#cloud scraping solutions | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

electricgg · 22 days ago

Text

Ancient Dreams In A Modern Land

Chapter 9: As Long As I’m Held, I Don’t Care If It’s By Teeth

Masterlist

Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4 / Chapter 5 / Chapter 6 / Chapter 7 / Chapter 8 / Chapter 9 (Here!) / Chapter 10 / Chapter 11 /

‘A family is forever.’

It sounded like static. At least the first few times, until her ears finally tuned in to the words as if she clicked into the right channel.

‘A family is forever.’

She was sitting on a small bed, made for a child, with colorful lines on the bedsheets. Toy cars and dolls were scattered on the floor. Posters of movies, old series, and robots hang on the walls. A pair of white sneakers with green stripes were just by her bare feet.

When she lifted her head, a twin bed stood parallel to hers on the other side of the room.

It was empty. The bedsheets were unmade.

‘A family is forever.’

The door of the bedroom creaked open. She got up and walked through the frame, encountering a never-ending hall of different types of doors. Their shapes, colors, and sizes, changed in the blink of an eye.

They were glitching.

‘A family is forever.’

It was a woman’s voice, the one repeating those words over and over again and echoing down the long hall and reaching her still body. Sinking right through her skin and enveloping her senses.

It felt like she was in some kind of trance.

Her steps felt light, like walking in a cloud. She walked down the hall, hands hovering right in front of her as she scanned the changing doors. Trying to figure out which one was the right one.

The right one for what? She wasn’t sure, but it had to be the right one.

Another creak was heard farther down, making her snap her head towards the noise. There, in a dark corner, a red glitching figure dived inside a half-opened wooden door on the right side of the hall.

She didn’t hesitate and started to run.

“Hey, wait!” she yelled, running harder when she took notice of the hallway narrowing down and the doors glitching and slamming open and closed.

The groaning and splintering of wood made her look over her shoulder. The sight of the hall falling apart in a dark hole made her sprint harder, and she decided not to look back again, as cold sweat dripped down her temple.

As she passed by the doors, bits of conversations filtered through her head.

‘My wife and her flying saucers’ ‘My husband and his indestructible head’

Dad? Mom?

‘I'm so sorry. Excuse me. I am Glamour, and this is my delightful assistant, Illusion.’ ‘I am Glamour, and he's Illusion!’ ‘Yeah, what she said. Today, we will lie to you, and yet you will believe our little deceptions because human beings are easily fooled due to their limited understanding of the inner workings of the universe!’

Where are you? What is this?

‘I can't tell from this angle.’ ‘I can’t wait to be a proud papa-ya!’

Dad. I’m right here?

‘That puts you at about... six months! Boy, oh, boy, I thought I had superspeed. I can't keep up! Please don't misinterpret; I can't wait to meet you, little Billy.’ ‘Billy?’ ‘Yeah!’ ‘Well, I was thinking Tommy. Just a nice, classic, all-American name.’ ‘Hmm, Tommy? Hmm, yeah. Yeah. Then there's Billy, isn't there? Named after William Shakespeare, “All the world’s a stage. All the men and women are merely players.”’ ‘Well, I guess there's only one solution to this debate. Hope for a girl.’

MOM, I AM RIGHT HERE. MOM. DAD. MOM-

‘Can you believe it? Twins!’

‘I’m a twin. I had a brother. His name was Pietro-’

A deafening screeching sound made her scream out, covering her ears and scrunching her eyes shut. But she didn’t stop running. She could feel the floor splintering under her feet, scraping the skin and making it bleed.

But she didn’t stop running.

If she had opened her eyes, she would have seen how everything around her had blurred out, or how her legs were leaving an imprint on the floor by how fast she was running.

‘You know, I don't miss the crying, but jeez Louise, did you have to learn to walk? You two never stay put.’

There! The door!

She reached out for it as it began to close, slamming it closed behind her and sinking to the floor with a crushing sob. Her back against it, hanging onto dear life by the frame of it as it rattled and tried to get busted open by the unseen force.

Then, silence.

She didn’t even notice she had her eyes screwed shut, tears slippnig down her cheeks as sobs ripped out of her throat.

What was happening? What is this? So lost, so confused. She wanted this to stop. The pain, the noise, everything. She just wanted to go ho-

“Sweetie, did you fall?” a motherly, warm tone snapped her out of her internal turmoil.

She wasn’t in the manor. Gone where the dark walls and expensive painted portraits. The smell of old dust and piney scent was no longer there. Instead, bright colors and a living room straight out of an 80s sitcom, with the heavenly aroma of freshly baked cookies and the faint smell of spices in the air, stood right in front of her.

But what took her breath away was the curly-haired woman wearing a suspender pants and a square-pattern shirt with a gentle smile on her face.

“Look at you! You’re bleeding, sweetheart!” she fussed, taking her in her embrace and carrying her towards the huge kitchen.

The woman settled her on the counter, muttering to her and wiping away her tears with her fingers. She kissed her forehead before separating from the girl and walking around the kitchen, picking up paper towels and a glass of water.

The girl looked around until she made eye contact with her reflection on the metal toaster. Gasping, as her little fingers touched around her face and the new wardrobe. A long-sleeved striped shirt and green overalls made out of soft material, her hair in two ponytails with huge green plastic balls on the hairties. Two on each side.

She didn’t even notice how small she had become. She looked like she was five years old!

“That’s why we always wear our shoes when running around, sweetheart.” The woman began to wipe off the blood on her feet, making her focus on her once again.

“Sorry,” wow, even her voice sounded small!

“Oh,” the woman cooed. “That’s alright. We all make mistakes, but we learn from them, right?”

She could feel tears coming out once again, lips trembling with an ugly sob, and pulling the woman in a state of panic. Items around the kitchen began to float, which only kick-started a new crying session.

The living room, the smells, the kitchen, the outfit. Everything. Everything was the same. This was home. But home had disappeared. Along with Mom. With Dad. With Billy. Home was gone. It was supposed to be gone. They were all supposed to be gone, but now she is here, and she knows it can’t be real. It can’t be real, but god, she wants it to be so bad, and it’s so selfish of her because Mom had to do the right thing, but she wants it back. And she wants it ba-

Her sobbing gets muffled as she gets pulled against somebody’s chest, hearing strong heartbeats under her ear. Hushing and soft words while her pony tails get undone by gentle hands, and soothingly caressing her hair.

Her Mom continued to hold her until her sobs settled down, taking big breaths as she gripped her mother’s clothes.

“You’re so strong, my sweet girl.” She said. “You have done what you can by yourself, and I’m so proud.”

“I wanna stay here,” the girl whimpered.

“I know.”

“I wanna be with you and dad.”

“I know, baby.”

“I want Billy with me.” She sniffled, lifting her head and looking at her teary-eyed mother. Her mom smiled wetly, cupping her cheeks and stroking the chubby skin with a soft laugh.

“He’s coming, sweetie. He’s closer than you think.”

The light in the room began to brighten up. Muffled noise coming from outside the house. She looked around, heart pounding as the walls and the tables started to glitch and disappear.

When she turned to look back at her mom, she was standing up and face to face with her. Back to her real height, it seemed.

“Mom, please,” the girl pleaded, hugging the woman tightly. “Don’t make me leave. Stay, please.”

Her mom held her tightly, making sure the girl’s face was against her body so she wouldn’t look at the glitching house. “Billy is close. I am close, and so is your father.”

The girl shook against her, hands fisting around Wanda’s shirt, as if hanging as tightly as she could would be enough to keep her grounded to her.

“Mama, I can’t do it. Not alone.” She whimpered, feeling the counter glitching behind her and the voices outside becoming louder.

“You’re not alone. And you're strong,” Wanda took her daughter’s head away from her shoulder so she would be able to look at her directly. She smiled widely at the crying girl.

“You’re a Maximoff. You’re strong and brave. And you will never be alone, because you have a family out there looking for you, and you need to hang on.”

The girl took deep breaths, and the ground started to glitch beneath the two of them. But she only looked at Wanda.

Even when everything glitched out and became black, all she heard was her mother’s voice.

“A family is forever. We could never truly leave each other even if we tried.”

“-me on! Snap out of it!”

She blinked, a loud, grave voice yelling right in her face, making her wince out loud. The bruising grip on her arms suddenly loosened as the tall, concerned man took a few steps back from her space.

The cold night breeze had made her skin cold to touch, her senses finally kicking back in. She quickly hugged herself, looking around the empty street she had woken up in.

The street lights flickered every three seconds. The road was soaked with what she supposed was from the late-night rain she remembered pouring outside in the manor while she listened to Wayne’s recordings once again. There were a few parked cars scattered around, some of them visibly damaged with broken windows and missing tires. The smell of trash and smoke almost made her cough and gag, but her teetering teeth made sure that didn’t happen.

She was wearing her sleeping clothes, a worn t-shirt of a seventies asian singer, and pajama shorts that she only used for the sake of wearing something underneath.

…She didn’t like long pants for sleeping. It was a pain in the ass waking up with pantaloons after twisting around in bed, don’t judge.

“What are you doing out?” The man in front of her growled out, an angry frown on his face. “It’s three and a half in the morning, and you thought going for a stroll down in Chinatown was a good idea?!”

He was tall, really tall. And built like a tank, judging by how his arms and legs threaten to rip out the seams of his clothes if he dared to flex even a little bit (best to take cover if something like that happened-). His hair was a messy mop of black, with a white streak curling in the front. A healed scar running down the side of his cheek, accompanied by a toxic green glare that truly made her hesitate to move from her spot.

If she weren’t so disoriented, she would probably yell at him to mind his own business and walk away. But right now, her mind is still wobbly, so her charming comebacks are a no-go.

“I’m-” Her hand instantly went to her throat, caught off guard by how cracked it sounded. As if she were screaming her head off. She cleared it with a cough, wincing at the raspy sensation.

“I don’t know.” She groaned out, receiving a blank look from the fuming man.

He began to take off his jacket and put it around her freezing body, the whole time grumbling under his breath about ‘damned Wayne genes of acting dumb’ and ‘how are you even so far away from the manor’. She gawked at him, shoving her arms inside the huge sleeves.

Until she noticed a familiar flickering pattern from a nearby street light.

“.--- .- ... --- -. .-.-.- / -... . / -.-. .- .-. . ..-. ..- .-..”

JASON. BE CAREFUL

‘So this is Jay,’ She mused to her thoughts, letting him guide her down the street with a hand on her shoulder.

Wayne barely mentioned him. All that she had learned about the missing brother of the family was from the recording tapes and mentions from eavesdropping conversations around the mansion by pretending to ignore them while using her headphones.

And most of the information she found wasn’t exactly good.

₊°︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶ ‧₊˚

Diary Entry: Year 8

“...I don’t really know how to begin his tape.”

“I’m supposed to be happy. Be glad that he’s back with us. That he is alive and safe and finally home…”

“But it feels wrong.”

“He looks wrong.”

“His eyes look so, so wrong.”

“...Mom mentioned something like it. A long time ago, when she wasn’t like she is now. About old rituals. Of bringing people back from the dead. She said that it was never good to anger Death, especially when it’s about taking a soul away from her.”

“Whoever takes from Death shall pay the consequences with their blood. Mom always warned me about it… But I can’t tell Dad about it.”

“He is still strange. With Jason back, he barely leaves the office, and in the past years, even mentioning Jason would be enough for him to shut down and disappear for days.”

“And Jason… he has changed. A lot.”

“He’s so angry. At everyone. And I can’t blame him for it because he has every reason to, no matter how much Dick tries to make things smoother.”

“...But sometimes, letting people be angry is a good thing. It is good that Jason feels angry rather than nothing.”

“No matter how much he scares me now, I prefer that he yells and fights and argues.”

“Even if I miss his smile and his talks, I know that Jason is gone.”

“All that is left is the anger, and I’m okay with that.”

“Even if it hurts.”

“Even if it scares me.”

₊°︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶︶ ‧₊˚

At least, she wasn’t the only undead person in the family. Yay!

Though both of their cases were quite different, there was one common fact. Which was that the two of them didn’t come back the same after their deadly encounters.

She still didn’t know how exactly Jason came back to life (still researching on that), but she was sure that Jason didn’t get his soul switched up by some twin brother that somehow-

“Since when do you sleepwalk?” He asked, gathering her attention once again.

The question made sense. She remembered falling asleep on her bed, all the tapes around the mattress before snoring her ass off all sprawled out over the covers. Then, that dream sequence (that’s still stuck in her head, by the way. Because she saw her mom. Her real mom. Her real house. She finally has her real last name. She is a Maxi-) and now, she woke up while standing in the middle of a street with no shoes and-

Wait. That’s right.

She ran.

She ran barefoot.

Jason yelped when she came to a full stop, lifting up her foot and holding it with her hands with a puzzled expression at the sight of the skin.

See, the skin on the soles of your feet, while thick, is still delicate and can be damaged by friction and pressure. Even in her dream, she had her feet all scraped and bleeding from mere wooden splinters. If she had managed to get out of the manor, go through the rocky path towards the gate, climb over the gate, and go through the dirty streets of Gotham while running, there was a huge probability that her feet were screaming out in pain, and she wouldn’t be standing at all.

Instead, there was no sight of blood. Not even a scratch on her skin.

“Damn lucky, if you ask me,” Jason said, tilting his head as he observed her unscatched skin. A glint of wonder in his gaze directed towards her.

“Yeah, lucky me,” She muttered, wiping away some of the dirt on her foot and sighing. She smoothed back her hair, some annoying strands bothering her view while staring at Jason with a grimace. “I guess you’re my ride back?”

He stood quiet for a moment, his glare getting under her skin and making her feel on the edge about his unsettling green color.

Wayne was right. Something about him was off.

“No, actually,” He grunted, walking forward and nodding towards an upcoming familiar car. “That would be Alfred. Good luck on that rant, kid.”

Jason walked over and passed the car, giving Alfred a quick nod as he got out of the car before continuing down the street to get on an old-fashioned bike that was parked further down.

Guessing on how much Alfred’s sharp eyebrows furrowed on his forehead, she knew she was having a long ride back to the mansion.

Well, she got a lot of things out of this. For example, Jason was also someone that she should avoid (still questioning that). And, of course, a very important detail.

Maximoff. She has her name back.

Fucking finally.

──── ∗ ⋅◈⋅ ∗ ────

Contrary to what Tim believed, sleeping in the Titan’s tower did not work out like he expected.

His mind was on the verge of a breakdown, his brain begging for rest and sleep, but still refusing to do so. Like his own body knew what it needed to do, had even tried to do so without his permission, by the multiple times he jolted back to consciousness after nodding off in front of the main computer, or the sound of his friend walking down the halls.

Tim compared his situation to Pavlovian conditioning. And he was sure two people shared the blame.

It was a classical conditioning experiment or respondent conditioning. A behavioral learning process where a neutral stimulus becomes associated with an unconditioned stimulus, leading to a learned response to the formerly neutral stimulus.

This process was named after the russian physiologist Ivan Pavlov, who famously demonstrated it through his experiment with dogs.

In the experiment, three things were used: a dog, a bell, and food. The neutral stimulus (the bell) is repeatedly paired with an unconditioned stimulus (the food), which naturally elicits a reflexive response (the dog starting to salivate whenever he hears the bell because he knows that when the bell rings, he will be getting food).

In his case, Tim was the dog, and his reflexive response was sleep.

And the bell was his sister’s piano.

He thought it was stupid at first, but after a week and a half without proper sleep or naps, everything made sense.

Tim had associated his sister’s music with sleep. Unconsciously conditioning himself and his body to wait for the soft keys of the same old song echoing in the halls, so he would allow his tiredness and sleep to consume him and go to bed. And he had done it for years, even! Without ever noticing what she was doing!

Because two share the blame in this.

Him, because he was stupid enough to get himself conditioned like a fucking dog and understimating her.

And her, because, of course, she had these intentions the whole time.

Drive him insane without her music. Her daily check-ups. Not picking up his dirty dishes in the hall. It was all part of her meticulous plan of starving and depriving him of sleep.

He couldn’t help but laugh breathlessly, rubbing his eyes while leaning back in his chair.

His clever and cunning sister.

‘I can’t believe she managed to outsmart me,’ he thought as a contented smile pulled to his lips.

Maybe it was pride that he felt. Proud that she had twisted the odds and put him down from his high horse by playing the long game. By acting with patience. Waiting for the perfect moment to take away something as simple as-

“Still can’t sleep?” Conner’s voice kicked him out of his head, turning around in his chair to look at his concerned friend.

Conner had been the one to suggest that Tim could take a break in the tower, noticing on their calls that he wasn’t resting enough due to the current case going on in Gotham. And the young Kryptonian had been checking on him during his whole stay.

But no matter how much Kon tried to get him to talk, Tim wouldn’t say what was really going on.

He will keep his discovery to himself. No one else.

He was the one to figure her out.

His discovery.

His investigation.

His and only his.

“Just a bit,” Tim lied with ease, turning back his chair to the computer. The screen shows the new statistics and documents from the missing kids case. “I’m still going through the clinic documents that B sent a few days ago.”

Bruce had found their missing piece: Medical History.

All of the victims had been visiting hospitals in Manchester, Metropolis, Bludhaven, and Gotham in the past three years. General and specialized clinics.

Clinics that worked with genetics, specifically.

Kon leaned with his elbow against the back of Tim’s chair, scanning through the documents on display with intrigue. “What are your theories? Trafficking? Ransom?”

