eyes twinkling with some genial but teasing expression, shifts to let his ponytail tumble down his back. Women adore the look; Sasuke likens it to a horsetail well within earshot every chance he gets. Brothers, you know.

Pinching the photo between thumb and forefinger with hesitancy, the lack of commitment stark as a first app-date gone sour and seeking escape, Sasuke knows he’s pouting and he knows Itachi’s amused.

“I’d have taken her,” he consoles softly — Sasuke hates that tone too, like he’s chivvying a hot-tempered horse into his stable, oh gods, fuck Itachi for this — “but out of the two she requested you. Very taken with your photo.”

“Itachi.” The given name comes through gritted teeth, and Itachi struggles not to smile. Sasuke hopes the effort’s absolutely killing him. “This is the Haruno heiress. Pink hair, red temper?”

“Funny, I do know. Almost as if she’s famous, dear brother.”

“Infamous. For killing her last driver.”

“Oh, come now.”

“Running him off. Driving him to insanity.” And here Sasuke jabs the finger of his free hand against the photographed face: smiling, with a sharp gleam in her jade eyes. He punctuates each syllable against her cheek, “Take—your—pick!”

Itachi’s tongue clicks continue to conjure pastoral images of horses and other farmish animals, and Sasuke thinks this unasked for, supernatural form of punishment is a right divine kick in the mouth.

“For what it’s worth, I’m sure the talk is mostly nonsense,” he soothes. Bending to behold the portrait shot further, he rests his fingers against his mouth. Pensive. People often adore that too. “After all, she’s cleaned up her image quite a bit.” Itachi extends his hand, counting off her improvements:  “Issued apologies for the yacht incident—”

“Pretty sure she’s banned from the piers now.”

“Recovered brilliantly from her very public and messy breakup with the Hyuuga heir—”

“A piece of shit, granted, but she still keyed his car, and then his face—”

“Even had a great photo-op of visiting Uzumaki Naruto in the hospital—”

“That she put him in.”

“She even disbanded her underground fight club,” Itachi added, plucking the photo and folder from his younger brother’s hands, a final that’s that!

“Her what?”

“Bad optics. Oh, and you start Monday.” He pats a stunned Sasuke gently on the shoulder; not one to easily manage particularly happy or buoyant expressions, he prays to whatever forces or deities exist that he’s been passed over for the coveted yet dangerous position of personal driver for Miss Sakura Haruno.

.

Driver — ah, the term is misleading. A position often including, but not limited to:  Chauffeur, personal assistant, event planner, bodyguard, bookkeeper, and occasionally dragging paparazzi out of the bushes by their lapels, testing meals for poison, and smuggling her short-term affairs in and out of back building doors.

A skittish attendant is the only witness to the moment in which he meets her in person.

Sunshowers, an unnatural brightness like daylight thunderstorms; a presence difficult to face head-on. Slender and swagger, something in the way she walks suggesting she’s aware of exactly who she is and what he’s probably heard, keen eyes plucking his thoughts from his soupy skull by slice and piece only to toss them aside, limp, discarded.

And she’s gorgeous. Beauty in lethality, the inherent quality pined for in mythological Olympian goddesses and well-crafted guns and dangerous and unwieldy luxury cars. The wreckage left in their wake easy to augur with plain eyes if anyone can resist the siren song.

Sasuke’s hands are clammy when they shake. She notices, with a gaze like whetted glass.

Fuck Itachi. Fuck this. Fuck me.

“How do you like to be addressed . . . Miss Haruno?”

A smirk plays on her lips. “Not like that, for damn sure. Sakura’s fine. Let’s go.”

She’s opening her own car door and about to lower herself in before he snaps to — the tyranny of her heels against the cobblestones twists him into impossible nautical knots.

“I don’t care if you get the door,” she says, “but Tsunade’ll have your head.” With a jerk of her chin, she indicates she’s ready to go.

“Won’t happen again,” he says, dipping his head in apology and settling into the driver’s seat. “Where to?”

“Oh, wherever.” Flicks a dainty wrist, yet he catches the brushrust scrapes smeared across her knuckles. “You’re a driver, after all; I want to see you drive.”

Easing the car into gear, they pull away from the curb in silence. Eyeing him caddy-corner from the back, she folds her arms and crosses her long, impossibly long legs at the ankles.

“So.” The word’s sharp as a blade, scratches him without warning. “What do you know about me?”

He makes a noncommittal noise, hoping to avoid riposte; when he catches the slight flare of her nostrils in the mirror, he settles on the bland and stupid, “I’m not sure what you mean, Mis— Sakura.”

“Don’t play coy,” she says. “Tell me what the quidnuncs on the street say, gossiping over their limp salads and lackluster lives.”

“I’ve heard you’ve run every driver out of town.”

“Yes, that’s fair. The last one quite literally; he was terrified, in the end.”

“I’ve heard you . . . play with your food.”

Another careful peripheral glance in the mirror:  He sees her uncross her arms, grip the edges of the seat. Leaning forward, eyes bright and something, essence or woven narrative or tangled web undulating, unraveling. She exposed; him, encroaching.

Voice low, lean, and throaty when she affirms,

“Yes, sometimes I do.”

The click! of a released seat belt latch, and she’s sliding over to the backseat behind him.

Sasuke’s mouth runs dry, parched as desert sand, sunbaked stone. There’s a first time for everything, including this unsettling feeling to which he has nothing to compare.

Leather moulding to her shape as she leans against the seat, her gaze seeking refuge and scraping at any weak spots in the back of his skull.

“If you were hoping for a shy one, you’re driving the wrong car for the wrong girl.”

He scoffs, but it sounds nervous, bad for business —

she’ll devour him.

“Of all the things I’ve heard,” he says, “shy was definitely not one of them.”

He doesn’t know when his voice decided to do that, slide into a low bass with the ease and thrum of rich regal rhythm; he doesn’t know when he even had a breath to release, the way it manifests as a pant in the hot shared air of the car.

“Lest you be misinformed,” and still her tone is grainy, the stret-scratch of extempore acoustic guitar, “I don’t act this way with all my drivers. Any, in fact.”

“Ah.”

“Don’t, with that aloof disbelief.” She presses her foot against his seat and he feels a jab right in the middle of his back, the equivalent of a flirtatious swat at the arm. A bit more intimidating than that, he supposes.

“Everything is so public for me,” she continues. Pauses. “I’m almost never alone. Drivers continue to disappoint me, pretending to be my confidant but in reality reporting my behavior to sleazy paparazzi. It’s never about the money; they love divulging. They can’t help themselves.”

He would be willing to debate the “drivers” label, but he now understands why the last one and many before have been dealt a particularly heavy hand in the method of released employment.

“So.”

This time the word’s triumphant, and Sasuke manages not to startle as her heel settles on the shoulder of the driver’s seat. Skin close enough to press his lips to, swirling floral scents of jasmine and others unidentified, salient sweet cherry. Glancing at the tempting slope of her calf, he keeps his eyes firmly on the road even as the dark corners of his mind lead his mouth marching up her pliant skin, bound by siren song, and into what surely is the most sacrosanct and calamitous temple of them all.

“You have this chance to quit,” she whispers. “Right now, no fuss.”

And he betrays himself a second time, scoffing as the suggestion of course is mirthful, ridiculous, knowing somehow he’ll never do so. He’s never been one to shirk duty, and untangling from this, whatever this is, already bids the trappings and fixation of an addiction too virulent and electric to leave.

“I’ll take that as acceptance,” Sakura says, now all joy and sparkle, wiggling her shoe near his handsome face.

Though his hands are clammy on the wheel, his words manage to gloss over the catch in his throat as he asks, “Ah, where to?”

In the mirror he watches:  Another layer of her falls again, as crêpe layers, as petals. It’s the first time he notices the lambent green of her nails, and she nibbles on one before responding, in a way so deliberate he’s distracted by the way her lips form the words:

“Show me how you drive.”

[haro-whumps]

Poisoned

CW: poison, minor character deaths, excessive devotion, self-dehumanization? Sort of?, genuinely not sure how to flag that one and am open to suggestions, lady whump, suggestive content (though nothing explicit) 

@whumptober2020 day 22, which is largely the result of a conversation @newbornwhumperfly and I had and is a prologue to these posts

tag list: @killtheprotagonist

--

The youngest daughter of a petty dame, one who already had many daughters before her, was not of much particular note. She was handsome, certainly, with beautiful, rounded features, sharp eyes, lush hair. But her stern demeanor, low status, and inevitably small inheritance won her no favors.