“It’s too late for ransom,” Tim muttered, tapping away on the keyboard for more documents to pop on the screen. “And trafficking would be more precise. Like a group of kids that stayed out too late or anything along that line, all of the children were taken at different times and with weeks of difference-”

Tim’s personal phone began to vibrate on the table, drawing both of their attention.

He took his phone, frowning at the ID Caller being none other than the demon spawn of his nightmares. He answered.

“What could you possibly want, Damian?”

The boy ignored his slashing tone. ”When are you returning, Drake?”

“Why do you even care?” Tim gave Kon a roll of eyes, to which the taller guy just shrugged.

“Because you’re the only one competent enough to hack into Arkham Asylum’s archives without questioning too much.”

“...You want me to what?”

“I am well aware you don’t lack hearing, Drake.”

Tim stood up from his chair, motioning to Kon to stay there as he walked outside the room to talk in the hall with his demanding younger brother. “I will need some context if you want me to do this behind B’s back.”

The line went quiet for a moment, hearing some door closing in the background and some shuffling around.

“I found some letters in Father’s office. Hiding in a compartment on his desk.” That got a groan out of Tim.

“Damian, you know that Bruce doesn’t like it when-”

“They’re letters for Embarrassment.”

That got Tim’s attention. “From Arkham? Letters from Arkham? To her? From who?”

“They’re all signed as U.H.. I believe the U stands for uncle, judging by the contents of the letter.”

“You read them?”

“And so will you, if you manage to hack into the Arkahm archives so we can figure out who this bastard is.”

The older sibling was very intrigued, despite the headache that was invading his brain. He was pretty much in the moment she was part of the investigation (more information about her, the more he could have in common with her-), but he would still complain about it just to annoy the little demon.

“And why is this bastard so important to you?”

The next words out of Damian’s mouth sent him down a spiral and directly to pack his things so he could head out of the tower as soon as possible.

“Because he is taking her away. All of the legal custody belongs to him.”

──── ∗ ⋅◈⋅ ∗ ────

“I have made it perfectly clear, Clark.”

It’s been three days since that urgent meeting.

Three long days of rejected calls, ignoring messages, and blocking emails from everyone in the league, trying to change Bruce’s mind on the whole ordeal before he made a big mistake that could lead them to a completely preventable war.

Though that scenario was a bit extreme. But you could get the point.

“I get your point. I do,” the hero of Metropolis assented, his hands over the long meeting table in the Hall of Justice. “But you have to see what the consequences of your rule can bring to everyone else. Especially to Gotham.”

The Bat didn’t even look up from his file report.

“I do know. And the answer is still the same as before,” It didn’t take too much for Clark to know Bruce was glaring at him once he dropped the file to look at the hero directly.

“No metas in my city. And that includes mutants.”

Clark shook his head with a sigh. “You can’t control that. There’s no way of knowing who is a meta when they’re not actively using their powers, and mutants have been fighting for years for their rights and avoiding a legal registry so they can live normal lives.”

“Then, Gotham is not the place for that normal life.” Bruce shot back. But Clark didn’t let it deter him.

“So what then? The moment a mutant kid has their abilities awakened, they should just pack up and move? Leave their family and the place they have only known as home?”

Bruce got up from his chair, posture upright and tight. But didn’t say a word, simply glared at the fuming man in blue and red.

“...I know we are negotiating with a dangerous man,” Clark said in a calmer tone, sitting down on the nearest chair. “But Erik Lehnsherr is only trying to get rights for mutants after years and years of discrimination. I have interviewed mutants, Bruce. They are still humans and deserve to-”

“I will not,” his voice was like rumbling thunder, coming from deep in his chest and thundering around the empty room. “Listen to the pleas of a madman and a terrorist, Kent.”

They stared at each other for a few deafening moments of silence. The harsh exchange of words brought a tense and cold atmosphere between the two leagues’ most important members. Bruce’s chest was still as stone, but Clark could hear the blood pressure going up in the Bat’s veins.

It was Bruce who moved first. Picking up his things and walking towards the exit door, he muttered to Clark on his way out.

“No mutants in Gotham, that’s my order.”

Clark mused to himself, now alone at the table. The tip of his fingers tapped against the white fiberglass table.

At least, the meeting with Magneto wasn’t as ineffective as this chat with Bruce.

╰───────────✧──────────────╮

“-we’ve talked about it and we’re still discussing the outcome of such demand, Mr. Lehnsherr.”

The whole League was gathered with a rush from the sudden call, sitting on their designated chairs with Batman at the head of the table and Superman and Wonder Woman on both of his sides.

A life-sized hologram of the man the world used to know as Magneto (now known as Erik Lehnsherr, ruler of Genosha) stood proud and tall with his hands behind his back as he listened to Wonder Woman’s words.

He was an older man, significantly older than the rest of the heroes by appearance, despite the good shape he was in. Judging by his muscles and good health, Lehnsherr took care of himself and kept a balanced way of life. He had a head of full white hair, slicked back with stray strands framing his severe face. Tanned skin, covered by an armor of red and purple accents. A dramatic cape was draped over his shoulders, and it waved at his ankles. His helmet, floating just beside him since the beginning of the meeting.

He commanded attention. Power. And Clark could see that Bruce did not like him one bit.

“Wonder Woman,” his deep, accented voice filtered through the sound system. “I am well aware that as an important security branch of the American government, you must make alliances with ‘threatening’ countries for the sake of your president’s peace.”

Everyone could understand what he meant by that.

“But,” he drawled, gaze sharpening towards the man sitting at the head of the table. “I can’t simply grant access to Genosha to the same government my people had to take refuge from. I have, above all, the security and well-being of my kind as a top priority.”

That’s when Clark decided to give his piece to the discussion. “We understand your views on the manner, sir. But what you ask in exchange-”

“Your leader wants to know if I’m making weapons. If I’m building an army.”

Glances and stares were exchanged as the silence in the room became tense.

But Erik Lehnsherr simply sighed, suddenly looking way older by the look in his eyes.

“I know my reputation. I know my history, and that can’t be mended. No one can erase the mistakes from the past. What is done is done, and I’ve made my bed with it.”

Suddenly, he turned, making sure he could look at every hero sitting at the table.

“All that I do, all that I’ve done, is for my kind. For the new generation of mutant children. So they are able to walk securely on the streets. Be accepted into normal schools. Live normal lives without the fear of getting chased or isolated by something they were simply born with. Simply because nature decided they would be different.”

He looked over his shoulder at the three main leaders.

“I am willing to have official visits from any of your members, monthly or yearly, with strict conditions during your stay.”

A few members visibly sighed in relief at that. They have been trying to get somewhere with this manner, and it was finally showing that it would be getting to a more positive route.

“As long as you grant sanctuary to mutants in your protected cities.”

╰───────────✧──────────────╮

And that’s when the meeting went to shit.

All because Bruce didn’t want mutants in Gotham, and Erik wanted sanctuary in each city that was under the territory of every single member of the Justice League.

“All or nothing” was what he said before leaving the meeting.

Clark understood both sides. Gotham is a stressful place, always under threat, and it could trigger a powerful mutant and cause more trouble and damage.

But most of these mutants were just kids. Scared children who have nowhere else to turn but their clueless families. And of course, a huge part of the homeless community was formed by mutants. People who didn’t get any help or were denied the help they deserved.

Maybe he was being biased, but Clark would have to change Bruce’s mind.

And that thought alone made sure he had a headache for the rest of the day.

──── ∗ ⋅◈⋅ ∗ ────

“Give me two more laps, Wayne!”

When Mr. Munroe had inscribed her to the track and field team, she wasn’t expecting him to become her coach.

“The school said they didn’t have enough people to form an official team. They just let athletes warm up in the track, and that’s it. But what your family doesn’t know won’t hurt them.”

And with that, she had an excuse to stay after school. Track and field practice with Mr. Munroe (Who insisted on being called Logan, but just to get on his nerves, she started calling him Mr. Logan-).

Even if it was a made-up club, she had Mr. Logan as backup in case something happened.

And it wasn’t like she wasn’t practicing!

“Come on, Babes! You can run faster than that!” Bobby yelled and clapped from a bench as she jogged by him. She gave him a quick middle finger before sprinting down the track, his loud laugh making her grin.

Warren and Bobby were also tagging along with her to pretty much everywhere.

They took most of their classes together, excluding extracurricular activities (meaning Bobby’s baseball team and Warren’s debate team). Other than that, they would be attached to the hip even while at lunch or free period.

No matter how much Warren complained about needing to study, he wouldn’t move away from the two smiling idiots.

“She is gonna burn those shoes again,” Warren muttered, without looking up from his notebook, while Bobby turned to look at him.

“We put tape and glue on the soles yesterday, it’ll be fine.” He shrugged, glancing back at her as she began to run her last lap.

That would have been her twentieth lap. And it’s only been less than half an hour. Both of them knew she was fast, but it still shocked them how fast she actually was.

On Tuesday, she made five laps while still wearing her school uniform, not a single sweat in sight, but her shoes were suffering the consequences.

On Wednesday, she made ten laps with proper shoes and attire. Still not a sweat in sight, but she looked thin after running. Until Mr. Logan shoved some homemade energy bars into her hands and gave her a rant about eating properly and having enough calories in her food.

On Thursday, (While looking pretty much half dead and complaing about sleepwalking) Warren gave her the number of his tailor. Her uniform was way too big on her and needed adjustments. Bobby decided to keep a closer look at how much she was eating and the number of servings she got at lunch (A total of six servings, and big enough to make him a bit nauseous. That’s without counting all the snacks Mr. Logan kept giving her throughout the day and in practice.) She made fifteen laps. And the soles of the shoes chaffed off.

It’s Friday, and she just made twenty laps without a single sweat. In just five minutes. And no shoes burned.

“Oh shit!”

Scratch that. Two shoes burned.

Warren closed his notebook, walking towards an exasperated Mr. Logan, who inspected the ruined shoes, and a whining girl, who sat on the ground with her legs sprawled out as she ripped off her socks. Bobby followed him.

Her green jacket (a track jacket that she always wore to practice) and running attire (A white compression shirt and some green Lycra shorts with white stripes on the sides) didn’t show any signs of perspiration. Not even her skin seemed to sweat (and now it had some light tan to it, after spending this week running outside on breaks and in the afternoon).

“Looks like you need new shoes, bub. Can’t let you run in these anymore.” Mr. Logan said, making her throw herself back on the ground with a wail. “You melted the glue with your laps. The track is probably running hotter than I expected.”

For many reasons, Warren didn’t believe anything in that last sentence.

Bobby crouched down next to her as she mourned the death of her precious shoes, tapping her forehead so she would at least look at him. He smiled brightly when she opened her eyes and pouted up at him, making Warren roll his eyes.

“We can go shopping tomorrow! I need to buy clothes, and we could get you better shoes!”

Warren scrunched his eyes and crossed his arms. “Who is ‘we’?”

He was obviously ignored by both of them. She groaned out sitting up while slouching. “I can’t. I’m gonna go to the hospital to visit my mom in the afternoon.”

“We could go early,” Bobby offered, standing up and grabbing her arm to help her get off the floor. “I got my car, so we can go to the mall and then drop you off at the hospital! Maybe even meet your mom too!”

Warren waved his hand with a twitching smile. “Again, who is ‘we’?”

She threw herself over Bobby’s back, sighing at the cold temperature of his body and making the heat of the sun go away from her skin. Bobby jokingly broke his posture, receiving a whine and a pinch to the shoulder. He stood still as she looked over at Warren with a pleading glance.

“Would you guys do that? For me?” Bobby joined in the puppy dog eyes, both of them pouting at Warren as Mr. Logan shook his head in amusement, clapping off the dust from his hands as he walked away with the shoes.

Warren, red in the face, as his two friends scooched closer to him. Making exaggerated pleading faces and motions, until he groaned out to the sky and let them drag him into their weird and awkward embrace as they cheered.

“Fine, but only because I need to look for some shirts.” He grumbled, a twitch under the clothes on his back.

“It’s gonna be fun! We can also go eat something. I heard there’s this booming boba tea place, and I really want to try it. Oh, we can also go to Chili’s!” Bobby began to list off a lot of things to do, as he dragged both of his friends towards the bleachers to gather their things and kill some time before it was time for her to get picked up.

Maximoff could only think that she was glad to have people whom she could hang on to.

Until Billy found her.

She could see them getting along with him. They could make a great group.

Perhaps… she could tell them what is truly going on. Eventually, obviously.

Yeah, eventually.

──── ∗ ⋅◈⋅ ∗ ────

Author's Note: PUT YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR, I'VE GOT A NEW CHAPTER FOR YOU!!! Literally locked in to write this chapter because I found out I was gonna spend the weekend celebrating my Mom's birthday. This is probably my favorite chapter to write uptill now. We got Mama Wanda, Insane Tim, PEEPAW MAGNETO- and more insight in the mutants💖😉 And got filled with energy by all the asks (AND NOW ACTUAL FANART???) and the love this story has been reciving. Keep in mind the new schedule! Update will be Sunday night/Monday morning. And remember that I love to answer comments and asks so keep them coming!! Lots of love and hugs. GG✨

Tag list:

@bat1212 @kneelforloki @1abi @galaxypurplerose @yhin-gg @cxcilla @momentomoribitch @stargirl404 @initial-ari @welpthisisboring @icefox8155 @bunniotomia @alittlelostmoonchild @devotedlyshamelessdetective @shycreatorreview @nirvanaxx1942 @soulsire @ryuushou @rinkydinkythinky @lithiumval @ithoughtthinks @reeyy0-2 @cssammyyarts @lordbugs @ilovecoffe0 @kore-of-the-underworld @fortunatelydifferentqueen @vanessa-boo @livingund3ad @aelxr @im-so-goddamn-tired @lovebug-apple @staarflowerr @xoxoyukixoxo @whyiseveryuseenametaken @holderoflostmemories @doggyteam2028 @leeiasure @shadowypeachsweets @jjoppees @astraeasworld @wrenbirde

Bonus Memes:

634 notes · View notes

trashogram · 1 year ago

Text

He Chose You (Pt. 14)

Lucifer/Reader: Lucifer chooses you to be the mother of his child. Rated E for Explicit.

(A/N: I know Lute wields a sword. I changed it because.)

“Take your hands off of her!” Lucifer’s command was 7 layers of demonic, loud and deep enough to make the clouds quiver.

Still, Adam held fast to you until you managed to free one arm and slam your elbow into his gut.

“Fuck! Bitch!” He dropped you to the ground, sneering down at you briefly. You bared your teeth, pushing yourself up to barrel into the odious First Man, only to stagger at the impact of someone’s boot colliding with your hip.

“No! ” Lucifer roared, metal scraping beneath his growing claws.

You fell back to the floor with a cry, pain exploding across your left side. Lute bore a hole into you with her gaze, glowing gold as a jungle cat’s while she kept you pinned by the shoulder with her spear.

“Stay down.” She smirked as you struggled to face her from beneath her weight.

“Fuck you!” You spat.

“Wa-hoh! Mouthy now aren’tcha?” Adam teased, his eyes still locked on Lucifer tearing at the gate. “This really is your bitch, huh? All bark, no respect.”

Lucifer snarled, smoke trailing from behind his pointed teeth. “Let. Her. Go.”

“Or what, little man? Look around. You’re in no position to be making threats.” Adam scoffed, drawing closer and closer to the King of Hell. “You think you can tear down this gate designed to keep you out.”

As if on cue, the mutilated poles and slats of Heaven’s gate began to reform. They straightened like an unbothered water stream over jagged rocks, until they once again gleamed unbent and reinforced.

Through the haze of pain and mist rolling from the ground, you could just make out the crowd of angels that had been your audience. There was shuffling, latent gasping, and you could see a rainbow of expressions taking in the scene you were a part of. Yet no one was coming to your aid. No one did so much as protest the sudden violence in their midst.

You slid a hand out from where it’d been trapped beneath your stomach, reaching out to implore someone for help. No one rushed to your aid, though you had caught the express attention of a few. One in particular — an Angel with rotating rings embedded with eyes for a head — looked at you in what you guessed was shock.

“Please,” You pleaded. “Don’t let them do this.”

The angel stalled, frozen at being addressed. One of their blue hands rose halfway, as if to take your shaking hand, but the hesitation remained. Lute instantly drove the spear’s end deeper into your skin, making you yelp and startling the angel back several steps.

Why was everyone in Heaven so useless???

Lucifer cast a fleeting glance at the sea of ethereal beings that he’d once called family. Their horror meant very little to him — but they were so afraid of him that they refused to help you as you were assaulted in the holy land.

The fact that Adam was right — that Lucifer would claw at the gate as much as he wanted but not break through — only added to his abject helplessness and despair.

Lucifer squeezed his eyes shut, trying to think of a solution before your cry set every nerve in his body alight. Until he wrangled the bars of the once damaged gate again, fruitlessly. The blond swerved up, down and sideways to try and see you, his heart lodged in his throat as Adam’s hulking form blocked you from sight.

“Please. Stop hurting her.” Lucifer begged in his panic. “Please! I just came up here to make sure she was safe!”

“Well looks like you fucked that up royally.” Adam snarked. “That’s what you’re best at though, isn’t it?”

He held Lucifer’s gaze, something like genuine hatred hidden behind that thin veneer of grandiose arrogance.

It brought back memories long buried beneath the millennia of Lucifer’s self-loathing. Back when the pain of a broken heart was still fresh and waking each day was akin to bleeding out until there was no feeling left in his limbs.