Amari was not there to win favors. She’d hardly mustered the drive to debut in the queen’s court, though she knew she must. Life was a series of necessities, and Amari was good at fulfilling them, at doing what was needed. Needed of her, needed in general, needed to keep her mother’s reputation from sinking further, needed to help her sisters, needed for her own well being.

She was not surprised that her debut was attended by those who were simply there to be polite, fans lifted to hide how there was not a sincere smile in all the court, empty platitudes and rote responses, all of it shallow, meaningless, fog. Amari was alright with being yet another wisp of mist in the fog. She was alright with a lot of things.

But no morning fog survives the burning of the dawn, and Princess Simone was fire, fire in her eyes that locked on Amari, fire in her feet that carried her with confidence, fire at her back dancing about her as a cape, fire behind her teeth that she kept poorly locked.

Amari was not surprised. The princess was well known for her proclivities, her taste for duels and wine and flesh. She was also known for the speed with which she burned through each individual interest: eager to fight a new opponent, drink a different flavor, bed another lover. 

Amari was not surprised when the princess’s attentions did not waver throughout her debut, nor was she surprised when she was… “invited” back to the princess’s quarters. A stern glare from Her Majesty the Queen was clearly meant to deter either Princess Simone, Amari herself, or both.

Amari felt very little, under the weight of the queen’s ire. What she did feel, wasn’t exactly cowed.

She left the princess’s quarters on weak legs, her clothes obviously disheveled, hair askew and sweat still clinging to her. But at the same time, this was never any secret. If Amari cared to, she was sure she could find a way from Princess Simone’s doorway to her own without being seen by more than the crows, but she chose the main pathway. The same route she would have taken any other day, in any other attire.

She was seen by more than a dozen.

Her posture was unwavering, a straight spine, a lifted chin, eyes filled with stern clarity, an even gait. She was a good girl, and had learned how to hold herself properly. She was a good girl, knew how to pose, how to walk, how to pass people without making eye contact with them and inviting conversation. Yes, she was a very--

“Good, Amari!”

Princess Simone invited her back to her quarters near daily, sometimes for hours if she’d spilled blood earlier. The queen voiced clear displeasure. Amari went to her quarters near daily. Her mother voiced clear displeasure. Amari never missed a fight. One day her elder sister, one who was betrothed in an advantageous marriage and would soon be a countess, pulled Amari aside in the gardens, Amari wearing the silken shawl Princess Simone had gifted her with thoughtless carelessness two nights before. The texture was sublime.

“I know it is flattering to be the subject of her attention,” her sister said. “But the pleasure that comes from her is fleeting, and can leave you feeling only colder. She will not answer you if you ask her what she feels towards you, Amari, she cannot give you what a heart needs. I worry for you.”

And that was where they differed. Truly differed, meaningfully.

“I have no expectations for her feelings. I do not expect permanence. I am happy, simply, to serve her how she pleases, and if she decides she has bored of me and sets me aside, I will remain faithful and devout to her then, too,” Amari stated, and she meant every word. 

Her sister seemed shocked, her face displaying a mild horror that would settle into something worse the longer she thought about her words. Amari reached out, and touched her hand.

“Do not worry about your littlest sister,” Amari stated, “I have already claimed my fate, whether it will have me or not.”

Days later, Amari’s sister left the queen’s court to move into her future estate, and Amari lied on Princess Simone’s bed, stroking a hand down the floor length silk robe Princess Simone had thoughtfully, attentively gifted her.

The princess’s lips pressed to her neck, deceptively cool against the hot skin of the forming bruise. “Amari~” she lilted in the playful, sweetly menacing tone that made Amari’s eyes close and spine shiver. “Would you die for me?”

“Yes.”

Princess Simone giggled, arm sliding around Amari’s midsection and squeezing, her body pressed flush against Amari’s back. 

“Amari~ Would you kill for me?”

“Yes.”

“Amari, Amari~” Amari opened her eyes. “Would you live for me, and me alone?”

“I already do.”

Princess Simone’s hand slid up her breasts, her chest, coming to a rest on her throat. Amari tilted her head slowly, slightly, careful not to collide against the princess’s head. 

“You know, Amari, I think you’re the most honest person I’ve ever met. Do you ever lie?”

“When necessary,” Amari answered.

Princess Simone hummed. “Few people are truly capable of such devotion.”

Amari lifted her hand from the silk and covered the princess’s hand with her own. 

“Few people are capable of true ownership. To be the recipient of worship and give another’s life purpose.”

Princess Simone laughed, loud and bold and in Amari’s ear. “Is that what you wish? For me to own you?”

“Entirely.”

Princess Simone kissed the hollow just beneath Amari’s ear, her hand sliding from her neck to pull at the silken robe. “My Amari,” she breathed, “my Amari. Give me everything.”

It is already yours.

The queen’s disapproval of Amari lessened as her disapproval of Princess Simone’s other activities grew. Her tendencies to hunt, to joust, to lay a wreckage upon the knights and guards and any braggart who dared not to fear her glaive in the ring. 

The daughter of a duchess debuted in court, and Amari watched, her expression blank, unwavering as it always was, as Princess Simone approached her, fire in her eyes, fire in her heels, fire in her teeth, and “invited” her back to her quarters. Amari left the room without receiving a single glance from the queen, and slept in her silken robe.

Three days after her debut, the daughter of a duchess was seen crying in the gardens, consoled by her friends who’d debuted before she had, heartbroken because she’d never listened to the purely factual rumors about the princess’s interests, or perhaps thought herself exceptional.

Three days and an evening after the girl’s debut, Amari was called back to the princess’s quarters.

“My Amari,” Simone murmured, “were you jealous?”

“What you do with your time and interest is not mine to decide.”

“My Amari, my Amari,” Princess Simone intoned, voice pitched low and soft and curling, “my faithful girl.”

The queen was growing livid, demanding Princess Simone take her responsibilities seriously and cease her unruly behavior before the queen was forced to take action to curb her ways.

Within the week, Princess Simone’s previous steward had fallen deathly ill, no one sure if she would ever recover or if she would perish where she lied, and Amari was handed a job she’d never considered wanting or thought to ask for, but was receptive to nonetheless. Grateful for. It was more than the youngest daughter of a dame could hope for, as far as work went. And it had been Princess Simone who had given it to her.

Princess Simone led the investigation of her previous steward’s illness. Although some suspected foul play, with Amari being the primary target of their doubts, none could find any evidence against her. It was simply written off as illness, and Steward Amari took quickly, diligently to her tasks.

“My steward,” Princess Simone called, waiting for her at the top of a spire one day, overlooking her future queendom. “My mother’s ire does not fade. She has announced to her inner circle that she will attempt to bear another daughter, and if she is successful, she will name that child her heir.”

“This is most troubling, my princess,” Steward Amari said flatly, face unmoving as ever, acid churning in her stomach. 

“She had attempted to keep it hidden from me, but even her inner circle has weak links, split loyalties. Those smart enough to know who the future belongs to, and who have traded their loyalty to me.”

“Fortunate,” Steward Amari remarked, “for them.”

Princess Simone grinned, fire in her eyes and in her veins and in imagined fangs that flicked from Steward Amari’s vision back to pearly teeth. 

“My Steward Amari,” Princess Simone murmured, rising from her seat upon the window sill and taking Steward Amari’s hand in hers. A vial rested in her palm. She kissed her, sweet and slow, then kissed her jaw, then ear. “You will place this in my mother’s meal,” Princess Simone whispered, and Steward Amari kissed her.

Steward Amari was not surprised when the queen died. She was not surprised when the food tester was executed upon the block. She was not surprised when she entered the throne room and found Queen Simone lounging upon the throne. Two guards she knew and recognized flanked her. Trustworthy. Loyal. They could not be devout in the way Steward Amari was, but then, few people could. She knelt before her queen, and rose when beckoned.

“My Amari, my steward, my beautiful girl,” Queen Simone cooed, pulling Steward Amari in for a searing kiss. “You now serve a queen.”

“Long may you live.”

Queen Simone laughed, but then, in a truly uncharacteristic display, turned her head into Amari’s neck, hidden in her hair. Amari held still, though she turned her head ever slightly inward, listening.

“I killed my own mother and feel no remorse, no guilt, no shame” Queen Simone stated quietly, meant only for Amari’s ears, “You were the tool I used to do it.” Queen Simone’s hand raised to cup Amari’s other cheek, the one her own was not pressed to. “Are you vexed, that I would use you to such an extreme?”

“I live only to serve you,” Amari murmured quietly, the words no secret but the intimacy of the mood promoting softness. “I am loyal to no hand but yours. My queen.” She inhaled deeply, the bright and burning scent of her idol. Of her god. “I am here to be used, however you wish, to whatever end you will.”