Eve gave him a last, discerning look. She placed a hand on his cheek and gave him a half-smile, reminiscent of the ones he’d been graced with after his magic tricks.

“I love you, Lucifer.” She , basking in his soft grin for just a longer.

“But…” A shadow passed over her face. “I can’t go with you.”

“Eve?” Lucifer’s voice was small to his own ears.

Her lilac eyes crumpled, smile thinning. She stroked her thumb over the red blush permanently painted on his face, forever signifying joyfulness. It contrasted terribly with the way his face fell as Eve moved away from him.

“I’m so sorry.” She with a shuddering breath.

Her hand disappeared from his face, leaving him cold and crestfallen.

She turned her back on him to walk to the other man waiting at Eden’s entrance.

Adam smirked, pulling her with him with the gate swinging back. He looked back at Lucifer, smug save for the twinkle behind his eyes that would swell and grow with unbridled resentment.

“She’s innocent.” Lucifer looked up at the first man, feeling numb. “Whatever you have against me has nothing to do with her.”

Adam glowered. “Nobody that fucks with you is innocent.”

—

Emily’s wings sliced through the air as rapidly as a hummingbird’s would. She’d never tasted anxiety like this before, and decided it was the worst flavor imaginable as she raced through the labyrinth of Heaven’s capitol.

It was a wonder that Sera had not been the first on the scene when Lucifer himself appeared. Not for the first time, the smaller seraphim wished she had a better understanding of the inner workings of Heaven’s bureaucratic system, and if there was some line of work that could keep Sera in the dark about something so monumental happening just outside paradise.

She’d never say it out loud, but Emily was getting tired of being told that she’d learn everything in time.

Bursting through the War Room for the second time in a day, Emily made quick work of scanning the surroundings. The strategy table was dim, unused. It made the seraphim bite her lip as her anxiety spiked. She had already checked the grand council auditorium, the library, the commencement hall — Sera was nowhere to be found.

Emily wrung her hands together.

Had she somehow missed the presence of her greatest friend and mentor in the disarray?!

Please Guide Us With Your Wisdom

Answer My Call

Father

Help Me Understand

Emily froze, arily spellbound by the pull of ancient beyond ancient energy pulsing nearby.

—

You groaned. The pain in your back was now shooting up your spine, overtaking the sting of Lute’s spear digging into your side. It was starting to freak you out, as the dissonant feelings of true hurt and spine-tingling reacted together and kept you wriggling on the floor.

Lute refused to budge, snorting at your desperation.

“You’re wasting your time.” She stated matter-of-factly. “Filthy sinners like you are the weakest of the weak. Trying to worm your way out of your own fate.”

The heel of her boot rose just to join the spear in crushing your body. Your moan turned into a whimper as she twisted her foot in your back, as if you were a cigarette butt to stomp out.

“Or is squirming like a pathetic maggot under your betters what turns sluts like you on?” She was in your face, having bent over to taunt you

The question was so absurd that it stopped you dead, pain taking a backseat to it. Your eyes bulged out as you regarded her in disbelief.

“No.” Your lips turned up in disgust. “But the fact that you brought that up as a possibility is making me wonder if you’re getting turned on right now?”

Lute clucked her tongue, chiding you. “Typical of your kind, twisting the truth to cloud the mind with unholy thoughts.”

Your jaw dropped open as you squinted at the Lieutenant.

“You’re the one that brought it up!” Your legs kicked and scraped against the floor with your sudden burst of energy. “You fuckin’ weirdo!”

“That’s rich comin’ from you!” Adam hollered. He had the gall to turn away from a shamefaced Lucifer to look down at you with digitized eyes. “The freaky fuck that literally had the Devil’s dick in her mouth all day every day!”

Lute snickered as if her superior had the funniest thing ever. It had you grimacing while saliva pooled in your mouth.

“Think about that a lot, do you?” You asked, wincing. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were jealous.”

“Bitch you wish you could get this dick. Every bitch wishes they could get a piece of this.” Adam retorted cockily. “It is a shame though — if you didn’t fuck yourself on his cock and get yourself killed, I might’ve rocked your world.”

Lute hissed as you met his declaration with a peel of laughter, put off as your frame shook.

“No need.” You tittered. “Eve made it clear that I wouldn’t be missing much.”

Something in the air seemed to change at that, as Adam’s grin deflated. “What did you fuckin’ say?”

Laughing burned your lungs, but you did so with as much gusto as you could muster.

“Yeah.” You . “You know, Eve? Your wife? The one you left so unsatisfied she was tempted by an adorable snake to abandon you? I think I can take her word for it that you’re not the best lay —”

“You shut your whore mouth right fucking now.” Adam was looming over you in a flash, gritting his static teeth at your mocking expression. “Or I’ll —”

“Or you’ll what?” You jeered. “Keep projecting?”

Adam chuckle was far less boisterous than it had been before as he sank down to your level.

“I don’t think you get it, cuntbag. You’re in my house. And your little devil dildo over there,” Adam gestured vaguely to Lucifer, then to the rest of Heaven before him. “Ain’t got any power up here.”

Pressure mounted in your trapezius as Adam pulled you up and close by the jaw. You breathed in the irony burn of circuitry as you were forcibly pressed against Adam’s mask.

“So why don’t you be a good girl and shut the fuck up before you get yourself smited?”

Adam tilted his head, as if just now hearing himself talk. “Smited? Smit? Smoted? How the fuck do you say that?”

“It’s a mystery, sir.” You heard Lute somewhere outside of the blood roaring in your ears.

Your wings ripped through your skin as though it were paper, sprouting up like the trunk of a great oak tree without regard for anything in its path.

Lute shouted in surprise as she was catapulted away from you and back into the shrieking crowd, rushing to get out of the way of the projectile exterminator. Your wings knocked her clear out, and the sensation was unlike anything you’d ever felt before, but you lept to your feet as soon as she disappeared.

Adam exclaimed in surprise at the same time you spied the fallen lieutenant’s spear and snatched it up.

Hefting it up like a baseball bat, you took a swing and slammed it against the side of Adam’s head. He pitched to one side with a curse, one hand coming up to cradle beneath his horns when you smacked him again. Your adrenaline had spiked, giving you enough strength to whack the stupid thing off with a third strike.

“What the fuck? What the fuck?!” Adam’s voice lost its booming quality as he was revealed. But there was no time to take in just how pathetically unimpressive he appeared beneath all the angelic garb.

You wasted no time racing toward Lucifer who, to say looked stunned would be an understatement, and clung to the gate. Your graceless crash seemed to snap him out of his trance, and the peculiar feeling of his still dagger-like claws desperately felt for your hands.

Your name tumbled from his lips, as honeyed and reverent as a devoted follower looking upon God himself.

“I love you!” The words were out of your mouth, finally. “I love you. I love you. I love you!”

His gaze was nearly back to normal, but at their most demonic they still shone with awe. Lucifer’s soft inhale would’ve made you weep had he not suddenly looked behind you in horror.

“Look out!” There was a split second between his scream, his aggressive tugging as if to pull you through the metallic frames, and your glance back to see the edge of an ax headed right for you.

Your wing missed being cleaved by a fraction of an inch, fingers unlatching from the gate just in time to avoid being chopped off.

You and Lucifer pulled back from each other as the bizarre hybrid weapon scraped against the gilded post between you. The force of it resulted in sparks cast off and into the clouds below.

Adam’s bulk was frightfully close, his human face twisted in an ugly rage. His arms retracted, guitar-ax rising to once again swing down on you as you skidded backward.

“Fuck the ‘forgive and forget’ bullshit!” The first man sounded crazed. His eyes were blazing as he targeted you with another swipe. “I knew you were gonna mess everything up as soon as you got here, just like the ungrateful whore you are!”

‘Jesus Christ.’ You might’ve raised an eyebrow if things were less dire. ‘I was half serious about the whole projecting thing. Damn.’

“ADAM!”

The voice from on high thundered, prying you and Adam from your dual to stare at the source.

Sera descended upon Heaven’s plane, and you noticed minutely that Emily was beside her, fumbling her fingers together as the crowd of her kin parted like the Red Sea to let them through.

“Enough of this! You will invoke His wrath upon us all if this continues!” Sera thundered.

Lute was fighting against some invisible restraint like a fly in a spider’s web at her right, golden eyes screaming as they flit around to take in the scene she was thrown from.

You and Adam remained at a standstill, both of you panting heavily as the magnitude of what you’d done caught up with you. You yourself could scarcely believe you’d managed to hold your own as well as you did.

“She… fuck…” Adam sucked in a deep breath. “She brought him here. She fuckin’ brought Evil to our door! And you let her!”

“I said enough.” Sera responded. “This has gone too far. Cast your weapons to the side.”

The Seraphim’s eyes cut from Adam to you, gripping Lute’s spear with shaking hands.

After a long, tense pause, you dropped the spear and kicked it away. Adam remained petulant until Sera moved to stride over and take the ax-guitar. He tossed it away as if anyone else touching the thing was unthinkable.

The glorious Seraphim kept stalwart and tall, though her out-of-place curls and stormy eyes betrayed that she was put out. It felt wrong to see her that way.

“Go to Lucifer.”

You blinked up at her.

“And bid him goodbye. Forever.”

You trembled like you’d been doused in ice water, spear falling to the ground. Internally you wanted to scream at the mere prospect of being separated from Lucifer. Again.

Never seeing him again was logical. It was the only conclusion to all of this, really. But unlike before, when you could convince herself that missing him was enough, Lucifer was within reach.

The line of your mouth trembled, eyes growing wet and glassy. The shake of your head when you couldn’t utter the word ‘no’ was pointedly ignored by Sera. She stood like a mountain, waiting for you to obey.

Your name was called, and you pivoted to see Lucifer. He was smiling softly, it too trembling as he waited outside the gateway where you and Adam had migrated closer to in your fight.

Lucifer beckoned you with an outstretched hand, reaching into a viper’s den to bring you close again. Tears pooled from your eyes and trailed down your cheeks as you made your way toward him on shaky legs.

You paused before walking past the gold and platinum ax that sparkled in the corner of your eye.

“She can’t do it.” Adam accused behind your back. “She can’t fucking do it! She can spread her legs for the root of all Evil, but she can’t even —”

Was it possible?

To black out for ten seconds?

Fuck if you knew.

It only became apparent that you’d turned round with Adam’s guitar in both hands after it was far, far too late.

The ax cut through balmy air, glittering in the omnipresent sunlight before it hit its mark. Golden blood spurt in all directions, splashing over your face, neck and shoulders. Some of it burst into your mouth, gaping as you realized what you’d just done.

Adam’s headless body continued to stand upright for several seconds before it collapsed at your feet.

Tag List: @crescent-z, @for-hearthand-home, @undertale-is-sansational, @loslox, @navierkalani, @yaimlight, @ivoryviness, @crystalplays28, @flowerempress, @wally-darling-hyperfixation, @altruisticradiodemon, @moonlight-readings, @halparkebitch, @charliecharlie65, @sockgoblin, @cocomollo, @caniseethefourthsword, @squeegeeclean, @crow-twink, @an-emovision, @marydragneell, @lafy-taffy, @fandom-imagines1, @loquacious-libra, @glowymxxn, @avadakadabra93, @froggybich, @hamthepan, @ukor02, @adaizel, @boogiemansbitch, @vinillies, @lbcreations-blog, @thesoundresoundsecho, @serenity-loves-red, @alientee, @aquaamythest96, @0strawberrysorbet0, @fluffy-koalala, @washeduphazbin, @rebecca-hvnstn, @velvette3, @kermitdafroggy, @wpdarlingpan, @apatcheworkofproblems, @cherry-cola-100, @pink-apples001, @al-of-the-stars, @backinthefkingbuildingagain, @martinys-world, @alastorssimp, @wobblesthewaffle, @shikiribee, @undertale-anomaly20, @asakura-fangirl-stuff, @ringsofpersonti @angelicwillows, @wingoodlilboymyway, @cimadreamer, @museofzealoushope, @oneiric-rotaerc, @call-me-nyxx, @darling-angel222, @elementwind91, @bloody-delusion-expert, @devilslittlebabyxx, @diffidentphantom, @shamblezzz, @ranposanedogawa, @minamilinaqueen, @1-helluva-hazbin, @naniiiii12, @lokis-imaginary-friend, @zoethespiritwolf, @sakuraluna2468, @qardasngan

#hazbin hotel #lucifer x reader #lucifer morningstar #hazbin hotel x reader #Lucifer Morningstar x reader

424 notes · View notes

celestiamour · 3 months ago

Text

ft. cho sang-woo x f! reader — squid game

╰₊✧ hold me while you wipe my tears┊0.5k words

contains: hurt/comfort, age difference

➤ author's note: me when the mental illness and daddy issues hit (promise i’m gonna work on stuff!! i’m busy and depressed and shit but there’s nothing fantasizing about my favs won’t fix)

sang-woo doesn’t understand you, and things he can’t understand frustrate him. he can’t remember the last time he uselessly stood there unsure of his next move, unable to use his logic or intelligence to conjure up a solution to the problem. normally, he would consider it to be a challenge, but nothing is challenging about the situation, it’s just overwhelmingly pitiful when he stares down at your trembling figure sitting on the floor and leaning against the wall in a secluded corner of the room as you sob into your arms. he can’t tell if you’ve noticed his presence yet, you make no indication that you have, but he supposes it’s difficult to notice anything when you’re so busy drowning in your sorrows.

he doesn’t understand how emotional you can be, how you tend to let your feelings or whims control your actions rather than taking more than five seconds to think. you’re such a crybaby, you always start tearing up over the smallest things and weep like it’s the end of the world. he’s seen you like this plenty of times before, and he’s certain that whatever you’re crashing out over this time, it can be fixed or is something that won’t matter in the least bit in a year from now. it always is, yet you still keep crying like it would fix all your problems, like everything vexing you would all go away at the sound of you wailing until your throat is raw.

he doesn’t understand why the sight of your suffering always sends a pang through his heart like an arrow to the chest. he used to always look down on others for breaking down under pressure, it would make him scoff and roll his eyes, not paying them another second of attention before leaving them to their own devices simply because he didn’t feel like dealing with them. it’s not like his words would comfort them anyway, they would only cut through them and make the situation worse, so why bother?

he doesn’t understand how he always finds himself crouching down and wiping away your tears with the pads of his thumbs, caressing your cheeks and kissing you until the sadness disappears like rain clouds after a storm, reminding you that everything would be okay and that he was there by your side. he’s reminded how young and how unprepared you are for the real world, a girl who is completely burnt out from high school and barely scraping by in college without a clue of what to do in the future. he’s reminded how he shouldn’t be holding you and speaking to you like a lover would, yet he does it anyway to feel you nestle into his touch and sigh until your face is dry and you’ve finally calmed down.

he doesn’t understand how someone like you manages to bring this side out in him, a side he doesn’t think his own mother has ever seen that’s gentle and understanding instead of callous and brash. he doesn’t think he’ll ever understand anything when it comes to you, but maybe that’s what makes him gravitate to you in the first place.

#📜. her works #cho sang woo #cho sang woo x reader #squid game #squid game x reader

57 notes · View notes

mattsundaes · 2 years ago

Text

ADVERSARIAL APPETITES

♡ — aki hayakawa x f!reader

The only thing worse than accidentally running into the Lust Devil is having to call Aki fucking Hayakawa for help.

18+ ONLY

wc — 1.9k

prompt — coming in pants, praise kink (requested by @antique-remains)

additional content — enemies to lovers, edging, masturbation, phone sex, light brat taming, light dom!Aki vibes, voice kink, mentions of anal sex, coming untouched, dirty talk, anal fingering

╰┈➤ kinktober masterlist

“Hayakawa.”

“Yeah?”

His voice is slightly muffled, and you know there’s a cigarette tucked into the corner of his mouth, burning orange embers dangling precariously as the white stick shakes with the slight movement of his lips.

Pinching the bridge of your nose, the back of your head thuds against the creaky motel headboard as you close your eyes and exhale noisily before muttering, “I need your help.”

Later, you’ll look at your call log and be horrified to find that you called Aki fucking Hayakawa to grovel for assistance. Like this is your first goddamn day as a Devil Hunter. Like he’s not the most insufferably broodish bane of your existence.

You may never forgive yourself for this temporary lapse in judgment, though that will ultimately be a problem for Later You.

Later—when you’re not stripped down to your bra and panties in a dingy motel room with a questionable smell lingering in the faded brown carpet, your blood-stained button-down shirt and pants carelessly tossed over the back of a half-busted chair, filthy knives left discarded on the nightstand where they’re sitting precariously close to a well-worn copy of the Bible.

When the metallic taste of blood isn’t still lingering in your mouth from your split bottom lip.

When you’re not about to crawl out of your skin with arousal because your simple in-and-out solo assignment was interrupted by an accidental run-in with the fucking Lust Devil.

The Lust Devil, who had laughed with an irritatingly melodic voice as you tried and failed to decapitate her. Your knives sang through empty air with each swipe as she repeatedly disappeared into a cloud of hazy, pink vapor, the sickeningly sweet smell of which left you doubled over gagging and gasping for breath.

She’d kissed you on the cheek and tapped your nose with a deceivingly girlish little giggle before taking her leave, ominously lilting, “Good luck with that, love.”