“My Amari,” Queen Simone breathed, pulling back and caressing her face with both hands, before smiling with a ravenous hunger. “Good.”

[chiseler]

Maxwell Bodenheim

In Letters from Bohemia, Ben Hecht declares his friend Maxwell Bodenheim “more disliked, derided, denounced, beaten up, and kicked down more flights of stairs than any poet of whom I have heard or read.” In his lifetime Bodenheim was at least as well known for his drunk and dissolute behavior as for his writing. Today he’s mostly remembered for the tawdry way he died.

He grew up poor and Jewish in smalltown Mississippi. He was bright but viciously boorish, physically handsome yet repulsively slovenly, and argumentative to a fault, with a genius for the insult that could end any discussion, usually with his being punched in the mouth. As young men Bodenheim and Hecht were the pranksters of the Chicago Renaissance. According to Allen Churchill’s The Improper Bohemians, they once filled a hall for a literary debate on the topic “Resolved: That People Who Attend Literary Debates Are Imbeciles.”

Hecht strode center-stage to announce that he would take the affirmative. Then he stated, “The affirmative rests.” Bodenheim shambled forward, scrutinized his confident opponent, and said, “You win.”

Bodenheim – Bogie to his long-suffering friends – was twenty-two when he blew into Greenwich Village with other Chicago émigrés in 1915, and instantly made a name for himself in the neighborhood as a poet of promise. Reading his facile, gaudy verses now, it’s easy to think that it was the brute force of his sociopathic presence, rather than his poetry, that convinced the best poets in the Village at the time that he was one of them, potentially even the greatest of them:

You have a morning-glory face

Whose edges are sensitive to light

And curl in beneath the burden of a smile.

Remembered silence returns to the morning-glory

And lattices its curves

With shades of golden reverberations.

Then the morning-glory’s heart careens to loves

Whose scent beats on the sky-walls of your soul.

Tellingly, those not directly in his orbit seem not to have been fooled by the clever romance-novel sham of such verses – and neither, apparently, was Bodenheim himself, though he would go on roaring about his genius for decades. Hecht records that after entering 223 poetry contests and failing to win a single one, he took to signing his letters to editors “Maxwell Bodenheim, 224th ranking U.S.A. poet.”

He did have a real talent for scandal, easy enough to generate during Greenwich Village’s prolonged drunken orgy in the Prohibition years. His haughty, insulting demeanor, and his habit of trying to steal other men’s women right under their noses, got him regularly socked on the jaw and thrown out of bars, soirees and the fauxhemian revels at Webster Hall.

Turning from poetry to prose, through the 1920s he wrote a string of best-selling, sensational potboilers like Replenishing Jessica, about a free-loving bohemian, Georgie May, about a fallen prostitute, and Naked on Roller Skates, about a middle-aged “onetime hobo, circus-pegger, doughboy, sailor, anarchist, con man, all-time sensationalist and wanderer of the world” who leaves a small town with a much younger woman who “wanted to try everything at least once.” They sound better than they read. Hecht called them “hack work with flashes of tenderness, wit, and truth in them.” When the Society for the Suppression of Vice brought Bodenheim to trial in 1925 on an obscenity charge for Replenishing Jessica, his defense lawyer used a familiar tactic of demanding that the prosecutor read the entire text aloud to prove his case. Judge, jury and the reporters covering the trial dozed as the prosecutor droned on and on, and the unaroused jury voted Bodenheim not guilty. Mayor Jimmy Walker agreed with the verdict. “No girl was ever seduced by a book,” he quipped.

For a bohemian poet, commercial success and celebrity could bring on a full-blown personality crisis (as it would do Jackson Pollock, Jack Kerouac and Kurt Cobain). Bodenheim squandered the money he made from his novels on drink and gambling, as though he couldn’t throw it away fast enough. He preferred to demand loans and cadge drinks from everyone around him, like a true bohemian poet should. Meanwhile, his reputation in these years as a daring, risqué writer attracted a cloud of what we’d call groupies today, many of them the sort of teenagers from the outer boroughs and the hinterlands who flocked to the Village in the 1920s to throw off the shackles of mainstream morality and abandon themselves to the neighborhood’s non-stop pagan revels.

He took his pick. One was Gladys Loeb, 18, from the Bronx. In 1928, he ended a brief fling with her, adding that her poetry was doggerel. Her landlady soon found her with her head in the gas oven, barely clinging to life, and to Bodenheim’s portrait. A few weeks later he did the same thing to twenty-two-year-old Virginia Drew, who threw herself into the Hudson and succeeded where Gladys had failed. When police went to question Bodenheim about Drew’s suicide, he’d slipped off to stay with fellow Villager Harry Kemp in Provincetown. Gladys, having recovered from her own suicide attempt, followed him there – trailing her irate father, cops and reporters. Bodenheim talked his way out of their clutches, but not out of the newspapers all over the country, which had a field day with lurid tales about the Greenwich Village Lothario.

Then came Aimee Cortez, widely feted as “the Mayoress of Greenwich Village.” She earned the title by stripping naked at private parties and Webster Hall shindigs and gyrating a wildly erotic dance. According to Churchill, this display sometimes ended with her going off with some lucky male, but other times she’d stop abruptly, with a look of terror and confusion, and run off. In a later era she’d be prescribed a drug for this clearly disturbed behavior, but in the Village of the late 1920s, where “a hideous lust… pervaded the air” as Bodenheim’s My Life and Loves in Greenwich Village put it, she was merely celebrated as the queen of the modern-day bacchantes. Not long after Gladys and Virginia made the papers, Aimee was found with her head in her own oven, also clutching Bodenheim’s portrait. She was dead at nineteen.

Bodenheim was indirectly implicated in the sad end of another lover, a teenager from the outer boroughs with the improbable name Dorothy Dear. When she wasn’t with him in his MacDougal Street apartment, he wrote her love letters that she carried in her purse. One afternoon she was aboard a rush hour subway train heading from Times Square to the Village when it derailed at a faulty switch, killing sixteen passengers, including Dorothy. Bodenheim’s love letters were found scattered around the wreckage.

By the end of the 1920s Bodenheim was a wreck himself. From the 1930s until his death he was a fixture on the streets and in the bars of the Village, by turns annoying and sad-making, decaying before his old friends’ eyes into a stinking, toothless ghost, “tottering drunkenly to sleep on flophouse floors, shabby and gaunt as any Bowery bum,” as Hecht put it. Still, Hecht gallantly added, “Bogie hugged his undiminished riches – his poet’s vocabulary and his genius for winning arguments. He won nothing else.” He cranked out more cheap novels, drank the money, and stooped to hawking his poems to tourists in Washington Square for a quarter each. Wiseacres in the bars fed him gin and laughed at his drunken mumblings and rants, which sometimes yielded a famous line like “Greenwich Village is the Coney Island of the soul.”

Poets were the main entertainment at Max Gordon’s Village Vanguard in the mid-1930s. Gordon couldn’t afford to pay them; they performed for whatever change the patrons tossed at their feet. Poet Eli Siegel, later founder of the Aesthetic Realism movement, was the emcee in the early years, but the crowd really came to see three ghosts of the Village Past – Joe Gould, Harry Kemp and Maxwell Bodenheim. They hung out there because Gordon tolerated them and his patrons were easy marks for a few free drinks. In his memoir Live at the Village Gate, Gordon describes how Siegel would call Gould out of the crowd with the cry, “Ladies and gentlemen, the Harvard terrier and boulevardier, Joseph Ferdinand Gould!” Gould would shuffle up to the spotlight and do his schtick, while Bodenheim, tall and imperious, would stalk the shadows at the back, “point his finger, and shout, ‘Eli Siegel! I hate you, Eli Siegel. You rat!’” Gordon continues:

Eli would wait for Bodenheim to shape up so he could call on him to recite. But it was no use. Bodenheim, swirling crazily, eyes glazed, arms outstretched, would suddenly stop and point his finger at a frightened girl who had refused him a dance during intermission. “Rat!” he’d shout at her.

Despite the frightening deterioration of his physical and mental hygiene, Bodenheim still attracted a certain type of desperate woman, usually in decline herself. He met the last of them in 1951 when Ruth Fagan bought a poem from him with her last quarter. She was thirty-two, he was a fifty-nine-year-old derelict, and within a couple of weeks they were going around as Mr. and Mrs. Bodenheim, though it’s not clear they ever bothered to make it official. They decayed together for the next couple of years, chronically broke and drunk, descending from cheap rooming houses to flophouses to sleeping in hallways and doorways. She turned tricks when she could, and he beat her when he found out. In 1952 they made a horrific spectacle of themselves at a fancy reunion for surviving members of the original Chicago Renaissance group, where he panhandled the guests while she propositioned them.