You’d hardly made it to this shitty, back road motel with the dredges of your self-control intact, almost orgasming from the mere feeling of your car bouncing with the bumps in the road, scraping your thighs together as you floored it. Abdomen pressed desperately against the edges of the dubiously stained sink, you’d scrubbed your hands raw with scalding hot water thrice in the cramped bathroom before unceremoniously stripping down and flopping onto the bed.

After an hour of trying and failing to bring yourself over the edge, your sticky, arousal-soaked fingers are now cramped and sore from repeatedly plunging them in and out of your aching cunt. Try as you might, every time you reach the precipice of release, your pleasure evaporates in an instant, leaving every nerve ending in your body painfully ignited with need. Pathetic tears prick at the corners of your eyes as you desperately hump your hand, powerless to expel the insurmountable lust burning inside of you.

Clearly, masturbating isn’t the solution to the Lust Devil’s little game.

And Aki says as much after you finish explaining yourself through gritted teeth, fighting for your life to stave off the embarrassing urge to dip your fingers between your thighs again while the call is still active.

“Then what the hell am I supposed to do?!” you cry out in frustration.

“Her power is fuelled by the fear of something, remember. But it’s not the concept of lust.” He pauses for a moment. “It’s the fear of lusting after someone that you shouldn’t. She feeds on the shameful feelings of acting on inappropriate sexual desires.”

You raise an eyebrow, even though he can’t see you. “So you’re saying I should come back and seduce Kishibe sensei.”

“You’re fucking shameless.”

“I like a quick solution.”

You can hear his exasperated sigh on the other end of the line. “From what I’ve been told, it’s not about physical consummation. It’s a mental thing.”

“So I just need to think about a dirty little secret while I’m touching myself, and then I’ll finally be able to orgasm?”

“Essentially.”

Twenty minutes later, half of the pillows and bed covers have been angrily tossed to the floor in your attempts to touch yourself in every position you could possibly think of—sadly to no avail.

“Yes?” Aki sounds bored when he answers your next call, and you make a rude gesture in the direction of your phone.

“It’s not working.”

“And?”

“And I’m two seconds from losing my mind. Can you put that stupidly smart brain of yours to use and actually help me?”

The other end of the line is quiet, so you add with an annoyed huff, “Please.”

You can hear the slight amusement in Aki’s tone as he asks, “What, do you need me to tell you how to masturbate?”

You pointedly ignore the odd feeling that zips up your spine at his words. “Wow, you sure know how to talk dirty to a girl, Hayakawa.”

He scoffs.

He fucking scoffs.

There’s a shuffling sound before he responds in a low, clipped tone, “Stop being a fucking brat.”

Everything is silent save for the ticking of the clock on the wall.

“I…” you trail off, not sure what kind of response you can formulate with the way your heart’s suddenly pounding in your chest.

“Tell me what you’re doing,” he intones smoothly, your toes involuntarily curling at the cadence of his deep voice.

“Laying in bed,” you reply, far shorter of breath than you were moments ago.

“And what are you wearing?”

“My bra and underwear.”

“That’s too much. Take them off.”

Your sharp inhale is your only response, and though Aki’s normally hard-pressed to even suggest you do something on a regular day without getting a snarky response in return, your hands are like phantom limbs as you comply with his request.

“Are you naked now?”

You nod, only to belatedly realize he can’t see it, so you reply, “Yes.”

“Good girl.”

Your back arches upward from where you’re lying face up on the mattress, those two words catching you entirely off guard.

Aki’s the bane of your existence most days, for reasons your foggy brain can’t quite remember now that you’re naked and dripping wet to the husky sound of his unfairly attractive voice in a shitty hotel room in the middle of nowhere. You’ll certainly hate yourself for this later, for shamelessly imagining the slightly bored look on his stupidly handsome face as you spread your legs wide, exhaling shakily while running your fingers over your sensitive, peaked nipples.

But oh, if it’s an inappropriate orgasm the Lust Devil wants?

It’s what she’s going to get.

(And if you’re silently moaning now in anticipation at the thought of Aki fucking Hayakawa murmuring dirty things to you over the phone to get you off, nobody else needs to know that.)

“I like you like this,” he murmurs.

“Like what?” you ask, as if you don’t already know.

He chuckles.

—

You’re insufferable.

Absolutely, positively insufferable.

You live and breathe to make Aki’s job far more difficult than it needs to be, with your snappy, headstrong attitude and your penchant for nearly getting yourself killed on a regular basis.

But right now?

Right now, that’s the last thing on Aki’s mind. Because all of your bristled, sharp edges have gone pliant on the other end of the phone, your scathing, impatient remarks replaced by the sound of your heavily aroused, labored breathing.

“I bet you’re already soaked,” he says, shifting slightly from where he’s seated on his couch as he feels himself harden in his slacks at the thought.

“I'm dripping all over the sheets,” you admit.

He bites his fist.

“Touch yourself for me then.”

You don’t hesitate—he knows that because he can immediately hear the lewd, squelching sound of you starting to pump your fingers in and out of your wet hole.

“Slow down,” he chides, just to be a dick. He can’t let you off that easy, after all.

“Fuck you,” you pant out with a whine.

“Maybe if you behave,” he drawls, clicking his tongue. “How many fingers are you using?”

“Two.”

“Put in another.”

He hears a strangled moan fall from your lips.

“S’tight,” you whimper.

“How do you expect to take my dick then?” he asks, the words past his lips before he can stop himself.

There’s a slight choking sound from your end. “How would you fuck me, Hayakawa?”

“Aki,” he corrects you with a slight edge to his voice, not sure why he suddenly feels compelled to do so.

“How would you fuck me, Aki?”

His dick is straining painfully against his zipper now, a dark spot of precum staining the black fabric of his pants. He presses the heel of his palm against his throbbing shaft to relieve some of the pressure as he hears the damp slide of three of your fingers plunging in and out of your cunt.

“Till you’re begging me to come.”

You moan for him.

For him.

He’s fucked.

“Would you fuck my mouth to shut me up?” you breathe out, words hoarse.

“I bet you’d look so pretty choking on my dick.” More precum leaks through, and Aki’s muscles tense.

“Would I look pretty with your cum all over my face?”

His dick is so painfully hard it feels like it’s going to fall off.

Aki’s going to kill the fucking Lust Devil with his bare hands.

“You’re filthy,” he comments, hips rocking upward to no avail.

“Rude,” you exhale between a moan and a whimper, and he imagines the way you’re probably teasing your supple breasts while fucking yourself on your fingers right now.

“That was a compliment.”

“I haven’t even told you what I’m doing now,” you tease.

He raises an eyebrow, letting himself run his hand over his throbbing shaft briefly one more time. “What’s that?”

A loud, broken moan follows. “Using what’s dripping out of me to finger my ass.”

Oh.

He’s really fucked.

Aki bites his lower lip so hard he tastes blood as he resists the urge to furiously fist his cock.

“How many?” he croaks.

“One.”

“Give me two,” he nearly growls.

“I can’t—“

“Prep yourself for me. Two fingers.”

Aki’s fairly certain he’s never been so desperate to fuck anyone in his life as he is in this moment.

He hears you gasp and whimper as you slowly ease a second lubricated finger up your ass, knows it’s shoved all the way in by the sobbing moan that follows.

“Okay,” you whisper shakily.

“Good girl,” he says again, because he could tell what it did to you the first time.

You keen at the praise, and he hears as you resume playing with your pussy while plunging in and out of the tight ring of muscle between your cheeks at the same time.

“I’m close,” you sob.

“Come for me,” he tells you, like he’s not on the verge of an untouched orgasm himself.

“Wanna feel you come in my ass,” you whimper.

Aki’s helpless to hide his answering moan, the mental image sending him reeling. But it’s the sound of you crying out his name as you come that’s his undoing—

“AKI!”

The coil in Aki’s gut unfurls like a whip, white-hot pleasure washing over his body as he trembles with the force of his orgasm. Cum floods his boxers, his hot, sticky seed leaking all over his balls and soaking through the front of his slacks. He gives in and roughly grasps his cock through the damp material, riding out the aftershocks as cum drips along his inner thighs, belatedly realizing just how loudly he’s moaning right along with you.

Then it’s quiet for a moment, save for the sound of both of you breathing hard.

“Did you—“

“Text me the address of that motel. Now.”

— likes, comments, &/or reblogs are greatly appreciated!

#aki hayakawa x reader #Aki hayakawa #Aki hayakawa smut #csm #chainsaw man #chainsaw man fanfiction #dee writes

1K notes · View notes

dontsh0vethesun · 1 year ago

Text

little cleric

masterlist

shadowheart x reader

blood and injury, hurt/comfort, minor angst, a little kiss

a/n: based on this request - no use of 'y/n' or 'tav', though i am inclined to use tav in the future unless you'd prefer different (let me know bc idk what to use)

wc: 1.1k

The stinging pain of metal sliced through your skin, leaving its mark on your sleeve and its painful etching of blood in the muscle of your upper arm.

Shadowheart watched as though time had slowed beneath a wretched coating of molasses as the arrow flew near her; she was lucky to escape its assault, but you hadn't the same favour.

The final blow was enough to knock you down. You were at her feet with a wail of pain, and she hated how she couldn't do anything to aid you. The battle was almost won, and all she hoped was that her body positioned in front of yours would serve as well as possible as a shield.

The claws of Shar had rid her of this ache - until you, it was foreign - but her stomach pulled each time a whimper of exhausted pain fell from your lips. Each time she checked on your tired body, blood-stained and gasping for breath, she felt her heart lurch. With such a sight, she almost wished you had not been that shine of light within the darkened shroud of her goddess - or that she hadn’t embarked on this journey at all. Though, she could never claim - even to herself - that she would rather rid herself of her time with you than bear her own suffering in witnessing yours.

In learning of love, Shadowheart has also learned of the bittersweet moments that accompany it. Your pain is hers, and she’s learning to brace its weight.

When the final foe had fallen, she didn’t waste a second; the cleric was crouched at your side with her arms hoisting your aching body to its feet. You leaned against her, and she could hear each shaking breath; she could feel the rapid thrum of your heart beneath her palm.

“Here,” she murmured, lifting a vial to your chapped lips. The crimson solution soothed you with minimal reprieve, but after such a tiresome battle, you all needed rest. Your lover was counting down the seconds until she had the strength to adequately heal you.

The journey back to camp wasn’t much of a trek, so, with a slowed pace and your companions letting you take your time, you soon made your way back—not without a fretting girlfriend by your side, however.

“I can’t help but blame myself for your injury,” she frowned. Her eyes stayed trained on her feet, and you could see the furrow in her brows when you glanced her way.

“It wasn’t your fault,” you returned. “I often find myself in precarious situations,” you added with a smile, hoping to appease her when she looked at you. You didn’t miss the cloud of guilt pass over her when she eyed the bruise beginning its appearance on your cheek.

“I know,” she smiled. “Though, I’d prefer it if you got yourself into fewer spots of bother.”

“Well, I do have a little cleric at my beck and call,” you teased, huffing at the shoulder she bumped into yours.

“This ‘little cleric’ may have to retire if you’re going to be injured so much,” she returned. “Think of it as a protest.”

“Loyal servants are hard to come by, I suppose,” you replied with a dramatised sigh just to hear her laugh.

“I’ll stay with you for now, I suppose,” she answered with a matching tone. “I have come to enjoy your company, afterall.”

“I’m glad.”

“So am I.” Her words were coated in sincerity, and her hand on your waist guided you in the direction of the stool beside her bedroll; you allowed her to aid your steps and felt the relief of finally being able to take a seat.

It was a comfortable quiet as she knelt at your feet, finding out the herbal ointment Jaheira supplied her with for when you get into your inevitable scrapes.

“Here, take this off,” she instructed, pulling at the hem of your clothing whilst she grabbed a wooden bowl of water.

“There are easier ways to get me naked, you know?” you mumbled, though you did as she said lest you be berated into complying.

“Oh, I know,” she smirked, dipping a bundle of cloth into the lukewarm water.

Her soft hand greeted your arm with a gentle touch, nudging you to position yourself in a way that would allow ample access to the wound. A mere potion of healing had done little to aid the gaping mark carved into your skin, you hissed through your teeth when she began to wipe it clean.

“I can’t say I enjoy seeing you like this,” she whispered. “Especially when it was caused by a weapon meant for me.”

She spoke to distract you - to distract herself, even. And, considering her affliction to vulnerability, you are always eager to listen. So you left room for her to continue.

“Under the influence of Shar, I was rid of this guilt. Another’s vulnerable state was merely a liability, and though I would tend to an ally, I would never feel their discomfort as my own,” her voice was small and even the ache of the makeshift bandaging being wrapped around your arm was soothed by her words.

“It’s a tricky thing to swallow—taking each of your blows as though they were my own. But I can’t say that I would trade it for anything else in this mess of a world we find ourselves in.”

“You wouldn’t?”

“Of course not,” she quickly responded with a vehement shake of her head. “It’s new to me, and I’d be lying if I claimed it to be anything other than daunting, but I’m enjoying the change.”

You admired the light hair she’d opted for and the smile that had stayed the same throughout your time together.

“I’d like to keep sharing your pain if you’ll let me,” Shadowheart murmured, guiding your face with a gentle hold to wipe the blood and grime from your skin.

“Only if you’ll share yours, too,” you replied, your lips ghosting the pad of her thumb as she cupped your cheek in her hand.

“I wouldn’t dare deprive you of such a thing,” she grinned.

“Have I been brave enough to earn a kiss?” you smirked, ending with a pout and a nod towards your tended injury.

“I suppose so, lover.”

Her hand brought your face to hers, lips tentative so as not to disturb any marks of unease; her tongue swiped over your bottom lip, stealing your breath and your heart in one fell swoop. She pulled away much sooner than you’d have preferred, but you could still see the semblance of blame she cursed herself with.

She pushed herself away until she was beneath the purple, cushioned, comfort of her tent with enough space next to her to house your body.

“Come here,” she said, patting the place beside her, opening her arms for you to fall into as soon as you approached.

In the warmth of one another’s embrace, it was easy to fall beneath the impended sleep. Your eyes grew heavy, and her breathing evened—you felt her heart slow with the knowledge of your safety.

“Goodnight, love,” she murmured against the top of your head.

“Goodnight, ‘Heart.”

#shadowheart x reader #shadowheart #shadowheart x tav #baldurs gate 3 #baldurs gate fanfiction

189 notes · View notes

eldritcmor · 5 months ago

Text

A Grave Mistake (rewritten)

TW for: Violence, descriptions of death, harm to a character

Description: Sergeant Storm is a last minute show up to the las almas Incident. Grave's finds out the hard way why this is not a good thing.

Graves had betrayed them. Took Las Almas. Took their allies and friends. Arrested Alejandro and shot Soap. You didn’t know exactly what happened to Ghost, but you could assume that Bastard got him too.

You could feel the songs of adrenaline in your bones, resonating with They not even two steps behind you. Every shadow you found was either twisted into a pile of viscera or dragged into the undergrowth. The songs drove you two to keep moving, keep using, keep the buzzing behind your eyes fed. You ducked, dodged, and slaughtered till the Mexican desert warped the song in your bones and you stopped. You twisted on your heel to charge back. To retrieve your team, your friends, your family only to to stop shy two inches of They’s claws. You deftly shoved the claws away, “I need to go back. You are not stopping me.”

They tilted their head as if confused and You threw your hands up in frustration. “Then do you have a suggestion?”

A thread of thought and instinct wiggled past Your defenses. A plea. An offer. A solution. You took a deep breath. Steel nerves twisting against the fires of determination. “Let's begin then.”

The town of Las Almas was finally quiet. Graves felt satisfied at his handy work. Ghost and Soap had given him quite the run around but eventually his shadows were successful in capturing the two. Alejandro was detained along with the rest of the Los Vaqueros. That only left one troublesome loose end. 141’s third fucking sergeant and their pet. Someone who wasn’t even supposed to be active in the field. His shadows had reported they were still in hospital when 141 landed in Las Almas.

“Sir! Sergeant Storm is requesting your presence at the gate.” Graves sighed. Looks like it was show time. He stepped out of the gate to see Storm. Stripped down, No Gun, No Plate. Just serene calm, like a spoiled cat. That was until Graves saw what sat at Storm’s back. Rows upon rows of corpses. Laid neatly, dressed in their best. Bullet holes still leaking blood. Expressions of terror forever etched on their face. A spoiled cat indeed. Muted thunder rumbled overhead. “Hello Phillip.” Graves felt a claw scrape down his spine, something in him screamed that this person, No. Creature, This creature should not know his name. Graves took a breath and threw on the lazy smile he was known for. “Storm. Hopin’ for a way in? Or Maybe a Nice surrender? We already have the rest of your friends. Why not come quietly?” We have a nice cell waiting for you, Scout's honor.”

Storm smiled, a slow cruel thing. For a second Graves swears he saw a maw of bloody fangs. “We both know you have no honor, Phillip.”

Graves mocked hurt, his defenses still screaming to run. “Oh Storm cloud, how you wound me. If you’re not here to join your friends, then why are you here?” The creature spread their arms as if welcoming an audience. “A warning! It’s very simple. “R-” “Run! RUN!” A shadow banged on the Gate. Graves spun on his heel only to see the shadow snatched and dragged into a pitch black cloud of dust.

“I would follow that advice. Ciao, Phillip.” Grave turned toward Storm. Just quick enough to watch their skin dissolve to ash and their bone drip back into blood. He was fucked.