If the Bodenheim of the early 1950s was a disgusting or amusing clown to the tourists, and an embarrassment and bother to his old friends, he was something of a martyred saint to the generation of bohemians who came to the Village after World War Two. In his headlong descent into the abyss, his lust for the extremes of degradation, his lust for lust itself, he was like a dark archangel of negative capability for them, representing the ultimate rejection of bourgeois virtue and mainstream values, even to the point of total self-destruction. He comes up several times in the published diaries of Judith Malina, co-founder of the Living Theatre, from this period. One night in 1951 she and her husband Julian Beck were in the San Remo, the dark and smoky bar at Bleecker and MacDougal Streets that Bodenheim often haunted:

A ragged drunk approaches our table. In terrible shape. Ash blond hair askew. He lurches forward, his hands resting on the table. Directly to Julian: “What’s your name?”

“My name is Julian Beck.”

“My name is Maxwell Bodenheim. I’m an idiotic poet.”

And he turns and moves off before we can speak.

The late Roy Metcalf, who was a young newspaper reporter in the early 1950s, also encountered Bodenheim in the San Remo. “Bodenheim had a great face, an alcohol-ravaged face,” he recalled. “Once a guy from uptown wanted to see Greenwich Village, so we went down to the San Remo. There was Bodenheim. He said, 'Bring him over, let’s buy him a drink.’ He expected Bodenheim to say something. Bodenheim by that time was so paralyzed by alcohol that all he could do was bray, 'Aaaaargh.’”

In 1953 Malina went into the Waldorf Cafeteria on Sixth Avenue, where artists hung out. The food was lousy, the lighting made people look so bad they nicknamed it the Waxworks, and the other patrons tended to be bums, drug addicts, tough guys and cops. The staff was not particularly welcoming to arty boho types. So naturally that’s where Bodenheim and Ruth went to celebrate his birthday. Malina writes that a friend stole a pumpkin pie from the counter as a present for Bodenheim. “A cop sees him, but is somehow content with my explanation that Maxwell Bodenheim is a great poet and that his birthday should be celebrated. The counterman is not so generous: 'I ain’t doin’ this for love.’ We all eat. Ruth Bodenheim curses the cafeteria. Some junkies come and tell horrible tales of hospitals and arrests. One taps his eye with a knife to show us that it’s glass. Ruth Bodenheim smiles in an aristocratic manner: 'I’d never have believed it wasn’t real,’ as if she were consoling the owner of false jewels.”

“Do we not idolize Maxwell Bodenheim although we are sometimes loath to talk to him and always ashamed of our condescension to him?” Malina wonders in another entry. “What we admire is Bodenheim’s refusal to resist. We fight all the time, resisting temptation. We admire those who don’t. Even if it’s suicidal.” And later: “Even self-contempt when fierce enough is magnificent. The virtue of the extreme is its extremity. Nature loves extremes as much as she loathes a vacuum.”

In 1953, Ruth took up with a violent, mentally unstable dishwasher named Harold Weinberg. One night in the winter of 1954 the three of them wound up in Weinberg’s room off the Bowery. Bodenheim roused himself from a drunken stupor to see Ruth and Weinberg having sex. He attacked Weinberg, who pulled out a .22 and shot him through the heart. Then Weinberg stabbed Ruth in the chest. The last photos of Bodenheim show him and Ruth lying dead in the squalid room.

“The hideous death of Bodenheim blankets the Village in a funereal spirit,” Malina wrote. “Who dares confess to the wrenching excitement of seeing a companion’s mauled corpse on the front page of every newspaper, and all of us knowing that the worst has again triumphed?”

Cops picked up Weinberg a few days later. At his trial he called his victims Commie rats and shouted that he “did the world a favor” by getting rid of them. He sang “The Star-Spangled Banner” as he was led out of the courtroom and off to Bellevue.

Today, Bodenheim is remembered more for this tabloid end than for any other achievement. Even his memoir was a dispiriting sham. My Life and Loves in Greenwich Village, published posthumously in 1954, was ghostwritten by a hack who, like everyone else in the Village, had bought him drinks to listen to his drunken ramblings. It’s a loose collection of vignettes, anecdotes, and racy gossip that was already antique when the book appeared. His old friend Hecht, who sent a check for $50 to help pay for Bodenheim’s cheapjack funeral, based his 1958 Off-Broadway play Winkelberg on him. (“There was never a man as irritating as Winkelberg.”) It ran for a month at the Renata Theatre on Bleecker Street, then sank into oblivion along with much of Bodenheim’s own writing.

by John Strausbaugh

[mamaluigi2018-commsopen]

Anti-Hero: Elemental Powers Lore

My question for all of you is this. If you could have one of the elemental powers, what would it be? I would choose Electic. Take care y’all! - Brad

Progress Log Report: April 14 3:48pm, 1998  

We are still investigating these strange shards found from the meteorite that we were able to recover from the museum wreckage. Due to the strange powers they give an individual, we have decided to name them “Elemental Power”. So far in my research, I have reached several major points of interest to what we have discovered.

1. The shards are emitting a strange substance of radiation. According to the geiger counter, the levels are reaching 50,000 microSieverts. However the radiation does not appear to be lethal by any means. Future test will be recorded. 

2. Including the ones inside Sparky and Pyro, there appears to be a total of 20 different colored shards. Strangley, one of them seems to have their tip broken. My hypothesis believes that the broken one is the same one the “Creature” possesses.

3.When said power is in use, the user pupil glows to the corresponding color their power assigns them, as well as a symbol appearing on their chest. The user is able to generate and manipulate. It also seems the user is able to absorb said element into their body. Unfortunately, Sparky and Pyro have issues summoning their new found powers and controlling it. Their ability to use it average around a 70% success rate.

4. Sparky.......is the most unusual so far with his test. When Pyro uses his Fire Powers, he glows red and summons fire as we stated earlier. However when Sparky attempts to use his, one of his eyes appear to glow a burgundy color takes on a more feral appearance. I have also taken notice of his neck wound to glow a similar color and his skin begins to have what appear to be “cracks” as well. Major points in my observation is Sparky’s ability to generate claws from his hands, which Pyro seems to be unable to do. No evidence to support if this differentiate from user to user or only exclusive to Sparky. Sparky’s behavior also seems to be affected. 2 weeks ago when we met him, he had an aggressive personality, but never acted on nothing more than annoyance. However a week later, the day after the Museum Collapse, Sparky’s behavior drastically changed to a more violent and feral attitude. Strangely, similar to the “Creature”. Keep a close eye on him.

5. These powers seems to affect the body by enhancing several abilities. Speed has increased 200% with Sparky able to run at 150mph and counting. Strength has increased by 150%. Pyro record lifts at 300 kilos and counting. Their agility and reflexes has been enhanced as well. Major influence seems to be Sparky and Pyro’s resistance to fatal injuries. First hand witness experience, I able to deduce that survival to fatal injuries include gunshot wounds, impalement, loss of limbs, decapitation, and extreme blunt force trauma. No reasonable conclusion reached to how this is possible, however Pyro noted an observation. When dealt with extreme damage, they both excrete high amounts of blood, almost 3 times the average level for a human being. It seems that when the user goes for a prolonged amount of time losing blood, they begin to feel disorientation and loss of balance. New Hypothesis: the only fatality is loss of blood, but must be a high amount and not be treated for a length amount of time. Sparky and Pyro have as well shown to acquired a sort of “Healing Factor”, as Chowder describes. Sparky head.............his head was sliced off by a “Creature”. I saw it. He got back up and put it right back where it was. He sustained multiple injuries and lacerations, but was back to full health the next day.

6. It seems to way to acquire these powers, is to have direct contact with a shard. Sparky came into contact when the Museum caught on fire and Pyro came into contact when the “Creature” attacked Pier Park.

7. At the current moment, there appears to be no way to extract the radiation powers from either of those guys. Pyro details he feels no pain, only what he describes as a “light buzzing around his body.” Sparky feels no pain either, however at certain times he describes getting a headache once in while and sees things. He can’t even tell me what he is seeing. Most likely from hallucinations. At moments, Sparky also describes how his neck injury feels to itch and how under moments of stress or anger, he blackouts. 

At the moment, I have the meteorite stored in glass container in my lab. I will continue to conduct my research, not only to reach the truth behind the mystery of these strange powers and this “Creature” that has appeared in our town. To also secure the safety of my companions and keep my family and home safe. I fear that the time where any one of us my be forced to use the shards keep ourselves safe draws closer everyday. The next clue we have is to investigate the Junk Yard where the wreckage of the museum was moved to. Our investigation begins tonight.

Entry concluded. - Hydro Bleau