Rain poured down the shipping container that Soap and Ghost found themselves in. They could hear shadows running by, the barking of orders, and sounds of all consuming chaos. “Sounds like they finally found Storm, L.T.” Soup hummed as he settled into a sitting position. Graves and his goons hadn’t even bothered to get him medical treatment for the bullet in his shoulder. Something about “keeping you Brits in line.”

Ghost nodded as he continued to lean just beside the door. “Beginning to wonder when they would show up.”

Ghost and Soap raised their heads when the door to the shipping container creaked open. Ghost moved with ease. The shadow who opened the door was down with a bloody nose. “OW! Fuck L.T! You certainly know how to throw a punch.”

Ghost froze. “Storm?”

“Who the fuck else you sleep paralysis monster. Ow, My fucking nose.” Storm was dressed in ill fitting Shadow’s gear. “We should probably leave immediately.”

Ghost nodded as Soap rolled to his feet. “What about the Vaqueros?”

“They is handling that. But right now we don’t have much time. The shadows are a fucking snack that thing and I’d rather not be here when It runs out.” Soap narrowed his eyes and Ghost glared. “I will explain when we are not on the menu, alright? Good, Now we need to fucking go.”

“Alright, Storm spill.” Price snapped the laptop closed, promptly ending the conversation with General Shepherd. Things were certainly turning interesting. Storm had down something, but even his Lieutenant was in the dark about exactly what. His teams reports and the words of the rescued Vaqueros would have him believe Storm had taken the shadows down several pegs just to rescue the team and as many of the Vaqueros as Possible. Storm shrugged their shoulders. “They did most of the work.” Price raised an eyebrow at that. They, whatever the fuck they were, wasn't exactly advertised as a planner. Everyone always called them Storm’s pet, but maybe that was the lie they told themselves.

“Bullshit, Sergeant.” Price leaned back in his chair as Ghost bit out his retort.

“Fine, fine. I made a deal.” Storm rolled up their sleeves to reveal Jagged cuts through their skin, hastily stitched and roughly bandaged. Price was up and out of his chair without a thought, seizing Storm’s elbow to pull the marks into the light.

“What deal, Sergeant?” Storm attempted to pull their arm back but Price kept his grip firm. “I will not ask again, Sergeant.”

“I made a deal, and Unfortunately Deals come with Price. This was the Price.”

taglist: @skylordgrey @batw3nch @stick-the-dumbass @lilpothoscuttings @im-making-an-effort @stupidwingboy @apocalypticseagull @resident-cryptid @warenai @sleepyendymion @sellenedragon @queenofwolves210 @makayla-666 @gogh-with-the-flow @blue-blue0

Divider by: @saradika-graphics

#cod mw2 #call of duty x reader #eld writes #taskforce 141 #storm au #captain john price #cod oc #simon ghost riley #johnny soap mactavish

25 notes · View notes

geniusboyy · 8 months ago

Text

Covenants and other Provisions

Chapter 9

Trend

Ford’s eyes were level with the workbench, laser-focused on the syringe hovering above a petri dish. With a steady hand, he depressed the plunger, releasing a thin stream of blue liquid into the sample. It spread and mingled with the solution inside in a dance of color and chemistry. Each movement was precise, honed by countless hours of practice—methodical, mechanical. When the syringe was empty, he set it down with a deliberate gentleness, careful not to disturb the delicate array of glass beakers and instruments surrounding him.

Leaning back in his chair, Ford pulled off his latex gloves with a sharp snap, tossing them onto a nearby table cluttered with crumpled notes and abandoned experiments. He rubbed his eyes, fatigue creeping in like an unwelcome visitor, but the persistent hum of the fluorescent lights and the bitter edge of his fourth cup of coffee— or maybe this was the fifth—kept him tethered. The motions of each task had become second nature, a rhythm that promised completion yet led only to more. He reached for the ashtray, retrieving the half-burned cigarette teetering on its edge, and took a quick puff as he scratched a few lines in his notebook, the ink flowing freely from the heavy-weight ball point, smooth like the thoughts racing in his head. Without thinking, he pushed himself back and spun the chair, the metal wheels screeching against the floor, a fleeting disruption in the otherwise sterile air.

Standing, he faced the bulletin board, his index finger absently scraping against the stubble on his chin. His eyes darted over the scattered notes and data points pinned in haphazard rows, each one a thread in the complex tapestry of his research. He lingered on a photograph of the field site before his gaze shifted to a graph detailing the energy readings. “The field anomalies here…” he muttered, narrowing his eyes. “They’re still not aligning with the projections. Something’s off.”

He turned, moving toward one of the machines lining the wall closest to his desk, fingers deftly adjusting the dials, each click echoing the mounting frustration in his chest.

“It’s not the data that’s off,” Bill’s voice chimed in, low but steady, wrapping around Ford like a familiar cloak. “There’s a pattern here you’re just not seeing yet. Keep going.”

Ford grumbled, rubbing his temple with his knuckles as he puffed little clouds of smoke through his nose, eyes glued to the graph. He leaned back over the desk, resting his weight on his hands as low, frustrated groan escaped his lips. “I’m looking at the raw numbers,” he replied, the objective tone barely masking the irritation simmering beneath. He swept a few sheets aside, fingers landing on a list of different data points. He tapped the page, muttering under his breath. “The interference spike is too irregular—it doesn’t fit any of the variables we’ve accounted for.”

His foot looped around the bottom of his chair, pulling it under him as he sank back into it, the familiar contours welcoming yet unyielding. He grabbed a different pen from the cup in the corner of the desk, the ink gliding across the page as he scribbled out several points, each stroke of the pen a mix of determination and desperation. The dance of numbers and patterns was his life, but the rhythm had been off all week, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that something vital was slipping past his sight.

A faint pressure ghosted over Ford’s wrist, a familiar nudge. Not quite controlling, but enough to make Ford aware of Bill’s presence. The pen in his hand twitched, his grip loosening as if someone else were guiding it to stop his scribbling. “Think broader,” Bill said, his voice calm, instructive. “You’re locking in on specifics too early...”

Ford’s hand moved on instinct, flipping through a different stack of papers he hadn’t touched in over a day. His brow furrowed as he glanced at the notes Bill had directed him toward; a detail of a minor electromagnetic variation he had dismissed earlier. Without thinking, he circled a number with his pen, feeling the nudge once again. “Wait,” Ford muttered, leaning closer to the paper. “This discrepancy… If we adjust the range of interference just slightly—maybe about… three millimeters—” he paused, eyes darting back to the board, “it could recalibrate the field to match the earlier readings.”

“Getting warmer,” Bill replied, his voice steady, edging with approval. “Focus less on the noise, more on the trend. We need those broader parameters to stabilize the field before you get too granular.”

Ford exhaled sharply. “You make it sound easy,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair.

“That’s because you’re the one doing the grunt work,” Bill quipped. “But you’re making progress. Rerun those calculations and let’s see.”

Ford’s fingers danced over the keys of the nearby computer, inputting the data and adjustments Bill had prompted him toward. He didn’t speak for a moment, his focus sharp on screen while the hum of mechanical tabulations fill the room. The lines on the monitor shifted, recalculating the field metrics.

“There.” Ford stepped back, crossing his arms. “We’ve narrowed it down. If these adjustments hold, it might stabilize the entire sequence.”

“There you go,” Bill encouraged. “This is what we needed. Now we just have to maintain control long enough to manipulate them consistently.”

Ford nodded, scribbling a few more quick notes into his journal, the scratch of pen on paper the only sound in the quiet lab. He paused for a moment, his pen hovering above the page as he felt something—an odd pressure, a familiar sensation like a weight leaning against his shoulder. He glanced sideways, a small smirk forming at the corner of his mouth.

“Are you… using me as an armrest?” he remarked, the amusement in his voice breaking through his earlier tension. His brow raised slightly, eyes flicking to the empty space beside him. “You know I know you’re not actually here, right?”

Bill’s voice was in the same ear, smooth as ever, with a casual indifference Ford had come to expect. “I’m part of this process whether I’m standing next to you or not, Sixer,” Bill replied, his tone nonchalant. Ford could almost picture him—leaning back with that air of superiority, probably examining his nails as he spoke, an idiosyncrasy Ford had noticed—and found endearing.

I’m just takin’ her easy until I’m needed,” Bill said, his voice settling over the room, soft and velvety, like he had all the time in the world. There was an ease to him, a confidence that wrapped around Ford. “You work better when you feel like I’m around—admit it. The semblance of realism? Does wonders for morale.”

Ford didn’t need to see him to know Bill was grinning. It was that slow, sly kind of grin, the one that always hovered just under the surface of his face. “After all, I’m only here to… expedite things.”

Ford rolled his eyes, though the faintest of smiles tugged at his lips. He reached up to adjust his glasses as he leaned back in his chair. “Expediting, huh? Is that what we’re calling it now? Because from where I’m sitting, sounds a lot like backseat driving.”

“Oh please, I’m a regular Lapérouse,” Bill retorted, voice brimming with that sharp, amused edge.

Ford let out a quiet chuckle, a small huff of air escaping his lips as he shook his head. His attention turned and then his chair, his eyes flicking between his notes and entering the data into the computer, the blue light casting shadows across his tired face. A small smile came over him again and he glanced away from the screen. “Didn’t Lapérouse got lost at sea?”

“Watch it, Pines,” Bill warned, his tone playfully threatening. The tone that made Ford straighten up. He could feel the electricity in the air before what felt like the tip of a finger brushed down his cheek, pushing his attention back to the screen. The touch sent a shiver along Ford’s spine. “Save that brainpower for the lab...” he jeered, before his voice lowered to a whisper in Ford’s ear. “I can think of so many better uses for that smart mouth.” he added with a purr. Ford couldn’t help the grin spreading across his face, his lip caught between his teeth as heat crept up his neck, his fingers moving diligently over the keys.

A softer warmth bloomed in his chest, a strange but welcome sense of contentment. It spread slowly, the steady flicker of a fire catching its rhythm, ignited by the feeling of Bill’s presence, lingering just over his shoulder. Bill was never far away. He wasn’t physically there, but Ford could feel him. His eyes flickered over the chaotic sprawl of the lab—multicolored tubes snaking across the counters, stacks of paper strewn in haphazard piles like scattered thoughts. There was a method to the madness, but only they could see the pattern, the ideas threading together, constellations in a sprawling sky. He turned his focus back to the task at hand, the screen’s pale glow illuminating his furrowed brow as the numbers flickered in front of him.

The air around them always felt charged, alive with possibility. And it wasn’t just the work; endless streams of data and theories and tests that flowed between them. It was the rhythm they had found, effortless and easy. Their banter, their focus—it felt natural, like a conversation they had been having for years, most of it unspoken.

But there was more to it than that, wasn’t there? The unspoken part. The other part. The part that kept Ford on edge in ways he wasn’t used to. He’d been alone for so long, he’d almost forgotten what it felt like to be anything but. No one had seen him without clothes on in…what, a decade? More? Even back then, it had been rare—almost always after a few too many drinks, always fleeting, always forgettable. They’d been one-offs, hollow and meaningless.

Ford hated the idea of going through the motions. It always felt so contrived, so performative, as though he were following a script written by someone else. He’d play the part for a while—let the attraction flicker, let the night stretch into something more, but it never lasted. It was always just an act, and worse than that, it left him feeling emptier than before. Like he’d missed something crucial, something everyone else seemed to grasp effortlessly. So, he’d simply stopped seeking it out altogether.

There was a comfort in that kind of solitude, a predictability. He could rely on it—no expectations, no disappointments. He buried himself in his work, his research, his pursuit of answers that felt more rewarding than fleeting human connection. It was easier to chase ideas, to solve problems, than to keep chasing that feeling, that elusive spark that never seemed to linger long enough to mean anything.

But this? Here, in the lab, in the middle of the chaos he and Bill had created? This was different. Ford wasn’t sure if it was the challenge, or the thrill, or just Bill himself, but there was something about it that made Ford feel like he was in the middle of something bigger than either of them. Something he couldn’t pull away from, even if he wanted to. It wasn’t an act. There was nothing scripted about this, nothing predictable. With Bill, the push and pull was constant, seamless. It wasn’t about going through the motions; it was about discovery, exploration. Each interaction, every touch, felt like something new unfolding. It kept Ford on edge.

He couldn’t deny the pull, the way their energy—fused together, building on itself—made him feel. Captivated wasn’t the right word. It was deeper than that. It was all-encompassing. It was all he could think about.

“Let’s see if we can make sense of this,” Ford muttered, his voice barely above a whisper as he leaned in closer to the screen. The light reflected off his glasses, eyes scanning the intricately detailed schematic that sprawled across the monitor. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, tapping out a rhythm only he could hear as he adjusted parameters, shifting variables and recalibrating the settings. The feedback loops from their recent tests spiraled before him, and his focus sharpened. “If we tweak the signal frequency here…” he trailed off, chewing on the inside of his cheek, deep in thought. The possibilities stretched out before him like an endless equation, waiting to be solved.

Bill’s voice broke through the quiet hum of the lab, cool and steady. “Don’t forget to account for the variable resistance in the circuit—it gave you some trouble earlier.” Ford pictured Bill lounging casually against one of the machines, watching him with that knowing smile, always a step ahead. “If we can minimize that, I’ll bet you’ll get a more stable output.”

Ford paused, one hand still poised above the keyboard as he raised an eyebrow, a hint of admiration slipping into his expression. “Reading up on electrical engineering, are you?” There was a note of genuine curiosity in his voice, surprised by how Bill seemed to effortlessly slip into every role, offering insight that Ford, despite his brilliance, hadn’t considered.

“A bit, a bit,” Bill replied, amusement threading through his words like a low hum. There was that grin in his voice, that sharp, self-satisfied look he’d grown so used to. “Just trying to keep my seat at the table, y’know?”

Ford’s lips quirked up in a smirk, shaking his head slightly as he turned back to the screen. “There’s always space for you, my muse,” he said, a rare warmth creeping into his tone, though he kept his eyes trained on the numbers in front of him. The excitement began to stir, subtle but undeniable, as he typed in the final adjustments. His fingers moved faster now, confidence building with each keystroke. “Alright,” he murmured, almost to himself, “let’s run the recalibrated simulation.”

His finger hit the enter key with a exaggerated force and the screen lit up with real-time data streaming across it, the numbers shifting and pulsing like a heartbeat. Ford leaned forward, eyes widening as the output began to stabilize, the fluctuations that had plagued earlier tests smoothing out into a steady rhythm. “Look at that!” Ford’s voice was full of barely-contained enthusiasm, his heart pounding in his chest. The anticipation hung heavy in the air, sparkling between him and the data unfolding before them. “The output’s stabilizing,” he continued, his grin widening as the results confirmed what he had hoped for.

Ford felt the thrill of discovery take root, spreading through his veins. “I think we’re onto something here,” he said, his voice tinged with exhilaration. It was a rare moment of validation—one that reminded him exactly why he pursued this work so relentlessly. And even though Bill’s presence loomed larger than ever, Ford didn’t mind. There was something about their partnership, their shared goals, that made moments like these feel even more electric.

Ford could feel it—the low rumble of Bill’s excitement resonating deep in his chest, like a second heartbeat vibrating through him. “Nice work, Specs,” Bill’s voice hummed, rich with satisfaction. Ford could practically feel him leaning in, ever-present at his shoulder, the hint of a grin curling in the spaces between his words. “Told you you’d get it. Just needed a little fine-tuning.”

Ford’s lips twitched into a smile, a rare lightness settling over him. Despite himself, he couldn’t quite hide the pride that slipped into his voice. “Yeah, but this is just a preliminary breakthrough,” he said, his gaze still glued to the glowing screen in front of him. The numbers were steady, smooth, promising. “We’ll need Fiddleford to review the results before we move forward.”

There was a subtle shift in the air, something quiet but undeniable. Ford felt it before he heard it—the way Bill’s presence seemed to shift slightly, the warmth cooling, his tone dropping by a fraction. “Oh, well… didn’t I review it just now?” Bill’s voice was still smooth, but there was something sharper beneath it, something colder, that made Ford pause for just a second.

Ford straightened, reaching absentmindedly for a nearby scroll of readings, his fingers brushing over the rough paper. “Well, yes…” he began, rolling his shoulders to shake off the tension he hadn’t realized had built up. “But Fidds definitely should, too.” He kept his tone light, trying to dispel edge had crept into the conversation. “It’s important to get his perspective. Besides…” Ford glanced over his shoulder, half-smiling, “I don’t think our sponsors would accept ‘celestial being in my head’ as a legitimate source of ongoing peer-review.” The joke was easy, a way to smooth over the discomfort, but he could already feel it sliding between them. “Practical application is still the goal,” he reminded Bill, “I mean, all this theory won’t mean much if I can’t turn it into something useful. And Fidd’s is our builder.”

“Right, right…” Bill replied, but the annoyance threaded through his voice was unmistakable now. It was subtle, but it lingered, twisting around the words. “I doubt he’ll have much more to add, anyways. Your math is perfect.”

Ford blushed lightly at the compliment, a quick flush of warmth rising in his cheeks. He glanced down, the faintest hint of a smile still tugging at his lips. “Thank you, Bill,” he said, sincerity breaking through the banter for a moment. Bill’s praise always felt different—more real, more intimate than anything he got from his peers. But there was no time to dwell on it now. Ford ripped another page of printouts from the machine, the paper crinkling softly in his grip, the sound almost soothing.

As Ford reached the top of the steps, he turned into the kitchen, immediately greeted by the warm, inviting glow of the room. Fiddleford was leaning casually against the doorframe, the house phone cradled between his shoulder and ear while his hands moved with practiced ease, deftly rolling a joint. The quiet drone of his wife’s voice filtered through the line, the soft cadence of her words forming a comforting, familiar backdrop to the quiet of the evening. Ford paused for a moment, taking in the scene—the domesticity of it, the contrast between this, and the intensity they shared in the lab.

Fiddleford was dressed in an old T-shirt, the kind that had clearly seen better days, with a faded band logo across the front. The frayed edges of the neckline and hem spoke to years of frequent wear, much like the well-worn jeans that clung loosely to his frame, scuffed and torn from work. The kitchen’s light cast a soft, golden hue over his face, the shadows settling gently across the lines of his expression, blending effortlessly with the cool darkness of the night beyond the window.

“Uh-huh… I understand, Em,” Fiddleford murmured into the receiver, his voice low, almost distracted. “Well, I’ll call there tomorrow when we’re done in the lab, and—” His words trailed off, punctuated by a long pause as he listened to whatever Emma Mae was saying on the other end. “Well, no… no, I don’t think it does…” he rambled, his tone patient but tinged with a quiet sort of fatigue.

Ford stepped closer, the papers still clutched in his hand, the numbers and results burning a hole in his palm. His mind was racing, filled with the breakthrough he’d just made downstairs, his enthusiasm bubbling just beneath the surface, ready to spill out. He raised the papers slightly, trying to catch Fidds’ attention, his mouth already half-open to launch into an explanation.

Fiddleford glanced up just as he brought the tightly rolled joint to his lips, his sharp, knowing eyes meeting Ford’s. For a split second, there was a flicker of understanding between them—Ford’s anticipation, Fiddleford’s quiet acknowledgment. But before Ford could say a word, Fidds lifted a finger, silently gesturing for him to wait. He pressed the joint against his lips, licking the edge of the paper to seal it as he turned his attention back to the phone, balancing the conversation and the ritual with the same ease Ford had always admired.

Yeah, I know it’s been a long week,” Fiddleford continued, eyes still trained on the joint as he ran his thumb along the seam, perfecting the seal with his practiced, unhurried motions. His voice had taken on that easy, teasing cadence Ford knew so well. “You think I haven’t had a long week too? C’mon, Ford never gives me a break.” He glanced up, a playful grin tugging at the corners of his mouth as he looked at Ford, amusement dancing in his eyes. “He’s staring at me right now, holding something in his hands. The guy’s a damn machine… Say hi, Ford.”

With a quick flick of his wrist, Fidds angled the phone toward him, already shifting his attention to sparking the joint, the tiny flame from his lighter flaring for a brief moment. Ford felt his jaw tighten. The weight of the papers he’d been so eager to share suddenly felt cumbersome, like an afterthought.

“H-Hello, Emma Mae,” Ford muttered, the words forced from his mouth. His voice, usually confident when it came to his work, held a strained reluctance. The syllables felt foreign, awkward on his tongue—a reminder of the world outside their bubble, one that always seemed just out of sync with his relentless focus.

“Hello, Ford!” came Emma Mae’s voice through the crackling line, warm and full of a sincerity that clashed against the tension still simmering under Ford’s skin. He forced a tight-lipped smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. He wasn’t annoyed with her, not really—it was more the interruption, the way it felt like someone had yanked him out of the current just when things were flowing.

Fiddleford, catching the shift in Ford’s demeanor, turned slightly, his back now angled toward him as he cradled the phone again between his ear and shoulder, the joint hanging loosely from his lips. With a slow, deliberate breath, he took a drag, the smoke curling lazily in the air, hazy tendrils rising and mingling with the soft hum of the refrigerator and the ticking of the kitchen clock. The scene felt like something out of a dream—calm, ordinary, even—but beneath it all, Ford’s excitement still bubbled, restrained, waiting to break through.

“Yeah… yeah, he’s been down in the lab all day,” Fiddleford continued, his voice dropping into that same half-distracted tone he often used on the phone, giving Ford just the barest acknowledgment with a sideways glance. The smoke drifted between them, thick and earthy, a backdrop to the ongoing conversation Ford wasn’t part of—at least, not in the way he wanted to be.

Ford shifted his weight, his fingers tapping the edge of the printouts in time with the seconds slipping by, the eagerness bubbling just beneath his skin. He leaned in a little closer, giving Fiddleford’s shoulder a light tap, trying to pull him back from the phone, even for just a moment.

Fiddleford didn’t turn right away, his attention still hooked by the soft murmur of his wife’s voice through the receiver. “Just a second, Em,” he said, his voice gentle, but his eyes a little wider as he glanced back at Ford. His shoulders lifted in a familiar, exasperated shrug, his palm turning up to the ceiling. What? The question hung there, unspoken.

Ford bit his lip, holding up the papers, tapping them faster, a quiet insistence. But Fiddleford just blinked, his gaze sweeping over the pages for all of two seconds before turning back to the phone, still distracted.

“Emma, baby— j-just hold on,” he murmured, pressing the phone to his chest, his voice dropping as he gave Ford another look. “Ford, please, just one minute, alright? One minute.”

But Ford could feel his excitement slipping into frustration, the urgency in his voice sharpening as he leaned in. “You need to see this now. It’s about the waveform patterns. We’re onto something—”

“Ford,” Fiddleford snapped, still keeping his voice low, but the irritation was there, clear as day. “I’m on the phone!” His lips moved more than his voice, each word a sharp hiss as he pressed the phone harder against his chest. It was clear he wanted Ford to back off, but Ford’s jaw tightened in response, his fingers tightening on the stack of papers.

“Yeah, well, it’s important,” Ford shot back, his whisper now edged with impatience. He crossed his arms, the weight of the printouts digging into his palm, the excitement from earlier now simmering with irritation.

Fiddleford’s face tightened, his eyes narrowing as he spat back, “I’ve been cooped up in that lab all day, Stanford! It’s nine o’clock!”

“Oh, alright you can roll a joint while chat on the phone?” Ford fired, the sarcasm dripping, biting, and completely unfiltered. “But reading a few numbers is just too much, huh?”

Fiddleford’s face flushed red, his irritation spiking. “You bast—” He stopped himself, gritting his teeth, lowering his voice to a sharp whisper. “We’re supposed to be off the clock, Ford! I’m talkin’ to my wife, you maniac!”

Their voices dropped further, the space between them tight with frustration, each of them trying to outdo the other, whispering fiercely, as if whispering would somehow make it less ridiculous. Ford’s heart was pounding now, the sharpness of their exchange cutting through the earlier high, until—

“Daddy?”

The soft voice filtered through the phone, cutting straight through the tension between them.

Fiddleford’s entire demeanor shifted, the frustration that had been so palpable just a moment ago melting away in an instant. He shot Ford a look—sharp, full of warning—before turning his back and brightening his voice for the call. “Hey, hey, kiddo! How’s my little tater tot?”

Ford stood there, fuming, the printouts still clutched tightly in his hand. Fiddleford waved him off, mouthing a sharp fuck off before slipping into the next room, the phone cord dragging behind him, leaving Ford standing in the dim light of the kitchen, his heart still racing, the papers in his hand crinkling under the pressure.

Ford threw his hands up in exasperation, his breath escaping in a groan that echoed through the stairwell. “Fine! I’ll be in the lab…” His voice dripped with annoyance as he stomped down the stairs, each step feeling heavier than the last—a physical manifestation of his growing frustration. When he finally plopped into his chair with a thud, it was less of a seat and more of a battle ground. Crossing his arms defiantly, he stared blankly at the cluttered desk, the jumble of papers and scattered printouts morphing into a chaotic mess that felt more suffocating than inspiring.

After a moment of silent contemplation, he redirected that simmering energy into his notebook, grabbing a pen with a renewed sense of purpose. Scribbling furiously, he tried to capture his thoughts on the waveform patterns that had consumed him all week, pouring out equations and sketches with the ink scratching against the paper in a rhythm that echoed the quickening pace of his thoughts. It was a frantic release, a way to organize the chaos swirling in his mind.

“So… how’d the ‘legitimate source of ongoing review’ like your work, smart guy?” Bill’s voice bubbled through the air, playful sarcasm lacing his words, a hint of amusement threading through his tone.

Ford let out a frustrated breath through his nose, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms tightly over his chest again, as if to shield himself from the impending disappointment. “He’s got other priorities at the moment,” he replied, the irritation evident in his voice, a biting edge that spoke volumes. Biting the inside of his cheek, he felt the familiar sting of disappointment welling up within him, a nagging sensation that wouldn’t quite fade.

Swiveling in his chair, he cast a glance at the scattered papers on his desk—the fruits of his labor laid out like a chaotic testament to his relentless pursuit. “It’s just frustrating,” he admitted, the hardness in his voice softening slightly as he opened up. “I finally made some headway, and he’s too wrapped up in…whatever domestic crisis is going on.” The words tumbled out, laced with an undercurrent of longing for understanding, as if sharing his burden could lighten it just a little.

“Who are you talking to?” Fiddleford’s voice drifted in from behind him, echoing softly off the lab’s walls as he descended the stairs. There was a skepticism laced in his tone, a gentle probing that felt familiar.

Ford glanced back, his frown deepening as frustration tightened the corners of his mouth. “No one… just myself,” he muttered, irritation creeping into his voice. The heaviness of the evening pressed down on him, and he felt that familiar surge of annoyance rising, making his shoulders tense and his posture rigid.

Fiddleford stepped into the lab, arms crossed, resting his weight on one leg, his eyes searching Ford’s face for something—understanding, perhaps, or a glimpse of the easy camaraderie they usually shared. “Well?” he prompted, a simple word that hung in the air, charged with expectation.

Ford grumbled in response, rising abruptly from his chair as if the air in the room had become too stifling. He thrust the stack of papers toward Fiddleford, his frustration bubbling over, spilling out like an overboiled pot. As he brushed past, he avoided Fiddleford’s gaze, not wanting to confront the energy he sensed crackling between them. The silence stretched, heavy with unspoken words and unresolved tension.

Fiddleford accepted the papers into his hands, flipping through them with a practiced eye. His brow furrowed as he absorbed the data, and his expression softened as he scanned the findings, the weight of the moment pulling at the lines on his face. He let out a long sigh, a sound of resignation mingled with relief. Turning to Ford, he found him with his back turned, fiddling with the dials of one of the machines, lost in thought yet vibrantly aware of the unsteady pulse between them.

Fiddleford bit his lip, tapping the paper against his palm, weighing the implications of what he held. “The sequence… you cracked it?” he asked, his voice tentative, like stepping onto thin ice. There was a cautious hope in his words, an attempt to draw Ford back into the warmth of their collaboration.

Ford turned slightly, glancing over his shoulder at Fiddleford, irritation mingling with a flicker of pride in his gaze. “Yeah… the one I’ve been working on all week,” he replied, his tone heavy, each word laden with the burden of sleepless nights and relentless focus. It was a small victory, a fragile moment of connection, but it felt overshadowed by the swirling emotions between them, the air thick with a need for understanding that neither of them seemed ready to articulate.

Fiddleford blinked, a flicker of guilt crossing his face as he recognized his earlier inattentiveness. “Jeez, Ford, I—” he began, fumbling for an explanation, rubbing the back of his neck, the gesture betraying his discomfort. “Look, Emma Mae had this thing at work, and she really needed to talk about it…”

Ford frowned, narrowing his eyes, frustration bubbling just beneath the surface. “Yeah, well, I’ve had something too—right here,” he muttered, gesturing to the papers sprawled across the desk. “But I suppose a groundbreaking advancement in our work isn’t as pressing as… what does she do again? Clerk? Or… something?”

The jab landed with the weight of a stone thrown into a still pond, and Fiddleford sighed, visibly torn. “W—Ford… c’mon,” he began, his voice laced with exasperation. “I still have a life, you know. There’s gotta be some kind of balance, right? I mean… I have a wife… and a son.” His words hung in the air, heavy with the unspoken responsibilities that lingered between them, the desire to connect battling the reality of their fractured focus.

Ford’s shoulders tensed, the muscles coiling tight as he dropped his gaze to the floor, biting back a wave of emotions. He appreciated Fidds’ support, but this moment felt like being cast aside, the flicker of resentment igniting in his chest. “Yeah, I get it. You’ve got a whole world outside this place…” he trailed off, bitterness creeping into his tone, each word like a slow drip of poison.

Fiddleford, catching the undertone, shook his head. “Ford, don’t do that. Don’t twist this into me not caring,” he said softly, the tenderness in his voice contrasting sharply with the tension that filled the room. “I do care. You know that.”

“Do I?” Ford’s voice was quieter now, tinged with defensiveness, the walls around him thickening as he spoke. “Because sometimes it feels like I’m the only one trying to keep the momentum going here.”

Fiddleford stepped closer, the distance between them shrinking, an plea for understanding hanging in the air. “You’re not alone,” he insisted, his voice earnest, each syllable weighted with sincerity. “I’m here. I want to be here. But I can’t just neglect everything else. It’s not sustainable. It doesn’t mean I care any less about what we’re doing. You just let me catch up sometimes.”

Ford’s gaze flickered back to the papers, the equations now feeling like a weight. “It just feels like you’re losing sight of what matters,” he murmured.

“L-Losing sight of what matters…?” Fiddleford let out a laugh of disbelief, a sound that hung in the air between them like a challenge. “I’m—I’m losing sight of—” he caught himself, biting back the rush of frustration that threatened to spill over. He set the papers aside, turning to face Ford fully, grounding himself in the moment. “Ford, you’re pushing yourself too hard, and it’s not healthy,” he said, his voice firm now, the kind of steadiness that made the ground feel solid beneath them. His hands pressed against his hips, a posture of determination. “You don’t sleep, you barely eat, and you’re blowing through almost a pack a day—” He paused, watching Ford glance away, the moment heavy with unspoken truths. “You’re always muttering to yourself under your breath,” he added, his voice softer but no less pointed.

Ford raised an eyebrow, leaning back against the desk, crossing his arms defensively. “I’m just… focused,” he shrugged, as if the word could shield him from the weight of Fiddleford’s concern. “It helps me think.”

Fiddleford’s eyes softened, but he held his ground, unwilling to back down. “It’s more than that, Ford. You’re burning out. I mean, just a little while ago you almost died trying to get those damn readings, and you barely gave yourself time to heal before running down here to run a whole panel… even now, you’re acting like there aren’t still bruises and scabs on your ribs.” His voice rose slightly, an urgency creeping in. “But ya got a little limp when you walk, don’t think I haven’t noticed.” Fiddleford emphasized, the concern weaving through his words like a thread binding them together. “You can’t keep running on fumes like this. It’s making you irritable.”

“I’m irritable?” Ford questioned, his voice clipped, defensive. He seized on that last part as if it were a lifeline, desperate to redirect the conversation. “I’m not irritable, I’m just… just dedicated—like you said.”

Fiddleford met his gaze, giving him a hard look that spoke volumes. “Dedicated, yes. But at what cost?” The words lingered between them, heavy with implications. “I know you’re passionate about this, but you’ve gotta pace yourself or it’ll chew you up.”

Ford sighed, brushing off the concern with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I’m not a child, Fid. I can manage myself.” The defiance in his voice was a thin veneer over the underlying unease, a need for control that felt increasingly tenuous.

“Managing yourself doesn’t mean ignoring your limits,” Fiddleford countered gently, the tone of his voice shifting, softening like the light filtering through the lab’s dusty windows. “I get it—this work is everything to you. But it’s also okay to step back, to breathe. You’re still human, Ford, and you don’t have to shoulder this alone.”

The warmth in Fiddleford’s words cut through the cool air of the lab, wrapping around Ford like a warm shroud, but it only stirred the tempest within him. “I don’t need anyone to hold my hand,” he snapped, though the fire behind his words felt more like a flicker, as if he were trying to convince himself just as much as Fiddleford. “I can handle it.”

“Sure, but I’m telling you, you’re not managing as well as you think,” Fiddleford pressed. “I mean… I’m dedicated too, but I can’t live in the lab 24/7. And, Ford, you need to take some time away from this, too.”

Ford frowned, his gaze shifting to the cluttered desk, the swirling thoughts in his mind reflecting in the chaos around him. “I appreciate the concern, but this is bigger than some 9-to-5. I need to be here. This is my life…”

Fiddleford softened his tone, stepping closer, the warmth of his presence grounding. “I get it, I really do. But you gotta listen to me here—you’re not invincible, Ford. This work won’t mean much if it breaks you down before you can even finish it.”

For a fleeting moment, Ford’s expression wavered, and he exhaled, his eyes flicking toward the machines that buzzed softly around them. He didn’t want to admit that Fiddleford was right, that the sleepless nights and long hours were starting to seep into his bones. But stubbornness held him silent, as if voicing the truth would shatter the thin thread keeping him upright.

Fiddleford sensed the shift, leaning in just a bit closer, his voice lowering to something more intimate. “You could use a shave, my friend,” he teased, a spark of mischief dancing in his eyes, an attempt to bridge the growing distance.

Ford felt a smile tugging at his lips despite the heaviness of the moment. “You first,” he shot back, the deflection bringing a hint of levity.

Fiddleford faked a dramatic gasp, curling the tips of his mustache with exaggerated flair. “What? This is a work of art… a culmination of years of precision and effort! Yours, on the other hand, looks like you’ve been locked in a basement for a week—oh wait.”

Ford huffed a short but hearty laugh, the tension uncoiling slightly. He rubbed the stubble on his jaw, shaking his head. “Actually, I was going for the ‘tortured genius’ look,” he replied dryly, a smirk creeping onto his face. “No good?”

Their shared laughter floated in the air, lightening the atmosphere, allowing a moment of connection amid the whirlwind of worry. Fiddleford reached out, placing a hand on Ford’s back, giving it a firm, encouraging pat. “Stanford, go to bed… please?” he asked, his tone a mixture of concern and genuine affection, like a brother urging another to take care.

Ford exhaled slowly, the weight of the day crashing over him like a tide, as if the mere mention of sleep had unraveled the careful facade he had maintained. A yawn crept up on him, his body betraying its exhaustion with an inevitable insistence. He blinked a couple of times, suddenly aware of the heaviness weighing down his eyelids, like lead anchors pulling him into the depths. “Okay… you win,” he mumbled, the words softening as they left his lips, a reluctant concession that felt less like defeat and more like surrender. But truthfully, he didn’t mind. There was always something waiting for him in his dreams, something more than mere rest. Something exciting.

As he made his way to the stairs, anticipation stirred beneath his weariness, a flicker of light in the darkness. The lab, the endless equations, the chaos of papers and data—they were never really left behind. The sheets were a welcome relief against his tired skin. He rolled onto his side, seeking a position that eased the persistent ache threading through his ribcage. The mattress sank beneath him, cradling his body as he settled in, the pain subsiding just enough for him to breathe.

In the depths of slumber, the boundary between reality and dreams melted away. Ford would find himself back in a vast forest, the trees towering above like ancient sentinels; or sometimes it was a living room, atop a bear pelt next to the roaring fireplace; or another time, a strange yet comfortable bed, the silk sheets cool against their skin. There were endless places Bill could take him—places that felt both familiar and disorienting. And Bill would be there; maybe this time he was shorter, or more human, his eyes softer, his features sharper, or his voice quieter. Maybe his form shifted in ways that defied explanation—sometimes more like a shadow, other times something tangible, solid. But it was always unmistakable. Always Bill.

[Previous Chapter][Next Chapter]

#covenants and other provisions #my writing #billford #stanford pines #bill cipher #billford fanfic #fiddleford appreciation month

15 notes · View notes

beacarrot · 7 months ago

Text

Neverland.

Once upon a time, or two, maybe three,

On a page of flight through London’s clouds free,

A tale worth the urban legends of yore,

Of fairies who dared to fly far and explore,

When they all turned so gravely serious, leaving magic behind,

And belief in its wonders grew harder to find.

I try to see other things, yet I’m pulled to you still,

Like a ship signaling it’s harder to save it, how to heal,

Again, once more, and then yet again,

I try to stand tall, put myself in front of this, but keep folding with,

I don’t know which constellation to face,

Or if Big Ben’s clock will soon mark my place,

What’s the next step, the right one to tread,

To the path that aligns with what lies ahead?

One sole direction, no two, three, four or five,

No more, no less,

For promises broken would leave me restless,

And that’s how we lost our way back then,

Me and them, the lost boys, again.

The chapter of the "Lost Boys",

A delicate perspective, so vivid, so frail,

Each with flaws they could barely disguise,

The charming one with curls and branch-tangled ties,

The small adventurer with crystalline eyes and his hat,

Finding shortcuts wherever their spirits fell flat,

The rebel, mysterious, who wandered caves,

Lost in directions only silence paves,

Another who loved to fly without care,

Golden hair dancing through open air,

And there was the bold, the one dressed to lead,

Stories at hand, a hero indeed,

His troop followed him close, a bond innate,

He told their stories with faith,

But on this isle, they all made their stay...

And I was just a girl,

I am just a girl,

Foolish, reckless, dreamy, absurd,

Longing for something to return,

Staring out through my window’s pane and...

Oh, don’t take me back again,

Crying so softly, alone in my room,

With every shield dropped, unexpectedly the surrender in bloom,

And amidst this sound, I whisper low:

Oh, don’t take me back, don’t let me go,

This is a dream, a half-truth, a tender plea:

"Just take me to Neverland and set me free."

I never wanted to grow, though these drugs cost runs high,

I dared to fall, to leap, to defy,

I only wanted speak, but I refused to hear,

Fleeing fears and battles near,

I confess I’m brave to say,

Yet weak to face,

Face the music,

I danced on flames to avoid the chore,

But deep inside, a voice implored:

"Ignorance is innocence’s younger kin."

Enough! I do not want to grow up!

I cling to innocence, like a fool to wind,

Seeking the core I’ve yet to find.

Self-reliance, standards, vulgarity,

Discernment, maturity, sensuality,

Money, prices, fame, success,

None of these are what I want,

I’m racing time, my hands are torn,

The asphalt scrapes, my knees forlorn,

With every shred of hope I recall,

Can I buy my innocence back at all?

Say yes, I beg!

I feel I’m losing,

My youth, my courage, my heart, my being,

The earth is pulling me down, I’m fleeing!

All I want is to fly,

That's what I want,

I want to lean on the balcony that Peter Pan will land!

The chapter of the "Captain Hook",

The iron of reason spins and scolds,

Hit the ground, the cold truth bites,

As lions reach you in the dead of night,

Damn, you were children,

Didn't glance behind,

The fairy tale unravels, it threads unwind,

But you saved me then, took me through the breeze,

No, the issue wasn’t you,

You guys are the solution,

It's his insane way I love too vast, too deep,

Losing myself in feelings I keep,

Oh God, again, I do not want to grow!

I want to live, forever to glow,

Take the dead-end street and debut my name,

An addictive thrill, a siren’s flame,

Staring out through my window’s pane and...

Oh, don’t take me back again,

Crying so softly, alone in my room,

With every shield dropped, unexpectedly the surrender in bloom,

And amidst this sound, I whisper low:

Oh, don’t take me back, don’t let me go,

This is a dream, a half-truth, a tender plea:

"Just take me to Neverland and set me free."

Hey, hear me!

Come back, stay near,

Today, tomorrow, beyond the sphere,

Forget the stars,

Pests and prey,

Prove to me all I saw was right,

You don’t need to be far for me to miss you,

Though I know you can’t drop everything,

But I can, I will,

The golden cord never broke its seal,

Wait for me at the station line,

Don’t fear the chime or count the beats, the fucking time,

When you least expect, I’ll be in your life, you'll can see my sight,

A one-way flight to the secret land, in a quick light.

Now I shout, begging the magic dust not to fade...

Oh, don’t take me back again...

The tightening suffocates me;

Yet I look up, your hands are still free,

Free to hold me,

Open, waiting to save me again,

How since you found me and renewed my faith within,

This is a dream, a half-truth, a tender plea:

"Take me to Neverland, to meet the boy who never grew...for that land is my haven, and I keep them too."

(I wrote this poem about something very delicate for me; growth and memories. Even though I'm still very young, things change and never stop changing and the world never stops turning. People have always said that I have "Peter Pan syndrome" because of my difficulty in growing up and accepting life the way it is. I'm almost like a child, and I'm afraid of growing up while I'm already growing up. I have a love for the tale of Peter Pan, it's my favorite story and I related Neverland with my own personal Neverland, which is something that always brings me back to the best times of my life, in this case, it's my favorite band, which has always done me and will do me so much good!)

Signed: Beatriz Ranzonni 🩵.

9 notes · View notes

bidonica · 2 years ago

Text

Some artists are taking their art off twitter in protest because of Musk's latest AI scraping announcement, and many are pointing out if your art (and text) is public on the internet it definitely has already been scraped quietly before, while Elno is probably just pushing his own proprietary AI, which... I guess is a silver lining on a cloud of shit.

But it got me thinking of the old adage "when they give you something for free, it means the product is you", and how up until not long ago that meant socmedia platforms would host your content in exchange for information on what you liked, how old you were, your political leanings, your physical and psychological ailments, and so on and so forth, into increasingly murky ethical territory. We've seen what the algorithm has done to push entire demographics of voters towards reactionary politics. BUT, as tenuous as it was, this exchange between the content host and its users still left the latter with agency. You can be influenced, but ultimately you can choose not to buy, you can choose not to click on the ragebait article.

In the system that's shaping up you don't get to have that. Right now it feels like: oh you want to put up a little exhibition in a corner of the town's square? The licence fee is that your paintings are also ours now, and we can cut them up and turn them into a brand new collage. You want to step on a shoebox and give a little speech to whoever wants to listen? We have the right to record you and sample your voice so we can make a new tape where you say things you never really said, but it sounds like you.

I honestly don't know where we go from here; the only solution I can think of is legislation catching up with the technology and putting a cap on it, and/or the rise of a new platform whose selling point is that it's unscrapable (though it would probably amount to it being a gated community).

It's sad though, I started using the internet regularly between the late 90s and the 00s and there was such a sense of it being an infinite sandbox where anyone could build whatever they wanted from scratch, while now we're funneled towards predetermined spaces where whatever form of self expression is going to be monetized by your virtual landlords and worse, regurgitated as something different you have no control over.

#anti ai #anti ai art #sorry i'm just rambling

60 notes · View notes

sharrkbaiitcartoonz · 1 year ago

Text

Tally is a fucking bottom submissive and breedable twink, and here’s why:

Tally was peacefully whittling away at a piece of wood as he heard the front door to Sneaky’s bar hit the small bell, alerting him that there were customers. Tally always felt the need to greet them in Sneaky’s absence, because the bartender was always off-tasting foods at random diners, drive-ins, and dives.

“Hi, welcome to the Troll Skull Tavern- Guys!” He set the piece of wood down and rushed to the door to greet the party, noticing how battered and beaten up they were from their mission. In particular, he was worried about his boyfriend. Sneaky wasn’t terribly beat up, just a few cuts and scrapes here and there. But Tally was a baby and was heavily worried regardless.

“Tally I can see it in your face, I promise I’m fine” Sneaky reassured him and softly brushed his arm before Tally could mention it.

“You guys NEED to get a room” G’orf rolled their eyes and made their way to the bar with Geto to have a drink and maybe a meal too.

“We have a room, a SHARED room” Sneaky flirted with a smirk, flashing Tally a look that made him blush like an idiot.

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

The rest of the party gradually left to their rooms and wind down for the night, but Tally wouldn’t let up about Sneaky's wounds, so for his peace of mind, he let Tally tend to them.

“You need to be more careful on missions, there’s people that would care if you died you know.” Tally lectured him as he dabbed the alcohol solution on yet another cut. Sneaky was on a stool in their shared room while Tally was sitting between his legs, on the floor, tending to various wounds on Sneaky’s body.

“I know Tal’s, I’m sorry.” Sneaky sighed, hissing slightly at the sting of the alcohol.

“I don’t want to worry about a day where you won’t come home to me..”Tally admitted, cleaning up the first aid mess and softly looking up at him from between his legs.

Sneaky’s heart ached at that, and without warning, leaned down to peck his lips softly, but that peck turned deeper as Tally raised to wrap his arms around Sneaky’s neck. Sneaky grabbed Tally’s waist and pulled him into his lap, nipping at Tally’s bottom lip, earning a soft whine and access into his mouth. Sneaky slotted his tongue against Tally’s, who was surprised yet delighted at the sudden intimate touch he was receiving.

The kiss broke for them both to get some air, and Sneaky shifted his hands underneath Tally’s shirt and softly raised them to his chest.

“Is this okay?” Sneaky asked between small pecks across Tally’s face.

Tally just nodded, too shy to say anything considering it was their first time going this far.

Sneaky stopped and looked Tally in the eye, “I need to hear your words, darling.”

“Yes..” Tally all but whispered, unable to keep eye contact with Sneaky. Instead, he buried his face into Sneaky’s neck, kissing and sucking the open skin.

Sneaky shifted underneath Tally, but something about that caused Tally to stop and perk up suddenly.

“Are..are you?” he couldn’t get the words out of his mouth, only feeling the large mass under his thigh.

There was a cloud of awkwardness in the air before Sneaky broke it by saying in a sultry voice; “do you see what you do to me darling?”

Tally felt a rush of heat run through his body, and he couldn’t respond, letting the awkwardness grow ever so slightly.

“We don’t, we don’t have to if you don’t want to I’m sorry..” Sneaky spoke up, starting to push Tally off of his lap but Tally grabbed his shoulders soft yet firmly.

“No, I want to.. just be careful.. okay?” Tally averted eye contact, realizing all of his stupid dreams were coming true. He had dreamt of getting this close to Sneaky, yet never would admit it.

“Of course” Sneaky smirked, closing the space between them with another passionate kiss. The kiss yet again turned lustful, as Sneaky started taking off Tally’s blouse and carefully led him to their bed. Tally started stripping the man on top of him of his trousers, discarding them to the floor carelessly and letting Sneaky’s hard-on finally spring free.

“Aw someone’s eager” Sneaky muttered against Tally’s neck, sucking small bruises across the Caramel colored skin. Tally would retort with “says the one hard as a rock” but he doesn't have the courage, instead he pushed Sneaky off of him and hunched over to where his cheek was almost touching Sneaky’s cock.

“Can I..?” Tally softly asked, eyes not leaving the large member.

“Can you what? Use your words darling” Sneaky flirted, petting Tally’s hair reassuringly.

“Can I-um, can I suck your dick..” Tally’s voice was just above a whisper, but his eyes darted up to meet Sneaky’s gaze.

“Please do” he exhaled, softly guiding Tally’s head over his cock, but letting Tally take control so as not to hurt him. Tally cautiously spread his lips over Sneaky’s shaft and took in as much as he could.

Sneaky let out a pleased sigh, softly petting Tally’s hair to hopefully calm his nerves. Tally raised back up, licking small circles around the head of Sneaky’s cock and earning a soft moan in reaction.

“Tal's love, how are you so good at this fuck-“ Sneaky cut off with a soft moan as Tally took his full length back into his mouth, smiling softly around his member at the comment.

“Mfmmhfnm” he mumbled, incomprehensible due to the large mass in the way, but the vibrations of his voice caused Sneaky to curse and roughly hold Tally’s head down on his cock.

Tally gagged trying to force himself off and Sneaky stopped applying pressure immediately. “Too rough..” Tally coughed out, shooting a pang into Sneaky’s heart.

“Sorry, I got excited, do you want to stop?” His demeanor changed in an instant, from flirty to the most caring boyfriend in the world.

Tally shot him a flirty look, wrapping his hand around his cock and taking him back in. Sucking him off as an answer to the question.

“Fuck fuck fuck-“It only took a few more thrusts of Tally’s mouth for Sneaky to finish all over his face. Of course, he immediately got a small towel and cleaned it all off.

“Is it your turn darling?” He gave Tally small pecks across his face, stroking his hair as he cleaned the rest of his cum off. Tally just blushed in response and nodded his head.

Sneaky carefully stripped Tally of his remaining clothes and grabbed the conveniently placed olive oil, lubing up his cock as well as Tally’s asshole.

Tally was hovering over him as he lined up his cock to his tight hole, gripping Tally’s hips and pulling him down slowly. Tally’s eyebrows furrowed as Sneaky buried himself to the hilt, letting out small whines at the stretch.

Sneaky didn’t move for a while, letting Tally adjust to his size, but when Tally started softly Grinding down on his dick, he took that as a sign to start thrusting in and out.

Tally let out soft moans of pleasure and held himself close to Sneaky, placing sensual kisses under his ear and across his neck.

One particular thrust made Tally whine in surprise, and after Sneaky found that spot he abused it, thrusting into that one gummy part over and over again just to hear the erotic sound out of Tally’s mouth. The sound of his whines made Sneaky’s dick twitch inside of Tally’s Ass, his thrusts moving at a faster and sloppier pace. He reached his hand down and started jacking Tally off but squeezing his tip just to make sure he couldn’t cum.

“Are you close Tal’s?” He inquired, thrusting into him at a vigorous pace while simultaneously moving his hand up and down his shaft. Tally could only moan and nod his head in response, using his hands to ground himself on Sneaky’s shoulders while riding him at the same pace as his thrusts.

“pleasepleaseplease-” Tally whined while thrusting up into Sneaky’s hand, chasing after the orgasm that was so close.

“Fuck I love hearing you beg-” Sneaky cut off with a moan, “C'mon baby cum for me” That's all it took for the coil inside Tally to snap. He halted his movements as his eyes rolled into the back of his head and he came.

Sneaky followed soon after, riding out their highs together, then sitting in silence for a second as they caught their breaths. Once Tally gave the ok, Sneaky slowly pulled out of his overstimulated ass and grabbed the towel, and lovingly cleaned up both of their bodies. After, he discarded the towel somewhere in the room and cuddled with Tally under the blanket, softly kissing him and praising him.

After a while, they both got sleepy and were drifting off to sleep when Tally murmured under his breath “I love you Sneaky…”

Sneaky’s heart fluttered if it weren't for the lights being off, it would been obvious the lilac shade his cheeks turned. He kissed Tally softly on his head and said “I love you too.”

#gay #men #poetry #ftm ns/fw #ns/fw #fanfiction #fanfic #dnd #sad poetry #dnd5e #dnd character #dnd oc #dungeons and dragons

6 notes · View notes

mischiefmodig · 1 year ago

Text

@fellstcr \ / It's you ... Hypnum Insomnum pt. I

... this was not a part of the plan. Not that anything ever truly fell into Loki's design. He was a master of the ever-changing, constant flow that was Chaos. It was not something to control. All you can do is watch, listen, then follow. From there you may yet find the outcome you desire.

But this was not the outcome he wanted at all.

He had grown frantic as of late ( damned moss, wretched disgusting clouds of pink dust ) a helpless, evil feeling of knowing what he was supposed to be and unable to rise above it all. While his magic was still locked away... he needed a way to gain control fight back.

At the time ... the most straightforward solution ... was to acquire a weapon. Daggers had always been his primary selection ( the ability to stay nimble and light with accuracy and flexibility suited his style best ) and thus a stroll toward a secluded weapons location ( dark, quiet, criminal it seemed ) was in order. Unfortunately for him, he had no coin to his name.

But what was he if not someone willing to do whatever it took for his survival? The weapon was stolen, though it seemed his sleight of hand was not as clean as he had thought. A fight had broken out over the dagger, and he kept to his own well enough ( a few scrapes, bruises, bloodied nose and fingers ) ...

Until she showed up.

From out of the darkness itself, the green-haired fiend ( he knew her, how could he forget the heel that dug into the snow. ) emerged from hiding and brought upon the scuffle new attacks. Loki held his own for as long as he could, but she seemed to him a master of combat herself. It was as if she could read his movements before he even could - something that not even Sif or most of Asgard's finest had ever done.

Following her appearance were the annoying androids of the police department, and thus the illegal weapons deal had been put down as swiftly as it had ever gone up.

And that was where he was now. In a cell. Two pairs of cuffs on his wrists in the front ( he had already slid out of several pairs from the back, he was petty ) he sat on the "bed" in his holding cell, staring at the grey stone floor nursing his wounds. Nothing but quietness, a chair, table, and iron bars in front of him. His thoughts raced, but his sleep-deprived mind struggled to form much of anything except to admonish himself for being caught at all.

The preferred outcome in this place? Escape.

#( thread . ) \ / closed .#byleth \ / hi24 #( hypnum insomnum . ) \ / 2024 #fellstcr #( ic . ) \ / prince of asgard . rightful heir of jotunheim . odin son .

12 notes · View notes

contentloadingandstuff · 2 years ago

Text

Mortuarius - Chapter II

He struggles against the restraints. To no avail, as the metal cuffs hold firm despite his desperate efforts. Still he fights with all his might - there's nothing else he can do. He sees only darkness, the blindfold's softness a mockery of his position. His nostrils are filled with the choking, stinging smell of antiseptic. The lab's cool air makes his naked body shiver.

A hand, covered by a rubber glove, is placed over his mouth. Something cold and wet is rubbed across a part of his neck before he feels a sharp sting. He jerks, but the substance quickly spreads through his veins. Waves of spasms shake his body, making his limbs tremble and quiver. They feel fuzzy, then numb. Heavy, clumsy, like timber.

His mind clouds quickly and he starts choking back coppery foam. His body bends upwards in desperate search for relief.

Heavy limbs. Cut them off. He wants to cut them off. He would rather not feel anything in them for his entire life than endure this.

He hates this feeling.

His chest suddenly feels heavy, as if being crushed in a Lawachurl's hand. He coughs out more red foam.

It's bad. Maybe they messed up, and he will get to actually die this time.

He hopes so.

A pair of arms grab his left thigh and stab a short, fat needle through the muscle. The warmth of feeling spreads through his paralyzed limbs, the numbness replaced with a searing pain in the relaxing muscles. It burns as if he was on fire, but from the inside.

He labels it closer to frostbite than to real fire. He wonders if there will be burns or if it will just be black and blue.

A mask is forced on his face. He doesn't protest. There's no energy left in him to do so.

He can feel his lungs decompressing, and the crushing feeling fades. Slightly.

He isn't grateful for this relief. There's no point.

"One fifth of a syringe of solution C16 seems to work, although only partially. Taking into account the exceptional resistance to toxic substances of the test subject, I conclude that this portion wouldn't be able to function as intended. Give him a few hours and we will go again, this time with three of ten. Noted? "

"Noted."

The voices fade out into darkness, but the remnants of pain remain. The once stabbing pain turns to a scraping one, and grows in intensity. It's like sandpaper being dragged over exposed muscle tissue.

He knows that feeling well.

Denki awakes with a gasp to the sight of the Watcher sitting casually on the edge of the bed, a leather-clad book in his hand. Upon hearing the human groan, he stands up at once. After grabbing a metallic cylinder and removing the cap, revealing a long needle, he stabs it right below Denki's left breast.

Denki fights back, pushing through the fiery pain. He grabs Watcher's arm at the elbow and tries to force it away. His heart is pounding as he struggles with the undead's grip. His mind is buzzing with desperate call outs towards his whole being. He needs to resist, to push him away, to escape. His ferocity grows as more and more of the ampule's contents are pumped into his system. In a last ditch effort, just as barely any fluid remains, he punches Watcher's hand with his own, breaking the needle.

Before he can turn and attempt to raise up, something pins his body to the bed. His eyes dart between his arms, but the force remains unseen. Blood is now seeping from his small wound.

"Calm down, fool." Watcher pays no mind to Denki's state, retrieving the broken needle tip from his body. He promptly swabs the wound with a piece of gauze. "This is a sedative. It will help the pain. Deep breaths, human."

Upon hearing his voice, his heart slows slightly. He does as instructed while Watcher observes him carefully. The adrenaline fades out, and panic is replaced by a feeling of shame.

Shame. He was treated so well, and yet he did something so unthankful.

"I'm sorry sir." He says weakly, looking down at the slightly bloody gauze.

Watcher scoffs. "Sir? Do not call me that. My title is enough." He offers Denki his hand. "Try to sit up now."

Stinging pain resonates through his spine as he pushes himself upwards. Watcher's cold fingerbones guide him to rest his back against the wall. He shivers at how cold the stone is, as his loose shirt does nothing to insulate him.

"How are you feeling now? Any pain, any uncomfortable sensations?"

"I'm nauseous. My stomach hurts…" In that awful, familiar way. "... but it's just that I'm hungry. The pain is better now. Thank you for the medicine."

The Watcher nods his head. "Wonderful. Let's get this body some nutrients. Come on now." He raises up.

Denki sighs and slowly moves his legs to the side. He looks down at his legs. They are completely hairless, and the skin is somewhat paler than before.

What he finds the most surprising is the complete lack of injuries, or even their leftovers. On the pristine skin there is not a single flaw. Not a single scar that he remembers. He takes a closer look, and still he discovers more. His worry grows into fear, and then into panic.

There isn't a single scar he had before. There isn't a single mole he remembers. His legs, his torso, his arms aren't skinny.

"This is n-not my body! W-what did you put me in?" He can't believe his eyes.

This feels like a dream. Or rather a painful, alien nightmare. This isn't him. This is something else.

He is somebody else.

"Of course it isn't, human. Your previous vessel would not sustain your soul for more than a few days, maybe weeks if we would be lucky. We transplanted your soul."

"Into w-what?"

"This vessel has been designed based on your body structure, but has been vastly improved to perform even in the harshest conditions. Your face is still as it used to be, do not be concerned with that." Watcher opens the heavy wooden door, revealing the room behind it. Denki spots a table and a few chairs. “Come on.”

The skeleton leaves. With some effort, Denki is able to lift himself up. His head starts spinning, so he pushes himself up against the wall. He rubs his temple, and that’s when he feels it.

There’s a sense of heaviness in his arm, a slight delay between the intent and the movement. He moves his arm again, and feels just the same things, on top of a strange feeling of limpness within his muscles. It feels as if the limb was pulled not by itself, but by strings. It feels just like… a puppet.

He turns towards the door, and places a few careful steps forward. His legs are infested with the same sensation. Although with some difficulty, he manages to move towards the door, all the time paying great attention to each slow step.

One leg after the other. This time, nothing hurts, more importantly - nothing is broken. He remembers walking with a broken leg. The current sensation is much alike, yet it doesn’t feel as agonizingly painful. Just… strange.

He passes through the doorway and enters what looks to be a dining room. It is nothing like what he remembers from home - the table and chairs suggest a mainland-style interior. The first thing that catches his attention is the exquisite artistry of the design. Although barely visible from afar, the sides of the black furniture piece are riddled with small silver runes. Despite the overbearing simplicity of their design, he can clearly make out what they represent. A fly. A spider. A scorpion. A moth. A wasp. A hornet. A locust. There is a break and, painted in a golden color, is the same eye symbol as on Watcher’s stole. He approaches the table and touches the decoration softly. The material is hard and cold, like stone.

“Black marble to be exact.”

Denki snaps towards the undead, who is now sitting in one of the two exquisitely decorated chairs.

“E-excuse me?” He hopes he just misheard something. If not, that would mean…

“Yes, I can read your mind. How do you suppose I came to know everything about you, Sakurai Denki?” The skeleton laughs, the voice echoing through his empty ribcage. “I asked you about the name out of courtesy. To break the ice, you understand.”

Denki doesn’t know what to think anymore. He walks towards the chair, and glances at the seat. He probes the thin pillow with his hand, and, assured, he sits down slowly. His limbs simultaneously sigh in relief.

Another door, located behind Watcher’s seat, opens, and a man holding a tray comes into the room. Denki traces his movements as a porcelain bowl is placed in front of him, filled to the brim with grayish rice. Next to the bowl is a simple, metal spoon.

In the meantime, Watcher takes a clay bowl from the hands of the newcomer. Denki spots white pockets inside it.

He turns towards the other human. He is wearing a white apron, two thin, drooping strands of gray mustache decorating his wrinkled and worn face. Despite his well-kept appearance, it was painfully obvious that time has not been kind on this man. Denki spots his slanted eyes and speaks out in Inazuman, shyly.

“I’m sorry, sir, but I think you’ve mistaken me with someone.” He looks towards the Watcher, clueless. “Is this… really for me?”

“Is the meal not to your liking, Master Denki?” The chef replies in Inazuman, although his Liyue accent is clear to hear.

“Master”? Denki quickly shakes his head. “No, no, I just…” He can’t find the right words.

“It has been long since you ate like this, hasn’t it?” The Watcher asks, and reaches into his bowl. He retrieves one of the wrappings, and undoes it with his thin, skeletal fingers. Much to Denki’s surprise, a round, slightly transparent object is hidden within. It’s outside has an iridescent shine to it.

“I… yes. I am just…” He clears his throat, looking back to the bowl.

“Would you like some soy sauce on the side, Master Denki?” The old man smiles gently at him. “Our rice may not be Inazuman, but I prepared it to match seihakumai’s taste as much as possible.”

Denki takes the spoon in his hand, and slowly takes a small amount of grains off the top. He eats them, carefully tasting them. They are somewhat hard and a bit bitter, but fairly good overall.

“If that wouldn’t be a problem t-then… Yes, please.”

“I will be back shortly.” The chef leaves, quietly shutting the door behind him.

Denki takes another portion, this time larger in quantity, and inspects it. He finds nothing except the gray rice on the spoon. After another short moment of hesitation he eats it all in one bite. He takes another spoonful, now sparing just a quick glance. He speeds up, shoving portion after portion of the bare rice into his mouth, so fast that his throat barely has time to swallow before another dose enters his mouth.

Denki forgot how hungry he was. This rice, as bare and devoid of addons as it is, is the best he had tasted in his life. He doesn’t care if there are pins, needles or razors inside the bowl. He wouldn’t mind them anyway - just the chance to eat rice again is worth all the pain and blood.

He practically inhales the dish, but tastes not a single metallic drop of his own blood.

Perhaps he got lucky.

“T-thank you, I… Thank you!” He exclaimed, earning a nod from the Watcher. Even if he had no lips, Denki could sense he was smiling.

“That was chef Liao Wei. He has been working here for over fifty years. His cooking is impeccable, I must admit.” Watcher lifts one of the gemstones up to his jaws, and crushes it. The remains drop down on the table, joining a small pile already there.

“What are those… “ He stops. He steadies himself, and adds in an unsure, whispered tone: “... Watcher?”

“Ley Line Candy. You have heard of Ley Lines before, yes?”

“Yes, I did. They contain memories, right?”

“That is correct, human. Within this small piece of crystal a memory is contained.” He lifts it up towards the lantern adorning the ceiling, and Denki can see a slight greenish tint on the inside of the candy. “The memory resonates with my Core, and I can experience it again. Those contain Sunsettia. Do you want to taste one?”

“A… Core? Do I have one in this body?”

“Yes, you do have one. It is necessary to keep your soul contained. It should work.” Watcher passes Denki the treat. “Crack it with your teeth.”

Denki does as instructed, and immediately a peachy sweetness hits his tongue, a sensation of soft pressure on his gums and teeth, just as if he was biting into the fruit itself. He can tell it is a ripe one, just from the taste. He removes the crystal pieces from his mouth, placing them into his empty bowl. The taste lingers for a good while before fading out.

“This is… fantastic. Truly incredible. How come you are able to get those memories from the Ley Lines?”

“That is a professional secret, I’m afraid.” Again, Denki feels him smile, even despite his skull remaining blank. He senses no sarcasm or mockery in his voice. “Now, Sakurai Denki, I expect you have a lot of questions about your predicament. Ask now, and I will answer you.”

Denki considers this for a moment, before crafting his reply. “Where am I?”

“You are in the city of Castra, the capital of the Necro Archon’s nation. You would not be able to find it on any maps of Teyvat, aside from our own of course. For centuries it has been hidden from mortal eyes.”

“For what purpose? I-if I may ask.”

The Watcher bites down on another piece of candy. “Strategic reasons. The Necro Archon’s relationship with The Seven is complicated, you see. I’m guessing you want to know more about him?”

Denki nods. Liao Wei comes into the room, and places a small, wooden saucer, filled to the brim with dark liquid. Just a whiff confirms the contents. Much to his surprise, just when he is about to ask for seconds, a bigger bowl of rice is placed in front of him. Chef Liao thwarts his attempt at speaking.

“I hope you don’t mind, Master Denki, but I brought you a second serving. You don’t look like a bountiful eater.” He bows slightly. “Forgive the comment.”

“N-no, it’s fine, chef. And please, call me by my name. I don’t deserve-”

“I apologize, Master Denki, but this is what courtesy requires.” He quickly backs towards the door. “Now excuse me, please. I will go prepare the dessert now.”

He leaves before Denki can utter a single word. Watcher chuckles.

“The Necro Archon chose him personally.”

Denki furrows his brow. “How come? Isn’t he unable to taste? Since, he’s the god of undead…”

“He can take on many forms, both living and undead. Though most times he remains in a skeletal body, on occasion he changes to a mortal one. He visited the official cooking contest under a mortal disguise, one that he removed only in front of the winner.” He sighs. “Liao’s face will forever be ingrained in my mind.”

“What is his name?”

“His divine name is Beleth, although here, in the nation of Umbra, he is known as The Great One.”

“Great One… If I am allowed to ask, how did he earn this title?”

Watcher scoffs. “His might is beyond comparison in the mainland. Throughout history, The Great One bested gods of power beyond the human mind to comprehend. For centuries He has been watching over the people of Umbra, granting us protection and mercy. Respect is the least we can do in return for His kindness."

"I understand." Denki adds the final spoon of sauce to his food. "What happened to Inazuma while I was… gone?"

"Well, I don't have good news. The Fatui conspiracy resulted in a civil war, and the introduction of the Sakoku Decree. Inazuma has been sealed off from the rest of the continent."

Denki nods slightly. He moves around the final grains of rice on his plate, speechless.

What was he expecting even? The Kamisato Clan to rescue the situation? Kujou Sara to see through the lies? The Raiden Shogun to save her loyal subjects?

His head throbs. He moves his hand to caress his forehead.

"The sacrifice of yourself and your parents has gone to waste. Nobody questioned the Archon's decision. Especially not the Guuji. Lives sacrificed, by soldiers, nobles and commoners alike, all for nothing."

"S-stop! Do you have to r-rub it in?!" Denki lashes out, but quickly hides his face in his hands. "Just… please. Don't." He does his best to hide the quivering of his voice, to little effect.

"Not all is lost. You are back, Denki, the last of the Sakurai. The Necro Archon gave you a chance, one you should not waste. A chance for vengeance."

Vengeance. A part of him wants to lie down, to never get up again. He doesn't want to feel the pain of this new body, he doesn't want to remember past agony. He just wants to go, where it doesn't matter. Beyond this world. A part of him wants the peacefulness of death.

Yet another craves for something more. He held onto his life, his final possession for eight painful years, just to trample on his effort now? He survived, prevailed. He is still young. He has the time to make things right. To make then pay.

He grits his teeth, and wipes his eyes with his forearm.

"What is the price?" Denki looks up at the Watcher. "What does The Great One expect in return?"

"Your services, Sakurai Denki. You will be fed, clothed, kept warm and trained, and as payment the Necro Archon will make use of your skills. You have already been brought back here, have you not?" The Watcher leans forward, and tilts his head slightly. "Rejection of such an offer would be foolish and disrespectful of His generosity."

Denki takes a deep breath, finally regaining clarity of mind. "I accept the offer. Help me, and I will join your ranks."

"A good choice, human." The Watcher raises up. "Come now. Let us meet your new mentor."

Thanks for reading!

#genshin impact #genshin #genshin impact au #genshin impact necro au #necro au #genshin necro au #necro au sakurai denki #sakurai denki #the watcher #necro au the watcher #au #genshin impact original character #genshin impact oc #genshin oc #genshin au

10 notes · View notes